No More Learning

If man were adapted to unhappiness, I should pity him far
less; and considering his transitory duration, I should despise for
him as for myself the torment of a day. But all good things sur-
round him; all his faculties bid him enjoy, all say to him, “Be
happy" and man has said, "Happiness shall be for the brute:
art, science, glory, grandeur, shall be for me. " His mortality, his
griefs, his crimes themselves, are but the slightest part of his
wretchedness. I deplore his losses,- calm, choice, union, tran-
quil possession. I deplore a hundred years that millions of sen-
tient beings have wasted in anxiety and restrictions, in the midst
of what would make security, liberty, joy; living with bitterness
upon a voluptuous earth, because they have desired imaginary
and exclusive good things.
However, all that amounts to very little. I did not witness it
half a century ago, and in half a century more I shall see it no
longer.
I said to myself: If it was not part of my destiny to recall
to primordial morals an isolated circumscribed land, if I ought to
force myself to forget the world, and think myself happy enough
in obtaining tolerable days upon this deluded earth,- then I
would ask but one favor, one spirit in that dream from which I no
longer wish to awaken. There rests upon earth, such as it is, an
illusion which can still deceive me; it is the only one. I would
have the wisdom to be deceived by it: the rest is not worth an
effort. This is what I said then; but chance alone could grant
me the inestimable mistake. Chance is slow and uncertain: life
rapid and irrevocable, its springtime passes; and this unsatisfied
craving, by wasting my life, must finally alienate my heart and
change my nature. Sometimes already I feel myself growing sour:
I become angry, my affections narrow; impatience makes my will
fierce, and a kind of contempt bears me toward great but aus-
tere designs. However, this bitterness does not endure in all its
force: afterward I abandon myself as if I felt that distracted
men, and uncertain things, and my life so short, did not merit a
day's uneasiness, and that a severe awakening is useless when
one must soon sleep forever.


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SENECA
(ABOUT 4 B. C. –65 A. D. )
HE greatest of Christian evangelists was haunted by the awful
dread lest, while he pointed out to others the path to bliss,
he himself "should become a castaway. " The most fluent,
tolerant, and persuasive of Roman ethical teachers, Seneca, demon-
strated by his tragic failure in the trying crises of his life, how hard
it was to be brave, consistent, or even free from crime, under the
mad despotism of a Caligula, a Claudius, and a Nero.
At Cordova there is still shown a ruined villa bearing by tradition
the name "House of Seneca. " In Spain, then, the native land of so
many Roman scholars and authors, the great philosopher's father
was born. The race was already wealthy, and enjoyed the privileges
of Roman knighthood. The father was at least a devoted amateur
student of rhetoric, and endowed with a memory as phenomenal as
Macaulay's. After once hearing a speech of several thousand words,
he could easily repeat it verbatim. He knew the world-city well, for
he had repeatedly heard all the orators and pleaders since Cicero.
Still, especially after his rather late marriage, he seems to have pre-
ferred more and more the security and quiet of his estates in Spain.
The two books by the elder Seneca of which we hear, were prob-
ably both undertaken largely for the education of his three sons.
His history of the civil wars and the early empire is wholly lost.
We are told that in a general preface he compared the earlier epochs
in the development of the State to the stages of human life. This
comparison itself has a certain pedagogical sound. His other work,
extant in a fragmentary form, is chiefly made up of quotations from
the noted rhetoricians he had heard, taking both sides in a series of
very academic Adversaria, or subjects for debate, such as- "Should
Leonidas retreat from Thermopyla ? » "Should Cicero beg his life
from Antony? " etc. , etc. In his prefaces to the various books the
elder Seneca shows a pleasing wit, an unexpectedly pure Latin style,
- and his prodigious memory.
―
The three sons already mentioned are memorable for very differ-
ent reasons. The youngest, Mela, was merely the father of the poet
Lucan, whose brief life ended in utter ignominy and cowardice, drag-
ging his parents down with him.
The eldest of the trio was adopted by his father's friend Gallio.
Under that name he has enjoyed an unwelcome fame among Christians,


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as the Roman governor of Greece who "cared for none of these
things" (Acts, xviii. 12-17). As to the strife between the old Hebrew
Paul of Tarsus and his fellow Jews, or even as to street brawls in
Corinth, though the Greeks mobbed and beat the Israelitish high priest
before the very judgment-seat of the Prætor, Gallio of course main-
tained the indifference and contempt shown by the typical Roman
aristocrat toward all quarrels among the subject races of the empire.
Canon Farrar reminds us effectively how trifling and soon forgotten
this incident was to the man who was destined to be remembered
chiefly thereby, and not by his famous brother's loving words: "No
mortal was ever so sweet (dulcis) to any one as he was to all men. ",
The greatest man of the race, however, the most brilliant lit-
erary figure of three imperial reigns,— was the second son, Lucius
Annæus Seneca, like his father a native of Corduba. Born shortly
before the Christian era, and always of a delicate and sickly constitu-
tion, he devoted himself, not like his kinsmen chiefly to rhetoric, but
rather to philosophy. The Stoic school was far more sympathetic to
Roman character than its only powerful rival, the sect of Epicurus.
With these devotees to duty rather than to pleasure as the chief end
of life, Seneca associated himself. He also had a strong regard for
the Cynics, whose school may be regarded as the superlative degree —
or as the reductio ad absurdum-of Stoicism. But it is a pleasing
trait in this genial and tolerant nature, that he saw too how nearly
Epicurus himself and his austerest followers had, arrived by a dif-
ferent road at the same ethical goal. Indeed, in Rome at any rate,
such commonplaces as the uncertainty of all prosperity, or the duty
of meeting calamity with fortitude, needed in those evil days no
instiller save the demoniacal caprice of "Cæsar," and the insatiate
cruelty and greed of countless satellites, informers, and spies.
Such lessons Seneca has left us in a hundred sermons,- under
which general title we may include nearly all his epistles, the
avowed essays, and the "dialogues," which narrow to monologues as
inevitably as a Ciceronian treatise or a poem of Wordsworth. The
themes are few, and not often new; the illustrations, epigrams,
tropes, disguise the monotony and obviousness of the thought. As
Quintilian sternly says, the style is an essentially vicious one, and
doubly dangerous because its errors are clothed in brilliant beauty.
The tendency of Seneca is constantly to put manner above matter,
to hide familiar and undisputed truth under striking and picturesque
ornament.
This advocate of contented poverty was the wealthiest and most
profuse of courtiers. He assured his disciples that contentment abides
only in the huts of humility,- and entertained them at five hundred
splendid tables of cedar and ivory. Such inconsistency, indeed, he


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frankly confesses; bidding us follow rather his aspirations and future
intentions than his present example.
The very prominence of Seneca's position exposed him to yet
more deadly perils and temptations. His youthful successes as an
advocate exposed him to the dangerous jealousy of Caligula, who
was only mollified by the assurance that the feeble consumptive was
already at death's door. Promptly banished by the next emperor,
Claudius, Seneca for eight years (41-49 A. D. ) languished an exile in
Corsica. Thence he addressed to the dissolute freedman Polybius,
favorite of the half-witted tyrant Claudius, the most fulsome flatteries
intended for the ears of both. One of the great philosophic treat-
ises On Consolation' is nominally written to condole with this arch-
villain upon the death of a brother. The long-prayed-for return to
Rome came at last through the infamous Agrippina, when she had
destroyed her imperial rival, and begun her lifelong machinations
for the advancement of her ungrateful son, the future emperor Nero.
Of this precocious monster Seneca became the guardian or tutor.
Whether the sage connived at the murder of the emperor Claudius
(54 A. D. ), is an insoluble problem of court scandal. He did not
denounce the guilty, and he shared the fruits of the crime. He
even composed and read, to amuse his pupil and the guilty queen
mother, a heartless and irreverent account of Claudius's reception
and condemnation in the world of the dead. This is the same Clau-
dius who was so extolled and flattered in the 'De Consolatione ad
Polybium'!
Nero in the first five years of his reign gave some promise of
statesmanlike development and a juster balance of character. Doubt-
less for the best acts of this period his mentor deserves the chief
credit. While his fellow guardian, the sturdy Burrus, lived to con-
trol the turbulent prætorian guards, Seneca was as secure in his
position as he can be who draws his breath by the permission of a
young tyrant with madness in his blood, bred to folly and self-
indulgence. The culminating horror in Nero's lurid reign is of course
the monarch's assassination of his own mother, whose worst crimes
had been committed in the son's interest. After condoning at least,
and justifying as a political necessity, this awful deed, Seneca himself
must have felt that his pulpit should be vacated. He soon realized
that his only hope of life was in the abdication of all authority, the
"voluntary" proffer of his wealth to the young emperor, and a
prompt retirement to Cordova or some equally remote retreat. Even
this path he found blocked. Accused of treason, he was commanded
to put an end to his own life. Thus set face to face with the
inevitable, Seneca offered the usual example of a philosophic death
(an example, by the way, which his pupil Nero, almost alone among
XXII-821


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SENECA
eminent Romans, failed to follow). This was in 65 A. D. His wife
attempted to share his fate, and was rescued against her will.
There are numberless pleasing traits in Seneca's character. In-
deed, it is much the same here as with his literary style. The cen-
tral motive we may be forced to condemn, yet a hundred charming
touches lend to it a dangerous attractiveness. He loved power,
wealth, glory; and to them sacrificed his own approval and his after
fame. But he was faithful to all the ties of human friendship, in a
century when betrayal and ghastly selfishness were inbred in most
men. Especially in his love for children, and his delight in them, he
is almost un-Roman. In many of his educational and social doctrines
he is surprisingly in advance of his age. And after all, the errors of
his life are largely inferred rather than proven,- and certainly have
long since ceased to do harm. Many of his ethical doctrines are of
so lofty a nature that he has actually been recognized by popes and
councils as at least in part an authority for Christian doctrine.
Perhaps to the same cause we may attribute the well-invented but
baseless legend that Seneca was in correspondence, and even on
terms of personal friendship, with the apostle Paul, during his two
years' imprisonment in Rome. Seneca, like the other Romans of his
day, made no distinction between the Christians and the other sects
of the "most detestable" Jews. Indeed, he never mentions the new
sect by name. When Seneca's brother Gallio refused to hear Paul
speak in his own defense, the opportunity for personal influence of
the great apostle upon that gifted and haughty family undoubtedly
passed by forever.
Most of Seneca's prose works we have already characterized.
There is indeed one series of essays, in which he attempts to dis-
cuss the laws and phenomena of the physical world. Based of course
upon the Ptolemaic system, these books had much influence through-
out the Middle Ages, but have become mere curiosities in the broader
daylight of modern science.
The mocking satire upon the dead Claudius is written partly in
prose and partly in verse; and so may be classed as an example of
"Menippean" satire. Most of Seneca's other poetic productions have
perished.
An important exception to the last statement must probably be
made, in that ten tragedies have been handed down to us under his
name. Composed long after the decay of drama, rhetorical and
bombastic, unsuited to our ideas of scenic effect, these have neverthe-
less an extreme interest and importance, as the only specimens of
serious Roman drama still extant. The Octavia' in particular, a har-
rowing tragedy of contemporary court life under Nero, is absolutely
unique. It contains, however, unmistakable allusions to the manner
I


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13123
of Nero's death; and must therefore be from the hand of some sur-
vivor of both teacher and pupil. The other nine all bear Greek titles;
and like the Roman comedies which we possess, are no doubt rather
adaptations than creative work.
The complete prose works of Seneca in Latin are excellently
edited in the Teubner text. There is also a satisfactory edition of
the tragedies by Leo. He is not an author who demands elaborate
annotation. There is no satisfactory translation in English of recent
date. Two volumes have been contributed within a few years to the
Bohn Library by Aubrey Stewart, M. A. This accurate translation
should by all means be completed. There is also a version of the
tragedies by Holtze. The fullest and most interesting treatise in
English upon Seneca has already been cited more than once in this
study. It is an early essay by Canon Farrar, occupying the greater
portion of his volume 'Seekers after God,' where it is combined with
briefer chapters upon two other enlightened pagans, Epictetus and
Marcus Aurelius.
-
TIME WASTED
IN
N THE distribution of human life, we find that a great part of
it passes away in evil-doing, a greater yet in doing just
nothing at all, and in effect, the whole in doing things beside
our business. Some hours we bestow upon ceremony and servile
attendance, some upon our pleasures, and the remainder runs to
waste. What a deal of time is it that we spend in hopes and
fears, love and revenge; in balls, treats, making of interests,
suing for offices, soliciting of causes, and slavish flatteries! The
shortness of life, I know, is the common complaint both of fools
and philosophers,- as if the time we have were not sufficient for
our duties. But it is with our lives as with our estates- a good
husband makes a little go a great way; whereas, let the reve-
nue of a prince fall into the hand of a prodigal, it is gone in a
moment. So that the time allotted us, if it were well employed,
were abundantly enough to answer all the ends and purposes of
mankind; but we squander it away in avarice, drink, sleep, lux-
ury, ambition, fawning addresses, envy, rambling voyages, imper-
tinent studies, change of councils, and the like: and when our
portion is spent we find the want of it, though we give no heed
to it in the passage; insomuch that we have rather made our life
short than found it so. You shall have some people perpetually


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playing with their fingers, whistling, humming, and talking to
themselves; and others consume their days in the composing,
hearing, or reciting of songs and lampoons. How many precious
mornings do we spend in consultation with barbers, tailors, and
tire-women, patching and painting betwixt the comb and the
glass? A council must be called upon every hair we cut, and
one curl amiss is as much as a body's life is worth. The truth
is, we are more solicitous about our dress than our manners, and
about the order of our periwigs than that of the government.
At this rate let us but discount, out of a life of a hundred years,
that time which has been spent upon popular negotiations, frivo-
lous amours, domestic brawls, saunterings up and down to no
purpose, diseases that we have brought upon ourselves,-and this
large extent of life will not amount, perhaps, to the minority
of another man. It is a long being, but perchance a short life.
And what is the reason of all this? We live as if we should
never die, and without any thought of human frailty; when yet
the very moment we bestow upon this man or thing may per
adventure be our last.
Paraphrased from Seneca by Sir Roger L'Estrange.
INDEPENDENCE IN ACTION
LL men, brother Gallio, wish to live happily, but are dull at
A perceiving exactly what it is that makes life happy: and so
far is it from being easy to attain to happiness, that the
more eagerly a man struggles to reach it, the further he departs
from it, if he takes the wrong road; for since this leads in the
opposite direction, his very swiftness carries him all the further
away. We must therefore define clearly what it is at which we
aim; next we must consider by what path we may most speedily
reach it for on our journey itself, provided it be made in the
right direction, we shall learn how much progress we have made
each day, and how much nearer we are to the goal towards
which our natural desires urge us. But as long as we wander at
random, not following any guide except the shouts and discordant
clamors of those who invite us to proceed in different directions,
our short life will be wasted in useless roamings, even if we
labor both day and night to get a good understanding. Let us
not therefore decide whither we must tend, and by what path,


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without the advice of some experienced person, who has explored
the region which we are about to enter: because this journey is
not subject to the same conditions as others; for in them some
distinctly understood track and inquiries made of the natives
make it impossible for us to go wrong, but here the most beaten
and frequented tracks are those which lead us most astray. Noth-
ing, therefore, is more important than that we should not, like
sheep, follow the flock that has gone before us, and thus proceed
not whither we ought, but whither the rest are going.
PRAISES OF THE RIVAL SCHOOL IN PHILOSOPHY
EN are not encouraged by Epicurus to run riot; but the
vicious hide their excesses in the lap of philosophy, and
flock to the schools in which they hear the praises of
pleasure. They do not consider how sober and temperate — for
so, by Hercules, I believe it to be-that "pleasure" of Epicurus
is; but they rush at his mere name, seeking to obtain some
protection and cloak for their vices. They lose, therefore, the
one virtue which their evil life possessed,—that of being ashamed
of doing wrong; for they praise what they used to blush at, and
boast of their vices. Thus modesty can never reassert itself, when
shameful idleness is dignified with an honorable name.
The rea-
son why that praise which your school lavishes upon pleasure is
so hurtful, is because the honorable part of its teaching passes
unnoticed, but the degrading part is seen by all.
I myself believe, though my Stoic comrades would be unwill-
ing to hear me say so, that the teaching of Epicurus was upright
and holy, and even, if you examine it narrowly, stern; for this
much-talked-of pleasure is reduced to a very narrow compass,
and he bids pleasure submit to the same law which we bid virtue
do,—I mean, to obey nature. Luxury, however, is not satisfied
with what is enough for nature. What is the consequence?
Whoever thinks that happiness consists in lazy sloth and alter-
nations of gluttony and profligacy, requires a good patron for a
bad action; and when he has become an Epicurean, having been
led to do so by the attractive name of that school, he follows, not
the pleasure which he there hears spoken of, but that which he
brought thither with him; and having learned to think that his
vices coincide with the maxims of that philosophy, he indulges in


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them no longer timidly and in dark corners, but boldly in the face
of day. I will not, therefore, like most of our school, say that
the sect of Epicurus is the teacher of crime; but what I say is,
it is ill spoken of, it has a bad reputation, and yet it does not
deserve it.
-
INCONSISTENCY
I'
-
F ANY one of those dogs who yelp at philosophy were to say,
as they are wont to do:- - ་་
"Why then do you talk so much
more bravely than you live? why do you check your words
in the presence of your superiors, and consider money to be a
necessary implement? why are you disturbed when you sustain
losses, and weep on hearing of the death of your wife or your
friend? why do you pay regard to common rumor, and feel an-
noyed by calumnious gossip? why is your estate more elaborately
kept than its natural use requires? why do you not dine accord-
ing to your own maxims? why is your furniture smarter than it
need be? why do you drink wine that is older than yourself?
why are your grounds laid out? why do you plant trees which
afford nothing except shade? why does your wife wear in her
ears the price of a rich man's house? why are your children at
school dressed in costly clothes? why is it a science to wait upon
you at table? why is your silver plate not set down anyhow or
at random, but skillfully disposed in regular order, with a super-
intendent to preside over the carving of the viands? " Add to
this, if you like, the questions:-"Why do you own property
beyond the seas? why do you own more than you know of? —it is
a shame to you not to know your slaves by sight; for you must
be very neglectful of them if you only own a few, or very extrav-
agant if you have too many for your memory to retain. " I will
add some reproaches afterwards, and will bring more accusations
against myself than you think of; for the present I will make you
the following answer:
་
"I am not a wise man, and I will not be one in order to feed
your spite; so do not require me to be on a level with the best
of men, but merely to be better than the worst: I am satisfied
if every day I take away something from my vices and correct
my faults.
I have not arrived at perfect soundness of mind;
indeed, I never shall arrive at it: I compound palliatives rather


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than remedies for my gout, and am satisfied if it comes at rarer
intervals and does not shoot so painfully. Compared with your
feet, which are lame, I am a racer. " I make this speech, not on
my own behalf,- for I am steeped in vices of every kind,— but
on behalf of one who has made some progress in virtue.
«<
"You talk one way," objects our adversary, and live an-
other. " You most spiteful of creatures, you who always show
the bitterest hatred to the best of men, this reproach was flung
at Plato, at Epicurus, at Zeno; for all these declared how they
ought to live, not how they did live. I speak of virtue, not
of myself; and when I blame vices, I blame my own first of
all: when I have the power, I shall live as I ought to do: spite,
however deeply steeped in venom, shall not keep me back from
what is best; that poison itself with which you bespatter oth-
ers, with which you choke yourselves, shall not hinder me from
continuing to praise that life which I do not indeed lead, but
which I know I ought to lead,- from loving virtue and from fol-
lowing after her, albeit a long way behind her and with halting
gait.
ON LEISURE (OTIUM)
W"
ITH leisure we can carry out that which we have once for
all decided to be best, when there is no one to interfere
with us, and with the help of the mob pervert our as
yet feeble judgment; with leisure only can life, which we dis-
tract by aiming at the most incompatible objects, flow on in a
single gentle stream. Indeed, the worst of our various ills is
that we change our very vices, and so have not even the advan-
tage of dealing with a well-known form of evil; we take pleas-
ure first in one and then in another, and are besides troubled
by the fact that our opinions are not only wrong, but lightly
formed: we toss as it were on waves, and clutch at one thing
after another; we let go what we just now sought for, and strive
to recover what we have let go. We oscillate between desire
and remorse: for we depend entirely upon the opinions of oth-
ers; and it is that which many people praise and seek after, not
that which deserves to be praised and sought after, which we
consider to be best. Nor do we take any heed of whether our
road be good or bad in itself; but we value it by the number


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of footprints upon it, among which there are none of any who
have returned. You will say to me: "Seneca, what are you
doing? do you desert your party? I am sure that our Stoic phi-
losophers say we must be in motion up to the very end of our
life: we will never cease to labor for the general good, to help
individual people, and when stricken in years to afford assist-
ance even to our enemies. We are the sect that gives no dis-
charge for any number of years' service; and in the words of
the most eloquent of poets,-
'We wear the helmet when our locks are gray. '
We are they who are so far from indulging in any leisure until
we die, that if circumstances permit it, we do not allow ourselves
to be at leisure even when we are dying. Why do you preach
the maxims of Epicurus in the very headquarters of Zeno? nay,
if you are ashamed of your party, why do you not go openly
altogether over to the enemy rather than betray your own side?
"
I will answer this question straightway: What more can you
wish than that I should imitate my leaders? What then follows?
I shall go whither they lead me, not whither they send me.
Now I will prove to you that I am not deserting the tenets
of the Stoics; for they themselves have not deserted them: and
yet I should be able to plead a very good excuse even if I did
follow, not their precepts, but their examples. I shall divide
what I am about to say into two parts: first, that a man may
from the very beginning of his life give himself up entirely to
the contemplation of truth; secondly, that a man when he has
already completed his term of service has the best of rights-
that of his shattered health-to do this; and that he may then
apply his mind to other studies, after the manner of the Vestal
Virgins, who allot different duties to different years,-first learn
how to perform the sacred rites, and when they have learned
them, teach others.
—
I will show that this is approved of by the Stoics also: not
that I have laid any commandment upon myself to do nothing
contrary to the teaching of Zeno and Chrysippus, but because the
matter itself allows me to follow the precepts of those men; for
if one always follows the precepts of one man, one ceases to be
a debater and becomes a partisan. Would that all things were
already known; that truth were unveiled and recognized, and that
none of our doctrines required modification! but as it is, we have


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13129
to seek for truth in the company of the very men who teach it.
The two sects of Epicureans and Stoics differ widely in most
respects, and on this point among the rest; nevertheless, each of
them consigns us to leisure, although by a different road. Epi-
curus says, "The wise man will not take part in politics, except
upon some special occasion. " Zeno says, "The wise man will take
part in politics, unless prevented by some special circumstance. "
The one makes it his aim in life to seek for leisure, the other
seeks it only when he has reasons for so doing; but this word
«< reasons » has a wide signification. If the State is so rotten as to
be past helping, if evil has entire dominion over it, the wise man
will not labor in vain or waste his strength in unprofitable efforts.
Should he be deficient in influence or bodily strength, if the State
refuse to submit to his guidance, if his health stand in the way,
then he will not attempt a journey for which he is unfit; just as
he would not put to sea in a worn-out ship, or enlist in the army
if he were an invalid. Consequently, one who has not yet suffered
either in health or fortune has the right, before encountering any
storms, to establish himself in safety, and thenceforth to devote
himself to honorable industry and inviolate leisure, and the serv-
ice of those virtues which can be practiced even by those who
pass the quietest of lives. The duty of a man is to be useful to
his fellow-men; if possible, to be useful to many of them; fail-
ing this, to be useful to a few; failing this, to be useful to his
neighbors; and failing them, to himself: for when he helps others,
he advances the general interests of mankind. Just as he who
makes himself a worse man does harm not only to himself, but
to all those to whom he might have done good if he had made
himself a better one,- so he who deserves well of himself does
good to others by the very fact that he is preparing what will
be of service to them.
Let us grasp the fact that there are two republics: one vast
and truly "public," which contains alike gods and men, in which
we do not take account of this or that nook of land, but make
the boundaries of our State reach as far as the rays of the sun;
and another to which we have been assigned by the accident of
birth. This may be that of the Athenians or Carthaginians, or
of any other city which does not belong to all men but to some
especial ones. Some men serve both of these States, the greater
and the lesser, at the same time; some serve only the lesser,
some only the greater. We can serve the greater commonwealth


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even when we are at leisure: indeed, I am not sure that we
cannot serve it better when we are at leisure to inquire into
what virtue is, and whether it be one or many; whether it be
nature or art that makes men good; whether that which contains
the earth and sea and all that in them is, be one, or whether
God has placed therein many bodies of the same species.
"But," say you, "it makes a difference whether you adopt the
contemplative life for the sake of your own pleasure, demanding
nothing from it save unbroken contemplation without any result;
for such a life is a sweet one and has attractions of its own. "
To this I answer you: It makes just as much difference in what
spirit you lead the life of a public man; whether you are never
at rest, and never set apart any time during which you may
turn your eyes away from the things of earth to those of heaven.
It is by no means desirable that one should merely strive to
accumulate property without any love of virtue, or do nothing
but hard work without any cultivation of the intellect; for these
things ought to be combined and blended together: and similarly,
virtue placed in leisure without action is but an incomplete and
feeble good thing, because she never displays what she has
learned. Who can deny that she ought to test her progress in
actual work; and not merely think what ought to be done, but
also sometimes use her hands as well as her head, and bring her
conceptions into actual being? But if the wise man be quite
willing to act thus, -if it be the things to be done that are
wanting, not the man to do them,- will you not then allow him
to live to himself? What is the wise man's purpose in devot-
ing himself to leisure? He knows that in leisure as well as in
action he can accomplish something by which he will be of serv-
ice to posterity. Our school at any rate declares that Zeno and
Chrysippus have done greater things than they would have done
had they been in command of armies, or filled high offices, or
passed laws; which latter indeed they did pass, though not for
one single State, but for the whole human race. How then can
it be unbecoming to a good man to enjoy a leisure such as this,
by whose means he gives laws to ages to come, and addresses
himself not to a few persons, but to all men of all nations, both
now and hereafter? To sum up the matter, I ask you whether
Cleanthes, Chrysippus, and Zeno lived in accordance with their
doctrine? I am sure that you will answer that they lived in
the manner in which they taught that men ought to live; yet no


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one of them governed a State. "They had not," you reply, "the
amount of property or social position which as a rule enables
people to take part in public affairs. " Yet for all that, they did
not live an idle life: they found the means of making their
retirement more useful to mankind than the perspirings and
runnings to and fro of other men; wherefore these persons are
thought to have done great things, in spite of their having done
nothing of a public character.
Moreover, there are three kinds of life, and it is a stock ques-
tion which of the three is the best: the first is devoted to pleas-
ure, the second to contemplation, the third to action. First let
us lay aside all disputatiousness and bitterness of feeling, which,
as we have stated, causes those whose paths in life are different
to hate one another beyond all hope of reconciliation; and let us
see whether all these three do not come to the same thing,
although under different names: for neither he who decides for
pleasure is without contemplation, nor is he who gives himself up
to contemplation without pleasure; nor yet is he whose life is
devoted to action, without contemplation. "It makes," you say,
"all the difference in the world, whether a thing is one's main
object in life or whether it be merely an appendage to some
other object. " I admit that the difference is considerable: never-
theless, the one does not exist apart from the other; the one man
cannot live in contemplation without action, nor can the other
act without contemplation: and even the third, of whom we all
agree in having a bad opinion, does not approve of passive pleas-
ure, but of that which he establishes for himself by means of
reason; even this pleasure-seeking sect itself, therefore, practices
action also. Of course it does; since Epicurus himself says that
at times he would abandon pleasure and actually seek for pain,
if he became likely to be surfeited with pleasure, or if he thought
that by enduring a slight pain he might avoid a greater one.
With what purpose do I state this? To prove that all men are
fond of contemplation. Some make it the object of their lives:
to us it is an anchorage, but not a harbor.


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SENECA
ACCOMMODATION TO CIRCUMSTANCES
S⁰
UPPOSE however that your life has become full of trouble, and
that without knowing what you were doing, you have fallen
into some snare which either public or private fortune has
set for you, and that you can neither untie it nor break it:
then remember that fettered men suffer much at first from the
burdens and clogs upon their legs; afterwards, when they have
made up their minds not to fret themselves about them, but to
endure them, necessity teaches them to bear them bravely, and
habit to bear them easily. In every station of life you will find
amusements, relaxations, and enjoyments; that is, provided you be
willing to make light of evils rather than to hate them. Know-
ing to what sorrows we were born, there is nothing for which
Nature more deserves our thanks than for having invented habit
as an alleviation of misfortune, which soon accustoms us to the
severest evils. No one could hold out against misfortune if it
permanently exercised the same force as at its first onset. We
are all chained to fortune: some men's chain is loose and made
of gold, that of others is tight and of meaner metal; but what
difference does this make? We are all included in the same cap-
tivity; and even those who have bound us are bound themselves,
unless you think that a chain on the left side is lighter to bear.
One man may be bound by public office, another by wealth; some
have to bear the weight of illustrious, some of humble birth;
some are subject to the commands of others, some only to their
own; some are kept in one place by being banished thither, oth-
ers by being elected to the priesthood. All life is slavery; let
each man therefore reconcile himself to his lot, complain of it as
little as possible, and lay hold of whatever good lies within his
reach. No condition can be so wretched that an impartial mind
can find no compensations in it. Small sites, if ingeniously
divided, may be made use of for many different purposes; and
arrangement will render ever so narrow a room habitable. Call
good sense to your aid against difficulties: it is possible to soften
what is harsh, to widen what is too narrow, and to make heavy
burdens press less severely upon one who bears them skillfully.


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13133
MATILDE SERAO
(1856-)
MONG the novel-writers of the present generation in Italy,
Matilde Serao occupies a place of honor and popularity.
She was born on March 7th, 1856, in Patras, a seaport of
Greece; so that Italian is in reality for her an acquired language.
Her mother was a Greek, and descended from the princes Scanavy,
who gave emperors to Trebizond. Her father was a Neapolitan
exile, who returned to his native city only when Matilde was twelve
years of age. Signora Serao superintended the early education of
her daughter, who is said to have been a lazy child, with a strong
dislike of study. She found reading a pleasant pastime, however,
and was interested in people and in the general routine of life.
When sent to school in France she fed her mind on the novels
of the French realistic school, and soon began to write on her own
account. When seventeen years of age she published her first story,
which was entitled 'Opal. ' This tale created some little stir; and
De Zerbi, editor of the Neapolitan Piccolo, offered her a place on
his journal. The Serao family was poor, and this offer was eagerly
accepted. In order to do better work as a reporter, she assumed a
man's dress and cropped her hair. The adaptability of her tempera-
ment enabled her to write to order with great facility. When her
talent was left entirely free she usually wrote sensuous love tales, in
which the dews of the fields and the stars of the sky were called
upon to witness the raptures and the sorrows of her heroes and
heroines. With equal ease, however, she produced sermons and criti-
cisms. Her teeming imagination overflowed the restriction of sub-
ject. Despite her versatility and her need of money, it seems to
have been always her aim to do the best of which she was capable;
and thus her work was always a means of development to her talent.
She married Signor Eduardo Scarfoglio, and with him established
the Corriere di Roma. They afterwards removed to Naples, where
they edited the Corriere di Napoli. In 1881 and 1883 she published
two long romances, and gathered into volumes those of her short
stories which she deemed worthy to live. She is fond of studying
child life; and in her story 'Little Minds,' written for grown peo-
ple, she pictures the little woes and pleasures and philosophies of
children with that detail and objective passion which is characteristic
of her.


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MATILDE SERAO
'An Unsteady Heart' was her first long novel, and was followed
by 'Fantasia. This is the story of a morbid and fanatically reli-
gious invalid, who through her sickly romanticism is led into sinful
feeling. She infatuates the husband of her dearest friend, and finally
leaves her own husband to run away with him; but, overcome with
remorse, evades her lover, and smothers herself with charcoal, to
secure the happiness of the deserted wife.
Madame Serao's plots are usually tragedies, and are worked out
with precision and refinement of passion. She is a painter of details;
no incident or expression is too trivial for her observation, and she
loves the minutest traceries of life, which she sees purely from its
emotional side. She is sometimes called "La petite Sand Italienne":
but while her mind has perhaps been influenced by French realists,
her stories are essentially the creations of a more southern tempera-
ment. She is the best exponent of the new literary movement in
Italy, which was born among the hot breezes of Naples.
FROM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM ›
M
ASSIMO was alone. A friend of his youth whom he had not
seen for years until to-day, when he had accidentally met
him in the street, had returned to dine with him at seven
o'clock after the happy recognition took place. Massimo was en-
during wearily the burden of a summer in town. Always before
he had gone to the country in June; but he had looked forward to
this as a happy evening of memories in the companionship of his
recovered friend. Between the pleasures of dinner, of cigarettes,
and of wine, they had indeed passed two cozy hours in chatting
of old times. They began all their sentences by saying "Do you
remember? " They laughed deliciously at dear memories which
crowded upon their minds; interrupting each other occasionally
by an exclamation of regret or a sigh of longing for the return
of those old days.
Yet in the very midst of the friendly merriment which filled
their hearts, they had become conscious of a sense of melancholy.
The two men had traveled different paths through life, and had
become very unlike in everything. They had set out from the
same point, and had studied together. But the friend was now a
well-known lawyer in one of the provinces; he had a wife and
family, was guided by simple, practical ideas, and by a mind and


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13135
temperament somewhat slow and deliberate. Massimo, on the
contrary, had wandered for ten or fifteen years in foreign coun-
tries, connected now with this legation, now with that; a diplo-
mat without enthusiasm; indolent, and unable on account of his
laziness to build up a career. He was content or not, according
to his mood, with his position of secretary. He was a handsome
man of the southern type, but had already lost the freshness of
youth; his hair was growing thin over his forehead, and his
eyes were lustreless. He had comfortable means without being
extremely rich, and was now playing the martyr in Naples on a
leave of absence; his friends called it a penance. Massimo was
refined, and a man of spirit and intelligence; but he was con-
sumed by the monotony of his existence, and also oppressed by
private cares and sorrows. His friend was a man of talents, but
strong and quiet; rather stout and lethargic in his appearance;
controlled always by sound provincial common-sense, which con-
demns originality as folly, and sacrifices the pleasures of the
present for the sake of enjoying a too distant future.
Thus, while one man told the story of his life, the other
listened and judged it according to his temperament; judged it
coldly in his heart, though for the sake of the old friendship he
was not too honest in his expressions, but gently modified his
speech. Nevertheless, they felt the distance which was between
them. At one juncture they even searched each other's face
in doubt, so much like strangers did they seem; but they said
nothing. Perhaps in his heart Massimo envied the provincial
lawyer of reputation, with his limited ambition and his power
of assiduous work, envied him his fat, peaceful family, so well
sheltered from the storms of life, and his comfortable house,
which had been the house of his ancestors and which would
become the home of his descendants; envied him his practicality,
his seriousness and equilibrium, and indeed all those possessions
which were lacking to himself. And the lawyer envied Massimo
his vagabond life of an aristocrat in foreign courts; his future,
which he had the power to make splendid; his bachelor freedom,
and the adventures of his ideal existence; and the elegant and
exquisite apartments which he shared with no one. These were
dreams which had never disturbed his provincial sleep.
Simultaneously they sighed. The evening was hot; the door
was open between the room where they smoked and the balcony,
but no breath of air came to them; only a heavy fragrance of


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13136
MATILDE SERAO
jessamine. They were conscious of having grown sad. They
had recalled too much of the past, had unearthed too many
buried monuments, evoked too many lost friends who had once
been dear, and too many dead loves. This cannot be done with-
out a mingled feeling of sadness and pleasure; and the pleasure
soon vanishes, while the sadness remains. They smoked on in
silence, their heads resting on the high back of the sofa. Then
the lawyer looked at his watch, and said out of courtesy:
―
"Will you come out with me? "
Had they not said all which they had to say? Had they
not, perhaps, done foolishly in telling so much? Massimo replied
politely that he was obliged to write some urgent letters, but
that he would be at the villa later, at about eleven o'clock. The
lawyer replied in an indifferent tone that he too would be there
then; and the friends separated, each assured that they would not
meet again this evening,- perhaps indeed that they would never
meet again. However sweet the past has been, it is dead; and
phantoms, however beautiful they may be, trouble the soul of the
most courageous.
When he was alone, Massimo regretted that he had brought
this friend to his house. So many closed wounds had begun
again to bleed in these last two hours! While he continued to
smoke, he heard his servant arranging things in the small dining-
room. After a little, the boy came to ask if his master had
need of him this evening; if not, he wanted to go out with a
few friends and find relief from the heat. Massimo dismissed
him readily; the door closed, and he was entirely alone. But his
evening was lost. He had imprudently ascended the river of the
past in company with a person whom he had loved; the voyage
had discouraged him, had made him lose all which had remained
to him of moral force, through which he had been enabled to
endure the loneliness and discomforts of a Neapolitan summer.
In his hours of rebellion, when he was spiritually prostrated and
the victim of excessive physical inertia, and when his heart rose
within him resentfully, he was wont to smoke certain soothing
Egyptian cigarettes, which usually in the end quieted him. On
this summer evening, however, the cigarettes went out between
his drawn lips, and he threw them away one by one when they
were but partly burned. He went to the balcony. He lived on
the third floor of a large palace in the Via Gennaro Serra; and
because on account of the slope of the street the houses in front


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13137
of him were lower than his, he had a glimpse of the sea and saw
a great sweep of starry sky.
The night was most beautiful; the Milky Way was trembling
luminously: but no breeze stirred, and the air hung heavy. His
head seemed on fire. Though alone and weary, he could not keep
still; he took a pen and tried to write. Suddenly his face grew
whiter than the paper in front of him; it was as though he had
seen a vision among the shadows of the room. There was a con-
tinuous rumble of carriages in the Via Gennaro Serra.
Serra. All the
people were coming out of their houses and walking the streets in
search of air to breathe; they wanted to look at the stars, and to
enjoy the Neapolitan night, beautiful, and even cool in the small
hours. Again he went to the balcony; he was suffocating. He
returned to his desk to write, but was unable to do so. Why
should he write? Of what use are black letters traced on white
paper when one is suffering from passionate loneliness? The
parent or friend or sweetheart to whom they are addressed will
perhaps read them aloud to some stranger, and laugh unsympa-
thetically at their expressions. Too much time and too many
events lie between the moment of writing and that of reading.
A hand-organ began to play in the Piazza Monte de Dio. It
played in slow, measured time a song which should have been
gay, but which thus became curiously sad. Massimo was irritated.
by this sentimental or tired organ-grinder, who changed a taran-
tella into a funeral march. Perhaps he was old, however; per-
haps his day had been poor: surely he must be an unhappy
creature, or he would not grind out such a mournful funeral
dirge. Massimo leaned over the balcony railing, and impulsively
threw him a two-franc piece. After a moment the music ceased,
and Massimo was sorry. He felt more lonely, more comfortless,
more desperate, than ever before during his stay in Naples.
What could he do? Where could he go? where could he carry
his weary soul and body? Was there any one at hand whom he
knew, in whose company, no matter how insipid and unpleasing
it might be, he could pass this summer night? He felt that he
could not sleep. He knew indeed that there was no help for his
melancholy.
XXII-822


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13138
MATILDE SERAO
[The passages from 'Fantasy' are reprinted with the permission of the Amer-
ican Publishers' Corporation, publishers. ]
THE BOARDING-SCHOOL
From 'Fantasy. ' Copyright 1890, by Henry Harland
HE discipline for to-morrow is this," said the preacher, read-
from a small card: "You will sacrifice to the Virgin
Mary all the sentiments of rancor that you cherish in
your hearts, and you will kiss the schoolfellow, the teacher, or
the servant whom you think you hate. "
In the twilight of the chapel there was a slight stir among
the grown-up girls and teachers: the little ones remained quiet;
some of them were asleep, others yawned behind tiny hands, and
their small round faces twitched with weariness. The sermon
had lasted an hour, and the poor children had not understood
a word of it. They were longing for supper and bed. The
preacher had now descended from the pulpit, and Cherubina
Friscia, the teacher who acted as sacristan, was lighting the
candles with a taper. By degrees the chapel became flooded
with light. The cheeks of the dazed, sleepy little girls flushed
pink under it; their elders stood immovable, with blinking startled
eyes and weary indifferent faces. Some prayed with bowed
heads, while the candle-light played with the thick plaits of their
hair coiled close to their neck, and with certain blonde curls.
that no comb could restrain. Then when the whole chapel was
lighted for the recital of the 'Rosary,' the group of girl scholars
in white muslin frocks, with black aprons, and the various colored
ribbons by which the classes were distinguished, assumed a gay
aspect, despite the general weariness. A deep sigh escaped Lucia
Altimare.
"What ails thee? " queried Caterina Spaccapietra, under her
breath.
“I suffer, I suffer," murmured the other dreamily. "This
preacher saddens me. He does not understand Our Lady, he
does not feel her. " And the black pupils of her eyes, set in
bluish-white, dilated as in a vision. Caterina did not reply. The
directress intoned the 'Rosary in a solemn voice, with a strong
Tuscan accent. She read the Mystery' alone. Then all the
voices in chorus, shrill and low, accompanied her in the 'Gloria
Patri' and in the 'Pater. '
I


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13139
She repeated the 'Ave Maria' as far as the "Frutto del tuo
ventre"; the teachers and pupils taking up the words in unison.
The chapel was filled with music, the elder pupils singing with a
fullness of voice that sounded like the outpouring of their souls:
but the little ones made a game of it. While the directress,
standing alone, repeated the verses, they counted the time, so
that they might all break in at the end with a burst; and nudg-
ing each other, tittered under their breath. Some of them would
lean over the backs of the chairs, assuming a devout collected-
ness; but in reality pulling out the hair of the playfellows in
front of them. Some played with their rosaries under their pina-
fores, with an audible click of the beads. The vigilant eye of the
directress watched over the apparently exemplary elder girls: she
saw that Carolina Pentasuglia wore a carnation at the buttonhole
of her bodice, though no carnations grew in the college gardens;
that a little square of paper was perceptible in the bosom of
Ginevra Avigliana, beneath the muslin of her gown; that Arte-
misia Minichini, with the short hair and firm chin, had as usual
crossed one leg over the other, in contempt of religion: she saw
and noted it all. Lucia Altimare sat leaning forward, with wide-
open eyes fixed upon a candle, her mouth drawn slightly on one
side; from time to time a nervous shock thrilled her. Close to
her, Caterina Spaccapietra said her prayers in all tranquillity, her
eyes void of sight as was her face of motion and expression.
The directress said the words of th 'Ave Maria' without think-
ing of their meaning; absent, preoccupied, getting through her
prayers as rapidly as possible.
The restlessness of the little ones increased. They twisted
about, and lightly raised themselves on their chairs, whispering
to each other, and fidgeting with their rosaries. Virginia Friozzi
had a live cricket in her pocket, with a fine silken thread tied
round its claw; at first she had covered it with her hand to
prevent its moving, then she had allowed it to peep out of the
opening of her pocket: then she had taken it out and hidden it
under her apron; at last she could not resist showing it to the
neighbors on her right and on her left. The news spread, the
children became agitated, restraining their laughter with difficulty,
and no longer giving the responses in time. Suddenly the cricket
dragged at the thread, and hopped off,- limping into the midst
of the passage which divided the two rows of chairs.