On Old Age

FOR I may address you, Atticus, in the lines in which Flamininus was addressed by the man,

For I may address you, Atticus, with the same lines the man used to address Flamininus,

though I am well assured that you are not, as Flamininus was,

though I am certain you are not, as Flamininus was,

For I know how well ordered and equable your mind is, and am fully aware that it was not a surname alone which you brought home with you from Athens, but its culture and good sense. And yet I have an idea that you are at times stirred to the heart by the same circumstances as myself. To console you for these is a more serious matter, and must be put off to another time. For the present I have resolved to dedicate to you an essay on Old Age. For from the burden of impending or at least advancing age, common to us both, I would do something to relieve us both though as to yourself I am fully aware that you support and will support it, as you do everything else, with calmness and philosophy. But directly I resolved to write on old age, you at once occurred to me as deserving a gift of which both of us might take advantage. To myself, indeed, the composition of this book has been so delightful, that it has not only wiped away all the disagreeables of old age, but has even made it luxurious and delightful too. Never, therefore, can philosophy be praised as highly as it deserves considering that its faithful disciple is able to spend every period of his life with unruffled feelings. However, on other subjects I have spoken at large, and shall often speak again: this book which I herewith send you is on Old Age. I have put the whole discourse not, as Alisto of Cos did, in the mouth of Tithonus—for a mere fable would have lacked conviction—but in that of Marcus Cato when he was an old man, to give my essay greater weight. I represent Laelius and Scipio at his house expressing surprise at his carrying his years so lightly, and Cato answering them. If he shall seem to shew somewhat more learning in this discourse than he generally did in his own books, put it down to the Greek literature of which it is known that he became an eager student in his old age. But what need of more? Cato's own words will at once explain all I feel about old age.

For I know how steady and balanced your mind is. I know that you brought home from Athens not just a surname, but also its culture and good sense. Yet I suspect that the same circumstances sometimes move you as deeply as they move me. Consoling you about those circumstances is a more serious task and must wait for another time. For now, I have decided to dedicate an essay on Old Age to you. I want to do something to ease the burden of approaching, or at least advancing, age for us both. Still, I know very well that you bear this burden calmly and philosophically, as you bear everything else. I know you will continue to do so. But as soon as I decided to write about old age, you came to mind. You deserved a gift that could benefit us both. Writing this book has given me so much pleasure that it has swept away everything unpleasant about old age. It has even made old age feel luxurious and delightful. Philosophy can therefore never receive all the praise it deserves. A faithful follower of philosophy can pass through every stage of life with an untroubled mind. However, I have spoken at length on other subjects and will often speak about them again. This book, which I now send you, is about Old Age. I have not put the whole discussion into the mouth of Tithonus, as Alisto of Cos did. A mere fable would not have been convincing. Instead, I have given the words to Marcus Cato as an old man, to give my essay greater authority. I picture Laelius and Scipio at his house, expressing surprise at how lightly he bears his years. Cato then answers them. If Cato seems to show somewhat more learning here than he usually did in his own books, credit Greek literature. He is known to have become an eager student of Greek literature in his old age. But why say more? Cato's own words will immediately explain everything I feel about old age.

M. Cato. Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus (the younger). Gaius Laelius.

M. Cato. Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus (the younger). Gaius Laelius.

2. Scipio. Many a time have I in conversation with my friend Gaius Laelius here expressed my admiration, Marcus Cato, of the eminent, nay perfect, wisdom displayed by you indeed at all points, but above everything because I have noticed that old age never seemed a burden to you, while to most old men it is so hateful that they declare themselves under a weight heavier than Aetna.

2. Scipio. Marcus Cato, I have often told my friend Gaius Laelius here how much I admire your outstanding, indeed perfect, wisdom. You show that wisdom in every way. But above all, I admire it because I have noticed that old age never seemed a burden to you. Yet most old men find old age so hateful that they say they carry a weight heavier than Aetna.

Cato. Your admiration is easily excited, it seems, my dear Scipio and Laelius. Men, of course, who have no resources in themselves for securing a good and happy life find every age burdensome. But those who look for all happiness from within can never think anything bad which nature makes inevitable. In that category before anything else comes old age, to which all wish to attain, and at which all grumble when attained. Such is Folly's inconsistency and unreasonableness! They say that it is stealing upon them faster than they expected. In the first place, who compelled them to hug an illusion? For in what respect did old age steal upon manhood faster than manhood upon childhood? In the next place, in what way would old age have been less disagreeable to them if they were in their eight-hundredth year than in their eightieth? For their past, however long, when once it was past, would have no consolation for a stupid old age. Wherefore, if it is your wont to admire my wisdom—and I would that it were worthy of your good opinion and of my own surname of Sapiens—it really consists in the fact that I follow Nature, the best of guides, as I would a god, and am loyal to her commands. It is not likely, if she has written the rest of the play well, that she has been careless about the last act like some idle poet. But after all some "last" was inevitable, just as to the berries of a tree and the fruits of the earth there comes in the fulness of time a period of decay and fall. A wise man will not make a grievance of this. To rebel against nature—is not that to fight like the giants with the gods?

Cato. You seem easily impressed, my dear Scipio and Laelius. Of course, people who lack the inner resources for a good and happy life find every age burdensome. But those who seek all happiness within themselves can never consider anything bad if nature makes it inevitable. Old age comes first among these inevitable things. All wish to reach old age, yet all complain once they reach it. How inconsistent and unreasonable Folly is! People say old age is creeping up on them faster than they expected. First, who forced them to cling to an illusion? How did old age creep up on adulthood any faster than adulthood crept up on childhood? Next, would old age have been any less unpleasant in their eight-hundredth year than in their eightieth? However long their past had been, once over, it could offer no comfort to a foolish old age. So, if you often admire my wisdom, my wisdom really consists in following Nature, the best of guides. I wish my wisdom deserved your good opinion and my own surname, Sapiens. I follow Nature as I would a god, and faithfully obey her commands. If she has written the rest of the play well, she is unlikely to have neglected the final act. That would be the work of some lazy poet. But some "last" act was inevitable, after all. In just the same way, a time comes when berries on trees and crops in fields decay and fall. A wise man will not complain about this natural end. To rebel against nature, isn't that like the giants fighting the gods?

Laelius. And yet, Cato, you will do us a very great favour (I venture to speak for Scipio as for myself) if—since we all hope, or at least wish, to become old men—you would allow us to learn from you in good time before it arrives, by what methods we may most easily acquire the strength to support the burden of advancing age.

Laelius. And yet, Cato, you would do us a great favor if you let us learn from you. I venture to speak for Scipio as well as myself. Since we all hope, or at least wish, to grow old, let us learn before old age arrives. How can we most easily gain the strength to bear the burden of advancing age?

Cato. I will do so without doubt, Laelius, especially if, as you say, it will be agreeable to you both.

Cato. I certainly will, Laelius, especially if, as you say, you would both enjoy it.

Laelius We do wish very much, Cato, if it is no trouble to you, to be allowed to see the nature of the bourne which you have reached after completing a long journey, as it were, upon which we too are bound to embark.

Laelius We would very much like to hear what the destination you have reached is like, Cato, if you don’t mind. You have, so to speak, completed a long journey that we too must begin.

3. Cato. I will do the best I can, Laelius. It has often been my fortune to bear the complaints of my contemporaries—like will to like, you know, according to the old proverb—complaints to which men like C. Salinator and Sp. Albinus, who were of consular rank and about my time, used to give vent. They were, first, that they had lost the pleasures of the senses, without which they did not regard life as life at all; and, secondly, that they were neglected by those from whom they had been used to receive attentions. Such men appear to me to lay the blame on the wrong thing. For if it had been the fault of old age, then these same misfortunes would have befallen me and all other men of advanced years. But I have known many of them who never said a word of complaint against old age; for they were only too glad to be freed from the bondage of passion, and were not at all looked down upon by their friends. The fact is that the blame for all complaints of that kind is to be charged to character, not to a particular time of life. For old men who are reasonable and neither cross-grained nor churlish find old age tolerable enough: whereas unreason and churlishness cause uneasiness at every time of life.

3. Cato. I will do the best I can, Laelius. I have often heard complaints from men my own age. Like attracts like, you know, as the old proverb says. C. Salinator and Sp. Albinus, both former consuls about my age, used to voice such complaints. First, they had lost the pleasures of the senses, without which they thought life was not life at all. Second, they were neglected by people who had once shown them attention. These men seem to me to blame the wrong thing. For if old age were to blame, the same misfortunes would have happened to me and all other elderly men. But I have known many elderly men who never said a word against old age. They were delighted to be free from the slavery of passion, and their friends did not look down on them at all. The truth is that character, not a particular stage of life, is to blame for all complaints of this kind. For reasonable old men who are neither bad-tempered nor rude find old age bearable enough. But being unreasonable and rude makes life uncomfortable at every age.

Laelius It is as you say, Cato. But perhaps some one may suggest that it is your large means, wealth, and high position that make you think old age tolerable: whereas such good fortune only falls to few.

Laelius You’re right, Cato. But perhaps someone may suggest that your ample resources, wealth, and high position make old age bearable for you. Yet only a few people have such good fortune.

Cato. There is something in that, Laelius, but by no means all. For instance, the story is told of the answer of Themistocles in a wrangle with a certain Seriphian, who asserted that he owed his brilliant position to the reputation of his country, not to his own. "If I had been a Seriphian," said he, "even I should never have been famous, nor would you if you had been an Athenian." Something like this may be said of old age. For the philosopher himself could not find old age easy to bear in the depths of poverty, nor the fool feel it anything but a burden though he were a millionaire. You may be sure, my dear Scipio and Laelius, that the arms best adapted to old age are culture and the active exercise of the virtues. For if they have been maintained at every period—if one has lived much as well as long—the harvest they produce is wonderful, not only because they never fail us even in our last days (though that in itself is supremely important), but also because the consciousness of a well-spent life and the recollection of many virtuous actions are exceedingly delightful.

Cato. There is some truth in what you say, Laelius, but it is far from the whole truth. For example, there is a story about Themistocles arguing with a certain Seriphian. The man claimed that Themistocles owed his great standing to his country’s reputation, not to his own. "If I had been a Seriphian," Themistocles replied, "even I would never have been famous. Nor would you have been famous if you had been an Athenian." Something similar may be said about old age. Even a philosopher could not find old age easy to bear in extreme poverty. Nor could a fool find old age anything but a burden, even if he were a millionaire. You can be sure, my dear Scipio and Laelius, that learning and practicing the virtues are the best defenses against old age. If we have cultivated both throughout our lives, their rewards are wonderful. That means living well, not just living long. These rewards come partly because learning and virtue never fail us, even in our last days. That alone is supremely important. But the rewards also come from knowing we have lived well and remembering our many good deeds. That knowledge and those memories bring us immense delight.

4. Take the case of Q. Fabius Maximus, the man, I mean, who recovered Tarentum. When I was a young man and he an old one, I was as much attached to him as if he had been my contemporary. For that great man's serious dignity was tempered by courteous manners, nor had old age made any change in his character. True, he was not exactly an old man when my devotion to him began, yet he was nevertheless well on in life; for his first consulship fell in the year after my birth. When quite a stripling I went with him in his fourth consulship as a soldier in the ranks, on the expedition against Capua, and in the fifth year after that against Tarentum. Four years after that I was elected Quaestor, holding office in the consulship of Tuditanus and Cethegus, in which year, indeed, he as a very old man spoke in favour of the Cincian law "on gifts and fees."

4. Take the case of Q. Fabius Maximus, the man who recaptured Tarentum. When I was young and he was old, I was as devoted to him as if we were the same age. For his courteous manners softened his great dignity and seriousness, and old age had not changed his character. True, he was not quite an old man when my devotion began. Still, he was well along in years, for his first consulship was the year after my birth. When I was just a boy, I served as an ordinary soldier under him during his fourth consulship, against Capua. Five years later, I served under him against Tarentum. Four years after that, I was elected Quaestor and held office during the consulship of Tuditanus and Cethegus. In that same year, Fabius, by then a very old man, spoke in support of the Cincian law "on gifts and fees."

Now this man conducted wars with all the spirit of youth when he was far advanced in life, and by his persistence gradually wearied out Hannibal, when rioting in all the confidence of youth. How brilliant are those lines of my friend Ennius on him!

Now this man fought wars with all the energy of youth, even when he was very old. Through persistence, he gradually wore down Hannibal, who was carried away by all the confidence of youth. How brilliant are the lines my friend Ennius wrote about him!

Again what vigilance, what profound skill did he show in the capture of Tarentum! It was indeed in my hearing that he made the famous retort to Salinator, who had retreated into the citadel after losing the town: "It was owing to me, Quintus Fabius, that you retook Tarentum." "Quite so," he replied with a laugh; "for had you not lost it, I should never have recovered it." Nor was he less eminent in civil life than in war. In his second consulship, though his colleague would not move in the matter, he resisted as long as he could the proposal of the tribune C. Flaminius to divide the territory of the Picenians and Gauls in free allotments in defiance of a resolution of the Senate. Again, though he was an augur, he ventured to say that whatever was done in the interests of the State was done with the best possible auspices, that any laws proposed against its interest were proposed against the auspices. I was cognisant of much that was admirable in that great man, but nothing struck me with greater astonishment than the way in which he bore the death of his son—a man of brilliant character and who had been consul. His funeral speech over him is in wide circulation, and when we read it, is there any philosopher of whom we do not think meanly? Nor in truth was he only great in the light of day and in the sight of his fellow-citizens; he was still more eminent in private and at home. What a wealth of conversation! What weighty maxims! What a wide acquaintance with ancient history! What an accurate knowledge of the science of augury! For a Roman, too, he had a great tincture of letters. He had a tenacious memory for military history of every sort, whether of Roman or foreign wars. And I used at that time to enjoy his conversation with a passionate eagerness, as though I already divined, what actually turned out to be the case, that when he died there would be no one to teach me anything.

And what watchfulness and remarkable skill he showed in capturing Tarentum! I heard his famous reply to Salinator, who had lost the town and retreated into the citadel. Salinator said, "You owe your recapture of Tarentum to me, Quintus Fabius." "Quite right," he replied with a laugh. "For if you had not lost it, I would never have recovered it." He was no less distinguished in public affairs than in war. During his second consulship, he resisted a proposal by the tribune C. Flaminius as long as he could. His colleague, however, refused to act. The proposal was to distribute the territory of the Picenians and Gauls as free grants, defying a Senate resolution. Again, although he was an augur, he dared to say that whatever served the State had the best possible auspices. Any laws proposed against the State's interests, he said, were proposed against the auspices. I knew many admirable things about that great man. But nothing amazed me more than how he bore the death of his son. His son was a man of outstanding character and had been consul. His funeral speech for his son is widely read. When we read the speech, is there any philosopher who does not seem inferior by comparison? Nor was his greatness limited to public life, in full view of his fellow citizens. He was even more remarkable in private, at home. What rich conversation! What profound sayings! What a broad knowledge of ancient history! What a precise understanding of augury, the art of interpreting omens! For a Roman, too, he was well versed in literature. He had a firm memory for military history of every kind, covering both Roman and foreign wars. In those days, I listened to him with passionate eagerness. It was as though I already sensed what later proved true: after his death, no one could teach me anything.

5. What then is the purpose of such a long disquisition on Maximus? It is because you now see that an old age like his cannot conscientiously be called unhappy. Yet it is after all true that everybody cannot be a Scipio or a Maximus, with stormings of cities, with battles by land and sea, with wars in which they themselves commanded, and with triumphs to recall. Besides this there is a quiet, pure, and cultivated life which produces a calm and gentle old age, such as we have been told Plato's was, who died at his writing-desk in his eighty-first year; or like that of Isocrates, who says that he wrote the book called The Panegyric in his ninety-fourth year, and who lived for five years afterwards; while his master Gorgias of Leontini completed a hundred and seven years without ever relaxing his diligence or giving up work. When some one asked him why he consented to remain so long alive—"I have no fault," said he, "to find with old age." That was a noble answer, and worthy of a scholar. For fools impute their own frailties and guilt to old age, contrary to the practice of Ennui, whom I mentioned just now. In the lines—

5. Why, then, have I spoken at such length about Maximus? Because you can now see that an old age like his cannot honestly be called unhappy. Yet not everyone can be a Scipio or a Maximus. Not everyone can look back on cities stormed, battles on land and sea, wars they commanded, and triumphs. But a quiet, pure, and cultured life also leads to a calm and gentle old age. We are told that Plato had such an old age. He died at his writing desk in his eighty-first year. Isocrates had a similar old age. He says he wrote the book called The Panegyric in his ninety-fourth year, and he lived five years longer. His teacher, Gorgias of Leontini, lived a full hundred and seven years without ever easing his efforts or stopping work. When someone asked why he was willing to stay alive so long, he replied, "I find nothing wrong with old age." That was a noble answer, worthy of a scholar. For fools blame old age for their own weaknesses and faults. Ennui, whom I mentioned just now, took a different view. In the lines:

he compares his own old age to that of a high-spirited and successful race-horse. And him indeed you may very well remember. For the present consuls Titus Flamininus and Manius Acilius were elected in the nineteenth year after his death; and his death occurred in the consulship of Caepio and Philippus, the latter consul for the second time: in which year I, then sixty-six years old, spoke in favour of the Voconian law in a voice that was still strong and with lungs still sound; while be, though seventy years old, supported two burdens considered the heaviest of all—poverty and old age—in such a way as to be all but fond of them.

He compares his own old age to that of a spirited and successful racehorse. And you may well remember him. For the present consuls, Titus Flamininus and Manius Acilius, were elected in the nineteenth year after his death. He died during the consulship of Caepio and Philippus, when Philippus was consul for the second time. That year, at sixty-six, I spoke in support of the Voconian law, my voice still strong and my lungs healthy. He, meanwhile, though seventy, bore poverty and old age, considered the two heaviest burdens of all. He bore them so well that he was almost fond of them.

The fact is that when I come to think it over, I find that there are four reasons for old age being thought unhappy: First, that it withdraws us from active employments; second, that it enfeebles the body; third, that it deprives us of nearly all physical pleasures; fourth, that it is the next step to death. Of each of these reasons, if you will allow me, let us examine the force and justice separately.

The fact is, when I think it over, I find four reasons why old age is thought to be unhappy. First, old age takes us away from active work. Second, it weakens the body. Third, it deprives us of nearly all physical pleasures. Fourth, it brings us to the brink of death. If you will allow me, let us examine each reason separately to see how strong and fair each one is.

6. OLD AGE WITHDRAWS US FROM ACTIVE EMPLOYMENTS. From which of them? Do you mean from those carried on by youth and bodily strength? Are there then no old men's employments to be after all conducted by the intellect, even when bodies are weak? So then Q. Maximus did nothing; nor L. Aemilius—our father, Scipio, and my excellent son's father-in-law! So with other old men—the Fabricii, the Guru and Coruncanii—when they were supporting the State by their advice and influence, they were doing nothing! To old age Appius Claudius had the additional disadvantage of being blind; yet it was he who, when the Senate was inclining towards a peace with Pyrrhus and was for making a treaty, did not hesitate to say what Ennius has embalmed in the verses:

6. OLD AGE TAKES US AWAY FROM ACTIVE WORK. From what kinds of work? Do you mean work that requires youth and physical strength? Is there no work for older men to do with their minds, even when their bodies are weak? So Q. Maximus did nothing! Nor did L. Aemilius, your father, Scipio, and my excellent son's father-in-law! The same goes for other old men, the Fabricii, the Guru and Coruncanii. When these men supported the State with their advice and influence, they were doing nothing! Besides being old, Appius Claudius had the added disadvantage of being blind. Yet when the Senate leaned toward peace with Pyrrhus and favored a treaty, Appius Claudius did not hesitate to speak. Ennius preserved his words in these verses:

And so on in a tone of the most passionate vehemence. You know the poem, and the speech of Appius himself is extant. Now, he delivered it seventeen years after his second consulship, there having been an interval of ten years between the two consulships, and he having been censor before his previous consulship. This will show you that at the time of the war with Pyrrhus he was a very old man. Yet this is the story handed down to us.

And so on, in a tone of the fiercest passion. You know the poem, and Appius’s speech itself still survives. He delivered the speech seventeen years after his second consulship. Ten years had passed between his two consulships, and he had been censor before his first consulship. These dates show you that he was a very old man during the war with Pyrrhus. Yet this is the story passed down to us.

There is therefore nothing in the arguments of those who say that old age takes no part in public business. They are like men who would say that a steersman does nothing in sailing a ship, because, while some of the crew are climbing the masts, others hurrying up and down the gangways, others pumping out the bilge water, he sits quietly in the stern holding the tiller. He does not do what young men do; nevertheless he does what is much more important and better. The great affairs of life are not performed by physical strength, or activity, or nimbleness of body, but by deliberation, character, expression of opinion. Of these old age is not only not deprived, but, as a rule, has them in a greater degree. Unless by any chance I, who as a soldier in the ranks, as military tribune, as legate, and as consul have been employed in various kinds of war, now appear to you to be idle because not actively engaged in war. But I enjoin upon the Senate what is to be done, and how. Carthage has long been harbouring evil designs, and I accordingly proclaim war against her in good time. I shall never cease to entertain fears about her till I hear of her having been levelled with the ground. The glory of doing that I pray that the immortal gods may reserve for you, Scipio, so that you may complete the task begun by your grand-father, now dead more than thirty-two years ago; though all years to come will keep that great man's memory green. He died in the year before my censorship, nine years after my consulship, having been returned consul for the second time in my own consulship. If then he had lived to his hundredth year, would he have regretted having lived to be old? For he would of course not have been practising rapid marches, nor dashing on a foe, nor hurling spears from a distance, nor using swords at close quarters—but only counsel, reason, and senatorial eloquence. And if those qualities had not resided in us seniors, our ancestors would never have called their supreme council a Senate. At Sparta, indeed, those who hold the highest magistracies are in accordance with the fact actually called "elders." But if you will take the trouble to read or listen to foreign history, you will find that the mightiest States have been brought into peril by young men, have been supported and restored by old. The question occurs in the poet Naevius's Sport:

So there is no substance to the argument that old people take no part in public affairs. People who argue this are like men who say a helmsman does nothing to sail a ship. Some crew members climb the masts, others hurry up and down the gangways, and others pump out bilge water. Meanwhile, the helmsman sits quietly in the stern, holding the tiller. He does not do what young men do. Nevertheless, his work is far more important and valuable. Life’s great tasks do not depend on physical strength, energy, or agility. They depend on careful thought, character, and the ability to offer sound opinions. Old age not only retains these qualities but usually possesses them in greater measure. Unless, perhaps, you think I am idle now because I am no longer actively fighting in a war. I have served in various kinds of war as a soldier, military tribune, legate, and consul. But now I tell the Senate what must be done and how to do it. Carthage has long been plotting against us, so I call for war against her before it is too late. I will never stop fearing her until I hear she has been razed to the ground. I pray that the immortal gods reserve the glory of that achievement for you, Scipio. In this way, you may complete the task your grandfather began. He has now been dead for more than thirty-two years, though all future generations will keep his memory alive. He died the year before I became censor, nine years after my consulship. He had been elected consul for the second time during my own consulship. If he had lived to a hundred, would he have regretted reaching old age? Of course, he would not have been making rapid marches, charging the enemy, throwing spears, or fighting with swords. Instead, he would have contributed only advice, reason, and eloquent speeches in the Senate. And if we seniors had not possessed these qualities, our ancestors would never have named their highest council the Senate. In Sparta, indeed, the highest officials are actually called "elders," a name that reflects their age. But take the trouble to read or listen to the history of other nations. You will find that young men have endangered the mightiest states, while old men have sustained and restored them. The question appears in the poet Naevius’s Sport:

There is a long answer, but this is the chief point:

There is a long answer, but here is the main point:

For of course rashness is the note of youth, prudence of old age.

For, of course, rashness marks youth, while good judgment marks old age.

7. But, it is said, memory dwindles. No doubt, unless you keep it in practice, or if you happen to be somewhat dull by nature. Themistocles had the names of all his fellow-citizens by heart. Do you imagine that in his old age he used to address Aristides as Lysimachus? For my part, I know not only the present generation, but their fathers also, and their grandfathers. Nor have I any fear of losing my memory by reading tombstones, according to the vulgar superstition. On the contrary, by reading them I renew my memory of those who are dead and gone. Nor, in point of fact, have I ever heard of any old man forgetting where he had hidden his money. They remember everything that interests them: when to answer to their bail, business appointments, who owes them money, and to whom they owe it. What about lawyers, pontiffs, augurs, philosophers, when old? What a multitude of things they remember! Old men retain their intellects well enough, if only they keep their minds active and fully employed. Nor is that the case only with men of high position and great office: it applies equally to private life and peaceful pursuits. Sophocles composed tragedies to extreme old age; and being believed to neglect the care of his property owing to his devotion to his art, his sons brought him into court to get a judicial decision depriving him of the management of his property on the ground of weak intellect—just as in our law it is customary to deprive a paterfamilias of the management of his property if he is squandering it. There—upon the old poet is said to have read to the judges the play he had on hand and had just composed—the Oedipus Coloneus—and to have asked them whether they thought that the work of a man of weak intellect. After the reading he was acquitted by the jury. Did old age then compel this man to become silent in his particular art, or Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, or Isocrates and Gorgias whom I mentioned before, or the founders of schools of philosophy, Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato, Xenocrates, or later Zeno and Cleanthus, or Diogenes the Stoic, whom you too saw at Rome? Is it not rather the case with all these that the active pursuit of study only ended with life?

7. But people say memory fades. No doubt, unless you keep using your memory, or if you happen to be rather dull by nature. Themistocles knew the names of all his fellow citizens by heart. Do you imagine that in old age he used to call Aristides Lysimachus? For my part, I know not only the present generation, but their fathers and grandfathers too. Nor do I fear losing my memory by reading tombstones, as a common superstition warns. On the contrary, reading tombstones refreshes my memory of those who have died. In fact, I have never heard of an old man forgetting where he hid his money. Old men remember everything that interests them: court appearances required by their bail, business appointments, who owes them money, and whom they owe. What about lawyers, pontiffs, augurs, and philosophers in old age? What a vast number of things they remember! Old men keep their minds sharp enough, provided they keep their minds active and fully occupied. Nor does this apply only to men of high rank who hold important offices. It applies equally to private life and peaceful pursuits. Sophocles wrote tragedies into extreme old age. His sons believed his devotion to his art was making him neglect his property. So they took him to court to have him declared mentally unfit to manage his property. Under our own law, a paterfamilias, or head of a household, is similarly denied control of his property if he squanders it. The old poet is said to have read the judges the play he was working on and had just written, Oedipus Coloneus. He then asked whether they thought the play was the work of a man with a failing mind. After the reading, the jury cleared him. Did old age, then, force Sophocles to stop practicing his art? Or did old age silence Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, or Isocrates and Gorgias, whom I mentioned before? What about the founders of philosophical schools: Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato, Xenocrates, and later Zeno and Cleanthus? Or Diogenes the Stoic, whom you too saw at Rome? Rather, did not all these men continue actively pursuing their studies until their lives ended?

But, to pass over these sublime studies, I can name some rustic Romans from the Sabine district, neighbours and friends of my own, without whose presence farm work of importance is scarcely ever performed—whether sowing, or harvesting or storing crops. And yet in other things this is less surprising; for no one is so old as to think that he may not live a year. But they bestow their labour on what they know does not affect them in any case:

But setting aside these lofty studies, I can name some Roman farmers from the Sabine district, my neighbors and friends. Important farm work is hardly ever done without them present, whether sowing, harvesting, or storing crops. Yet their work on these tasks is less surprising. For no one is so old that they think they cannot live another year. But these farmers also put their labor into things they know will not benefit them at all:

as our poet Statius says in his Comrades. Nor indeed would a farmer, however old, hesitate to answer any one who asked him for whom he was planting: "For the immortal gods, whose will it was that I should not merely receive these things from my ancestors, but should also hand them on to the next generation."

as our poet Statius says in his Comrades. Indeed, no farmer, however old, would hesitate if someone asked whom he was planting for. He would answer: "For the immortal gods. They wanted me not only to receive these things from my ancestors, but also to pass them to the next generation."

8. That remark about the old man is better than the following:

8. That remark about the old man is better than the one that follows:

Yes, and perhaps much that gives him pleasure too. Besides, as to subjects for tears, he often comes upon them in youth as well.

Yes, and perhaps much that brings him pleasure too. Besides, he often finds reasons for tears in his youth as well.

A still more questionable sentiment in the same Caecilius is:

An even more questionable view from the same Caecilius is:

Delight in them is nearer the mark than dislike. For just as old men, if they are wise, take pleasure in the society of young men of good parts, and as old age is rendered less dreary for those who are courted and liked by the youth, so also do young men find pleasure in the maxims of the old, by which they are drawn to the pursuit of excellence. Nor do I perceive that you find my society less pleasant than I do yours. But this is enough to show you how, so far from being listless and sluggish, old age is even a busy time, always doing and attempting something, of course of the same nature as each man's taste had been in the previous part of his life. Nay, do not some even add to their stock of learning? We see Solon, for instance, boasting in his poems that he grows old "daily learning something new." Or again in my own case, it was only when an old man that I became acquainted with Greek literature, which in fact I absorbed with such avidity—in my yearning to quench, as it were, a long-continued thirst—that I became acquainted with the very facts which you see me now using as precedents. When I heard what Socrates had done about the lyre I should have liked for my part to have done that too, for the ancients used to learn the lyre but, at any rate, I worked hard at literature.

Enjoying their company is closer to the truth than disliking it. For wise old men enjoy the company of talented young men. And old age is less dreary for those whose company young people seek and enjoy. In the same way, young men enjoy the advice of the old, which encourages them to pursue excellence. Nor do I find that you enjoy my company any less than I enjoy yours. But these examples are enough to show that old age is far from idle and sluggish. It is even a busy time, always doing and attempting something. Naturally, these activities reflect each man's interests earlier in life. Indeed, do not some people even keep adding to their knowledge? We see Solon, for instance, boasting in his poems that he grows old "daily learning something new." In my own case, I only became familiar with Greek literature when I was an old man. I eagerly absorbed it, as though trying to quench a thirst I had felt for years. Through that reading, I learned the very facts you now see me using as examples. When I heard how Socrates had learned the lyre, I would have liked to do the same. People in ancient times used to learn the lyre. But at least I worked hard at literature.

9. Nor, again, do I now MISS THE BODILY STRENGTH OF A YOUNG MAN (for that was the second point as to the disadvantages of old age) any more than as a young man I missed the strength of a bull or an elephant. You should use what you have, and whatever you may chance to be doing, do it with all your might. What could be weaker than Milo of Croton's exclamation? When in his old age he was watching some athletes practising in the course, he is said to have looked at his arms and to have exclaimed with tears in his eyes: "Ah well! these are now as good as dead." Not a bit more so than yourself, you trifler! For at no time were you made famous by your real self, but by chest and biceps. Sext. Aelius never gave vent to such a remark, nor, many years before him, Titus Coruncanius, nor, more recently, P. Crassus—all of them learned juris-consults in active practice, whose knowledge of their profession was maintained to their last breath. I am afraid an orator does lose vigour by old age, for his art is not a matter of the intellect alone, but of lungs and bodily strength. Though as a rule that musical ring in the voice even gains in brilliance in a certain way as one grows old—certainly I have not yet lost it, and you see my years. Yet after all the style of speech suitable to an old man is the quiet and unemotional, and it often happens that the chastened and calm delivery of an old man eloquent secures a hearing. If you cannot attain to that yourself, you might still instruct a Scipio and a Laelius. For what is more charming than old age surrounded by the enthusiasm of youth? Shall we not allow old age even the strength to teach the young, to train and equip them for all the duties of life? And what can be a nobler employment? For my part, I used to think Publius and Gnaeus Scipio and your two grandfathers, L. Aemilius and P. Africanus, fortunate men when I saw them with a company of young nobles about them. Nor should we think any teachers of the fine arts otherwise than happy, however much their bodily forces may have decayed and failed. And yet that same failure of the bodily forces is more often brought about by the vices of youth than of old age; for a dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age in a worn-out state. Xenophon's Cyrus, for instance, in his discourse delivered on his death-bed and at a very advanced age, says that he never perceived his old age to have become weaker than his youth had been. I remember as a boy Lucius Metellus, who having been created Pontifex Maximus four years after his second consulship, held that office twenty-two years, enjoying such excellent strength of body in the very last hours of his life as not to miss his youth. I need not speak of myself; though that indeed is an old man's way and is generally allowed to my time of life. Don't you see in Homer how frequently Nestor talks of his own good qualities? For he was living through a third generation; nor had he any reason to fear that upon saying what was true about himself he should appear either over vain or talkative. For, as Homer says, "from his lips flowed discourse sweeter than honey," for which sweet breath he wanted no bodily strength. And yet, after all, the famous leader of the Greeks nowhere wishes to have ten men like Ajax, but like Nestor: if he could get them, he feels no doubt of Troy shortly falling.

9. Nor do I now MISS THE PHYSICAL STRENGTH OF A YOUNG MAN. That was the second supposed disadvantage of old age. I miss that strength no more than I missed the strength of a bull or an elephant when young. You should use what you have. Whatever you happen to be doing, do it with all your might. What could show more weakness than Milo of Croton's outburst? In old age, he was watching some athletes training on the track. He is said to have looked at his arms and exclaimed, with tears in his eyes: "Ah well! These are now as good as dead." No more dead than you yourself, you fool! For your fame never came from your true self, but from your chest and biceps. Sext. Aelius never said anything like that. Nor did Titus Coruncanius, many years before him, or P. Crassus, more recently. All were learned legal experts in active practice, and all retained their professional knowledge until their last breath. I fear that an orator does lose vigor with age. His art depends not only on his mind, but also on his lungs and physical strength. Yet the musical ring of the voice generally becomes, in a certain way, even brighter as we grow old. Certainly I have not yet lost that ring, and you can see how old I am. Still, the speaking style suited to an old man is quiet and unemotional. An eloquent old man's restrained, calm delivery often wins him a hearing. If you cannot achieve that delivery yourself, you might still teach a Scipio and a Laelius. For what is more delightful than old age surrounded by enthusiastic young people? Can we not grant old age even enough strength to teach the young? Can old people not train and prepare them for all life's duties? And what work could be nobler? For my part, I used to think Publius and Gnaeus Scipio were fortunate men. So were your two grandfathers, L. Aemilius and P. Africanus, when I saw them surrounded by young nobles. Nor should we consider any teachers of the fine arts anything but happy, however much their physical strength has declined. Yet physical decline comes more often from youthful vices than from old age. A wild, excessive youth leaves the body worn out by the time old age arrives. Take Cyrus in Xenophon's account, for example. Speaking on his deathbed at a very advanced age, Cyrus says he never noticed himself becoming weaker than in youth. As a boy, I remember Lucius Metellus. He became Pontifex Maximus four years after his second consulship and held that office for twenty-two years. Even in his final hours, his physical strength was so great that he did not miss his youth. I need not speak of myself. Though, of course, talking about oneself is an old man's habit, and people generally allow it at my age. Do you not see how often Nestor speaks of his own good qualities in Homer? He was living through a third generation. Nor did he have any reason to fear seeming too vain or talkative when telling the truth about himself. For, as Homer says, "from his lips flowed speech sweeter than honey," and that sweet speech required no physical strength. Yet the famous leader of the Greeks never wishes for ten men like Ajax, but for ten like Nestor. If he could have them, he has no doubt that Troy would soon fall.

10. But to return to my own case: I am in my eighty-fourth year. I could wish that I had been able to make the same boast as Cyrus; but, after all, I can say this: I am not indeed as vigorous as I was as a private soldier in the Punic war, or as quaestor in the same war, or as consul in Spain, and four years later when as a military tribune I took part in the engagement at Thermopylae under the consul Manius Acilius Glabrio; but yet, as you see, old age has not entirely destroyed my muscles, has not quite brought me to the ground. The Senate-house does not find all my vigour gone, nor the rostra, nor my friends, nor my clients, nor my foreign guests. For I have never given in to that ancient and much-praised proverb:

10. But to return to my own case: I am in my eighty-fourth year. I wish I could have made the same boast as Cyrus. Still, I can say this: I am not as strong as I was as a private soldier in the Punic war. Nor am I as strong as when I served as quaestor in that war, or as consul in Spain. The same is true of my service as a military tribune four years later. I fought then at Thermopylae under the consul Manius Acilius Glabrio. Yet, as you see, old age has not completely weakened my muscles or quite brought me down. I still show some energy in the Senate-house and on the rostra, where I speak in public. My friends, my clients, and my foreign guests also find that I still have some energy. For I have never accepted that old and much-praised proverb:

For myself, I had rather be an old man a somewhat shorter time than an old man before my time. Accordingly, no one up to the present has wished to see me, to whom I have been denied as engaged. But, it may be said, I have less strength than either of you. Neither have you the strength of the centurion T. Pontius: is he the more eminent man on that account? Let there be only a proper husbanding of strength, and let each man proportion his efforts to his powers. Such an one will assuredly not be possessed with any great regret for his loss of strength. At Olympia Milo is said to have stepped into the course carrying a live ox on his shoulders. Which then of the two would you prefer to have given to you—bodily strength like that, or intellectual strength like that of Pythagoras? In fine, enjoy that blessing when you have it; when it is gone, don't wish it back—unless we are to think that young men should wish their childhood back, and those somewhat older their youth! The course of life is fixed, and nature admits of its being run but in one way, and only once; and to each part of our life there is something specially seasonable; so that the feebleness of children, as well as the high spirit of youth, the soberness of maturer years, and the ripe wisdom of old age—all have a certain natural advantage which should be secured in its proper season. I think you are informed, Scipio, what your grandfather's foreign friend Masinissa does to this day, though ninety years old. When he has once begun a journey on foot he does not mount his horse at all; when on horseback he never gets off his horse. By no rain or cold can he be induced to cover his head. His body is absolutely free from unhealthy humours, and so he still performs all the duties and functions of a king. Active exercise, therefore, and temperance can preserve some part of one's former strength even in old age.

For my part, I would rather spend a little less time as an old man than grow old before my time. So far, no one who has wanted to see me has been turned away because I was busy. But someone may say that I have less strength than either of you. Neither of you has the strength of the centurion T. Pontius. Does his strength make him a more distinguished man? Let each person simply use his strength wisely and match his efforts to his abilities. Anyone who does so will certainly feel no great regret over his lost strength. At Olympia, Milo is said to have entered the course carrying a live ox on his shoulders. Which would you rather have: bodily strength like Milo's or intellectual strength like Pythagoras's? In short, enjoy physical strength while you have it. When your strength is gone, do not wish for its return. Otherwise, we must also think young men should wish for childhood again, and older men for youth! Life follows a fixed course. Nature allows us to follow that course in only one way, and only once. Each stage of life has something especially suited to it. Childhood has its weakness, youth its high spirits, mature adulthood its steadiness, and old age its mature wisdom. All these qualities have a certain natural advantage that we should make use of at the proper time. Scipio, I think you know what Masinissa, your grandfather's foreign friend, still does, though he is ninety years old. Once he begins a journey on foot, he does not get on his horse at all. When he travels on horseback, he never gets off. No rain or cold can persuade him to cover his head. His body is entirely free of unhealthy bodily fluids, and so he still carries out all a king's duties. Active exercise and moderation can therefore preserve some of our former strength even in old age.

11. Bodily strength is wanting to old age; but neither is bodily strength demanded from old men. Therefore, both by law and custom, men of my time of life are exempt from those duties which cannot be supported without bodily strength. Accordingly not only are we not forced to do what we cannot do; we are not even obliged to do as much as we can. But, it will be said, many old men are so feeble that they cannot perform any duty in life of any sort or kind. That is not a weakness to be set down as peculiar to old age: it is one shared by ill health. How feeble was the son of P. Africanus, who adopted you! What weak health he had, or rather no health at all! If that had not been the case, we should have had in him a second brilliant light in the political horizon; for he had added a wider cultivation to his father's greatness of spirit. What wonder, then, that old men are eventually feeble, when even young men cannot escape it? My dear Laelius and Scipio, we must stand up against old age and make up for its drawbacks by taking pains. We must fight it as we should an illness. We must look after our health, use moderate exercise, take just enough food and drink to recruit, but not to overload, our strength. Nor is it the body alone that must be supported, but the intellect and soul much more. For they are like lamps: unless you feed them with oil, they too go out from old age. Again, the body is apt to get gross from exercise; but the intellect becomes nimbler by exercising itself. For what Caecilius means by "old dotards of the comic stage" are the credulous, the forgetful, and the slipshod. These are faults that do not attach to old age as such, but to a sluggish, spiritless, and sleepy old age. Young men are more frequently wanton and dissolute than old men; but yet, as it is not all young men that are so, but the bad set among them, even so senile folly—usually called imbecility—applies to old men of unsound character, not to all. Appius governed four sturdy sons, five daughters, that great establishment, and all those clients, though he was both old and blind. For he kept his mind at full stretch like a bow, and never gave in to old age by growing slack. He maintained not merely an influence, but an absolute command over his family: his slaves feared him, his sons were in awe of him, all loved him. In that family, indeed, ancestral custom and discipline were in full vigour. The fact is that old age is respectable just as long as it asserts itself, maintains its proper rights, and is not enslaved to any one. For as I admire a young man who has something of the old man in him, so do I an old one who has something of a young man. The man who aims at this may possibly become old in body—in mind he never will. I am now engaged in composing the seventh book of my Origins. I collect all the records of antiquity. The speeches delivered in all the celebrated cases which I have defended I am at this particular time getting into shape for publication. I am writing treatises on augural, pontifical, and civil law. I am, besides, studying hard at Greek, and after the manner of the Pythagoreans—to keep my memory in working order—I repeat in the evening whatever I have said, heard, or done in the course of each day. These are the exercises of the intellect, these the training grounds of the mind: while I sweat and labour on these I don't much feel the loss of bodily strength. I appear in court for my friends; I frequently attend the Senate and bring motions before it on my own responsibility, prepared after deep and long reflection. And these I support by my intellectual, not my bodily forces. And if I were not strong enough to do these things, yet I should enjoy my sofa—imagining the very operations which I was now unable to perform. But what makes me capable of doing this is my past life. For a man who is always living in the midst of these studies and labours does not perceive when old age creeps upon him. Thus, by slow and imperceptible degrees life draws to its end. There is no sudden breakage; it just slowly goes out.

11. Old age lacks physical strength, but no one demands physical strength from old men. Both law and custom therefore excuse men my age from duties that require physical strength. So we are not forced to do what we cannot do. We are not even required to do as much as we can. But someone will say that many old men are too weak to perform any duty in life at all. Such weakness is not unique to old age. Ill health causes it too. How frail was the son of P. Africanus, who adopted you! How poor his health was, or rather, he had no health at all! Had his health been better, he would have been another shining light in public life. For he combined his father's greatness of spirit with a broader education. Why be surprised, then, that old men eventually grow weak, when even young men cannot escape weakness? My dear Laelius and Scipio, we must resist old age and work to make up for its disadvantages. We must fight old age as we would an illness. We must care for our health and exercise moderately. We must eat and drink just enough to restore our strength, not weigh ourselves down. Nor is the body alone in need of support. The mind and spirit need it far more. For the mind and spirit are like lamps. Unless you supply them with oil, they too go out with age. Physical exercise, moreover, tends to make the body bulky, but mental exercise makes the mind more agile. By "old dotards of the comic stage", Caecilius means old men who are gullible, forgetful, and careless. These faults do not belong to old age itself. They belong to an old age that is idle, listless, and dull. Young men are more often reckless and immoral than old men. Yet not all young men behave that way, only the bad ones. Likewise, senile foolishness, usually called imbecility, applies to old men of poor character, not to all old men. Appius ruled four strong sons, five daughters, his great household, and all his clients, though he was old and blind. For he kept his mind taut like a bow and never yielded to old age by letting himself grow slack. He did not merely influence his family. He had complete command over them. His slaves feared him, his sons held him in awe, and everyone loved him. In that family, ancestral customs and discipline remained fully alive. The truth is that old age deserves respect as long as it asserts itself and maintains its rightful claims. It must not become subject to anyone. For I admire a young man who has something of an old man in him. Likewise, I admire an old man who has something of a young man in him. A man who aims for this balance may grow old in body, but never in mind. I am now writing the seventh book of my Origins. I am collecting all the records of the past. I am also preparing for publication the speeches I delivered in all the famous cases I defended. I am writing works on augural, pontifical, and civil law. Besides all this, I am studying Greek diligently. To keep my memory active, I follow the Pythagoreans' practice. Each evening, I repeat whatever I have said, heard, or done during the day. These are exercises for the intellect, the training grounds of the mind. While I work and struggle at these tasks, I hardly notice the loss of physical strength. I appear in court for my friends. I often attend the Senate and take responsibility for introducing motions I have prepared through long and careful thought. I support these motions with mental rather than physical strength. And if I lacked the strength for these activities, I would still enjoy resting on my couch. I would imagine doing the very things I could no longer do. But my past life is what makes me capable of all this. For a man constantly occupied with these studies and tasks does not notice old age creeping up on him. So life approaches its end slowly and imperceptibly. There is no sudden break. Life simply fades away.

12. The third charge against old age is that it LACKS SENSUAL PLEASURES. What a splendid service does old age render, if it takes from us the greatest blot of youth! Listen, my dear young friends, to a speech of Archytas of Tarentum, among the greatest and most illustrious of men, which was put into my hands when as a young man I was at Tarentum with Q. Maximus. "No more deadly curse than sensual pleasure has been inflicted on mankind by nature, to gratify which our wanton appetites are roused beyond all prudence or restraint. It is a fruitful source of treasons, revolutions, secret communications with the enemy. In fact, there is no crime, no evil deed, to which the appetite for sensual pleasures does not impel us. Fornications and adulteries, and every abomination of that kind, are brought about by the enticements of pleasure and by them alone. Intellect is the best gift of nature or God: to this divine gift and endowment there is nothing so inimical as pleasure. For when appetite is our master, there is no place for self-control; nor where pleasure reigns supreme can virtue hold its ground. To see this more vividly, imagine a man excited to the highest conceivable pitch of sensual pleasure. It can be doubtful to no one that such a person, so long as he is under the influence of such excitation of the senses, will be unable to use to any purpose either intellect, reason, or thought. Therefore nothing can be so execrable and so fatal as pleasure; since, when more than ordinarily violent and lasting, it darkens all the light of the soul."

12. The third charge against old age is that it LACKS SENSUAL PLEASURES. What a wonderful service old age does us, if it frees us from youth’s greatest disgrace! Listen, my dear young friends, to a speech by Archytas of Tarentum, one of the greatest and most distinguished men. A copy was given to me when I was a young man at Tarentum with Q. Maximus. "Nature has inflicted no deadlier curse on humanity than sensual pleasure. To satisfy it, our uncontrolled desires drive us beyond all good judgment or restraint. Sensual pleasure is a rich source of treason, revolutions, and secret dealings with the enemy. In fact, there is no crime or evil deed that the desire for sensual pleasure does not drive us toward. Sex outside marriage, adultery, and every similar outrage result from the lure of pleasure, and from that alone. Intellect is the greatest gift of nature or God. Nothing is more hostile to this divine gift than pleasure. For when desire rules us, there is no room for self-control. Nor can virtue stand its ground where pleasure rules supreme. To see this more clearly, imagine a man experiencing the greatest sensual pleasure possible. No one can doubt that, as long as his senses remain so excited, he cannot use his mind effectively. Neither reason nor thought can serve him then. Therefore, nothing can be so hateful and so destructive as pleasure. For when pleasure is unusually intense and prolonged, it puts out all the light of the soul."

These were the words addressed by Archytas to the Samnite Caius Pontius, father of the man by whom the consuls Spurius Postumius and Titus Veturius were beaten in the battle of Caudium. My friend Nearchus of Tarentum, who had remained loyal to Rome, told me that he had heard them repeated by some old men; and that Plato the Athenian was present, who visited Tarentum, I find, in the consulship of L. Camillus and Appius Claudius.

Archytas spoke these words to the Samnite Caius Pontius. Pontius was the father of the man who defeated the consuls Spurius Postumius and Titus Veturius at Caudium. My friend Nearchus of Tarentum had remained loyal to Rome. Nearchus told me he had heard some old men repeat these words and say that Plato the Athenian was present. I find that Plato visited Tarentum during the consulship of L. Camillus and Appius Claudius.

What is the point of all this? It is to show you that, if we were unable to scorn pleasure by the aid of reason and philosophy, we ought to have been very grateful to old age for depriving us of all inclination for that which it was wrong to do. For pleasure hinders thought, is a foe to reason, and, so to speak, blinds the eyes of the mind. It is, moreover, entirely alien to virtue. I was sorry to have to expel Lucius, brother of the gallant Titus Flamininus, from the Senate seven years after his consulship; but I thought it imperative to affix a stigma on an act of gross sensuality. For when he was in Gaul as consul, he had yielded to the entreaties of his paramour at a dinner-party to behead a man who happened to be in prison condemned on a capital charge. When his brother Titus was Censor, who preceded me, he escaped; but I and Flaccus could not countenance an act of such criminal and abandoned lust, especially as, besides the personal dishonour, it brought disgrace on the Government.

What is the point of all this? To show that if reason and philosophy could not teach us to reject pleasure, we should have been very grateful to old age. For old age takes away all desire to do what is wrong. Pleasure blocks thought, fights against reason, and, so to speak, blinds the mind’s eyes. Moreover, pleasure is entirely opposed to virtue. I was sorry to expel Lucius, brother of the brave Titus Flamininus, from the Senate seven years after his consulship. But I thought his gross self-indulgence had to be publicly condemned. While serving as consul in Gaul, Lucius gave in to his lover’s pleas at a dinner party. At his lover’s request, he had a man beheaded who happened to be in prison under a death sentence. Lucius escaped punishment when his brother Titus served as Censor before me. But Flaccus and I could not tolerate an act driven by such criminal and unrestrained lust. Besides bringing personal dishonor on Lucius, his conduct disgraced the Government.

13. I have often been told by men older than myself, who said that they had heard it as boys from old men, that Gaius Fabricius was in the habit of expressing astonishment at having heard, when envoy at the headquarters of king Pyrrhus, from the Thessalian Cineas, that there was a man of Athens who professed to be a "philosopher," and affirmed that everything we did was to be referred to pleasure. When he told this to Manius Curius and Publius Decius, they used to remark that they wished that the Samnites and Pyrrhus himself would hold the same opinion. It would be much easier to conquer them, if they had once given themselves over to sensual indulgences. Manius Curius had been intimate with P. Decius, who four years before the former's consulship had devoted himself to death for the Republic. Both Fabricius and Coruncanius knew him also, and from the experience of their own lives, as well as from the action of P. Decius, they were of opinion that there did exist something intrinsically noble and great, which was sought for its own sake, and at which all the best men aimed, to the contempt and neglect of pleasure. Why then do I spend so many words on the subject of pleasure? Why, because, far from being a charge against old age, that it does not much feel the want of any pleasures, it is its highest praise.

13. Older men have often told me a story they heard as boys from old men. Gaius Fabricius often expressed astonishment at something he heard while serving as an envoy at king Pyrrhus’s headquarters. Cineas, the Thessalian, told him about a man in Athens who called himself a "philosopher." This man claimed that everything we did should be judged by pleasure. When Fabricius told Manius Curius and Publius Decius, they often said they wished the Samnites and Pyrrhus himself agreed. Their enemies would be much easier to conquer if they gave themselves over to sensual pleasures. Manius Curius had been a close friend of P. Decius. Four years before Curius became consul, Decius had devoted himself to death for the Republic. Both Fabricius and Coruncanius also knew Decius. Their own lives, together with Decius’s sacrifice, convinced them that something truly noble and great existed. It was worth seeking for its own sake, and all the best men pursued it, scorning and disregarding pleasure. Why, then, do I spend so many words discussing pleasure? Because old age’s lack of much desire for any pleasures is far from a fault. Instead, it deserves the highest praise.

But, you will say, it is deprived of the pleasures of the table, the heaped up board, the rapid passing of the wine-cup. Well, then, it is also free from headache, disordered digestion, broken sleep. But if we must grant pleasure something, since we do not find it easy to resist its charms,—for Plato, with happy inspiration, calls pleasure "vice's bait," because of course men are caught by it as fish by a hook,—yet, although old age has to abstain from extravagant banquets, it is still capable of enjoying modest festivities. As a boy I often used to see Gaius Duilius the son of Marcus, then an old man, returning from a dinner-party. He thoroughly enjoyed the frequent use of torch and flute-player, distinctions which he had assumed though unprecedented in the case of a private person. It was the privilege of his glory. But why mention others? I will come back to my own case. To begin with, I have always remained a member of a "club"—clubs, you know, were established in my quaestorship on the reception of the Magna Mater from Ida. So I used to dine at their feast with the members of my club—on the whole with moderation, though there was a certain warmth of temperament natural to my time of life; but as that advances there is a daily decrease of all excitement. Nor was I, in fact, ever wont to measure my enjoyment even of these banquets by the physical pleasures they gave more than by the gathering and conversation of friends. For it was a good idea of our ancestors to style the presence of guests at a dinner-table—seeing that it implied a community of enjoyment—a convivium, "a living together." It is a better term than the Greek words which mean "a drinking together," or, "an eating together." For they would seem to give the preference to what is really the least important part of it.

But, you will say, old age loses the pleasures of the table, the lavish meals, the wine-cup passed quickly around. Well, then, old age is also free from headaches, indigestion, and broken sleep. But perhaps we must give pleasure some credit, since we find its charms hard to resist. Plato, in an inspired phrase, calls pleasure "vice's bait," because pleasure catches people as a hook catches fish. Yet although old age must give up extravagant banquets, it can still enjoy modest celebrations. As a boy, I often saw Gaius Duilius, the son of Marcus, returning from a dinner party. He was already an old man. He thoroughly enjoyed having a torchbearer and flute-player accompany him so often. He had taken these honors for himself, though no private citizen had ever done so before. His glory entitled him to the privilege. But why mention others? I will return to my own case. To begin with, I have always remained a member of a "club." Such clubs, you know, were founded during my term as quaestor, when the Magna Mater arrived from Ida. So I used to dine at the club's feasts with my fellow members, generally in moderation. Still, I had some of the high spirits natural to my age. But as I grow older, all such excitement decreases daily. Even at those banquets, I never measured my enjoyment more by physical pleasures than by gathering and talking with friends. Our ancestors had a good idea when they called a gathering of dinner guests a convivium, "a living together." The name reflected their shared enjoyment. It is better than the Greek terms meaning "a drinking together," or, "an eating together." For the Greek terms seem to favor what is really the least important part of the occasion.

14. For myself, owing to the pleasure I take in conversation, I enjoy even banquets that begin early in the afternoon, and not only in company with my contemporaries—of whom very few survive—but also with men of your age and with yourselves. I am thankful to old age, which has increased my avidity for conversation, while it has removed that for eating and drinking. But if anyone does enjoy these—not to seem to have proclaimed war against all pleasure without exception, which is perhaps a feeling inspired by nature—I fail to perceive even in these very pleasures that old age is entirely without the power of appreciation. For myself, I take delight even in the old-fashioned appointment of master of the feast; and in the arrangement of the conversation, which according to ancestral custom is begun from the last place on the left-hand couch when the wine is brought in; as also in the cups which, as in Xenophon's banquet, are small and filled by driblets; and in the contrivance for cooling in summer, and for warming by the winter sun or winter fire. These things I keep up even among my Sabine countrymen, and every day have a full dinner-party of neighbours, which we prolong as far into the night as we can with varied conversation.

14. I enjoy conversation so much that I even enjoy banquets that begin early in the afternoon. I enjoy them not only with people my own age, very few of whom are still alive. I also enjoy them with men your age and with you yourselves. I am grateful to old age for increasing my appetite for conversation while taking away my appetite for food and drink. But if anyone does enjoy eating and drinking, I see no reason why old age cannot appreciate even these pleasures. I do not mean to declare war on all pleasure without exception. Such a feeling is perhaps inspired by nature. For my part, I even enjoy the old-fashioned custom of appointing a master of the feast. I also enjoy the traditional order of conversation when the wine is brought in. According to ancestral custom, conversation begins with the person in the last place on the left-hand couch. I enjoy small cups, like those in Xenophon's banquet, with wine poured in a little at a time. I also enjoy arrangements for keeping cool in summer and warm by the winter sun or fire. I keep up these customs even among my Sabine countrymen. Every day, I have a full dinner party of neighbours. With conversation on many subjects, we keep the party going as far into the night as we can.

But you may urge—there is not the same tingling sensation of pleasure in old men. No doubt; but neither do they miss it so much. For nothing gives you uneasiness which you do not miss. That was a fine answer of Sophocles to a man who asked him, when in extreme old age, whether he was still a lover. "Heaven forbid!" he replied; "I was only too glad to escape from that, as though from a boorish and insane master." To men indeed who are keen after such things it may possibly appear disagreeable and uncomfortable to be without them; but to jaded appetites it is pleasanter to lack than to enjoy. However, he cannot be said to lack who does not want: my contention is that not to want is the pleasanter thing.

But you may object that old men no longer feel the same thrill of pleasure. Certainly, but they do not miss that pleasure as much either. For nothing troubles you if you do not miss it. Sophocles gave a fine answer when someone asked him, in extreme old age, whether he was still a lover. "Heaven forbid!" he replied. "I was only too glad to escape from love, as though from a rude and insane master." Men who eagerly pursue such pleasures may indeed find life unpleasant and uncomfortable without them. But for men whose appetites have faded, going without such pleasures is more pleasant than enjoying them. Still, a man cannot be said to lack what he does not want. My point is that not wanting these pleasures is more pleasant.

But even granting that youth enjoys these pleasures with more zest; in the first place, they are insignificant things to enjoy, as I have said; and in the second place, such as age is not entirely without, if it does not possess them in profusion. Just as a man gets greater pleasure from Ambivius Turpio if seated in the front row at the theatre than if he was in the last, yet, after all, the man in the last row does get pleasure; so youth, because it looks at pleasures at closer quarters, perhaps enjoys itself more, yet even old age, looking at them from a distance, does enjoy itself well enough. Why, what blessings are these—that the soul, having served its time, so to speak, in the campaigns of desire and ambition, rivalry and hatred, and all the passions, should live in its own thoughts, and, as the expression goes, should dwell apart! Indeed, if it has in store any of what I may call the food of study and philosophy, nothing can be pleasanter than an old age of leisure. We were witnesses to C. Gallus—a friend of your father's, Scipio—intent to the day of his death on mapping out the sky and land. How often did the light surprise him while still working out a problem begun during the night! How often did night find him busy on what he had begun at dawn! How he delighted in predicting for us solar and lunar eclipses long before they occurred! Or again in studies of a lighter nature, though still requiring keenness of intellect, what pleasure Naevius took in his Punic War! Plautus in his Truculentus and Pseudolus! I even saw Livius Andronicus, who, having produced a play six years before I was born—in the consulship of Cento and Tuditanus—lived till I had become a young man. Why speak of Publius Licinius Crassus's devotion to pontifical and civil law, or of the Publius Scipio of the present time, who within these last few days has been created Pontifex Maximus? And yet I have seen all whom I have mentioned ardent in these pursuits when old men. Then there is Marcus Cethegus, whom Ennius justly called "Persuasion's Marrow"—with what enthusiasm did we see him exert himself in oratory even when quite old! What pleasures are there in feasts, games, or mistresses comparable to pleasures such as these? And they are all tastes, too, connected with learning, which in men of sense and good education grow with their growth. It is indeed an honourable sentiment which Solon expresses in a verse which I have quoted before—that he grew old learning many a fresh lesson every day. Than that intellectual pleasure none certainly can be greater.

But suppose we grant that young people enjoy these pleasures more eagerly. First, as I have said, these pleasures are trivial. Second, old age is not entirely without them, even if it does not have them in abundance. A man watching Ambivius Turpio at the theatre enjoys the performance more from the front row than from the back. Yet the man in the back row still enjoys the performance. In the same way, youth perhaps enjoys pleasures more because it sees them close up. Yet even old age, watching from a distance, enjoys them well enough. And what a blessing for the soul to live among its own thoughts and, as the saying goes, dwell apart! The soul has, so to speak, completed its military service under desire and ambition, rivalry and hatred, and every passion. Indeed, nothing can be more pleasant than a leisurely old age, if the mind has stored up nourishment from study and philosophy. We saw C. Gallus, a friend of your father's, Scipio, absorbed in mapping the sky and land until his death. How often dawn caught him still working on a problem he had begun during the night! How often night found him busy with work he had begun at dawn! How he delighted in predicting solar and lunar eclipses for us long before they occurred! Then consider lighter studies, though they still demand a sharp mind. What pleasure Naevius took in his Punic War! What pleasure Plautus took in his Truculentus and Pseudolus! I even saw Livius Andronicus, who lived until I was a young man. He had produced a play six years before my birth, during the consulship of Cento and Tuditanus. Why mention Publius Licinius Crassus's devotion to pontifical and civil law? Or the same devotion in today's Publius Scipio, who was appointed Pontifex Maximus just a few days ago? Yet I have seen every man I have mentioned passionately pursuing these interests in old age. Then there is Marcus Cethegus, whom Ennius rightly called "Persuasion's Marrow". With what enthusiasm we saw him practice oratory even when he was very old! What pleasures from feasts, games, or mistresses can compare with pleasures like these? All these interests are connected with learning, and in sensible, well-educated men, they grow as the men grow older. Solon expresses a truly noble thought in a verse I have quoted before. He says that he grew old learning many new lessons every day. Certainly, no intellectual pleasure can be greater than that.

15. I come now to the pleasures of the farmer, in which I take amazing delight. These are not hindered by any extent of old age, and seem to me to approach nearest to the ideal wise man's life. For he has to deal with the earth, which never refuses its obedience, nor ever returns what it has received without usury; sometimes, indeed, with less, but generally with greater interest. For my part, however, it is not merely the thing produced, but the earth's own force and natural productiveness that delight me. For received in its bosom the seed scattered broadcast upon it, softened and broken up, she first keeps it concealed therein (hence the harrowing which accomplishes this gets its name from a word meaning "to hide"); next, when it has been warmed by her heat and close pressure, she splits it open and draws from it the greenery of the blade. This, supported by the fibres of the root, little by little grows up, and held upright by its jointed stalk is enclosed in sheaths, as being still immature. When it has emerged from them it produces an ear of corn arranged in order, and is defended against the pecking of the smaller birds by a regular palisade of spikes.

15. I turn now to the pleasures of farming, which give me extraordinary delight. No degree of old age can interfere with these pleasures. To me, they seem to come closest to the ideal life of a wise man. For the farmer works with the earth, which always obeys him and always returns what it receives with interest. Sometimes the interest is lower, but usually it is higher. Yet I delight not only in the harvest, but also in the earth's own power and natural fertility. The earth receives the seed scattered over her loosened, broken soil and first keeps the seed hidden within her. (The word for harrowing, which hides the seed, therefore comes from a word meaning "to hide".) Then, after warming the seed with her heat and close embrace, she splits the seed open. From the seed she draws out a green blade. Supported by the root's fibers, the blade gradually grows upward. Its jointed stalk holds the blade upright, enclosed in sheaths while still immature. Once the blade emerges from the sheaths, it produces an ear of grain with neatly arranged kernels. An orderly fence of spikes protects the ear from the pecking of smaller birds.

Need I mention the starting, planting, and growth of vines? I can never have too much of this pleasure—to let you into the secret of what gives my old age repose and amusement. For I say nothing here of the natural force which all things propagated from the earth possess—the earth which from that tiny grain in a fig, or the grape-stone in a grape, or the most minute seeds of the other cereals and plants, produces such huge trunks and boughs. Mallet-shoots, slips, cuttings, quicksets, layers—are they not enough to fill anyone with delight and astonishment? The vine by nature is apt to fall, and unless supported drops down to the earth; yet in order to keep itself upright it embraces whatever it reaches with its tendrils as though they were hands. Then as it creeps on, spreading itself in intricate and wild profusion, the dresser's art prunes it with the knife and prevents it growing a forest of shoots and expanding to excess in every direction. Accordingly at the beginning of spring in the shoots which have been left there protrudes at each of the joints what is termed an eye. From this the grape emerges and shows itself; which, swollen by the juice of the earth and the heat of the sun, is at first very bitter to the taste, but afterwards grows sweet as it matures; and being covered with tendrils is never without a moderate warmth, and yet is able to ward off the fiery heat of the sun. Can anything be richer in product or more beautiful to contemplate? It is not its utility only, as I said before, that charms me, but the method of its cultivation and the natural process of its growth: the rows of uprights, the cross-pieces for the tops of the plants, the tying up of the vines and their propagation by layers, the pruning, to which I have already referred, of some shoots, the setting of others. I need hardly mention irrigation, or trenching and digging the soil, which much increase its fertility. As to the advantages of manuring I have spoken in my book on agriculture. The learned Hesiod did not say a single word on this subject, though he was writing on the cultivation of the soil; yet Homer, who in my opinion was many generations earlier, represents Laertes as softening his regret for his son by cultivating and manuring his farm. Nor is it only in cornfields and meadows and vineyards and plantations that a farmer's life is made cheerful. There are the garden and the orchard, the feeding of sheep, the swarms of bees, endless varieties of flowers. Nor is it only planting out that charms: there is also grafting—surely the most ingenious invention ever made by husbandmen.

Need I mention how vines are started, planted, and grown? I can never get enough of this pleasure. Let me share the secret of what gives my old age peace and enjoyment. I say nothing here about the natural power of all things that grow from the earth. From a tiny fig seed, a grape seed, or the smallest seeds of other grains and plants, the earth produces huge trunks and branches. Cuttings with old wood attached, slips, stem cuttings, young plants, and shoots rooted while still attached to the parent plant: are these not enough to fill anyone with delight and wonder? The vine naturally tends to fall, and without support it drops to the ground. Yet to stay upright, the vine grasps whatever its tendrils reach, as though those tendrils were hands. As the vine creeps onward, spreading in a tangled mass, the grower skillfully prunes it with a knife. This pruning keeps the vine from becoming a forest of shoots and spreading too far in every direction. So, at the beginning of spring, a bud called an eye appears at each joint of the remaining shoots. From this bud, the grape emerges and becomes visible. Nourished by the earth’s juices and the sun’s warmth, the grape swells. At first it tastes very bitter, but it grows sweet as it ripens. Covered by tendrils, the grape always has a gentle warmth, yet remains protected from the sun’s fierce heat. Could anything yield more abundantly or be more beautiful to look at? As I said before, vines charm me not only because they are useful. I also delight in their cultivation and their natural growth. I enjoy the rows of stakes, the crosspieces supporting the vine tops, and the tying up of the vines. I enjoy growing new vines by rooting attached shoots. I enjoy pruning some shoots, as I have already mentioned, and planting others. I hardly need to mention watering, trenching, or digging the soil, all of which greatly increase its fertility. I have discussed the benefits of manure in my book on agriculture. The learned Hesiod said nothing at all about manure, though he was writing about cultivating the soil. Yet Homer, who I believe lived many generations earlier, portrays Laertes easing his grief for his son. Laertes does so by cultivating his farm and spreading manure. Nor do fields of grain, meadows, vineyards, and groves alone bring cheer to a farmer’s life. There are also gardens and orchards, sheep to feed, swarms of bees, and endless varieties of flowers. Nor is planting the only delight. There is also grafting, surely the most ingenious invention farmers have ever made.

16. I might continue my list of the delights of country life; but even what I have said I think is somewhat over long. However, you must pardon me; for farming is a very favourite hobby of mine, and old age is naturally rather garrulous—for I would not be thought to acquit it of all faults.

16. I could go on listing the pleasures of country life. But I think I have already gone on a little too long. Still, you must forgive me, because farming is a favorite hobby of mine. And old age naturally makes people rather talkative. I would not want anyone to think I consider old age free of all faults.

Well, it was in a life of this sort that Manius Curius, after celebrating triumphs over the Samnites, the Sabines, and Pyrrhus, spent his last days. When I look at his villa—for it is not far from my own—I never can enough admire the man's own frugality or the spirit of the age. As Curius was sitting at his hearth the Samnites, who brought him a large sum of gold, were repulsed by him; for it was not, he said, a fine thing in his eyes to possess gold, but to rule those who possessed it. Could such a high spirit fail to make old age pleasant?

Well, Manius Curius spent his last days living this way, after celebrating triumphs over the Samnites, the Sabines, and Pyrrhus. His villa is not far from my own. Whenever I look at his villa, I cannot admire enough his simple way of life or the spirit of his age. Once, while Curius sat by his hearth, the Samnites brought him a large sum of gold, but he turned them away. He said he saw no greatness in owning gold, but rather in ruling those who owned it. Could such a noble spirit fail to make old age pleasant?

But to return to farmers—not to wander from my own metier. In those days there were senators, i. e. old men, on their farms. For L. Quinctius Cincinnatus was actually at the plough when word was brought him that he had been named Dictator. It was by his order as Dictator, by the way, that C. Servilius Ahala, the Master of the Horse, seized and put to death Spurius Maelius when attempting to obtain royal power. Curius as well as other old men used to receive their summonses to attend the Senate in their farm-houses, from which circumstance the summoners were called viatores or "travellers." Was these men's old age an object of pity who found their pleasure in the cultivation of the land? In my opinion, scarcely any life can be more blessed, not alone from its utility (for agriculture is beneficial to the whole human race), but also as much from the mere pleasure of the thing, to which I have already alluded, and from the rich abundance and supply of all things necessary for the food of man and for the worship of the gods above. So, as these are objects of desire to certain people, let us make our peace with pleasure. For the good and hard-working farmer's wine-cellar and oil-store, as well as his larder, are always well filled, and his whole farm-house is richly furnished. It abounds in pigs, goats, lambs, fowls, milk, cheese, and honey. Then there is the garden, which the farmers themselves call their "second flitch." A zest and flavour is added to all these by hunting and fowling in spare hours. Need I mention the greenery of meadows, the rows of trees, the beauty of vineyard and olive-grove? I will put it briefly: nothing can either furnish necessaries more richly, or present a fairer spectacle, than well-cultivated land. And to the enjoyment of that, old age does not merely present no hindrance—it actually invites and allures to it. For where else can it better warm itself, either by basking in the sun or by sitting by the fire, or at the proper time cool itself more wholesomely by the help of shade or water? Let the young keep their arms then to themselves, their horses, spears, their foils and ball, their swimming baths and running path. To us old men let them, out of the many forms of sport, leave dice and counters; but even that as they choose, since old age can be quite happy without them.

But let me return to farmers and not stray from my own field. In those days, senators, that is, old men, lived on their farms. L. Quinctius Cincinnatus was actually plowing when word came that he had been named Dictator. By the way, it was on his orders as Dictator that C. Servilius Ahala acted against Spurius Maelius. Ahala, the Master of the Horse, seized and killed Maelius when Maelius was trying to gain royal power. Curius and other old men used to receive their summonses to the Senate at their farmhouses. Because of this, the messengers were called viatores or "travellers." Were these men to be pitied in old age when they found pleasure in farming? In my opinion, hardly any life could be happier. Farming is useful, since it benefits the whole human race. But just as important is the pleasure of farming itself, which I have already mentioned. There are also the abundant supplies of everything needed to feed people and worship the gods above. So, since some people desire these things, let us make our peace with pleasure. A good, hardworking farmer always has a well-stocked wine cellar, oil store, and pantry. His whole farmhouse is richly supplied. There are plenty of pigs, goats, lambs, poultry, milk, cheese, and honey. Then there is the garden, which farmers themselves call their "second side of bacon." Hunting and catching birds in their spare time add zest and flavor to all these pleasures. Need I mention the green meadows, the rows of trees, or the beauty of vineyards and olive groves? In short, nothing provides life's necessities more abundantly or offers a more beautiful sight than well-farmed land. Old age does more than leave us free to enjoy the land. Old age actually invites us to enjoy it. For where else can old people better warm themselves, either basking in the sun or sitting by the fire? Or, when the time is right, cool themselves more healthfully with shade or water? So let the young keep their weapons, horses, spears, fencing swords, balls, swimming baths, and running tracks. Out of all the games, let them leave us old men dice and counters. But even that is up to them, since old age can be quite happy without such games.

17. Xenophon's books are very useful for many purposes. Pray go on reading them with attention, as you have ever done. In what ample terms is agriculture lauded by him in the book about husbanding one's property, which is called Oceonomicus! But to show you that he thought nothing so worthy of a prince as the taste for cultivating the soil, I will translate what Socrates says to Critobulus in that book:

17. Xenophon's books are very useful for many purposes. Please keep reading them carefully, as you have always done. How highly he praises agriculture in his book on managing property, called Oceonomicus! But he thought nothing more fitting for a prince than a love of cultivating the soil. To show you his view, I will translate what Socrates says to Critobulus in that book:

"When that most gallant Lacedaemonian Lysander came to visit the Persian prince Cyrus at Sardis, so eminent for his character and the glory of his rule, bringing him presents from his allies, he treated Lysander in all ways with courteous familiarity and kindness, and, among other things, took him to see a certain park carefully planted. Lysander expressed admiration of the height of the trees and the exact arrangement of their rows in the quincunx, the careful cultivation of the soil, its freedom from weeds, and the sweetness of the odours exhaled from the flowers, and went on to say that what he admired was not the industry only, but also the skill of the man by whom this had been planned and laid out. Cyrus replied: 'Well, it was I who planned the whole thing these rows are my doing, the laying out is all mine; many of the trees were even planted by own hand.' Then Lysander, looking at his purple robe, the brilliance of his person, and his adornment Persian fashion with gold and many jewels, said: 'People are quite right, Cyrus, to call you happy, since the advantages of high fortune have been joined to an excellence like yours.'"

"The exceptionally brave Lacedaemonian Lysander came to Sardis to visit the Persian prince Cyrus. Cyrus was renowned for his character and the glory of his rule. Lysander brought him gifts from his allies. Cyrus treated Lysander with friendly courtesy and kindness in every way. Among other things, Cyrus showed him a carefully planted park. Lysander admired the tall trees and their precisely arranged rows, staggered in a pattern called a quincunx. He admired the carefully tended soil, its freedom from weeds, and the sweet scents of the flowers. He added that he admired not only the hard work, but also the skill of whoever had designed the park. Cyrus replied: 'Well, I planned the whole thing. These rows are my work, and the entire layout is mine. I even planted many of the trees with my own hands.' Then Lysander looked at Cyrus's purple robe, his splendid appearance, and his gold and jewels, worn in Persian fashion. He said: 'People are quite right, Cyrus, to call you happy, since good fortune's advantages are joined with excellence like yours.'"

This kind of good fortune, then, it is in the power of old men to enjoy; nor is age any bar to our maintaining pursuits of every other kind, and especially of agriculture, to the very extreme verge of old age. For instance, we have it on record that M. Valerius Corvus kept it up to his hundredth year, living on his land and cultivating it after his active career was over, though between his first and sixth consulships there was an interval of six and forty years. So that he had an official career lasting the number of years which our ancestors defined as coming between birth and the beginning of old age. Moreover, that last period of his old age was more blessed than that of his middle life, inasmuch as he had greater influence and less labour. For the crowning grace of old age is influence.

Old men, then, can enjoy this kind of good fortune. Nor does age prevent us from continuing any other pursuits, especially farming, even into extreme old age. For example, records tell us that M. Valerius Corvus continued farming until his hundredth year. After his public career ended, he lived on his land and cultivated it. Yet forty-six years passed between his first and sixth consulships. So his public career lasted as long as our ancestors reckoned the span from birth to the beginning of old age. Moreover, his final years were happier than his middle years because he had greater influence and less work. For influence is the crowning glory of old age.

How great was that of L. Caecilius Metellus! How great that of Atilius Calatinus, over whom the famous epitaph was placed, "Very many classes agree in deeming this to have been the very first man of the nation"! The line cut on his tomb is well known. It is natural, then, that a man should have had influence, in whose praise the verdict of history is unanimous. Again, in recent times, what a great man was Publius Crassus, Pontifex Maximus, and his successor in the same office, M. Lepidus! I need scarcely mention Paulus or Africanus, or, as I did before, Maximus. It was not only their senatorial utterances that had weight: their least gesture had it also. In fact, old age, especially when it has enjoyed honours, has an influence worth all the pleasures of youth put together.

How great was the influence of L. Caecilius Metellus! How great was the influence of Atilius Calatinus, whose famous epitaph reads, "People from very many classes agree that he was the nation's foremost man"! The line carved on his tomb is well known. It is natural, then, that a man should have had influence when history is unanimous in praising him. Again, in recent times, what a great man Publius Crassus, Pontifex Maximus, was! So was M. Lepidus, his successor in the same office. I hardly need to mention Paulus or Africanus, or Maximus, whom I mentioned before. Not only their speeches in the Senate carried weight. Even their slightest gestures did too. In fact, old age, especially when accompanied by public honors, brings influence worth all the pleasures of youth put together.

18. But throughout my discourse remember that my panegyric applies to an old age that has been established on foundations laid by youth. From which may be deduced what I once said with universal applause, that it was a wretched old age that had to defend itself by speech. Neither white hairs nor wrinkles can at once claim influence in themselves: it is the honourable conduct of earlier days that is rewarded by possessing influence at the last. Even things generally regarded as trifling and matters of course—being saluted, being courted, having way made for one, people rising when one approaches, being escorted to and from the forum, being referred to for advice—all these are marks of respect, observed among us and in other States—always most sedulously where the moral tone is highest. They say that Lysander the Spartan, whom I have mentioned before, used to remark that Sparta was the most dignified home for old age; for that nowhere was more respect paid to years, no-where was old age held in higher honour. Nay, the story is told of how when a man of advanced years came into the theatre at Athens when the games were going on, no place was given him anywhere in that large assembly by his own countrymen; but when he came near the Lacedaemonians, who as ambassadors had a fixed place assigned to them, they rose as one man out of respect for him, and gave the veteran a seat. When they were greeted with rounds of applause from the whole audience, one of them remarked:

18. But throughout my discussion, remember that I praise only an old age built on foundations laid in youth. From this follows something I once said to universal applause: old age is miserable if it must defend itself with words. Neither white hair nor wrinkles alone can command respect. Instead, honorable conduct in earlier years earns respect in old age. Even seemingly trivial, everyday courtesies are signs of respect. These include being greeted, having people seek your company, and having others make way or rise when you approach. They also include being escorted to and from the forum and being asked for advice. All these signs of respect are customary among us and in other states. They are always observed most carefully where moral standards are highest. They say that Lysander the Spartan, whom I mentioned earlier, often called Sparta the most dignified home for old age. Nowhere, he said, were years shown more respect or old age held in higher honor. There is also a story about an elderly man who entered the theatre at Athens during the games. Nowhere in that large audience did his fellow citizens offer him a seat. But then he approached the Lacedaemonians, who had reserved seats as ambassadors. They all rose together out of respect and gave the old man a seat. When the whole audience greeted their action with repeated applause, one of the ambassadors remarked:

"The Athenians know what is right, but will not do it." There are many excellent rules in our augural college, but among the best is one which affects our subject—that precedence in speech goes by seniority; and augurs who are older are preferred only to those who have held higher office, but even to those who are actually in possession of imperium. What then are the physical pleasures to be compared with the reward of influence? Those who have employed it with distinction appear to me to have played the drama of life to its end, and not to have broken down in the last act like unpractised players.

"The Athenians know what is right, but will not do it." Our college of augurs has many excellent rules. One of the best concerns our subject: the oldest members speak first. Older augurs take precedence not only over those who have held higher office. They take precedence even over those currently holding imperium, the power to command. How, then, can physical pleasures compare with the reward of influence? Those who have used their influence with distinction seem to me to have performed life's drama to the end. They have not faltered in the final act like inexperienced actors.

But, it will be said, old men are fretful, fidgety, ill-tempered, and disagreeable. If you come to that, they are also avaricious. But these are faults of character, not of the time of life. And, after all, fretfulness and the other faults I mentioned admit of some excuse—not, indeed, a complete one, but one that may possibly pass muster: they think themselves neglected, looked down upon, mocked, Besides with bodily weakness every rub is a source of pain. Yet all these faults are softened both by good character and good education. Illustrations of this may be found in real life, as also on the stage in the case of the brothers in the Adeiphi. What harshness in the one, what gracious manners in the other The fact is that, just as it is not every wine, so it is not every life, that turns sour from keeping, Serious gravity I approve of in old age, but, as in other things, it must be within due limits: bitterness I can in no case approve. What the object of senile avarice may be I cannot conceive. For can there be anything more absurd than to seek more journey money, the less there remains of the journey?

But some will say that old men are irritable, restless, bad-tempered, and unpleasant. For that matter, they are also greedy. But these are faults of character, not of old age. And after all, irritability and the other faults I mentioned can be partly excused. The excuse is not complete, but it may be acceptable: old men think they are neglected, looked down on, and mocked. Besides, when the body is weak, every irritation causes pain. Yet good character and a good education soften all these faults. Examples can be found in real life and on stage, in the brothers in the Adeiphi. How harsh one brother is, and how gracious the other! The truth is that not every life turns sour with age, just as not every wine does. I approve of a serious manner in old age, but, as with other things, it must stay within reasonable limits. I can never approve of bitterness. I cannot imagine what purpose greed serves in old age. For what could be more absurd than seeking more money for a journey as less of the journey remains?

19. There remains the fourth reason, which more than anything else appears to torment men of my age and keep them in a flutter—THE NEARNESS OF DEATH, which, it must be allowed, cannot be far from an old man. But what a poor dotard must he be who has not learnt in the course of so long a life that death is not a thing to be feared? Death, that is either to be totally disregarded, if it entirely extinguishes the soul, or is even to be desired, if it brings him where he is to exist forever. A third alternative, at any rate, cannot possibly be discovered. Why then should I be afraid if I am destined either not to be miserable after death or even to be happy? After all, who is such a fool as to feel certain—however young he may be—that he will be alive in the evening? Nay, that time of life has many more chances of death than ours, Young men more easily contract diseases; their illnesses are more serious; their treatment has to be more severe. Accordingly, only a few arrive at old age. If that were not so, life would be conducted better and more wisely; for it is in old men that thought, reason, and prudence are to be found; and if there had been no old men, States would never have existed at all. But I return to the subject of the imminence of death. What sort of charge is this against old age, when you see that it is shared by youth? I had reason in the case of my excellent son—as you had, Scipio, in that of your brothers, who were expected to attain the highest honours—to realise that death is common to every time of life. Yes, you will say; but a young man expects to live long; an old man cannot expect to do so. Well, he is a fool to expect it. For what can be more foolish than to regard the uncertain as certain, the false as true? "An old man has nothing even to hope." Ah, but it is just there that he is in a better position than a young man, since what the latter only hopes he has obtained. The one wishes to live long; the other has lived long.

19. There remains the fourth reason: THE NEARNESS OF DEATH. More than anything else, this seems to torment men of my age and keep them anxious. We must admit that death cannot be far from an old man. But what a foolish old man he must be if his long life has not taught him to face death without fear! Death should either be ignored entirely, if it completely destroys the soul, or even welcomed, if it brings eternal life. There can be no third possibility. Why, then, should I be afraid? After death, I am destined either to feel no misery or even to be happy. After all, who is foolish enough to be certain of surviving until evening, however young he may be? Indeed, young people face many more risks of death than we do. Young men catch diseases more easily. Their illnesses are more serious, and their treatment must be more severe. As a result, few reach old age. If more did, life would be managed better and more wisely. For old men possess thought, reason, and good judgment. Without old men, states would never have existed at all. But I return to the nearness of death. How can death's nearness count against old age when the young face it too? The death of my excellent son taught me that death comes at every age. You learned the same lesson, Scipio, from your brothers, who were expected to achieve the highest honors. Yes, you will say, but a young man expects to live a long time. An old man cannot expect that. Well, the young man is foolish to expect it. What could be more foolish than treating the uncertain as certain, or the false as true? "An old man has nothing even to hope for." Ah, but on that very point, he is better off than a young man. He has already gained what the young man only hopes for. One wishes to live a long life. The other has lived a long life.

And yet, good heaven! what is "long" in a man's life? For grant the utmost limit: let us expect an age like that of the King of the Tartessi. For there was, as I find recorded, a certain Agathonius at Gades who reigned eighty years and lived a hundred and twenty. But to my mind nothing seems even long in which there is any "last," for when that arrives, then all the past has slipped away—only that remains to which you have attained by virtue and righteous actions. Hours indeed, and days and months and years depart, nor does past time ever return, nor can the future be known. Whatever time each is granted for life, with that he is bound to be content. An actor, in order to earn approval, is not bound to perform the play from beginning to end; let him only satisfy the audience in whatever act he appears. Nor need a wise man go on to the concluding "plaudite." For a short term of life is long enough for living well and honourably. But if you go farther, you have no more right to grumble than farmers do because the charm of the spring season is past and the summer and autumn have come. For the word "spring" in a way suggests youth, and points to the harvest to be: the other seasons are suited for the reaping and storing of the crops. Now the harvest of old age is, as I have often said, the memory and rich store of blessings laid up in easier life. Again, all things that accord with nature are to be counted as good. But what can be more in accordance with nature than for old men to die? A thing, indeed, which also befalls young men, though nature revolts and fights against it. Accordingly, the death of young men seems to me like putting out a great fire with a deluge of water; but old men die like a fire going out because it has burnt down of its own nature without artificial means. Again, just as apples when unripe are torn from trees, but when ripe and mellow drop down, so it is violence that takes life from young men, ripeness from old. This ripeness is so delightful to me, that, as I approach nearer to death, I seem as it were to be sighting land, and to be coming to port at last after a long voyage.

And yet, good heavens! What counts as "long" in a man's life? Suppose we reach the greatest possible age. Let us expect to live as long as the King of the Tartessi. According to records I have found, a certain Agathonius at Gades ruled for eighty years and lived for a hundred and twenty. But to my mind, nothing even seems long if it has a "last" moment. For when that moment comes, all the past has slipped away. Only what you have achieved through virtue and good actions remains. Hours, days, months, and years pass. Past time never returns, and the future cannot be known. Each person must be content with whatever time he is given to live. An actor need not perform a play from beginning to end to earn approval. He need only please the audience in whatever act he appears. Nor must a wise man stay until the final "plaudite," the call for applause. For even a short life is long enough to live well and honorably. But if you live longer, you have no more right to complain than farmers do when spring's beauty has passed. Summer and autumn have come instead. For the word "spring" in a way suggests youth and points toward the harvest to come. The other seasons are suited to gathering and storing the crops. Now, as I have often said, old age has its own harvest. It is the memory and rich store of blessings gathered earlier in life. Again, all things that follow nature must be counted as good. But what could be more natural than for old men to die? Death also comes to young men, though nature rebels and fights against their deaths. So the death of young men seems to me like putting out a great fire with a flood of water. But old men die like a fire burning out naturally, without anyone putting it out. Again, unripe apples are torn from trees, but ripe, mellow apples fall on their own. In the same way, force takes life from young men, while ripeness takes life from old men. This ripeness is so delightful to me that, as death draws nearer, I seem to be catching sight of land. It is as though I am finally coming into port after a long voyage.

20. Again, there is no fixed borderline for old age, and you are making a good and proper use of it as long as you can satisfy the call of duty and disregard death. The result of this is, that old age is even more confident and courageous than youth. That is the meaning of Solon's answer to the tyrant Pisistratus. When the latter asked him what he relied upon in opposing him with such boldness, he is said to have replied, "On my old age." But that end of life is the best, when, without the intellect or senses being impaired, Nature herself takes to pieces her own handiwork which she also put together. Just as the builder of a ship or a house can break them up more easily than any one else, so the nature that knit together the human frame can also best unfasten it. Moreover, a thing freshly glued together is always difficult to pull asunder; if old, this is easily done.

20. Again, old age has no fixed boundary. You use your old age well and properly as long as you can fulfill your duties and disregard death. As a result, old age is even more confident and courageous than youth. That is the meaning of Solon's answer to the tyrant Pisistratus. Pisistratus asked Solon what gave him the confidence to oppose him so boldly. Solon is said to have replied, "On my old age." But the best end to life comes when Nature herself dismantles the body she assembled, without impairing the mind or senses. Just as the builder of a ship or house can dismantle it more easily than anyone else, so can Nature. Having put the human body together, Nature can also best take it apart. Moreover, something freshly glued together is always hard to pull apart. If the glued object is old, pulling it apart is easy.

The result is that the short time of life left to them is not to be grasped at by old men with greedy eagerness, or abandoned without cause. Pythagoras forbids us, without an order from our commander, that is God, to desert life's fortress and outpost. Solon's epitaph, indeed, is that of a wise man, in which he says that he does not wish his death to be unaccompanied by the sorrow and lamentations of his friends. He wants, I suppose, to be beloved by them. But I rather think Ennius says better:

So old men should not cling greedily to the little time they have left, or give it up without reason. Pythagoras forbids us to desert life's fortress and outpost without orders from our commander, God. Solon's epitaph is indeed the epitaph of a wise man. In it, he says he wants his friends to mourn and weep when he dies. He wants, I suppose, to be loved by his friends. But I think Ennius puts it better:

None grace me with their tears, nor weeping loud Make sad my funeral rites!

Let no one honor me with tears or loud weeping that makes my funeral a sad occasion!

He holds that a death is not a subject for mourning when it is followed by immortality.

He believes there is no reason to mourn a death when immortality follows.

Again, there may possibly be some sensation of dying and that only for a short time, especially in the case of an old man: after death, indeed, sensation is either what one would desire, or it disappears altogether. But to disregard death is a lesson which must be studied from our youth up; for unless that is learnt, no one can have a quiet mind. For die we certainly must, and that too without being certain whether it may not be this very day. As death, therefore, is hanging over our head every hour, how can a man ever be unshaken in soul if he fears it?

Again, there may be some awareness of dying, but only briefly, especially for an old man. After death, any awareness is either what we would wish for, or it disappears altogether. But we must learn from youth onward not to fear death. Unless we learn this lesson, none of us can have peace of mind. For we must certainly die, and we cannot be sure we will not die this very day. Since death hangs over our heads every hour, how can anyone who fears death ever remain calm at heart?

But on this theme I don't think I need much enlarge: when I remember what Lucius Brutus did, who was killed while defending his country; or the two Decii, who spurred their horses to a gallop and met a voluntary death; or M. Atilius Regulus, who left his home to confront a death of torture, rather than break the word which he had pledged to the enemy; or the two Scipios, who determined to block the Carthaginian advance even with their own bodies; or your grandfather Lucius Paulus, who paid with his life for the rashness of his colleague in the disgrace at Cannae; or M. Marcellus, whose death not even the most bloodthirsty of enemies would allow to go without the honour of burial. It is enough to recall that our legions (as I have recorded in my Origins) have often marched with cheerful and lofty spirit to ground from which they believed that they would never return. That, therefore, which young men—not only uninstructed, but absolutely ignorant—treat as of no account, shall men who are neither young nor ignorant shrink from in terror? As a general truth, as it seems to me, it is weariness of all pursuits that creates weariness of life. There are certain pursuits adapted to childhood: do young men miss them? There are others suited to early manhood: does that settled time of life called "middle age" ask for them? There are others, again, suited to that age, but not looked for in old age. There are, finally, some which belong to Old age. Therefore, as the pursuits of the earlier ages have their time for disappearing, so also have those of old age. And when that takes place, a satiety of life brings on the ripe time for death.

But I don't think I need to say much more on this subject when I remember Lucius Brutus. He was killed defending his country. Or the two Decii, who spurred their horses into a gallop and willingly rode to their deaths. Or M. Atilius Regulus, who left home to face death by torture rather than break his promise to the enemy. Or the two Scipios, who resolved to stop the Carthaginian advance even at the cost of their own lives. Or your grandfather Lucius Paulus, who paid with his life for his colleague's recklessness in the disgrace at Cannae. Or M. Marcellus, whom even the most bloodthirsty of enemies would not deny the honor of burial. It is enough to remember how often our legions marched with cheerful courage onto ground they believed they would never leave. I have recorded these marches in my Origins. Young men, not merely uneducated but completely ignorant, think nothing of death. Should men who are neither young nor ignorant shrink from death in terror? As a general rule, it seems to me that losing interest in all activities makes us tired of life. Some activities suit childhood. Do young men miss them? Others suit early adulthood. Do people in the settled stage of life called "middle age" want those activities? Still others suit middle age but are not sought in old age. Finally, some activities belong to old age. So, just as interest in the activities of earlier years fades in time, interest in those of old age also fades. And when that happens, having had enough of life makes the time ripe for death.

21. For I do not see why I should not venture to tell you my personal opinion as to death, of which I seem to myself to have a clearer vision in proportion as I am nearer to it. I believe, Scipio and Laelius, that your fathers—those illustrious men and my dearest friends—are still alive, and that too with a life which alone deserves the name. For as long as we are imprisoned in this framework of the body, we perform a certain function and laborious work assigned us by fate. The soul, in fact, is of heavenly origin, forced down from its home in the highest, and, so to speak, buried in earth, a place quite opposed to its divine nature and its immortality. But I suppose the immortal gods to have sown souls broadcast in human bodies, that there might be some to survey the world, and while contemplating the order of the heavenly bodies to imitate it in the unvarying regularity of their life. Nor is it only reason and arguments that have brought me to this belief, but the great fame and authority of the most distinguished philosophers. I used to be told that Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans—almost natives of our country, who in old times had been called the Italian school of philosophers—never doubted that we had souls drafted from the universal Divine intelligence. I used besides to have pointed out to me the discourse delivered by Socrates on the last day of his life upon the immortality of the soul—Socrates who was pronounced by the oracle at Delphi to be the wisest of men. I need say no more. I have convinced myself, and I hold—in view of the rapid movement of the soul, its vivid memory of the past and its prophetic knowledge of the future, its many accomplishments, its vast range of knowledge, its numerous discoveries —that a nature embracing such varied gifts cannot itself be mortal. And since the soul is always in motion and yet has no external source of motion, for it is self-moved, I conclude that it will also have no end to its motion, because it is not likely ever to abandon itself. Again, since the nature of the soul is not composite, nor has in it any admixture that is not homogeneous and similar, I conclude that it is indivisible, and, if indivisible, that it cannot perish. It is again a strong proof of men knowing most things before birth, that when mere children they grasp innumerable facts with such speed as to show that they are not then taking them in for the first time, but remembering and recalling them. This is roughly Plato's argument.

21. I see no reason not to venture my personal opinion about death. My understanding of death seems clearer as I draw nearer to it. I believe, Scipio and Laelius, that your fathers are still alive. Those distinguished men were my dearest friends. They now live the only life that truly deserves the name. For as long as we remain imprisoned in our bodies, we carry out a task and hard work assigned by fate. The soul is heavenly in origin. It has been forced down from its home above and, so to speak, buried in the earth. This earthly place is entirely opposed to the soul’s divine nature and immortality. But I suppose the immortal gods scattered souls throughout human bodies so that some beings could observe the world. By studying the order of the heavenly bodies, these beings could imitate that order through the steady regularity of their lives. Reason and argument alone have not brought me to this belief. The great reputation and authority of the most distinguished philosophers have also persuaded me. I used to hear that Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans never doubted that our souls came from the universal divine intelligence. These philosophers were almost fellow countrymen of ours. In earlier times, they had been called the Italian school of philosophers. People also used to direct me to Socrates’ discussion of the soul’s immortality on the last day of his life. The oracle at Delphi had declared Socrates the wisest of men. I need say no more. I have convinced myself that a being with the soul’s varied gifts cannot be mortal. Consider the soul’s swift movement, its vivid memory of the past, and its prophetic knowledge of the future. Consider also its many skills, its vast knowledge, and its numerous discoveries. The soul is always moving, yet its movement has no outside source, because the soul moves itself. So I conclude that its movement will never end, because the soul is unlikely ever to abandon itself. Again, the soul is not made of separate parts. Nor does it contain any mixture of elements different from its own nature. So I conclude that the soul cannot be divided and, if it cannot be divided, cannot perish. Another strong sign that people know most things before birth is how quickly young children grasp countless facts. Their speed shows that they are not learning these facts for the first time, but remembering and recalling them. This, in outline, is Plato’s argument.

22. Once more in Xenophon we have the elder Cyrus on his deathbed speaking as follows:—

22. Once again, in Xenophon's writing, the elder Cyrus speaks on his deathbed as follows:

"Do not suppose, my dearest sons, that when I have left you I shall be nowhere and no one. Even when I was with you, you did not see my soul, but knew that it was in this body of mine from what I did. Believe then that it is still the same, even though you see it not. The honours paid to illustrious men had not continued to exist after their death, had the souls of these very men not done something to make us retain our recollection of them beyond the ordinary time. For myself, I never could be persuaded that souls while in mortal bodies were alive, and died directly they left them; nor, in fact, that the soul only lost all intelligence when it left the unintelligent body. I believe rather that when, by being liberated from all corporeal admixture, it has begun to be pure and undefiled, it is then that it becomes wise. And again, when man's natural frame is resolved into its elements by death, it is clearly seen whither each of the other elements departs: for they all go to the place from which they came: but the soul alone is invisible alike when present and when departing. Once more, you see that nothing is so like death as sleep. And yet it is in sleepers that souls most clearly reveal their divine nature; for they foresee many events when they are allowed to escape and are left free. This shows what they are likely to be when they have completely freed themselves from the fetters of the body. Wherefore, if these things are so, obey me as a god. But if my soul is to perish with my body, nevertheless do you from awe of the gods, who guard and govern this fair universe, preserve my memory by the loyalty and piety of your lives."

"My dearest sons, do not think that when I leave you, I will be nowhere and no longer exist. Even when I was with you, you could not see my soul. But you knew from my actions that my soul was in my body. So believe that my soul remains the same, even though you cannot see it. The honors paid to great men would not have continued after their deaths unless their souls had done something. Their souls made us remember them longer than we ordinarily would. For my part, I could never believe that souls were alive in mortal bodies but died immediately upon leaving them. Nor could I believe that the soul lost all understanding only when it left the body, which has no understanding. Rather, I believe the soul becomes wise when freed from everything bodily, becoming pure and unstained. Again, when death breaks the human body down into its elements, we can clearly see where each bodily element goes. All return to the places they came from. But the soul alone is invisible both while present and when leaving. Again, you see that nothing resembles death so closely as sleep. Yet souls reveal their divine nature most clearly in people who are asleep. For souls foresee many events when allowed to escape and move freely. This foresight shows what souls are likely to be when completely freed from the body's chains. So, if these things are true, obey me as a god. But if my soul is to die with my body, still honor my memory through loyal and devout lives. Do so out of reverence for the gods, who protect and govern this beautiful universe."

23. Such are the words of the dying Cyrus. I will now, with your good leave, look at home. No one, my dear Scipio, shall ever persuade me that your father Paulus and your two grandfathers Paulus and Africanus, or the father of Africanus, or his uncle, or many other illustrious men not necessary to mention, would have attempted such lofty deeds as to be remaindered by posterity, had they not seen in their minds that future ages concerned them. Do you suppose—to take an old man's privilege of a little self-praise—that I should have been likely to undertake such heavy labours by day and night, at home and abroad, if I had been destined to have the same limit to my glory as to my life? Had it not been much better to pass an age of ease and repose without any labour or exertion? But my soul, I know not how, refusing to be kept down, ever fixed its eyes upon future ages, as though from a conviction that it would begin to live only when it had left the body. But had it not been the case that souls were immortal, it would not have been the souls of all the best men that made the greatest efforts after an immortality of fame.

23. Those are the words of the dying Cyrus. Now, with your permission, I will turn to examples from our own country. My dear Scipio, no one will ever persuade me that your father Paulus acted without concern for future ages. The same goes for your two grandfathers Paulus and Africanus, the father of Africanus, and his uncle. Many other distinguished men belong on this list, though I need not name them. Would these men have attempted such great deeds, worthy of remembrance by later generations, without seeing those generations as their concern? Allow me an old man's privilege of a little self-praise. Do you suppose I would have undertaken such hard work, day and night, at home and abroad, under one condition? What if my fame had been destined to end with my life? Would it not have been much better to spend my life in peace and comfort, without work or effort? But somehow my soul refused to be held back and always looked toward future ages. My soul seemed convinced that life would begin only after leaving the body. But if souls were not immortal, the souls of all the best men would not strive hardest for everlasting fame.

Again, is there not the fact that the wisest man ever dies with the greatest cheerfulness, the most unwise with the least? Don't you think that the soul which has the clearer and longer sight sees that it is starting for better things, while the soul whose vision is dimmer does not see it? For my part, I am transported with the desire to see your fathers, who were the object of my reverence and affection. Nor is it only those whom I knew that I long to see; it is those also of whom I have been told and have read, whom I have myself recorded in my history. When I am setting out for that, there is certainly no one who will find it easy to draw me back, or boil me up again like second Pelios. Nay, if some god should grant me to renew my childhood from my present age and once more to be crying in my cradle, I would firmly refuse; nor should I in truth be willing, after having, as it were, run the full course, to be recalled from the winning—crease to the barriers. For what blessing has life to offer? Should we not rather say what labour? But granting that it has, at any rate it has after all a limit either to enjoyment or to existence. I don't wish to depreciate life, as many men and good philosophers have often done; nor do I regret having lived, for I have done so in a way that lets me think that I was not born in vain. But I quit life as I would an inn, not as I would a home. For nature has given us a place of entertainment, not of residence.

Again, isn't it true that the wisest people die most cheerfully, and the most foolish least cheerfully? Don't you think a soul with clearer, longer vision sees that it is heading toward better things? A soul with dimmer vision cannot see that prospect. For my part, I am filled with longing to see your fathers, whom I respected and loved. Nor do I long to see only those I knew. I also long to see those I have heard and read about, and whose lives I recorded in my history. When I set out to join them, no one will easily draw me back or boil me young again like a second Pelios. Indeed, suppose some god offered to turn me from an old man into a child, crying in my cradle again. I would firmly refuse. Having run the full race, so to speak, I would not willingly return from the finish line to the starting gates. For what blessing does life offer? Shouldn't we speak instead of its hardships? But even granting that life offers blessings, there is, after all, a limit either to enjoyment or to life itself. I do not want to belittle life, as many people, including good philosophers, have often done. Nor do I regret having lived. I have lived in a way that lets me believe I was not born in vain. But I leave life as I would an inn, not a home. For nature has given us a place to stay for a while, not a permanent home.

Oh glorious day when I shall set out to join that heavenly conclave and company of souls, and depart from the turmoil and impurities of this world! For I shall not go to join only those whom I have before mentioned, but also my son Cato, than whom no better man was ever born, nor one more conspicuous for piety. His body was burnt by me, though mine ought, on the contrary, to have been burnt by him; but his spirit, not abandoning, but ever looking back upon me, has certainly gone whither he saw that I too must come. I was thought to bear that loss heroically, not that I really bore it without distress, but I found my own consolation in the thought that the parting and separation between us was not to be for long.

Oh, what a glorious day when I leave to join that heavenly gathering of souls! I shall leave behind the turmoil and corruption of this world. For I shall join not only those I have already mentioned, but also my son Cato. No better man was ever born, nor anyone more devoted to his sacred duties. I cremated his body, though he should have cremated mine. But his spirit has certainly gone where he knew I too must come. His spirit has not abandoned me, but keeps looking back toward me. People thought I bore his loss heroically. Not that I felt no grief, but I found comfort in the thought that our separation would not last long.

It is by these means, my dear Scipio,—for you said that you and Laelius were wont to express surprise on this point,—that my old age sits lightly on me, and is not only not oppressive but even delightful. But if I am wrong in thinking the human soul immortal, I am glad to be wrong; nor will I allow the mistake which gives me so much pleasure to be wrested from me as long as I live. But if when dead, as some insignificant philosophers think, I am to be without sensation, I am not afraid of dead philosophers deriding my errors. Again, if we are not to be immortal, it is nevertheless what a man must wish—to have his life end at its proper time. For nature puts a limit to living as to everything else. Now, old age is as it were the playing out of the drama, the full fatigue of which we should shun, especially when we also feel that we have had more than enough of it.

These are the reasons, my dear Scipio, why old age feels so light to me. You said that you and Laelius often expressed surprise about this. My old age is not merely free from burdens, but even delightful. But if I am wrong to think the human soul is immortal, I am glad to be wrong. As long as I live, I will not let anyone take away an error that gives me such pleasure. But suppose that after death I feel nothing, as some insignificant philosophers believe. Then I need not fear that dead philosophers will mock my errors. Again, even if we are not immortal, a man must still wish for his life to end at the proper time. For nature sets a limit on life, just as on everything else. Old age is like the final act of a play. We should avoid the exhaustion of staying until the very end, especially when we feel we have had more than enough.

This is all I had to say on old age. I pray that you may arrive at it, that you may put my words to a practical test.

That is all I had to say about old age. I pray that you may reach old age so you can put my words to the test.