There is not anything that is necessary to us but we have it either cheap or gratis: and this is the provision that our heavenly Father has made for us, whose bounty was never wanting to our needs. It is true the belly craves and calls upon us, but then a small matter contents it: a little bread and water is sufficient, and all the rest is but superfluous. He that lives according to reason shall never be poor, and he that governs his life by opinion shall never be rich: for nature is limited, but fancy is boundless. As for meat, clothes, and lodging, a little feeds the body, and as little covers it; so that if mankind would only attend human nature, without gaping at superfluities, a cook would be found as needless as a soldier: for we may have necessaries upon very easy terms; whereas we put ourselves to great pains for excesses. When we are cold, we may cover ourselves with skins of beasts; and, against violent heats, we have natural grottoes; or with a few osiers and a little clay we may defend ourselves against all seasons. Providence has been kinder to us than to leave us to live by our wits, and to stand in need of invention and arts.
Everything we truly need is either cheap or free. This is what our heavenly Father has provided for us. His generosity has never failed to meet our needs. Yes, our stomachs demand food and call out to us. But it doesn't take much to satisfy them. A little bread and water is enough. Everything else is just extra. Someone who lives reasonably will never be poor. Someone who lives by what others think will never be rich. Nature has limits, but our imagination doesn't. When it comes to food, clothes, and shelter, a little feeds the body and a little covers it. If people would just focus on human nature instead of chasing after luxuries, we wouldn't need cooks any more than we need soldiers. We can get what we need quite easily. But we work ourselves to death for extras. When we're cold, we can cover ourselves with animal skins. When it's too hot, we have natural caves. Or we can build simple shelters with branches and clay to protect ourselves from all weather. Providence has been kind enough not to leave us dependent on our cleverness or needing to invent complicated solutions.
It is only pride and curiosity that involve us in difficulties: if nothing will serve a man but rich clothes and furniture, statues and plate, a numerous train of servants, and the rarities of all nations, it is not Fortune’s fault, but his own, that he is not satisfied: for his desires are insatiable, and this is not a thirst, but a disease; and if he were master of the whole world, he would be still a beggar. It is the mind that makes us rich and happy, in what condition soever we are; and money signifies no more to it than it does to the gods. If the religion be sincere, no matter for the ornaments it is only luxury and avarice that make poverty grievous to us; for it is a very small matter that does our business; and when we have provided against cold, hunger, and thirst, all the rest is but vanity and excess: and there is no need of expense upon foreign delicacies, or the artifices of the kitchen. What is he the worse for poverty that despises these things? nay, is he not rather the better for it, because he is not able to go to the price of them? for he is kept sound whether he will or not: and that which a man cannot do, looks many times as if he would not.
Only pride and curiosity get us into trouble. If a man insists on having expensive clothes and furniture, statues and silverware, a large staff of servants, and rare treasures from around the world, it's not Fortune's fault he's unsatisfied. It's his own fault. His desires can never be satisfied. This isn't thirst—it's a disease. Even if he owned the entire world, he would still be a beggar. Our minds make us rich and happy, whatever our circumstances. Money means no more to the mind than it does to the gods. If our faith is genuine, decorations don't matter. Only luxury and greed make poverty painful. Very little is needed to meet our basic needs. Once we've protected ourselves from cold, hunger, and thirst, everything else is just vanity and excess. We don't need to spend money on foreign delicacies or fancy cooking. How is a man worse off for being poor if he despises these things? Isn't he actually better off because he can't afford them? He stays healthy whether he wants to or not. What a man cannot do often looks like something he chooses not to do.
When I look back into the moderation of past ages, it makes me ashamed to discourse, as if poverty had need of any consolation; for we are now come to that degree of intemperance, that a fair patrimony is too little for a meal. Homer had but one servant, Plato three, and Zeno (the master of the masculine sect of Stoics) had none at all. The daughters of Scipio had their portions out of the common treasury, for their father left them not a penny: how happy were the husbands that had the people of Rome for their father-in-law! Shall any man now contemn poverty after these eminent examples, which are sufficient not only to justify but to recommend it? Upon Diogenes’ only servant running away from him, he was told where he was, and persuaded to fetch him back again: “What,” says he, “can Manes live without Diogenes, and not Diogenes without Manes?” and so let him go.
When I look back at how moderate people were in past ages, it makes me ashamed to even discuss poverty as if it needs consolation. We have become so excessive that a good inheritance isn't enough to pay for a single meal. Homer had only one servant, Plato had three, and Zeno (the master of the masculine sect of Stoics) had none at all. The daughters of Scipio received their dowries from the public treasury because their father left them nothing. How fortunate were the husbands who had the people of Rome as their father-in-law! Can anyone now look down on poverty after these outstanding examples, which are enough not only to justify it but to recommend it? When Diogenes' only servant ran away from him, someone told him where the servant was and urged him to bring him back. "What," Diogenes said, "can Manes live without Diogenes, but Diogenes cannot live without Manes?" So he let him go.
The piety and moderation of Scipio have made his memory more venerable than his arms; and more yet after he left his country than while he defended it: for matters were come to that pass, that either Scipio must be injurious to Rome or Rome to Scipio. Coarse bread and water to a temperate man is as good as a feast; and the very herbs of the field yield a nourishment to man as well as to beasts. It was not by choice meats and perfumes that our forefathers recommended themselves, but in virtuous actions, and the sweat of honest, military, and of manly labors.
Scipio's devotion and restraint made his memory more respected than his military victories. People honored him even more after he left his country than while he defended it. Things had reached a point where either Scipio had to harm Rome or Rome had to harm Scipio. Simple bread and water satisfy a moderate man as much as a feast. Even wild plants provide as much nourishment to humans as they do to animals. Our ancestors didn't win respect through fancy foods and perfumes, but through virtuous actions and the honest sweat of military and manly work.
While Nature lay in common, and all her benefits were promiscuously enjoyed, what could be happier than the state of mankind, when people lived without avarice or envy? What could be richer than when there was not a poor man to be found in the world? So soon as this impartial bounty of Providence came to be restrained by covetousness, and that particulars appropriated to themselves that which was intended for all, then did poverty creep into the world, when some men, by desiring more than came to their share, lost their title to the rest; a loss never to be repaired; for though we may come yet to get much, we once had all. The fruits of the earth were in those days divided among the inhabitants of it, without either want or excess. So long as men contented themselves with their lot, there was no violence, no engrossing or hiding of those benefits for particular advantages, which were appointed for the community; but every man had as much care for his neighbor as for himself. No arms or bloodshed, no war, but with wild beasts: but under the protection of a wood or a cave, they spent their days without cares, and their nights without groans; their innocence was their security and their protection. There were as yet no beds of state, no ornaments, of pearl or embroidery, nor any of those remorses that attend them; but the heavens were their canopy, and the glories of them their spectacle. The motions of the orbs, the courses of the stars, and the wonderful order of Providence, was their contemplation. There was no fear of the house falling, or the rustling of a rat behind the arras; they had no palaces then like cities; but they had open air, and breathing room, crystal fountains, refreshing shades, the meadows dressed up in their native beauty, and such cottages as were according to nature, and wherein they lived contentedly, without fear either of losing or of falling. These people lived without either solitude or fraud; and yet I must call them rather happy than wise.
While Nature lay open to all, and all her benefits were enjoyed in common, what could be happier than the state of mankind, when people lived without avarice or envy? What could be richer than a world where not one poor man was to be found? As soon as this impartial bounty of Providence was restrained by covetousness, and individuals took for themselves what was meant for all, poverty crept into the world. Some men, by desiring more than their share, lost their right to the rest. That loss can never be made good. For though we may still come to get much, we once had all. In those days the fruits of the earth were divided among its inhabitants without either want or excess. As long as men were content with their lot, there was no violence. No one cornered or hid for private gain the benefits meant for the community. Every man cared as much for his neighbor as for himself. There were no arms, no bloodshed, and no war except with wild beasts. Under the shelter of a wood or a cave, they spent their days without cares and their nights without groans. Their innocence was their security and their protection. There were as yet no beds of state, no ornaments of pearl or embroidery, and none of the regrets that come with them. The heavens were their canopy, and the glories of the heavens were their spectacle. The motions of the spheres, the courses of the stars, and the wonderful order of Providence were what they contemplated. There was no fear of the house falling, or of a rat rustling behind the tapestry. They had no palaces as big as cities then. But they had open air and room to breathe, clear fountains, refreshing shade, meadows dressed in their native beauty, and cottages that suited nature. In these they lived contentedly, without fear either of losing anything or of their homes falling down. These people lived without either loneliness or fraud. And yet I must call them happy rather than wise.
That men were generally better before they were corrupted than after, I make no doubt; and I am apt to believe that they were both stronger and hardier too but their wits were not yet come to maturity; for Nature does not give virtue; and it is a kind of art to become good. They had not as yet torn up the bowels of the earth for gold, silver, or precious stones; and so far were they from killing any man, as we do, for a spectacle, that they were not as yet come to it, either in fear or anger; nay, they spared the very fishes. But, after all this, they were innocent because they were ignorant: and there is a great difference betwixt not knowing how to offend and not being willing to do it. They had, in that rude life, certain images and resemblances of virtue, but yet they fell short of virtue itself, which comes only by institution, learning, and study, as it is perfected by practice. It is indeed the end for which we were born, but yet it did not come into the world with us; and in the best of men, before they are instructed, we find rather the matter and the seeds of virtue than the virtue itself. It is the wonderful benignity of Nature that has laid open to us all things that may do us good, and only hid those things from us that may hurt us; as if she durst not trust us with gold and silver, or with iron, which is the instrument of war and contention, for the other. It is we ourselves that have drawn out of the earth both the causes and the instruments of our dangers: and we are so vain as to set the highest esteem upon those things to which Nature has assigned the lowest place. What can be more coarse and rude in the mine than these precious metals, or more slavish and dirty than the people that dig and work them? and yet they defile our minds more than our bodies, and make the possessor fouler than the artificer of them. Rich men, in fine, are only the greater slaves; both the one and the other want a great deal.
I have no doubt that people were generally better before they became corrupted than after. I'm inclined to believe they were both stronger and tougher too, but their intelligence hadn't yet matured. Nature doesn't give us virtue, and becoming good is a kind of skill. They hadn't yet torn up the earth's depths for gold, silver, or precious stones. They were so far from killing people for entertainment, as we do, that they hadn't even reached that point in fear or anger. In fact, they even spared the fish. But after all this, they were innocent because they were ignorant. There's a big difference between not knowing how to do wrong and not wanting to do it. In that rough life, they had certain images and resemblances of virtue, but they still fell short of virtue itself. True virtue comes only through teaching, learning, and study, and is perfected through practice. It's indeed the purpose for which we were born, but it didn't come into the world with us. Even in the best people, before they're taught, we find the raw material and seeds of virtue rather than virtue itself. It's Nature's wonderful kindness that has made available to us all things that can do us good, and hidden only those things that might hurt us. It's as if she didn't dare trust us with gold and silver, or with iron, which is the tool of war and conflict. We ourselves have drawn from the earth both the causes and instruments of our dangers. We're so foolish that we place the highest value on those things to which Nature has assigned the lowest place. What can be more rough and crude in the mine than these precious metals, or more slavish and dirty than the people who dig and work them? Yet they corrupt our minds more than our bodies, and make the owner filthier than the craftsman who makes them. Rich people, in the end, are only the greater slaves. Both groups lack a great deal.
Happy is that man that eats only for hunger, and drinks only for thirst; that stands upon his own legs, and lives by reason, not by example; and provides for use and necessity, not for ostentation and pomp! Let us curb our appetites, encourage virtue, and rather be beholden to ourselves for riches than to Fortune, who when a man draws himself into a narrow compass, has the least mark at him. Let my bed be plain and clean, and my clothes so too: my meat without much expense, or many waiters, and neither a burden to my purse nor to my body, not to go out the same way it came in. That which is too little for luxury, is abundantly enough for nature. The end of eating and drinking is satiety; now, what matters it though one eats and drinks more, and another less, so long as the one is not a-hungry, nor the other athirst? Epicurus, who limits pleasure to nature, as the Stoics do virtue, is undoubtedly in the right; and those that cite him to authorize their voluptuousness do exceedingly mistake him, and only seek a good authority for an evil cause: for their pleasures of sloth, gluttony, and lust, have no affinity at all with his precepts or meaning. It is true, that at first sight his philosophy seems effeminate; but he that looks nearer him will find him to be a very brave man only in a womanish dress.
Happy is the man who eats only from hunger and drinks only from thirst, who stands on his own legs and lives by reason, not by example, and who provides for use and need, not for display and pomp! Let us curb our appetites and encourage virtue. Let us owe our riches to ourselves rather than to Fortune, for when a man draws himself into a narrow compass, she has the smallest target to aim at. Let my bed be plain and clean, and my clothes too. Let my food be without much expense or many servants. Let it be a burden neither to my purse nor to my body, and let it not come back up the way it went down. What is too little for luxury is abundantly enough for nature. The end of eating and drinking is to be satisfied. So what does it matter if one man eats and drinks more and another less, as long as the one is not hungry and the other not thirsty? Epicurus, who limits pleasure to nature as the Stoics limit virtue, is undoubtedly right. Those who cite him to excuse their sensuality badly mistake him. They only seek a good authority for an evil cause. For their pleasures of sloth, gluttony, and lust have nothing at all to do with his precepts or meaning. It is true that at first sight his philosophy seems effeminate. But whoever looks closer will find him a very brave man, only in a woman’s dress.
It is a common objection, I know, that these philosophers do not live at the rate they talk; fer they can flatter their superiors, gather estates, and be as much concerned at the loss of fortune, or of friends, as other people: as sensible of reproaches, as luxurious in their eating and drinking, their furniture, their houses; as magnificent in their plate, servants, and officers; as profuse and curious in their gardens, etc. Well! and what of all this, or if it were twenty times more? It is some degree of virtue for a man to condemn himself; and if he cannot come up to the best, to be yet better than the worst; and if he cannot wholly subdue his appetites, however to check and diminish them. If I do not live as I preach, take notice that I do not speak of myself, but of virtue, nor am I so much offended with other men’s vices as with my own. All this was objected to Plato, Epicurus, Zeno; nor is any virtue so sacred as to escape malevolence. The Cynic Demetrius was a great instance of severity and mortification; and one that imposed upon himself neither to possess anything, nor so much as to ask it: and yet he had this scorn put upon him, that his profession was poverty, not virtue. Plato is blamed for asking money; Aristotle for receiving it; Democritus for neglecting it; Epicurus for consuming it. How happy were we if we could but come to imitate these men’s vices; for if we knew our own condition, we should find work enough at home. But we are like people that are making merry at a play or a tavern when their own houses are on fire, and yet they know nothing of it. Nay, Cato himself was said to be a drunkard; but drunkenness itself shall sooner be proved to be no crime than Cato dishonest. They that demolish temples, and overturn altars, show their good-will, though they can do the gods no hurt, and so it fares with those that invade the reputation of great men.
I know it is a common objection that these philosophers do not live as they talk. For they can flatter their superiors and gather estates. They are as troubled at the loss of fortune or of friends as other people, as sensitive to insults, and as luxurious in their eating and drinking, their furniture, and their houses. They are as magnificent in their silver plate, servants, and officers, and as lavish and fussy about their gardens, and so on. Well! What of all this, even if it were twenty times more? It is some degree of virtue for a man to condemn himself. If he cannot reach the best, it is something to be better than the worst. If he cannot wholly subdue his appetites, it is something to check and lessen them. If I do not live as I preach, take note that I do not speak of myself, but of virtue. And I am less offended by other men’s vices than by my own. All this was charged against Plato, Epicurus, and Zeno. No virtue is so sacred that it escapes malice. The Cynic Demetrius was a great example of severity and self-denial. He bound himself neither to own anything nor even to ask for anything. And yet he had this insult thrown at him, that his profession was poverty, not virtue. Plato is blamed for asking for money, Aristotle for receiving it, Democritus for neglecting it, Epicurus for spending it. How happy we would be if we could only come to imitate these men’s vices! For if we knew our own condition, we would find work enough at home. But we are like people making merry at a play or a tavern while their own houses are on fire, and they know nothing of it. Indeed, Cato himself was said to be a drunkard. But drunkenness itself will sooner be proved no crime than Cato be proved dishonest. Those who tear down temples and overturn altars show their intentions, though they can do the gods no harm. And so it is with those who attack the reputation of great men.
If the professors of virtue be as the world calls them, avaricious, libidinous, ambitious—what are they then that have a detestation for the very name of it: but malicious natures do not want wit to abuse honester men than themselves. It is the practice of the multitude to bark at eminent men as little dogs do at strangers; for they look upon other men’s virtues as the upbraiding of their own wickedness. We should do well to commend those that are good, if not, let us pass them over; but, however, let us spare ourselves: for beside the blaspheming of virtue, our rage is to no purpose. But to return now to my text.
If the teachers of virtue are greedy, lustful, and power-hungry, as the world says they are, then what does that make those who hate the very idea of virtue? Evil people are clever enough to attack men who are more honest than they are. Most people bark at distinguished men the way small dogs bark at strangers. They see other people's virtues as a criticism of their own wickedness. We should praise good people when we can. If we can't, we should at least ignore them. Either way, we should spare ourselves this anger. Besides insulting virtue itself, our rage serves no purpose. But let me return to my main point.
We are ready enough to limit others but loth to put bonds and restraints upon ourselves, though we know that many times a greater evil is cured by a less; and the mind that will not be brought to virtue by precepts, comes to it frequently by necessity. Let us try a little to eat upon a joint stool, to serve ourselves, to live within compass, and accommodate our clothes to the end they were made for. Occasional experiments of our moderation give us the best proof of our firmness and virtue. A well-governed appetite is a great part of liberty, and it is a blessed lot, that since no man can have all things that he would have, we may all of us forbear desiring what we have not. It is the office of temperance to overrule us in our pleasures; some she rejects, others she qualifies and keeps within bounds. Oh! the delights of rest when a man comes to be weary, and of meat when he is heartily hungry.
We're quick to limit others but reluctant to put restrictions on ourselves. Yet we know that sometimes a greater evil is cured by a lesser one. The mind that won't be brought to virtue by teaching often comes to it through necessity. Let's try eating at a simple table, serving ourselves, living within our means, and using our clothes for their intended purpose. Testing our moderation occasionally gives us the best proof of our strength and virtue. A well-controlled appetite is a big part of freedom. It's a blessing that since no one can have everything they want, we can all stop desiring what we don't have. Temperance's job is to control our pleasures. Some it rejects completely, others it moderates and keeps within limits. Oh, the joy of rest when you're truly tired, and of food when you're genuinely hungry!
I have learned (says our author) by one journey how many things we have that are superfluous, and how easily they might be spared, for when we are without them upon necessity, we do not so much as feel the want of them. This is the second blessed day (says he) that my friend and I have travelled together: one wagon carries ourselves and our servants; my mattress lies upon the ground and I upon that: our diet answerable to our lodging, and never without our figs and our table-books. The muleteer without shoes, and the mules only prove themselves to be alive by their walking. In this equipage, I am not willing, I perceive, to own myself, but as often as we happen into better company, I presently fall a-blushing, which shows that I am not yet confirmed in those things which I approve and commend. I am not yet come to own my frugality, for he that is ashamed to be seen in a mean condition would be proud of a splendid one. I value myself upon what passengers think of me, and tacitly renounce my principles, whereas I should rather lift up my voice to be heard by mankind, and tell them “You are all mad—your minds are set upon superfluities and you value no man for his virtues.”
I have learned (says our author) from one journey how many superfluous things we have, and how easily we could spare them. For when we are without them out of necessity, we do not even feel their lack. This is the second happy day (says he) that my friend and I have traveled together. One wagon carries us and our servants. My mattress lies on the ground, and I lie on it. Our food matches our lodging, and we are never without our figs and our notebooks. The muleteer has no shoes, and the mules prove they are alive only by walking. In this outfit, I find, I am not willing to own who I am. Whenever we happen into better company, I immediately start blushing. This shows that I am not yet settled in the things I approve and praise. I have not yet come to own my frugality. For he who is ashamed to be seen in a humble condition would be proud of a splendid one. I set my worth by what passers-by think of me, and silently renounce my principles. Instead, I ought to lift up my voice to be heard by mankind and tell them, “You are all mad. Your minds are set on superfluities, and you value no man for his virtues.”
I came one night weary home, and threw myself upon the bed with this consideration about me: “There is nothing ill that is well taken.” My baker tells me he has no bread; but, says he, I may get some of your tenants, though I fear it is not good. No matter, said I, for I will stay until it be better—that is to say until my stomach will be glad of worse. It is discretion sometimes to practice temperance and wont ourselves to a little, for there are many difficulties both of time and place that may force us upon it.
I came home one night, exhausted, and collapsed on my bed with this thought: "Nothing is truly bad if you accept it well." My baker told me he had no bread. But he said I might get some from my tenants, though he feared it wasn't good quality. No matter, I said, because I'll wait until it gets better—meaning until my stomach would be happy with something even worse. Sometimes it's wise to practice restraint and get used to having less. There are many challenges of timing and circumstances that might force us to do without.
When we come to the matter of patrimony, how strictly do we examine what every man is worth before we will trust him with a penny! “Such a man,” we cry, “has a great estate, but it is shrewdly encumbered—a very fair house, but it was built with borrowed money—a numerous family, but he does not keep touch with his creditors—if his debts were paid he would not be worth a groat.” Why do we not take the same course in other things, and examine what every man is worth? It is not enough to have a long train of attendants, vast possessions, or an incredible treasure in money and jewels—a man may be poor for all this. There is only this difference at best—one man borrows of the usurer, and the other of fortune. What signifies the carving or gilding of the chariot; is the master ever the better of it?
When it comes to money matters, we carefully examine what every person is worth before we trust them with a penny! "That man," we say, "has a great estate, but it's heavily mortgaged. He has a beautiful house, but he built it with borrowed money. He has a large family, but he doesn't pay his creditors on time. If his debts were paid, he wouldn't be worth a cent." Why don't we take the same approach with other things and examine what every person is truly worth? It's not enough to have a long line of servants, vast possessions, or an incredible fortune in money and jewels. A man can still be poor despite all this. At best, there's only this difference: one man borrows from a loan shark, and the other borrows from luck. What does it matter if the carriage is carved or gilded? Is the owner any better because of it?
We cannot close up this chapter with a more generous instance of moderation than that of Fabricius. Pyrrhus tempted him with a sum of money to betray his country, and Pyrrhus’s physician offered Fabricius, for a sum of money, to poison his master; but he was too brave either to be overcome by gold, or to be overcome by poison, so that he refused the money, and advised Pyrrhus to have a care of treachery: and this too in the heat of a licentious war. Fabricius valued himself upon his poverty, and was as much above the thought of riches as of poison. “Live Pyrrhus,” says he “by my friendship; and turn that to thy satisfaction which was before thy trouble:” that is to say that Fabricius could not be corrupted.
We cannot close this chapter with a nobler example of moderation than that of Fabricius. Pyrrhus tempted him with a sum of money to betray his country. And Pyrrhus’s own physician offered, if Fabricius would pay him a sum of money, to poison his master Pyrrhus. But Fabricius was too brave to be overcome either by gold or by poison. So he refused the money and warned Pyrrhus to beware of treachery. And he did this in the heat of a lawless war. Fabricius prided himself on his poverty, and was as far above the thought of riches as of poison. “Live, Pyrrhus,” he says, “by my friendship, and let what was your trouble before now turn to your satisfaction.” That is to say, Fabricius could not be corrupted.