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Member 3 Against poverty and want and other such adversities
One of the greatest miseries that can befall a man, in the world’s estimation, is poverty or want. It makes men steal, bear false witness, swear, perjure themselves, quarrel, murder, and rebel; it breaks their sleep and causes death itself. “No burden is heavier than poverty”: no burden, says Menander, is so intolerable as poverty. It makes men desperate; it raises and casts down. “Wealth brings honours, wealth brings friendships”: money makes, but poverty mars, and so on—and all this in the world’s estimation.
Yet rightly considered, poverty is a great blessing in itself, a happy condition. It gives no such cause for discontent, or for people to reckon themselves worthless, hated by God, abandoned, miserable, or unfortunate. Christ himself was poor, born in a manger, and had no house to shelter his head throughout his life, lest anyone regard poverty as a judgement of God or a hateful condition.
And as he was himself, so he shaped his apostles and disciples: they were all poor, prophets poor, apostles poor—“Silver and gold have I none,” Acts 3. “As sorrowing,” says Paul, “and yet always rejoicing; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things,” 1 Corinthians 6:10.
Great philosophers have chosen poverty, not only Christians but many others. Crates of Thebes was revered as a god in Athens. Noble by birth, he had many servants, a distinguished retinue, great wealth, many estates, and fine clothes. But when he saw that all the world’s wealth was fragile, uncertain, and of no help in living well, he flung his burden into the sea and renounced his property.
Those Curii and Fabricii will always be renowned for despising these foolish trifles with which the world is so taken. Among Christians I could list many kings and queens who have abandoned their crowns and fortunes, and willingly relinquished these highly prized toys; many who have refused honours, titles, and all this empty pomp and happiness, which others seek so ambitiously and scheme so anxiously to obtain.
I do not deny that riches are God’s good gifts and blessings, and “honour lies in the one who confers it”: honours come from God. Both are rewards of virtue, fit to be sought and petitioned for, and may rightly be possessed. Yet there is no such great happiness in having them, or misery in lacking them.
“They are given to the good,” says Augustine, “so that no one should think them evil; and to the bad, so that no one should think them too good.” Good men have wealth so that we should not think it evil, and bad men so that they should not rely on it or esteem it so highly. As rain falls on both sorts, riches are given to good and bad, “but to the good for good”: they are good only to the godly.
But compare the two conditions: in natural abilities they are not unlike. A beggar’s child, as Cardano aptly observes, is in no way inferior to a prince’s, and is usually better. As for those accidents of fortune, it will readily appear that there is no such great difference, no extraordinary happiness in one condition or misery in the other.
He is rich, wealthy, fat: what does he gain by it? Pride, insolence, lust, ambition, cares, fears, suspicion, trouble, anger, rivalry, and many foul diseases of body and mind. He certainly has a variety of dishes, better food, sweet wine, pleasant sauces, exquisite music, splendid clothes, and struts about magnificently as a lord, with all that Micillus admired in Lucian. But along with these he has gout, dropsy, apoplexy, palsy, stones, the pox, rheums, catarrhs, indigestion, obstructions, melancholy, and so on. Lust enters, anger, ambition; according to Chrysostom, the consequences of riches are pride, dissipation, excess, arrogance, fury, and every irrational course.
Softening riches have broken the age With shameful luxury.
With their variety of dishes, many such maladies of body and mind slip in, of which the poor man knows nothing. As Saturn in Lucian answered the discontented common people, who complained bitterly and cried out against the rich because their Saturnalian feasts in Rome had been neglected: they were much mistaken in supposing riches brought such happiness.
You see the best of it, he said, but you do not know their various pains and discontents. They are like painted walls, fine outside and rotten within: diseased, filthy, infirm, full of the effects of excess. And who can reckon half of them? If you only knew the fears, cares, mental anguish, and vexation to which they are subject, you would renounce all riches from then on.
Oh, if the hearts of the rich lay open, What fears does lofty Fortune stir within? The Bruttian sea, when the northwest wind Beats upon it, has gentler waves.
Oh, if only their hearts could be seen, How full of fear within, how furious! The narrow seas are not so stormy.
Yes, but the rich man has the world at his command, the good things of the earth: “It is pleasant to draw from a great heap.” He is a happy man, revered like a god or a prince; everyone courts him, applauds, honours, and admires him.
He has honours indeed, and an abundance of everything; but, as I said, pride, lust, anger, faction, rivalry, fears, cares, and suspicion enter with his wealth. For his excesses he has aches, indigestion, and gout; and as the fruits of his idleness, overindulgence, lust, gluttony, and drunkenness, every kind of disease. “Wickedness increases with money”: the wealthier, the more dishonest.
He is exposed to hatred, envy, danger, and treachery, to fear of death, of losing his rank, and so on. It is “a slippery station on the edge of a precipice”; the higher he climbs, the greater his fall.
Tall towers fall with a heavier crash, And lightning strikes The highest mountains.
Lightning commonly sets the highest towers on fire; the more exalted his position, the more liable he is to fall.
The most fruitful tree breaks under its countless apples, And excessive wealth suddenly comes crashing down.