I am aware that all those who wish to give anyone admonition commonly begin with precepts, and end with examples. But it is desirable at times to alter this practice; for different people must be dealt with differently. Some are guided by reason, some must be confronted with famous names and an authority that does not leave a man’s mind free, dazzled as he is by showy deeds. I shall place before your eyes but two examples — the greatest of your sex and century — one, of a woman who allowed herself to be swept away by grief, the other, of a woman who, though she suffered a like misfortune and even greater loss, yet did not permit her ills to have the mastery long, but quickly restored her mind to its accustomed state. Octavia and Livia, the one the sister of Augustus, the other his wife, had lost their sons — both of them young men with the well-assured hope of becoming emperor.
Octavia lost5 Marcellus, upon whom Augustus, at once his uncle and his father-in-law, had begun to lean, upon whom he had begun to rest the burden of empire — a young man of keen mind, of commanding ability, yet withal marked by a frugality and self-restraint that, for one of his years and wealth, commanded the highest admiration, patient under hardships, averse to pleasures, and ready to bear whatever his uncle might wish to place or, so to speak, to build upon him: well had he chosen a foundation that would not sink beneath any weight. Through all the rest of her life Octavia set no bounds to her tears and moans, and closed her ears to all words that offered wholesome advice; with her whole mind fixed and centered upon one single thing, she did not allow herself even to relax. Such she remained during her whole life as she was at the funeral — I do not say lacking the courage to rise, but refusing to be uplifted, counting any loss of tears a second bereavement. Not a single portrait would she have of her darling son, not one mention of his name in her hearing. She hated all mothers, and was inflamed not of all against Livia, because it seemed that the happiness which had once been held out to herself had passed to the other woman’s son.6 Companioned ever by darkness and solitude, giving no thought even to her brother, she spurned the poems7 that were written to glorify the memory of Marcellus and all other literary honors, and closed her ears to every form of consolation. Withdrawing from all her accustomed duties and hating even the good fortune that her brother’s greatness shed all too brightly around her, she buried herself in deep seclusion. Surrounded by children and grandchildren, she would not lay aside her garb of mourning, and, putting a slight on all her nearest, accounted herself utterly bereft though they still lived.