The feeling of these ancients with regard to suicide, we must here remember, was very different from our own.  There was no distinct idea of the sanctity of life; no social stigma and consequent suffering were brought on the family of the suicide.  Stoic and Epicurean philosophers alike upheld it as a lawful remedy against the pangs of disease, the dotage of old age, or the caprices of a tyrant.  Every man might, they contended, choose his own route on the last great journey, and sleep well, when he grew wearied out with life’s fitful fever.  The door was always open (said Epictetus) when the play palled on the senses.  You should quit the stage with dignity, nor drain the flask to the dregs.  Some philosophers, it is true, protested against it as a mere device of cowardice to avoid pain, and as a failure in our duties as good citizens.  Cicero, in one of his latest works, again quotes with approval the opinion of Pythagoras, that “no man should abandon his post in life without the orders of the Great Commander”.  But at Rome suicide had been glorified by a long roll of illustrious names, and the protest was made in vain.

But why, continues Cicero, why add to the miseries of life by brooding over death?  Is life to any of us such unmixed pleasure even while it lasts?  Which of us can tell whether he be taken away from good or from evil?  As our birth is but “a sleep and a forgetting”, so our death may be but a second sleep, as lasting as Endymion’s.  Why then call it wretched, even if we die before our natural time?  Nature has lent us life, without fixing the day of payment; and uncertainty is one of the conditions of its tenure.  Compare our longest life with eternity, and it is as short-lived as that of those ephemeral insects whose life is measured by a summer day; and “who, when the sun sets, have reached old age”.

Let us, then, base our happiness on strength of mind, on a contempt of earthly pleasures, and on the strict observance of virtue.  Let us recall the last noble words of Socrates to his judges.  “The death”, said he, “to which you condemn me, I count a gain rather than a loss.  Either it is a dreamless sleep that knows no waking, or it carries me where I may converse with the spirits of the illustrious dead. I go to death, you to life; but which of us is going the better way, God only knows”.

No man, then, dies too soon who has run a course of perfect virtue; for glory follows like a shadow in the wake of such a life.  Welcome death, therefore, as a blessed deliverance from evil, sent by the special favour of the gods, who thus bring us safely across a sea of troubles to an eternal haven.

The second topic which Cicero and his friends discuss is, the endurance of pain.  Is it an unmixed evil?  Can anything console the sufferer?  Cicero at once condemns the sophistry of Epicurus.  The wise man cannot pretend indifference to pain; it is enough that he endure it with courage, since, beyond all question, it is sharp, bitter, and hard to bear.  And what is this courage?  Partly excitement, partly the impulse of honour or of shame, partly the habituation which steels the endurance of the gladiator.  Keep, therefore—­this is the conclusion—­stern restraint over the feminine elements of your soul, and learn not only to despise the attacks of pain, but also