The Pleasures of Life by Sir John Lubbock
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Sir John Lubbock >> The Pleasures of Life
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Moreover, if misfortunes happen we do but make them worse by grieving over
them.
"I must die," again says Epictetus. "But must I then die sorrowing? I must
be put in chains. Must I then also lament? I must go into exile. Can I be
prevented from going with cheerfulness and contentment? But I will put you
in prison. Man, what are you saying? You may put my body in prison, but my
mind not even Zeus himself can overpower."
If, indeed, we cannot be happy, the fault is generally in ourselves.
Socrates lived under the Thirty Tyrants. Epictetus was a poor slave, and
yet how much we owe him!
"How is it possible," he says, "that a man who has nothing, who is naked,
houseless, without a hearth, squalid, without a slave, without a city, can
pass a life that flows easily? See, God has sent a man to show you that it
is possible. Look at me, who am without a city, without a house, without
possessions, without a slave; I sleep on the ground; I have no wife, no
children, no praetorium, but only the earth and heavens, and one poor
clock. And what do I want? Am I not without sorrow? Am I not without fear?
Am I not free? When did any of you see me failing in the object of my
desire? or ever falling into that which I would avoid? Did I ever blame
God or man? Did I ever accuse any man? Did any of you ever see me with a
sorrowful countenance? And how do I meet with those whom you are afraid of
and admire? Do not I treat them like slaves? Who, when he sees me, does
not think that he sees his king and master?"
Think how much we have to be thankful for. Few of us appreciate the number
of our everyday blessings; we look on them as trifles, and yet "trifles
make perfection, and perfection is no trifle," as Michael Angelo said. We
forget them because they are always with us; and yet for each of us, as
Mr. Pater well observes, "these simple gifts, and others equally trivial,
bread and wine, fruit and milk, might regain that poetic and, as it were,
moral significance which surely belongs to all the means of our daily
life, could we but break through the veil of our familiarity with things
by no means vulgar in themselves."
"Let not," says Isaak Walton, "the blessings we receive daily from God
make us not to value or not praise Him because they be common; let us not
forget to praise Him for the innocent mirth and pleasure we have met with
since we met together. What would a blind man give to see the pleasant
rivers and meadows and flowers and fountains; and this and many other like
blessings we enjoy daily."
Contentment, we have been told by Epicurus, consists not in great wealth,
but in few wants. In this fortunate country, however, we may have many
wants, and yet, if they are only reasonable, we may gratify them all.
Nature indeed provides without stint the main requisites of human
happiness. "To watch the corn grow, or the blossoms set; to draw hard
breath over plough-share or spade; to read, to think, to love, to pray,"
these, says Ruskin, "are the things that make men happy."
"I have fallen into the hands of thieves," says Jeremy Taylor; "what then?
They have left me the sun and moon, fire and water, a loving wife and many
friends to pity me, and some to relieve me, and I can still discourse;
and, unless I list, they have not taken away my merry countenance and my
cheerful spirit and a good conscience.... And he that hath so many causes
of joy, and so great, is very much in love with sorrow and peevishness who
loses all these pleasures, and chooses to sit down on his little handful
of thorns."
"When a man has such things to think on, and sees the sun, the moon, and
stars, and enjoys earth and sea, he is not solitary or even helpless."
[18]
"Paradise indeed might," as Luther said, "apply to the whole world." What
more is there we could ask for ourselves? "Every sort of beauty," says Mr.
Greg, [19] "has been lavished on our allotted home; beauties to enrapture
every sense, beauties to satisfy every taste; forms the noblest and the
loveliest, colors the most gorgeous and the most delicate, odors the
sweetest and subtlest, harmonies the most soothing and the most stirring:
the sunny glories of the day; the pale Elysian grace of moonlight; the
lake, the mountain, the primeval forest, and the boundless ocean; 'silent
pinnacles of aged snow' in one hemisphere, the marvels of tropical
luxuriance in another; the serenity of sunsets; the sublimity of storms;
everything is bestowed in boundless profusion on the scene of our
existence; we can conceive or desire nothing more exquisite or perfect
than what is round us every hour; and our perceptions are so framed as to
be consciously alive to all. The provision made for our sensuous enjoyment
is in overflowing abundance; so is that for the other elements of our
complex nature. Who that has revelled in the opening ecstasies of a young
Imagination, or the rich marvels of the world of Thought, does not confess
that the Intelligence has been dowered at least with as profuse a
beneficence as the Senses? Who that has truly tasted and fathomed human
Love in its dawning and crowning joys has not thanked God for a felicity
which indeed 'passeth understanding.' If we had set our fancy to picture a
Creator occupied solely in devising delight for children whom he loved, we
could not conceive one single element of bliss which is not here."
[1] Seneca.
[2] Shelley.
[3] I quote from Whinfield's translation.
[4] Seneca.
[5] Herbert.
[6] Sir T. Browne.
[7] Bacon.
[8] Sir T. Browne.
[9] Bacon.
[10] Rousseau.
[11] Aubrey de Vere.
[12] Epictetus.
[13] _Ibid_.
[14] Shakespeare.
[15] Emerson.
[16] Seneca.
[17] Bacon.
[18] Epictetus.
[19] The Enigmas of Life.
CHAPTER II
THE HAPPINESS OF DUTY.
"I am always content with that which happens; for I
think that what God chooses is better than what I choose."
EPICTETUS.
"O God, All conquering! this lower earth
Would be for men the blest abode of mirth
If they were strong in Thee
As other things of this world well are seen;
Oh then, far other than they yet have been,
How happy would men be."
KING ALFRED'S ed. of Boethius's
_Consolations of Philosophy_.
We ought not to picture Duty to ourselves, or to others, as a stern
taskmistress. She is rather a kind and sympathetic mother, ever ready to
shelter us from the cares and anxieties of this world, and to guide us in
the paths of peace.
To shut oneself up from mankind is, in most cases, to lead a dull, as well
as a selfish life. Our duty is to make ourselves useful, and thus life may
be most interesting, and yet comparatively free from anxiety.
But how can we fill our lives with _life_, energy, and interest, and yet
keep care outside?
Many great men have made shipwreck in the attempt. "Anthony sought for
happiness in love; Brutus in glory; Caesar in dominion: the first found
disgrace, the second disgust, the last ingratitude, and each
destruction." [1] Riches, again, often bring danger, trouble, and
temptation; they require care to keep, though they may give much happiness
if wisely spent.
How then is this great object to be secured? What, says Marcus Aurelius,
"What is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing and only
one--philosophy. But this consists in keeping the daemon [2] within a man
free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing
nothing without a purpose, yet not falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling
the need of another man's doing or not doing anything; and besides,
accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from
thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally, waiting
for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution
of the elements of which every living being is compounded." I confess I do
not feel the force of these last few words, which indeed scarcely seem
requisite for his argument. The thought of death, however, certainly
influences the conduct of life less than might have been expected.
Bacon truly points out that "there is no passion in the mind of man so
weak, but it mates and masters the fear of death.... Revenge triumphs over
death, love slights it, honor aspireth to it, grief flieth to it."
"Think not I dread to see my spirit fly
Through the dark gates of fell mortality;
Death has no terrors when the life is true;
'Tis living ill that makes us fear to die." [3]
We need certainly have no such fear if we have done our best to make
others happy; to promote "peace on earth and goodwill amongst men."
Nothing, again, can do more to release us from the cares of this world,
which consume so much of our time, and embitter so much of our life. When
we have done our best, we should wait the result in peace; content, as
Epictetus says, "with that which happens, for what God chooses is better
than what I choose."
At any rate, if we have not effected all we wished, we shall have
influenced ourselves. It may be true that one cannot do much. "You are not
Hercules, and you are not able to purge away the wickedness of others; nor
yet are you Theseus, able to drive away the evil things of Attica. But you
may clear away your own. From yourself, from your own thoughts, cast away,
instead of Procrustes and Sciron, [4] sadness, fear, desire, envy,
malevolence, avarice, effeminacy, intemperance. But it is not possible to
eject these things otherwise than by looking to God only, by fixing your
affections on Him only, by being consecrated by his commands." [5]
People sometimes think how delightful it would be to be quite free. But a
fish, as Ruskin says, is freer than a man, and as for a fly, it is "a
black incarnation of freedom." A life of so-called pleasure and
self-indulgence is not a life of real happiness or true freedom. Far from
it, if we once begin to give way to ourselves, we fall under a most
intolerable tyranny. Other temptations are in some respects like that of
drink. At first, perhaps, it seems delightful, but there is bitterness at
the bottom of the cup. Men drink to satisfy the desire created by previous
indulgence. So it is in other things. Repetition soon becomes a craving,
not a pleasure. Resistance grows more and more painful; yielding, which at
first, perhaps, afforded some slight and temporary gratification, soon
ceases to give pleasure, and even if for a time it procures relief, ere
long becomes odious itself.
To resist is difficult, to give way is painful; until at length the
wretched victim to himself, can only purchase, or thinks he can only
purchase, temporary relief from intolerable craving and depression, at the
expense of far greater suffering in the future.
On the other hand, self-control, however difficult at first, becomes step
by step easier and more delightful. We possess mysteriously a sort of dual
nature, and there are few truer triumphs, or more delightful sensations,
than to obtain thorough command of oneself.
How much pleasanter it is to ride a spirited horse, even perhaps though
requiring some strength and skill, than to creep along upon a jaded hack.
In the one case you feel under you the free, responsive spring of a living
and willing force; in the other you have to spur a dull and lifeless
slave.
To rule oneself is in reality the greatest triumph. "He who is his own
monarch," says Sir T. Browne, "contentedly sways the sceptre of himself,
not envying the glory to crowned heads and Elohim of the earth;" for those
are really highest who are nearest to heaven, and those are lowest who are
farthest from it.
True greatness has little, if anything, to do with rank or power.
"Eurystheus being what he was," says Epictetus, "was not really king of
Argos nor of Mycenae, for he could not even rule himself; while Hercules
purged lawlessness and introduced justice, though he was both naked and
alone."
We are told that Cineas the philosopher once asked Pyrrhus what he would
do when he had conquered Italy. "I will conquer Sicily." "And after
Sicily?" "Then Africa." "And after you have conquered the world?" "I will
take my ease and be merry." "Then," asked Cineas, "why can you not take
your ease and be merry now?"
Moreover, as Sir Arthur Helps has wisely pointed out, "the enlarged view
we have of the Universe must in some measure damp personal ambition. What
is it to be king, sheikh, tetrarch, or emperor over a 'bit of a bit' of
this little earth?" "All rising to great place," says Bacon, "is by a
winding stair;" and "princes are like heavenly bodies, which have much
veneration, but no rest."
Plato in the _Republic_ mentions an old myth that after death every soul
has to choose a lot in life for the existence in the next world; and he
tells us that the wise Ulysses searched for a considerable time for the
lot of a private man. He had some difficulty in finding it, as it was
lying neglected in a corner, but when he had secured it he was delighted;
the recollection of all he had gone through on earth, having disenchanted
him of ambition.
Moreover, there is a great deal of drudgery in the lives of courts.
Ceremonials may be important, but they take up much time and are terribly
tedious.
A man then is his own best kingdom. "He that ruleth his speech," says
Solomon, "is better than he that taketh a city." But self-control, this
truest and greatest monarchy, rarely comes by inheritance. Every one of us
must conquer himself; and we may do so, if we take conscience for our
guide and general.
No one really fails who does his best. Seneca observes that "no one saith
the three hundred Fabii were defeated, but that they were slain," and if
you have done your best, you will, in the words of an old Norse ballad,
have gained
"Success in thyself, which is best of all."
Being myself engaged in business, I was rather startled to find it laid
down by no less an authority than Aristotle (almost as if it were a
self-evident proposition) that commerce "is incompatible with that
dignified life which it is our wish that our citizens should lead, and
totally adverse to that generous elevation of mind with which it is our
ambition to inspire them." I know not how far that may really have been
the spirit and tendency of commerce among the ancient Greeks; but if so, I
do not wonder that it was not more successful.
I may, indeed, quote Aristotle against himself, for he has elsewhere told
us that "business should be chosen for the sake of leisure; and things
necessary and useful for the sake of the beautiful in conduct."
It is not true that the ordinary duties of life in a country like
ours--commerce, manufactures, agriculture,--the pursuits to which the vast
majority are and must be devoted--are incompatible with the dignity or
nobility of life. Whether a life is noble or ignoble depends, not on the
calling which is adopted, but on the spirit in which it is followed. The
humblest life may be noble, while that of the most powerful monarch or the
greatest genius may be contemptible. Commerce, indeed, is not only
compatible, but I would almost go further and say that it will be most
successful, if carried on in happy union with noble aims and generous
aspirations. What Ruskin says of art is, with due modification, true of
life generally. It does not matter whether a man "paint the petal of a
rose or the chasms of a precipice, so that love and admiration attend on
him as he labors, and wait for ever on his work. It does not matter
whether he toil for months on a few inches of his canvas, or cover a
palace front with color in a day; so only that it be with a solemn
purpose, that he have filled his heart with patience, or urged his hand to
haste."
It is true that in a subsequent volume he refers to this passage, and
adds, "But though all is good for study, and all is beautiful, some is
better than the rest for the help and pleasure of others; and this it is
our duty always to choose if we have opportunity," adding, however, "being
quite happy with what is within our reach if we have not."
We read of and admire the heroes of old, but every one of us has to fight
his own Marathon and Thermopylae; every one meets the Sphinx sitting by
the road he has to pass; to each of us, as to Hercules, is offered the
choice of Vice or Virtue; we may, like Paris, give the apple of life to
Venus, or Juno, or Minerva.
There are many who seem to think that we have fallen on an age in the
world when life is especially difficult and anxious, when there is less
leisure than of yore, and the struggle for existence is keener than ever.
On the other hand, we must remember how much we have gained in security?
It may be an age of hard work, but when this is not carried to an extreme,
it is by no means an evil. If we have less leisure, one reason is because
life is so full of interest. Cheerfulness is the daughter of employment,
and on the whole I believe there never was a time when modest merit and
patient industry were more sure of reward.
We must not, indeed, be discouraged if success be slow in coming, nor
puffed up if it comes quickly. We often complain of the nature of things
when the fault is all in ourselves. Seneca, in one of his letters,
mentions that his wife's maid, Harpaste, had nearly lost her eyesight, but
"she knoweth not she is blind, she saith the house is dark. This that
seemeth ridiculous unto us in her, happeneth unto us all. No man
understandeth that he is covetous, or avaricious. He saith, I am not
ambitious, but no man can otherwise live in Rome; I am not sumptuous, but
the city requireth great expense."
Newman, in perhaps the most beautiful of his hymns, "Lead, kindly light,"
says:
"Keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me."
But we must be sure that we are really following some trustworthy guide,
and not out of mere laziness allowing ourselves to drift. We have a guide
within us which will generally lead us straight enough.
Religion, no doubt, is full of difficulties, but if we are often puzzled
what to think, we need seldom be in doubt what to do.
"To say well is good, but to do well is better;
Do well is the spirit, and say well the letter;
If do well and say well were fitted in one frame,
All were won, all were done, and got were all the gain."
Cleanthes, who appears to have well merited the statue erected to him at
Assos, says:
"Lead me, O Zeus, and thou, O Destiny.
The way that I am bid by you to go:
To follow I am ready. If I choose not,
I make myself a wretch;--and still must follow."
If we are ever in doubt what to do, it is a good rule to ask ourselves
what we shall wish on the morrow that we had done.
Moreover, the result in the long run will depend not so much on some
single resolution, or on our action in a special case, but rather on the
preparation of daily life. Battles are often won before they are fought.
To control our passions we must govern our habits, and keep watch over
ourselves in the small details of everyday life.
The importance of small things has been pointed out by philosophers over
and over again from AEsop downward. "Great without small makes a bad
wall," says a quaint Greek proverb, which seems to go back to cyclopean
times. In an old Hindoo story Ammi says to his son, "Bring me a fruit of
that tree and break it open. What is there?" The son said, "Some small
seeds." "Break one of them and what do you see?" "Nothing, my lord," "My
child," said Ammi, "where you see nothing there dwells a mighty tree." It
may almost be questioned whether anything can be truly called small.
"There is no great and no small
To the soul that maketh all;
And where it cometh all things are,
And it cometh everywhere." [6]
We should therefore watch ourselves in small things. If "you wish not to
be of an angry temper, do not feed the habit: throw nothing on it which
will increase it: at first keep quiet, and count the days on which you
have not been angry. I used to be in passion every day; now every second
day; then every third; then every fourth. But if you have intermitted
thirty days, make a sacrifice to God. For the habit at first begins to be
weakened, and then is completely destroyed. When you can say, 'I have not
been vexed to-day, nor the day before, nor yet on any succeeding day
during two or three months; but I took care when some exciting things
happened,' be assured that you are in a good way." [7]
Emerson closes his _Conduct of Life_ with a striking allegory. The young
Mortal enters the Hall of the Firmament. The Gods are sitting there, and
he is alone with them. They pour on him gifts and blessings, and beckon
him to their thrones. But between him and them suddenly appear snow-storms
of illusions. He imagines himself in a vast crowd, whose behests he
fancies he must obey. The mad crowd drives hither and thither, and sways
this way and that. What is he that he should resist? He lets himself be
carried about. How can he think or act for himself? But the clouds lift,
and there are the Gods still sitting on their thrones; they alone with him
alone.
"The great man," he elsewhere says, "is he who in the midst of the crowd
keeps with perfect sweetness the serenity of solitude."
We may all, if we will, secure peace of mind for ourselves.
"Men seek retreats," says Marcus Aurelius, "houses in the country,
seashores, and mountains; and thou too art wont to desire such things very
much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men; for it
is in thy power whenever thou shalt choose, to retire into thyself. For
nowhere either with more quiet or more freedom from trouble does a man
retire, than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such
thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect
tranquillity."
Happy indeed is he who has such a sanctuary in his own soul. "He who is
virtuous is wise; and he who is wise is good; and he who is good is
happy." [8]
But we cannot expect to be happy if we do not lead pure and useful lives.
To be good company for ourselves we must store our minds well; fill them
with pure and peaceful thoughts; with pleasant memories of the past, and
reasonable hopes for the future. We must, as far as may be, protect
ourselves from self-reproach, from care, and from anxiety. We shall make
our lives pure and peaceful, by resisting evil, by placing restraint upon
our appetites, and perhaps even more by strengthening and developing our
tendencies to good. We must be careful, then, on what we allow our minds
to dwell. The soul is dyed by its thoughts; we cannot keep our minds pure
if we allow them to be sullied by detailed accounts of crime and sin.
Peace of mind, as Ruskin beautifully observes, "must come in its own time,
as the waters settle themselves into clearness as well as quietness; you
can no more filter your mind into purity than you can compress it into
calmness; you must keep it pure if you would have it pure, and throw no
stones into it if you would have it quiet."
The penalty of injustice, said Socrates, is not death or stripes, but the
fatal necessity of becoming more and more unjust. Few men have led a wiser
or more virtuous life than Socrates himself, of whom Xenophon gives us the
following description:--"To me, being such as I have described him, so
pious that he did nothing without the sanction of the gods; so just, that
he wronged no man even in the most trifling affair, but was of service in
the most important matters to those who enjoyed his society; so temperate
that he never preferred pleasure to virtue; so wise, that he never erred
in distinguishing better from worse; needing no counsel from others, but
being sufficient in himself to discriminate between them; so able to
explain and settle such questions by argument; and so capable of
discerning the character of others, of confuting those who were in error,
and of exhorting them to virtue and honor, he seemed to be such as the
best and happiest of men would be. But if any one disapproves of my
opinion let him compare the conduct of others with that of Socrates, and
determine accordingly."
Marcus Aurelius again has drawn for us a most instructive lesson in his
character of Antoninus:--"Remember his constancy in every act which was
conformable to reason, his evenness in all things, his piety, the serenity
of his countenance, his sweetness, his disregard of empty fame, and his
efforts to understand things; how he would never let anything pass without
having first carefully examined it and clearly understood it; how he bore
with those who blamed him unjustly without blaming them in return; how he
did nothing in a hurry; how he listened not to calumnies, and how exact an
examiner of manners and actions he was; not given to reproach people, nor
timid, nor suspicious, nor a sophist; with how little he was satisfied,
such as lodging, bed, dress, food, servants; how laborious and patient;
how sparing he was in his diet; his firmness and uniformity in his
friendships; how he tolerated freedom of speech in those who opposed his
opinions; the pleasure that he had when any man showed him anything
better, and how pious he was without superstition. Imitate all this that
thou mayest have as good a conscience, when thy last hour comes, as he
had."
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