Letter 102

[1] Just as a man who wakes someone in the middle of a pleasant dream is an annoyance (for he robs him of the pleasure, which, even if unreal, still had the effect of something real), so your letter has done me an injury. For it called me back just as I had given myself over to a fitting line of thought and was ready to go further still, had I been allowed. [2] I was taking pleasure in inquiring into the eternity of souls—no, by Hercules, in believing in it. For I was lending a willing ear to the opinions of great men who promise this most welcome thing rather than prove it. I gave myself up to so great a hope; I was already growing weary of myself, already despising the remnants of my broken span of life, as one about to pass over into that boundless stretch of time and into possession of all eternity, when suddenly I was startled awake by the arrival of your letter, and I lost so lovely a dream. But I will take it up again, once I have dispatched you, and reclaim it. [3] You say that in my first letter I did not unfold the whole question, in which I was trying to prove a doctrine of our school—that the renown which comes after death is a good. You say that I did not resolve the objection raised against us: "No good," they say, "comes from separate parts; but this is composed of separate parts." [4] What you ask, my dear Lucilius, belongs to the same question but to a different region of it, and for that reason I had postponed not only this point but other matters pertaining to the same area as well. For some questions, as you know, are logical ones mixed in with ethical ones. So I treated that part which is properly ethical and pertains to conduct: whether it is foolish and superfluous to extend our concern beyond our final day; whether our goods fall with us and nothing belongs to the man who is no longer anyone; or whether any fruit can be gathered or sought beforehand from that which, when it comes, we shall not be able to perceive. [5] All these matters look toward conduct, and so they have been placed in their proper section. But the arguments brought against this view by the dialecticians had to be set apart, and so I laid them aside. Now, since you demand everything, I shall go through everything they say, and then meet each point one by one. [6] Unless I first lay down something in advance, the refutations cannot be understood. What is it that I wish to state beforehand? That some bodies are continuous, like a man; some are composite, like a ship, a house—in short, everything whose separate parts are forced together into a unity by their joining; and some are made up of separate parts, whose members are still kept apart, like an army, a people, a senate. For those through whom such bodies are constituted are held together by law or duty, but by nature they are divided and individual. What else do I wish to state in advance now? [7] We hold that nothing is a good which is composed of separate parts; for a single good ought to be contained and governed by a single spirit, and the directing principle of a single good ought to be one. This, if you ever desire it, is proved on its own; for the moment it had to be assumed, because our own weapons are being hurled against us. [8] "You say," the objector says, "that no good comes from separate parts; but renown is the favorable opinion of good men. For just as reputation is not the talk of one person, nor ill repute the bad estimation of one person, so renown does not consist in having pleased one good man; many distinguished and notable men must agree on this point for renown to exist. But this is brought about by the judgments of many, that is, of separate persons; therefore it is not a good. [9] "Renown," he says, "is praise rendered to a good man by good men; praise is speech, and speech is an utterance signifying something. But an utterance, even though it comes from good men, is not a good. For not everything a good man does is a good; for he also applauds and hisses, but no one calls applause or hissing a good, even if he admires and praises everything else about him, any more than he would call a sneeze or a cough a good. Therefore renown is not a good. [10] "In short, tell us whether it is the good of the one praising or of the one praised. If you say it is the good of the one praised, you do as ridiculous a thing as if you asserted that another man's good health were mine. But to praise the worthy is an honorable action; so it is the good of the one praising, whose action it is, not of us who are praised. And yet this was the very question at issue." [11] I shall now reply to each point in turn, briefly. First, whether there is any good that comes from separate parts is still being inquired into, and each side has its supporters. Next, does renown require many votes? It can be satisfied even with the judgment of a single good man: a good man judges us to be good. [12] "What then?" he says. "Will reputation also be the estimation of one man, and ill repute the malicious talk of one man? Glory, too," he says, "I understand to be spread more widely; for it requires the agreement of many." The condition of these last is different from that of the first. Why? Because if a good man thinks well of me, I am in the same position as if all good men thought the same; for all, if they came to know me, would think the same. Their judgment is equal and identical, and is equally tinged with truth. They cannot disagree; so it is as good as if they all thought the same, since they cannot think otherwise. [13] For glory or reputation, the opinion of one man is not enough. In the former case one verdict can do what all could, because the verdict of all, if they were polled, would be one; in the latter, the judgments of unlike men are diverse. You will find their assents difficult, everything doubtful, fickle, suspect. Do you suppose that all men can hold one opinion? Even a single man does not hold a single opinion. In the former case it is truth that pleases, and truth has one force, one face; among these others, the things they assent to are false. But there is never constancy in false things; they shift and clash. [14] "But praise," he says, "is nothing other than an utterance, and an utterance is not a good." When they say that renown is praise rendered to good men by good men, they are not referring to an utterance but to a judgment. For even though a good man stays silent, if he judges someone worthy of praise, that man has been praised. [15] Besides, praise is one thing, praise-giving another; the latter also requires an utterance. And so no one speaks of a funeral praise, but of a funeral praise-giving [laudatio], whose function consists in a speech. When we say someone is worthy of praise, we promise him not men's kindly words but their judgments. Therefore praise belongs even to the silent man who thinks well and praises a good man within himself. [16] Then, as I said, praise is referred to the mind, not to the words, which merely carry out the praise once it is conceived and broadcast it to the notice of the many. He praises who judges that the man ought to be praised. When our tragic poet says that it is a magnificent thing "to be praised by a praised man," he means by one worthy of praise. And when an equally ancient poet says "praise nourishes the arts," he does not mean praise-giving, which corrupts the arts; for nothing has so spoiled eloquence, and every other pursuit that caters to the ears, as popular approval. [17] Reputation absolutely requires an utterance; renown can come about even without an utterance, content with judgment alone; it is complete not only among those who keep silent but even among those who cry out against it. Let me say what the difference is between renown and glory: glory consists of the judgments of many, renown of the judgments of good men. [18] "Whose good," he says, "is renown—that is, praise rendered to a good man by good men? Is it that of the one praised or of the one praising?" Of both. It is mine, who am praised; because my nature has made me love all men, I both rejoice that I have done good and am glad that I have found grateful interpreters of my virtues. This is a good belonging to the many, namely that they are grateful, but it is also mine; for I am so disposed in mind that I judge the good of others to be my own, especially of those for whom I myself am the cause of good. [19] That is a good belonging to those who praise; for it is performed through virtue, and every act of virtue is a good. This could not have befallen them unless I were such a man. So to be praised deservedly is the good of both—just as truly, by Hercules, as judging well is the good of the one who judges and of the one in whose favor the judgment is given. Do you doubt that justice is a good both of the one who possesses it and of the one to whom he pays what is owed? To praise the deserving is justice; therefore it is the good of both. [20] We have answered these quibblers amply enough. But this ought not to be our aim, to argue cleverly and to drag philosophy down from her majesty into these narrow straits. How much better it is to go by the open and straight road than to lay out twists for oneself which one must then retrace with great trouble! For these disputations are nothing other than the games of men skillfully catching each other out. [21] Tell me rather how natural it is to stretch the mind out into the boundless. The human soul is a great and noble thing; it allows no limits to be set for it except those it shares with god. First, it does not accept a lowly homeland—Ephesus or Alexandria, or any place still more crowded with inhabitants or more delightful in its roofs: its homeland is whatever the heights and the universe enclose in their circuit, all this vault within which lie the seas with the lands, within which the air, separating the human from the divine, also joins them, and in which so many divine powers, arranged for their own duties, keep watch. [22] Next, it does not allow itself to be given a narrow span of life: "All the years," it says, "are mine; no age is closed to great minds, no time is impassable to thought. When that day comes which separates this mixture of the divine and the human, I shall leave the body here where I found it, and I myself shall return to the gods. Even now I am not without them, but I am held back by this heavy, earthly weight." [23] Through these delays of mortal life there is a rehearsal for that better and longer life. Just as the mother's womb holds us for ten months and prepares us not for itself but for the place into which we seem to be sent forth, once we are fit to draw breath and survive in the open, so through this span that opens out from infancy into old age we are ripening for another birth. Another origin awaits us, another condition of things. [24] We cannot yet endure the heavens except at an interval. Therefore look ahead, unafraid, to that decisive hour: it is the last hour for the body, not for the soul. Regard everything that lies around you as the baggage of a guest lodging: you must pass on. Nature shakes you out when you leave, as when you entered. [25] You may not carry away more than you brought in; indeed, even of what you brought to life a great part must be set down: this surrounding wrapping, the last covering of yourself, your skin, will be stripped from you; the flesh will be stripped away, and the blood that is suffused and runs throughout the body; bones and sinews will be stripped away, the supports of these fluid and slipping parts. [26] That day, which you dread as the last, is the birthday of your eternity. Set down the burden: why do you hesitate, as though you had not before now gone out, leaving behind the body in which you were hidden? You cling, you struggle; even then you were expelled by your mother's great effort. You groan, you weep: and this very weeping belongs to the newborn, but then it deserved forgiveness, for you had come raw and ignorant of all things. Sent forth from the warm, soft cherishing of your mother's body, a freer air breathed upon you; then the touch of a hard hand struck you, and, still tender and knowing nothing, you were stunned among unfamiliar things. [27] Now it is nothing new for you to be parted from that of which you were before a part; let go of your now superfluous limbs with an even mind, and lay down this body you have inhabited so long. It will be torn apart, buried, abolished: why do you grieve? This is the way it usually happens: the wrappings of the newborn always perish. Why do you cherish these things as if they were your own? You were merely covered by them: the day will come that will tear you free and lead you out of the company of the foul and stinking belly. [28] From this, even now, withdraw as much as you can, and, a stranger now to pleasure except such as [...] clings to necessary things, from this point on meditate on something higher and more sublime: someday the secrets of nature will be uncovered for you, this fog will be scattered, and a light bright on every side will strike you. [29] Imagine to yourself how great that radiance will be, with so many stars mingling their light with one another. No shadow will disturb the clear sky; every region of heaven will shine equally: day and night are the alternations of the lowest air. Then you will say you lived in darkness, once with your whole self you have beheld the whole light—which now you gaze upon dimly through the narrowest channels of the eyes, and yet you marvel at it even from afar: what will the divine light seem to you when you have seen it in its own place? [30] This thought lets nothing sordid settle in the mind, nothing low, nothing cruel. It says that the gods are witnesses of all things; it bids us win their approval, prepare ourselves for the future, and set eternity before us. He who has conceived eternity in his mind dreads no armies, is not terrified by the trumpet, is driven to fear by no threats. Why should he not be unafraid, who hopes to die? Even the man who judges that the soul remains only as long as it is held by the chain of the body, and is scattered the moment it is released, contrives to be useful even after death. For although he himself has been snatched from sight, still Often we recall the man, often the glory of his deeds comes back to mind. Consider how much good examples profit us: you will know that the presence of great men is no less useful than their memory. Farewell.

Just as a man is annoying when he rouses a dreamer of pleasant dreams (for he is spoiling a pleasure which may be unreal but nevertheless has the appearance of reality), even so your letter has done me an injury. For it brought me back abruptly, absorbed as I was in agreeable meditation and ready to proceed still further if it had been permitted me. I was taking pleasure in investigating the immortality of souls, nay, in believing that doctrine. For I was lending a ready ear to the opinions of the great authors, who not only approve but promise this most pleasing condition. I was giving myself over to such a noble hope; for I was already weary of myself, beginning already to despise the fragments of my shattered existence, and feeling that I was destined to pass over into that infinity of time and the heritage of eternity, when I was suddenly awakened by the receipt of your letter, and lost my lovely dream. But, if I can once dispose of you, I shall reseek and rescue it. There was a remark, at the beginning of your letter, that I had not explained the whole problem—wherein I was endeavouring to prove one of the beliefs of our school, that the renown which falls to one’s lot after death is a good; for I had not solved the problem with which we are usually confronted: “No good can consist of things that are distinct and separate; yet renown consists of such things.” What you are asking about, my dear Lucilius, belongs to another topic of the same subject, and that is why I had postponed the arguments, not only on this one topic, but on other topics which also covered the same ground. For, as you know, certain logical questions are mingled with ethical ones. Accordingly, I handled the essential part of my subject which has to do with conduct—as to whether it is foolish and useless to be concerned with what lies beyond our last day, or whether our goods die with us and there is nothing left of him who is no more, or whether any profit can be attained or attempted beforehand out of that which, when it comes, we shall not be capable of feeling. All these things have a view to conduct, and therefore they have been inserted under the proper topic. But the remarks of dialecticians in opposition to this idea had to be sifted out, and were accordingly laid aside. Now that you demand an answer to them all, I shall examine all their statements, and then refute them singly. Unless, however, I make a preliminary remark, it will be impossible to understand my rebuttals. And what is that preliminary remark? Simply this: there are certain continuous bodies, such as a man; there are certain composite bodies,—as ships, houses, and everything which is the result of joining separate parts into one sum total: there are certain others made up of things that are distinct, each member remaining separate—like an army, a populace, or a senate. For the persons who go to make up such bodies are united by virtue of law or function; but by their nature they are distinct and individual. Well, what further prefatory remarks do I still wish to make? Simply this: we believe that nothing is a good, if it be composed of things that are distinct. For a single good should be checked and controlled by a single soul; and the essential quality of each single good should be single. This can be proved of itself whenever you desire; in the meanwhile, however, it had to be laid aside, because our own weapons are being hurled at us. Opponents speak thus: “You say, do you, that no good can be made up of things that are distinct? Yet this renown, of which you speak, is simply the favourable opinion of good men. For just as reputation does not consist of one person’s remarks, and as ill repute does not consist of one person’s disapproval, so renown does not mean that we have merely pleased one good person. In order to constitute renown, the agreement of many distinguished and praiseworthy men is necessary. But this results from the decision of a number—in other words, of persons who are distinct. Therefore, it is not a good. You say, again, that renown is the praise rendered to a good man by good men. Praise means speech: now speech is utterance with a particular meaning; and utterance, even from the lips of good men, is not a good in itself. For any act of a good man is not necessarily a good; he shouts his applause and hisses his disapproval, but one does not call the shouting or the hissing good—although his entire conduct may be admired and praised—any more than one would applaud a sneeze or a cough. Therefore, renown is not a good. Finally, tell us whether the good belongs to him who praises, or to him who is praised: if you say that the good belongs to him who is praised, you are on as foolish a quest as if you were to maintain that my neighbour’s good health is my own. But to praise worthy men is an honourable action; thus the good is exclusively that of the man who does the praising, of the man who performs the action, and not of us, who are being praised. And yet this was the question under discussion.” I shall now answer the separate objections hurriedly. The first question still is, whether any good can consist of things that are distinct—and there are votes cast on both sides. Again, does renown need many votes? Renown can be satisfied with the decision of one good man: it is one good man who decides that we are good. Then the retort is: “What! Would you define reputation as the esteem of one individual, and ill-repute as the rancorous chatter of one man? Glory, too, we take to be more widespread, for it demands the agreement of many men.” But the position of the “many” is different from that of “the one.” And why? Because, if the good man thinks well of me, it practically amounts to my being thought well of by all good men; for they will all think the same, if they know me. Their judgment is alike and identical; the effect of truth on it is equal. They cannot disagree, which means that they would all hold the same view, being unable to hold different views. “One man’s opinion,” you say, “is not enough to create glory or reputation.” In the former case, one judgment is a universal judgment, because all, if they were asked, would hold one opinion; in the other case, however, men of dissimilar character give divergent judgments. You will find perplexing emotions—everything doubtful, inconstant, untrustworthy. And can you suppose that all men are able to hold one opinion? Even an individual does not hold to a single opinion. With the good man it is truth that causes belief, and truth has but one function and one likeness; while among the second class of which I spoke, the ideas with which they agree are unsound. Moreover, those who are false are never steadfast: they are irregular and discordant. “But praise,” says the objector, “is nothing but an utterance, and an utterance is not a good.” When they say that renown is praise bestowed on the good by the good, what they refer to is not an utterance but a judgment. For a good man may remain silent; but if he decides that a certain person is worthy of praise, that person is the object of praise. Besides, praise is one thing, and the giving of praise another; the latter demands utterance also. Hence no one speaks of “a funeral praise,” but says “praise-giving"—for its function depends upon speech. And when we say that a man is worthy of praise, we assure human kindness to him, not in words, but in judgment. So the good opinion, even of one who in silence feels inward approval of a good man, is praise. Again, as I have said, praise is a matter of the mind rather than of the speech; for speech brings out the praise that the mind has conceived, and publishes it forth to the attention of the many. To judge a man worthy of praise, is to praise him. And when our tragic poet sings to us that it is wonderful “to be praised by a well-praised hero,” he means, “by one who is worthy of praise.” Again, when an equally venerable bard says: “Praise nurtureth the arts,” he does not mean the giving of praise, for that spoils the arts. Nothing has corrupted oratory and all other studies that depend on hearing so much as popular approval. Reputation necessarily demands words, but renown can be content with men’s judgments, and suffice without the spoken word. It is satisfied not only amid silent approval, but even in the face of open protest. There is, in my opinion, this difference between renown and glory—the latter depends upon the judgments of the many; but renown on the judgments of good men. The retort comes: “But whose good is this renown, this praise rendered to a good man by good men? Is it of the one praised, or of the one who praises?” Of both, I say. It is my own good, in that I am praised, because I am naturally born to love all men, and I rejoice in having done good deeds and congratulate myself on having found men who express their ideas of my virtues with gratitude; that they are grateful, is a good to the many, but it is a good to me also. For my spirit is so ordered that I can regard the good of other men as my own—in any case those of whose good I am myself the cause. This good is also the good of those who render the praise, for it is applied by means of virtue; and every act of virtue is a good. My friends could not have found this blessing if I had not been a man of the right stamp. It is therefore a good belonging to both sides—this being praised when one deserves it—just as truly as a good decision is the good of him who makes the decision and also of him in whose favour the decision was given. Do you doubt that justice is a blessing to its possessor, as well as to the man to whom the just due was paid? To praise the deserving is justice; therefore, the good belongs to both sides. This will be a sufficient answer to such dealers in subtleties. But it should not be our purpose to discuss things cleverly and to drag Philosophy down from her majesty to such petty quibbles. How much better it is to follow the open and direct road, rather than to map out for yourself a circuitous route which you must retrace with infinite trouble! For such argumentation is nothing else than the sport of men who are skilfully juggling with each other. Tell me rather how closely in accord with nature it is to let one’s mind reach out into the boundless universe! The human soul is a great and noble thing; it permits of no limits except those which can be shared even by the gods. First of all, it does not consent to a lowly birthplace, like Ephesus or Alexandria, or any land that is even more thickly populated than these, and more richly spread with dwellings. The soul’s homeland is the whole space that encircles the, height and breadth of the firmament, the whole rounded dome within which lie land and sea, within which the upper air that sunders the human from the divine also unites them, and where all the sentinel stars are taking their turn on duty. Again, the soul will not put up with a narrow span of existence. “All the years,” says the soul, “are mine; no epoch is closed to great minds; all Time is open for the progress of thought. When the day comes to separate the heavenly from its earthly blend, I shall leave the body here where I found it, and shall of my own volition betake myself to the gods. I am not apart from them now, but am merely detained in a heavy and earthly prison.” These delays of mortal existence are a prelude to the longer and better life. As the mother’s womb holds us for ten months, making us ready, not for the womb itself, but for the existence into which we seem to be sent forth when at last we are fitted to draw breath and live in the open; just so, throughout the years extending between infancy and old age, we are making ourselves ready for another birth. A different beginning, a different condition, await us. We cannot yet, except at rare intervals, endure the light of heaven; therefore, look forward without fearing to that appointed hour,—the last hour of the body but not of the soul. Survey everything that lies about you, as if it were luggage in a guest-chamber: you must travel on. Nature strips you as bare at your departure as at your entrance. You may take away no more than you brought in; what is more, you must throw away the major portion of that which you brought with you into life: you will be stripped of the very skin which covers you—that which has been your last protection; you will be stripped of the flesh, and lose the blood which is suffused and circulated through your body; you will be stripped of bones and sinews, the framework of these transitory and feeble parts. That day, which you fear as being the end of all things, is the birthday of your eternity. Lay aside your burden—why delay?—just as if you had not previously left the body which was your hiding-place! You cling to your burden, you struggle; at your birth also great effort was necessary on your mother’s part to set you free. You weep and wail; and yet this very weeping happens at birth also; but then it was to be excused—for you came into the world wholly ignorant and inexperienced. When you left the warm and cherishing protection of your mother’s womb, a freer air breathed into your face; then you winced at the touch of a rough hand, and you looked in amaze at unfamiliar objects, still delicate and ignorant of all things. But now it is no new thing for you to be sundered from that of which you have previously been a part; let go your already useless limbs with resignation and dispense with that body in which you have dwelt for so long. It will be torn asunder, buried out of sight, and wasted away. Why be downcast? This is what ordinarily happens: when we are born, the afterbirth always perishes. Why love such a thing as if it were your own possession? It was merely your covering. The day will come which will tear you forth and lead you away from the company of the foul and noisome womb. Withdraw from it now too as much as you can, and withdraw from pleasure, except such as may be bound up with essential and important things; estrange yourself from it even now, and ponder on something nobler and loftier. Some day the secrets of nature shall be disclosed to you, the haze will be shaken from your eyes, and the bright light will stream in upon you from all sides. Picture to yourself how great is the glow when all the stars mingle their fires; no shadows will disturb the clear sky. The whole expanse of heaven will shine evenly; for day and night are interchanged only in the lowest atmosphere. Then you will say that you have lived in darkness, after you have seen, in your perfect state, the perfect light—that light which now you behold darkly with vision that is cramped to the last degree. And yet, far off as it is, you already look upon it in wonder; what do you think the heavenly light will be when you have seen it in its proper sphere? Such thoughts permit nothing mean to settle in the soul, nothing low, nothing cruel. They maintain that the gods are witnesses of everything. They order us to meet the gods’ approval, to prepare ourselves to join them at some future time, and to plan for immortality. He that has grasped this idea shrinks from no attacking army, is not terrified by the trumpet-blast, and is intimidated by no threats. How should it not be that a man feels no fear, if he looks forward to death? He also who believes that the soul abides only as long as it is fettered in the body, scatters it abroad forthwith when dissolved, so that it may be useful even after death. For though he is taken from men’s sight, still Often our thoughts run back to the hero, and often the glory Won by his race recurs to the mind. Consider how much we are helped by good example; you will thus understand that the presence of a noble man is of no less service than his memory. Farewell.

[1] Quomodo molestus est iucundum somnium videnti qui excitat (aufertenim voluptatem etiam si falsam, effectum tamen verae habentem) sic epistulatua mihi fecit iniuriam; revocavit enim me cogitationi aptae traditum etiturum, si licuisset, ulterius. [2] Iuvabat de aeternitate animarum quaerere, immo mehercules credere; praebebam enim me facilem opinionibus magnorum virorum rem gratissimam promittentium magis quam probantium. Dabam me spei tantae, iam eram fastidio mihi, iam reliquias aetatis infractae contemnebamin immensum illud tempus et in possessionem omnis aevi transiturus, cumsubito experrectus sum epistula tua accepta et tam bellum somnium perdidi. Quod repetam, si te dimisero, et redimam. [3] Negas me epistula prima totam quaestionem explicuisse in qua probare conabar id quod nostris placet, claritatem quae post mortem contingit bonum esse. Id enim me non solvisse quod opponitur nobis: 'nullum' inquiunt 'bonum ex distantibus; hoc autem ex distantibus constat'. [4] Quod interrogas, mi Lucili, eiusdem quaestionis est loci alterius, et ideo non id tantum sed alia quoque eodem pertinentia distuleram; quaedam enim, ut scis, moralibus rationalia inmixta sunt. Itaque illam partem rectam et ad mores pertinentem tractavi, numquid stultum sit ac supervacuum ultra extremum diem curastrans mittere, an cadant bona nostra nobiscum nihilque sit eius qui nullusest, an ex eo quod, cum erit, sensuri non sumus, antequam sit aliquis fructus percipi aut peti possit. [5] Haec omnia ad mores spectant; itaque suo locoposita sunt. At quae a dialecticis contra hanc opinionem dicuntur segreganda fuerunt et ideo seposita sunt. Nunc, quia omnia exigis, omnia quae dicunt persequar, deinde singulis occurram. [6] Nisi aliquid praedixero, intellegi non poterunt quae refellentur. Quid est quod praedicere velim? quaedam continua corpora esse, ut hominem; quaedam esse composita, ut navem, domum, omnia denique quorum diversae partes iunctura in unum coactae sunt; quaedam ex distantibus, quorum adhuc membra separata sunt, tamquam exercitus, populus, senatus. Illi enim perquos ista corpora efficiuntur iure aut officio cohaerent, natura diductiet singuli sunt. Quid est quod etiam nunc praedicere velim? [7] nullum bonum putamus esse quod ex distantibus constat; uno enim spiritu unum bonum contineri ac regi debet, unum esse unius boni principale. Hoc si quando desideraverisper se probatur: interim ponendum fuit, quia in <nos> nostra tela mittuntur. [8] 'Dicitis' inquit 'nullum bonum ex distantibus esse; claritas aut emista bonorum virorum secunda opinio est. Nam quomodo fama non est unius sermo nec infamia unius mala existimatio, sic nec claritas uni bono placuisse;consentire in hoc plures insignes et spectabiles viri debent, ut claritassit. Haec autem ex iudiciis plurium efficitur, id est distantium; ergonon est bonum. [9] 'Claritas' inquit 'laus est a bonis bono reddita; laus oratio, vox est aliquid significans; vox est autem, licet virorum sit <bonorum, non> bonum. Nec enim quidquid vir bonus facit bonum est; nam et plauditet sibilat, sed nec plausum quisquam nec sibilum, licet omnia eius admiretur et laudet, bonum dicit, non magis quam sternumentum aut tussim. Ergo claritas bonum non est. [10] 'Ad summam dicite nobis utrum laudantis an laudati bonum sit: si laudati bonum esse dicitis, tam ridiculam rem facitis quam si adfirmetis meum esse quod alius bene valeat. Sed laudare dignos honesta actio est; ita laudantis bonum est cuius actio est, non nostrum qui laudamur: atqui hoc quaerebatur. '[11] Respondebo nunc singulis cursim. Primum an sit aliquod ex distantibus bonum etiamnunc quaeritur et pars utraque sententias habet. Deinde claritas desiderat multa suffragia? potest et unius boni viri iudicio esse contenta: nos bonus bonos iudicat. [12] 'Quid ergo? ' inquit 'et fama erit unius hominis existimatio et infamia unius malignus sermo? Gloriam quoque' inquit 'latius fusam intellego; consensum enim multorum exigit. ' Diversa horum condicio est et illius. Quare? quia si de me bene vir bonus sentit, eodem loco sum quo si omnes boni idem sentirent; omnes enim, si me cognoverint, idem sentient. Par illis idemque iudicium est, aeque vero inficiscitur. Dissidere nonpossunt; ita pro eo est ac si omnes idem sentiant, quia aliud sentire non possunt. [13] Ad gloriam aut famam non est satis unius opinio. Illic idem potest una sententia quod omnium, quia omnium, si perrogetur, una erit:hic diversa dissimilium iudicia sunt. Difficiles adsensus, dubia omnia invenies, levia, suspecta. Putas tu posse unam omnium esse sententiam? non est unius una sententia. Illic placet verum, veritatis una vis, una facies est: apud hos falsa sunt quibus adsentiuntur. Numquam autem falsis constantia est; variantur et dissident. [14] 'Sed laus' inquit 'nihil aliud quam vox est, vox autem bonum non est. ' Cum dicunt claritatem esse laudem bonorum a bonis redditam, non advocem referunt sed ad sententiam. Licet enim vir bonus taceat sed aliquem iudicet dignum laude esse, laudatus est. [15] Praeterea aliud est laus, aliud laudatio, haec et vocem exigit; itaque nemo dicit laudem funebrem sed laudationem, cuius officium oratione constat. Cum dicimus aliquem laude dignum, non verba illi benigna hominum sed iudicia promittimus. Ergo laus etiam taciti est bene sentientis ac bonum virum apud se laudantis. [16] Deinde, ut dixi, ad animum refertur laus, non ad verba, quae conceptam laudem egerunt et in notitiam plurium emittunt. Laudat qui laudandum esse iudicat. Cum tragicus ille apud nos ait magnificum esse 'laudari a laudato viro', laude digno ait. Et cum aeque antiquus poeta ait 'laus alit artis', non laudationem dicit, quae corrumpit artes; nihil enim aeque et eloquentiam et omne aliud studium auribus deditum vitiavit quam popularis adsensio. [17] Fama vocem utique desiderat, claritas potest etiam citra vocem contingere contenta iudicio; plena est non tantum inter tacentis sed etiam inter reclamantis. Quid intersit inter claritatem et gloriam dicam: gloria multorum iudicis constat, claritas bonorum. [18] 'Cuius' inquit 'bonum est claritas, id est laus bono a bonis reddita? utrum laudati an laudantis? ' Utriusque. Meum, qui laudor; quia natura mea mantem omnium genuit, et bene fecisse gaudeo et gratos me invenisse virtutum interpretes laetor. Hoc plurium bonum est quod grati sunt, sed et meum;ita enim animo compositus sum ut aliorum bonum meum iudicem, utique eorum quibus ipse sum boni causa. [19] Est istud laudantium bonum; virtute enim geritur; omnis autem virtutis actio bonum est. Hoc contingere illis non potuisset nisi ego talis essem. Itaque utriusque bonum est merito laudari, tam mehercules quam bene iudicasse iudicantis bonum est et eius secundum quem iudicatum est. Numquid dubitas quin iustitia et habentis bonum sitet autem sit eius cui debitum solvit? Merentem laudare iustitia est; ergo utriusque bonum est. [20] Cavillatoribus istis abunde responderimus. Sed non debet hoc nobis esse propositum, arguta disserere et philosophiam in has angustias ex sua maiestate detrahere: quanto satius est ire aperta via et recta quam sibi ipsum flexus disponere quos cum magna molestia debeas relegere? Neque enim quicquam aliud istae disputationes sunt quam inter se perite captantium lusus. [21] Dic potius quam naturale sit in immensum mentem suam extendere. Magna et generosa res est humanus animus; nullos sibi poni nisi communeset cum deo terminos patitur. Primum humilem non accipit patriam, Ephesum aut Alexandriam aut si quod est etiamnunc frequentius accolis laetius vetectis solum: patria est illi quodcumque suprema et universa circuitu suo cingit, hoc omne convexum intra quod iacent maria cum terris, intra quod aer humanis divina secernens etiam coniungit, in quo disposita tot numina in actus suos excubant. [22] Deinde artam aetatem sibi dari non sinit: 'omnes' inquit 'anni mei sunt; nullum saeculum magnis ingeniis clusum est, nullum non cogitationi pervium tempus. Cum venerit dies ille qui mixtum hoc divini humanique secernat, corpus hic ubi inveni relinquam, ipse mediis reddam. Nec nunc sine illis sum, sed gravi terrenoque detineor.' [23] Per has mortalis aevi moras illi meliori vitae longiorique proluditur. Quemadmodum decem mensibus tenet nos maternus uterus et praeparat non sibi sed illi loco in quem videmur emitti iam idonei spiritum trahere et inaperto durare, sic per hoc spatium quod ab infantia patet in senectutem in alium mature scimus partum. Alia origo nos expectat, alius rerum status. [24] Nondum caelum nisi ex intervallo pati possumus. Proinde intrepidus horam illam decretoriam prospice: non est animo suprema, sed corpori. Quidquid circa te iacet rerum tamquam hospitalis loci sarcinas specta: transeundumest. Excutit redeuntem natura sicut intrantem. [25] Non licet plus efferrequam intuleris, immo etiam ex eo quod ad vitam adtulisti pars magna ponenda est: detrahetur tibi haec circumiecta, novissimum velamentum tui, cutis; detrahetur caro et suffusus sanguis discurrensque per totum; detrahentur ossa nervique, firmamenta fluidorum ac labentium. [26] Dies iste quem tamquam extremum reformidas aeterni natalis est. Depone onus: quid cunctaris, tamquam non prius quoque relicto in quo latebas corpore exieris? Haeres, reluctaris:tum quoque magno nisu matris expulsus es. Gemis, ploras: et hoc ipsum flerenascentis est, sed tunc debebat ignosci: rudis et inperitus omnium veneras. Ex maternorum viscerum calido mollique fomento emissum adflavit aura liberior, deinde offendit durae manus tactus, tenerque adhuc et nullius rei gnarus obstipuisti inter ignota: [27] nunc tibi non est novum separari ab eo cuius ante pars fueris; aequo animo membra iam supervacua dimitte et istuc corpus inhabitatum diu pone. Scindetur, obruetur, abolebitur: quid contristaris? ita solet fieri: pereunt semper velamenta nascentium. Quid ista sic diligis quasi tua? Istis opertus es: veniet qui te revellat dies et ex contubernio foedi atque olidi ventris educat. [28] Huic nunc quoque tu quantum potessub<duc te> voluptatique nisi quae * * * necessariisque cohaerebit alienus iam hinc altius aliquid sublimiusque meditare: aliquando naturae tibi arcana retegentur, discutietur ista caligo et lux undique clara percutiet. Imaginare tecum quantus ille sit fulgor tot sideribus inter se lumen miscentibus. Nulla serenum umbra turbabit; aequaliter splendebit omne caeli latus: dieset nox aeris infimi vices sunt. Tunc in tenebris vixisse te dices cum totam lucem et totus aspexeris, quam nunc per angustissimas oculorum vias obscure intueris, et tamen admiraris illam iam procul: quid tibi videbitur divina lux cum illam suo loco videris? [29] Haec cogitatio nihil sordidum animo subsidere sinit, nihil humile, nihil crudele. Deos rerum omnium esse testes ait; illis nos adprobari, illis in futurum parari iubet et aeternitatem proponere. Quam qui mente concepit nullos horret exercitus, non terretur tuba, nullis ad timorem minis agitur. [30] Quidni non timeat qui mori sperat? is quoque qui animum tamdiu iudicat manere quamdiu retinetur corporis vinculo, solutum statim spargi, id agit ut etiam post mortem utilis esse possit. Quamvis enim ipse ereptus sit oculis, tamen Cogita quantum nobis exempla bona prosint: scies magnorum virorum non minus praesentiam esse utilem quam memoriam. Vale.