It is sufficient to be convinced (if what philosophers say be true) that we are not to seek it from without; but that there is universally one and the same cause, which moves us to do or forbear any action; to speak or not to speak; to be elated or depressed; to avoid or pursue; that very cause which hath now moved us two; you, to come and sit and hear me; and me to speak as I do.

And what is that?

Is it anything else than that it seemed right to us to do so?

Nothing else.

And if it had seemed otherwise to us, what should we have done else than what we thought right? This, and not the death of Patroclus, was the cause of lamentation to Achilles (for every man is not thus affected by the death of a friend), that it seemed right to him. This too was the cause of your running away from your child, that it seemed right; and if hereafter you should stay with her it will be because that seemed right. You are now returning to Rome because it seems right to you; but if you should alter your opinion you will not return. In a word, neither death nor exile, nor pain, nor anything of this kind is the cause of our doing, or not doing, any action; but our opinions and principles. Do I convince you of this, or not?

You do.

§ 3. Well then; such as the cause is, such will be the effect. From this day forward, then, whenever we do anything wrong we will impute it only to the principle from which we act; and we will endeavour to remove that, and cut it up by the roots, with greater care than we would wens and tumours from the body. In like manner, we will ascribe what we do right to the same cause; and we will accuse neither servant, nor neighbour, nor wife, nor children as the causes of any evils to us; persuaded that if we had not such principles, such consequences would not follow. Of these principles we ourselves, and not externals, are the masters.

Agreed.

From this day, then, we will neither consider nor inquire of what sort, or in what condition, anything is; our estate, or slaves, or horses, or dogs, but only our principles.

I wish to do it.

You see, then, that it is necessary for you to become a scholar: that kind of animal which every one laughs at; if you really desire to make an examination of your principles. But this, as you are sensible, is not the work of an hour or a day.

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Chapter XII

Of Contentment

§ 1. CONCERNING the gods, some affirm that there is no deity: others, that he indeed exists; but slothful, negligent, and without a providence: a third sort admits both his being and providence, but only in great and heavenly objects, and in nothing upon earth: a fourth, both in heaven and earth; but only in general, not individuals: a fifth, like Ulysses and Socrates:1

"O thou, who, ever present in my way,
 Dost all my motions, all my toils survey."

POPE'S Homer.

It is, before all things, necessary to examine each of these; which is, and which is not, rightly said. Now, if there are no gods, how is it our end to follow them? If there are, but they take no care of anything, how will it be right, in this case, to follow them? Or, if they both are, and take care; yet, if there is nothing communicated from them to men, nor indeed to myself in particular, how can it be right even in this case? A wise and good man, after examining these things, submits his mind to him who administers the whole, as good citizens do to the laws of the commonwealth.

§ 2. He, then, who comes to be instructed, ought to come with this intention: "Now may I in everything follow the gods? How may I acquiesce in the divine administration? And how may I be free?" For he is free to whom all happens agreeably to his choice, and whom no one can restrain.

What! then is freedom distraction?

By no means; for madness and freedom are incompatible.

But I would have whatever appears to me to be right, happen, however it comes to appear so.

You are mad: you have lost your senses. Do not you know that freedom is a very beautiful and valuable thing? But for me to choose at random, and for things to happen agreeably to such a choice, may be so far from a beautiful thing as to be, of all others, the most shocking. For how do we proceed in writing? Do I choose to write the name of Dion (for instance) as I will? No; but I am taught to be willing to write it as it ought to be writ. And what is the case in music? The same. And what in every other art or science? Otherwise, it would be to no purpose to learn anything, if it was to be adapted to each one's particular humour. Is it, then, only in the greatest and principal point, that of freedom, permitted me to will at random? By no means, but true instruction is this1 learning to will that things should happen as they do. And how do they happen? As the appointer of them hath appointed. He hath appointed that there should be summer and winter, plenty and dearth, virtue and vice, and all such contrarieties, for the harmony of the whole.2 To each of us he hath given a body and its parts, and our several properties and companions. Mindful of this appointment, we should enter upon a course of education and instruction not to change the constitutions of things, which is neither put within our reach nor for our good; but that, being as they are, and as their nature is with regard to us, we may have our mind accommodated to what exists. Can we, for instance, fly mankind? And how is that possible? Can we, by conversing with them, change them? Who hath given us such a power? What, then, remains, or what method is there to be found for such a commerce with them, that while they act agreeably to the appearances in their own minds, we may nevertheless be affected conformably to nature? But you are wretched and discontented. If you are alone, you term it a desert; and if with men, you call them cheats and robbers. You find fault, too, with you parents and children and brothers and neighbours. Whereas you ought, when you live alone, to call that a repose and freedom, and to esteem yourself as resembling the gods; and when you are in company, not to call it a crowd and a tumult and a trouble, but an assembly and a festival; and thus to take all things contentedly. What, then, is the punishment of those who do not? To be just as they are. Is any one discontented with being alone? Let him be in a desert.3 Discontented with his parents? Let him be a bad son, and let him mourn. Discontented with his children? Let him be a bad father. Throw him into prison. What prison? Where he already is; for he is in a situation against his will, and wherever any one is against his will, that is to him a prison; just as Socrates was not in prison, f or he was willingly there.