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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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worms should examine their souls and say ‘Alas, alas, we are fallen
away from the divine image of the Supreme; and therefore our
Father in heaven hath sent unto us his Son made in the image of a
worm.’ Away with this impiety of likening the Architect of the
Universe to sinful frogs and self-introspective worms! For if there be
a God—which I do not myself believe, but if there be one—doubtless
he is as little like a man as a frog or a worm, but infinitely superior
to all his creatures, and transcending all their knowledge.
“But sin forsooth is a terrible evil, and the usefulness of this new
religion consists in this, that it is to ‘take away sins.’ Which of the
Greek or Roman philosophers, of any note, has recognized this
absurd fiction of sin? It is a mere Jewish fantasy, unknown among
other nations, except where it may have been insinuated by these
vagrant proselytizers into the minds of a few women and children or
imbecile dotards. Error there may be; but sin cannot be, whether
there be gods or not. For if there be no gods there can be no sin;
and if there be gods, who made all things, it is inconceivable that
they should have made sin. Nor, if sin had any existence, could it be
increased or diminished. For all rational people know that there
neither were formerly, nor are there now, nor will there be again,
more or fewer evils in the world than have always existed; the
nature of all things, and the generation of all things, being always
one and the same. And whereas these Christians profess, ‘We were
sinners by nature, but the All-Merciful hath changed us’—they ought
to be taught that no one even by chastisement, much less by
merciful treatment, can effect a complete change in those who are
sinners by nature as well as by custom. Hence this boast of
removing sins is an imposture, and the religion that makes the boast
is useless. Moreover what an insult is it to their superior god that
these men should admit that he made them after a certain pattern
and then changed his mind and desired to remake them! Or else
they are forced to introduce a certain Satan, who by his devices,
perverted men forsooth from the divine image, and so for a time
overcame the superior god. But it is clear, even to a blind man, that
a superior god, overcome, though but for a time, by an inferior god,
is for that time, no longer superior, much less Supreme and All-
Powerful. Therefore your religion is proved to be not only useless,
but blasphemous.
“In the third place, mark the impudence of it and the self-conceit.
For admitting that the superior god could send his son as a man, can
we possibly believe that he would send him as a Jew, and not as a
Greek, or as a Roman, or as a man of no particular nation? I have
heard you laugh at Zeus in the comedy when he wakes up after his
day’s debauch and despatches Hermes to the Athenians and
Lacedæmonians to complain that they curtail his sacrifices and keep
him on short commons. But why do you not laugh at your own
superior god who, awakening after the slumber of many thousands
of years, despatches his son to one single nation, and that the
smallest and vilest and most contemptible upon earth? Moreover
consider how exacting and impudent is your religion beyond all
others. Heracles, Asclepius, and Romulus, claim not to be the only
children of God, but leave room for others also. And how many
others! Worship, if you will, him who was put to death upon the
cross, but set not your selves above the Getæ who worship
Zamolxis, or the Cilicians who worship Mopsus, or the Acrananians
who pay divine honors to Amphilochus, or the Thebans who do the
same to Amphiaraus, or the Lebedians who (in company with
yourself) pay reverence to Trophonius. For how is your Syrian
saviour better than the Theban, or the Cilician, or any other of the
host of his rival saviours? Nay, he is inferior, if we are to trust that
which is reported concerning him and them by the followers of each.
For Christus did but show himself to men in times past, whereas
these others, if you are to believe those who worship them, are still
to be seen in human form in their temples, appearing with all
distinctness.
“Next, as to the uncertainty of your new religion. Consider that just
such another as your Christus, might come into the world to-
morrow, and indeed such are continually coming forward in the
market-place of every town in Asia, who are wont to say, ‘I am God,
or I am the Son of God, or I am the Divine Spirit. I am come to save
you because ye, O men, are perishing for your iniquities;’ and they
persuade their dupes by promises or threats: ‘Blessed is he who
does me homage; on all the rest I will send down eternal fire.’ And
then the followers of such an one in a confident voice call on us
saying, ‘Believe that he whom we preach is the Son of God, although
indeed he died the death of a slave; yea, believe it the more on this
very account.’ If these people bring forward a Christus every year,
what is to be done by those who ‘seek salvation?’ Must they cast
dice to decide to which of all the saviours they should pay homage?
“But lest you should imagine that I am entirely dependent upon you
for my knowledge of this sect, understand that both here, and in
Hierapolis, and in Ephesus, I have made search concerning it; and I
am become an adept in their ridiculous jargon which speaks of ‘the
narrow way’ and ‘the gates that open of themselves;’ and ‘those who
are being slaughtered that they may live;’ and about ‘death made to
cease in the world;’ and how ‘the Lord doth reign from the tree;’ and
of ‘the tree of life’ and ‘the resurrection of life by the tree.’ All this
talk of timber, forsooth, because their ringleader was not only slain
on the cross of wood but also a maker of crosses, being a carpenter
by trade! And I suppose if, instead of being crucified, he had been
cast down a precipice, or into a pit, or hanged by the neck, or if,
instead of being a carpenter by trade, he had been a leather-cutter,
or a stone-mason or a worker in iron, then these absurd people
would have exalted to the skies a ‘precipice of life,’ or a ‘pit of
resurrection,’ or a cord of immortality,‘ or a ‘stone of blessing,’ or a
‘sacred leather.’ What child would not be ashamed of such babble as
this!
“And this brings me to my last point, the shame and disgrace that
any philosopher must needs bring both upon himself and upon
philosophy, in stooping to so puerile a superstition. If you know not
this, at least your new friends know it; for like the hyena, they
seldom attack a full-grown man, but for the most part children or
imbeciles; and to the best of their power they would destroy reason
saying (like so many Metragurtæ, or Mithræ, or Sabbadii) ‘Do not
examine, but believe,’ ‘Your faith will save you,’ ‘The wisdom of the
world is evil, foolishness is good.’ For this cause, because they
distrust the wise and sober, they prefer to decoy the young, saying
to them, ‘If ye would attain to the knowledge of the truth, ye must
leave your fathers and tutors and go with the women to the
women’s apartments, or to the leather shop, or to the fuller’s shop,
that he may there attain perfection.’ And they retail the sayings of
these illiterate creatures as if they were repeating the precepts of a
Socrates: ‘Simon the fuller, or Eleazar the leather cutter, or John the
fisherman affirmed this, or that.’ I say nothing also of the immorality
of a religion, which asserts that God will receive the unrighteous, if
he humble himself, because of his unrighteousness, but he will not
receive the righteous man who approaches him adorned with
righteousness from the first. All these immoral theories, these lies,
and myths, and vile superstitions, are taught by the Christians; and
taught in the name of whom? Of one who died as a slave after being
deserted (according to their own confession) by his most devoted
followers. And taught for what cause? Simply because a phantom of
him was seen after his death by a half frantic woman and some
dozen of his other companions who conspired together for the
purpose of deception. For my part, if I must needs give a reason
why this most absurd religion attracts the multitude, I should say
that it is because the multitude in their inmost heart, prefer
falsehood to truth; and if I desired a new proof that the world is
governed by chance, or by fate, and not by gods, I should discern it
in the growth of this pernicious superstition. Farewell and return
speedily to thyself.”

§ 3. OF MY REPLY TO ARTEMIDORUS.

I was astonished at the passion of his letter; and though I was at

this time neither a Christian nor likely to become one, the injustice of
my friend moved me to say somewhat on the other side. My reply
was to this effect:
“ONESIMUS TO ARTEMIDORUS, HEALTH.
“Your vehemence surprises me. That I am not, and shall not be, a
Christian, must be clear from my previous letters; and that which I
saw in Jerusalem has set me, even more than before, against the
Jews and all things Jewish. Nevertheless, Artemidorus, I am far from
agreeing with you in all your condemnation of this sect, which you
seem to me, of set purpose to misunderstand.
“And why do you vent dogmas on me? How know you that God is
unknowable? Were it not more seemly for a philosopher to
conjecture, and not to know, where knowledge is impossible? Why,
therefore, should a man be ashamed of conjecturing (in Plato’s
company, I think), that the most perfect image of the Supreme God
is neither a frog, nor a worm, but a righteous man? And if man be at
all like unto the Supreme Goodness, then to be virtuous, I suppose
is to be most like Him; and to be sinful is to be most unlike Him, a
calamity from which the Supreme Being Himself might naturally
desire to deliver mankind. However, I purpose not to argue with you,
for I cannot think that you yourself believe in your own arguments,
you who say that there is no difference between sin and error; or
else I suppose you will be consistent and blame your slaves equally
if Glaucus to-morrow commits theft or murder, and little Chresimus
says that five and six make ten.
“But one word concerning Christus himself. It is but a few weeks ago
that I heard you praise some Roman or other for saying that we
ought to choose out some noble life, to be as it were a carpenter’s
rule, by which we might straighten our own crooked life; why will
you not praise me, then, if upon finding this Christus to be a truly
great and noble man, I make his life the rule of mine? But you reply,
‘What do you know that is noble and heroic in him?’ I will answer
this question when we meet. Meantime let me say that though I
know but little, it is more than enough to assure me (for your letter
proves it) that you know nothing of him. Do not again suppose that I
am likely to be a Christian. I am prevented from this by arguments,
and by feelings still more powerful than arguments. Yet I have at
least this advantage, Artemidorus, over you, that I have not yet
allowed prejudice unphilosophically to blind my eyes to the truth,
and that, after studying the life of Christus, the store of the
examples of great men, which you yourself have exhorted me to
treasure up in my heart, is now enriched by the example of one
more man, both good and great, who has been able, according to
your own avowal (perchance by the mere memory of his goodness),
to convert fullers and leather-cutters and thieves and adulterers into
decent citizens. Farewell and be thyself.”
Although I spoke thus in defence of the Lord Jesus against the
reproaches of Artemidorus, yet was I very far from following the
Lord, yea and perhaps all the farther that I had learned to talk
admiringly of him as of a man on a level with Socrates and
Pythagoras and others. For this kind of admiration took up that place
in my heart which should have been filled by faith or trust, and left
no room for them. Nor indeed was I fit at that time to come to the
Saviour because my eyes were not yet opened to discern my own
sins so as to desire forgiveness; for the Saviour calls unto himself
the “weary and heavy-laden,” but I was not yet weary enough nor
felt as yet the burden of my sinfulness. And as for all those
questionings of words, and traditions, and proofs, on which
Artemidorus had set me, they had taught me indeed many new
things about the Lord Jesus, and what other people believed
concerning him, but they had not taught me the Lord himself, so
that I might know him and love him and believe in him. And when at
last I began to draw nigh unto him and to listen to his words and to
meditate on them, behold, I was called away from my instructors in
Antioch, and found afterwards no one like-minded who was willing
to set forth before me the very words of the Lord; but, on the
contrary, those of the brethren whom I met in Jerusalem cared not
so much for the Lord as for the Law of Moses, and drove me back
from him when I was desirous to draw near.
But why do I blame others when I was myself mainly to blame? For
I erred in the pride of my heart, because I preferred the wisdom of
the Greeks to the wisdom of the Lord Jesus. Therefore didst thou, O
All-Wise, permit me to have my heart’s desire, and to serve the
Greek Philosophy and to take that yoke upon my neck, that I might
prove it and know it, whether that service were freedom indeed; and
then didst thou make me to pass through the dark valley of affliction
and didst suffer my wandering steps to stumble and sink in the mire
of wickedness, to the intent that I might understand at last that the
Wisdom of the Greeks, for all the beauty of it and the pleasant
sound of it, has no power to lift up a drowning soul from the deep
waters of sin.

§ 4. OF EUCHARIS AND OF MY LIFE AT ATHENS.

Partly perhaps because Eucharis had lived with her father some
years in Rome, (where women lead not so sequestered a life as in
Asia and at Athens) and partly for want of slaves, and because her
mother had died when she was still in tender years, but also in great
measure because of the ability of her mind and the depth and extent
of her knowledge, Eucharis was rather as a pupil and companion to
Molon than as a daughter and housewife. Her grace and beauty
were more than equal to her learning; but that by which she drew
my heart to herself was the gentleness of her disposition and the
singular modesty with which she bore her many accomplishments.
For though she was the flower of the house and the delight of her
old father, yet did she never in any wise strain or try his affection by
caprice or humors; yea rather, by reason of his poverty, and because
he had scarce a slave whom he could call his own, she, to whom all
should have ministered, was content and glad to minister both to the
old man and to his friends, and this with all willingness and aptness,
and yet so modestly and quietly that her coming was as noiseless as
the sunshine, and we only knew that she had departed because the
brightness seemed to have passed out of the chamber. When I
became the old man’s pupil, and in no long time the most intimate
of all his pupils, I obtained also a share in the pleasure of her
constant and familiar society; and, by degrees, gaining the liking of
my old tutor, I was helped to the friendship of his daughter as well;
and conceiving for her an affection more intimate than friendship, I
was blessed at last, in return, with the certainty of her undivided
love.
The time had now come for me to put the kindness of Philemon to
the proof. From the first, he had treated me rather as a son than as
a slave; and, whithersoever I had accompanied him, his carriage
towards me had always been such as to lead even those who knew
that I had once been a slave, to suppose that I had been long ago
emancipated. So I straightway wrote to him, telling him of my
affection for Eucharis, and how I had obtained the consent of Molon;
and although I did not venture to express the hope that he would
make me free at once, yet I besought him to make some promissory
emancipation (after the custom common in Asia) that I might be
free, on condition of serving him faithfully for such period as he
might please to name. This limited request I made, rather for form’s
sake than as supposing that he would stand upon conditions; for,
remembering his constant kindness, I looked for nothing less than
that he should wholly emancipate me at once. So having sent off
this letter I confidently waited for an answer. Meanwhile I spent the
time pleasantly in the society of Eucharis, and Molon, and my
companions in learning; and I also took a great delight in the
beauties and antiquities of Athens.
The dreams and visions with which I had been visited in Syria, and
still more while I was tempest-tossed sailing to Peiræus, soon
ceased after I had been some few days in the house of Molon. Each
day brought with it some new thing to see or hear. Though the
streets of Athens were not to be compared with those of Antioch,
being small and mean and narrow and not evenly built, yet the
public buildings and temples and theatres far surpassed anything I
had seen in any city of Asia; and as for the statues of the gods, they
fairly ravished the heart with their beauty. Moreover an edge was
given to every pleasure of sight by the hearing of some history or
legend; how Demosthenes spoke in yonder place of assembly, and in
these groves and porches walked Aristotle amid his disciples, or
Plato taught, or Socrates conversed, and here the tyrant was slain by
Aristogeiton, and there Pericles pronounced the funeral oration over
them that fell in the wars. Also, it so chanced that, besides the daily
sight of the palæstra and the attendance at the lectures, the
Dionysian festival with its customary plays came round while I was
still at Athens. I had seen plays before in Asia, yet these so
enchanted me with the beauty of the masks and choruses and the
marvellous skill of the actors that I was well-nigh swallowed up with
the glory of the drama; and finding occasion to be introduced to
some of the actors, I frequented their society and heard them
rehearse, and sometimes myself practised recitations in their
presence, endeavoring to gain some knowledge of their art. Amid all
these engaging pursuits and delights, the time passed as if upon
wings; and in the evening the greatest delight of all, after the
thousand pleasant distractions of the day, was to talk with Eucharis
and her father concerning all that I had seen and heard.
We conversed together of all matters of art and letters and
philosophy, and not seldom about my own life, the sorrows of the
past, and what remained in the future; and, as was natural, my
travels in Syria were not forgotten. Yet about these I spoke seldom
and sparingly, lest I should be forced to make mention of the
Christians; concerning whom at that time I was loth, I scarce know
why, to say aught either for good or evil. But on the last day of our
being together, some fate (as I then called it) decreed that I should
no longer keep silence concerning them. It was after this manner.
We had been conversing together, Molon and I, touching the
Pythagoreans, by what bond of fellowship their society was in former
times bound together, and by what cause that bond was broken.
And thereupon I all unwittingly let fall some words (and repented as
soon as they had been spoken) how a certain Christus, a Syrian, had
founded a society, somewhat akin to the Pythagorean sect. Then
Eucharis straightway would have give me some account of this
Christus and his society; and when I made as if I had not heard her,
and afterwards would have put her off on some pretext—saying that
the matter was not worth her hearing, or that I knew not much of it
for certain, and the like—she looking steadfastly upon me and
perceiving (I suppose) that I was in some confusion, besought me
not to hide from her anything that I knew. So I, not finding any
escape, began to describe to her the new Brotherhood or
Commonwealth or Christus, as I conceived it; and being carried
onward I spoke more freely than I had intended, and summing up all
that I had heard and some things that I had imagined, I described
how wealth and violence were to have no more power in the world,
and there was to be no more oppression, and sin was to be taken
away by forgiveness; and those that the world counted great were
to be cast down, and he that was humblest and made himself least
was to be lifted up and, in a word, the most willing servant of all was
to be king of all; and all the nations of the earth were to be as one
Family, wherein Christus was to be the Elder Brother, and the Father
was none other than the Supreme God; and how (as his followers
averred) he had foretold that he should be slain, yea, and declared
that he would willingly die, but that, overcoming death, he should
manifest himself to his disciples after death, and be constantly with
them; and how his disciples alleged that somewhat of this kind had
indeed come to pass, for that many of them had seen him in
apparitions by day or dreams by night; and lastly how (whatever
error else there might be among this sect) this Christus of a truth
appeared to have a marvellous power to turn the vile and wicked to
lives of virtue and purity.
All this time Eucharis was rapt in thought; but I was so intent on the
matter of my discourse that I noted not her countenance till I had
well-nigh made an end of speaking; but when I perceived it, I broke
off, saying that after all, it was but a Jewish superstition, and that as
for these apparitions of Christus, they were but according to nature,
if there were indeed any apparitions at all. But Eucharis, still musing
and pondering, made no answer for a while, and at last asked my
opinion concerning all dreams and visions, whether they came from
the gods or no. I said, “No, but from natural causes.” Then replied
Eucharis, “Yes, but if, as your Artemidorus says, the twin-stars that
bring mariners help, come to us from natural causes, and yet you
worship the gods that send them; may it not also be that some
dreams and some visions, though coming to us—like air and light
and the fruits of the earth—in the common course of nature, may
nevertheless be sent to us by the immortal gods?” Then after a
pause she added, “And you too, Onesimus, while studying the life of
this Teacher, have you too been visited by him in your dreams?”
Fearing to be engaged in any further discourse concerning this
matter I rose up to bid Molon farewell, alleging the lateness of the
hour; but at that moment there came a knocking at the door, and
presently appeared Chresimus, a slave of Philemon, bearing a letter
for me, and with the letter this message by word of mouth, that the
old man desired my most speedy return. I broke the seal at once,
fearing that Philemon might be sick and nigh unto death. But the
latter said not a word touching his health, nor did it give any answer
to my request for freedom, neither “yes” nor “no,” only bidding me
use all expedition to return because “something of great import” had
taken place, concerning which he would gladly have speech with me
before resolving further in the matter on which I had written to him.
I wished to have tarried yet a few days in Athens, but Philemon’s
command was express that I should return on the next day, and that
Molon should excuse me to my friends; and, so saying, Chresimus
went forth to make ready for our departure on the morrow. My heart
sank within me as I turned to bid farewell to Eucharis, foreboding
that I should henceforth live without her, and that life without her
would be death. But she comforted me, saying that her memory
must always live with me, as mine with her; and that we must take
hope as our common friend; and clasping round my neck a little
amulet, which I was ever to guard with the token of my brother
Chrestus, “On thy brother’s gift,” she said, “there is written TRUST,
and on mine there is HOPE; and with trust and hope we must needs
do well; for as to love we need no assurance:” and with these words
she bade me her last farewell.
§ 5. HOW I RETURNED TO COLOSSÆ, AND OF MY NEW LIFE WITH
PHILEMON.

Even while Philemon embraced me on my return to Colossæ, I

perceived that he was marvellously changed. Whereas he had been
wont to wear on his countenance an anxious and restless
expression, now he was calm and composed, with a cheerfulness
that seemed to spring (not as in the former days of his settled health
when I first knew him) from easiness and good temper, but from
some deep change in his nature. The suspicion that came into my
mind on beholding him was confirmed by the first words he uttered
thanking the Lord for my safe return; and he immediately avowed
that he had become a Christian. Had he then, I asked, submitted
himself to the Jewish law? No, he replied; Paulus (the same of whom
we had heard so much while we were in Syria) who had admitted
my master into the sect of the Christians, had taught him that it was
neither needful nor fitting that he, being a Gentile, should observe
the laws of the Jews. When I asked him what Artemidorus said, he
bade me no more mention the name of the Epicurean, whose
society, said he, I have for sometime renounced. Of others of my
best friends he spoke in the same way, especially of Epictetus, and
Heracleas; but he made mention of other persons, mostly bearing
Jewish names, and men either not known to me or known to be
illiterate and of the common sort, with whom he hoped I should
soon be better acquainted; “for they,” said he, “belong to us—as will
you also, my dear Onesimus, in due time, I hope and earnestly
believe—and the brethren of Colossæ are wont to meet at worship
at my house.” My thoughts being in a maze I thought to turn the
discourse by questioning him concerning friends and kinsfolk, and I
inadvertently asked whether his sister’s son—who was wont to come
in from the country to visit him each year—was intending to come to
the city at the forthcoming feast of Zeus; but Philemon, making
some hasty sign to deprecate my speech about the festival, added
gravely and with authority that he was assured I should no longer
wish to take part in the procession nor to go to any of the games or
public spectacles; “for,” said he, “it is not gods but demons that
preside over such shows.” Much more he said on this topic; and I
found that my last letter to Artemidorus (as the Epicurean had
reported it, misconstruing it, I suppose, in his passion) had caused
Philemon to think that I was already a Christian in heart. But,
concerning Eucharis and emancipation, not one word.
After waiting a long while to see whether he would be the first to
speak, I reminded him of my request. He replied that he had a good
will, yea and a sincere affection for me, and that he fully intended to
emancipate me; but he did not think it fit that I should take to wife
the daughter of a rhetorician and declaimer such as Molon, one who
was by pursuit, as well as by disposition and nature, devoted to the
worship of false gods. He had therefore arranged for me a marriage
with the daughter of a very worthy citizen, Pheidippides the wool-
seller, who, though not as yet one of the brethren, was most
favorably inclined towards them, and who was quite willing to give
me Prepousa to be my wife, if Philemon would emancipate me and
give me a sufficient estate; and this, said he, I shall willingly do.
I was speechless with anger. But Philemon supposed my silence to
be caused by excess of gratitude unable to find vent in speech. So
looking affectionately on me he said there was no need of thanks,
for that he was willing to do much more than this rather than suffer
my soul to be ensnared at Athens. Then, in the same tone of
authority in which he had spoken throughout (unusual in him and to
me most unexpected and distasteful) he said that I was wearied
with travel and had need of rest; wherefore he desired that I should
consider myself excused from my attendance and retire to my
chamber. When I went forth from his presence, a great gulf seemed
to divide me from Eucharis, and from freedom, and from all hopes of
a happy future. As to the religion of the Christians I was no longer
drawn to it even so much as before. Had I not in former time
restrained Philemon from joining himself to it? Had he not in those
days acknowledged that my understanding was superior to his,
deferring readily to my advice? And now was I to confess myself in
the wrong? Was I, slave-like, to bow to one inferior to me in mind,
because he chanced to be the master of my body? How could I meet
Artemidorus or Epictetus after so great a disgrace? On the morrow,
therefore, when I attended Philemon in the library and he asked me
what I thought of his proposals, adding that he trusted I should
soon be willing to receive baptism, I with difficulty restrained myself
so far as to answer merely that at present I was unwilling, and that
in any case I did not wish to marry Prepousa. He was silent for a
while and evidently displeased. Then he exclaimed, “If only Paulus
were in Asia at this time, my hopes of thee would be speedily
fulfilled.” But as I had been often present willingly at the Christian
meetings in Antioch, he said that I could make no objection to be
present at the meetings of the brethren in his house where I should
receive instruction which, he hoped, would soon induce me to be
baptized. About manumission as before, not a word; but I perceived
that it was hopeless to ask for it.
That same day I was summoned to attend one of the meetings of
the brethren, at which were present all the slaves of Philemon, and
not a few belonging to other citizens, and many freedmen also, and
some that were free-born; but these, few, and for the most part
Jews, and not men of any breeding or education. And I, being wilful
at that time, and contemptuous of others, and given to think far too
highly of myself, looked down upon these unlearned brethren, and
stopped my ears against the truth and hardened my heart, scoffing
within myself at their faults of speech and solecisms, and at the
barbarous dialect of their Greek; and besides, to speak the truth, the
discourses of Archippus, the son of Philemon, were too much upon
the prophets and too little upon him to whom the prophets bear
witness. So they moved me no more than the discourses of Lucius at
Antioch, or even less. Yet once when Tatias—the man whom
Philippus had raised from the dead—stood up and testified how all
things had become new for him since he had believed in the Lord,
and how darkness had passed away and all was full of light and joy
and peace, and how the Lord Jesus was a friend that never failed in
the hour of need: then for the first time, spite of myself, my heart
was touched and I seemed ready to stretch out my hands to the
Saviour; but at that instant methought I saw Philemon watching me
narrowly to see whether I was moved by the discourse, and thereon
my heart rebelled again and I could think of nothing but the great
gulf which my master placed between me and Eucharis. Thus was
my heart still hardened against the truth.
Being in this condition of mind, I found my new life full of dullness
and melancholy. Each day passed like the day before, and prepared
for a morrow that should be still the same. The images of the gods
had been removed from the hall and from the court-yard; no
pictures, no songs, no garlands, no feasts, nor meetings of friends;
our old acquaintance seemed to have disowned us, and there were
no longer any occasions for discourse on arts, or letters, or
philosophy. Even the library had been despoiled of many of the best
and choicest books; the busts of most of the great poets and
authors had been removed; and Philemon employed me during
many hours of the day in transcribing, no longer Euripides or
Menander, but the Greek translations of the books of the Jewish
prophets. The only diversity in the circle of our daily life was that on
certain days the household met for worship; but if I profited little
from the first day of meeting, I gained even less from those that
followed; for then a certain Pistus, a Paphlagonian slave, took a
great part in the prayers and discourses, especially when Archippus
was absent, and one might as well have hoped to gather grapes
from brambles as good from the words of Pistus. If such was our life
at home, it was vain to look for change in life abroad. For I was no
longer permitted to go to any public spectacle; and the society of
every friend and acquaintance for whom I had any affection was
proscribed. In this solitude and dejection I looked for counsel, but
could find none. To Artemidorus, being so near a neighbor, I durst
not resort, for fear lest Philemon should be informed that I had
disobeyed his prohibition, but I resolved that I would use the first
occasion to go to Hierapolis that I might there ask the advice of the
young Epictetus.

§ 6. CONCERNING MY VISIT TO EPICTETUS.

When I came to Hierapolis I found Epictetus keeping his bed and
scarce able to move a limb. His master, he told me, had tortured him
most cruelly, twisting his leg so as to force the bone from the socket;
and the physician had declared that he would be lame for life. In
answer to my execrations against all masters of slaves and
Epaphroditus, his master, in particular, “Peace, my friend,” said
Epictetus, “our masters are becoming better and not worse; and
besides, ever since the sixth year of Claudius, we have a law in our
favor. For, before, if we were turned out to die in the streets, and
then were impudent enough to recover, our masters could claim us
back again; but now the divine Claudius has decreed that if death
spare us, our masters shall spare us also. However, my chief
consolation lies not in the laws of Claudius, but in philosophy; for
since you and I were last together, you must know I have become a
philosopher.” “Prithee,” said I, “if slaves can indeed become
philosophers, let me have some benefit of your philosophy; for
assuredly I have need of it. Did not your philosophy fail you when
that cruel wretch so wantonly injured you?” “Pardon me,” replied
Epictetus, “he did not injure me, as indeed I explained to him at the
time.” “Explain then to me,” said I, “this most mysterious riddle.” “I
told him he could not injure me though he would injure himself.
Hereon he retorted that he would break my leg. I replied, ‘In that
case it would be broken, but what of that?’ At this he stared like a
bull, and said that he would cut off my head. To that I rejoined, ‘And
when did I ever tell you that I had a head of such a kind that it
could not be cut off?’ Upon that he burst into a passion, threw me
down, kicked me, and began to twist my leg. As he proceeded, I
warned him and said, ‘If you continue, you will certainly break it.’ He
continued; and then I said to him, ‘There, now my leg is broken; but
you have not injured me, but only my leg and perhaps yourself.’”
All this seemed to me new and yet not new. Sitting down on the
bench beside his pallet, I said, “Well, but, Epictetus, this differs not
much from the philosophy of the Stoics or the Cynics.” “I did not
maintain,” replied he, “that my philosophy was new. Nevertheless I
do not perceive that it is very common in these parts.” “You
mistake,” said I, “a great many in Hierapolis read Chrysippus, and
not a few even in Colossæ.” “Read Chrysippus,” exclaimed my friend
with a laugh. “Yes, read Chrysippus, but how many act Chrysippus?
Much as if we were to go to a wrestler, and say to him, ‘Come, Milo,
shew us how you can give your adversary a fall,’ and Milo should
reply, ‘Nay, rather step into the next room, and feel the weight of my
dumb bells.’” Then he turned affectionately to me and said, “It is not
the object of life, my dearest Onesimus, to have read the hundred
and forty volumes of Chrysippus, but to put the precepts of
Chrysippus in use, and so set them before men in a brief form fit for
use; and this is what I am endeavoring to do.” “Set them before me
then,” said I, “for Zeus knows that if you have any philosophy fit for
use, I can find use for it. What therefore is the foundation of your
philosophy?”
“The foundation,” replied my friend, “consists in the distinguishing of
things in our power from things not in our power. The things that are
needful are in our power, viz. justice, temperance, truthfulness,
courage and the like; but the things that are not in our power are
not needful, such as wealth, beauty, reputation, health, pleasure, life
and the rest. Many philosophers admit this in word, but do not carry
it out in deed, partly because they talk much and do little, and being
immersed in speculations are not ready for actions, when the hour
for action is at hand. But if a man have this foundation once solidly
built within his heart so as to be able to base all his actions on it,
from that time he will be perfectly free and do all things according to
his own will. Therefore make up your mind once for all what is your
object in life; what it is you want. A dinner? or to escape a
whipping? Well, then, you will do your master’s bidding to gain your
dinner, or to escape a whipping. But a philosopher will not do this,
because he does not fear hunger, nor a whipping, nor any master.
‘What,’ you say, ‘must not a philosopher fear Cæsar?’ No, for he does
not fear the things that Cæsar can bring. For, mark you, no one
fears Cæsar in himself, but only the things that Cæsar brings with
him, such as the sword, banishment, poverty, torture, disgrace. But
fetch me Cæsar here without his thunders and lightnings, and see
how bold the veriest coward will be. Why then should a philosopher
fear Cæsar, since he has no fear of Cæsar’s thunder and lightning?
“Distinguish therefore between what you can and what you cannot
do, and in that knowledge you will find freedom. If you are
thoroughly persuaded in your inmost mind that those things only are
yours which are really yours and which are needful to you, then you
will aim at nothing which you will not attain; you will never attempt
anything with any kind of violence to yourself; you will blame no
one, you will accuse no one; nobody will ever hinder you from the
accomplishment of your desires; in fine, you will never be subject to
the least regret. Take an instance. My leg, you will observe, is
inflamed, and it has certain sensations which are called painful.
Good: that is the popular manner of speaking. But it is a mere
imagination. My inflamed leg does not hinder me from being honest,
just, and courageous; in other words from attaining the objects of
existence and the aim of all my desires. Consequently I have
accustomed myself to bear always in mind that pain of this kind
does not concern me and is no real evil. For it is of the nature of
things that have no dependence on me. ‘But you will be lame for
life,’ say you. That is very probable, and indeed our physician tells
me it is certain. But what then? When I am lame, my lameness will
be an obstruction to my feet in walking, but not to my will in doing
what it is inclined to do. It follows that sorrow and the signs of
sorrow such as weeping and groaning, are all the mere results of
false conceptions and imaginations. What is misfortune? Prejudice.
What is weeping? Prejudice. What are complaints, discontents,
repining, fretfulness, restlessness? All so many forms of prejudice,
and prejudice moreover concerning things uncontrollable by the
will.”
He paused. “You have defined sorrow,” said I, “and how do you
define death?” “A mere mask,” he replied. “It has no teeth. Turn it
on the other side and you will find it does not bite you. It is a mere
going away. Life is as it were a feast. At birth God opens the door to
you, and says, ‘Enter.’ At death, the feast being now ended, God
opens the door to you once again and says ‘Depart.’ Whither? To
nothing terrible. Only to the source whence you came forth. To that
which is friendly and congenial: to the elements. What in you was
fire, goes away to the fire; what earth, to earth; what air, to air;
what water, to water. There is no Hades, nor Acheron, nor Cocytus,
nor Pyriphlegethon; but all is full of gods and divine beings. He who
can think of the whole universe as his home, and can look upon the
sun, moon and stars as his friends, and enjoy the companionship of
the earth and sea, he is no more solitary nor helpless exile. Let
death come to you when he will. Can death banish you from the
universe? You know he cannot. Go where you may, there will be still
a sun, moon, and stars, dreams and auguries and communications
with the Gods.”
I interrupted him. “You say there is no Hades; are there then no
Elysian fields?” “I do not know,” replied he; “but why seek any
greater reward for a good man than the doing of what is good? After
being thought worthy by God to be introduced into His great City,
the Universe, so that you may discharge for him the duties of a man,
do you still cry for something more, like a baby for its food? Do you
need coaxing and sweetmeats to induce you to do what is right? Be
not like a bad actor that forgets the part assigned to him, when he
steps upon the stage. ‘I was sent in this world to play a part.’ Well
said, Mr. Actor; and what part? ‘The part of a witness for God.’ Good:
repeat your part. ‘I am miserable, O Lord; I am undone; no mortal
cares for me; no mortal gives me what I want.’ What babble is this!
Away with the fool. He has forgotten his part; hiss him off the stage.
“Or take another of my metaphors. God is your general, and you
must be to him a loyal, obedient soldier, having sworn an oath of
obedience, which you will sooner die than break. Dost Thou wish me
to live? I live. To die? Then farewell. How wouldst Thou have me
serve Thee? As a soldier? Then I go cheerfully to the wars. As a
slave? I obey. Whatever post Thou shalt assign to me, I will die a
thousand times rather than desert it. Where wouldst Thou that I
should serve Thee? In Rome, or in Athens, or in Thebes? Thou art
not absent from populous cities. Or on the rock of Gyarus? Thou wilt
be with me even there. Only if thou shouldst send me to live where
it is no longer possible to live conformably with nature, then, but not
till then, should I depart, accepting as it were Thy signal of recall.”
Here he made an end, and I sat for some time silent. His words
were to me as a trumpet-blast arousing within me a host of virtuous
resolutions, which I at that time mistook for virtuous acts, and
thought myself already an athlete or a hero; even as a drunken man
supposes himself Heracles, or as the reader of the hundred and
forty-three volumes of Chrysippus believes himself to be a man of
virtue. Presently I arose and thanked him, saying that I went forth
as it were to the Olympian contest, to put in use the precepts of
Epictetus my trainer. He smiled, and as I went forth from his
chamber, he called after me, “Yes, but Onesimus, for this contest
you need not wait four years.”

§ 7. HOW I TRIED THE PHILOSOPHY OF EPICTETUS.

Epictetus was right; I had not long to wait for the contest of which
he spoke. It began on the morrow, and continued without
intermission; for day by day I was constrained to be present at the
meetings of the Christians, and day by day Philemon questioned me
whether I had not now at last been persuaded, and whether I was
not willing now to be baptized. However, I followed the advice of
Epictetus, and said to myself, “Truthfulness is in my power, but the
goodwill of Philemon is not in my power, therefore it does not
concern me, and I will not trouble myself about it.” But, in the
evening of each day, when I perceived that the breach was widening
between me and my master, and when I called to mind that it
depended on him whether I should be free or a slave, and united to
Eucharis or parted from her for ever, then my mind misgave me that
I could not honestly say, “His goodwill concerns me not.” Oftentimes
I checked myself, saying that I was placed in the Universe as a
sentinel by God, and that I must not neglect my post wherever it
might be; but as often as these words came to my memory, there
came others also, namely that “if we were placed by him where we
could not live conformably to nature, then we might accept this as
the voice of a trumpet, sounding recall and bidding us quit this life
for another.” And said I to myself, can it be considered living
according to nature, that I should live in subjection to such a
servitude as this? Or is it living according to nature, to be removed
from all learning, just when I have been trained to use and enjoy it?
and to live apart from all friends, consorting with none but slavish
dispositions? and, in a word, having many faculties trained to noble
uses, to be placed in a position where all those faculties must needs
rust unused?
Meanwhile the conduct of Pistus widened the breach between my
master and me and altogether envenomed my very soul against the
faith. This man had been Philemon’s secretary during my absence at
Athens; and now, finding himself like to be supplanted, he began to
alienate Philemon from me by sly insinuations, hints, letters
unsigned in a strange hand, and sometimes also by open questions
cunningly asked of me in Philemon’s presence. As, for example, on
the day when I had visited Epictetus, he asked me, in my master’s
hearing, whether Epaphroditus was in good health, he being the
master of Epictetus, and a very dissolute man. When I said “Yes, as
far as I knew,” I could see from Philemon’s countenance that he
greatly disliked my going thither; and I at once explained that I had
not gone to see, nor had I seen, Epaphroditus himself, but only his
slave Epictetus, who was sick. Yet the cloud on my master’s brow did
not altogether vanish; and he did not forget it. For that same
evening he took me aside, saying that it was time to have done with
youthful passions and caprices, and had I considered his proposal—
not about baptism, for he would not at that season make mention of
higher matters—but concerning marriage, and was I willing to marry
Prepousa? I said “No.” Hereat he became very grave, saying that it
was a very suitable match for me, and well fitted to keep me from
evil courses, such as young men were liable to; and he bade me
think further of it and meantime to be more discreet what company I
kept, for he disliked that I should so much as enter the house of
such a one as Epaphroditus, though it were but to visit a sick slave.
It was all in vain that I attempted (perhaps too obscurely, for I could
not now speak freely with Philemon as in old days) to explain that I
stood in need of counsel and that I had gone to Epictetus for it.
“That is settled”—was all he had to say, before he dismissed me to
my chamber. Only, as I was departing, he called me back, and asked
me whether I had at least given up the thought of Eucharis. I said
“No.” To which he replied that he was very sorry for that, for he
could not consent that my soul should be ensnared by such a
marriage, and so long as I entertained that foolish passion it was not
possible for him to entertain the project of emancipating me. So
saying, he dismissed me to my chamber, speechless with passion. In
this mood I took up my pen and wrote thus to Epictetus:—
“ONESIMUS TO EPICTETUS, HEALTH.
“I leaned on your philosophy, and it has proved a broken reed. No
longer can I live under the insupportable yoke of my slavery here.
Yet what am I to do? I cannot live conformably to nature. ‘Then die,’
say you. And what then becomes of Eucharis, who would break her
heart for my departure? Your philosophy takes no account of wife, or
children, or those dear friends who are second selves. Their
happiness is not in your control; and yet how can you be tranquil in
their unhappiness? Answer me that.
“One question more. A fellow here, a Paphlagonian, one Pistus, is
poisoning Philemon’s mind against me, drops notes, in a strange
hand and nameless, accusing me of deceit, theft, frequenting
brothels and all manner of impurity. His last stroke has been to
persuade Philemon to forbid me from visiting you. I hate him, and
intend to hate him. Does your philosophy allow of hate?
“A third question. You say, We are soldiers and must die sooner than
desert our post. But who shall go bail for our General, that he is not
a fool or a knave, or anything but a name? Looking on the battle-
field of the Universe I see a conflict but the issue doubtful; no signs
of generalship, or at least of victory; in one place joy, in three places
sorrow; pleasure here, pain there; virtue sometimes prevailing, more
often vice; one master, twenty slaves; animals preying (by necessity)
on other animals; men (by necessity or choice?) oppressing other
men; everywhere conflict, the General nowhere. Read me these
riddles, or be no Œdipus for me.
“Pardon me, dearest friend and guide, but I am beside myself with
passion, anxious, not for myself but for one beyond the seas, who
sits awaiting tidings from me and feels her life to be bound up with
mine. Strong in your presence, absent from you I am most weak.
Impart, I beseech you, some of your strength to one who sorely
needs it.”

§ 8. HOW I WAS ACCUSED OF THEFT BY THE DEVICES OF PISTUS.

At this time, and before I had heard from Epictetus, I received a

letter from Eucharis. After some delay, vainly hoping to be able to
impart more joyful tidings, I had written to her putting as bright a
color on the future as I could, but not concealing Philemon’s strong
objections and present refusal; and now I received her answer. It
was inclosed in a letter from Molon, in which he spoke of his class
and his pupils, and hoped that I was continuing my studies at
Colossæ, entering also into details about his recent lectures; at the
close of his letter he added that Eucharis was not in good health,
and that he feared she was troubled in her mind, being infected with
superstition. Her old nurse Thallousa affirmed that she had been
fascinated by the evil eye; but he thought the mischief had been in
part caused by certain women of her acquaintance, Christians from
Corinth, who had brought to Athens some strange rites and
doctrines of one Paulus, and who seemed to have disturbed her
mind. However he trusted that her trouble would pass away when
better tidings came from Colossæ. The letter from Eucharis was to
this effect.
“Do not cease to hope, dearest Onesimus. If I grieve, it is because I
seem to see thee grieving. Could I but know that thou wert hopeful,
I also could be both hopeful and happy. Thallousa would fain console
me, when I weep, by telling me sad stories of others who have loved
and have been made sad by separation, but I am not so cruel as to
be made happy because others are sad; so I seek comfort
elsewhere. Dearest, when we were last together, some doubtful
words fell from thy lips, questioning, methought, whether there be
any Elysian fields such as the poets sing of. Yet does it not seem
(this present world being so very full of sadness) that there must
needs be some Isles of the Blessed, called by whatever name, where
those whom hard fate has divided here, but whom the good gods
must surely destine to be some day united, shall meet, again never
to be parted? Dearest Onesimus, dearer to me than my own life,
what if we meet not again on this earth? May it not be that we shall
meet elsewhere? Yet, even for this life, I still trust and hope; and do
thou the like for my sake. To think of thee hopeless kills me. O
dearest friend, sweet cause of my heart’s most bitter sorrow, think
not that I reproach thee because thy love is cruel. Sweeter, far
sweeter, to mourn as I mourn for thy absence, than never to have
known and loved thee. Farewell and hope on; and believe me
faithful to thy love, whether I live or die.”
At the end of the letter were added these words:
“I see I have ended my letter with a word of evil omen. Onesimus
laughs at omens; but for my own pleasure I will avert the evil by
repeating a former question. The visions concerning Christus that
thou didst speak of, have they ever appeared to thee too in thy
dreams? Because thou didst forget to answer this same question
when I first asked it of thee, let this violet, which I now kiss, be my
ambassador that thou forget not a second time.”
While I sat with the withered flower in my hand, musing on Athens,
seeing, as if before mine eyes, the little chamber in which even at
that instant perchance Eucharis sat spinning, and Molon reading by
her side, a message was brought to me by Pistus that Philemon
desired to see me in the library; “and,” said the Paphlagonian in a
malicious tone, “you were best think of some subtle defense, for the
old man knows what you have done. But you will probably prefer to
appease him by confessing.” The man’s malice angered me, and I
entered the room in some heat. It soon appeared that a copy of the
plays of Aristophanes was missing from the library. Philemon was at
that time reviewing his books with great exactness, destroying such
as seemed unfit for a Christian household; and he had expressly
enjoined on me not to take any of the works of the poets of the Old
Comedy out of the library, and I had obeyed him. But when this
book was missed, Pistus had affirmed that he had seen me reading
it in my chamber. Understanding this I replied roundly that the
Paphlagonian lied. But Philemon bade me bethink myself whether
unwittingly I might not have taken it from the library, being always
fond of the works of that poet, and having in former times been
accustomed to take freely from any part of the library such books as
I desired; and he added that, of the rest of the household, very few
could understand the book, being illiterate, and those who could
have read it would not do so, because they had received the seal in
Christ and belonged to the saints. I could but repeat that I had not
taken the book. On this Pistus said, with a sneer, that, if that were
so, the worthy Onesimus would probably be quite willing that his
room should be searched. I at once assented; but scarcely had two
slaves quitted the room on their quest, when the villainy of Pistus
was revealed to me; and I turned and took him by the throat saying
that, if the books were found in my chamber, the Paphlagonian had
hidden them there. Hereat Pistus fell on his knees, making as if he
were terror-stricken by my violence, and calling the Lord to witness
his innocence. Philemon indignantly bade me desist; but his
indignation became still greater when the two slaves returned
bearing the missing volumes, which they had found it seemed,
hidden under my couch. In the presence of all the slaves he ordered
me to return to my chamber, saying that at first he had never
thought to accuse me of stealing the books, but only of
thoughtlessly or wilfully borrowing them, but now he knew not what
to think. So I went back to my chamber under suspicion of being a
thief; and entering I found on my table this letter from Epictetus.
 § 9. HOW EPICTETUS FURTHER EXPLAINED HIS PHILOSOPHY.

“EPICTETUS TO ONESIMUS, HEALTH.

“A bad performer cannot sing alone but only in a chorus. In the
same way some weak-kneed folk cannot walk the path of life alone,
but must needs hold somebody’s hand. But if you intend to be ever
anything better than an infant, you must learn to walk alone. It
angers me to hear a young man say to his tutor, ‘I wish to have you
with me.’ Has not the fellow God with him? But, Onesimus, you are
not willing to take God as your guide in practice, though you profess
to do so in theory. For with your lips you say, ‘O Lord, suffer me to
go straight on for twenty-five furlongs and a half, and then to take
the first turning to the left.’ However, let me attempt to answer your
questions; but not in order, for first I must shew you that whether
there be a good God or no, you must needs act as though there
were a good God or else you must die. First then, that there is
Demeter, is it not clear to all those who eat of bread? And that there
is a Helios or Apollo, is not that also clear to all who enjoy the
sunlight? Call the former Bread, and the latter Sunlight, if you will;
still there they are, and you must partake of them and acknowledge
them, as long as you partake of the Feast of Life.
“But you complain that the Host of the Feast is unkind or foolish, not
making proper provision for his guests. Foolish man! Then why
remain a guest? Do not be more foolish than children. When the
game ceases to please them, they say ‘I will play no more.’ So do
you, if the feast please you not, say ‘I will feast no more;’ and go.
For remember the door is always open. But if you remain at the
Feast, do not complain of the Host; for that is silly. Remember
therefore that if the Host intends you to remain as His guest, in that
case He has made all needful provision for you; but if He has not,
that is a token that your way lies towards the door.
“Apply this rule to yourself and her whom you love. As it is better
that you should die of hunger and preserve your tranquillity of mind
to the last gasp, than that you should live in abundance with a soul
full of all disturbance and torment, so is it better that Eucharis
should die and you be in peace, rather than that your betrothed (or
any else the nearest and dearest to you) should live and be in
perturbation of mind. Nay, a father ought rather to suffer his son to
become undutiful and wicked rather than himself to become
unhappy. You are not to say, ‘If I chastise not my son, he will prove
undutiful;’ but you are to prefer your own serenity of mind to the
dutifulness of a son and to all other objects; and the same rule holds
as regards Eucharis. Thus and thus only will you be always at peace,
and able to despise the worst of omens.”
After this Epictetus fell to speaking in a more general way about
philosophy and philosophers, and of their duty to the multitude; of
which some part I omit, but the rest was to this effect:
“But perhaps you say, ‘The multitude has not this knowledge of the
folly of sorrow; and if we bewail not with them when they bewail,
we shall seem to them brutish, and be hated. Or how shall we
explain our theory to the multitude?’ For what purpose should you
desire to explain it to them? Is it not enough that you are convinced
yourself? When I was a boy at Rome, as I remember, and when my
master’s children came to me clapping their hands and saying, ‘To-
morrow is the good feast of Saturn,’ did I tell them (think you?) that
good does not consist in sweetmeats nor such things as they
desired? Nay, but I clapped my hands too. In the same way, when
you are unable to convince any one, treat him as a child, and clap
your hands with him; or if you will not do that, at least hold your
tongue. When therefore you see a man groaning because he, or his
betrothed, is likely to be given in marriage to another, first do your
best to recover him from his evil and mistaken opinion. But if he will
not be persuaded, nothing hinders but you may pretend some
sadness and a certain fellow-feeling of his affliction. Only have a
care that grief do not effectually seize your heart while you think
only to personate it.
“You see then that I forbid you sorrow either for yourself or for
others. No less do I forbid you hate. For why should you hate, or
even be angry, with a wicked man, a thief, say, or an adulterer?
‘Because,’ reply you, ‘they take from me that which I most dearly
value, my wealth or my reputation or the affection of my wife.’ In
other words they take from you those objects which you love, and
desire to excess, though they do not depend on you. But the remedy
is to abstain from loving these things to excess. Always remember
also when any one injures you, as it is called, that the cause of the
injury is ignorance or erroneous opinion. For no one would commit a
crime if he knew that he was thereby destroying his own soul.
Through erroneous opinions Medea slew her children and
Clytemnestra her husband. Why therefore hate a man merely
because the poor wretch is terribly ignorant and is doing himself the
greatest of all injuries, while he falsely supposes he is injuring you?
“Bear in mind further that everything has two faces, whereof one is
endurable the other unendurable. For example, when your brother is
injuring you, look not upon him as an injurer but rather as a brother.
Even if you cannot do this for your brother’s sake, you must do it for
your own. For in all things you must consider not your brother nor
your brother’s interest first, but yourself and your own serenity of
mind. ‘My brother’—perhaps you say—‘ought not to have treated me
so shamefully.’ Very true; so much the worse for him. But that is his
business, not yours, and you are not to injure yourself on his
account. However he treats you, you must treat him rightly. For your
treatment of him is in your power, and therefore is your concern; but
how he treats you is not in your power, and therefore concerns you
not. If therefore your enemy reviles you, try to think well of him for
not having struck you. ‘But he has struck me.’ Then think well of him
for not having wounded you. ‘But he has wounded me.’ Then think
well of him for not having slain you. ‘But I am dying of the wound he
gave me.’ Then think well of him for having opened unto you that
door which the Master of the Feast has appointed as your exit from
His banquet. Apply this rule to Pistus, and if he has poisoned
Philemon’s mind against you, think well of him that he has not yet
poisoned your body itself.
“But the former rule is the more important, that you are not to set a
value on the things that are beyond your own control. Does Fortune
take things away? Laugh at her then. When Philemon and his friends
deprive you of your wonted freedom, and take away your books,
your reputation, your prospect of marriage, you must consider
yourself before a tribunal of boys who are mulcting you of knuckle-
bones and nuts. ‘So Epictetus makes light of love and marriage and
the bands of family affection.’ Not so; he recognizes them for the
common people but not for Onesimus and Epictetus, nor for other
philosophers in the present war of good against evil. For as the state
of things now is, the philosopher should hear the trumpet sounding
for all good men to make ready, like an army drawn up for battle in
the face of an enemy; and he should be without all distraction,
entirely attending to the service of God.
“Finally, whatever betide, be not a slave. ‘I must go to the
ergastulum’ says Onesimus. And must you go groaning too? ‘I must
be fettered like a slave.’ Must you lament like a slave too? ‘Marry
Prepousa,’ says Philemon, ‘and become a Christian.’ ‘I will not.’ ‘Then
I will slay you.’ ‘Did I ever assert that I could not be slain?’ That is
the language that befits my Onesimus; not to look at the spectacle
of life like a runaway slave in the theatre, who shivers whenever any
one touches him on the shoulder or mentions his master’s name.
Instead of swearing allegiance to Christus to conciliate Philemon,
swear rather never to dishonor God who loves truth, nor to murmur
at anything that betides; for all things betide according to His will. At
all times endeavor to listen to His voice; for he accosts you and
speaks to you thus: ‘Onesimus, when you were at your lectures in
Athens, what did you call death and imprisonment and all other such
external things?’ ‘I? Things indifferent.’ ‘And what do you call them
now?’ ‘The same.’ ‘What is the aim and object of thy life?’ ‘To follow
Thee.’ ‘Go on then, boldly.’”

§ 10. OF METRODORUS AND HIS ADVICE.

I read and re-read the letter of Epictetus; but it could no longer
settle my doubts nor quiet my mind. What was true in it seemed to
be stale and useless, namely, that each man was able to do
whatsoever he wished, provided that he wished only for those things
that he was able to do. And again, what might have been useful, if
true, seemed not true, or at all events not certain, I mean that the
Master of the Feast was good. For all that Epictetus had said came
to this, that if we remained as a guest at the Feast, each one was
bound to act as if the Master was good, or else to depart from the
Feast. But why was a philosopher bound to suppose something that
might be false, or else to slay himself? For, all the while, there might
be no Master of the Feast at all, but only a talk about Masters, and
in reality neither Master nor Feast, but only a kind of scramble for
sweetmeats. Or else there might be not one Master, but many, some
good and kind, others bad and unkind. Or what if the Master were
Himself good but thwarted by His wicked servants so that the guests
were starved and not fed? In that case might not the guests fairly
complain? And to make believe that the Master was perfectly good
and wise (and all for the purpose of attaining for oneself calmness
and tranquillity of mind)—this seemed a kind of flattering of the
Master and deceiving of oneself, that was scarcely worthy of a
philosopher.
This peace and tranquillity of Epictetus, the more I thought of it, the
less I admired it. For, in spite of his denial, it seemed to loosen all
love and friendship, as well as hate. How could I “preserve my
serenity of mind” while I was reading the letter of Eucharis? Ought I
to say to myself, “Whatever may betide Eucharis, I at all events shall
be completely happy?” That seemed to me not possible; no, nor
desirable. If Eucharis sorrowed, I felt that it would be sweeter for
me too to sorrow than rejoice. Then again, as to hating, Epictetus
would have me not hate Pistus for being bad, but speak well of him
because he was not worse. Now this perchance might tend to
tranquillity, but how could it be consistent with truth? For if a man
steal from me one mina, am I to thank him for not stealing two? As
well, when a man gives me one mina, abuse him for not giving me
two! It is the duty of a philosopher neither to speak better of a man,
nor to speak worse of a man than he deserves. Besides, Epictetus
seemed to err in speaking of all wickedness and crime as merely
caused by erroneous opinions, for to me such faults as slander,
cruelty, and baseness, seemed altogether different, and fit to be
differently regarded, from such a fault as an unskillful reckoner
might commit in saying that six and seven make twelve. In all these
matters Epictetus seemed to me (and indeed still seems) to go
astray because he had wholly set his mind upon the attainment of
an object which perchance the Master of the Feast does not intend
His guests to attain in this world, I mean perfect and unchangeable
serenity of mind.
Being in a great perturbation with all this conflict of thoughts, and
inclining now more than ever to believe that there were no gods, I
determined to disobey the command of Philemon and to resort to
my friend Artemidorus that I might ask counsel of him. So I went to
him on the morrow, when both Philemon and Pistus chanced to be
absent from the city. But he had gone on some business of law to
Laodicea. However I found in the courtyard of his house a certain
friend of Artemidorus, known also to me, one Metrodorus, whom I
believed (but did not for certain know) to hold the same opinions as
Artemidorus. I saluted him gladly; and, because the sight of a
friendly face was now rare for me, I took pleasure in conversing with
him (although I had not been greatly inclined towards him in former
days) walking up and down in the portico and discoursing about
divers matters and in the end about matters of philosophy and
religion. And to be brief, not having any other counsellor to go to, I
imparted to this man (although I knew but little of him) some of my
troubles and perplexities, asking what would philosophy advise me
to do in my sore strait?
When I had made an end of speaking, Metrodorus ceased walking
and stood still, near a broken slab of pavement in the portico, where
some ants had built a nest and were passing busily to and from the
crevice. So here Metrodorus coming to a stand, and looking down
upon the ants and then up at me, said, “If there be gods indeed, as
perchance there are, I will now show you what it is likely that they
think of us mortals. Certain people say that the gods being infinitely
wiser and nobler, as well as stronger, than we are, must needs have
a care for us, and rule our actions aright. Now, my young friend,
here stand we two upon this pavement, two human beings as much
(I suppose) superior to these myriads of little busy insects at our
feet, as the gods are superior to us. Well, my friend, do we have a
care for these ants? Surely not. Do we sorrow for their sins and
compassionate their errors? I think not. Do we rule their actions
aright? Do we stir a finger to help them in the storing of their food
or to avert the destruction of the whole republic of them? Nay, but
we take not a single thought for all their doings and misdoings, their
virtues and their vices (for doubtless these creatures have their
virtues and their vices even as we have) except it may be to amuse
ourselves withal, or to rid ourselves of them if they become
inconvenient. But you say, men are so vastly superior to ants. Not
more, I take it, than the gods (if any) are superior to men. But in
men, you urge, there is so much more of diversity in character and
in action. Who knows? Only stoop down and look at these diminutive
beings more closely. Mark what a bustle they are in; all working, but
not all doing the same work; some, look you, are the scavengers,
carrying out the ordure, others the marketers carrying in vast
fragments of bean-shell or hastening onwards along with pieces of
barley-corn in their mouths; some also, as it seems to me, standing
still and ruling or instructing the rest. And who knows also but,
besides their architects and masons, they have their demagogues
and counsellors, cooks also and musicians, yes and philosophers too
after their manner, philosophising perhaps about us two at this very
moment, and very prettily demonstrating the truth of the theories of
the priest-ants, saying that ‘Man being a noble Being, infinitely
powerful, and wise, and good, must needs take thought for us, poor
mortal ants, and rule our actions aright, and in the end conform us
to Himself’—whereas, my dear Onesimus, so far is this from being
the case that on the contrary”—and here he stamped heavily upon
the ant-hill—“I thus with one little movement of my foot, subvert the
whole ant-universe, for no other cause but my own particular
pleasure.
“O my dear Onesimus, is not belief in the gods by this time almost
too antiquated? If there were some new fashion of it, I might
recommend you to try it; but every fashion has been tried and has
become stale. Your young friend Epictetus shows a preference for
one god; but to the true philosophers his theories are like the rest,
quite musty and past discussing. However, if you are resolved to
deal in such wares, it is good to have a choice; and the choice is
large. Perhaps you prefer a legion of gods and demons? Or, aiming
at the golden mean, what say you to choosing a moderate few, an
oligarchy of gods? Then there are in the market for you some gods
that speak, and others that are mutes; some that are still active and
vigorous, such as Isis, Serapis, and Sabazius; others that are past
work and cashiered, such as old Ares, Enuo, and Hephæstus; or if
you are curious about rank and precedence, you can have gods of
different ranks, first class, second class, third class; some with
bodies, some, if you prefer it, bodiless. Last of all in the market
come the atheists, who will sell you a vacuum, if you will give them
many years of your life for it. But is not the best course after all to
keep your time and pains and money and avoid the market
altogether: neither believing nor disbelieving, but never giving a
thought to the matter?”
“And does Artemidorus hold these opinions?” said I, after a pause. “I
think so,” he replied, “At least he never mentions the gods to me;
and you best know whether he has often spoken of them to you; but
from what you say yourself, I infer that he has not. However, even
Artemidorus is not so consistent as I am. For he is ever fretting
himself about the sun, and the moon, and the planets, and their
motions, and about the tides and their courses, and sometimes he
busies himself with noting the diverse superstitions of men; whereas
to my mind the best kind of life is to vex oneself with none of these
trifles, but to be content with myself and with all things around me,
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