Chapter VII (2)

_Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I say that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy, or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body. Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of their re-introduction diminishes daily.

And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to commemorate the event.

_COPERNICUS:_

_A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._

_Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._

_First Hour_. Good day, Excellency.

_Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well.

_First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency.

_Sun_. Very well.

_First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time.

_Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases.

_First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say?

_Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone.

_First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long, that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the confusion that will ensue.

_Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens.

_First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill?

_Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you can go and attend to your own affairs.

_First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not deign to go forth as usual?

_Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or better, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for the purpose, or provide it in some other way.

_First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that? It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns, and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less, before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more to burn.

_Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining things called glow-worms.

_First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold? For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits. And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth, until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces of rock-crystal.

_Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them. Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself to rotate round it.

_First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have done on its behalf.

_Sun_. Yes: now and for the future.

_First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea. Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange, seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position. If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was.

_Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For philosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish, also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant, I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher. It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do you clearly understand?

_First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed.

_Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._

This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun.

Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of some huge bird.

_Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._

_Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour.

_Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and put my things in order, before I die.

_Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life.

_Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of the breviary?

_Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, when you are in your stall.

_Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know my name?

_Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day.

_Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that is why day is not yet visible.

_Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight unless you provide it yourself.

_Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making daylight? A fine thing, indeed!

_Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive.

_Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun? Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to supply me with even a single meal.

_Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a moment. For you must know that I am a spirit.

_Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body.

_Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders, and leave all the rest to me.

_Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to its issue.

_Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._

Copernicus_. Most noble Lord.

_Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose.

_Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter.

_Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me briefly of what these difficulties consist.

_Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power, I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these times, which are not heroic.

_Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force.

_Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia.

_Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not.

_Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious difficulties, which I will now mention.

You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets, visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship.

Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence? Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men, too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy; they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not insignificant.

_Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed should be treasonable?

_Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public, imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order of nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine them to be.

_Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will not give me much uneasiness.

_Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider, Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of themselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms.

_Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis.

_Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment, yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently, they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is, after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to your supremacy.

_Sun_. You remember CÊsar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said that he would rather be the first in that village, than the second in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero, I care more for ease than dignity.

_Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass, or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute the failure to my inability, not unwillingness.

_Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best.

_Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle.

_Sun_. What is it?

_Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face again.

_Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain, dedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry.

[Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the "Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from west to east.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._

_Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new Almanacs?

_Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year?

_Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir.

_Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one?

_Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir.

_Passer_. As happy as last year?

_Alm. Seller_. Much more so.

_Passer_. As the year before?

_Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir.

_Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the past years?

_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not.

_Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs?

_Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir.

_Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like?

_Alm. Seller_. I do not know.

_Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a happy one?

_Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir.

_Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not?

_Alm. Seller_. So they say.

_Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all your, past life from your birth, over again?

_Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could!

_Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings?

_Alm. Seller_. I should not like that.

_Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would wish to repeat the same life over again?

_Alm. Seller_. I do believe that.

_Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other were offered you?

_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not.

_Passer_. Then what life would you like?

_Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions.

_Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year?

_Alm. Seller_. Exactly.

_Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again, and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and the happy life will begin. Am I not right?

_Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so.

_Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have.

_Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi.

_Passer_. Here are thirty soldi.

_Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars!

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._

"One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my
own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me,
and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy
mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and
that I must have change of air" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by
Porphyrius).

The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by
Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the
conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject.

_Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design.

_Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean?

_Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable.

_Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself; nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do as you please.

In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things, proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false, because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or none at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If, then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui.

_Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving himself of life.

_Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now, with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain, and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired, he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I would speak thus to him:--

"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate. Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him by Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully intelligent, and by all others desired.

"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life, full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this comfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived, can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato, was wanting to complete the sum of human misery.

"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose. Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and mental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement; these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society.

"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium. Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind.

"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still. Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known.

"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself of life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts. The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves, nor escape from our persecutors.

"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present. And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces the latter almost to insignificance.

"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing can ever exist more disastrous in its effects."

That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However, enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please.

_Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher, but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our nature, I cannot think that it is permissible.

_Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief.

You doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness, and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for fear of the contrary?

How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided? How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of nothing but suffering to me?

_Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides, we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself to them.

_Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who are said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and sometimes voluntarily seek it.

Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural, are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness.

The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us for ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it? For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy for all evils, is the most desirable of things.

Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance. No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life, control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day. We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved whether or not it be useful.

_Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius, because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure, properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible.

_Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide. For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness? They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day. Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people. For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a source of pleasure.

But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life, or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of judgment, will, or even fact.

_Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason, with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas, and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible. And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too, the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and not man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man, nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding, but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding.