and vigorous man; it does me good to see him; his eyes tell of
content and well-being; he is the picture of happiness. A letter
comes by post; the happy man glances at it, it is addressed to him,
he opens it and reads it. In a moment he is changed, he turns pale
and falls into a swoon. When he comes to himself he weeps, laments,
and groans, he tears his hair, and his shrieks re-echo through the
air. You would say he was in convulsions. Fool, what harm has this
bit of paper done you? What limb has it torn away? What crime has
it made you commit? What change has it wrought in you to reduce
you to this state of misery?

Had the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into the
fire, it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once happy and
unhappy, would have offered us a strange problem. His misfortunes,
you say, were real enough. Granted; but he did not feel them. What
of that? His happiness was imaginary. I admit it; health, wealth,
a contented spirit, are mere dreams. We no longer live in our own
place, we live outside it. What does it profit us to live in such
fear of death, when all that makes life worth living is our own?

Oh, man! live your own life and you will no longer be wretched.
Keep to your appointed place in the order of nature and nothing can
tear you from it. Do not kick against the stern law of necessity,
nor waste in vain resistance the strength bestowed on you by heaven,
not to prolong or extend your existence, but to preserve it so far
and so long as heaven pleases. Your freedom and your power extend
as far and no further than your natural strength; anything more is
but slavery, deceit, and trickery. Power itself is servile when it
depends upon public opinion; for you are dependent on the prejudices
of others when you rule them by means of those prejudices. To lead