Part VI, Section II, Chapter II

Of the systems that make virtue consist in prudence.

The oldest surviving system that makes virtue consist in prudence is that of Epicurus. He is said, however, to have borrowed all the leading principles of his philosophy from his predecessors, especially Aristippus. Yet despite this charge by his enemies, it is very likely that the way he applied those principles was entirely his own.

According to Epicurus, bodily pleasure and pain were the only ultimate objects of natural desire and aversion. That they were always natural objects of those passions, he thought, needed no proof. Pleasure might sometimes seem to be avoided, but not because it was pleasure: enjoying it might cost us a greater pleasure or expose us to a pain more worth avoiding than the pleasure was worth seeking. Pain might likewise sometimes seem worth choosing, not because it was pain, but because enduring it might spare us a greater pain or bring us a far more important pleasure. That bodily pleasure and pain were always natural objects of desire and aversion was, he thought, abundantly clear. No less clear to him was that they were the only ultimate objects of those passions. Anything else we desired or avoided was desired or avoided, in his view, because it tended to produce one or the other sensation. Power and riches were desirable because they tended to bring pleasure; poverty and insignificance were shunned because they tended to cause pain. Honor and reputation were valued because the esteem and love of those around us mattered greatly, both in securing pleasure and in protecting us from pain. Disgrace and a bad reputation, by contrast, were to be avoided because the hatred, contempt, and resentment of those around us destroyed all security and inevitably exposed us to the gravest bodily harms. See Cicero, De finibus, book i, and Diogenes Laertius, book x.

All pleasures and pains of the mind, according to Epicurus, ultimately came from those of the body. The mind was happy when it recalled the body's past pleasures and hoped for more to come; it was miserable when it recalled pains the body had endured and dreaded their return or worse pains in the future.

Yet the mind's pleasures and pains, though ultimately derived from the body's, were far greater than their sources. The body felt only the present instant; the mind also felt the past through memory and the future through anticipation, and so both suffered and enjoyed far more. In the greatest bodily pain, he observed, we will find, if we pay attention, that what torments us most is not the suffering of this instant, but either the agonizing memory of what has passed or the still more terrible dread of what is to come. The pain of each instant, taken by itself and severed from what precedes and follows, is a trifle hardly worth considering. Yet that is all the body itself can ever be said to suffer. Likewise, amid the greatest pleasure, we will find that bodily sensation—the sensation of the present instant—accounts for only a small part of our happiness. Our enjoyment comes chiefly from a cheerful memory of the past or a still more joyous anticipation of the future; the mind always supplies by far the greater share of the delight.

Since our happiness and misery thus depended chiefly on the mind, if this part of our nature was rightly disposed, if our thoughts and opinions were as they ought to be, the state of our body mattered little. Even under severe bodily pain, we might retain a considerable share of happiness if reason and judgment held their ground. We might console ourselves with the memory of past pleasure and the hope of future pleasure. We might temper the severity of pain by remembering what, even then, we actually had to suffer: merely the bodily sensation, the pain of the present instant, which could never be very great in itself. Whatever agony arose from fearing its continuance came from an opinion of the mind, an opinion that sounder judgment could correct. We could consider that violent pains would probably be brief, and lasting pains probably moderate, with many intervals of ease. At any rate, death was always near and ready to release us; since, according to him, it ended every sensation, of pleasure as well as pain, it could not count as an evil. “When we exist,” he said, “death is absent; and when death is present, we do not exist. Death, therefore, is nothing to us.”

If the immediate sensation of pain was in itself so little to be feared, the sensation of pleasure was even less to be desired. Pleasure is naturally much less intense than pain. If pain could detract so little from the happiness of a rightly disposed mind, pleasure could add hardly anything to it. Once the body was free of pain and the mind of fear and anxiety, an added bodily pleasure could matter very little. It might vary the happiness of that condition, but could not properly be said to increase it.

Ease of body and security or tranquility of mind thus constituted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect condition of human nature, the fullest happiness a person could enjoy. Attaining this great end of natural desire was the sole purpose of every virtue. For him the virtues were desirable not for themselves, but because they tended to bring about that condition.

Prudence, for instance, though in this philosophy the source and principle of every virtue, was not desirable for itself. A careful, laborious, circumspect state of mind, always watchful and attentive even to the remotest consequences of each action, could hardly be pleasant in itself. Its value lay in its power to secure the greatest goods and ward off the greatest evils.

Nor could abstaining from pleasure and restraining our natural appetite for enjoyment—the work of temperance—be desirable for its own sake. The entire value of this virtue came from its usefulness: it enabled us to defer present enjoyment for a greater enjoyment to come, or to avoid a greater pain that present enjoyment might cause. Temperance, in short, was nothing but prudence in matters of pleasure.

Hard work, pain, danger, even death—the conditions into which fortitude often leads us—were surely still less natural objects of desire. We chose them only to escape greater evils. We submitted to hard work to avoid the greater shame and suffering of poverty; we faced danger and death to defend our liberty and property, the means of pleasure and happiness, or to defend our country, whose safety necessarily included our own. Fortitude enabled us to do all this cheerfully, as the best that could be done in our circumstances. In reality it was simply prudence, sound judgment, and presence of mind in weighing pain, work, and danger accurately, always choosing the lesser to escape the greater.

The same applied to justice. Refraining from what belongs to another was not desirable in itself; surely it could not be better for you that I should possess what belongs to me than that you should possess it. Yet you ought to leave my possessions alone, because otherwise you will provoke the resentment and indignation of humanity. The security and tranquility of your mind will be utterly destroyed. You will be filled with fear and dismay at the thought of a punishment you imagine others are always ready to inflict, and against which, in your own imagination, no power, skill, or concealment could ever protect you. The other kind of justice consists in doing appropriate good turns to people according to the various relationships in which they stand to us—as neighbors, relatives, friends, benefactors, superiors, or equals. The same reasons recommend it. Acting properly in these relationships wins the esteem and love of those around us; acting otherwise stirs their contempt and hatred. The one naturally secures, and the other necessarily endangers, our own ease and tranquility, the great ultimate objects of all our desires. Thus the whole virtue of justice, the most important virtue of all, amounts to discreet and prudent conduct toward our neighbors.

Such is Epicurus's doctrine of the nature of virtue. It may seem strange that this philosopher, described as a man of the most engaging manners, never noticed that, whatever these virtues or their opposing vices may do for our bodily ease and security, the feelings they naturally arouse in others are desired or dreaded far more passionately than all their other consequences. A well-disposed mind prizes being lovable and respectable, being a proper object of esteem, more highly than all the ease and security that love, respect, and esteem could bring. Conversely, being hateful or contemptible, being a proper object of indignation, is more dreadful than anything hatred, contempt, or indignation could make our bodies suffer. Our desire for the one character, and aversion to the other, therefore cannot arise from concern for their likely effects on the body.

This system is undoubtedly quite inconsistent with the one I have sought to establish. It is not difficult, however, to see which particular aspect of nature lends this account its plausibility. Through the wise design of the Author of nature, virtue is on ordinary occasions, even in this life, genuine wisdom and the surest and readiest means of securing safety and advantage. Success or failure in our undertakings depends greatly on what others generally think of us, and on their general willingness to help or hinder us. But the best, surest, easiest, and readiest way to gain favorable judgments and avoid unfavorable ones is surely to make ourselves proper objects of the former, not of the latter. “Do you want,” said Socrates, “a reputation as a good musician? The only sure way to gain it is to become a good musician. Do you likewise want to be thought capable of serving your country as a general or a statesman? Here too the best way is actually to acquire skill and experience in war and government, and to become fit to be a general or statesman. Likewise, if you want to be regarded as sober, temperate, just, and fair, the best way to earn that reputation is to become sober, temperate, just, and fair. If you can truly make yourself lovable, respectable, and a proper object of esteem, you need not fear that you will fail to gain the love, respect, and esteem of those around you.” Since practicing virtue is generally so advantageous and practicing vice so opposed to our interests, their contrary tendencies undoubtedly give virtue an added beauty and propriety and vice a new ugliness and impropriety. Temperance, magnanimity, justice, and beneficence thus win approval not only for their own qualities, but also as the highest wisdom and truest prudence. Likewise, the opposite vices—intemperance, cowardice, injustice, and either malice or mean selfishness—meet disapproval not only for their own qualities, but also as the most shortsighted folly and weakness. Epicurus seems to have attended only to this kind of propriety in every virtue. It is the kind most readily invoked by those trying to persuade others to live properly. When people's conduct, and perhaps their maxims too, clearly show that virtue's natural beauty is unlikely to move them, how else can we stir them but by showing them the folly of their conduct and how much they themselves are likely to suffer for it in the end?

In reducing all the different virtues to this one kind of propriety, Epicurus also indulged a propensity natural to everyone, but cherished especially by philosophers as a means of displaying their ingenuity: the wish to explain as much as possible by as few principles as possible. He indulged it still further when he traced all the primary objects of natural desire and aversion back to bodily pleasure and pain. This great champion of atomistic philosophy delighted in deriving all the powers and qualities of bodies from such obvious, familiar properties as the shape, motion, and arrangement of matter's tiny parts. He doubtless found a similar satisfaction in deriving all the mind's feelings and passions from its most obvious and familiar sensations.

Epicurus's system agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno in making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable way to obtain the primary objects of natural desire—the prima naturæ. It differed from all three, however, in two respects: first, in its account of those primary objects; second, in its account of virtue's excellence, or why virtue should be esteemed.

For Epicurus, the primary objects of natural desire consisted in bodily pleasure and pain, and nothing else. For the other three philosophers, many other things—including knowledge and the happiness of our relatives, friends, and country—were ultimately desirable for their own sake.

For Epicurus, moreover, virtue did not deserve pursuit for its own sake and was not itself an ultimate object of natural appetite. It was worth choosing only because it tended to prevent pain and secure ease and pleasure. The other three, by contrast, held that virtue was desirable not merely as a means to other primary objects of natural desire, but as something more valuable in itself than all of them. Human beings, they thought, were born to act; their happiness must therefore consist not only in the pleasure of what they passively feel, but also in the propriety of what they actively do.

Systems that make virtue a matter of prudence.

The oldest surviving system that makes virtue a matter of prudence is the one associated with Epicurus. He is said to have borrowed all its main principles from earlier thinkers, especially Aristippus. Yet despite what his enemies claimed, he probably developed his own way of applying those principles.

According to Epicurus, bodily pleasure and pain were the only things we ultimately desire or avoid by nature. He thought it needed no proof that we naturally seek pleasure and avoid pain. Sometimes we seem to avoid pleasure, but not because it is pleasure. We avoid it because enjoying it would cost us a greater pleasure or bring pain that is worse than the pleasure is worth. Likewise, we sometimes choose pain, but not because it is pain. Enduring it can spare us a greater pain or bring us a much greater pleasure. So he thought it was clear that bodily pleasure and pain were always objects of desire and aversion. He also thought it just as clear that they were the only ultimate objects. According to him, anything else we seek or avoid matters because it tends to produce one of these sensations. We want power and wealth because they can bring pleasure, and we avoid poverty and insignificance because they can bring pain. We value honor and reputation because other people's love and esteem help us obtain pleasure and protect us from pain. We avoid disgrace and a bad reputation because other people's hatred, contempt, and resentment destroy our security and expose us to serious bodily harm.

See Cicero, On Ends, book i, and Diogenes Laertius, book x.

For Epicurus, every mental pleasure and pain ultimately came from the body. The mind is happy when it remembers past bodily pleasures and hopes for more. It is miserable when it remembers bodily pain and fears more of it in the future.

Yet mental pleasures and pains are much greater than the bodily sensations they come from. The body feels only the present moment. The mind also feels the past through memory and the future through expectation. It therefore suffers and enjoys much more. Epicurus observed that even during the worst bodily pain, what torments us most is not the suffering of this moment. It is our painful memory of earlier suffering or our even more frightening expectation of what is coming. Taken alone, apart from what came before and what comes after, each moment's pain is too slight to matter much. Yet that moment's pain is all the body itself can suffer. In the same way, even when we enjoy the greatest pleasure, the bodily feeling of the present moment is only a small part of our happiness. We enjoy it mostly through happy memories of the past or even happier expectations of the future. The mind supplies by far the greatest share of the pleasure.

Because happiness and misery depended mainly on the mind, the body's condition mattered little if our thoughts and opinions were in good order. Even in great bodily pain, we could still have considerable happiness if reason and judgment remained in control. We could enjoy memories of past pleasure and hopes for future pleasure. We could lessen the severity of our pain by remembering what we actually had to suffer, even then. That was only the present bodily sensation, which could never be very great by itself. Any further agony caused by fear that it would continue came from an opinion in the mind. Better judgment could correct that opinion. We could consider that severe pain would probably be brief, while lasting pain would probably be moderate and allow many periods of relief. In any case, death was always available to free us. Epicurus held that death ends all feeling, whether of pain or pleasure, and therefore cannot be an evil. As he said, "When we exist, death does not; when death exists, we do not. So death is nothing to us."

If the actual feeling of pain was so little to fear, the feeling of pleasure was even less worth seeking. Pleasure is naturally much less intense than pain. If pain can take so little from the happiness of a well-ordered mind, pleasure can add almost nothing to it. When the body is free of pain and the mind free of fear and anxiety, an added bodily pleasure matters very little. It may make that happiness more varied, but it cannot properly be said to increase it.

So for Epicurus, the best human condition and the fullest happiness people could enjoy consisted of physical ease and a mind at peace and free from fear. Achieving this ultimate object of natural desire was the only purpose of every virtue. Virtues were not worth pursuing for their own sake, in his view, but because they helped bring about that condition.

Consider prudence. In this philosophy it was the source and basis of all the virtues, but it was not desirable for its own sake. Being so careful, hardworking, and watchful that we always consider even the distant results of every action is not pleasant in itself. Its value lies in helping us secure the greatest benefits and avoid the greatest harms.

Temperance means passing up pleasure and restraining our natural appetite for it. That restraint cannot be desirable in itself either. This virtue gets all its value from its usefulness. It lets us put off a pleasure now for a greater one later, or avoid the greater pain that might follow it. In short, temperance is prudence applied to pleasure.

Hard work, pain, danger, and even death are situations fortitude often brings us to. They are surely still less desirable in themselves. We choose them only to avoid worse things. We work to escape the greater shame and suffering of poverty. We face danger and death to defend our liberty and property, which help us enjoy life and be happy. Or we defend our country, whose safety includes our own. Fortitude lets us do all this willingly as the best option available in our circumstances. It is really just prudence, sound judgment, and presence of mind when assessing pain, labor, and danger. It chooses the lesser harm to avoid the greater.

The same goes for justice. There is no intrinsic advantage to leaving another person's property alone. It would certainly not be better for you if I kept what belongs to me rather than letting you have it. Still, you should leave my property alone, because taking it would arouse other people's resentment and anger. It would destroy your peace and security of mind. You would fear the punishment you would imagine people were always ready to impose. In your own mind, no power, skill, or secrecy could protect you from it. Another kind of justice involves giving people the help appropriate to our different relationships with them as neighbors, relatives, friends, benefactors, superiors, or equals. The same reasons recommend it. Acting properly in these relationships wins the love and esteem of those around us; doing otherwise provokes their contempt and hatred. One course protects our ease and peace of mind, while the other puts them at risk. These are the great, ultimate objects of all our desires. Thus all of justice, the most important virtue, amounts to sensible and prudent conduct toward the people around us.

That is Epicurus's account of virtue. It may seem strange that a philosopher described as so likable never noticed something else. Whatever effect virtue and vice have on our physical ease and safety, the feelings they inspire in others are much more powerful objects of desire or aversion than their other consequences. Anyone with a good disposition values being lovable, respectable, and worthy of esteem more than the comfort and safety that other people's love and respect can bring. Conversely, being hateful, contemptible, and deserving of anger is more frightening than any physical suffering that other people's hatred, contempt, or anger can cause. Our desire for the first sort of character and our aversion to the second therefore cannot come from concern about their effects on the body.

This system clearly conflicts with the one I have tried to establish. Still, it is easy to see what particular aspect of nature gives it an appearance of truth. The Author of nature wisely arranged things so that, in ordinary circumstances and even in this life, virtue really is wisdom. It is the surest and most direct way to gain safety and advantage. Whether we succeed in what we do depends greatly on what others think of us and on whether the people around us are generally willing to help or oppose us. The best, surest, easiest, and quickest way to earn favorable judgments and avoid unfavorable ones is to be worthy of the former and not of the latter. Socrates said, "Do you want a reputation as a good musician? The only sure way to get it is to become a good musician. Do you want people to think you can serve your country as a general or statesman? Again, the best way is to gain real skill and experience in war and government and become fit for the role. And if you want to be considered sober, temperate, just, and fair, the best way to gain that reputation is to become those things. If you truly make yourself lovable, respectable, and worthy of esteem, you need not fear that the people around you will fail to love, respect, and esteem you soon enough." Since practicing virtue is generally so beneficial and practicing vice so harmful to our interests, these results add beauty and propriety to virtue and add ugliness and impropriety to vice. We approve of temperance, magnanimity, justice, and beneficence not only for what they are but also as examples of the greatest wisdom and genuine prudence. Likewise, we disapprove of intemperance, cowardice, injustice, malice, and mean selfishness both for what they are and as examples of shortsighted folly and weakness. Epicurus seems to have noticed only this kind of propriety in every virtue. It is the kind that most readily comes to mind when people try to persuade others to behave properly. If people show by their behavior, and perhaps by their stated principles, that virtue's natural beauty will not move them, how else can we persuade them except by showing how foolishly they act and how much they themselves will suffer for it in the end?

Epicurus reduced all the different virtues to this one kind of propriety. In doing so, he indulged a tendency everyone has, and philosophers especially love to cultivate as a way of displaying their ingenuity: explaining as many things as possible with as few principles as possible. He carried that tendency further when he traced every primary object of natural desire or aversion back to bodily pleasure and pain. He was a major advocate of atomic philosophy and enjoyed deriving every power and quality of bodies from the familiar shapes, motions, and arrangements of matter's smallest parts. No doubt he took similar pleasure in explaining every feeling and passion of the mind through the most familiar ones.

Epicurus agreed with Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno that virtue means acting in the most suitable way to obtain the primary objects of natural desire, the first things of nature. His system differed from theirs in two other respects. First, it gave a different account of those primary objects. Second, it gave a different account of what makes virtue excellent and why it deserves esteem.

For Epicurus, the primary objects of natural desire were bodily pleasure and pain and nothing else. For the other three philosophers, many other things were worth wanting for their own sake, including knowledge and the happiness of our relatives, our friends, and our country.

Epicurus also held that virtue was not worth pursuing for its own sake and was not itself an ultimate object of natural desire. We should choose it only because it prevents pain and brings ease and pleasure. The other three held instead that virtue was worth pursuing not only as a way to obtain other primary objects of natural desire but also because it was worth more than all of them. They believed human beings were born to act. Our happiness must therefore lie not only in how pleasant our experiences feel but also in the propriety of what we actively do.