But Epictetus had no materials for such an answer.  I do not remember a single passage in which he refers to immortality or the life to come, and it is therefore probable either that he did not believe in it at all, or that he put it aside as one of those things which are out of our own power.  Yet his answer is not that glorification of suicide which we find throughout the tragedies of Seneca, and which was one of the commonplaces of Stoicism.  “My friends,” he says, “wait God’s good time till He gives you the signal, and dismisses you from this service; then dismiss yourself to go to Him.  But for the present restrain yourselves, inhabiting the spot which He has at present assigned you.  For, after all, this time of your sojourn here is short, and easy for those who are thus disposed; for what tyrant, or thief, or judgment-halls, are objects of dread to those who thus absolutely disesteem the body and its belongings?  Stay, then, and do not depart without due cause.”

It will be seen that Epictetus permits suicide without extolling it, for in another place (ii. 1) he says:  “What is pain?  A mere ugly mask; turn it, and see that it is so.  This little flesh of ours is acted on roughly, and then again smoothly.  If it is not for your interest to bear it, the door is open; if it is for your interest—­endure.  It is right that under all circumstances the door should be open, since so men end all trouble.”

This power of endurance is completely the keynote of the Stoical view of life, and the method of attaining to it, by practising contempt for all external accidents, is constantly inculcated.  I have already told the anecdote about Agrippinus by which Epictetus admiringly shows that no extreme of necessary misfortune could wring from the true Stoic a single expression of indignation or of sorrow.

The inevitable, then, in the view of the Stoics, comes from God, and it is our duty not to murmur against it.  But this being the guiding conception as regards ourselves, how are we to treat others?  Here, too, our duties spring directly from our relation to God.  It is that relation which makes us reverence ourselves, it is that which should make us honour others.  “Slave! will you not bear with your own brother, who, has God for his father no less than you?  But they are wicked, perhaps—­thieves and murderers.  Be it so, then they deserve all the more pity.  You don’t exterminate the blind or deaf because of their misfortunes, but you pity them:  and how much more to be pitied are wicked men?  Don’t execrate them.  Are you yourself so very wise?”

Nor are the precepts of Epictetus all abstract principles; he often pauses to give definite rules of conduct and practice.  Nothing, for instance, can exceed the wisdom with which he speaks of habits (ii. 18), and the best means of acquiring good habits and conquering evil ones.  He points out that we are the creatures of habit; that every single act is a definite grain in the sand-multitude of influences which make up our daily life; that each time we are angry or evil-inclined we are adding fuel to a fire, and virulence to the seeds of a disease.  A fever may be cured, but it leaves the health weaker; and so also is it with the diseases of the soul.  They leave their mark behind them.