‘Well, Britannicus,’ said Pomponia, ‘I know something more about these poor Christians than that. All these are lies. I dare say you have read, or Sosibius has read to you, some of the writings of Seneca?’ ‘No,’ said Britannicus, reddening. ‘Seneca is my brother Nero’s tutor. It is he, and Agrippina, and Pallas, who have done away with the will of my father, Claudius. I don’t care to hear anything he says. He is not a true philosopher, like Musonius or Cornutus. He only writes fine things which he does not believe.’ ‘A man may write very true things, Prince,’ said Pomponia, ‘yet not live up to them. I have here some of his letters, which his friend Lucilius has shown me. Let me read you a few passages.’ She took down the scroll of purple vellum, on which she had copied some of the letters, and, unrolling it, read a sentence here and there:-- ‘“_God is near you, is with you, is within you. A sacred spirit dwells within us, the observer and guardian of all our evil and our good; there is no good man without God._” ‘“_What advantage is it that anything is hidden from man? Nothing is closed to God._” ‘“_Even from a corner it is possible to spring up into heaven. Rise, therefore, and form thyself into a fashion worthy of God._” ‘“_Do you wish to render the gods propitious? Be virtuous; to honour them it is enough to imitate them._” ‘“_You must live for another, if you wish to live for yourself._” ‘“_In every good man, God dwells._”[21] ‘I could read you many more thoughts like these from Seneca’s letters. Are they not true and beautiful?’ ‘I wish his own acts were as true and beautiful,’ answered Britannicus. ‘But what has this to do with the Christians?’ ‘This: every one of those thoughts, and many much deeper, are commonplaces among Christians; but the difference between them and the worshippers of the gods is that they possess other truths which make these _real_. They alone are innocent.’ ‘And they do not worship an ass’s head? Well, at any rate, Christus or Chrestus, whom they do worship, was crucified in Palestine by Pontius Pilatus.’ ‘And does suffering prevent a man from being divine? All Romans worship Hercules, yet they believe, or profess to believe, that he was burnt alive on Œta.’ Britannicus was silent, for he had always thought it a colossal insanity on the part of the Christians to worship one who had been crucified like a slave. ‘Tell me,’ said Pomponia, ‘when Epictetus reads you his notes of the lectures of Musonius, does not the name of Socrates sometimes occur in them?’ ‘Yes,’ said the young prince; ‘it occurs constantly. Musonius talked of Socrates as a perfect pattern, and all but divine.’ ‘And how did Socrates die?’ ‘He was poisoned by the Athenians with hemlock in their common prison.’ ‘As a malefactor?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Does it, then, prove him to be worthless that he, too, died the death of a felon? And are all philosophers fools for extending so much reverence to a poisoned criminal?’