Introduction

But for the zeal and ability of one disciple we should not now possess any trustworthy account of the teaching of Epictetus. For, like not a few other sages, he wrote nothing—his teaching was purely oral, delivered, in the form of lectures or discourses, to the students who came to him to receive their education in philosophy. One of these students was Flavius Arrianus, afterwards Senator and Consul of Rome, named by Lucian “one among the first of Roman men,” and known to us chiefly as author of the best history of Alexander the Great which was produced in antiquity. That history is still extant, but posterity owes Arrian still more abundant thanks for the copious notes of the teaching of Epictetus which he took down from his master’s lips in Nicopolis. This record he afterwards published in eight books (whereof only four now remain), entitled the Dissertations of Epictetus; and out of these he drew the materials for compiling the little work, the Encheiridion, or Manual, of Epictetus, by which this philosopher has hitherto been most generally known.¹

Without one student’s dedication and ability, we would have no reliable account of Epictetus’s teaching today. Like many other sages, he wrote nothing. He taught entirely through spoken lectures or discourses to students who came to study philosophy with him. One of these students was Flavius Arrianus, who later became a Roman senator and consul. Lucian called him “one among the first of Roman men.” Today, he is known mainly for writing the best history of Alexander the Great produced in antiquity. That history still survives. But later generations owe Arrian even greater thanks for his extensive notes on Epictetus’s teaching. He took these notes directly from his teacher’s words in Nicopolis. He later published this record in eight books, titled the Dissertations of Epictetus. Only four of these books survive. From them, he compiled the short work called the Encheiridion, or Manual, of Epictetus. Until now, this has been the work through which the philosopher is most widely known.¹

It is clear that the Dissertations were not regarded by Arrian as a satisfactory representation of the teaching of his master; that he published them, indeed, with much reluctance, and only when it appeared that unless he did so, certain imperfect versions of his records would be established as the sole sources of authoritative information about Epictetus. These circumstances are explained in a dedicatory letter to his friend Lucius Gellius, prefixed to the edition of the Dissertations which Arrian finally resolved to issue. I here translate this document in full:—

Clearly, Arrian did not consider the Dissertations a satisfactory account of his master’s teaching. He published them very reluctantly. He did so only when imperfect versions of his records threatened to become the sole authoritative sources about Epictetus. These circumstances are explained in a dedication letter to his friend Lucius Gellius. The letter appeared at the beginning of the edition of the Dissertations that Arrian finally decided to publish. Here is my translation of the full letter:

“Arrian to Lucius Gellius, hail.

“Arrian to Lucius Gellius, greetings.

“I did not write [in literary form and composition, συγγράφειν] the words of Epictetus in the manner in which a man might write such things. Neither have I put them forth among men, since, as I say, I did not even write them. But whatever I heard him speak, those things I endeavored to set down in his very words, so to preserve to myself for future times a memorial of his thought and unstudied speech. Naturally, therefore, they are such things as one man might say to another on the occasion of the moment, not such as he would put together with the idea of finding readers long afterwards. Such they are, and I know not how without my will or knowledge they fell among men. But to me it is no great matter if I shall appear unequal to composing such a work, and to Epictetus none at all if any one shall despise his discourse; for when he spoke it, it was evident that he had but one aim—to stir the minds of his hearers towards the best things. And if, indeed, the words here written should do the same, then they will do, I think, that which the words of sages ought to do. But if not, yet let those who read them know this, that when he himself spoke them, it was impossible for the hearer to avoid feeling whatever Epictetus desired he should feel. But if his words, when they are merely words, have not this effect, perhaps it is that I am in fault, perhaps it could not have been otherwise. Farewell!”

“I did not compose Epictetus’s words as a literary work [συγγράφειν], as someone might write such a work. Nor did I publish them, since, as I say, I did not even compose them. Instead, I tried to record whatever I heard him say in his exact words. I wanted to preserve for myself a record of his thoughts and spontaneous speech for the future. Naturally, then, these are things one person might say to another as the moment calls for them. They are not words composed with readers in the distant future in mind. That is what they are, and I do not know how they reached the public without my consent or knowledge. But it matters little to me if I seem incapable of composing such a work. And it matters nothing to Epictetus if anyone looks down on his teaching. When he spoke, it was clear that he had only one aim. He wanted to turn his listeners’ minds toward the best things. If the words written here do the same, they will, I think, do what wise people’s words should do. But if they do not, readers should still know this. When Epictetus himself spoke these words, no listener could avoid feeling whatever he wanted them to feel. If his words alone do not have this effect, perhaps I am at fault. Perhaps it could not have been otherwise. Farewell!”

The style of the Dissertations, as they have reached us, answers very well to the above account of their origin and purpose. They contain much that the world should be as little willing to neglect as anything that Greek philosophy has left us; but they contain also many repetitions, redundancies, incoherencies; and are absolutely devoid of any sort of order or system in their arrangement. Each chapter has generally something of a central theme, but beyond this all is chaos. The same theme will be dwelt on again and again in almost the same phrases; utterances of majestic wisdom are imbedded in pages of tedious argument, and any grouping of the chapters according to a progressive sequence of ideas will be looked for in vain.

The style of the Dissertations, as we have them, fits the account above of their origin and purpose very well. They contain much that the world should value as highly as anything Greek philosophy has left us. But they also contain many repetitions, unnecessary passages, and confused ideas. Their arrangement has absolutely no order or system. Each chapter generally has something of a central theme, but beyond this, all is chaos. The same theme comes up again and again in almost the same words. Statements of profound wisdom are buried in pages of tedious argument. Readers will search in vain for any grouping of chapters that follows a developing sequence of ideas.

Under these conditions it was evident that the teaching of Epictetus could never win half the influence which its essential qualities fitted it to exercise. And accordingly, as another and better vehicle for this influence, Arrian compiled and condensed from the Dissertations the small handbook of the Stoic philosophy known as the Encheiridion of Epictetus. This little work has made Epictetus known to very many whom the Dissertations would never have reached. It had the distinction—unparalleled in the case of any other Pagan writing, if we except the doubtful Sententiæ of Xystus—of being adopted as a religious work in the early Christian Church. Two paraphrases of it—still extant—one of which was specially designed for the use of monastic bodies, were produced about the sixth century a. d., in which very few changes were made in the text, beyond the alteration of Pagan names and allusions to Scriptural ones.

Under these conditions, Epictetus’s teaching clearly could never gain even half the influence its essential qualities deserved. To give it a better means of spreading, Arrian compiled and condensed material from the Dissertations. The result was a short handbook of Stoic philosophy known as the Encheiridion of Epictetus. This little book introduced Epictetus to many people whom the Dissertations would never have reached. It had the distinction of being adopted as a religious work by the early Christian Church. No other pagan writing achieved this, except possibly the Sententiæ of Xystus, whose status is uncertain. Two paraphrases of the handbook were produced around the sixth century AD, and both still survive. One was intended specifically for monastic communities. They made very few changes to the text beyond replacing pagan names and references with biblical ones.

About the same time it was made the subject of an elaborate and lengthy commentary by a Pagan writer, Simplicius, wherein chapter after chapter is dissected, discussed, and explained. It was elegantly rendered into Latin by the well-known scholar of the Renaissance, Angelo Politian, who dedicated his translation to Lorenzo de’ Medici. Down to the present day, as numerous translations testify, it has remained the most usual means of access to the thought of Epictetus.

Around the same time, the pagan writer Simplicius wrote a detailed and lengthy commentary on it. He analyzed, discussed, and explained it chapter by chapter. The well-known Renaissance scholar Angelo Politian translated it elegantly into Latin. He dedicated his translation to Lorenzo de’ Medici. To this day, it has remained the most common introduction to Epictetus’s thought, as its many translations show.

But inestimable as the Encheiridion is, he who knows it alone has gained nothing like all that Epictetus has to give. It is a compendium; and although much more stirring and forcible than is usual with such works, it cannot give us the wealth of interesting allusion, reflection, humor, the bursts of eloquence, the abrupt and biting style, the vivid revelations of personal feeling, which marked the teaching of Epictetus in the form in which he delivered it. It seems, therefore, that to make him as accessible as he can be to those for whom such things have any value or interest, it were necessary to produce from the Encheiridion and the Dissertations a third work, which should have the advantages of each. This is what I have endeavored to do in the present work. In it the whole of the Encheiridion is given, and the divisions of subject-matter into which the Encheiridion falls have been observed by the division of my translation into five Books, corresponding with the natural divisions of the Encheiridion—Book I., treating of the first principles of the Stoic philosophy; Book II., dealing with the general application of these principles to life; Book III., with man’s relations to his fellow-man; Book IV., with his relations to God; Book V., containing, besides a couple of concluding chapters, chiefly practical counsels of behavior on various particular occasions, and obiter dicta on the use of the faculties. Such is the scheme of arrangement suggested by the Encheiridion; and I have filled it in by setting among the chapters of the Encheiridion chapters or passages from the Dissertations, selected for their relevancy to the matter in hand. In fact, I have reversed the process by which the Encheiridion came into being. It was condensed out of the Dissertations: I have expanded it again by drawing into it a large quantity of material from the original work, and subjecting the new matter thus gained to the system and order of sequence which I found to prevail in the Encheiridion. The passages or chapters taken from the Dissertations are those which seemed to me most characteristic of the philosophy or the personality of Epictetus, and I have made it my aim to omit nothing which is essential to a full and clear understanding of the message he had to deliver to his generation. Of course there is plenty of room for differences of opinion as to the manner in which this conception has been here carried out; but I hope that the present attempt may do something to win a larger audience for his teaching than former editions could, in the nature of the case, obtain. If this hope should prove to be well founded, I shall expect, some day, to give the present English version a counterpart in a Greek text arranged on the same lines.

The Encheiridion is invaluable, but anyone who knows only that work has gained far less than Epictetus has to offer. It is a summary, though much more stirring and forceful than such works usually are. It cannot convey the wealth of interesting references, reflections, and humor found in his original teaching. Nor can it capture his bursts of eloquence, his abrupt and biting style, or his vivid expressions of personal feeling. To make him as accessible as possible to interested readers, a third work therefore seemed necessary. It would draw on the Encheiridion and the Dissertations, combining the advantages of each. This is what I have tried to do in this work. It includes the whole Encheiridion. I have followed its divisions by subject, arranging my translation into five Books that reflect its natural structure. Book I covers the first principles of Stoic philosophy. Book II deals with the general application of these principles to life. Book III concerns our relationships with other people, and Book IV our relationship with God. Book V contains a couple of concluding chapters, but consists chiefly of practical advice on conduct in various specific situations. It also includes passing observations on the use of our faculties. This is the plan suggested by the Encheiridion. I have filled it out by placing chapters or passages from the Dissertations among the chapters of the Encheiridion. These were selected for their relevance to the subject being discussed. In fact, I have reversed the process that created the Encheiridion. It was condensed from the Dissertations. I have expanded it again by adding a large amount of material from the original work. I have arranged this new material according to the structure and sequence I found in the Encheiridion. I chose passages or chapters from the Dissertations that seemed most characteristic of Epictetus’s philosophy or personality. My aim has been to omit nothing essential to a full and clear understanding of his message to his generation. Of course, there is plenty of room for disagreement about how I have carried out this plan. Still, I hope this attempt may help his teaching reach a larger audience than earlier editions could, given their nature. If this hope proves well founded, I expect someday to produce a matching Greek text arranged along the same lines.

I may add here that the reader will find an Index at the end of this volume, in which every paragraph is referred to its original source in the Dissertations, Encheiridion, or Fragments—the references applying to Schweighäuser’s standard edition of Epictetus.²

I should add that readers will find an index at the end of this volume. It lists the original source of every paragraph in the Dissertations, Encheiridion, or Fragments. These references follow Schweighäuser’s standard edition of Epictetus.²

As regards the style of my translation, I hope the tinge of archaism I have given it will be felt to suit the matter. I could think of no idiom so varied, so flexible even down to its use of various grammatical forms, so well suited alike to colloquy, or argument, or satire, or impassioned eloquence, as Elizabethan English.

As for my translation’s style, I hope its slightly old-fashioned feel will seem right for the subject. I could think of no form of English as varied or flexible as Elizabethan English, even in its grammatical forms. None seemed so well suited to conversation, argument, satire, or passionate eloquence.

So much to make the plan of the present work understood; and the reader may perhaps wish that I would now leave him to the study of it. But there is much in Epictetus the significance of which will not appear to any one who is unacquainted with the general system of Stoic philosophy which formed the basis of Epictetus’s ethical teaching. And I hope that the reader will prefer to have such information as is necessary given him in the form of a general introduction rather than in that of a multitude of notes.

That explains the plan of this work. The reader may perhaps wish that I would now leave him to study it. But much in Epictetus will be unclear to anyone unfamiliar with the general system of Stoic philosophy. That system formed the basis of his ethical teaching. I hope the reader will prefer to receive the necessary information in a general introduction rather than in numerous notes.

The founder of the Stoic philosophy was Zeno, a native of Cyprus, who taught in Athens, about 300 b. c., in that frescoed arcade, or Stoa, which gave its name to his school. His birthplace is worth noting, for Zeno lived at the beginning of that epoch, himself one of the first products of it, in which the influence of the East became strongly apparent in Greek thought; the period called Hellenistic in contradistinction to the purely Hellenic period which ended in the conquests of the Macedonians. In many ways the conditions of life in the Hellenistic period formed the most favorable milieu possible for the development of Greek thought upon the only lines which, after Aristotle, it could fruitfully pursue; and this not in spite of, but even because of, the great degradation of political and social life from which all Hellendom then suffered. What the democratic polities were like, on which was laid the problem of confronting Philip of Macedon, we may conjecture from the history of the best known and assuredly not the worst of them, Athens. And the best type of Athenian whose rise to power was favored by the conditions of this time and place was Demosthenes: Demosthenes, the grand historical warning to all peoples against committing their destinies to professional orators; the statesman whose doubtless real veneration for his country and her past served only to make him a more mischievous counselor in her present difficulties; whose splendid power as a wielder of words was scarcely more signal than his incapacity and cowardice when he was called upon to match those words with deeds. Athens, entangling the Thebans in an alliance against Macedon, and then leaving them to face Alexander alone; deifying Demetrius the Besieger for driving out a Macedonian garrison, and allotting him the Parthenon itself to be his lodging and the scene of his unspeakable profligacies; murdering Phocion, the one man who dared to bring sincerity and virtue to her service—Athens was a type of the Greek States of this epoch: too unprincipled for democratic government, too contentious for despotism, too vain to submit to foreign rule, too lacking in valor, purpose, union, to resist it with effect.

Zeno, a native of Cyprus, founded Stoic philosophy. Around 300 BC, he taught in Athens in a fresco-painted arcade, or Stoa, which gave his school its name. His birthplace is worth noting. Zeno lived at the beginning of an era when Eastern influence became strongly apparent in Greek thought. He was himself one of its first products. This era is called Hellenistic, in contrast to the purely Hellenic period, which ended with the Macedonian conquests. In many ways, Hellenistic life provided the most favorable environment possible for Greek thought to develop. After Aristotle, only certain paths remained open to fruitful development. These conditions favored those paths not despite, but because of, the severe political and social decline throughout the Greek world. The democratic states faced the task of confronting Philip of Macedon. We can judge their condition from the history of Athens, the best known and certainly not the worst. Demosthenes was the best type of Athenian whom the conditions of that time and place helped bring to power. He stands as history’s great warning to all peoples against entrusting their destinies to professional speakers. His reverence for his country and its past was undoubtedly genuine. Yet it only made his advice more harmful in the difficulties she then faced. His brilliant skill with words was scarcely more remarkable than his incompetence and cowardice when called upon to act. Athens drew the Thebans into an alliance against Macedon, then left them to face Alexander alone. She made Demetrius the Besieger a god for driving out a Macedonian garrison. She even gave him the Parthenon as his lodging and the setting for his unspeakable debauchery. She murdered Phocion, the one man who dared to serve her with sincerity and virtue. Athens was typical of the Greek states of this era. They were too unprincipled for democratic government, too quarrelsome for absolute rule, and too vain to accept foreign rule. They lacked the courage, purpose, and unity to resist it effectively.

Whatever the causes of the change may have been, the conditions of public life in this Hellenistic period were certainly very different from those which prevailed, albeit with decadence, before that vast breaking up of boundaries and destruction of political systems involved in the Macedonian conquests. The successful and inspiring conflict with Persia waged by the Hellenic States had for a time made all Greek hearts to beat with one aspiration, and had brought to the front a race of leaders who were capable of subduing the Greek democracies to their own steadfast and statesmanlike purposes. Public life was then not only a possible but even the most natural career for a man of talent and probity. The small size of the Greek States gave almost every such man an opportunity of action, and so keen and universal was the interest in politics that it threatened to lead Greek philosophy into a region in which philosophy is very apt to lose its vitalizing connection with human consciousness and experience, and to stiffen into barren speculation. In a word, man, as an individual, began to be too much lost sight of in the consideration of man as a citizen; his uses, his duties, the whole worth and significance of his life, came to be estimated too exclusively by his relations to the visible society about him. It was when the great Stoic Chrysippus found himself obliged to stand aloof from all participation in politics—“For if I counsel honorably I shall offend the citizens, and if basely, the Gods”—that such men as he were led to ask themselves: Is there then any sphere of human endeavor out of the reach of the tyranny of circumstance? If I cannot be a citizen, what am I worth then simply as a man? If I can be nothing to my fellows, what can I be to God? To a state of things, then, which, speaking broadly, made public life impossible to honest men, we owe the noblest ethical system of antiquity; to the enforced concentration of thought upon the individual we owe a certain note of universality till then absent from Hellenic thought.

Whatever caused the change, public life in the Hellenistic period was certainly very different from what it had been before. Earlier political systems had survived, though in decline, until the Macedonian conquests shattered boundaries and destroyed them. The Greek states’ successful and inspiring struggle against Persia had, for a time, united all Greek hearts in one aspiration. It had also brought forward leaders capable of guiding the Greek democracies toward their own firm and statesmanlike goals. Public life was then not merely a possible career for a talented, honest man. It was the most natural one. The small size of the Greek states gave almost every such man a chance to act. Interest in politics was so intense and widespread that it threatened to draw Greek philosophy into dangerous territory. There, philosophy too easily loses its living connection with human consciousness and experience, hardening into fruitless speculation. In short, attention to people as citizens began to overshadow attention to them as individuals. Their usefulness, duties, and the whole value and meaning of their lives were judged too exclusively by their social relationships. The great Stoic Chrysippus found himself forced to stay out of politics altogether. “For if I give honorable advice, I shall offend the citizens, and if dishonorable advice, the gods.” This situation led men like him to ask themselves: Is any area of human effort beyond the tyranny of circumstances? If I cannot be a citizen, what am I worth simply as a human being? If I can be nothing to others, what can I be to God? Broadly speaking, then, we owe antiquity’s noblest ethical system to conditions that made public life impossible for honest men. This forced focus on the individual gave Greek thought a certain universal quality it had lacked before.

But stoicism was not the only product of the speculation of this period. Side by side with it there started into being two other systems of philosophy, the necessity for combating which was doubtless of immense service to its development. These were Epicureanism and Pyrrhonism; and as the reader will find Epictetus much concerned with each of them, it may be desirable that I should give some brief account of their cardinal doctrines.

But Stoicism was not the only result of philosophical thought during this period. Two other schools of philosophy emerged alongside it. The need to challenge them was undoubtedly a great help in Stoicism’s development. These were Epicureanism and Pyrrhonism. The reader will find that Epictetus gives much attention to both. So it may be useful for me to briefly explain their main teachings.

Epicurus was an Athenian. After some residence in Lesbos and Lampsacus, he began to teach in his native city about the year 306 B.C. His ethical views, which are all that concern us here, were of a distinctly unelevating nature. Pleasure, ἡδονή, was pronounced to be for each man the end and aim of his being, and the only rational motive of action. This, however, was not the pleasure of the voluptuary—its highest forms, according to Epicurus, were gained in ἀταραξία and ἀπονία—that is, a cheerful and unanxious temperament, with leisure for contemplation, ends not attainable by the criminal who lives in constant fear of detection, or the luxurious liver in whom satiety produces disgust and weariness.

Epicurus was an Athenian. After living for a time in Lesbos and Lampsacus, he began teaching in Athens around 306 B.C. His ethical views, which are all that concern us here, did little to uplift people morally. He declared that pleasure, ἡδονή, was the purpose and goal of each person’s existence, and the only rational motive for action. But he did not mean the pleasure of someone devoted to sensual indulgence. According to Epicurus, pleasure’s highest forms were found in ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. These meant a cheerful, worry-free state of mind, with free time for contemplation. Such goals were beyond the criminal who constantly fears discovery. They were also beyond someone living in luxury, whose overindulgence leads to disgust and weariness.

Certain bodily conditions were, however, regarded as objects in themselves, and partaking of the nature of the absolutely good; and all entanglement in human relationships was discountenanced for the disturbance and distress which such relationships were liable to cause. These doctrines were put in practice by their teacher in inuring himself to a hermit-like simplicity and abstemiousness of life; and his life was philosophically consistent with his doctrines, for it is clear that the end of Pleasure will be most surely gained by him who has fewest wants to gratify. But though the lives of Epicurus and his immediate followers were exceptionally sober and strict, the total effect of his doctrine could not but have been evil. They were purely egoistic in this tendency—they centered each man’s activity and interest upon himself alone, they bade him take no thought for any other earthly or heavenly thing, and taught him that this ideal of indifference was realized in its full perfection by the Gods, who dwelt apart in divine repose while blind necessity had its way with human destiny.

Certain bodily conditions, however, were regarded as goals in themselves and as sharing in the nature of absolute goodness. All involvement in human relationships was discouraged because of the disturbance and distress those relationships could cause. Their teacher practiced these doctrines by training himself to live with a hermit’s simplicity and self-restraint. His life was philosophically consistent with his teachings. Clearly, the goal of pleasure is most surely achieved by someone with the fewest wants to satisfy. Yet although Epicurus and his immediate followers lived exceptionally restrained and disciplined lives, his doctrine’s overall effect was inevitably harmful. These teachings were entirely self-centered in their tendency. They focused each person’s activity and interest on himself alone. They told him to give no thought to anything else on earth or in heaven. They taught that the gods embodied this ideal of indifference in its fullest perfection. The gods lived apart in divine peace, while blind necessity ruled human destiny.

Pyrrho of Elis, a rather earlier teacher than Zeno or Epicurus, who is said to have studied philosophy under Indian Gymnosophists and Chaldean Magi, was the originator in European thought of a great and permanent philosophic movement. His school was inspired by the Geist der stets verneint, and the term Skeptic was first devised to describe its attitude. Its strength is in a discovery which inevitably takes place when men begin to reflect upon their own mental operations—the discovery, namely, that, given a perceiving mind and a perceived object, it is always possible for the former, if it has the power of introspection, to doubt whether it has received a really true and faithful impression of the latter. How can we be assured that external objects are as we perceive them? How can we even be assured that there is any principle of constancy in their relations to our consciousness? The senses often delude us; we are convinced, in dreams, of the reality of appearances which, nevertheless, have no reality—-why may not all perception be a delusion? Why may not even our sense of the validity of inference and of the truth of the axioms of geometry be a pure hallucination? With these searching questions the Skeptic cut at the root of all belief, and the problems which they raise have dominated philosophy down to the present day. Nor in two thousand years has any logical answer to them ever been found. Lotze, the last thinker of really first-rate powers that the world has seen, practically abandons all inquiry into theories of perception, and starts with the assumption that we are living in a kosmos, not a chaos; that the order, coherence, reason in things to which consciousness testifies, are realities. In antiquity, I may add, the profound problems raised by Pyrrhonism do not seem to have been very profoundly apprehended either by the Pyrrhonists or their opponents. The latter had nothing better to appeal to than that notoriously feeble resource, the argumentum ad hominem. If the Pyrrhonist distrusted the evidence of his senses, they asked, why did he avoid walking over precipices or into the sea, or eat bread instead of earth, or in any way make choice of means for ends? The Pyrrhonist’s answer was equally superficial. It anticipated the famous formula of Bishop Butler. Probability, argued they, was the guide of life—having observed certain results to follow from certain antecedents, the prudent man will shape his course in life accordingly, although, as a matter of theory and speculation, he may refuse to believe in the constancy of nature. This answer involves a clear inconsistency. It involves even a greater assumption than that which the Pyrrhonist refused to make as to the credibility of his perceptions—the assumption of the credibility of his recollections. To the thorough-going Skeptic there is no such thing as past experience—he is, as it were, new-born at each instant of his life.

Pyrrho of Elis taught somewhat earlier than Zeno or Epicurus. He is said to have studied philosophy under Indian Gymnosophists and Chaldean Magi. He founded a great and lasting philosophical movement in European thought. His school was inspired by the spirit that always denies. The term Skeptic was first coined to describe its attitude. Its strength lies in a discovery people inevitably make when they begin examining how their own minds work. A mind perceives an object. If that mind can examine itself, it can always doubt whether its impression of the object is truly accurate. How can we be sure that external objects are as we perceive them? How can we even be sure that their relationship to our consciousness follows any consistent pattern? Our senses often deceive us. In dreams, we are convinced that appearances are real, even though they have no reality. Why might not all perception be a delusion? Why might even our confidence in reasoning and the truth of geometry’s axioms be nothing but a hallucination? With these probing questions, the Skeptic struck at the root of all belief. The problems they raise have dominated philosophy down to the present day. Nor has any logical answer to them been found in two thousand years. Lotze, the last thinker of truly first-rate ability the world has seen, virtually gives up investigating theories of perception. He begins with the assumption that we live in a cosmos, not a chaos. He assumes that the order, coherence, and reason our consciousness finds in things are real. I may add that, in antiquity, neither the Pyrrhonists nor their opponents seem to have understood these problems very deeply. Their opponents had nothing better to offer than that notoriously weak tactic, the argumentum ad hominem, an appeal to personal conduct. If Pyrrhonists distrusted their senses, they asked, why did they avoid walking over cliffs or into the sea? Why did they eat bread rather than earth, or choose any means to achieve their goals? The Pyrrhonists’ answer was equally shallow. It anticipated Bishop Butler’s famous statement. Probability, they argued, was the guide to life. Having observed certain results follow certain events, a sensible person will conduct his life accordingly. Yet in theory and speculation, he may refuse to believe that nature is consistent. This answer contains a clear inconsistency. It assumes even more than the Pyrrhonist refused to assume about the reliability of his perceptions. It assumes that his memories are reliable. For the thoroughgoing Skeptic, there is no such thing as past experience. He is, so to speak, born anew at every instant of his life.

Such, in outline, were the systems against which the Stoic philosophy had to make good its position in the ancient world. From the first there seems to have been no doubt of its ability to do so, although, unhappily, the records which have been preserved of the teaching of its earliest days are few and obscure. The writings of Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, and of Chrysippus, his immediate successor in the leadership of the school, have utterly perished, while of Cleanthes, the third of the early Stoic teachers, very little remains beyond the profound and majestic Hymn to Zeus, of which I have given a translation in this work. The complete loss of the hundreds of treatises produced by Chrysippus is especially to be regretted, as he appears to have taken the main part in giving shape and system to the Stoic philosophy. “Had Chrysippus not been, the Stoa had not been,” was a proverbial saying which testifies to his fame. However, from the accounts of ancient philosophers in Diogenes Laertius, from Plutarch, Seneca, Cicero, and a few other authorities, we can learn pretty clearly what the framework of the Stoic system had grown to be long before Epictetus began to study it.

These, in outline, were the systems against which Stoic philosophy had to establish itself in the ancient world. From the beginning, there seems to have been no doubt that it could do so. Unfortunately, few records of its earliest teachings survive, and those that do are unclear. The writings of Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, and Chrysippus, his immediate successor as the school’s leader, have disappeared entirely. Of Cleanthes, the third of the early Stoic teachers, very little survives beyond his profound and majestic Hymn to Zeus. I have included a translation of it in this work. The complete loss of the hundreds of treatises written by Chrysippus is especially regrettable. He appears to have played the leading role in shaping Stoic philosophy into an organized system. “Without Chrysippus, there would have been no Stoa,” was a common saying that shows how famous he was. Still, several ancient sources give us a fairly clear picture of the Stoic system’s basic structure. These include Diogenes Laertius’s accounts of ancient philosophers, along with Plutarch, Seneca, Cicero, and a few other authorities. They show what the system had become long before Epictetus began to study it.

In antiquity, a philosophic system was expected to have something to say for itself on three different branches of study—Logic, Physics (which included cosmogony and theology), and Ethics. We think of the Stoics chiefly in connection with the last-named of these subjects, but they were no less eminent in the others, and Chrysippus, in particular, was held to have done so much for the science of logic that a saying was current—“If there were dialectic among the Gods, it must be the dialectic of Chrysippus.” Of the Stoic contributions to this science, scarcely any record remains.

In ancient times, a philosophical system was expected to address three branches of study: logic, physics, and ethics. Physics included theories about the universe’s origins and theology. We think of the Stoics mainly in connection with ethics, but they were equally distinguished in the other subjects. Chrysippus, in particular, was thought to have contributed so much to logic that this saying became common: “If the gods practiced logic, it would have to be the logic of Chrysippus.” Almost no record of the Stoics’ contributions to logic survives.

Of their physical system, however, much is known, and the reader of Epictetus needs to be acquainted with its general features. These were borrowed from an earlier thinker, Heracleitus, whose central doctrine was that the universe was an eternal flux and transition; everything was in a state of becoming, ein Werdendes. At the beginning of things, so far as they can be said to have any beginning, is the Deity in his purest manifestation, which, be it observed, is a strictly material one, a sublimated and ethereal fire, αἰθερῶδες πῦρ. In this fire dwelt the divine creative thought and impulse. The first step in that process of differentiation in which development consists is the production of vapor, which condensed into water. Two elementary forces play their part in these operations—a movement towards within, and a movement towards without, the one a densifying, the other an expanding and straining force (τόνος). The former gives us solidity in matter, the other the qualities and energies of matter. Thus, by various degrees of density, we get earth, water, atmospheric air, and from air, the common element of earthly fire; and these elements in their various combinations, with their various attributes and powers, gradually produce the successive stages of organic life. Though all these proceed from the substance of the Divine Being, the Stoics recognized, in the derived substance which make up the universe as we have it now, various degrees of purity, of affinity to their original source. Man’s body, for instance, with its passions and affections, lies comparatively far from the divine; but his soul is a veritable ray of the primitive fire, Deus in corpore humano hospitans. The popular mythology of the day was entirely rejected by the Stoics, although, as Professor Mahaffy points out, they never attempted to “discredit orthodoxy,” but, on the contrary, used its myths and ceremonies with the utmost reverence as vehicles of profound religious truths. But they certainly believed in intelligences above man, yet below the one Supreme Being; thus the stars and the lightning (the reader will observe the allusions in the Hymn of Cleanthes) are in some sense divinities, by virtue of the supposed purity of their fiery essence.

Much is known, however, about their theory of the physical universe. Readers of Epictetus need to understand its main features. These came from an earlier thinker, Heracleitus. His central teaching was that the universe was an endless process of change. Everything was in a state of becoming, ein Werdendes. At the beginning of things stands the Deity in his purest form, if things can have a beginning at all. This form, it should be noted, is strictly material. It is a refined, ethereal fire, αἰθερῶδες πῦρ. Within this fire lived the divine creative thought and impulse. Development consists of a process in which distinct forms emerge. Its first step is the production of vapor, which condenses into water. Two basic forces act in these processes, one moving inward and the other outward. The first makes matter denser. The second expands it and creates tension (τόνος). The first gives matter its solidity, while the second gives it its qualities and energies. Different degrees of density thus produce earth, water, atmospheric air, and, from air, ordinary earthly fire. These elements combine in various ways, with different qualities and powers, gradually producing the successive stages of organic life. All these come from the substance of the Divine Being. Yet the Stoics recognized different degrees of purity in the resulting substances that make up the universe today. These degrees reflect how closely each substance resembles its original source. The human body, for example, with its passions and feelings, is comparatively far from the divine. But the soul is a true ray of the original fire, God dwelling in a human body. The Stoics entirely rejected the popular mythology of their day. Yet, as Professor Mahaffy points out, they never tried to “discredit orthodoxy.” Instead, they treated its myths and ceremonies with the greatest reverence, using them to convey profound religious truths. They certainly believed in intelligent beings above humans but below the one Supreme Being. Thus, the stars and lightning are, in some sense, divine beings because of the supposed purity of their fiery essence. Readers will notice references to them in the Hymn of Cleanthes.

Thus from the one primitive divine element the Kosmos, with all its hierarchy of being, is evolved. But in the Stoic system πάντα ῥεῖ,³ there is no continuance in any one condition. As in the normal life of all earthly creatures there comes a certain climax or turning point, after which the forces of decay gain slowly but surely on those of growth and resistance, so also runs the history of the universe which includes them all. One by one the steps by which it was formed shall be retraced, and the derived substances which compose it consumed and re-absorbed by that from which they sprang. From matter in its grossest form to its purest, from earth and stone and water to the highest intelligence in men and dæmons and Gods, nothing shall escape this doom of dissolution; everything shall yield up its separate existence, until at last the indestructible element of that primeval fire is again the sole being that remains, and Zeus is “alone in the conflagration,” self-contemplating in the solitudes of thought. But this is not the end. There is no end. The plastic impulse again resumes its sway, and soon another cycle of world-development and world-destruction begins to run its course. In the language of Seneca, “When that fatal day, that necessity of the times, shall have arrived, and it seems good to God to make an end of old things and ordain the better, then shall the ancient order be revoked and every creature be generated anew, and a race ignorant of guilt be given to the earth.”

Thus the cosmos, with its whole hierarchy of beings, develops from the one original divine element. But in the Stoic system, “everything flows,”³ and nothing remains in any one state. In the normal lives of all earthly creatures, a turning point comes. After that, the forces of decay slowly but surely overcome those of growth and resistance. The universe, which contains them all, follows the same course. One by one, the steps of its formation will be reversed. The substances that make it up will be consumed and absorbed back into the element from which they came. Nothing will escape this fate of dissolution, from matter in its coarsest form to its purest. This includes earth, stone, and water, and the highest intelligence in humans, spirits, and gods. Everything will give up its separate existence. At last, only the indestructible element of that original fire will remain. Zeus will be “alone in the conflagration,” contemplating himself in the solitude of thought. But this is not the end. There is no end. The creative impulse takes control again. Soon another cycle of the world's development and destruction begins. In Seneca's words, “That fateful day, made necessary by the course of time, will arrive. God will see fit to end the old things and establish something better. Then the ancient order will be undone, and every creature will be created anew. A race that knows no guilt will be given to the earth.”

This was the general physical system on which all Stoics were agreed, although there were differences of opinion upon minor points; such as how far these successive cycles resembled each other? some asserting that they did so in the minutest detail, others only in their larger features. It was a system, for all its superstitions, not without grandeur and truth. At bottom it expressed a sense of that phenomenon of ebb and flow, systole and diastole, the action and counteraction of balanced forces, which is perhaps the profoundest law of life.

This was the general system of physics that all Stoics agreed on, though they differed on minor points. One question was how closely these successive cycles resembled one another. Some said they matched in the smallest detail, others only in their broad features. Despite all its superstitions, the system had grandeur and truth. At its core, it expressed a sense of ebb and flow, contraction and expansion, and balanced forces acting and counteracting. This is perhaps the deepest law of life.

Two questions arise in connection with the Stoic cosmogony, which we must briefly discuss before proceeding farther. Are we justified in terming their view of the universe a materialistic one? and what was their doctrine of the destinies of the human soul? Now it is certainly the usual practice among writers on philosophy to reckon the Stoics as materialists, and it is unquestionably true that they denied the possibility of any existence which was not corporeal. Strong as they are on the supremacy of the human soul over the human body, sharp as is the line with which they divide these elements, yet the distinction is a moral, not a metaphysical one—each is an actual material substance. But we shall be seriously mistaken, nevertheless, if we place them in the same class with the scientific materialists of the present day. According to the latter, Thought is no necessary moment in the universe, but merely a product of certain accidental combinations of matter, a product which, when these are dissolved, must disappear from existence, without leaving a trace of its presence behind. Again, according to most modern opponents of the materialistic view, Thought has an independent and immortal being—it existed before matter was, and would continue to exist if all matter were annihilated. The Stoic view differed from each of these modern theories. It held Thought and Matter to be eternal, inseparable, and, indeed, strictly identical. Being in its primitive and purest form was fire, a corporeal substance, but one exhibiting consciousness, purpose, will.

Two questions arise about the Stoic account of the universe’s origins. We must briefly discuss them before going further. Can we rightly call their view of the universe materialistic? And what did they teach about the fate of the human soul? Writers on philosophy usually classify the Stoics as materialists. It is certainly true that the Stoics denied that anything could exist without a physical form. They strongly asserted the human soul’s supremacy over the human body and drew a sharp distinction between them. Yet this distinction concerns their moral standing, not their fundamental nature. Each is an actual material substance. Nevertheless, we would be seriously mistaken to group them with the scientific materialists of the present day. According to these modern materialists, thought is not a necessary part of the universe. It is merely a product of certain accidental combinations of matter. When these combinations break apart, thought must cease to exist, leaving no trace of its presence. By contrast, most modern opponents of materialism hold that thought has an independent and immortal existence. It existed before matter and would continue to exist if all matter were destroyed. The Stoic view differed from both these modern theories. It held that thought and matter are eternal, inseparable, and, strictly speaking, identical. Existence in its original and purest form was fire. This was a physical substance, but one possessing consciousness, purpose, and will.

As to the question of the Stoic view of the immortality of the human soul, it does not seem to me to deserve so much discussion as it has received from some commentators. It is obvious that the soul must, in the end, share the lot of all other existences, and be resolved into the Divine Being which was its source. The only question that can arise is whether this resolution takes place at the moment of death, or whether the sense of personal identity persists for a certain period beyond that event; and this question, which Epictetus appears to have been wise enough to leave an open one, is philosophically of very little importance. The soul is immortal, the individual perishes; this is the conclusion of Stoicism, and if we know this, there is little else it can much concern us to know.

The Stoic view of the soul’s immortality does not seem to me to deserve so much discussion from some commentators. Clearly, the soul must eventually share the fate of all other things. It must return to the Divine Being from which it came. The only question is whether this happens at death or whether personal identity continues for some time afterward. Epictetus seems to have been wise enough to leave this question open. It has very little philosophical importance. The soul is immortal, but the individual perishes. This is the conclusion of Stoicism. If we know this, there is little else we need to know about it.

The reader who desires to gain a thorough knowledge of Hellenistic philosophy, and of the social and political conditions in which it throve, will find what he seeks in two works to which I have to express my large indebtedness. One is Zeller’s Philosophie der Griechen (Epikureer, Stoiker u. Skeptiker),⁴ a monument of German research and erudition, in which vast masses of original material for the study of this most interesting, but neglected, epoch of the development of European intellect have been brought together, and interpreted with more than German lucidity and method. The other is Professor Mahaffy’s recent volume, Greek Life and Thought, a study of the Hellenistic period in various aspects, which the scholar will not read without profit, nor the lay-reader without pleasure.

Readers seeking a thorough understanding of Hellenistic philosophy will find it in two works to which I owe a great deal. These also explain the social and political conditions in which it flourished. The first is Zeller’s Philosophie der Griechen (Epikureer, Stoiker u. Skeptiker),⁴ a monumental work of German research and scholarship. It brings together vast amounts of original material on this fascinating but neglected period in European intellectual development. It interprets this material with clarity and organization surpassing even the German standard. The second is Professor Mahaffy’s recent book, Greek Life and Thought, which examines various aspects of the Hellenistic period. Scholars will learn from it, and general readers will enjoy it.

We turn now to that department of the Stoic philosophy with which the reader of Epictetus is most concerned—its Ethics.

We now turn to ethics, the branch of Stoic philosophy most relevant to readers of Epictetus.

The ethical question resolves itself into a search for the supreme object of human endeavor, the Summum Bonum, the absolute and essential good. This, for the Stoic, embodied itself in the formula, “to live according to Nature.” But what is Nature? The will of God, as revealed in the heart and conscience of those who seek to know it, and interpreted through the observation in a reverent and faithful spirit of the facts of life.

The ethical question comes down to finding the highest goal of human effort, the Summum Bonum, the absolute, essential good. For the Stoic, this meant “to live according to Nature.” But what is Nature? It is the will of God, revealed in the hearts and consciences of those who seek to know it. It is understood by observing the facts of life with reverence and faith.

Going into the subject more precisely we find certain criteria of moral truth established, προλήψεις, as they were called, that is, primitive, original conceptions, or, as I have rendered them in my translation, “natural conceptions,” dogmas by which all moral questions can be tried. If we inquire into the source of these προλήψεις, we shall find ourselves mistaken in our disposition to think that the Stoics regarded them as innate ideas. Innate they are not, for the Stoics held the soul at birth to be a tabula rasa, or blank page, which only experience could fill with character and meaning. But as Seneca says in his inquiry, “Quomodo ad nos prima boni honestique notitia pervenerit,”⁵ although Nature alone could not teach us these things, could not equip us with the knowledge of them before we entered upon life, yet the “seeds” of this knowledge she does give us; the soul of every man has implanted in it a certain aptness or, indeed, necessity to deduce certain universal truths from such observation and experience as are common to all mankind; and these truths, the προλήψεις, though not strictly innate, have thus an inevitableness and dogmatic force not possessed by those which one man may reach and another miss in the exercise of the ordinary faculties, by argument, study, and so forth. By these natural conceptions the existence and character of God, and the general decrees of the moral law, are considered to be affirmed. If we inquire further how the Stoic explained the fact that some of these so-called inevitable and universal conclusions are denied in all sincerity by men like Epicurus, who were neither bad nor mad, we strike upon the difficulty which confronts all systems that aim at setting up any absolute body of truth, expressible in human language, in place of that partial, progressive, and infinitely varied revelation of God’s mind and purpose to which the uncolored facts of the world’s religious history seem to testify.

Looking more closely, we find certain established standards of moral truth, called προλήψεις. These are basic, original concepts, which I have translated as “natural conceptions.” They are principles by which all moral questions can be judged. If we ask where these προλήψεις come from, we must avoid assuming that the Stoics considered them innate ideas. They are not innate. The Stoics believed the soul at birth was a tabula rasa, or blank page. Only experience could fill it with character and meaning. Seneca discusses this in his inquiry, “Quomodo ad nos prima boni honestique notitia pervenerit,” or how we first learned about goodness and moral worth.⁵ Nature alone, he says, could not teach us these things or give us this knowledge before we entered life. Yet she does give us the “seeds” of this knowledge. Every human soul has an inbuilt capacity, or indeed a necessity, to draw certain universal truths from observation and experience. These observations and experiences are common to all humanity. These truths, the προλήψεις, are therefore not strictly innate, but they are inevitable and carry unquestionable authority. Other truths lack this force. One person may reach them while another does not, using ordinary abilities through argument, study, and similar efforts. These natural conceptions are considered to establish God's existence and character, and the general commands of moral law. But some people sincerely deny these supposedly inevitable and universal conclusions. Epicurus was one such person, and he was neither bad nor mad. How did the Stoics explain this? This question brings us to a difficulty facing all systems that seek to establish an absolute body of truth. They seek truth that can be expressed in human language. They put it in place of a partial, progressive, and infinitely varied revelation of God's mind and purpose. Yet the facts of the world's religious history, viewed without bias, seem to testify to just such a revelation.

The natural conceptions, as I have said, contain the primary doctrines of ethics. None of these are more important for the Stoic than that which declares essential Good to lie in the active, not the passive side of man; in the will, not in the flesh, nor in anything else which the will is unable to control. But a certain relative and conditional goodness may lie in matters which are yet of no moment to the spiritual man, to that part of him which seeks the essential good. And we must note that when Epictetus speaks of certain things as good or bad or indifferent, he is generally speaking of them in their relation to the spiritual man, and in the most absolute and unconditional sense. No evil can happen to the essential part of man, to that side of him which is related to the eternal and divine, without his own will. Hence the death of a beloved friend, or child, or wife, is no evil; and if it be no evil, we are forbidden to grieve for it, or, in the most usual phrase with Epictetus, we are not to be troubled or confounded by it, ταράσσεσθαι. But if this utterance should shock our natural feelings, it will do something which assuredly Epictetus never meant it to do. It is the soul of man which these events cannot injure, and it is the soul which is forbidden to think itself injured by them. Such love of the individual as may be embraced in the larger love of the All, of God—such grief for bereavements and calamities as does not overwhelm the inner man (ii. 19) in a “wave of mortal tumult,” and dull his vital sense of the great moral ends which he was born to pursue, is repeatedly and explicitly admitted by Epictetus. Thus, in iii. 2, we have him arguing against Epicurus that there are certain natural sympathies between man and his kind, and even convicting Epicurus himself of a secret belief in these sympathies. Epicurus had dissuaded his followers from marriage, and the bringing-up of children, on account of the grief and anxiety which such relations necessarily entail. Not so the Stoics—they pressed their disciples to enter into the ordinary earthly relationships of husband, or wife, or citizen, and this without pretending to have found any means of averting the natural consequences which Epicurus dreaded, although they did profess to have discovered something in man which made him equal to the endurance of them. Again, although the condition of ἀπάθεια, of inward peace, of freedom from passions, is again and again represented by Epictetus as the mark of the perfect sage, we are told that this ἀπάθεια is something quite different from “apathy”—a man is not to be emotionless “like a statue.” And a third passage confirming this view is to be found in Book I., ch. xi. (Schweighäuser), where the conduct of a man who was so afflicted by the illness of his little daughter that he ran away from the house, and would hear news of her only through messages, is condemned, not for the affection and anxiety it proved, but for its utter unreasonableness. “Would you,” asks Epictetus, “have her mother and her nurse and her pedagogue, who all love her too, also run away from her, and leave her to die in the hands of persons who neither love nor care for her at all?” There is a grief which is really a self-indulgence, a barren, absorbing, paralyzing grief, which, to the soul possessed by it, makes every other thing in heaven and earth seem strange and cold and trivial. From such grief alone Epictetus would deliver us, and I think he would have accepted Mr. Aubrey de Vere’s noble sonnet on Sorrow as a thoroughly fit poetic statement of Stoic doctrine on this subject:—

Our natural conceptions, as I have said, contain the basic principles of ethics. For the Stoic, none is more important than this: essential goodness lies in our active, not our passive, nature. It lies in the will, not in the body or anything else beyond the will’s control. Yet things that do not matter to our spiritual nature may have a certain relative and conditional goodness. Our spiritual nature is the part of us that seeks essential goodness. We must remember this when Epictetus calls things good, bad, or indifferent. He generally means their relation to our spiritual nature, in the most absolute and unconditional sense. Nothing can harm our essential nature without our own consent. This is the part of us connected with the eternal and divine. So the death of a beloved friend, child, or wife is no evil. And if it is no evil, we are forbidden to grieve over it. More often, Epictetus says we must not be troubled or thrown into confusion by it, ταράσσεσθαι. But if this statement shocks our natural feelings, it produces an effect Epictetus certainly never intended. These events cannot injure the human soul. And it is the soul that must not think itself injured by them. Epictetus repeatedly and explicitly allows love for individuals, provided it fits within the greater love of the All, of God. He also allows grief over loss and disaster, provided it does not overwhelm our inner being (ii. 19). It must not engulf us in a “wave of mortal tumult.” Nor must it dull our vital awareness of the great moral purposes we were born to pursue. Thus, in iii. 2, he argues against Epicurus that certain natural bonds of sympathy unite people. He even shows that Epicurus himself secretly believed in these bonds. Epicurus discouraged his followers from marrying and raising children because these relationships necessarily bring grief and anxiety. The Stoics took a different position. They urged their followers to enter ordinary earthly relationships as husbands, wives, or citizens. They did not pretend to have found a way to avoid the natural consequences Epicurus feared. But they did claim to have discovered something within us that enabled us to endure them. Again, Epictetus repeatedly presents ἀπάθεια as the mark of the perfect sage. This means inner peace and freedom from passions. Yet we are told that this ἀπάθεια is quite different from “apathy.” A person should not be emotionless “like a statue.” A third passage supporting this view appears in Book I, chapter xi (Schweighäuser). It describes a man so distressed by his young daughter’s illness that he fled the house. He would hear news of her only through messages. His conduct is condemned, not for showing affection and anxiety, but for being utterly unreasonable. “Would you,” Epictetus asks, “have her mother, her nurse, and her tutor run away too? They all love her. Would you leave her to die with people who neither love nor care for her at all?” There is a kind of grief that is really self-indulgence. It is fruitless, all-consuming, and paralyzing. To the soul it possesses, everything else in heaven and earth seems strange, cold, and trivial. It is only from this kind of grief that Epictetus would free us. I think he would have accepted Mr. Aubrey de Vere’s noble sonnet on Sorrow. It offers a thoroughly fitting poetic expression of Stoic teaching on this subject:

But the grief that shall do this is a grief that must be felt. And Epictetus assuredly never meant to offer the Stoic philosophy as a mere stupefying anodyne. Make the man a Stoic, and something yet remains to do—to make the Stoic a man. One of these purposes was not more the concern of Epictetus than the other. And he pursued both of them with a strength, sincerity, and sanity of thought, with a power of nourishing the heroic fiber in humanity, which, to my mind, make him the very chief of Pagan moralists.

But the grief that can do this must be felt. Epictetus certainly never intended Stoic philosophy to be merely a painkiller that numbs the mind. Make a man a Stoic, and something still remains to be done. The Stoic must also be made fully human. Both goals mattered equally to Epictetus. He pursued both with strength, sincerity, and sound judgment. He had a gift for nurturing the heroic spirit in humanity. To my mind, these qualities make him the greatest of the pagan moral teachers.

It is no purpose of mine to fill this preface with information which the reader can gain without doubt or difficulty from the author whom it introduces, and therefore I shall leave him to discover for himself what the positive ethical teaching of Epictetus was like. Nor is it, unhappily, possible to say much upon another subject on which Epictetus gives us little or no information—his own life and circumstances. Arrian wrote a biography of him, but it is now entirely lost, and the biographical details which have been collected from Simplicius, Suidas, Aulus Gellius, and others are very scanty. He was born at Hierapolis, in Phrygia, and became, how is unknown, a slave of Epaphroditus, a freedman and favorite of Nero, who is recorded to have treated him with great cruelty. One day, it is said, Epaphroditus began twisting his leg for amusement. Epictetus said, “If you go on you will break my leg.” Epaphroditus persisted, the leg was broken, and Epictetus, with unruffled serenity, only said, “Did I not tell you that you would break my leg?” This circumstance is adduced by Celsus in his famous controversy with Origen as an instance of Pagan fortitude equal to anything which Christian martyrology had to show;⁶ but it is probably a mere myth which grew up to account for the fact mentioned by Simplicius and Suidas that Epictetus was feeble in body and lame from an early age.

I do not intend to fill this preface with information readers can easily and reliably find in Epictetus’s own writings. I shall therefore leave them to discover for themselves the ethical principles he taught. Unfortunately, we can say little about another subject on which Epictetus tells us almost nothing: his life and circumstances. Arrian wrote a biography of him, but it is now entirely lost. The biographical details gathered from Simplicius, Suidas, Aulus Gellius, and others are very few. He was born at Hierapolis, in Phrygia. Somehow, though we do not know how, he became a slave of Epaphroditus, a freedman and favorite of Nero. Epaphroditus is said to have treated him with great cruelty. One day, the story goes, Epaphroditus began twisting his leg for amusement. Epictetus said, “If you go on you will break my leg.” Epaphroditus continued, and the leg broke. Epictetus remained completely calm and said only, “Did I not tell you that you would break my leg?” Celsus cites this story in his famous debate with Origen. He presents it as an example of pagan courage equal to anything recorded about Christian martyrs.⁶ But it is probably only a myth invented to explain a fact mentioned by Simplicius and Suidas. They state that Epictetus was physically weak and lame from an early age.

Epaphroditus was probably a very bad master, and as a favorite and intimate of Nero’s must have been a bad man; but we have to thank him for the fact that Epictetus, while yet a slave, was sent to attend the philosophic lectures of Musonius Rufus, an eminent Stoic of Rome, whom both Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius mention with great respect. The system of philosophic training had been at this time long organized. There were masters of repute everywhere, who delivered their instruction in regular courses, received a fixed payment for the same, and under whom crowds of young men assembled from far and near to study science and ethics—to receive, in short, what corresponded to a university education in those days. The curious circumstance that a slave like Epictetus could participate in advantages of this kind is generally explained as the result of a fashionable whim which possessed Roman nobles at this time for having philosophers and men of culture among their slaves. Professor Mahaffy, in his Greek Life and Thought (p. 132), commenting on the summons of the two philosophers, Anaxarchus and Callisthenes, to console Alexander after his murder of Cleitus, observes, that it was probably usual to call in philosophers to minister professionally in cases of affliction. From this, to making a philosopher a regular adjunct to a large household, even as the baron of later times kept a fool, the step is not great. But Epaphroditus, one thinks, must have had frequent reason to rue the choice he made in Epictetus, if he expected his domestic philosopher to excuse his misdeeds as Anaxarchus did those of Alexander on the occasion above mentioned.

Epaphroditus was probably a very bad master. As a favorite and close companion of Nero, he must also have been a bad man. But we have him to thank for sending Epictetus, while still enslaved, to attend Musonius Rufus’s philosophy lectures. Musonius was a distinguished Stoic in Rome, whom both Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius mention with great respect. By this time, philosophical education had long been organized into a system. Well-regarded teachers could be found everywhere. They taught regular courses for fixed fees. Crowds of young men came from near and far to study science and ethics under them. In short, they received what amounted to a university education in those days. It may seem surprising that an enslaved man like Epictetus could enjoy such opportunities. The usual explanation is a fashionable whim among Roman nobles of the time. They liked having philosophers and cultured men among their slaves. Professor Mahaffy discusses a related example in his Greek Life and Thought (p. 132). After Alexander murdered Cleitus, the philosophers Anaxarchus and Callisthenes were summoned to comfort him. Mahaffy observes that philosophers were probably often called in to offer professional comfort in times of distress. From there, it was only a small step to keeping a philosopher as a regular member of a large household. Barons in later times similarly kept a fool, or jester. But one suspects Epaphroditus must often have regretted choosing Epictetus, if he expected his household philosopher to excuse his misdeeds. Anaxarchus had done just that for Alexander on the occasion mentioned above.

In the year 94 a. d. the emperor Domitian issued a decree expelling all philosophers from Rome—an easily explainable proceeding on his part if there were any large number of them who, in the words of Epictetus, were able “to look tyrants steadily in the face.” Epictetus must have by this time obtained his freedom and set up for himself as a professor of philosophy, for we find him, in consequence of this decree, betaking himself to Nicopolis, a city of Epirus. Here he lived and taught to a venerable age, and here he delivered the discourses which Arrian has reported for us. He lived with great simplicity, and is said to have had no servant or other inmate of his house until he hired a nurse for an infant which was about to be exposed, according to the practice of those days when it was desired to check the inconvenient growth of a family, and which Epictetus rescued and brought up. The date of his death is unknown.

In AD 94, the emperor Domitian issued a decree expelling all philosophers from Rome. His action is easy to explain if many could, in Epictetus’s words, “look tyrants steadily in the face.” By this time, Epictetus must have gained his freedom and begun teaching philosophy independently. Because of this decree, we find him moving to Nicopolis, a city in Epirus. Here he lived and taught to an advanced age. Here, too, he gave the discourses that Arrian recorded for us. He lived very simply. He is said to have had no servant or anyone else living in his house until he hired a nurse. The nurse cared for an infant whom Epictetus rescued and raised. The child was about to be abandoned, as was customary then when families wanted to limit their inconvenient growth. The date of his death is unknown.

And now, reader, I will take my leave of you with Arrian’s farewell salutation to Lucius Gellius, which, literally translated, is Be strong. If you need it, I know no teacher better able to make or keep you so than Epictetus. At any rate, to give him a fair chance of doing what it is in him to do for English-speaking men and women is something I have regarded as a sort of duty, a discharge of obligation for his infinite service to myself; which done to the utmost of my powers, the fewest forewords are the best.

And now, reader, I will say goodbye with Arrian’s farewell to Lucius Gellius, which literally means Be strong. If you need strength, I know no teacher better able to give it to you or help you keep it than Epictetus. At any rate, I have felt a kind of duty to give him a fair chance to help English-speaking men and women. This is my way of repaying him for the immeasurable help he has given me. Now that I have done this to the best of my ability, the fewer introductory words, the better.