A Good Life is the Only Nobility

A Good Life is the Only Nobility

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. A good life is the one and only nobility (Juvenal, Satires, 8. 20). It is not one’s family tree that ennobles a person since that is simply an accident of birth. True nobility is nobility of soul and character, the struggle of living a good life amidst so much bad example and indifference. These are the things that matter, the everlasting things, the timeless things of the spirit, the only things that are enduring and that give our lives meaning.

Animus impleri debet, non arca. It is the soul, not the cash-box, which ought to be filled (Seneca, Moral Letters, 92. 31). The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. Little we see in Nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away. For this, for everything, we are out of tune. Not much has changed since Wordsworth penned these hauntingly beautiful words over two centuries ago. Things won’t ever satisfy us, for life is more than eating, and the body more than raiment. It’s the intangibles that life is about — the Good, the True, the Beautiful, Ideals, Values, Convictions, Kindness, Mercy, and Compassion, the things of the spirit, the things we can’t measure, but which measure us, all too often found wanting, but yet we keep trying.

Semita tranquillae per virtutem patet unica vitae. The only road to peace is virtue (Juvenal, Satires, 10. 364). Peace of soul, peace of mind, call it what you will, this kind of peace, the only peace that counts comes from within. It’s not something you can buy, but which you create in your own heart. Material possessions cannot fill inner emptiness, desolation of spirit, and despair; only detachment from things can and clinging to the essentials.

And what are these essentials? What really matters to you, the things that give you back to yourself, but which you rarely have time for during the day unless you make time for them and jealousy guard these moments. It’s at those times when you’re alone and sitting quietly that the essentials things will come to you if they already haven’t giving you strength and meaning amidst the mundane concerns of each hour.

Nulla est laus ibi esse integrum ubi nemo est qui conetur corrumpere. An untried virtue deserves no praise (Cicero, Against Verres, 1. 16. 46). Untried virtue is like New Year’s resolutions, which can be enjoyed in advance without having to keep them. It’s only when we try to put them into practice that we realize how hard they are to accomplish when we’re not in the mood. They require work, failure, getting up, and trying again. Give them a month, preferably two, and if we’re mostly successful, we may have a chance.

The cure for untried virtue is people. Virtue cannot mature in isolation. Knowledge can, scholarship can, and any creative endeavor can, but not character, which needs human resistance and the maelstrom of life. Flee ivory towers whose inmates are phantoms. Come down from your tower and join the human race for you are part of it and they of you. At the end of the day withdraw again to your isolation to be alone with your thoughts as to how you fared that day. We need both, life and isolation for balance.

Semper homo bonus tiro est. A good man is always a beginner (Martial, Epigrams, 12. 51. 2). Being good comes only with struggle. Sometimes we fail; sometimes we don’t. The secret is not to give up, especially in times of discouragement. We’re learning a new habit, and new habits take time. There will also be times when our hearts won’t be in it, but we must ignore these feelings. We need patience and the ability to forgive ourselves when we don’t measure up and reminding ourselves often that we’re only beginners, and will always remain so!

Accept what you are, at least what you are now and be thankful for what you’ve been given and for whatever advantages you may have and which others may not and consider yourself fortunate and don’t judge anyone but try to make allowance for them as they may be doing for you.

Tomorrow push on again, advancing every day as you try to establish new habits, which always take time. It’s a long and hard struggle, but you’ll succeed on one condition — if you think you’re worth the effort, even when you fail, especially when you fail!

Martial (c. 40 — c. 104 CE) was a writer of epigrams. A Spaniard, he observed Roman society with an outsider’s eye of bemused detachment. In over 1500 epigrams in many moods on countless themes about persons of all sorts and conditions, he conveyed the teeming vitality of Rome’s city life. His polished observations are full of wit, wisdom, and satire. In ridiculing human folly, he is rarely bitter or cynical, never personal, attacking only the type.

Pars magna bonitatis est velle fieri bonum. A large part of goodness is the wish to be good (Seneca, Moral Letters, 34. 3). Wanting to be a good person is half the battle. Knowing this will help you during the dry spells even when you don’t feel like it. Learn to disregard your feelings, which are on-again, off-again fair-weather friends. Pay them no mind. They’ll put in an occasional appearance, but more often than not they won’t, so it’s best not to count on them.

It’s when you’re not in the mood but still persist that you’re making real progress, or when no one’s in the bleachers cheering you on. When you feel indifferent, that’s real life because you’ll rarely feel all fired up when you’re moving forward. It’s just showing up and taking your place in the battle line and taking what Each Day dishes out. Ask any professional.

If you’re a student, this means keeping regular hours, ignoring distractions, and studying. It also means getting fresh air and exercise, keeping physically fit to be mentally sharp, and relaxing with friends, and the tricky part is keeping everything in balance.

Is probus est quem paenitet quam probus sit et frugi bonae; quis ipsus sibi satis placet, nec probus est nec frugi bonae. The truly good man is displeased with how good he is; the man pleased with himself is not truly good (Plautus, Three-Dollar Day, 320). This reminds me of an old story: Two men went up into the temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican (a tax collector). The Pharisee stood and prayed thus within himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican, a tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I possess to the poor. And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but struck his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner. I tell you, this man went back home justified rather than the other: for everyone who exalts himself shall be abased; and he that humbles himself shall be exalted.

Cum recte vivas, ne cures verba malorum: arbitrii non est nostri quid quisque loquatur. If you live a good life, pay no attention to evil tongues. What people say is not in our power (The Sayings of Cato, 3. 2). Just stay focused on what you know is right, and learn this early in life: everyone won’t like you. Maturity consists in not caring.

The Sayings of Cato is a collection of moral and practical rules of conduct, compiled by an anonymous author sometime in the late third century CE and immensely popular in schools during the Middle Ages. “Cato” may be the compiler’s tribute to Cato the Elder or to his great-grandson, Cato the Younger. See “The Wisdom of Cato — Georgetown University” online for the 140 two-liners in the Disticha Catonis collection. They’re a gold mine of wisdom.

The following one-liners are also part of the collection: Parentes ama. Love your parents; Cum bonis ambula. Keep company with good people; Libros lege. Read books; Quae legeris, memento. Remember what you read; Familiam cura. Take care of your family; Neminem riseris. Don’t laugh at anybody; Quod satis est, dormi. Sleep the right amount of time;

Tute consule. Give good advice; Litteras disce. Study literature; Existimationem retine. Hold on to your reputation; Miserum noli ridere. Don’t sneer at the poor; Virtute utere. Practice virtue; Iracundiam temporale rege. Control your anger; Liberos erudi. Teach your children; Minime iudica. Don’t judge.

Bonus vir nemo est nisi qui bonus est omnibus. No one is good unless he is good to everyone (Publilius Syrus, Maxims, 99). The maxim isn’t referring to the warmth and affection one naturally feels towards one’s family, relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but rather strangers, to whom one would naturally be polite, but wouldn’t feel any obligation to go out of one’s way to help them.

The point of the maxim, however, is saying that unless one were willing to help everyone, even strangers, one wouldn’t really be good in a virtuous sense at all unless one did go out of one’s way for them and that it might even entail one’s time, inconvenience, or money. You would naturally do this for family, relatives, friends, and acquaintances but this wouldn’t be virtue, but natural affection and friendship. But acting this way toward everyone wouldn’t be easy, and why real virtue is so rare.

It’s a question raised in our culture by the story of the Good Samaritan and the idea of “loving thy neighbor as thyself.” The question is, then, who is one’s neighbor? Enter the Good Samaritan. The Samaritans were a group of people despised by the Jews in biblical times.

The Good Samaritan finds a Jew who has been robbed, beaten, and left for dead on the side of a road. He binds up his wounds, brings him to an inn, and pays the innkeeper to take care of him until he returns, at which time he will pay him more to cover any additional expenses. He does this for a complete stranger, who probably would despise him under normal circumstances.

When you reflect on this story, it’s very impressive, heroic even, for very few people would do this. The parable and maxim are saying that unless you’d be willing to go this far with everyone, you’re not really good in a virtuous sense. It is, to say the least, a most formidable challenge. Isn’t this expecting too much of human nature? Perhaps, and that’s why it’s so seldom done, unless you’ve truly taken this parable to heart.

Nemo beneficia in calendario scribit. No one enters his good deeds into an account book (Seneca, On Benefits, 1. 2. 3). No one, that is, except Ben Franklin, who was a very serious and single-minded young man who wanted to improve himself as a human being, and so kept a journal of his faults or offenses against the following thirteen virtues: Temperance, Silence, Order, Resolution, Frugality, Industry, Sincerity, Justice, Moderation, Cleanliness, Tranquility, Chastity, and Humility. Read his Autobiography as a window into a very unusual young man intent on improving himself.

Regia res est succurrere lapsis. It is a royal deed to help the fallen (Ovid, Letters from Pontus, 2. 9. 11). The poet Ovid, the darling of the Roman jet set, had been banished to Romania for some unknown reason and finally understood what it meant to suffer. The scales of blindness fell from his eyes, and he began to understand the misery of the world’s poor, oppressed, and neglected. During those years of banishment, he also wrote works of great depth and beauty, which, unfortunately, few read today. He is the undisputed poet of the experience of loss and how it eats away at the soul. This particular quote is saying that when you help someone who has been laid low by life, you are doing a royal deed, a deed worthy of the majesty of a king who has the power to alleviate some of the immense suffering that is everywhere throughout the world about which the average person cares nothing.

Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco. Having known misfortune myself, I am learning to help those in distress (Virgil, Aeneid, 1. 630). Dido speaks these words to Aeneas upon his arrival in Carthage after his many wanderings after escaping the destruction of Troy. Misfortune makes us grow up fast. At twenty, you can have had more than your fair share of adversity and know more about life than someone twice your age. Personal tragedy opens your eyes to the pain of others. Their crosses and sorrows, if you let them, can change your life, making you aware of some of the world’s limitless misery, which millions must endure without consolation because they have no other choice.

Why do some individuals, at great inconvenience to themselves, give up their comfortable middle-class lives and travel to poor countries as doctors, nurses, and missionaries to minister to sick and suffering human beings, who would otherwise have no one to care for them? How do you explain such heroic sacrifice?

Ubicumque homo est, ibi beneficii locus est. Where there is a human being, there is a chance to do good (Seneca, On the Happy Life, 24. 3). There are some who feel surrounded by the sacred and mysterious silence of the universe. They are never selective in helping others, but care for every human being and creature in pain. They don’t look upon such work as their “job,” but their “calling,” their “vocation,” a state of inner beatitude that enfolds them.

The names of giants like Albert Schweitzer and Dorothy Day come readily to mind. If you want to be inspired by real dedication to a cause that borders on the sublime about helping “thy neighbor,” you could do no better than acquainting yourself with these towering individuals: Dorothy Day’s autobiography, The Long Loneliness and, of course, Schweitzer’s Reverence for Life.

Beneficium non in eo quod fit aut datur consistit, sed in ipso dantis aut facientis animo. Goodness lies not in the deed, but in the intention (Seneca, On Benefits, 1. 6. 1). If you intend to harm people and, without meaning to, wind up helping them and are lionized as a great philanthropist, have you done a good deed? If you intend to help people and, without meaning to, wind up harming them, have you done a bad deed?

If you’re a multi-millionaire and build a hospital wing on condition that no one knows who donated the money, and someone else does the same thing but wants the wing named after himself and insists on media coverage, have you both done a good deed? Is one deed better than the other? Is it the deed, the intention with which it is done, or its consequences that determine whether that deed is good?

You sometimes hear that it doesn’t matter why someone does a good deed, but just be grateful that such a deed is done. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but simply accept the deed when offered and not be concerned with the motive of the person doing it. Others think that motive makes all the difference in the world. They’d like to think that someone helping them had no ulterior motive, but that it was a purely selfless act. If you sensed that someone were helping you for a self-serving reason, would it matter, or matter very much?

Homo qui in homine calamitoso est misericors meminit sui. Compassion puts oneself in another’s place (Publilius Syrus, Maxims, 243). Compassion can be a dangerous thing. When it’s taught in the classroom it can become a Damascus moment. Teaching about slavery by having students imagine scenes in the lives of slaves, what they had to endure, how it made them feel — the humiliations, the whippings, the inhumanity and degradation, and the separation of families, can be extraordinarily emotional experiences.

Having students silently internalize what they see and feel as their teacher slowly talks them through such scenes and asks them simply to identify with the suffering of these helpless human beings at the mercy of their heartless masters could change the lives of students.

Sic in inferiore vivas, quemadmodum tecum superiorem velis vivere. Treat your subordinate as you would have your superior treat you (Seneca, Moral Letters, 47. 11). Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. This is an invitation to explore through role-play how someone else feels. The swiftest way to becoming a moral person is becoming a compassionate person who feels, for it is feelings, not ideas, that transform and educate us; feelings that bore into our very essence and permit us to feel the pain of what every living creature — human and animal — is made to endure.

If someone, on the other hand, is a very cold person and approaches everything in terms of ideas alone, they are many things about life they will never understand unless they’re able to feel it. It’s not ideas that educate us, but the feelings that accompany those ideas that open us up to the misery of the world. Learn to see with the heart if you want to be human.

Is it any wonder, then, that the cultivation of feelings in education is so important, and why reading and discussing novels and plays, short stories and poems in class are so indispensable to an education of becoming a compassionate and complete human being? Literature touches the transcendent when it teaches us to feel and to identify with the suffering of our fellow creatures lest we knowingly or unknowingly add to their suffering.

Thinking is important in protecting us against the machinations of the world, but the ability to feel, and to feel deeply, is also very important. This is especially true of some boys, who either lose their capacity to feel, ignore their feelings as “signs of weakness,” or despise them as beneath contempt and unworthy of a male. They may be too young to realize that it’s feelings that make us human, and that intellect alone, divorced from all feeling, can make us a brute.

If you don’t want people to feel, describe what is happening in abstract or theoretical terms. They won’t feel a thing, but if you want them to understand which is really going on, express the same event in ways that will make them feel and they could be transfixed on the spot. Having students feel their way through a particular scene of a play is sometimes better than reading a learned treatise that explains the action.

This is why Standardized Testing is so pernicious in today’s schools since it discourages feeling except that of boredom on the part of students and outrage on the part of their teachers who are made complicit in this miseducation of American youth. There is simply no time to discuss ideas and experience the emotional reactions which those ideas give rise to as is only natural when discussing great literature rather than brief outtakes to prepare for tests and trivialize what a classroom experience should be about.

When, O Lord, wilt Thou deliver us from these “reformster” practitioners of lobotomized mindlessness imposed by politicians and legislatures in the pay of testing companies to force-feed students their toxic brew instead of letting teachers get on with conducting old-fashioned discussions about what a story is saying about life.

Ut absolvaris, ignosce. Forgive, if you want forgiveness (Seneca, On Benefits, 7. 28. 3). Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Or in the vernacular, we ask to be forgiven only if we are also willing to forgive those who have wronged us. One is contingent upon the other. Cast all ill-will from your heart, and all will be well.

Frank Breslin is a retired high-school teacher in the New Jersey public school system.