tenance project themselves on to some plane
of the imagination. The martyr, even the most heretical martyr, sees the
vision of his crown in the skies, the lover sees in obvious defects only
rare and esoteric beauties. Epicurus avoided sedulously the
transcendental optimism of the Stoics. He avoided mysticism, avoided
allegory, avoided faith; he tried to set the feet of his philosophy on
solid ground. He can make a strong case for the probable happiness of a
man of kindly affections and few desires, who asks little from the
outside world. But after all it is only probable; misfortunes and
miseries may come to any man. 'Most of the evils you fear are false,' he
answers, still reasonably. 'Death does not hurt. Poverty need never
make a man less happy.' And actual pain? 'Yes, pain may come. But you
can endure it. Intense pains are brief; long-drawn pains are not
excruciating; or seldom so.' Is that common-sense comfort not enough?
The doctrine becomes more intense both in its promises and its demands.
If intense suffering comes, he enjoins, turn away your mind and conquer
the pain by the 'sweetness' of memory. There are in every wise man's
life moments of intense beauty and delight; if he has strength of mind
he will call them back to him at will and live in the blessedness of the
past, not in the mere dull agony of the moment. Nay, can he not actually
enjoy the intellectual interest of this or that pang? Has he not that
within him which can make the quality of its own life? On hearing of the
death of a friend he will call back the sweetness of that friend's
converse; in the burning Bull of Phalaris he will think his thoughts and
be glad. Illusion, the old Siren with whom man cannot live in peace, nor
yet without her, has crept back unseen to the centre of the citadel. It
was Epicurus, and not a Stoic or Cynic, who asserts that a Wise Man will
be happy on the rack.[112:1]

Strangely obliging, ironic Fortune gave to him also a chance of testing
of his own doctrine. There is extant a letter written on his death-bed.
'I write to you on this blissful day which is the last of my life. The
obstruction of my bladder and internal pains have reached the extreme
point, but there is marshalled against them the delight of my mind in
thinking over our talks together. Take care of the children of
Metrodorus in a way worthy of your life-long devotion to me and to
philosophy.'[113:1] At least his courage, and his kindness, did not
fail.