CHAPTER XII.

OF CRUELTY.

There is so near an affinity betwixt _anger_ and _cruelty_, that many people confound them; as if _cruelty_ were only the _execution_ of _anger_ in the payment of a _revenge_: which holds in some cases, but not in others. There are a sort of men that take delight in the spilling of human blood, and in the death of those that never did them any injury, nor were ever so much suspected for it; as Apollodorus, Phalaris, Sinis, Procrustus, and others, that burnt men alive; whom we cannot so properly call _angry_ as _brutal_, for _anger_ does necessarily presuppose an injury, either _done_, or _conceived_, or _feared_, but the other takes _pleasure_ in _tormenting_, without so much as pretending any _provocation_ to it, and _kills_ merely for _killing sake_. The _original_ of this _cruelty_ perhaps was _anger_, which by frequent _exercise_ and _custom_, has lost all sense of _humanity_ and _mercy_, and they that are thus affected are so far from the countenance and appearance of men in _anger_, that they will _laugh_, _rejoice_, and _entertain themselves_ with the most _horrid spectacles_, as _racks_, _jails_, _gibbets_, several sorts of _chains_ and _punishments_, _dilaceration_ of _members_, _stigmatizing_, and _wild beasts_, with other exquisite inventions of torture; and yet, at last the cruelty itself is more horrid and odious than the means by which it works. It is a bestial madness to _love_ mischief; beside, that it is _womanish_ to _rage_ and _tear_. A generous beast will scorn to do it when he has any thing at his mercy. It is a vice for wolves and tigers, and no less _abominable_ to the _world_ than _dangerous_ to itself.

The Romans had their _morning_ and their _meridian spectacles_. In the _former_, they had their combats of _men_ with _wild beasts_; and in the _latter_, the _men_ fought _one with another_. “I went,” says our author, “the other day to the _meridian spectacles_, in hope of meeting somewhat of mirth and diversion to sweeten the humors of those that had been entertained with blood in the _morning_; but it proved otherwise, for, compared with this inhumanity, the former was a mercy. The whole business was only murder upon murder: the combatants fought naked, and every blow was a wound. They do not contend for _victory_, but for _death_; and he that kills one man is to be killed by another. By wounds they are forced upon wounds which they take and give upon their bare _breasts. Burn that rogue_, they cry _What! Is he afraid of his flesh? Do but see how sneakingly that rascal dies._ Look to yourselves, my masters, and consider of it: who knows but this may come to be your own case?” Wicked examples seldom fail of coming home at last to the authors. To destroy a _single_ man may be dangerous; but to murder whole nations is only a more _glorious wickedness. Private avarice_ and _rigor_ are condemned, but _oppression_, when it comes to be _authorized_ by an act of state, and to be publicly _commanded_, though particularly forbidden, becomes a point of _dignity_ and _honor_. What a shame is it for men to interworry one another, when yet the fiercest even of beasts are at peace with those of their own kind? This brutal fury puts philosophy itself to a stand. The drunkard, the glutton, the covetous, may be reduced; nay, and the mischief of it is that no vice keeps itself within its proper bounds. Luxury runs into avarice, and when the reverence of virtue is extinguished, men will stick at nothing that carries profit along with it; man’s blood is shed in wantonness—his death is a spectacle for entertainment, and his groans are music. When Alexander delivered up Lysimachus to a lion, how glad would he have been to have had nails and teeth to have devoured him himself: it would have too much derogated, he thought, from the dignity of his wrath, to have appointed a _man_ for the execution of his friend. Private cruelties, it is true, cannot do much mischief, but in princes they are a war against mankind.

C. Cæsar would commonly, for _exercise_ and _pleasure_, put _senators_ and _Roman knights_ to the _torture_; and _whip_ several of them like _slaves_, or put them to _death_ with the most acute _torments_, merely for the satisfaction of his _cruelty_. That Cæsar that “wished the people of Rome had but one neck, that he might cut it off at one blow;”—it was the employment, the study, and the joy of his life. He would not so much as give the expiring leave to groan, but caused their mouths to be stopped with sponges, or for want of them, with rags of their own clothes, that they might not breathe out so much as their last agonies at liberty; or, perhaps, lest the tormented should speak something which the tormentor had no mind to hear. Nay, he was so impatient of delay, that he would frequently rise from supper to have men killed by _torch-light_, as if his life and death had depended upon their dispatch before the next morning; to say nothing how many _fathers_ were put to death in the same night with their _sons_ (which was a kind of mercy in the prevention of their mourning). And was not Sylla’s cruelty prodigious too, which was only stopped for want of enemies? He caused seven thousand _citizens_ of Rome to be slaughtered at once; and some of the senators being startled at their cries that were heard in the _senate-house_, “Let us mind our business,” says Sylla; “this is nothing but a few mutineers that I have ordered to be sent out of the way.” A _glorious spectacle_! says Hannibal, when he saw the trenches flowing with human blood; and if the rivers had run blood too, he would have liked it so much the better.

Among the famous and detestable speeches that are committed to memory, I know none worse than that impudent and _tyrannical maxim_, “Let them hate me, so they fear me;” not considering that those that are kept in obedience by fear, are both malicious and mercenary, and only wait for an opportunity to change their master. Beside that, whosoever is terrible to others is likewise afraid of himself. What is more ordinary than for a tyrant to be destroyed by his own guards? which is no more than the putting those crimes into practice which they learned of their masters. How many slaves have revenged themselves of their cruel oppressors, though they were sure to die for it! but when it comes once to a _popular tyranny_, whole nations conspire against it. For “whosoever threatens all, is in danger of all,” over and above, that the cruelty of the prince increases the _number_ of his enemies, by destroying some of them; for it entails an hereditary hatred upon the friends and relations of those that are taken away. And then it has this misfortune, that a man must be wicked upon necessity; for there is no going back; so that he must betake himself to arms, and yet he lives in fear. He can neither trust to the faith of his friends, nor to the piety of his children; he both dreads death and wishes it; and becomes a greater terror to himself than he is to his people. Nay, if there were nothing else to make cruelty detestable, it were enough that it passes all bounds, both of custom and humanity; and is followed upon the heel with sword or poison. A private malice indeed does not move whole cities; but that which extends to all is every body’s mark. One sick person gives no great disturbance in a family; but when it comes to a depopulating plague, all people fly from it. And why should a prince expect any man to be good whom he has taught to be wicked?

But what if it were _safe_ to be _cruel_? Were it not still a sad thing, the very state of such a _government_? A _government_ that bears the image of a _taken city_, where there is nothing but _sorrow_, _trouble_, and _confusion_. Men dare not so much as trust themselves with their friends or with their pleasures. There is not any entertainment so innocent but it affords pretence of crime and danger. People are betrayed at their _tables_ and in their _cups_, and drawn from the very _theatre_ to the _prison_. How horrid a madness is it to be still _raging_ and _killing_; to have the rattling of _chains_ always in our _ears; bloody spectacles_ before our _eyes_; and to carry _terror_ and _dismay_ wherever we go! If we had _lions_ and _serpents_, to rule over us, this would be the manner of their _government_, saving that they agree better among themselves. It passes for a mark of greatness to burn cities, and lay whole kingdoms waste; nor is it for the honor of a prince, to appoint this or that single man to be killed, unless they have whole _troops_, or (sometimes) _legions_, to work upon. But it is not the spoils of _war_ and _bloody trophies_ that make a prince _glorious_, but the _divine power_ of preserving _unity_ and _peace. Ruin_ without _distinction_ is more properly the business of a general _deluge_, or a _conflagration_. Neither does a fierce and inexorable _anger_ become the _supreme magistrate_; “Greatness of mind is always meek and humble; but cruelty is a note and an effect of weakness, and brings down a governor to the level of a competitor.”

SENECA OF CLEMENCY.

The humanity and excellence of this virtue is confessed at all hands, as well by the men of _pleasure_, and those that think every man was made for himself, as by the Stoics, that make “man a sociable creature, and born for the common good of mankind:” for it is of all dispositions the most _peaceable_ and _quiet_. But before we enter any farther upon the discourse, it should be first known what _clemency_ is, that we may distinguish it from _pity_; which is a _weakness_, though many times mistaken for a _virtue_: and the next thing will be, to bring the mind to the _habit_ and _exercise_ of it.

“Clemency is a favorable disposition of the mind, in the matter of inflicting punishment; or, a moderation that remits somewhat of the penalty incurred; as _pardon_ is the total remission of a deserved punishment.” We must be careful not to confound _clemency_ with _pity_; for as _religion worships_ God, and _superstition profanes_ that worship; so should we distinguish betwixt _clemency_ and _pity_; _practicing_ the _one_, and _avoiding_ the _other_. For _pity_ proceeds from a _narrowness of mind_, that respects rather the _fortune_ than the _cause_. It is a kind of moral sickness, contracted from other people’s misfortune: such another weakness as laughing or yawning for company, or as that of sick eyes that cannot look upon others that are bleared without dropping themselves. I will give a shipwrecked man a plank, a lodging to a stranger, or a piece of money to him that wants it: I will dry up the tears of my friend, yet I will not weep with him, but treat him with constancy and humanity, as _one man_ ought to treat _another_.

It is objected by some, that _clemency_ is an insignificant virtue; and that only the bad are the better for it, for the good have no need of it. But in the first place, as physic is in use only among the sick, and yet in honor with the sound, so the innocent have a reverence for clemency, though criminals are properly the objects of it. And then again, a man may be innocent, and yet have occasion for it too; for by the accidents of fortune, or the condition of times, virtue itself may come to be in danger. Consider the most populous city or nation; what a solitude would it be if none should be left there but those that could stand the test of a severe justice! We should have neither judges nor accusers; none either to grant a pardon or to ask it. More or less, we are all sinners; and he that has best purged his conscience, was brought by errors to repentance. And it is farther profitable to mankind; for many delinquents come to be converted. There is a tenderness to be used even toward our slaves, and those that we have bought with our money: how much more then to free and to honest men, that are rather under our protection than dominion! Not that I would have it so general neither as not to distinguish betwixt the good and the bad; for that would introduce a confusion, and give a kind of encouragement to wickedness. It must therefore have a respect to the quality of the offender, and separate the curable from the desperate; for it is an equal cruelty to pardon all and to pardon none. Where the matter is in balance, let mercy turn the scale: if all wicked men should be punished, who should escape?

Though mercy and gentleness of nature keeps all in peace and tranquillity, even in a _cottage_; yet it is much more beneficial and conspicuous in a _palace. Private men_ in their _condition_ are likewise _private_ in their _virtues_ and in their _vices_; but the words and the actions of _princes_ are the subject of _public rumor_; and therefore they had need have a care, what occasion they give people for discourse, of whom people will be always a talking. There is the _government_ of a _prince_ over his _people_, a _father_ over his _children_, a _master_ over his _scholars_, an _officer_ over his _soldiers_. He is an unnatural father, that for every trifle beats his children. Who is the better master, he that rages over his scholars for but missing a word in a lesson, or he that tries, by admonition and fair words, to instruct and reform them? An outrageous officer makes his men run from their colors. A skilful rider brings his horse to obedience by mingling fair means with foul; whereas to be perpetually switching and spurring, makes him vicious and jadish: and shall we not have more care of _men_ than of _beasts_? It breaks the hope of generous inclinations, when they are depressed by servility and terror. There is no creature so hard to be pleased with ill usage as man.

Clemency does _well_ with _all_ but _best_ with _princes_; for it makes their power comfortable and beneficial, which would otherwise be the pest of mankind. It establishes their greatness, when they make the good of the public their particular care, and employ their power for the safety of the people. The prince, in effect, is but the soul of the community, as the community is only the body of the prince; so that being merciful to others, he is tender of himself: nor is any man so mean but his master feels the loss of him, as a part of his empire: and he takes care not only of the lives of his people, but also of their reputation. Now, giving for granted that all virtues are in themselves equal, it will not yet be denied, that they may be more beneficial to mankind in one person than in another. A beggar may be as magnanimous as a king: for what can be greater or braver than to baffle ill fortune? This does not hinder but that a man in authority and plenty has more matter for his generosity to work upon than a private person; and it is also more taken notice of upon the bench than upon the level.

When a gracious prince shows himself to his people, they do not fly from him as from a tiger that rouses himself out of his den, but they worship him as a benevolent influence; they secure him against all conspiracies, and interpose their bodies betwixt him and danger. They guard him while he sleeps, and defend him in the field against his enemies. Nor is it without reason, this unanimous agreement in love and loyalty, and this heroical zeal of abandoning themselves for the safety of their prince; but it is as well the interest of the people. In the breath of a prince there is life and death; and his sentence stands good, right or wrong. If he be angry, nobody dares advise him; and if he does amiss, who shall call him to account? Now, for him that has so much mischief in his power, and yet applies that power to the common utility and comfort of his people, diffusing also clemency and goodness into their hearts too, what can be a greater blessing to mankind than such a prince? _Any man_ may _kill_ another _against_ the law, but only a _prince_ can _save_ him so. Let him so deal with his own subjects as he desires God should deal with him. If Heaven should be inexorable to sinners, and destroy all without mercy, what flesh could be safe?

But as the faults of great men are not presently punished with thunder from above, let them have a like regard to their inferiors here upon earth. He that has revenge in his power, and does not use it, is the great man. Which is the more beautiful and agreeable state, that of a calm, a temperate, and a clear day; or that of lightning, thunder, and tempests? and this is the very difference betwixt a moderate and turbulent government. It is for low and vulgar spirits to brawl, storm, and transport themselves: but it is not for the majesty of a prince to lash out into intemperance of words. Some will think it rather slavery than empire to be debarred liberty of speech: and what if it be, when government itself is but a more illustrious servitude?

He that uses his power as he should, takes as much delight in making it comfortable to his people as glorious to himself. He is affable and easy of access; his very countenance makes him the joy of his people’s eyes, and the delight of mankind. He is beloved, defended, and reverenced by all his subjects; and men speak as well of him in private as in public. He is safe without guards, and the sword is rather his ornament than his defence. In his duty, he is like that of a good father, that sometimes gently reproves a son, sometimes threatens him; nay, and perhaps corrects him: but no father in his right wits will disinherit a son for the first fault; there must be many and great offences, and only desperate consequences, that should bring him to that decretory resolution. He will make many experiments to try if he can reclaim him first, and nothing but the utmost despair must put him upon extremities.

It is not flattery that calls a prince _the father of his country_; the titles of _great_ and _august_ are matter of compliment and of honor; but in calling him _father_, we mind him of that moderation and indulgence which he owes to his children. His subjects are his members; where, if there must be an amputation, let him come slowly to it; and when the part is cut off, let him wish it were on again: let him grieve in the doing of it. He that passes a sentence _hastily_, looks as if he did it _willingly_; and then there is an injustice in the excess.

It is a glorious contemplation for a prince, first to consider the vast multitudes of his people, whose seditious, divided, and impotent passions, would cast all in confusion, and destroy themselves, and public order too, if the hand of government did not restrain them; and thence to pass the examination of his conscience, saying thus to himself, “It is by the choice of Providence that I am here made God’s deputy upon earth, the arbitrator of life and death; and that upon my breath depends the fortune of my people. My lips are the oracles of their fate, and upon them hangs the destiny both of cities and of men. It is under my favor that people seek either for prosperity or protection: thousands of swords are drawn or sheathed at my pleasure. What towns shall be advanced or destroyed; who shall be slaves, or who free, depends upon my will; and yet, in this arbitrary power of acting without control, I was never transported to do any cruel thing, either by anger or hot blood in myself or by the contumacy, rashness, or provocations of other men; though sufficient to turn mercy itself into fury. I was never moved by the odious vanity of making myself terrible by my power, (that accursed, though common humor of ostentation and glory that haunts imperious natures.) My sword has not only been buried in the scabbard, but in a manner bound to the peace, and tender even of the cheapest blood: and where I find no other motive to compassion, humanity itself is sufficient. I have been always slow to severity, and prone to forgive; and under as strict a guard to observe the laws as if I were accountable for the breaking of them. Some I pardoned for their youth, others for their age. I spare one man for his dignity, another for his humility; and when I find no other matter to work upon, I spare myself. So that if God should at this instant call me to an account, the whole world agree to witness for me, that I have not by any force, either public or private, either by myself or by any other, defrauded the commonwealth; and the reputation that I have ever sought for has been that which few princes have obtained, the conscience of my proper innocence. And I have not lost my labor neither; for no man was ever so dear to another, as I have made myself to the whole body of my people.” Under such a prince the subjects have nothing to wish for beyond what they enjoy; their fears are quieted, and their prayers heard, and there is nothing can make their felicity greater, unless to make it perpetual; and there is no liberty denied to the people but that of destroying one another.

It is the interest of the people, by the consent of all nations, to run all hazards for the safety of their prince, and by a thousand deaths to redeem that one life, upon which so many millions depend. Does not the whole body serve the mind, though only the one is exposed to the eye and the other not, but thin and invisible, the very seat of it being uncertain? Yet the hands, feet, and eyes, observe the motions of it. We lie down, run about and ramble, as that commands us. If we be covetous, we fish the seas and ransack the earth for treasure: if ambitious, we burn our own flesh with Scævola; we cast ourselves into the gulf with Curtius: so would that vast multitude of people, which is animated but with one soul, governed by one spirit, and moved by one reason, destroy itself with its own strength, if it were not supported by wisdom and government. Wherefore, it is for their own security that the people expose their lives for their prince, as the very bond that ties the republic together; the vital spirit of so many thousands, which would be nothing else but a burden and prey without a governor.

When this union comes once to be dissolved, all falls to pieces; for empire and obedience must stand and fall together. It is no wonder then if a prince be dear to his people, when the community is wrapt up in him, and the good of both as inseparable as the body and the head; the one for strength, and the other for counsel; for what signifies the force of the body without the direction of the understanding? While the prince watches, his people sleep; his labor keeps them at ease, and his business keeps them quiet. The natural intent of monarchy appears even from the very discipline of bees: they assign to their master the fairest lodgings, the safest place; and his office is only to see that the rest perform their duties. When their king is lost, the whole swarm dissolve: more than one they will not admit; and then they contend who shall have the best. They are of all creatures the fiercest for their bigness; and leave their stings behind them in their quarrels; only the king himself has none, intimating that kings should neither be vindictive nor cruel.

Is it not a shame, after such an example of moderation in these creatures, that men should be yet intemperate? It were well if they lost their stings too in their revenge, as well as the other, that they might hurt but once, and do no mischief by their proxies. It would tire them out, if either they were to execute all with their own hands, or to wound others at the peril of their own lives.

A prince should behave himself generously in the power which God has given him of life and death, especially towards those that have been at any time his equals; for the one has his revenge, and the other his punishment in it. He that stands indebted for his life has lost it; but he that receives his life at the foot of his enemy, lives to the honor of his preserver: he lives the lasting monument of his virtue; whereas, if he had been led in triumph, the spectacle would have been quickly over. Or what if he should restore him to his kingdom again? would it not be an ample accession to his honor to show that he found nothing about the conquered that was worthy of the conqueror? There is nothing more venerable than a prince that does not revenge an injury. He that is gracious is beloved and reverenced as a common father; but a tyrant stands in fear and in danger even of his own guards. No prince can be safe himself of whom all others are afraid; for to spare none is to enrage all. It is an error to imagine that any man can be secure that suffers nobody else to be so too. How can any man endure to lead an uneasy, suspicious, anxious life, when he may be safe if he please, and enjoy all the blessings of power, together with the prayers of his people? Clemency protects a prince without a guard; there is no need of troops, castles, or fortifications: security on the one side is the condition of security on the other; and the affections of the subject are the most invincible fortress. What can be fairer, than for a prince to live the object of his people’s love; to have the vows of their heart as well as of their lips, and his health and sickness their common hopes and fears? There will be no danger of plots; nay, on the contrary, who would not frankly venture his blood to save him, under whose government, justice, peace, modesty, and dignity flourish? under whose influence men grow rich and happy; and whom men look upon with such veneration, as they would do upon the immortal gods, if they were capable of seeing them? And as the true representative of the ALMIGHTY they consider him, when he is gracious and bountiful, and employs his power to the advantage of his subjects.

When a prince proceeds to punishment, it must be either to vindicate himself or others. It is a hard matter to govern himself in his own case. If a man should advise him not to be credulous, but to examine matters, and indulge the innocent, this is rather a point of justice than of clemency: but in case that he be manifestly injured, I would have him _forgive_, where he may _safely_ do it: and be _tender_ even where he cannot _forgive_; but far more exorable in his own case, however, than in another’s.

It is nothing to be free of another man’s purse, and it is as little to be merciful in another man’s cause. He is the great man that masters his passion where he is stung himself, and pardons when he might destroy. The end of punishment is either to comfort the party injured, or to secure him for the future. A prince’s fortune is above the need of such a comfort, and his power is too eminent to seek an advance of reputation by doing a private man a mischief. This I speak in case of an affront from those that are below us; but he that of an equal has made any man his inferior, has his revenge in the bringing of him down. A _prince_ has been _killed_ by a _servant_, destroyed by a serpent: but whosoever preserves a man must be greater than the person that he preserves. With citizens, strangers, and people of low condition, a prince is not to contend, for they are beneath him: he may spare some out of good will, and others as he would do some little creatures that a man cannot touch without fouling his fingers: but for those that are to be pardoned or exposed to public punishment, he may use mercy as he sees occasion; and a generous mind can never want inducements and motives to it; and whether it be _age_ or _sex_, _high_ or _low_, nothing comes amiss.

To pass now to the vindication of others, there must be had a regard either to the amendment of the person punished, or the making others better for fear of punishment, or the taking the offender out of the way for the security of others. An amendment may be procured by a small punishment, for he lives more carefully that has something yet to lose—it is a kind of _impunity_ to be incapable of a _farther punishment_. The corruptions of a city are best cured by a few and sparing severities; for the multitude of offenders creates a custom of offending, and company authorizes a crime, and there is more good to be done upon a _dissolute age_ by _patience_ than by _rigor_; provided that it pass not for an _approbation_ of _ill-manners_, but only as an _unwillingness_ to proceed to _extremities_. Under a merciful prince, a man will be ashamed to offend, because a punishment that is inflicted by a gentle governor seems to fall heavier and with more reproach: and it is remarkable also, that “those sins are often committed which are very often punished.” Caligula, in five years, condemned more people to the _sack_ than ever were before him: and there were “fewer parricides before the law against them than after;” for our ancestors did wisely presume that the crime would never be committed, until by law for punishing it, they found that it might be done. _Parricides_ began with the _law_ against them, and the punishment instructed men in the crime. Where there are few punishments, innocency is indulged as a public good, and it is a dangerous thing to show a city how strong it is in delinquents. There is a certain contumacy in the nature of man that makes him oppose difficulties. We are better to follow than to drive; as a generous horse rides best with an easy bit. People _obey willingly_ where they are _commanded kindly_.

When Burrhus the prefect was to sentence two malefactors, he brought the warrant to Nero to sign; who, after a long reluctancy came to it at last with this exclamation: “I would I could not write!” A speech that deserved the whole world for an auditory, but all princes especially; and that the hearts of all the subjects would conform to the likeness of their masters. As the head is well or ill, so is the mind dull or merry. What is the difference betwixt a _king_ and a _tyrant_, but a _diversity_ of _will_ under one and the _same power_. The one destroys for his pleasure, the other upon necessity; a distinction rather in fact than in name.

A gracious prince is armed as well as a tyrant; but it is for the defence of his people and not for the ruin of them. No king can ever have faithful servants that accustoms them to tortures and executions; the very guilty themselves do not lead so anxious a life as the persecutors: for they are not only afraid of justice, both divine and human, but it is dangerous for them to mend their manners; so that when they are once in, they must continue to be wicked upon necessity. An universal hatred unites in a popular rage. A temperate fear may be kept in order; but when it comes once to be continual and sharp, it provokes people to extremities, and transports them to desperate resolutions, as wild beasts when they are pressed upon the _toil_, turn back and assault the very pursuers. A turbulent government is a perpetual trouble both to prince and people; and he that is a terror to all others is not without terror also himself. Frequent punishments and revenges may suppress the hatred of a few, but then it stirs up the detestation of all, so that there is no destroying one enemy without making many. It is good to master the _will_ of being _cruel_, even while there may be cause for it, and matter to work upon.

Augustus was a gracious prince when he had the power in his own hand; but in the _triumviracy_ he made use of his sword, and had his friends ready armed to set upon Antony during that dispute. But he behaved himself afterwards at another rate; for when he was betwixt forty and fifty years of age he was told that Cinna was in a plot to murder him, with the time, place and manner of the design; and this from one of the confederates. Upon this he resolved upon a revenge, and sent for several of his friends to advise upon it. The thought of it kept him waking, to consider, that there was the life of a young nobleman in the case, the nephew of Pompey, and a person otherwise innocent. He was off and on several times whether he should put him to death or not. “What!” says he, “shall I live in trouble and in danger myself, and the contriver of my death walk free and secure? Will nothing serve him but that life which Providence has preserved in so many civil wars—in so many battles both by sea and land; and now in the state of an universal peace too—and not a simple murder either, but a sacrifice; for I am to be assaulted at the very altar—and shall the contriver of all this villainy escape unpunished?” Here Augustus made a little pause, and then recollecting himself: “No, no, Cæsar,” says he, “it is rather Cæsar than Cinna that I am to be angry with: why do I myself live any longer after that my death is become the interest of so many people? And if I go on, what end will there be of blood and of punishment? If it be against my life that the nobility arm itself, and level its weapons, my single life is not worth the while, if so many must be destroyed that I may be preserved.”

His wife Livia gave him here an interruption, and desired him that he would for once hear a woman’s counsel. “Do,” says she, “like a physician, that when common remedies fail, will try the contrary: you have got nothing hitherto by severity—after Salvidianus there followed Lepidus—after him Muræna—Cæpio followed him, and Egnatius followed Cæpio—try now what mercy will do—forgive Cinna. He is discovered, and can do no hurt to your person; and it will yet advantage you in your reputation.” Augustus was glad of the advice, and he gave thanks for it; and thereupon countermanded the meeting of his friends, and ordered Cinna to be brought to him alone; for whom he caused a chair to be set, and then discharged the rest of the company. “Cinna,” says Augustus, “_before I go any farther_, you must promise not to give me the interruption of one syllable until I have told you all I have to say, and you shall have liberty afterwards to say what you please. You cannot forget, that when I found you in arms against me, and not only made my _enemy_, but _born_ so, I gave you your life and fortune. Upon your petition for the priesthood, I granted it, with a repulse to the sons of those that had been my fellow-soldiers; and you are at this day so happy and so rich, that even the conquerors envy him that is overcome; and yet after all this, you are in a plot, Cinna, to murder me.” At that word Cinna started, and interposed with exclamations, “that certainly he was far from being either so wicked or so mad.” “This is a breach of conditions, Cinna,” says Augustus, “it is not your time to speak yet: I tell you again, that you are in a plot to murder me;” and so he told him the time, the place, the confederates, the order and manner of the design, and who it was that was to do the deed. Cinna, upon this, fixed his eye upon the ground without any reply: not for his word’s sake, but as in a confusion of conscience: and so Augustus went on. “What,” says he, “may your design be in all this? Is it that you would pretend to step into my place? The commonwealth were in an ill condition, if only Augustus were in the way betwixt you and the government. You were cast the other day in a cause by one of your own _freemen_, and do you expect to find a weaker adversary of Cæsar? But what if I were removed? There is Æmilius Paulus, Fabius Maximus, and twenty other families of great blood and interest, that would never bear it.” To cut off the story short; (for it was a discourse of above two hours; and Augustus lengthened the punishment in _words_, since he intended that should be all;) “Well, Cinna,” says he, “the life that I gave to you once as an enemy, I will now repeat it to a _traitor_ and to a _parricide_, and this shall be the last reproach I will give you. For the time to come there shall be no other contention betwixt you and me, than which shall outdo the other in point of friendship.” After this Augustus made Cinna _consul_, (an honor which he confessed he durst not so much as desire) and Cinna was ever affectionately faithful to him: he made Cæsar his _sole heir_; and this was the _last conspiracy_ that ever was formed against him.

This moderation of Augustus was the excellency of his mature age; for in his youth he was passionate and sudden; and he did many things which afterward he looked back upon with trouble: after the battle of Actium, so many navies broken in Sicily, both _Roman_ and _strangers_: the _Perusian altars_, where 300 _lives_ were _sacrificed_ to the _ghost_ of Julius; his frequent _proscriptions_, and other severities; his _temperance_ at last seemed to be little more than a _weary cruelty_. If he had not _forgiven_ those that he _conquered_, whom should he have _governed_? He chose his very _life-guard_ from among his _enemies_, and the _flower_ of the Romans owed their _lives_ to his _clemency_. Nay, he only punished Lepidus himself with _banishment_, and permitted him to wear the _ensigns_ of his _dignity_, without taking the _pontificate_ to himself so long as Lepidus was living; for he would not possess it as a _spoil_, but as an _honor_. This _clemency_ it was that secured him in his greatness, and ingratiated him to the people, though he laid his hand upon the government before they had thoroughly submitted to the yoke; and this clemency it was that made his _name famous_ to _posterity_. This is it that makes us reckon him _divine_ without the authority of an _apotheosis_. He was so tender and patient, that though many a bitter jest was broken upon him, (and _contumelies_ upon princes are the most _intolerable_ of all _injuries_) yet he never punished any man upon that subject. _It is_, then, generous _to be_ merciful, _when we have it in our_ power to _take_ revenge.

A son of Titus Arius, being examined and found guilty of _parricide_, was banished Rome, and confined to Marseilles, where his father allowed him the same annuity that he had before; which made all people conclude him guilty, when they saw that his father had yet _condemned_ the son that he could not _hate_. Augustus was pleased to sit upon the fact in the house of Arius, only as a _single member_ of the _council_ that was to examine it: if it had been in Cæsar’s palace, the judgment must have been Cæsar’s and not the _father’s_. Upon a full hearing of the matter, Cæsar directed that every man should write his opinion whether _guilty_ or _not_, and without declaring of his own, for fear of a partial vote. Before the opening of the books, Cæsar passed an oath, that he would not be Arius’s _heir_: and to show that he had no interest in his sentence, as appeared afterward; for he was not condemned to the ordinary _punishments_ of _parricides_, nor to a prison, but, by the mediation of Cæsar, only banished Rome, and confined to the place which his father should name; Augustus insisting upon it, that the father should content himself with an easy punishment: and arguing that the young man was not moved to the attempt by _malice_, and that he was but half resolved upon the fact, for he wavered in it; and, therefore, to remove him from the city, and from his father’s sight, would be sufficient. This is a glorious mercy, and worthy of a prince, to make all things gentler wherever he comes.

How miserable is that man in himself, who, when he has employed his power in rapines and cruelty upon others, is yet more unhappy in himself! He stands in fear both of his domestics and of strangers; the faith of his friends and the piety of his children, and flies to actual violence to secure him from the violence he fears. When he comes to look about him, and to consider what he _has_ done, what he _must_, and what he is _about_ to do; what with the _wickedness_, and with the _torments_ of his _conscience_, many times he fears death, oftener he wishes for it; and lives more odious to himself than to his subjects; whereas on the contrary, he that takes a care of the public, though of one part more perhaps than of another, yet there is not any part of it but he looks upon as part of himself. His mind is tender and gentle; and even where punishment is necessary and profitable, he comes to it unwillingly, and without any rancor or enmity in his heart. Let the authority, in fine, be what it will, clemency becomes it; and the greater the power, the greater is the glory of it. “It is a truly royal virtue for a prince to deliver his people _from other_ men’s anger, and not to oppress them _with his_ own.”

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected silently. Other variations in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.