I am willing to agree here with most of the ancient opinions: that it is better to die when there is more evil than good in living; and that to hold our life dear above our torment and inconvenience is to set ourselves against the laws of nature itself, as these old rules have it:
Either a painless life, or else a happy death. To die is good for those whom life brings misery. ’Tis better not to live than live in wretchedness. (Greek Gnomic Poets)
But to push the contempt of death to such a degree, that one should use it to distract oneself from honors, riches, greatness and other favors and goods that we call fortune, as if reason did not have enough to do to persuade us to abandon them, without adding this new burden, I had not seen it nor commanded nor practiced, until this passage by Seneca came to hand. In it, he advised Lucilius, a powerful figure of great authority around the Emperor, to change this voluptuous and pompous life and to withdraw from his ambition of the world to some solitary, tranquil and philosophical life, to which Lucilius alleged some difficulties: I am of the opinion (he said) that you should leave that life, or life altogether; I well advise you to follow the gentler path, and to detach rather than break what you have badly knotted, provided that, if it cannot otherwise be detached, you break it.
There is no man so cowardly that he does not prefer to fall once than to remain always on the move. I would have found this advice worthy of Stoic harshness; but it is stranger that it is borrowed from Epicurus, who writes, in this regard, things quite similar to Idomeneus. Yes, I think I have noticed some similar traits among our people, but with Christian moderation. Saint Hilaire, Bishop of Poitiers, that famous enemy of the heresy of Arius, being in Syria, was informed that Abra, his only daughter, whom he had left over here with her mother, was being pursued for marriage by the most prominent lords of the land, as a daughter who was very well nourished, beautiful, rich and in the prime of life. He wrote to her (as we see) that she should reject all the pleasures and advantages that were offered to her; that he had found on his journey a much grander and more worthy suitor, of much greater power and magnificence, who would present her with dresses and jewels of inestimable value.
His intention was to make her lose her appetite and the use of worldly pleasures, in order to unite her completely with God; but, as the shortest and surest way to achieve this seemed to be the death of his daughter, he did not cease, through wishes, prayers and supplications, to ask God to take her from this world and call her to himself, as happened: for soon after her return she died, at which he showed a singular joy.
This one seems to improve on the others, in that he addresses this method directly, which they only take as a secondary option, and then only in relation to his only daughter. But I do not want to omit the end of this story, even though it is not my purpose. The wife of Saint Hilaire, having heard from him how their daughter had conducted herself by her own design and will, and how much happier she had been to be removed from this world than to be in it, took such a keen interest in eternal and heavenly bliss that she urged her husband with extreme insistence to do the same for her. And, God having withdrawn her to himself soon after their common prayers, it was a death embraced with singular common contentment.