{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6585/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6585","id":"gutenberg_6585","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6585","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Classics of Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Lucian, of Samosata -- Translations into English","Precursors of Science Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Robert Nield, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WORKS OF LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA\n\nComplete with exceptions specified in the preface\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nH. W. FOWLER AND F. G. FOWLER\n\nIN FOUR VOLUMES\n\nWhat work nobler than transplanting foreign thought into the barren\ndomestic soil? except indeed planting thought of your own, which the\nfewest are privileged to do.--_Sartor Resartus_.\n\nAt each flaw, be this your first thought: the author doubtless said\nsomething quite different, and much more to the point. And then you may\nhiss _me_ off, if you will.--LUCIAN, _Nigrinus_, 9.\n\n(LUCIAN) The last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic wit.--_Lord\nMacaulay_.\n\n\n\nVOLUME II\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF VOL. II\n\nTHE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR\n\nAPOLOGY FOR 'THE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR'\n\nA SLIP OF THE TONGUE IN SALUTATION\n\nHERMOTIMUS, OR THE RIVAL PHILOSOPHIES\n\nHERODOTUS AND AETION\n\nZEUXIS AND ANTIOCHUS\n\nHARMONIDES\n\nTHE SCYTHIAN\n\nTHE WAY TO WRITE HISTORY\n\nTHE TRUE HISTORY\n\nTHE TYRANNICIDE\n\nTHE DISINHERITED\n\nPHALARIS, I\n\nPHALARIS, II\n\nALEXANDER THE ORACLE-MONGER\n\nOF PANTOMIME\n\nLEXIPHANES\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR\n\n\nThe dependent scholar! The great man's licensed friend!--if friend, not\nslave, is to be the word. Believe me, Timocles, amid the humiliation and\ndrudgery of his lot, I know not where to turn for a beginning. Many, if\nnot most, of his hardships are familiar to me; not, heaven knows, from\npersonal experience, for I have never been reduced to such extremity, and\npray that I never may be; but from the lips of numerous victims; from the\nbitter outcries of those who were yet in the snare, and the complacent\nrecollections of others who, like escaped prisoners, found a pleasure in\ndetailing all that they had been through. The evidence of the latter was\nparticularly valuable. Mystics, as it were, of the highest grade,\nDependency had no secrets for them. Accordingly, it was with keen\ninterest that I listened to their stories of miraculous deliverance from\nmoral shipwreck. They reminded me of the mariners who, duly cropped,\ngather at the doors of a temple, with their tale of stormy seas and\nmonster waves and promontories, castings out of cargoes, snappings of\nmasts, shatterings of rudders; ending with the appearance of those twin\nbrethren [Footnote: The Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux, who were supposed to\nappear to sailors in distress.] so indispensable to nautical story, or of\nsome other _deus ex machina_, who, seated at the masthead or\nstanding at the helm, guides the vessel to some sandy shore, there to\nbreak up at her leisure--not before her crew (so benevolent is the God!)\nhave effected a safe landing. The mariner, however, is liberal in\nembellishment, being prompted thereto by the exigencies of his situation;\nfor by his appearance as a favourite of heaven, not merely a victim of\nfortune, the number of the charitable is increased. It is otherwise with\nthose whose narrative is of domestic storms, of billows rising mountain\nhigh (if so I may phrase it) within four walls. They tell us of the\nseductive calm that first lured them on to those waters, of the\nsufferings they endured throughout the voyage, the thirst, the\nsea-sickness, the briny drenchings; and how at last their luckless craft\nwent to pieces upon some hidden reef or at the foot of some steep crag,\nleaving them to swim for it, and to land naked and utterly destitute. All\nthis they tell us: but I have ever suspected them of having convenient\nlapses of memory, and omitting the worst part for very shame. For myself,\nI shall have no such scruple. All that I have heard, or can reasonably\ninfer, of the evils of dependence, I shall place before you. For either,\nfriend, my penetration is at fault, or you have long had a hankering for\nthis profession.\n\nYes, I have seen it from the first, whenever the conversation has fallen\non this subject of salaried intellects. 'Happy men!' some enthusiast has\ncried. 'The _elite_ of Rome are their friends. They dine\nsumptuously, and call for no reckoning. They are lodged splendidly, and\ntravel comfortably--nay, luxuriously--with cushions at their backs, and\nas often as not a fine pair of creams in front of them. And, as if this\nwere not enough, the friendship they enjoy and the handsome treatment\nthey receive is made good to them with a substantial salary. They sow\nnot, they plough not; yet all things grow for their use.' How I have seen\nyou prick up your ears at such words as these! How wide your mouth has\nopened to the bait!\n\nNow I will have a clear conscience in this matter. I will not be told\nhereafter that I saw you swallowing this palpable bait, and never stirred\na finger to snatch it from you, and show you the hook while there was yet\ntime; that I watched you nibbling, saw the hook well in and the fish\nhauled up, and then stood by shedding useless tears. A grave charge,\nindeed, were I to leave it in your power to bring it; such neglect would\nadmit of no palliation. You shall therefore hear the whole truth. Now, in\nleisurely fashion, from without, not hereafter from within, shall you\nexamine this weel from which no fish escapes. You shall take in hand this\nhook of subtle barb. You shall try the prongs of this eel-spear against\nyour inflated cheek; and if you decide that they are not sharp, that they\nwould be easily evaded, that a wound from them would be no great matter,\nthat they are deficient in power and grasp--then write me among those who\nhave cowardice to thank for their empty bellies; and for yourself, take\nheart of grace, and swoop upon your prey, and cormorant-wise, if you\nwill, swallow all at a gulp.\n\nBut however much the present treatise is indebted to you for its\nexistence, its application is not confined to you who are philosophers,\nwhose ambition it is to form your conduct upon serious principles; it\nextends to the teachers of literature, of rhetoric, of music,--to all, in\nshort, whose intellectual attainments can command a maintenance and a\nwage. And where the life, from beginning to end, is one and the same for\nall, the philosopher (I need not say), so far from being a privileged\nperson, has but the additional ignominy of being levelled with the rest,\nand treated by his paymaster with as scant ceremony as the rest. In\nconclusion, whatever disclosures I may be led to make, the blame must\nfall in the first instance on the aggressors, and in the second instance\non those who suffer the aggression. For me, unless truth and candour be\ncrimes, I am blameless.\n\nAs to the vulgar rabble of trainers and toadies, illiterate, mean-souled\ncreatures, born to obscurity, should we attempt to dissuade _them_\nfrom such pursuits, our labour would be wasted. Nor can we fairly blame\nthem, for putting up any affront, rather than part with their employers.\nThe life suits them; they are in their element. And what other channel is\nthere, into which their energies could be directed? Take away this, their\nsole vocation, and they are idle cumberers of the earth. They have\nnothing, then, to complain of; nor are their employers unreasonable in\nturning these humble vessels to the use for which they were designed.\nThey come into a house prepared for such treatment from the first; it is\ntheir profession to endure and suffer wrong.\n\nBut the case of educated men, such as I have mentioned above, is another\nmatter; it calls for our indignation, and for our utmost endeavours to\nrestore them to liberty. I think it will not be amiss, if I first examine\ninto the provocations under which they turn to a life of dependence. By\nshowing how trivial, how inadequate these provocations are, I shall\nforestall the main argument used by the defenders of voluntary servitude.\nMost of them are content to cloak their desertion under the names of\nPoverty and Necessity. It is enough, they think, to plead in extenuation,\nthat they sought to flee from this greatest of human ills, Poverty.\nTheognis comes pat to their purpose. His\n\n  Poverty, soul-subduing Poverty,\n\nis in continual requisition, together with other fearful utterances of\nour most degenerate poets to the same effect. Now if I could see that\nthey really found an escape from poverty in the lives they lead, I would\nnot be too nice on the point of absolute freedom. But when we find them\n(to use the expression of a famous orator) 'faring like men that are\nsick,' what conclusion is then left to us to draw? What but this, that\nhere again they have been misled, the very evil which they sold their\nliberty to escape remaining as it was? Poverty unending is their lot.\nFrom the bare pittance they receive nothing can be set apart. Suppose it\npaid, and paid in full: the whole sum is swallowed up to the last\nfarthing, before their necessities are supplied. I would advise them to\nthink upon better expedients; not such as are merely the protectors and\naccomplices of Poverty, but such as will make an end of her altogether.\nWhat say you, Theognis? Might this be a case for,\n\n  Steep plunge from crags into the teeming deep?\n\nFor when a pauper, a needy hireling, persuades himself that by being what\nhe is he has escaped poverty, one cannot avoid the conclusion that he\nlabours under some mistake.\n\nOthers tell a different tale. For them, mere poverty would have had no\nterrors, had they been able, like other men, to earn their bread by their\nlabours. But, stricken as they were by age or infirmity, they turned to\nthis as the easiest way of making a living. Now let us consider whether\nthey are right. This 'easy' way may be found to involve much labour\nbefore it yields any return; more labour perhaps than any other. To find\nmoney ready to one's hand, without toil or trouble on one's own part,\nwould indeed be a dream of happiness. But the facts are otherwise. The\ntoils and troubles of their situation are such as no words can adequately\ndescribe. Health, as it turns out, is nowhere more essential than in this\nvocation, in which a thousand daily labours combine to grind the victim\ndown, and reduce him to utter exhaustion. These I shall describe in due\ncourse, when I come to speak of their other grievances. For the present\nlet it suffice to have shown that this excuse for the sale of one's\nliberty is as untenable as the former.\n\nAnd now for the true reason, which you will never hear from their lips.\nVoluptuousness and a whole pack of desires are what induce them to force\ntheir way into great houses. The dazzling spectacle of abundant gold and\nsilver, the joys of high feeding and luxurious living, the immediate\nprospect of wallowing in riches, with no man to say them nay,--these are\nthe temptations that lure them on, and make slaves of free men; not lack\nof the necessaries of life, as they pretend, but lust of its\nsuperfluities, greed of its costly refinements. And their employers, like\nfinished coquettes, exercise their rigours upon these hapless slaves of\nlove, and keep them for ever dangling in amorous attendance; but for\nfruition, no! never so much as a kiss may they snatch. To grant that\nwould be to give the lover his release, a conclusion against which they\nare jealously on their guard. But upon hopes he is abundantly fed.\nDespair might else cure his ardent passion, and the lover be lover no\nmore. So there are smiles for him, and promises; always something shall\nbe done, some favour shall be granted, a handsome provision shall be made\nfor him,--some day. Meanwhile, old age steals upon the pair; the\nsuperannuated lover ceases from desire, and his mistress has nothing left\nto give. Life has gone by, and all they have to show for it is _hope_.\n\nWell now, that a man for the sake of pleasure should put up with every\nhardship is perhaps no great matter. Devoted to this one object, he can\nthink of nothing, but how to procure it. Let that pass. Though it seems\nbut a scurvy bargain, a bargain for a slave; to sell one's liberty for\npleasures far less pleasant than liberty itself. Still, as I say, let\nthat pass, provided the price is paid. But to endure unlimited pain,\nmerely in the hope that pleasure may come of it, this surely is carrying\nfolly to the height of absurdity. And men do it with their eyes open. The\nhardships, they know, are certain, unmistakable, inevitable. As to the\npleasure, that vague, hypothetic pleasure, they have never had it in all\nthese years, and in all reasonable probability they never will. The\ncomrades of Odysseus forgot all else in the Lotus: but it was while they\nwere tasting its sweets. They esteemed lightly of Honour: but it was in\nthe immediate presence of Pleasure. In men so occupied, such forgetfulness\nwas not wholly unnatural. But to dwell a prisoner, with Famine for\ncompany, to watch one's neighbour fattening on the Lotus, and keeping it\nall to himself, and to forget Honour and Virtue in the bare prospect of a\npossible mouthful,--by Heaven, it is too absurd, and calls in good truth\nfor Homeric scourgings.\n\nSuch, as nearly as I can describe them, are men's motives for taking\nservice with the rich, for handing themselves over bodily, to be used as\ntheir employers think fit. There is one class, however, of which I ought\nperhaps to make mention--those whose vanity is gratified by the mere fact\nof being seen in the company of well-born and well-dressed men. For there\nare those who consider this a distinguished privilege; though for my own\npart I would not give a fig to enjoy and to be seen enjoying the company\nof the King of Persia, if I was to get nothing by it.\n\nAnd now, since we understand what it is that these men would be at, let\nus mentally review their whole career;--the difficulties that beset the\napplicant before he gains acceptance; his condition when he is duly\ninstalled in his office; and the closing scene of his life's drama. You\nmay perhaps suppose that his situation, whatever its drawbacks, is at\nleast attainable without much trouble; that you have but to will it, and\nthe thing is done in a trice. Far from it. Much tramping about is in\nstore for you, much kicking of heels. You will rise early, and stand long\nbefore your patron's closed door; you will be jostled; you will hear\noccasional comments on your impudence. You will be exposed to the vile\ngabble of a Syrian porter, and to the extortions of a Libyan nomenclator,\nwhose memory must be fee'd, if he is not to forget your name. You must\ndress beyond your means, or you will be a discredit to your patron; and\nselect his favourite colours, or you will be out of harmony with your\nsurroundings. Finally, you will be indefatigable in following his steps,\nor rather in preceding them, for you will be thrust forward by his\nslaves, to swell his triumphal progress. And for days together you will\nnot be favoured with a glance.\n\nBut one day the best befalls you. You catch his eye; he beckons you to\nhim, and puts a random question. In that supreme moment what cold sweats,\nwhat palpitations, what untimely tremors are yours! and what mirth is\ntheirs who witness your confusion! 'Who was the king of the Achaeans?' is\nthe question: and your answer, as likely as not, 'A thousand sail.' With\nthe charitable this passes for bashfulness; but to the impudent you are a\ncraven, and to the ill-natured a yokel. This first experience teaches you\nthat the condescensions of the great are not unattended with danger; and\nas you depart you pronounce upon yourself a sentence of utter despair.\nThereafter,\n\n  many a sleepless night,\n  Many a day of strife shall be thy lot--\n\nnot for the sake of Helen, not for the towers of Troy, but for the\nsevenpence halfpenny of your desire. At length some heaven-sent protector\ngives you an introduction: the scholar is brought up for examination. For\nthe great man, who has but to receive your flatteries and compliments,\nthis is an agreeable pastime: for you, it is a life-and-death struggle;\nall is hazarded on the one throw. For it will of course occur to you,\nthat if you are rejected at the first trial, you will never pass current\nwith any one else. A thousand different feelings now distract you. You\nare jealous of your rivals (for we will assume that there is competition\nfor the post); you are dissatisfied with your own replies; you hope; you\nfear; you cannot remove your eye from the countenance of your judge. Does\nhe pooh-pooh your efforts? You are a lost man. Was that a smile? You\nrejoice, and hope rises high. It is only to be expected, that many of the\ncompany are your enemies, and others your rivals, and each has his secret\nshaft to let fly at you from his lurking-place. What a picture! The\nvenerable grey-beard being put through his paces. Is he any use? Some say\nyes, others no. Time is taken for consideration. Your antecedents are\nindustriously overhauled. Some envious compatriot, some neighbour with a\ntrivial grievance, is asked his opinion; he has but to drop a word of\n'loose morality,' and your business is done; 'the man speaks God's\ntruth!' Every one else may testify to your character: their evidence\nproves nothing; they are suspected; they are venal. The fact is, you must\ngain every point; there must be no hitch anywhere. That is your only\nchance of success.\n\nAnd now, take it that you _have_ succeeded--beyond all expectation.\nYour words have found favour with the great man. Those friends, by whose\njudgement in such matters he sets most store, have made no attempt to\nalter his decision. His wife approves his choice; the steward and the\nmajor-domo have neither of them anything against you. No aspersions have\nbeen cast on your character; all is propitious, every omen is in your\nfavour. Hail, mighty conqueror, wreathed in the Olympian garland! Babylon\nis yours, Sardis falls before you. The horn of plenty is within your\ngrasp; pigeons shall yield you milk.\n\nNow, if your crown is to be of anything better than leaves, there must be\nsome solid benefits to compensate you for the labours you have undergone.\nA considerable salary will be placed at your disposal, and you will draw\nupon it without ceremony, whenever you have occasion. You will be a\nprivileged person in every respect. As for toils, and muddy tramps, and\nwakeful nights, the time for those have gone by. Your prayers have been\nheard: you will take your ease, and sleep your fill. You will do the work\nyou were engaged to do, and not a stroke besides. This, indeed, is what\nyou have a right to expect. There would be no great hardship in bowing\none's neck to a yoke so light, so easy--and so superbly gilded. But alas,\nTimocles, many, nay all of these requirements are unsatisfied. Your\noffice, now that you have got it, is attended with a thousand details\ninsufferable to all but slaves. Let me rehearse them to you; you shall\njudge for yourself whether any man with the slightest pretence to culture\nwould endure such treatment.\n\nLet me begin with your first invitation to dinner, which may reasonably\nbe expected to follow, as an earnest of the patronage to come. It is\nbrought to you by a most communicative slave, whose goodwill it must be\nyour first care to secure. Five shillings is the least you can slip into\nhis palm, if you would do the thing properly. He has scruples. 'Really,\nsir--couldn't think of it; no, indeed, sir.' But he is prevailed upon at\nlast, and goes off, grinning from ear to ear. You then look out your best\nclothes, have your bath, make yourself as presentable as possible, and\narrive--in fear and trembling lest you should be the first, which would\nwear an awkward air, just as it savours of ostentation to arrive last.\nAccordingly you contrive to hit on the right moment, are received with\nevery attention, and shown to your place, a little above the host,\nseparated from him only by a couple of his intimates. And now you feel as\nif you were in heaven. You are all admiration; everything you see\ndone throws you into ecstasies. It is all so new and strange! The waiters\nstare at you, the company watch your movements. Nor is the host without\ncuriosity. Some of his servants have instructions to observe you\nnarrowly, lest your glance should fall too often on his wife or children.\nThe other guests' men perceive your amazement at the novel scene, and\nexchange jesting asides. From the fact that you do not know what to make\nof your napkin, they conclude that this is your first experience of\ndining-out. You perspire with embarrassment; not unnaturally. You are\nthirsty, but you dare not ask for wine, lest you should be thought a\ntippler. The due connexion between the various dishes which make their\nappearance is beyond you: which ought you to take first? which next?\nThere is nothing for it but to snatch a side glance at your neighbour, do\nas he does, and learn to dine in sequence. On the whole, your feelings\nare mingled, your spirit perturbed, and stricken with awe. One moment you\nare envying your host his gold, his ivory, and all his magnificence; the\nnext, you are pitying yourself,--that miserable nonentity which calls its\nexistence life; and then at intervals comes the thought, 'how happy shall\nI be, sharing in these splendours, enjoying them as if they were my own!'\nFor you conceive of your future life as one continual feast; and the\nsmiling attendance of gracious Ganymedes gives a charming finish to the\npicture. That line of Homer keeps coming to your lips: Small blame to\nTrojan or to greaved Achaean, if such happiness as this was to be the\nreward of their toils and sufferings. Presently healths are drunk. The\nhost calls for a large beaker, and drinks to 'the Professor,' or whatever\nyour title is to be. You, in your innocence, do not know that you ought\nto say something in reply; you receive the cup in silence, and are set\ndown as a boor.\n\nApart from this, your host's pledge has secured you the enmity of many of\nhis old friends, with some of whom it was already a grievance, that an\nacquaintance of a few hours' standing should sit above men who have been\ndrinking the cup of slavery for years. Tongues are busy with you at once.\nListen to some of them. 'So! We are to give place to new-comers! It\nwanted but this. The gates of Rome are open to none but these Greeks. Now\nwhat is their claim to be set over our heads? I suppose they think they\nare conferring a favour on us with their wordy stuff?' 'How he did drink,\nto be sure!' says another. 'And did you see how he shovelled his food\ndown, hand over hand? Mannerless starveling! He has never so much as\ndreamt of white bread before. 'Twas the same with the capon and pheasant;\nmuch if he left us the bones to pick!' 'My dear sirs' (cries number\nthree), 'I give him five days at the outside; after which you will see\nhim at our end of the table, making like moan with ourselves. He is a new\npair of shoes just now, and is treated with all ceremony. Wait till he\nhas been worn a few times, and the mud has done its work; he will be\nflung under the bed, poor wretch, like the rest of us, to be a receptacle\nfor bugs.' Such are some among the many comments you excite; and, for all\nwe know, mischief may be brewing at this moment.\n\nMeanwhile, you are the guest of the evening, and the principal theme of\nconversation. Your unwonted situation has led you on to drink more than\nwas advisable. For some time you have been feeling uncomfortable effects\nfrom your host's light, eager wine. To get up before the rest would be\nbad manners: to remain is perilous. The drinking is prolonged; subject\nupon subject is started, spectacle after spectacle is produced; for your\nhost is determined that you shall see all he has to show. You suffer the\ntorments of the damned. You see nothing of what is going forward: some\nfavourite singer or musician is performing--you hear him not; and while\nyou force out some complimentary phrase, you are praying that an\nearthquake may swallow up all, or that the news of a fire may break up\nthe party.\n\nSuch, my friend, is your first dinner, the best you will ever get. For my\npart, give me a dinner of herbs, with liberty to eat when I will and as\nmuch as I will. I shall spare you the recital of the nocturnal woes that\nfollow your excess. The next morning, you have to come to terms as to the\namount of your salary, and the times of payment. Appearing in answer to\nhis summons, you find two or three friends with him. He bids you be\nseated, and begins to speak. 'You have now seen the sort of way in which\nwe live--no ostentation, no fuss; everything quite plain and ordinary.\nNow you will consider everything here as your own. It would be a strange\nthing, indeed, were I to entrust you with the highest responsibility of\nall, the moral guidance of myself and my children'--if there are children\nto be taught--'and yet hesitate to place the rest at your disposal.\nSomething, however, must be settled. I know your moderate, independent\nspirit. I quite realize that you come to us from no mercenary motive,\nthat you are influenced only by the regard and uniform respect which will\nbe assured to you in this house. Still, as I say, something must be\nsettled. Now, my dear sir, tell me yourself, what you think right;\nremembering that there is something to be expected at the great\nfestivals; for you will not find me remiss in that respect, though I say\nnothing definite at present; and these occasions, as you know, come\npretty frequently in the course of the year. This consideration will no\ndoubt influence you in settling the amount of your salary; and apart from\nthat, it sits well on men of culture like yourself, to be above the\nthought of money.' Your hopes are blasted at the words, and your proud\nspirit is tamed. The dream of the millionaire and landed proprietor fades\naway, as you gradually catch his parsimonious drift. Yet you smirk\nappreciation of the promise. You are to 'consider everything as your\nown'; there, surely, is something solid? 'Tis a draught (did you but know\nit)\n\n  That wets the lips, but leaves the palate dry.\nAfter an interval of embarrassment, you leave the matter to his decision.\nHe declines the responsibility, and calls for the intervention of one of\nthe company: let him name a sum, at once worthy of your acceptance, and\nnot burdensome to his purse, which has so many more urgent calls upon it.\n'Sir,' says this officious old gentleman, who has been a toady from his\nyouth, 'Sir, you are the luckiest man in Rome. Deny it if you can! You\nhave gained a privilege which many a man has longed for, and is not like\nto obtain at Fortune's hands. You have been admitted to enjoy the company\nand share the hearth and home of the first citizen of our empire. Used\naright, such a privilege will be more to you than the wealth of a Croesus\nor a Midas. Knowing as I do how many there are--persons of high standing\n--who would be glad to pay money down, merely for the honour and glory of\nthe acquaintanceship, of being seen in his company, and ranking as his\nfriends and intimates,--knowing this, I am at a loss for words in which\nto express my sense of your good fortune. You are not only to enjoy this\nhappiness, but to be paid for enjoying it! Under the circumstances, I\nthink we shall satisfy your most extravagant expectations, if we say'--\nand he names a sum which in itself is of the smallest, quite apart from\nall reference to your brilliant hopes. However, there is nothing for it\nbut to submit with a good grace. It is too late now for escape; you are\nin the toils. So you open your mouth for the bit, and are very manageable\nfrom the first. You give your rider no occasion to keep a tight rein, or\nto use the spur; and at last by imperceptible degrees you are quite\nbroken in to him.\n\nThe outside world from that time watches you with envy. You dwell within\nhis courts; you have free access; you are become a person of consequence.\nYet it is now incomprehensible to you how they can suppose you to be\nhappy. At the same time, you are not without a certain exultation: you\ncheat yourself from day to day with the thought that there are better\nthings to come. Quite the contrary turns out to be the case. Your\nprospects, like the proverbial sacrifice of Mandrobulus, dwindle and\ncontract from day to day. Gradually you get some faint glimmerings of the\ntruth. It begins to dawn upon you at last, that those golden hopes were\nneither more nor less than gilded bubbles: the vexations, on the other\nhand, are realities; solid, abiding, uncompromising realities. 'And what\nare these vexations?' you will perhaps exclaim; 'I see nothing so\nvexatious about the matter; I know not what are the hardships and the\ndrudgery alluded to.' Then listen. And do not confine yourself to the\narticle of drudgery, but keep a sharp look-out for ignominy, for\ndegradation, for everything, in short, that is unworthy of a free man.\n\nLet me remind you then, to begin with, that you are no longer free-born,\nno longer a man of family. Birth, freedom, ancestry, all these you will\nleave on the other side of the door, when you enter upon the fulfilment\nof your servile contract; for Freedom will never bear you company in that\nignoble station. You are a slave, wince as you may at the word; and, be\nassured, a slave of many masters; a downward-looking drudge, from morning\ntill night\n\n  serving for sorry wage.\n\nThen again, you are a backward pupil: Servitude was not the nurse of your\nchildhood; you are getting on in years when she takes you in hand;\naccordingly, you will do her little credit, and give little satisfaction\nto your lord. Recollections of Freedom will exercise their demoralizing\ninfluence upon you, causing you to jib at times, and you will make\nvillanous work of your new profession. Or will your aspirations after\nFreedom be satisfied, perhaps, with the thought, that you are no son of a\nPyrrhias or a Zopyrion, no Bithynian, to be knocked down under the hammer\nof a bawling auctioneer? My dear sir, when pay-day comes round each\nmonth, and you mingle in the herd of Pyrrhiases and Zopyrions, and hold\nout your hand for the wage that is due to you, what is that but a sale?\nNo need of an auctioneer, for the man who can cry his own wares, and\nhawks his liberty about from day to day. Wretch! (one is prompted to\nexclaim, and particularly when the culprit is a professed philosopher)\nWretch! Were you captured and sold by a pirate or a brigand, you would\nbewail your lot, and think that Fortune had dealt hardly with you. Were a\nman to lay violent hands on you, and claim a master's rights in you, loud\nand bitter would be your outcry: 'By heaven and earth, 'tis monstrous! I\nappeal to the laws!' And now, at an age at which a born slave may begin\nto look towards Freedom, _now_ for a few pence do you sell yourself,\nyour virtue and wisdom, in one parcel? And could Plato's noble words,\ncould all that Chrysippus and Aristotle have said, of the blessings of\nfreedom and the curse of slavery, raise no compunction in you? Do you\ncount it no shame to be pitted against toadies and vulgar parasites? no\nshame to sit at the noisy banquets of a promiscuous, and for the most\npart a disreputable company, a Greek among Romans, wearing the foreign\ngarb of philosophy, and stammering their tongue with a foreign accent?\nHow fulsome are your flatteries on these occasions! how indecent your\ntipplings! And next morning the bell rings, and up you must get, losing\nthe best of your sleep, to trudge up and down with yesterday's mud still\non your shoes. Were lupines and wild herbs so scarce with you? had the\nsprings ceased to give their wonted supply, that you were brought to such\na pass? No, the cause of your captivity is too clear. Not water, not\nlupines were the object of your desire, but dainty viands and fragrant\nwines; and your sin has found you out: you are hooked like a pike by your\ngreedy jaws. We have not far to look for the reward of gluttony. Like a\nmonkey with a collar about its neck, you are kept to make amusement for\nthe company; fancying yourself supremely happy, because you are unstinted\nin the matter of dried figs. As to freedom and generosity, they are fled,\nwith the memories of Greece, and have left no trace behind them. And\nwould that that were all, the disgrace of falling from freedom to\nservitude! Would that your employments were not those of a very menial!\nConsider: are your duties any lighter than those of a Dromo or a Tibius?\nAs to the studies in which your employer professed an interest when he\nengaged you, they are nothing to him. Shall an ass affect the lyre?\nRemove from these men's minds the gold and the silver, with the cares\nthat these involve, and what remains? Pride, luxury, sensuality,\ninsolence, wantonness, ignorance. Consuming must be their desire, doubt\nit not, for the wisdom of Homer, the eloquence of Demosthenes, the\nsublimity of Plato!\n\nNo, your employer has no need of your services in this direction. On the\nother hand, you have a long beard and a venerable countenance; the\nGrecian cloak hangs admirably upon your shoulders, and you are known to\nbe a professor of rhetoric, or literature, or philosophy; it will not be\namiss, he thinks, to have such pursuits represented in the numerous\nretinue that marches before him. It will give him an air of Grecian\nculture, of liberal curiosity in fact. Friend, friend! your stock-in-\ntrade would seem to be not words of wisdom, but a cloak and a beard. If\nyou would do your duty, therefore, be always well in evidence; begin your\nunfailing attendance from the early hours of the morning, and never quit\nhis side. Now and again he places a hand upon your shoulder, and mutters\nsome nonsense for the benefit of the passers-by, who are to understand\nthat though he walk abroad the Muses are not forgotten, that in all his\ncomings and goings he can find elegant employment for his mind.\nBreathless and perspiring, you trot, a pitiable spectacle, at the\nlitter's side; or if he walks--you know what Rome is--, up hill and down\ndale after him you tramp. While he is paying a call on a friend, you are\nleft outside, where, for lack of a seat, you are fain to take out your\nbook and read standing.\n\nNight finds you hungry and thirsty. You snatch an apology for a bath; and\nit is midnight or near it before you get to dinner. You are no longer an\nhonoured guest; no longer do you engage the attention of the company. You\nhave retired to make room for some newer capture. Thrust into the most\nobscure corner, you sit watching the progress of dinner, gnawing in\ncanine sort any bones that come down to you and regaling yourself with\nhungry zest on such tough mallow-leaves--the wrappers of daintier fare--\nas may escape the vigilance of those who sit above you. No slight is\nwanting. You have not so much as an egg to call your own; for there is no\nreason why you should expect to be treated in the same way as a stranger;\nthat would be absurd. The birds that fall to your lot are not like other\nbirds. Your neighbour gets some plump, luscious affair; you, a poor half-\nchicken, or lean pigeon, an insult, a positive outrage in poultry. As\noften as not, an extra guest appears unexpectedly, and the waiter solves\nthe difficulty by removing your share (with the whispered consolation\nthat you are 'one of the family'), and placing it before the new-comer.\nWhen the joint, be it pork or venison, is brought in to be carved, let us\nhope that you stand well with the carver, or you will receive a\nPromethean helping of 'bones wrapped up in fat.' And the way in which a\ndish is whisked past you, after remaining with your neighbour till he can\neat no more!--what free man would endure it, though he were as innocent\nof gall as any stag? And I have said nothing yet of the wine. While the\nother guests are drinking of some rare old vintage, you have vile thick\nstuff, whose colour you must industriously conceal with the help of a\ngold or silver cup, lest it should betray the estimation in which the\ndrinker is held. It would be something if you could get enough even of\nthis. Alas! you may call and call: the waiter is\n\n  as one that marketh not.\n\nMany are your grievances; nay, all is one huge grievance. And the climax\nis reached, when you find yourself eclipsed by some minion, some dancing-\nmaster, some vile Alexandrian patterer of Ionic lays. How should you hope\nto rank with the minister of Love's pleasures, with the stealthy conveyer\nof billets-doux? You cower shamefaced in your corner, and bewail your\nhard lot, as well you may; cursing your luck that you have never a\nsmattering of such graceful accomplishments yourself. I believe you wish\nthat _you_ could turn love-songs, or sing other men's with a good\ngrace; perceiving as you do what a thing it is to be in request. Nay, you\ncould find it in you to play the wizard's, the fortune-teller's part; to\ndeal in thrones and in millions of money. For these, too, you observe,\nmake their way in the world, and are high in favour. Gladly would you\nenter on any one of these vocations, rather than be a useless castaway.\nAlas, even these are beyond you; you lack plausibility. It remains for\nyou to give place to others; to endure neglect, and keep your complaints\nto yourself.\n\nNay, more. Should some slave whisper that you alone withheld your praise,\nwhen his mistress's favourite danced or played, the neglect may cost you\ndear. Then let your dry throat be as busy as any thirsty frog's. See to\nit, that your voice is heard leading the chorus of applause; and time\nafter time, when all else are silent, throw in some studied servile\ncompliment. The situation is not without humour. Hungry as you are, ay,\nand thirsty into the bargain, you must anoint yourself with oil of\ngladness, and crown your head with garlands. It reminds one of the\nofferings made by recent mourners at a tomb. The tomb gets the ointment\nand the garlands, while the mourners drink and enjoy the feast.\n\nIf your patron is of a jealous disposition, and has a young wife or\nhandsome children, and you are not wholly without personal attractions,\nthen beware! you are on dangerous ground. Many are the ears of a king,\nand many the eyes, that see not the truth only, but ever something over\nand above the truth, lest they should seem to fail of their office.\nImagine yourself, therefore, at a Persian banquet. Keep your eyes\ndownwards, lest a eunuch should catch them resting on one of the\nconcubines. For see, there stands another with his bow ever on the\nstretch: one glance at the forbidden object as you raise your cup, and\nhis arrow is through your jaw before you can put it down.\n\nAnd now dinner is over; you retire, and snatch a little sleep. But at\ncock-crow you are aroused. 'Wretch! Worm that I am!' you exclaim. 'To\nsacrifice the pursuits, the society of former days, the placid life\nwherein sleep was measured by inclination, and my comings and goings were\nunfettered, and all to precipitate myself bodily into this hideous gulf!\nAnd why? What, in God's name, is my glorious recompense? Was there no\nother way? Could I not have provided for myself better than this, and\npreserved liberty and free-will into the bargain? Alas! the lion is fast\nbound in the net. I am haled hither and thither. Pitiable is my lot,\nwhere no honour is to be won, no favour to be hoped for. Untaught,\nunpractised in the arts of flattery, I am pitted against professionals. I\nam no choice spirit, no jolly companion; to raise a laugh is beyond me.\nMy presence (well do I know it) is a vexation to my patron, and then most\nwhen he is in his most gracious mood. He finds me sullen; and how to\nattune myself to him I know not. If I wear a grim face, I am a sour\nfellow, scarcely to be endured. If I assume my most cheerful expression,\nmy smiles arouse his contempt and disgust. As well attempt to act a comic\npart in the mask of tragedy! And what is the end of it all? My present\nlife has been another's: do I look to have a new life which shall be my\nown?'\n\nYour soliloquy is interrupted by the bell. The old routine awaits you:\nyou must trudge, and you must stand; and first anoint your limbs, if you\nwould hold out to the end. Dinner will be the same as ever, and go on as\nlate as ever. The change from all your former habits, the wakeful night,\nthe violent exercise, the exhaustion, are slowly undermining your health\nat this moment, and preparing you for consumption or colic, for asthma or\nthe delights of gout. However, you hold out in spite of all, though many\na time your right place would be in bed. But that would never do: that\nlooks like shamming, like shirking your work. The result is that you grow\nas pallid as a man at the point of death.\n\nSo much for your city life. And now for an excursion into the country.\nI will content myself with a single detail. As likely as not it is a wet\nday. Your turn for the carriage (as might be expected) comes last. You\nwait and wait, till at last its return is out of the question, and you\nare squeezed into some vehicle with the cook, or with my lady's _friseur_,\nwithout even a proper allowance of straw. I shall make no scruple of\nrelating to you an experience of Thesmopolis the Stoic, which I had from\nhis own mouth; a most amusing incident, and just the sort of thing one\nmight expect to find happening again. He was in the service of a certain\nwealthy and luxurious lady of quality, whom on one occasion he had to\naccompany on a journey from Rome. The fun began at once. The philosopher\nreceived as his travelling companion a beardless exquisite of the\npitch-plastering persuasion, by whom, you may be certain, my lady set\ngreat store; his name, she informed the philosopher, was 'Robinetta.' Is\nnot this a promising start?--the grave and reverend Thesmopolis, with his\nhoary beard (you know what a long, venerable affair it is), side by side\nwith this rouged and painted ogler, whose drooping neck and plucked\nthroat suggested the vulture rather than the robin! 'Twas all that\nThesmopolis could do to persuade him not to wear his hair-net; and as it\nwas he had a sad journey of it, with the fellow singing and whistling all\nthe time--I daresay he would have danced there and then, if Thesmopolis\nhad not prevented him. But there was more to come, as you will see.\n'Thesmopolis,' cries my lady, calling him to her, 'I have a great favour\nto ask of you; now please don't say no, and don't wait to be asked twice,\nthere's a good creature.' Of course, he said he would do anything she\nwished. 'I only ask you, because I know you are to be trusted; you are so\ngood-natured and affectionate! I want you to take my little dog Myrrhina\nin with you, and see that she wants for nothing. Poor little lady! she is\nsoon to become a mother. These hateful, inattentive servants take no\nnotice of _me_ when we are travelling, much less of her. You will be doing\nme a great kindness, I assure you, in taking charge of her; I am so fond\nof the sweet little pet!' She prayed and almost wept; and Thesmopolis\npromised. Imagine the ludicrous picture. The little beast peeping out from\nbeneath the philosophic cloak; within licking distance of that beard,\nwhich perhaps still held traces of the thick soup of yesterday; yapping\naway with its shrill pipe of a voice, as Maltese terriers will; and no\ndoubt taking other liberties, which Thesmopolis did not think worth\nmentioning. That night at dinner, the exquisite, his fellow traveller,\nafter cracking a passable joke here and there at the expense of the other\nguests, came to Thesmopolis. 'Of him,' he remarked, 'I have only this to\nsay, that our Stoic has turned Cynic.' According to what I heard, the\nlittle animal actually littered in his mantle!\n\nSuch are the caprices, nay, the insults, let me rather say, with which\nthe patron gradually breaks the spirit of his dependants. I know myself\nof an orator, a very free speaker, who was actually ordered to stand up\nand deliver a speech at table; and a masterly speech it was, trenchant\nand terse. He received the congratulations of the company on being timed\nby a _wine_--instead of a _water_-clock; and this affront, it is said, he\nwas content to put up, for the consideration of 8 pounds. But what of\nthat? Wait till you get a patron who has poetical or historical\ntendencies, and spouts passages of his own works all through dinner: you\nmust praise, you must flatter, you must devise original compliments for\nhim,--or die in the attempt. Then there are the beaux, the Adonises and\nHyacinths, as you must be careful to call them, undeterred by the\neighteen inches or so of nose that some of them carry on their faces. Do\nyour praises halt? 'Tis envy, 'tis treason! Away with you, Philoxenus\nthat you are, to Syracusan quarries!--Let them be orators, let them be\nphilosophers, if they will: what matter for a solecism here and there?\nFind Attic elegance, find honey of Hymettus in every word; and pronounce\nit law henceforth, to speak as they speak.\n\nIf we had only men to deal with, it would be something: but there are the\nwomen too. For among the objects of feminine ambition is this, of having\na scholar or two in their pay, to dance attendance at the litter's side;\nit adds one more to the list of their adornments, if they can get the\nreputation of culture and philosophy, of turning a song which will bear\ncomparison with Sappho's. So they too keep their philosopher, their\norator, or their _litterateur_; and give him audience--when, think\nyou? Why, at the toilet, by all that is ridiculous, among the rouge-pots\nand hair-brushes; or else at the dinner-table. They have no leisure at\nother times. As it is, the philosopher is often interrupted by the\nentrance of a maid with a billet-doux. Virtue has then to bide her time;\nfor the audience will not be resumed till the gallant has his answer.\n\nAt rare intervals, at the Saturnalia or the Feast of Minerva, you will be\npresented with a sorry cloak, or a worn-out tunic; and a world of\nceremony will go to the presentation. The first who gets wind of the\ngreat man's intention flies to you with the news of what is in store\nfor you; and the bringer of glad tidings does not go away empty-handed. The\nnext morning a dozen of them arrive, conveying the present, each with his\ntale of how he spoke up for you, or the hints he threw out, or how he was\nentrusted with the choice, and chose the best. Not a man of them but\ndeparts with your money in his pocket, grumbling that it is no more.\n\nAs to that salary, it will be paid to you sixpence at a time, and there\nwill be black looks when you ask for it. Still, you must get it somehow.\nPly your patron therefore with flatteries and entreaties, and pay due\nobservance to his steward, and let it be the kind of observance that\nstewards like best; nor must you forget your kind introducer. You do get\nsomething at last; but it all goes to pay the tailor, the doctor, or the\nshoemaker, and you are left the proud possessor of nothing at all.\n\nMeanwhile, jealousy is rife, and some slander is perhaps working its\nstealthy way to ears which are predisposed to hear anything to your\ndiscredit. For your employer perceives that by this time incessant\nfatigues have worn you out; you are crippled, you are good for nothing\nmore, and gout is coming on. All the profit that was to be had of you, he\nhas effectually sucked out. Your prime has gone by, your bodily vigour is\nexhausted, you are a tattered remnant. He begins to look about for a\nconvenient dunghill whereon to deposit you, and for an able-bodied\nsubstitute to do your work. You have attempted the honour of one of his\nminions: you have been trying to corrupt his wife's maid, venerable\nsinner that you are!--any accusation will serve. You are gagged and\nturned out neck and crop into the darkness. Away you go, helpless and\ndestitute, with gout for the cheering companion of your old age. Whatever\nyou once knew, you have unlearnt in all these years: on the other hand,\nyou have developed a paunch like a balloon; a monster insatiable,\ninexorable, which has acquired a habit of asking for more, and likes not\nat all the unlearning process. It is not to be supposed that any one else\nwill give you employment, at your age; you are like an old horse, whose\nvery hide has deteriorated in value. Not to mention that the worst\ninterpretation will be put upon your late dismissal; you will be credited\nwith adultery, or poisoning, or something of that kind. Your accuser, you\nsee, is convincing even in silence; whereas you--you are a loose-\nprincipled, unscrupulous _Greek_. That is the character we Greeks\nbear; and it serves us right; I see excellent grounds for the opinion\nthey have of us. Greek after Greek who enters their service sets up (in\ndefault of any other practical knowledge) for wizard or poisoner, and\ndeals in love-charms and evil spells; and these are they who talk of\nculture, who wear grey beards and philosophic cloaks! When these, who are\naccounted the best of us, stand thus exposed, when men observe their\ninterested servility, their gross flatteries at table and elsewhere, it\nis not to be wondered at that we have all fallen under suspicion. Those\nwhom they have cast off, they hate, and seek to make an end of them\naltogether; arguing, naturally enough, that men who know their secrets,\nand have seen them in all their nakedness, may divulge many a foible\nwhich will not bear the light; and the thought is torment to them. The\nfact is, that these great men are for all the world like handsomely bound\nbooks. Outside are the gilt edges and the purple cover: and within? a\nThyestes feasts upon his own children; an Oedipus commits incest with his\nmother; a Tereus woos two sisters at once. Such are these human books:\ntheir brilliancy attracts all eyes, but between the purple covers lurks\nmany a horrid tale. Turn over the pages of any one of them, and you find\na drama worthy the pen of Sophocles or Euripides: close the volume--all\nis gilt edge and exquisite tooling. Well may they hate the confidants of\nsuch crimes, and plot their destruction! What if the outcast should take\nto rehearsing in public the tragedy that he has got by heart?\n\nI am minded to give you, after the manner of Cebes, a life-picture of\nDependence; with this before your eyes, you may judge for yourself,\nwhether it is the life for you. I would gladly call in the aid of an\nApelles or a Parrhasius, an Aetion or a Euphranor, but no such perfect\npainters are to be found in these days; I must sketch you the picture in\noutline as best I can. I begin then with tall golden gates, not set in\nthe plain, but high upon a hill. Long and steep and slippery is the\nascent; and many a time when a man looks to reach the top, his foot\nslips, and he is plunged headlong. Within the gates sits Wealth, a figure\nall of gold (so at least she seems); most fair, most lovely. Her lover\npainfully scales the height, and draws near to the door; and that golden\nsight fills him with amazement. The beautiful woman in gorgeous raiment\nwho now takes him by the hand is Hope. As she leads him in, his spirit is\nstricken with awe. Hope still shows the way; but two others, Despair and\nServitude, now take charge of him, and conduct him to Toil, who grinds\nthe poor wretch down with labour, and at last hands him over to Age. He\nlooks sickly now, and all his colour is gone. Last comes Contempt, and\nlaying violent hands on him drags him into the presence of Despair; it is\nnow time for Hope to take wing and vanish. Naked, potbellied, pale and\nold, he is thrust forth, not by those golden gates by which he entered,\nbut by some obscure back-passage. One hand covers his nakedness; with the\nother he would fain strangle himself. Now let Regret meet him without,\ndropping vain tears and heaping misery on misery,--and my picture is\ncomplete.\n\nExamine it narrowly in all its details, and see whether you like the idea\nof going in at my golden front door, to be expelled ignominiously at the\nback. And whichever way you decide, remember the words of the wise man:\n'Blame not Heaven, but your own choice.'\n\n\n\n\nAPOLOGY FOR 'THE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR'\n\n\nDEAR SABINUS,\n\nI have been guessing how you are likely to have expressed yourself upon\nreading my essay about dependants. I feel pretty sure you read it all and\nhad a laugh over it; but it is your running and general comment in words\nthat I am trying to piece on to it. If I am any good at divination, this\nis the sort of thing: _To think that a man can set down such a scathing\nindictment of the life, and then forget it all, get hold of the other end\nof the stick, and plunge headlong into such manifest conspicuous slavery!\nTake Midas, Croesus, golden Pactolus, roll them into one, multiply them,\nand could they induce him to relinquish the freedom which he has loved\nand consorted with from a child? He is nearly in the clutches of Aeacus,\none foot is on the ferryman's boat, and it is now that he lets himself be\ndragged submissively about by a golden collar._ [Footnote: Omitting as\na scholium, with Dindorf and Fritzsche, the words: hoia esti ton\ntryphonton plousion ta sphingia kai ta kourallia.] _There is some\nslight inconsistency between his life and his treatise; the rivers are\nrunning up-hill; topsy-turvydom prevails; our recantations are new-\nfashioned; the first palinodist_ [Footnote: See _Stesichorus_ in\nNotes.] _mended words with words for Helen of Troy; but we spoil words\n(those words we thought so wise) with deeds._\n\nSuch, I imagine, were your inward remarks. And I dare say you will give\nme some overt advice to the same effect; well, it will not be ill-timed;\nit will illustrate your friendship, and do you credit as a good man and a\nphilosopher. If I render your part respectably for you, that will do, and\nwe will pay our homage to the God of words; [Footnote: i.e. Hermes.] if I\nfail, you will fill in the deficiency for yourself. There, the stage is\nready; I am to hold my tongue, and submit to any necessary carving and\ncauterizing for my good, and you are to plaster me, and have your scalpel\nhandy, and your iron red-hot. Sabinus takes the word, and thus addresses\nme:\n\n_My dear friend, this treatise of yours has quite rightly been earning\nyou a fine reputation, from its first delivery before the great audience\nI had described to me, to its private use by the educated who have\nconsulted and thumbed it since. For indeed it presents the case\nmeritoriously; there is study of detail and experience of life in\nabundance; your views are the reverse of vague; and above all the book is\npractically useful, chiefly but not exclusively to the educated whom it\nmight save from an unforeseen slavery. However, your mind is changed; the\nlife you described is now the better; good-bye to freedom; your motto is\nthat contemptible line:\n\n  Give me but gain, I'll turn from free to slave.\n\nLet none hear the lecture from you again, then; see to it that no copy of\nit comes under the eyes of any one aware of your present life; ask Hermes\nto bring Lethe-water from below, enough to drug your former hearers; else\nyou will remind us of the Corinthian tale, and your writing, like\nBellerophon's, be your own condemnation. I assure you I see no decent\ndefence you can make, at least if your detractors have the humour to\ncommend the independence of the writings while the writer is a slave and\na voluntary beast of burden before their eyes.\n\nThey will say with some plausibility: Either the book is some other\ngood man's work, and you a jackdaw strutting in borrowed, plumes; or, if\nit is really yours, you are a second Salaethus; the Crotoniate legislator\nmade most severe laws against adultery, was much looked up to on the\nstrength of it, and was shortly after taken in adultery with his\nbrother's wife. You are an exact reproduction of Salaethus, they will\nsay; or rather he was not half so bad as you, seeing that he was mastered\nby passion, as he pleaded in court, and moreover preferred to leap\ninto the flames, like a brave man, when the Crotoniates were moved to\ncompassion and gave him the alternative of exile. The difference between\n_your_ precept and practice is infinitely more ridiculous; you draw\na realistic word-picture of that servile life; you pour contempt on the\nman who runs into the trap of a rich man's house, where a thousand\ndegradations, half of them self-inflicted, await him; and then in extreme\nold age, when you are on the border between life and death, you take this\nmiserable servitude upon you and make a sort of circus exhibition of your\nchains. The conspicuousness of your position will only make the more\nridiculous that contrast between your book and your life.\n\nBut I need not beat my brains for phrases of reprobation; there is one\ngood enough in a noble tragedy:\n\n  Wisdom begins at home; no wisdom, else.\n\nAnd your censors will find no lack of illustrations against you; some\nwill compare you to the tragic actor; on the stage he is Agamemnon or\nCreon or great Heracles; but off it, stripped of his mask, he is just\nPolus or Aristodemus, a hireling liable to be hissed off, or even whipped\non occasion, at the pleasure of the audience. Others will say you have\nhad the experience of Queen Cleopatra's monkey: the docile creature used\nto dance in perfect form and time, and was much admired for the\nregularity and decorum of its movements, adapted to the voices and\ninstruments of a bridal chorus; alas, one day it spied a fig or almond a\nlittle way off on the ground; flutes and measures and steps were all\nforgotten, the mask was far off in several pieces, and there was he\nchewing his find.\n\nYou, they will say, are the author (for 'actor' would understate the\ncase) who has laid down the laws of noble conduct; and no sooner is the\nlump of figs presented than the monkey is revealed; your lips are the\nlips of a philosopher, and your heart is quite other; it is no injustice\nto say that those sentiments for which you claim admiration have 'wetted\nyour lips, and left your palate dry.' You have not had to wait long for\nretribution; you spoke unadvisedly in scorn of human needs; and, this\nlittle while after, behold you making public renunciation of your\nfreedom! Surely Nemesis was standing behind your back as you drank in the\nflattering tributes to your superiority; did she not smile in her divine\nfore-knowledge of the impending change, and mark how you forgot to\npropitiate her before you assailed the victims whom fortune's mutability\nhad reduced to such courses?\n\nNow I want you to imagine a rhetorician writing on the theme that\nAeschines, after his indictment of Timarchus, was himself proved guilty\nby eyewitnesses of similar iniquity; would, or would not, the amusement\nof the audience be heightened by the fact that he had got Timarchus\npunished for offences excused by youth, whereas he was himself an old man\nat the time of his own guilt? Why, you are like the quack who offered a\ncough-mixture which was to cure instantaneously, and could hardly get the\npromise out for coughing._\n\nYes, Sabinus, and there is plenty more of the same sort for an accuser\nlike you to urge; the subject is all handles; you can take hold of it\nanywhere. I have been looking about for my best line of defence. Had I\nbetter turn craven, face right-about, confess my sin, and have recourse\nto the regular plea of Chance, Fate, Necessity? Shall I humbly beseech my\ncritics to pardon me, remembering that nothing is in a man's own choice--\nwe are led by some stronger power, one of the three I mentioned, probably,\nand are not true agents but guiltless altogether, whatever we say or do?\nOr will you tell me this might do well enough for one of the common herd,\nbut you cannot have _me_ sheltering myself so? _I_ must not brief Homer;\nit will not serve me to plead:\n\n  No mortal man e'er yet escaped his fate;\n\nnor again,\n\n  His thread was spun, then when his mother bare him.\n\nOn the other hand, I might avoid that plea as wanting in plausibility,\nand say that I did not accept this association under the temptation of\nmoney or any prospects of that kind, but in pure admiration of the\nwisdom, strength, and magnanimity of my patron's character, which\ninspired the wish to partake his activity. But I fear I should only have\nbrought on myself the additional imputation of flattery. It would be a\ncase of 'one nail drives out one nail,' and this time the one left in\nwould be the bigger; for flattery is the most servile, and consequently\nreckoned the worst, of all vices.\n\nBoth these pleas, then, being excluded, what is left me but to confess\nthat I have no sound defence to make? I have indeed one anchor yet\naboard: I may whine over age and ill health, and their attendant poverty,\nfrom which a man will purchase escape at any cost. The situation tempts\nme to send an invitation to Euripides's _Medea_: will she come and\nrecite certain lines of hers on my behalf, kindly making the slight\nchanges needed?--\n\n  Too well I know how monstrous is the deed;\n  My poverty, but not my will, consents.\n\nAnd every one knows the place in Theognis, whether I quote it or not,\nwhere he approves of people's flinging themselves to the unplumbed deep\nfrom sky-pointing crags, if one may be quit of poverty that way.\n\nThat about exhausts the obvious lines of defence; and none of them is\nvery promising. But never fear, my friend, I am not going to try any of\nthem. May never Argos be so hard put to it that Cyllarabis must be sown!\nnor ever I be in such straits for a tolerable defence as to be driven\nupon these evasions! No, I only ask you to consider the vast difference\nbetween being a hireling in a rich man's house, where one is a slave, and\nmust put up with all that is described in my book--between that and\nentering the public service, doing one's best as an administrator, and\ntaking the Emperor's pay for it. Go fully into the matter; take the two\nthings separately and have a good look at them; you will find that they\nare two octaves apart, as the musical people say; the two lives are about\nas like each other as lead is to silver, bronze to gold, an anemone to a\nrose, a monkey to a man; there is pay, and there is subordination, in\neach case; but the essence of the two things is utterly different. In one\nwe have manifest slavery; the new-comers who accept the terms are barely\ndistinguishable from the human chattels a man has bought or bred; but\npersons who have the management of public business, and give their\nservices to states and nations, are not to have insinuations aimed at\nthem just because they are paid; that single point of resemblance is not\nto level them down to the others. If that is to be the principle, we had\nbetter do away with all such offices at once; governors of whole\nprovinces, prefects of cities, commanders of legions and armies, will all\nfall under the same condemnation; for they are paid. But of course\neverything is not to be upset to suit a single case; all who receive pay\nare not to be lumped together.\n\nIt is all a mistake; I never said that all drawers of salaries lived a\ndegraded life; I only pitied those domestic slaves who have been caught\nby compliments on their culture. My position, you see, is entirely\ndifferent; my private relations are as they were before, though in a\npublic capacity I am now an active part of the great Imperial machine. If\nyou care to inquire, you will find that my charge is not the least\nimportant in the government of Egypt. I control the cause-list, see that\ntrials are properly conducted, keep a record of all proceedings and\npleas, exercise censorship over forensic oratory, and edit the Emperor's\nrescripts with a view to their official and permanent preservation in the\nmost lucid, accurate, and genuine form. My salary comes from no private\nperson, but from the Emperor; and it is considerable, amounting to many\nhundreds. In the future too there is before _me_ the brilliant prospect of\nattaining in due course to a governorship or other distinguished\nemployment.\n\nAccordingly I am now going to throw off reserve, come to grips with the\ncharge against me, and prove my case _a fortiori_. I tell you that nobody\ndoes anything for nothing; you may point to people in high places--as high\nas you like; the Emperor himself is paid. I am not referring to the taxes\nand tribute which flow in annually from subjects; the chief item in the\nEmperor's pay is panegyrics, world-wide fame, and grateful devotion; the\nstatues, temples, and consecrated ground which their subjects bestow upon\nthem, what are these but pay for the care and forethought which they apply\nto public policy and improvements? To compare small things with great, if\nyou will begin at the top of the heap and work down through the grains of\nwhich it is composed, you will find that we inferior ones differ from the\nsuperior in point of size, but all are wage-earners together.\n\nIf the law I laid down had been that no one should do anything, I might\nfairly have been accused of transgressing it; but as my book contains\nnothing of the sort, and as goodness consists in doing good, what better\nuse can you make of yourself than if you join forces with your friends in\nthe cause of progress, come out into the open, and let men see that you\nare loyal and zealous and careful of your trust, not what Homer calls a\nvain cumberer of the earth?\n\nBut before all, my critics are to remember that in me they will be\ncriticizing not a wise man (if indeed there is such a person on earth),\nbut one of the common people, one who has indeed practised rhetoric and\nwon some little reputation therein, but has never been trained up to the\nperfect virtue of the really great. Well, I may surely be forgiven for\nthat; if any one ever did come up to the ideal of the wise man, it has\nnot been my fortune to meet him. And I confess further that I should be\ndisappointed if I found you criticizing my present life; you knew me long\nago when I was making a handsome income out of the public profession of\nrhetoric; for on that Atlantic tour of yours which included Gaul, you\nfound me numbered among those teachers who could command high fees. Now,\nmy friend, you have my defence; I am exceedingly busy, but could not be\nindifferent to securing _your_ vote of acquittal; as for others, let\nthem all denounce me with one voice if they will; on them I shall waste\nno more words than, What cares Hippoclides?\n\n\n\n\nA SLIP OF THE TONGUE IN SALUTATION\n[Footnote: This piece, which even in the Greek fails to convince us that\nAsclepius heard the prayer with which it concludes, is still flatter in\nEnglish, because we have no words of salutation which correspond at once\nin etymological meaning and in conventional usage to the Greek. The\nEnglish reader who cares to understand a piece so little worth his\nattention, will obligingly bear in mind that the Greek word represented\nhere by Joy and Rejoice roughly answered in Lucian's time to our Good-\nmorning and How do you do, as well as to the epistolary My dear----;\nwhile that represented by Hail or Health did the work of Good-night,\nGood-bye, Farewell, and (in letters) Yours truly.]\n\n\nIf a poor mortal has some difficulty in guarding against that spirit of\nmischief which dwells aloft, he has still more in clearing himself of the\nabsurd consequences when that spirit trips him up. I am in both\npredicaments at once; coming to make you my morning salutation, which\nshould have taken the orthodox form of Rejoice, I bade you, in a very\nchoice fit of absent-mindedness, Be healthy--a good enough wish in its\nway, but a little untimely and unconnected with that early hour. I at\nonce went moist and red, not quite aware whether I was on my head or my\nheels; some of the company took me for a lunatic, no doubt, some thought\nI was in my second childhood, some that I had not quite got over my last\nnight's wine--though you yourself were the pink of good manners, not\nshowing your consciousness of the slip by any ghost of a smile. It\noccurred to me to write to myself a little something in the way of\ncomfort, and so modify the distress my blunder gave me--prove to myself\nthat it was not absolutely unpardonable for an old man to transgress\netiquette so flagrantly before so many witnesses. As to apology, there\ncould be no occasion for that, when one's slip had resulted in so well-\nomened a wish.\n\nI began to write expecting my task to be very difficult, but found plenty\nof material as I went on. I will defer it, however, till I have cleared\nthe way with a few necessary remarks on the three forms--Rejoice or Joy,\nProsper or Prosperity, Hail or Health. Joy is a very ancient greeting; but\nit was not confined to the morning, or the first meeting. They did\nuse it when they first saw one another:\n\n  Joy to thee, Lord of this Tirynthian land!\n\nBut again at the moment when the wine succeeded to the meal:\n\n  Achilles, Joy! We lack not fair repast--\n\nso says Odysseus discharging his embassy. And even at parting:\n\n  Joy be with you! And henceforth know me God,\n  No longer mortal man.\n\nIn fact the apostrophe was not limited to any particular season, as now\nto the morning alone; indeed they used it on gloomy, nay, on the most\nlamentable occasions; in Euripides, Polynices ends his life with the\nwords,\n\n  Joy with you! for the darkness closes on me.\n\nNor was it necessarily significative of friendliness; it could express\nhatred and the determination to see no more of another. To wish much joy\nto, was a regular form for ceasing to care about.\n\nThe modern use of the word dates back to Philippides the dispatch-runner.\nBringing the news of Marathon, he found the archons seated, in suspense\nregarding the issue of the battle. 'Joy, we win!' he said, and died upon\nhis message, breathing his last in the word Joy. The earliest letter\nbeginning with it is that in which Cleon the Athenian demagogue, writing\nfrom Sphacteria, sends the good news of his victory and capture of\nSpartans at that place. However, later than that we find Nicias writing\nfrom Sicily and keeping to the older custom of coming to business at once\nwith no such introduction.\n\nNow the admirable Plato, no bad authority on such matters, would have us\nreject the salutation Joy altogether; it is a mean wish, wanting in\nseriousness, according to him; his substitute is Prosperity, which stands\nfor a satisfactory condition both of body and soul; in a letter to\nDionysius, he reproves him for commencing a hymn to Apollo with Joy,\nwhich he maintains is unworthy of the Pythian, and not fit even for men\nof any discretion, not to mention Gods.\n\nPythagoras the mystic has vouchsafed us no writings of his own; but we\nmay infer from his disciples, Ocellus the Lucanian and Archytas, for\ninstance, that he headed his letters neither with Joy nor Prosperity, but\nrecommended beginning with Hail. At any rate all the Pythagoreans in\nwriting to one another (when their tone is serious, that is) started with\nwishing Health, which they took to be the prime need of soul and body\nalike, and to include all human blessings. The Pentagram [Footnote: See\n_Pythagoras_ in Notes.], that interlaced triple triangle which served them\nas a sort of password, they called by the name Health. They argued that\nHealth included Joy and Prosperity, but that neither of those two was\ncoextensive with Health. Some of them gave to the Quaternion, [Footnote:\nSee _Pythagoras_ in Notes.] which is their most solemn oath, and sums\ntheir perfect number, the name of Beginning of Health. Philolaus might be\nquoted.\n\nBut I need hardly go so far back. Epicurus assuredly rejoiced in joy--\npleasure was the chief Good in his eyes; yet in his most earnest letters\n(which are not very numerous), and in those to his most intimate friends,\nhe starts with Hail. And in tragedy and the old comedy you will\nconstantly find it used quite at the beginning. You remember,\n\n  Hail to thee, joy be thine--\n\nwhich puts health before rejoicing clearly enough. And says Alexis:\n\n  All hail, my lord; after long time thou comest.\n\nAgain Achaeus:\n\n  I come in sorry plight, yet wish thee health.\n\nAnd Philemon:\n\n  Health first I ask, and next prosperity,\n  Joy thirdly, and to owe not any man.\n\nAs for the writer of the drinking-song mentioned in Plato, what says\nhe?--'Best is health, and second beauty, and third wealth'; joy he\nnever so much as names. I need hardly adduce the trite saw:\n\n  Chief of them that blessings give,\n  Health, with thee I mean to live.\n\nBut, if Health is chief, her gift, which is the enjoyment of health,\nshould rank before other Goods.\n\nI could multiply these examples by the thousand from poets, historians,\nphilosophers, who give Health the place of honour; but you will not\nrequire any such childish pedantry of me, wiping out my original offence\nby another; I shall do better to add a historical anecdote or two which\noccur to me as relevant.\n\nEumenes of Cardia, writing to Antipater, states that just before the\nbattle of Issus, Hephaestion came at dawn into Alexander's tent. Either\nin absence of mind and confusion like mine, or else under a divine\nimpulse, he gave the evening salutation like me--'Hail, sire; 'tis time\nwe were at our posts.' All present were confounded at the irregularity,\nand Hephaestion himself was like to die of shame, when Alexander said, 'I\ntake the omen; it is a promise that we shall come back safe from battle.'\n\nAntiochus Soter, about to engage the Galatians, dreamed that Alexander\nstood over him and told him to give his men the password Health; and with\nthis word it was that he won that marvellous victory.\n\nPtolemy, the son of Lagus, in a letter to Seleucus, just reversed the\nusual order, bidding him Hail at the beginning, and adding Rejoice at the\nend instead of wishing him Health; this is recorded by Dionysodorus, the\ncollector of his letters.\n\nThe case of Pyrrhus the Epirot is well worth mention; as a general he was\nonly second to Alexander, and he experienced a thousand vicissitudes of\nfortune. In all his prayers, sacrifices, and offerings, he never asked\nfor victory or increase of his royal dignity, for fame or excessive\nwealth; his whole prayer was always in one word, Health; as long as he\nhad that, he thought all else would come of itself. And it was true\nwisdom, in my opinion; he remembered that all other good things are\nworthless, if health is wanting.\n\nOh, certainly (says some one); but we have assigned each form to its\nproper place by this time; and if you disregard that--even though there\nwas no bad meaning in what you did say--you cannot fairly claim to have\nmade no mistake; it is as though one should put a helmet on the shins, or\ngreaves on the head. My dear sir (I reply), your simile would go on all\nfours if there were any season at all which did not require health; but\nin point of fact it is needed in the morning and at noonday and at night\n--especially by busy rulers like you Romans, to whom physical condition\nis so important. And again, the man who gives you Joy is only beginning\nauspiciously; it is no more than a prayer; whereas he who bids you Hail\nis doing you a practical service in reminding you of the means to health;\nhis is more than a prayer, it is a precept.\n\nWhy, in that book of instructions which you all receive from the Emperor,\nis not the first recommendation to take care of your health? Quite\nrightly; that is the condition precedent of efficiency. Moreover, if I\nknow any Latin, you yourselves, in _returning_ a salutation, constantly\nuse the equivalent of Health.\n\nHowever, all this does not mean that I have deliberately abandoned\nRejoice and substituted Hail for it. I admit that it was quite\nunintentional; I am not so foolish as to innovate like that, and exchange\nthe regular formulae.\n\nNo, I only thank Heaven that my stumble had such very fortunate results,\nlanding me in a better position than I had designed; may it not be that\nHealth itself, or Asclepius, inspired me to give you this promise of\nhealth? How else should it have befallen me? In the course of a long life\nI have never been guilty of such a confusion before.\n\nOr, if I may not have recourse to the supernatural, it is no wonder that\nmy extreme desire to be known to you for good should so confuse me as to\nwork the contrary effect. Possibly, too, one might be robbed of one's\npresence of mind by the crowd of military persons pushing for precedence,\nor treating the salutation ceremony in their cavalier fashion.\n\nAs to yourself, I feel sure that, however others may have referred it to\nstupidity, ignorance, or lunacy, you took it as the sign of a modest,\nsimple, unspoiled, unsophisticated soul. Absolute confidence in such\nmatters comes dangerously near audacity and impudence. My first wish\nwould be to make no such blunder; my second that, if I did, the resulting\nomen should be good.\n\nThere is a story told of the first Augustus. He had given a correct legal\ndecision, which acquitted a maligned person of a most serious charge. The\nlatter expressed his gratitude in a loud voice, thus:--'I thank your\nmajesty for this bad and inequitable verdict.' Augustus's attendants\nraged, and were ready to tear the man to pieces. But the Emperor\nrestrained them; 'Never mind what he said; it is what he meant that\nmatters.' That was Augustus's view. Well, take my meaning, and it was\ngood; or take my word, and it was auspicious.\n\nAnd now that I have got to this point, I have reason to fear that I may\nbe suspected of having made the slip on purpose, leading up to this\napology. O God of health, only grant me that the quality of my piece may\njustify the notion that I wanted no more than a peg whereon to hang an\nessay!\n\n\n\n\nHERMOTIMUS, OR THE RIVAL PHILOSOPHIES\n\n\n_Lycinus. Hermotimus_\n\n_Ly_. Good morning, Hermotimus; I guess by your book and the pace\nyou are going at that you are on your way to lecture, and a little late.\nYou were conning over something as you walked, your lips working and\nmuttering, your hand flung out this way and that as you got a speech into\norder in your mind; you were doubtless inventing one of your crooked\nquestions, or pondering some tricky problem; never a vacant mind, even in\nthe streets; always on the stretch and in earnest, bent on advancing in\nyour studies.\n\n_Her_. I admit the impeachment; I was running over the details of\nwhat he said in yesterday's lecture. One must lose no chance, you know;\nthe Coan doctor [Footnote: Hippocrates] spoke so truly: _ars longa,\nvita brevis_. And what be referred to was only physic--a simpler\nmatter. As to philosophy, not only will you never attain it, however long\nyou study, unless you are wide awake all the time, contemplating it with\nintense eager gaze; the stake is so tremendous, too,--whether you shall\nrot miserably with the vulgar herd, or be counted among philosophers and\nreach Happiness.\n\n_Ly_. A glorious prize, indeed! however, you cannot be far off it\nnow, if one may judge by the time you have given to philosophy, and the\nextraordinary vigour of your long pursuit. For twenty years now, I should\nsay, I have watched you perpetually going to your professors, generally\nbent over a book taking notes of past lectures, pale with thought and\nemaciated in body. I suspect you find no release even in your dreams, you\nare so wrapped up in the thing. With all this you must surely get hold of\nHappiness soon, if indeed you have not found it long ago without telling\nus.\n\n_Her_. Alas, Lycinus, I am only just beginning to get an inkling of\nthe right way. Very far off dwells Virtue, as Hesiod says, and long and\nsteep and rough is the way thither, and travellers must bedew it with\nsweat.\n\n_Ly_. And you have not yet sweated and travelled enough?\n\n_Her_. Surely not; else should I have been on the summit, with\nnothing left between me and bliss; but I am only starting yet, Lycinus.\n\n_Ly_. Ah, but Hesiod, your own authority, tells us, Well begun is\nhalf done; so we may safely call you half-way by this time.\n\n_Her_. Not even there yet; that would indeed have been much.\n\n_Ly_. Where _shall_ we put you, then?\n\n_Her_. Still on the lower slopes, just making an effort to get on;\nbut it is slippery and rough, and needs a helping hand.\n\n_Ly_. Well, your master can give you that; from his station on the\nsummit, like Zeus in Homer with his golden cord, he can let you down his\ndiscourse, and therewith haul and heave you up to himself and to the\nVirtue which he has himself attained this long time.\n\n_Her_. The very picture of what he is doing; if it depended on him\nalone, I should have been hauled up long ago; it is my part that is still\nwanting.\n\n_Ly_. You must be of good cheer and keep a stout heart; gaze at the\nend of your climb and the Happiness at the top, and remember that he is\nworking with you. What prospect does he hold out? when are you to be up?\ndoes he think you will be on the top next year--by the Great Mysteries,\nor the Panathenaea, say?\n\n_Her_. Too soon, Lycinus.\n\n_Ly_. By next Olympiad, then?\n\n_Her_. All too short a time, even that, for habituation to Virtue\nand attainment of Happiness.\n\n_Ly_. Say two Olympiads, then, for an outside estimate. You may fairly be\nfound guilty of laziness, if you cannot get it done by then; the time\nwould allow you three return trips from the Pillars of Heracles to India,\nwith a margin for exploring the tribes on the way instead of sailing\nstraight and never stopping. How much higher and more slippery, pray, is\nthe peak on which your Virtue dwells than that Aornos crag which Alexander\nstormed in a few days?\n\n_Her_. There is no resemblance, Lycinus; this is not a thing, as you\nconceive it, to be compassed and captured quickly, though ten thousand\nAlexanders were to assault it; in that case, the sealers would have been\nlegion. As it is, a good number begin the climb with great confidence,\nand do make progress, some very little indeed, others more; but when they\nget half-way, they find endless difficulties and discomforts, lose heart,\nand turn back, panting, dripping, and exhausted. But those who endure to\nthe end reach the top, to be blessed thenceforth with wondrous days,\nlooking down from their height upon the ants which are the rest of\nmankind.\n\n_Ly_. Dear me, what tiny things you make us out--not so big as the Pygmies\neven, but positively grovelling on the face of the earth. I quite\nunderstand it; your thoughts are up aloft already. And we, the common men\nthat walk the earth, shall mingle you with the Gods in our prayers; for\nyou are translated above the clouds, and gone up whither you have so long\nstriven.\n\n_Her_. If but that ascent might be, Lycinus! but it is far yet.\n\n_Ly_. But you have never told me _how_ far, in terms of time.\n\n_Her_. No; for I know not precisely myself. My guess is that it will\nnot be more than twenty years; by that time I shall surely be on the\nsummit.\n\n_Ly_. Mercy upon us, you take long views!\n\n_Her_. Ay; but, as the toil, so is the reward.\n\n_Ly_. That may be; but about these twenty years--have you your master's\npromise that you will live so long? is he prophet as well as philosopher?\nor is it a soothsayer or Chaldean expert that you trust? such things are\nknown to them, I understand. You would never, of course, if there were any\nuncertainty of your life's lasting to the Virtue-point, slave and toil\nnight and day like this; why, just as you were close to the top, your fate\nmight come upon you, lay hold of you by the heel, and lug you down with\nyour hopes unfulfilled.\n\n_Her_. God forbid! these are words of ill omen, Lycinus; may life be\ngranted me, that I may grow wise, and have if it be but one day of\nHappiness!\n\n_Ly_. For all these toils will you be content with your one day?\n\n_Her_. Content? yes, or with the briefest moment of it.\n\n_Ly_. But is there indeed Happiness up there--and worth all the pains? How\ncan you tell? You have never been up yourself.\n\n_Her_. I trust my master's word; and he knows well; is he not on the\ntopmost height?\n\n_Ly_. Oh, do tell me what he says about it; what is Happiness like?\nwealth, glory, pleasures incomparable?\n\n_Her_. Hush, friend! all these have nought to do with the Virtuous\nlife.\n\n_Ly_. Well, if these will not do, what _are_ the good things he offers to\nthose who carry their course right through?\n\n_Her_. Wisdom, courage, true beauty, justice, full and firm knowledge of\nall things as they are; but wealth and glory and pleasure and all bodily\nthings--these a man strips off and abandons before he mounts up, like\nHeracles burning on Mount Oeta before deification; he too cast off\nwhatever of the human he had from his mother, and soared up to the Gods\nwith his divine part pure and unalloyed, sifted by the fire. Even so those\nI speak of are purged by the philosophic fire of all that deluded men\ncount admirable, and reaching the summit have Happiness with never a\nthought of wealth and glory and pleasure--except to smile at any who count\nthem more than phantoms.\n\n_Ly_. By Heracles (and his death on Oeta), they quit themselves like\nmen, and have their reward, it seems. But there is one thing I should\nlike to know: are they allowed to come down from their elevation\nsometimes, and have a taste of what they left behind them? or when they\nhave once got up, must they stay there, conversing with Virtue, and\nsmiling at wealth and glory and pleasure?\n\n_Her_. The latter, assuredly; more than that, a man once admitted of\nVirtue's company will never be subject to wrath or fear or desire any\nmore; no, nor can he feel pain, nor any such sensation.\n\n_Ly_. Well, but--if one might dare to say what one thinks--but no--let me\nkeep a good tongue in my head--it were irreverent to pry into what wise\nmen do.\n\n_Her_. Nay, nay; let me know your meaning.\n\n_Ly_. Dear friend, I have not the courage.\n\n_Her_. Out with it, my good fellow; we are alone.\n\n_Ly_. Well, then--most of your account I followed and accepted--how\nthey grow wise and brave and just, and the rest--indeed I was quite\nfascinated by it; but then you went on to say they despised wealth and\nglory and pleasure; well, just there (quite between ourselves, you know)\nI was pulled up; I thought of a scene t'other day with--shall I tell you\nwhom? Perhaps we can do without a name?\n\n_Her_. No, no; we must have that too.\n\n_Ly_. Your own professor himself, then,--a person to whom all\nrespect is due, surely, not to mention his years.\n\n_Her_. Well?\n\n_Ly_. You know the Heracleot, quite an old pupil of his in philosophy by\nthis time--red-haired--likes an argument?\n\n_Her_. Yes; Dion, he is called.\n\n_Ly_. Well, I suppose he had not paid up punctually; anyhow the other day\nthe old man haled him before the magistrate, with a halter made of his own\ncoat; he was shouting and fuming, and if some friends had not come up and\ngot the young man out of his hands, he would have bitten off his nose, he\nwas in such a temper.\n\n_Her_. Ah, _he_ is a bad character, always an unconscionable time paying\nhis debts. There are plenty of others who owe the professor money, and he\nhas never treated any of them so; they pay him his interest punctually.\n\n_Ly_. Not so fast; what in the world does it matter to him, if they do not\npay up? he is purified by philosophy, and has no further need of the cast\nclothes of Oeta.\n\n_Her_. Do you suppose his interest in such things is selfish? no, but he\nhas little ones; his care is to save them from indigence.\n\n_Ly_. Whereas he ought to have brought them up to Virtue too, and let them\nshare his inexpensive Happiness.\n\n_Her_. Well, I have no time to argue it, Lycinus; I must not be late for\nlecture, lest in the end I find myself left behind.\n\n_Ly_. Don't be afraid, my duteous one; to-day is a holiday; I can save you\nthe rest of your walk.\n\n_Her_. What do you mean?\n\n_Ly_. You will not find him just now, if the notice is to be trusted;\nthere was a tablet over the door announcing in large print, No meeting\nthis day. I hear he dined yesterday with the great Eucrates, who was\nkeeping his daughter's birthday. He talked a good deal of philosophy\nover the wine, and lost his temper a little with Euthydemus the\nPeripatetic; they were debating the old Peripatetic objections to the\nPorch. His long vocal exertions (for it was midnight before they broke\nup) gave him a bad headache, with violent perspiration. I fancy he had\nalso drunk a little too much, toasts being the order of the day, and\neaten more than an old man should. When he got home, he was very ill,\nthey said, just managed to check and lock up carefully the slices of meat\nwhich he had conveyed to his servant at table, and then, giving orders\nthat he was not at home, went to sleep, and has not waked since. I\noverheard Midas his man telling this to some of his pupils; there were a\nnumber of them coming away.\n\n_Her_. Which had the victory, though, he or Euthydemus--if Midas said\nanything about that?\n\n_Ly_. Why, at first, I gathered, it was very even between them; but you\nStoics had it in the end, and your master was much too hard for him.\nEuthydemus did not even get off whole; he had a great cut on his head. He\nwas pretentious, insisted on proving his point, would not give in, and\nproved a hard nut to crack; so your excellent professor, who had a goblet\nas big as Nestor's in his hand, brought this down on him as he lay within\neasy reach, and the victory was his.\n\n_Her_. Good; so perish all who will not yield to their betters!\n\n_Ly_. Very reasonable, Hermotimus; what was Euthydemus thinking of, to\nirritate an old man who is purged of wrath and master of his passions,\nwhen he had such a heavy goblet in his hand?\n\nBut we have time to spare--you might tell a friend like me the story of\nyour start in philosophy; then I might perhaps, if it is not too late,\nbegin now and join your school; you are my friends; you will not be\nexclusive?\n\n_Her_. If only you would, Lycinus! you will soon find out how much you are\nsuperior to the rest of men. I do assure you, you will think them all\nchildren, you will be so much wiser.\n\n_Ly_. Enough for me, if after twenty years of it I am where you are now.\n\n_Her_. Oh, I was about your age when I started on philosophy; I was forty;\nand you must be about that.\n\n_Ly_. Just that; so take and lead me on the same way; that is but right.\nAnd first tell me--do you allow learners to criticize, if they find\ndifficulties in your doctrines, or must juniors abstain from that?\n\n_Her_. Why, yes, they must; but _you_ shall have leave to ask questions\nand criticize; you will learn easier that way.\n\n_Ly_. I thank you for it, Hermotimus, by your name-God Hermes.\n\nNow, is there only one road to philosophy--the Stoic way? they tell me\nthere are a great many other philosophers; is that so?\n\n_Her_. Certainly--Peripatetics, Epicureans, Platonists, followers of\nDiogenes, Antisthenes, Pythagoras, and more yet.\n\n_Ly_. Quite so; numbers of them. Now, are their doctrines the same,\nor different?\n\n_Her_. Entirely different.\n\n_Ly_. But the truth, I presume, is bound to be in one of them, and not in\nall, as they differ?\n\n_Her_. Certainly.\n\n_Ly_. Then, as you love me, answer this: when you first went in pursuit of\nphilosophy, you found many gates wide open; what induced you to pass the\nothers by, and go in at the Stoic gate? Why did you assume that that was\nthe only true one, which would set you on the straight road to Virtue,\nwhile the rest all opened on blind alleys? What was the test you applied\n_then_? Please abolish your present self, the self which is now\ninstructed, or half-instructed, and better able to distinguish between\ngood and bad than we outsiders, and answer in your then character of a\nlayman, with no advantage over me as I am now.\n\n_Her_. I cannot tell what you are driving at.\n\n_Ly_. Oh, there is nothing recondite about it. There are a great many\nphilosophers--let us say Plato, Aristotle, Antisthenes, and your spiritual\nfathers, Chrysippus, Zeno, and all the rest of them; what was it that\ninduced you, leaving the rest alone, to pick out the school you did from\namong them all, and pin your philosophic faith to it? Were you favoured\nlike Chaerephon with a revelation from Apollo? Did he tell you the Stoics\nwere the best of men, and send you to their school? I dare say he\nrecommends different philosophers to different persons, according to\ntheir individual needs?\n\n_Her_. Nothing of the kind, Lycinus; I never consulted him upon it.\n\n_Ly_. Why? was it not a _dignus vindice nodus_? or were you confident in\nyour own unaided discrimination?\n\n_Her_. Why, yes; I was.\n\n_Ly_. Then this must be my first lesson from you--how one can decide\nout of hand which is the best and the true philosophy to be taken, and\nthe others left.\n\n_Her_. I will tell you: I observed that it attracted most disciples, and\nthence inferred that it was superior.\n\n_Ly_. Give me figures; how many more of them than of Epicureans,\nPlatonists, Peripatetics? Of course you took a sort of show of hands.\n\n_Her_. Well, no; I didn't count; I just guessed.\n\n_Ly_. Now, now! you are not teaching, but hoaxing me; judge by guess\nwork and impression, indeed, on a thing of this importance! You are\nhiding the truth.\n\n_Her_. Well, that was not my only way; every one told me the Epicureans\nwere sensual and self-indulgent, the Peripatetics avaricious and\ncontentious, the Platonists conceited and vain; about the Stoics, on the\ncontrary, many said they had fortitude and an open mind; he who goes their\nway, I heard, was the true king and millionaire and wise man, alone and\nall in one.\n\n_Ly_. And, of course, it was other people who so described them; you\nwould not have taken their own word for their excellences.\n\n_Her_. Certainly not; it was others who said it.\n\n_Ly_. Not their rivals, I suppose?\n\n_Her_. Oh, no.\n\n_Ly_. Laymen, then?\n\n_Her_. Just so.\n\n_Ly_. There you are again, cheating me with your irony; you take me for a\nblockhead, who will believe that an intelligent person like Hermotimus, at\nthe age of forty, would accept the word of laymen about philosophy and\nphilosophers, and make his own selection on the strength of what they\nsaid.\n\n_Her_. But you see, Lycinus, I did not depend on their judgement entirely,\nbut on my own too. I saw the Stoics going about with dignity, decently\ndressed and groomed, ever with a thoughtful air and a manly countenance,\nas far from effeminacy as from the utter repulsive negligence of the\nCynics, bearing themselves, in fact, like moderate men; and every one\nadmits that moderation is right.\n\n_Ly_. Did you ever see them behaving like your master, as I described him\nto you just now? Lending money and clamouring for payment, losing their\ntempers in philosophic debates, and making other exhibitions of\nthemselves? Or perhaps these are trifles, so long as the dress is\ndecent, the beard long, and the hair close-cropped? We are provided for\nthe future, then, with an infallible rule and balance, guaranteed by\nHermotimus? It is by appearance and walk and haircutting that the best\nmen are to be distinguished; and whosoever has not these marks, and is\nnot solemn and thoughtful, shall be condemned and rejected?\n\nNay, do not play with me like this; you want to see whether I shall catch\nyou at it.\n\n_Her_. Why do you say that?\n\n_Ly_. Because, my dear sir, this appearance test is one for statues;\n_their_ decent orderly attire has it easily over the Stoics, because\nPhidias or Alcamenes or Myron designed them to be graceful. However,\ngranting as much as you like that these are the right tests, what is a\nblind man to do, if he wants to take up philosophy? how is he to find the\nman whose principles are right, when he cannot see his appearance or gait?\n\n_Her_. I am not teaching the blind, Lycinus; I have nothing to do with\nthem.\n\n_Ly_. Ah, but, my good sir, there ought to have been some universal\ncriterion, in a matter of such great and general use. Still, if you will\nhave it so, let the blind be excluded from philosophy, as they cannot\nsee--though, by the way, they are just the people who most need\nphilosophy to console them for their misfortune; but now, the people who\n_can_ see--give them the utmost possible acuity of vision, and what\ncan they detect of the spiritual qualities from this external shell?\n\nWhat I mean is this: was it not from admiration of their _spirit_ that you\njoined them, expecting to have your own spirit purified?\n\n_Her_. Assuredly.\n\n_Ly_. How could you possibly discern the true philosopher from the\nfalse, then, by the marks you mentioned? It is not the way of such\nqualities to come out like that; they are hidden and secret; they are\nrevealed only under long and patient observation, in talk and debate and\nthe conduct they inspire. You have probably heard of Momus's indictment\nof Hephaestus; if not, you shall have it now. According to the myth,\nAthene, Posidon, and Hephaestus had a match in inventiveness. Posidon\nmade a bull, Athene planned a house, Hephaestus constructed a man; when\nthey came before Momus, who was to judge, he examined their productions;\nI need not trouble you with his criticisms of the other two; but his\nobjection to the man, and the fault he found with Hephaestus, was this:\nhe should have made a window in his chest, so that, when it was opened,\nhis thoughts and designs, his truth or falsehood, might have been\napparent. Momus must have been blear-eyed, to have such ideas about men;\nbut you have sharper eyes than Lynceus, and pierce through the chest to\nwhat is inside; all is patent to you, not merely any man's wishes and\nsentiments, but the comparative merits of any pair.\n\n_Her_. You trifle, Lycinus. I made a pious choice, and do not repent it;\nthat is enough for me.\n\n_Ly_. And will you yet make a mystery of it to your friend, and let him be\nlost with the vulgar herd?\n\n_Her_. Why, you will not accept anything I say.\n\n_Ly_. On the contrary, my good sir, it is you who will not say anything I\ncan accept. Well, as you refuse me your confidence, and are so jealous of\nmy becoming a philosopher and your equal, I must even do my best to find\nout the infallible test and learn to choose safely for myself. And you may\nlisten, if you like.\n\n_Her_. That I will, Lycinus; you will very likely hit on some good idea.\n\n_Ly_. Then attend, and do not mock me, if my inquiry is quite\nunscientific; it is all I can do, as you, who know better, will not give\nme any clearer light.\n\nI conceive Virtue, then, under the figure of a State whose citizens are\nhappy--as your professor, who is one of them, phrases it,--absolutely\nwise, all of them brave, just, and self-controlled, hardly\ndistinguishable, in fact, from Gods. All sorts of things that go on here,\nsuch as robbery, assault, unfair gain, you will never find attempted\nthere, I believe; their relations are all peace and unity; and this is\nquite natural, seeing that none of the things which elsewhere occasion\nstrife and rivalry, and prompt men to plot against their neighbours, so\nmuch as come in their way at all. Gold, pleasures, distinctions, they\nnever regard as objects of dispute; they have banished them long ago as\nundesirable elements. Their life is serene and blissful, in the enjoyment\nof legality, equality, liberty, and all other good things.\n\n_Her_. Well, Lycinus? Must not all men yearn to belong to a State like\nthat, and never count the toil of getting there, nor lose heart over the\ntime it takes? Enough that one day they will arrive, and be naturalized,\nand given the franchise.\n\n_Ly_. In good truth, Hermotimus, we should devote all our efforts to\nthis, and neglect everything else; we need pay little heed to any claims\nof our earthly country; we should steel our hearts against the clingings\nand cryings of children or parents, if we have them; it is well if we can\ninduce them to go with us; but, if they will not or cannot, shake them\noff and march straight for the city of bliss, leaving your coat in their\nhands, if they lay hold of it to keep you back, in your hurry to get\nthere; what matter for a coat? You will be admitted there without one.\n\nI remember hearing a description of it all once before from an old man,\nwho urged me to go there with him. He would show me the way, enroll me\nwhen I got there, introduce me to his own circles, and promise me a share\nin the universal Happiness. But I was stiff-necked, in my youthful folly\n(it was some fifteen years ago); else might I have been in the outskirts,\nnay, haply at the very gates, by now. Among the noteworthy things he told\nme, I seem to remember these: all the citizens are aliens and foreigners,\nnot a native among them; they include numbers of barbarians, slaves,\ncripples, dwarfs, and poor; in fact any one is admitted; for their law\ndoes not associate the franchise with income, with shape, size, or\nbeauty, with old or brilliant ancestry; these things are not considered\nat all; any one who would be a citizen needs only understanding, zeal for\nthe right, energy, perseverance, fortitude and resolution in facing all\nthe trials of the road; whoever proves his possession of these by\npersisting till he reaches the city is _ipso facto_ a full citizen,\nregardless of his antecedents. Such distinctions as superior and\ninferior, noble and common, bond and free, simply do not exist there,\neven in name.\n\n_Her_. There, now; you see I am not wasting my pains on trifles; I\nyearn to be counted among the citizens of that fair and happy State.\n\n_Ly_. Why, your yearning is mine too; there is nothing I would sooner pray\nfor. If the city had been near at hand and plain for all to see, be\nassured I would never have doubted, nor needed prompting; I would have\ngone thither and had my franchise long ago; but as you tell me--you and\nyour bard Hesiod--that it is set exceeding far off, one must find out\nthe way to it, and the best guide. You agree?\n\n_Her_. Of course that is the only thing to do.\n\n_Ly_. Now, so far as promises and professions go, there is no lack of\nguides; there are numbers of them waiting about, all representing\nthemselves as from there. But instead of one single road there seem to be\nmany different and inconsistent ones. North and South, East and West,\nthey go; one leads through meadows and vegetation and shade, and is well\nwatered and pleasant, with never a stumbling-block or inequality; another\nis rough and rocky, threatening heat and drought and toil. Yet all these\nare supposed to lead to the one city, though they take such different\ndirections.\n\nThat is where my difficulty lies; whichever of them I try, there is sure\nto be a most respectable person stationed just at the entrance, with a\nwelcoming hand and an exhortation to go his way; each of them says he is\nthe only one who knows the straight road; his rivals are all mistaken,\nhave never been themselves, nor learnt the way from competent guides. I\ngo to his neighbour, and he gives the same assurances about _his_ way,\nabusing the other respectable persons; and so the next, and the next, and\nthe next. This multiplicity and dissimilarity of the roads gives me\nsearchings of heart, and still more the assertiveness and self-\nsatisfaction of the guides; I really cannot tell which turning or whose\ndirections are most likely to bring me to the city.\n\n_Her_. Oh, but I can solve that puzzle for you; you cannot go wrong,\nif you trust those who have been already.\n\n_Ly_. Which do you mean? those who have been by which road, and under\nwhose guidance? It is the old puzzle in a new form; you have only\nsubstituted men for measures.\n\n_Her_. How do you mean?\n\n_Ly_. Why, the man who has taken Plato's road and travelled with him will\nrecommend that road; so with Epicurus and the rest; and _you_ will\nrecommend your own. How else, Hermotimus? it must be so.\n\n_Her_. Well, of course.\n\n_Ly_. So you have not solved my puzzle; I know just as little as before\nwhich traveller to trust; I find that each of them, as well as his guide,\nhas tried one only, which he now recommends and will have to be the only\none leading to the city. Whether he tells the truth I have no means of\nknowing; that he has attained _some_ end, and seen _some_ city, I may\nperhaps allow; but whether he saw the right one, or whether, Corinth being\nthe real goal, he got to Babylon and thought he had seen Corinth--that is\nstill undecided; for surely every one who has seen a city has not seen\nCorinth, unless Corinth is the only city there is. But my greatest\ndifficulty of all is the absolute certainty that the true road is one; for\nCorinth is one, and the other roads lead anywhere but to Corinth, though\nthere may be people deluded enough to suppose that the North road and the\nSouth road lead equally to Corinth.\n\n_Her_. But that is absurd, Lycinus; they go opposite ways, you see.\n\n_Ly_. Then, my dear good man, this choice of roads and guides is quite a\nserious matter; we can by no means just follow our noses; we shall be\ndiscovering that we are well on the way to Babylon or Bactria instead of\nto Corinth. Nor is it advisable to toss up, either, on the chance that we\nmay hit upon the right way if we start upon any one at a venture. That is\nno impossibility; it may have come off once and again in a cycle; but I\ncannot think we ought to gamble recklessly with such high stakes, nor\ncommit our hopes to a frail craft, like the wise men who went to sea in a\nbowl; we should have no fair complaint against Fortune, if her arrow or\ndart did not precisely hit the centre; the odds are ten thousand to one\nagainst her; just so the archer in Homer--Teucer, I suppose it was--when\nhe meant to hit the dove, only cut the string, which held it; of course it\nis infinitely more likely that the point of the arrow will find its billet\nin one of the numberless other places, than just in that particular\ncentral one. And as to the perils of blundering into one of the wrong\nroads instead of the right one, misled by a belief in the discretion of\nFortune, here is an illustration:--it is no easy matter to turn back and\nget safe into port when you have once cast loose your moorings and\ncommitted yourself to the breeze; you are at the mercy of the sea,\nfrightened, sick and sorry with your tossing about, most likely. Your\nmistake was at the beginning: before leaving, you should have gone up to\nsome high point, and observed whether the wind was in the right quarter,\nand of the right strength for a crossing to Corinth, not neglecting, by\nthe way, to secure the very best pilot obtainable, and a seaworthy craft\nequal to so high a sea.\n\n_Her_. Much better so, Lycinus. However, I know that, if you go the\nwhole round, you will find no better guides or more expert pilots than\nthe Stoics; if you mean ever to get to Corinth, you will follow them, in\nthe tracks of Chrysippus and Zeno. It is the only way to do it.\n\n_Ly_. Ah, many can play at the game of assertion. Plato's fellow\ntraveller, Epicurus's follower, and all the rest, will tell me just what\nyou do, that I shall never get to Corinth except with whichever of them\nit is. So I must either believe them all, or disbelieve impartially. The\nlatter is much the safest, until we have found out the truth.\n\nPut a case, now: just as I am, as uncertain as ever which of the whole\nnumber has the truth, I choose your school; I rely on you, who are my\nfriend, but who still know only the Stoic doctrine, and have not\ntravelled any way but that. Now some God brings Plato, Pythagoras,\nAristotle, and the rest to life again; they gather round and cross-\nexamine me, or actually sue me in court for constructive defamation;\n_Good Lycinus_, they say, _what possessed or who induced you to\nexalt Chrysippus and Zeno at our expense? we are far older established;\nthey are mere creatures of yesterday; yet you never gave us a hearing,\nnor inquired into our statements at all_. Well, what am I to plead?\nwill it avail me to say I trusted my friend Hermotimus? I feel sure they\nwill say, _We know not this Hermotimus, who he is, nor he us; you had\nno right to condemn us all, and give judgement by default against us, on\nthe authority of a man who knew only one of the philosophic roads, and\neven that, perhaps, imperfectly. These are not the instructions issued to\njuries, Lycinus; they are not to hear one party, and, refuse the other\npermission to say what he deems advisable; they are to hear both sides\nalike, with a view to the better sifting of truth from falsehood by\ncomparison of the arguments; if they fail in these duties, the law allows\nan appeal to another court_. That is what we may expect them to say.\n\nThen one of them might proceed to question me like this: _Suppose,\nLycinus, that an Ethiopian who had never been abroad in his life, nor\nseen other men like us, were to state categorically in an Ethiopian\nassembly that there did not exist on earth any white or yellow men--\nnothing but blacks--, would his statement be accepted? or would some\nEthiopian elder remark, How do you know, my confident friend? you have\nnever been in foreign parts, nor had any experience of other nations._\nShall I tell him the old man's question was justified? what do you\nadvise, my counsel?\n\n_Her_. Say that, certainly; I consider the old man's rebuke quite\nreasonable.\n\n_Ly_. So do I. But I am not so sure you will approve what comes\nnext; as for me, I have as little doubt of that as of the other.\n\n_Her_. What is it?\n\n_Ly_. The next step will be the application; my questioner will say,\n_Now Lycinus, let us suppose an analogue, in a person acquainted only\nwith the Stoic doctrine, like your friend Hermotimus; he has never\ntravelled in Plato's country, or to Epicurus, or any other land; now, if\nhe were to state that there was no such beauty or truth in those many\ncountries as there is in the Porch and its teaching, would you not be\njustified in considering it bold of him to give you his opinion about\nthem all, whereas he knew only one, having never set foot outside the\nbounds of Ethiopia?_ What reply do you advise to that?\n\n_Her_. The perfectly true one, of course, that it is indeed the Stoic\ndoctrine that we study fully, being minded to sink or swim with that, but\nstill we do know what the others say also; our teacher rehearses the\narticles of their beliefs to us incidentally, and demolishes them with his\ncomments.\n\n_Ly_. Do you suppose the Platonists, Pythagoreans, Epicureans, and\nother schools, will let that pass? or will they laugh out loud and say,\n_What remarkable methods your friend has, Lycinus! he accepts our\nadversaries' character of us, and gathers our doctrines from the\ndescription of people who do not know, or deliberately misrepresent them.\nIf he were to see an athlete getting his muscles in trim by kicking high,\nor hitting out at empty space as though he were getting a real blow home,\nwould he (in the capacity of umpire) at once proclaim him victor, because\nhe _could not help winning_? No; _he would reflect that these displays are\neasy and safe, when there is no defence to be reckoned with, and that the\nreal decision must wait till he has beaten and mastered his opponent, and\nthe latter 'has had enough'. Well then, do not let Hermotimus suppose from\nhis teachers' sparrings with our shadows (for _we_ are not there) that\nthey have the victory, or that our doctrines are so easily upset; tell him\nthe business is too like the sand houses which children, having built them\nweak, have no difficulty in overturning, or, to change the figure, like\npeople practising archery; they make a straw target, hang it to a post,\nplant it a little way off, and then let fly at it; if they hit and get\nthrough the straw, they burst into a shout, as if it were a great triumph\nto have driven through the dry stuff. That is not the way the Persians\ntake, or those Scythian tribes which use the bow. Generally, when _they_\nshoot, in the first place they are themselves mounted and in motion, and\nsecondly, they like the mark to be moving too; it is not to be stationary,\nwaiting for the arrival of the arrow, but passing at full speed; they can\nusually kill beasts, and their marksmen hit birds. If it ever happens that\nthey want to test the actual impact on a target, they set up one of stout\nwood, or a shield of raw hide; piercing that, they reckon that their\nshafts will go through armour too. So, Lycinus, tell Hermotimus from us\nthat his teachers fierce straw targets, and then say they have disposed of\narmed men; or paint up figures of us, spar at them, and, after a not\nsurprising success, think they have beaten us. But we shall severally\nquote against them Achilles's words against Hector:\n\n  They dare not face the nodding of my plume._\n\nSo say all of them, one after the other.\n\nI suspect that Plato, with his intimate knowledge of Sicily, will add an\nanecdote from there. Gelo of Syracuse had disagreeable breath, but did\nnot find it out himself for a long time, no one venturing to mention such\na circumstance to a tyrant. At last a foreign woman who had a connexion\nwith him dared to tell him; whereupon he went to his wife and scolded her\nfor never having, with all her opportunities of knowing, warned him of\nit; she put in the defence that, as she had never been familiar or at\nclose quarters with any other man, she had supposed all men were like\nthat. So Hermotinus (Plato will say) after his exclusive association with\nStoics, cannot be expected to know the savour of other people's mouths.\nChrysippus, on the other hand, might say as much or more if I were to put\n_him_ out of court and betake myself to Platonism, in reliance upon\nsome one who had conversed with Plato alone. And in a word, as long as it\nis uncertain which is the true philosophic school, I choose none; choice\nof one is insult to the rest.\n\n_Her_. For Heaven's sake, Lycinus, let us leave Plato, Aristotle,\nEpicurus, and the rest of them alone; to argue with them is not for me.\nWhy not just hold a private inquiry, you and I, whether philosophy is\nwhat I say it is? As for the Ethiopians and Gelo's wife, what a long way\nyou have brought them on none of their business!\n\n_Ly_. Away with them, then, if you find their company superfluous.\nAnd now do you proceed; my expectations are high.\n\n_Her_. Well, it seems to me perfectly possible, Lycinus, after\nstudying the Stoic doctrines alone, to get at the truth from them,\nwithout going through a course of all the others too. Look at it this\nway: if any one tells you simply, Twice two is four, need you go round\nall the mathematicians to find out whether there is one who makes it\nfive, or seven; or would you know at once that the man was right?\n\n_Ly_. Certainly I should.\n\n_Her_. Then why should you think it impossible for a man who finds,\nwithout going further, that the Stoics make true statements, to believe\nthem and dispense with further witness? He knows that four can never be\nfive, though ten thousand Platos or Pythagorases said it was.\n\n_Ly_. Not to the point. You compare accepted with disputed facts,\nwhereas they are completely different. Tell me, did you ever meet a man\nwho said twice two was seven or eleven?\n\n_Her_. Not I; any one who did not make four of it must be mad.\n\n_Ly_. But on the other hand--try to tell the truth, I adjure you--,\ndid you ever meet a Stoic and an Epicurean who did _not_ differ\nabout principles or ends?\n\n_Her_. No.\n\n_Ly_. You are an honest man; now ask yourself whether you are trapping a\nfriend with false logic. We are trying to find out with whom philosophic\ntruth lies; and you beg the question and make a present of that same truth\nto the Stoics; for you say (what is quite unproved) that they are the\npeople who make twice two four; the Epicureans or Platonists would say\nthat _they_ bring out that result, whereas you get five or seven. Does it\nnot amount to that, when your school reckon goodness the only end, and the\nEpicureans pleasure? or again when you say everything is material, and\nPlato recognizes an immaterial element also in all that exists? As I said,\nyou lay hold of the thing in dispute, as though it were the admitted\nproperty of the Stoics, and put it into their hands, though the others\nclaim it and maintain that it is theirs; why, it is the very point at\nissue. If it is once established that Stoics have the monopoly of making\nfour out of twice two, it is time for the rest to hold their tongues; but\nas long as they refuse to yield that point, we must hear all alike, or be\nprepared for people's calling us partial judges.\n\n_Her_. It seems to me, Lycinus, you do not understand what I mean.\n\n_Ly_. Very well, put it plainer, if it is something different from that.\n\n_Her_. You will see in a minute. Let us suppose two people have gone\ninto the temple of Asclepius or Dionysus, and subsequently one of the\nsacred cups is missing. Both of them will have to be searched, to see\nwhich has it about him.\n\n_Ly_. Clearly.\n\n_Her_. Of course one of them has it.\n\n_Ly_. Necessarily, if it is missing.\n\n_Her_. Then, if you find it on the first, you will not strip the other; it\nis clear he has not got it.\n\n_Ly_. Quite.\n\n_Her_. And if we fail to find it on the first, the other certainly has it;\nit is unnecessary to search him that way either.\n\n_Ly_. Yes, he has it.\n\n_Her_. So with us; if we find the cup in the possession of the Stoics, we\nshall not care to go on and search the others; we have what we were\nlooking for; why trouble further?\n\n_Ly_. There is no why, if you really find it, and can be certain it\nis the missing article, the sacred object being unmistakable. But there\nare some differences in this case, friend, the temple-visitors are not\ntwo, so that if one has not got the booty the other has, but many; and\nthe identity of the missing object is also uncertain; it may be cup, or\nbowl, or garland; every priest gives a different description of it; they\ndo not agree even about the material; bronze, say these, silver, say\nthose--anything from gold to tin. So there is nothing for it but to strip\nthe visitors, if you want to find it; even if you discover a gold cup on\nthe first man, you must go on to the others.\n\n_Her_. What for?\n\n_Ly_. Because it is not certain that the thing was a cup. And even if that\nis generally admitted, they do not all agree that it was gold; and if it\nis well known that a gold cup is missing, and you find a gold cup on your\nfirst man, even so you are not quit of searching the others; it is not\nclear that this is _the_ sacred cup; do you suppose there is only one gold\ncup in the world?\n\n_Her_. No, indeed.\n\n_Ly_. So you will have to go the round, and then collect all your finds\ntogether and decide which of them is most likely to be divine property.\n\nFor the source of all the difficulty is this: every one who is stripped\nhas something or other on him, one a bowl, one a cup, one a garland,\nwhich again may be bronze, gold, or silver; but whether the one he has is\nthe sacred one, is not yet clear. It is absolutely impossible to know\nwhich man to accuse of sacrilege; even if all the objects were similar,\nit would be uncertain who had robbed the God; for such things may be\nprivate property too. Our perplexity, of course, is simply due to the\nfact that the missing cup--assume it to be a cup--has no inscription; if\neither the God's or the donor's name had been on it, we should not have\nhad all this trouble; when we found the inscribed one, we should have\nstopped stripping and inconveniencing other visitors. I suppose,\nHermotimus, you have often been at athletic meetings?\n\n_Her_. You suppose right; and in many places too.\n\n_Ly_. Did you ever have a seat close by the judges?\n\n_Her_. Dear me, yes; last Olympia, I was on the left of the stewards;\nEuandridas of Elis had got me a place in the Elean enclosure; I\nparticularly wanted to have a near view of how things are done there.\n\n_Ly_. So you know how they arrange ties for the wrestling or the\npancratium?\n\n_Her_. Yes.\n\n_Ly_. Then you will describe it better than I, as you have seen it\nso close.\n\n_Her_. In old days, when Heracles presided, bay leaves--\n\n_Ly_. No old days, thank you; tell me what you saw with your own\neyes.\n\n_Her_. A consecrated silver urn is produced, and into it are thrown\nlittle lots about the size of a bean, with letters on them. Two are\nmarked alpha [Footnote: The Greek alphabet runs: alpha, beta, gamma,\ndelta, epsilon, zeta, eta, theta, iota, kappa, lambda, mu, nu, xi,\nomicron, pi, rho, sigma, tau, upsilon, phi, chi, psi, omega.], two beta,\ntwo more gamma, and so on, if the competitors run to more than that--two\nlots always to each letter. A competitor comes up, makes a prayer to\nZeus, dips his hand into the urn, and pulls out one lot; then another\ndoes the same; there is a policeman to each drawer, who holds his hand so\nthat he cannot see what letter he has drawn. When all have drawn, the\nchief police officer, I think it is, or one of the stewards themselves--I\ncannot quite remember this detail--, goes round and examines the lots\nwhile they stand in a circle, and puts together the two alphas for the\nwrestling or pancratium, and so for the two betas, and the rest. That is\nthe procedure when the number of competitors is even, as eight, four, or\ntwelve. If it is five, seven, nine, or other odd number, an odd letter is\nmarked on one lot, which is put in with the others, not having a\nduplicate. Whoever draws this is a bye, and waits till the rest have\nfinished their ties; no duplicate turns up for him, you see; and it is a\nconsiderable advantage to an athlete, to know that he will come fresh\nagainst tired competitors.\n\n_Ly_. Stop there; that is just what I wanted. There are nine of them, we\nwill say, and they have all drawn, and the lots are in their hands. You go\nround--for I promote you from spectator to steward--examining the letters;\nand I suppose you will not know who is the bye till you have been to them\nall and paired them.\n\n_Her_. How do you mean?\n\n_Ly_. It is impossible for you to hit straight upon the letter which\nindicates the bye; at least, you may hit upon the letter, but you will\nnot know about the bye; it was not announced beforehand that kappa or mu\nor iota had the appointment in its gift; when you find alpha, you look\nfor the holder of the other alpha, whom finding, you pair the two. Again\nfinding beta, you inquire into the whereabouts of the second beta which\nmatches it; and so all through, till there is no one left but the holder\nof the single unpaired letter.\n\n_Her_. But suppose you come upon it first or second, what will you do\nthen?\n\n_Ly_. Never mind me; I want to know what _you_ will do, Mr. Steward. Will\nyou say at once, Here is the bye? or will you have to go round to all, and\nsee whether there is a duplicate to be found, it being impossible to know\nthe bye till you have seen all the lots?\n\n_Her_. Why, Lycinus, I shall know quite easily; nine being the number, if\nI find the epsilon first or second, I know the holder of it for the bye.\n\n_Ly_. But how?\n\n_Her_. How? Why, two of them must have alpha, two beta, and of the\nnext two pairs one has certainly drawn gammas and the other deltas, so\nthat four letters have been used up over eight competitors. Obviously,\nthen, the next letter, which is epsilon, is the only one that can be odd,\nand the drawer of it is the bye.\n\n_Ly_. Shall I extol your intelligence, or would you rather I explained to\nyou my own poor idea, which differs?\n\n_Her_. The latter, of course, though I cannot conceive how you can\nreasonably differ.\n\n_Ly_. You have gone on the assumption that the letters are taken in\nalphabetical order, until at a particular one the number of competitors\nruns short; and I grant you it may be done so at Olympia. But suppose we\nwere to pick out five letters at random, say chi, sigma, zeta, kappa,\ntheta, and duplicate the other four on the lots for eight competitors,\nbut put a single zeta on the ninth, which we meant to indicate the\nbye--what then would you do if you came on the zeta first? How can you\ntell that its holder is the bye till you have been all round and found no\ncounterpart to it? for you could not tell by the alphabetical order, as\nat Olympia.\n\n_Her_. A difficult question.\n\n_Ly_. Look at the same thing another way. Suppose we put no letters\nat all on the lots, but, instead of them, signs and marks such as the\nEgyptians use for letters, men with dogs' or lions' heads. Or no, those\nare rather too strange; let us avoid hybrids, and put down simple forms,\nas well as our draughtsmanship will allow--men on two lots, horses on\ntwo, a pair of cocks, a pair of dogs, and let a lion be the mark of the\nninth. Now, if you hit upon the lion at the first try, how can you tell\nthat this is the bye-maker, until you have gone all round and seen\nwhether any one else has a lion to match?\n\n_Her_. Your question is too much for me.\n\n_Ly_. No wonder; there is no plausible answer. Consequently if we\nmean to find either the man who has the sacred cup, or the bye, or our\nbest guide to the famous city of Corinth, we must absolutely go to and\nexamine them all, trying them carefully, stripping and comparing them;\nthe truth will be hard enough to find, even so. If I am to take any one's\nadvice upon the right philosophy to choose, I insist upon his knowing\nwhat they all say; every one else I disqualify; I will not trust him\nwhile there is one philosophy he is unacquainted with; that one may\npossibly be the best of all. If some one were to produce a handsome man,\nand state that he was the handsomest of mankind, we should not accept\nthat, unless we knew he had seen all men; very likely his man is\nhandsome, but whether the handsomest, he has no means of knowing without\nseeing all. Now we are looking not simply for beauty, but for the\ngreatest beauty, and if we miss that, we shall account ourselves no\nfurther than we were; we shall not be content with chancing upon some\nsort of beauty; we are in search of a definite thing, the supreme beauty,\nwhich must necessarily be _one_.\n\n_Her_. True.\n\n_Ly_. Well then, can you name me a man who has tried every road in\nphilosophy? one who, knowing the doctrine of Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle,\nChrysippus, Epicurus, and the rest, has ended by selecting one out of all\nthese roads, because he has proved it genuine, and had found it by\nexperience to be the only one that led straight to Happiness? If we\ncan meet with such a man, we are at the end of our troubles.\n\n_Her_. Alas, that is no easy matter.\n\n_Ly_. What shall we do, then? I do not think we ought to despair, in the\nmomentary absence of such a guide. Perhaps the best and safest plan\nof all is to set to work oneself, go through every system, and carefully\nexamine the various doctrines.\n\n_Her_. That is what seems to be indicated. I am afraid, though, there is\nan obstacle in what you said just now: it is not easy, when you have\ncommitted yourself with a spread of canvas to the wind, to get home\nagain. How can a man try all the roads, when, as you said, he will be\nunable to escape from the first of them?\n\n_Ly_. My notion is to copy Theseus, get dame Ariadne to give us a skein,\nand go into one labyrinth after another, with the certainty of getting out\nby winding it up.\n\n_Her_. Who is to be our Ariadne? Where shall we find the skein?\n\n_Ly_. Never despair; I fancy I have found something to hold on to and\nescape.\n\n_Her_. And what is that?\n\n_Ly_. It is not original; I borrow it from one of the wise men: 'Be sober\nand doubt all things,' says he. If we do not believe everything we are\ntold, but behave like jurymen who suspend judgement till they have heard\nthe other side, we may have no difficulty in getting out of the\nlabyrinths.\n\n_Her_. A good plan; let us try it.\n\n_Ly_. Very well, which shall we start with? However, that will make no\ndifference; we may begin with whomsoever we fancy, Pythagoras, say; how\nlong shall we allow for learning the whole of Pythagoreanism? and do\nnot omit the five years of silence; including those, I suppose thirty\naltogether will do; or, if you do not like that, still we cannot put it\nlower than twenty.\n\n_Her_. Put it at that.\n\n_Ly_. Plato will come next with as many more, and then Aristotle cannot do\nwith less.\n\n_Her_. No.\n\n_Ly_. As to Chrysippus, I need not ask you; you have told me already that\nforty is barely enough.\n\n_Her_. That is so.\n\n_Ly_. And we have still Epicurus and the others. I am not taking high\nfigures, either, as you will see if you reflect upon the number of\noctogenarian Stoics, Epicureans, and Platonists who confess that they\nhave not yet completely mastered their own systems. Or, if they did not\nconfess it, at any rate Chrysippus, Aristotle, and Plato would for them;\nstill more Socrates, who is as good as they; he used to proclaim to all\ncomers that, so far from knowing all, he knew nothing whatever, except\nthe one fact of his own ignorance. Well, let us add up. Twenty years we\ngave Pythagoras, the same to Plato, and so to the others. What will the\ntotal come to, if we assume only ten schools?\n\n_Her_. Over two hundred years.\n\n_Ly_. Shall we deduct a quarter of that, and say a hundred and fifty\nwill do? or can we halve it?\n\n_Her_. You must decide about that; but I see that, at the best, it\nwill be but few who will get through the course, though they begin\nphilosophy and life together.\n\n_Ly_. In that case, what are we to do? Must we withdraw our previous\nadmission, that no one can choose the best out of many without trying\nall? We thought selection without experiment a method of inquiry\nsavouring more of divination than of judgement, did we not?\n\n_Her_. Yes.\n\n_Ly_. Without such longevity, then, it is absolutely impossible for\nus to complete the series--experiment, selection, philosophy, Happiness.\nYet anything short of that is a mere game of blindman's-buff; whatever we\nknock against and get hold of we shall be taking for the thing we want,\nbecause the truth is hidden from us. Even if a mere piece of luck brings\nus straight to it, we shall have no grounded conviction of our success;\nthere are so many similar objects, all claiming to be the real thing.\n\n_Her_. Ah, Lycinus, your arguments seem to me more or less logical,\nbut--but--to be frank with you--I hate to hear you going through them and\nwasting your acuteness. I suspect it was in an evil hour that I came out\nto-day and met you; my hopes were almost in my grasp; and now here are\nyou plunging me into a slough of despond with your demonstrations; truth\nis undiscoverable, if the search needs so many years.\n\n_Ly_. My dear friend, it would be much fairer to blame your parents,\nMenecrates and whatever your mother's name may have been--or indeed to go\nstill further back to human nature. Why did not they make you a Tithonus\nfor years and durability? instead of which, they limited you like other\nmen to a century at the outside. As for me, I have only been helping you\nto deduce results.\n\n_Her_. No, no; it is just your way; you want to crow over me; you\ndetest philosophy--I cannot tell why--and poke fun at philosophers.\n\n_Ly_. Hermotimus, I cannot show what truth is, so well as wise people like\nyou and your professor; but one thing I do know about it, and that is that\nit is not pleasant to the ear; falsehood is far more esteemed; it is\nprettier, and therefore pleasanter; while Truth, conscious of its purity,\nblurts out downright remarks, and offends people. Here is a case of it:\neven you are offended with me for having discovered (with your assistance)\nhow this matter really stands, and shown that our common object is hard of\nattainment. Suppose you had been in love with a statue and hoped to win\nit, under the impression that it was human, and I had realized that it was\nonly bronze or marble, and given you a friendly warning that your passion\nwas hopeless--you might just as well have thought I was your enemy then,\nbecause I would not leave you a prey to extravagant and impracticable\ndelusions.\n\n_Her_. Well, well; are we to give up philosophy, then, and idle our\nlives away like the common herd?\n\n_Ly_. What have I said to justify that? My point is not that we are\nto give up philosophy, but this: whereas we are to pursue philosophy, and\nwhereas there are many roads, each professing to lead to philosophy and\nVirtue, and whereas it is uncertain which of these is the true road,\ntherefore the selection shall be made with care. Now we resolved that it\nwas impossible out of many offers to choose the best, unless a man should\ntry all in turn; and then the process of trial was found to be long. What\ndo _you_ propose?--It is the old question again. To follow and join\nphilosophic forces with whomsoever you first fall in with, and let him\nthank Fortune for his proselyte?\n\n_Her_. What is the good of answering your questions? You say no one\ncan judge for himself, unless he can devote the life of a phoenix to\ngoing round experimenting; and on the other hand you refuse to trust\neither previous experience or the multitude of favourable testimony.\n\n_Ly_. Where is your multitude, with knowledge and experience _of all_?\nNever mind the multitude; one man who answers the description will do for\nme. But if you mean the people who do not know, their mere numbers will\nnever persuade me, as long as they pronounce upon all from knowledge of,\nat the most, one.\n\n_Her_. Are you the only man who has found the truth, and are all the\npeople who go in for philosophy fools?\n\n_Ly_. You wrong me, Hermotimus, when you imply that I put myself\nabove other people, or rank myself at all with those who know; you forget\nwhat I said; I never claimed to know the truth better than others, only\nconfessed that I was as ignorant of it as every one else.\n\n_Her_. Well, but, Lycinus, it may be all very well to insist on going the\nround, testing the various statements, and eschewing any other method of\nchoice; but it is ridiculous to spend so many years on each experiment, as\nthough there were no such thing as judging from samples. That device seems\nto me quite simple, and economical of time. There is a story that some\nsculptor, Phidias, I think, seeing a single claw, calculated from it the\nsize of the lion, if it were modelled proportionally. So, if some one were\nto let you see a man's hand, keeping the rest of his body concealed, you\nwould know at once that what was behind was a man, without seeing his\nwhole body. Well, it is easy to find out in a few hours the essential\npoints of the various doctrines, and, for selecting the best, these will\nsuffice, without any of your scrupulous exacting investigation.\n\n_Ly_. Upon my word, how confident you are in your faculty of divining the\nwhole from the parts! and yet I remember being told just the\nopposite--that knowledge of the whole includes that of the parts, but not\nvice versa. Well, but tell me; when Phidias saw the claw, would he ever\nhave known it for a lion's, if he had never seen a lion? Could you have\nsaid the hand was a man's, if you had never known or seen a man? Why are\nyou dumb? Let me make the only possible answer for you--that you could\n_not_; I am afraid Phidias has modelled his lion all for nothing;\nfor it proves to be neither here nor there. What resemblance is there?\nWhat enabled you and Phidias to recognize the parts was just your\nknowledge of the wholes--the lion and the man. But in philosophy--the\nStoic, for instance--how will the part reveal the other parts to you, or\nhow can you conclude that they are beautiful? You do not know the whole\nto which the parts belong.\n\nThen you say it is easy to hear in a few hours the essentials of all\nphilosophy--meaning, I suppose, their principles and ends, their accounts\nof God and the soul, their views on the material and the immaterial,\ntheir respective identification of pleasure or goodness with the\ndesirable and the Happy; well, it is easy--it is quite a trifle--to\ndeliver an opinion after such a hearing; but really to _know_ where\nthe truth lies will be work, I suspect, not for a few hours, but for a\ngood many days. If not, what can have induced them to enlarge on these\nrudiments to the tune of a hundred or a thousand volumes apiece? I\nimagine they only wanted to establish the truth of those few points which\nyou thought so easy and intelligible. If you refuse to spend your time on\na conscientious selection, after personal examination of each and all, in\nsum and in detail, it seems to me you will still want your soothsayer to\nchoose the best for you. It would be a fine short cut, with no\nmeanderings or wastings of time, if you sent for him, listened to the\nsummaries, and killed a victim at the end of each; by indicating in its\nliver which is the philosophy for you, the God would save you a pack of\ntroubles.\n\nOr, if you like, I can suggest a still simpler way; you need not shed all\nthis blood in sacrifice to any God, nor employ an expensive priest; put\ninto an urn a set of tablets, each marked with a philosopher's name, and\ntell a boy (he must be quite young, and his parents both be living) to go\nto the urn and pick out whichever tablet his hand first touches; and live\na philosopher ever after, of the school which then comes out triumphant.\n\n_Her_. This is buffoonery, Lycinus; I should not have expected it of you.\nNow tell me, did you ever buy wine? in person, I mean.\n\n_Ly_. Many a time.\n\n_Her_. Well, did you go to every wine vault in town, one after another,\ntasting and comparing?\n\n_Ly_. Certainly not.\n\n_Her_. No; as soon as you find good sound stuff, you have only to get it\nsent home.\n\n_Ly_. To be sure.\n\n_Her_. And from that little taste you could have answered for the quality\nof the whole?\n\n_Ly_. Yes.\n\n_Her_. Now suppose you had gone to all the wine-merchants and said: I want\nto buy a pint of wine; I must ask you, gentlemen, to let me drink the\nwhole of the cask which each of you has on tap; after that exhaustive\nsampling, I shall know which of you keeps the best wine, and is the man\nfor my money. If you had talked like that, they might have laughed at\nyou, and, if you persisted in worrying them, have tried how you liked\nwater.\n\n_Ly_. Yes; it would be no more than my deserts.\n\n_Her_. Apply this to philosophy. What need to drink the whole cask,\nwhen you can judge the quality of the whole from one little taste?\n\n_Ly_. What an adept at evasion you are, Hermotimus! How you slip\nthrough one's fingers! However, it is all the better this time; you\nfancied yourself out, but you have flopped into the net again.\n\n_Her_. What do you mean?\n\n_Ly_. You take a thing whose nature is self-evident and universally\nadmitted, like wine, and argue from it to perfectly unlike things, whose\nnature is obscure and generally debated. In fact I cannot tell what\nanalogy you find between philosophy and wine; there is just one, indeed:\nphilosophers and wine-merchants both sell their wares, mostly resorting\nto adulteration, fraud, and false measures, in the process. But let us\nlook into your real meaning. You say all the wine in a cask is of the\nsame quality--which is perfectly reasonable; further, that any one who\ndraws and tastes quite a small quantity will know at once the quality of\nthe whole--of which the same may be said; I should never have thought of\nobjecting. But mark what comes now: do philosophy and its professors\n(your own, for instance) give you every day the same remarks on the same\nsubjects, or do they vary them? They vary them a great deal, friend; you\nwould never have stuck to your master through your twenty years'\nwandering--quite a philosophic Odyssey--if he had always said the same\nthing; one hearing would have been enough.\n\n_Her_. So it would.\n\n_Ly_. How could you have known the whole of his doctrines from the\nfirst taste, then? They were not homogeneous, like the wine; novelty\nto-day, and novelty to-morrow on the top of it. Consequently, dear friend,\nshort of drinking the whole cask, you might soak to no purpose;\nProvidence seems to me to have hidden the philosophic Good right at the\nbottom, underneath the lees. So you will have to drain it dry, or you\nwill never get to that nectar for which I know you have so long thirsted.\nAccording to your idea, it has such virtue that, could you once taste it\nand swallow the very least drop, you would straightway have perfect\nwisdom; so they say the Delphian prophetess is inspired by one draught of\nthe sacred spring with answers for those who consult the oracle. But it\nseems not to be so; you have drunk more than half the cask; yet you told\nme you were only beginning yet.\n\nNow see whether this is not a better analogy. You shall keep your\nmerchant, and your cask; but the contents of the latter are not to be\nwine, but assorted seeds. On the top is wheat, next beans, then barley,\nbelow that lentils, then peas--and other kinds yet. You go to buy seeds,\nand he takes some wheat out of that layer, and puts it in your hand as a\nsample; now, could you tell by looking at that whether the peas were\nSound, the lentils tender, and the beans full?\n\n_Her_. Impossible.\n\n_Ly_. No more can you tell the quality of a philosophy from the first\nstatements of its professor; it is not uniform, like the wine to which you\ncompared it, claiming that it must resemble the sample glass; it is\nheterogeneous, and it had better not be cursorily tested. If you buy bad\nwine, the loss is limited to a few pence; but to rot with the common herd\n(in your own words) is not so light a loss. Moreover, your man who wants\nto drink up the cask as a preliminary to buying a pint will injure the\nmerchant, with his dubious sampling; but philosophy knows no such danger;\nyou may drink your fill, but this cask grows no emptier, and its owner\nsuffers no loss. It is cut and come again here; we have the converse of\nthe Danaids' cask; that would not hold what was put into it; it ran\nstraight through; but here, the more you take away, the more remains.\n\nAnd I have another similar remark to make about these specimen drops of\nphilosophy. Do not fancy I am libelling it, if I say it is like hemlock,\naconite, or other deadly poison. Those too, though they have death in\nthem, will not kill if a man scrapes off the tiniest particle with the\nedge of his nail and tastes it; if they are not taken in the right\nquantity, the right manner, and the right vehicle, the taker will not\ndie; you were wrong in claiming that the least possible quantity is\nenough to base a generalization on.\n\n_Her_. Oh, have it your own way, Lycinus. Well then, we have got to live a\nhundred years, and go through all this trouble? There is no other road to\nphilosophy?\n\n_Ly_. No, none; and we need not complain; as you very truly said, _ars\nlonga, vita brevis_. But I do not know what has come over you; you now\nmake a grievance of it, if you cannot before set of sun develop into a\nChrysippus, a Plato, a Pythagoras.\n\n_Her_. You trap me, and drive me into a corner, Lycinus; yet I never\nprovoked you; it is all envy, I know, because I have made some progress\nin my studies, whereas you have neglected yourself, when you were old\nenough to know better.\n\n_Ly_. Seest, then, thy true course? never mind me, but leave me as a\nlunatic to my follies, and you go on your way and accomplish what you\nhave intended all this time.\n\n_Her_. But you are so masterful, you will not let me make a choice, till I\nhave proved all.\n\n_Ly_. Why, I confess, you will never get me to budge from that. But when\nyou call me masterful, it seems to me you blame the blameless, as the poet\nsays; for I am myself being dragged along by reason, until you bring up\nsome other reason to release me from durance. And here is reason about to\ntalk more masterfully still, you will see; but I suppose you will\nexonerate it, and blame me.\n\n_Her_. What can it be? I am surprised to hear it still has anything in\nreserve.\n\n_Ly_. It says that seeing and going through all philosophies will not\nsuffice, if you want to choose the best of them; the most important\nqualification is still missing.\n\n_Her_. Indeed? Which?\n\n_Ly_. Why (bear with me), a critical investigating faculty, mental acumen,\nintellectual precision and independence equal to the occasion; without\nthis, the completest inspection will be useless. Reason insists that the\nowner of it must further be allowed ample time; he will collect the rival\ncandidates together, and make his choice with long, lingering, repeated\ndeliberation; he will give no heed to the candidate's age, appearance, or\nrepute for wisdom, but perform his functions like the Areopagites, who\njudge in the darkness of night, so that they must regard not the pleaders,\nbut the pleadings. Then and not till then will you be able to make a sound\nchoice and live a philosopher.\n\n_Her_. Live? an after life, then. No mortal span will meet your demands;\nlet me see: go the whole round, examine each with care, on that\nexamination form a judgement, on that judgement make a choice, on that\nchoice be a philosopher; so and no otherwise you say the truth may be\nfound.\n\n_Ly_. I hardly dare tell you--even that is not exhaustive; I am afraid,\nafter all, the solid basis we thought we had found was imaginary. You know\nhow fishermen often let down their nets, feel a weight, and pull them up\nexpecting a great haul; when they have got them up with much toil, behold,\na stone, or an old pot full of sand. I fear our catch is one of those.\n\n_Her_. I don't know what this particular net may be; your nets are all\nround me, anyhow.\n\n_Ly_. Well, try and get through; providentially, you are as good a\nswimmer as can be. Now, this is it: granted that we go all round\nexperimenting, and get it done at last, too, I do not believe we shall\nhave solved the elementary question, whether _any_ of them has the\nmuch-desired; perhaps they are all wrong together.\n\n_Her_. Oh, come now! not one of _them_ right either?\n\n_Ly_. I cannot tell. Do you think it impossible they may all be deluded,\nand the truth be something which none of them has yet found?\n\n_Her_. How can it possibly be?\n\n_Ly_. This way: take a correct number, twenty; suppose, I mean, a man has\ntwenty beans in his closed hand, and asks ten different persons to guess\nthe number; they guess seven, five, thirty, ten, fifteen--various numbers,\nin short. It is possible, I suppose, that one may be right?\n\n_Her_. Yes.\n\n_Ly_. It is not impossible, however, that they may all guess different\nincorrect numbers, and not one of them suggest twenty beans. What say you?\n\n_Her_. It is not impossible.\n\n_Ly_. In the same way, all philosophers are investigating the nature of\nHappiness; they get different answers one Pleasure, another Goodness,\nand so through the list. It is probable that Happiness _is_ one of these;\nbut it is also not improbable that it is something else altogether. We\nseem to have reversed the proper procedure, and hurried on to the end\nbefore we had found the beginning I suppose we ought first to have\nascertained that the truth has actually been discovered, and that some\nphilosopher or other has it, and only then to have gone on to the next\nquestion, _which_ of them is to be believed.\n\n_Her_. So that, even if we go all through all philosophy, we shall have no\ncertainty of finding the truth even then; that is what you say.\n\n_Ly_. Please, please do not ask _me_; once more, apply to reason itself.\nIts answer will perhaps be that there can be no certainty yet--as long as\nwe cannot be sure that it is one or other of the things they say it is.\n\n_Her_. Then, according to you, we shall never finish our quest nor\nbe philosophers, but have to give it up and live the life of laymen. What\nyou say amounts to that: philosophy is impossible and inaccessible to a\nmere mortal; for you expect the aspirant first to choose the best\nphilosophy; and you considered that the only guarantee of such choice's\nbeing correct was to go through all philosophy before choosing the\ntruest. Then in reckoning the number of years required by each you\nspurned all limits, extended the thing to several generations, and made\nout the quest of truth too long for the individual life; and now you\ncrown all by proving success doubtful even apart from all that; you say\nit is uncertain whether the philosophers have ever found truth at all.\n\n_Ly_. Could you state on oath that they have?\n\n_Her_. Not on oath, no.\n\n_Ly_. And yet there is much that I have intentionally spared you, though\nit merits careful examination too.\n\n_Her_. For instance?\n\n_Ly_. Is it not said that, among the professed Stoics, Platonists, and\nEpicureans, some do know their respective doctrines, and some do not\n(without prejudice to their general respectability)?\n\n_Her_. That is true.\n\n_Ly_. Well, don't you think it will be a troublesome business to\ndistinguish the first, and know them from the ignorant professors?\n\n_Her_. Very.\n\n_Ly_. So, if you are to recognize the best of the Stoics, you will have to\ngo to most, if not all, of them, make trial, and appoint the best your\nteacher, first going through a course of training to provide you with the\nappropriate critical faculty; otherwise you might mistakenly prefer the\nwrong one. Now reflect on the additional time this will mean; I purposely\nleft it out of account, because I was afraid you might be angry; all the\nsame, it is the most important and necessary thing of all in questions\nlike this--so uncertain and dubious, I mean. For the discovery of truth,\nyour one and only sure or well-founded hope is the possession of this\npower: you _must_ be able to judge and sift truth from falsehood; you must\nhave the assayer's sense for sound and true or forged coin; if you could\nhave come to your examination of doctrines equipped with a technical skill\nlike that, I should have nothing to say; but without it there is nothing\nto prevent their severally leading you by the nose; you will follow a\ndangled bunch of carrots like a donkey; or, better still, you will be\nwater spilt on a table, trained whichever way one chooses with a\nfinger-tip; or again, a reed growing on a river's bank, bending to every\nbreath, however gentle the breeze that shakes it in its passage.\n\nIf you could find a teacher, now, who understood demonstration and\ncontroversial method, and would impart his knowledge to you, you would be\nquit of your troubles; the best and the true would straightway be\nrevealed to you, at the bidding of this art of demonstration, while\nfalsehood would stand convicted; you would make your choice with\nconfidence; judgement would be followed by philosophy; you would reach\nyour long-desired Happiness, and live in its company, which sums up all\ngood things.\n\n_Her_. Thank you, Lycinus; that is a much better hearing; there is\nmore than a glimpse of hope in that. We must surely look for a man of\nthat sort, to give us discernment, judgement, and, above all, the power\nof demonstration; then all will be easy and clear, and not too long. I am\ngrateful to you already for thinking of this short and excellent plan.\n\n_Ly_. Ah, no, I cannot fairly claim gratitude yet. I have not discovered\nor revealed anything that will bring you nearer your hope; on the\ncontrary, we are further off than ever; it is a case of much cry and\nlittle wool.\n\n_Her_. Bird of ill omen, pessimist, explain yourself.\n\n_Ly_. Why, my friend, even if we find some one who claims to know this art\nof demonstration, and is willing to impart it, we shall surely not take\nhis word for it straight off; we shall look about for another man to\nresolve us whether the first is telling the truth. Finding number two, we\nshall still be uncertain whether our guarantor really knows the difference\nbetween a good judge and a bad, and shall need a number three to guarantee\nnumber two; for how can we possibly know ourselves how to select the best\njudge? You see how far this must go; the thing is unending; its nature\ndoes not allow us to draw the line and put a stop to it; for you will\nobserve that all the demonstrations that can possibly be thought of are\nthemselves unfounded and open to dispute; most of them struggle to\nestablish their certainty by appealing to facts as questionable as\nthemselves; and the rest produce certain truisms with which they compare,\nquite illegitimately, the most speculative theories, and then say they\nhave demonstrated the latter: our eyes tell us there are altars to the\nGods; therefore there must be Gods; that is the sort of thing.\n\n_Her_. How unkindly you treat me, Lycinus, turning my treasure into\nashes; I suppose all these years are to have been lost labour.\n\n_Ly_. At least your chagrin will be considerably lessened by the\nthought that you are not alone in your disappointment; practically all\nwho pursue philosophy do no more than disquiet themselves in vain. Who\ncould conceivably go through all the stages I have rehearsed? you admit\nthe impossibility yourself. As to your present mood, it is that of the\nman who cries and curses his luck because he cannot climb the sky, or\nplunge into the depths of the sea at Sicily and come up at Cyprus, or\nsoar on wings and fly within the day from Greece to India; what is\nresponsible for his discontent is his basing of hopes on a dream-vision\nor his own wild fancy, without ever asking whether his aspirations were\nrealizable or consistent with humanity. You too, my friend, have been\nhaving a long and marvellous dream; and now reason has stuck a pin into\nyou and startled you out of your sleep; your eyes are only half open yet,\nyou are reluctant to shake off a sleep which has shown you such fair\nvisions, and so you scold. It is just the condition of the day-dreamer;\nhe is rolling in gold, digging up treasure, sitting on his throne, or\nsomehow at the summit of bliss; for dame _How-I-wish_ is a lavish\nfacile Goddess, that will never turn a deaf ear to her votary, though he\nhave a mind to fly, or change statures with Colossus, or strike a gold-\nreef; well, in the middle of all this, in comes his servant with some\nevery-day question, wanting to know where he is to get bread, or what he\nshall say to the landlord, tired of waiting for his rent; and then he\nflies into a temper, as though the intrusive questioner had robbed him of\nall his bliss, and is ready to bite the poor fellow's nose off.\n\nAs you love me, do not treat me like that. I see you digging up treasure,\nspreading your wings, nursing extravagant ideas, indulging impossible\nhopes; and I love you too well to leave you to the company of a life-long\ndream--a pleasant one, if you will, but yet a dream; I beseech you to get\nup and take to some every-day business, such as may direct the rest of\nyour life's course by common sense. Your acts and your thoughts up to now\nhave been no more than Centaurs, Chimeras, Gorgons, or what else is\nfigured by dreams and poets and painters, chartered libertines all, who\nreek not of what has been or may be. Yet the common folk believe them,\nbewitched by tale and picture just because they are strange and monstrous.\n\nI fancy you hearing from some teller of tales how there is a certain lady\nof perfect beauty, beyond the Graces themselves or the Heavenly\nAphrodite, and then, without ever an inquiry whether his tale is true,\nand such a person to be found on earth, falling straight in love with\nher, like Medea in the story enamoured of a dream-Jason. And what most\ndrew you on to love, you and the others who worship the same phantom,\nwas, if I am not mistaken, the consistent way in which the inventor of\nthe lady added to his picture, when once he had got your ear. That was\nthe only thing you all looked to, with that he turned you about as he\nwould, having got his first hold upon you, averring that he was leading\nyou the straight way to your beloved. After the first step, you see, all\nwas easy; none of you ever looked round when he came to the entrance, and\ninquired whether it was the right one, or whether he had accidentally\ntaken the wrong; no, you all followed in your predecessors' footsteps,\nlike sheep after the bell-wether, whereas the right thing was to decide\nat the entrance whether you should go in.\n\nPerhaps an illustration will make my meaning clearer: when one of those\naudacious poets affirms that there was once a three-headed and six-handed\nman, if you accept that quietly without questioning its possibility, he\nwill proceed to fill in the picture consistently--six eyes and ears,\nthree voices talking at once, three mouths eating, and thirty fingers\ninstead of our poor ten all told; if he has to fight, three of his hands\nwill have a buckler, wicker targe, or shield apiece, while of the other\nthree one swings an axe, another hurls a spear, and the third wields a\nsword. It is too late to carp at these details, when they come; they are\nconsistent with the beginning; it was about that that the question ought\nto have been raised whether it was to be accepted and passed as true.\nOnce grant that, and the rest comes flooding in, irresistible, hardly now\nsusceptible of doubt, because it is consistent and accordant with your\ninitial admissions. That is just your case; your love-yearning would not\nallow you to look into the facts at each entrance, and so you are dragged\non by consistency; it never occurs to you that a thing may be self-\nconsistent and yet false; if a man says twice five is seven, and you take\nhis word for it without checking the sum, he will naturally deduce that\nfour times five is fourteen, and so on _ad libitum_. This is the way\nthat weird geometry proceeds: it sets before beginners certain strange\nassumptions, and insists on their granting the existence of inconceivable\nthings, such as points having no parts, lines without breadth, and so on,\nbuilds on these rotten foundations a superstructure equally rotten, and\npretends to go on to a demonstration which is true, though it starts from\npremisses which are false.\n\nJust so you, when you have granted the principles of any school, believe\nin the deductions from them, and take their consistency, false as it is,\nfor a guarantee of truth. Then with some of you, hope travels through,\nand you die before you have seen the truth and detected your deceivers,\nwhile the rest, disillusioned too late, will not turn back for shame:\nwhat, confess at their years that they have been abused with toys all\nthis time? so they hold on desperately, putting the best face upon it and\nmaking all the converts they can, to have the consolation of good company\nin their deception; they are well aware that to speak out is to sacrifice\nthe respect and superiority and honour they are accustomed to; so they\nwill not do it if it may be helped, knowing the height from which they\nwill fall to the common level. Just a few are found with the courage to\nsay they were deluded, and warn other aspirants. Meeting such a one, call\nhim a good man, a true and an honest; nay, call him philosopher, if you\nwill; to my mind, the name is his or no one's; the rest either have no\nknowledge of the truth, though they think they have, or else have\nknowledge and hide it, shamefaced cowards clinging to reputation.\n\nBut now for goodness' sake let us drop all this, cover it up with an\namnesty, and let it be as if it had not been said; let us, assume that\nthe Stoic philosophy, and no other, is correct; then we can examine\nwhether it is practicable and possible, or its disciples wasting their\npains; it makes wonderful promises, I am told, about the Happiness in\nstore for those who reach the summit; for none but they shall enter into\nfull possession of the true Good. The next point you must help me with--\nwhether you have ever met such a Stoic, such a pattern of Stoicism, as to\nbe unconscious of pain, untempted by pleasure, free from wrath, superior\nto envy, contemptuous of wealth, and, in one word, Happy; such should the\nexample and model of the Virtuous life be; for any one who falls short in\nthe slightest degree, even though he is better than other men at all\npoints, is not complete, and in that case not yet Happy.\n\n_Her_. I never saw such a man.\n\n_Ly_. I am glad you do not palter with the truth. But what are your hopes\nin pursuing philosophy, then? You see that neither your own teacher, nor\nhis, nor his again, and so on to the tenth generation, has been absolutely\nwise and so attained Happiness. It will not serve you to say that it is\nenough to get near Happiness; that is no good; a person on the doorstep is\njust as much outside and in the air as another a long way off, though with\nthe difference that the former is tantalized by a nearer view. So it is to\nget into the neighbourhood of Happiness--I will grant you so much--that\nyou toil like this, wearing yourself away, letting this great portion of\nyour life slip from you, while you are sunk in dullness and wakeful\nweariness; and you are to go on with it for twenty more years at the\nleast, you tell me, to take your place when you are eighty--always\nassuming some one to assure you that length of days--in the ranks of the\nnot yet Happy. Or perhaps you reckon on being the exception; you are to\ncrown your pursuit by attaining what many a good man before you, swifter\nfar, has pursued and never overtaken.\n\nWell, overtake it, if that is your plan, grasp it and have it whole, this\nsomething, mysterious to me, of which the possession is sufficient reward\nfor such toils; this something which I wonder how long you will have the\nenjoyment of, old man that you will be, past all pleasure, with one foot\nin the grave; ah, but perhaps, like a brave soul, you are getting ready\nfor another life, that you may spend it the better when you come to it,\nhaving learned how to live: as though one should take so long preparing\nand elaborating a superlative dinner that he fainted with hunger and\nexhaustion!\n\nHowever, there is another thing I do not think you have observed: Virtue\nis manifested, of course, in action, in doing what is just and wise and\nmanly; but you--and when I say you, I mean the most advanced\nphilosophers--you do not seek these things and ensue them, but spend the\ngreater part of your life conning over miserable sentences and\ndemonstrations and problems; it is the man who does best at these that\nyou hail a glorious victor. And I believe that is why you admire this\nexperienced old professor of yours: he nonplusses his associates, knows\nhow to put crafty questions and inveigle you into pitfalls; so you pay no\nattention to the fruit--which consists in action--, but are extremely\nbusy with the husks, and smother each other with the leaves in your\ndebates; come now, Hermotimus, what else are you about from morning to\nnight?\n\n_Her_. Nothing; that is what it comes to.\n\n_Ly_. Is it wronging you to say that you hunt the shadow or the snake's\ndead slough, and neglect the solid body or the creeping thing itself? You\nare no better than a man pouring water into a mortar and braying it with\nan iron pestle; he thinks he is doing a necessary useful job, whereas, let\nhim bray till all's blue (excuse the slang), the water is as much water as\never it was.\n\nAnd here let me ask you whether, putting aside his discourse, you would\nchoose to resemble your master, and be as passionate, as sordid, as\nquarrelsome, ay, and as addicted to pleasure (though that trait of his is\nnot generally known). Why no answer, Hermotimus? Shall I tell you a plea\nfor philosophy which I lately heard? It was from the mouth of an old, old\nman, who has quite a company of young disciples. He was angrily demanding\nhis fees from one of these; they were long overdue, he said; the day\nstated in the agreement was the first of the month, and it was now the\nfifteenth.\n\nThe youth's uncle was there, a rustic person without any notion of your\nrefinements; and by way of stilling the storm, _Come, come, sir_, says he,\n_you need not make such a fuss because we have bought words of you and not\nyet settled the bill. As to what you have sold us, you have got it still;\nyour stock of learning is none the less; and in what I really sent the boy\nto you for, you have not improved him a bit; he has carried off and\nseduced neighbour Echecrates's daughter, and there would have been an\naction for assault, only Echecrates is a poor man; but the prank cost me a\ncouple of hundred. And the other day he struck his mother; she had tried\nto stop him when he was smuggling wine out of the house, for one of his\nclub-dinners, I suppose. As to temper and conceit and impudence and brass\nand lying, he was not half so bad twelve months ago as he is now. That is\nwhere I should have liked him to profit by your teaching; and we could\nhave done, without his knowing the stuff he reels of at table every day:\n'a crocodile [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes.] seized hold of a baby,'\nsays he, 'and promised to give it back if its father could answer'--the\nLord knows what; or how, 'day [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes.] being,\nnight cannot be'; and sometimes his worship twists round what we say\nsomehow or other, till there we are with horns [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in\nNotes.] on our heads! We just laugh at it--most of all when he stuffs up\nhis ears and repeats to himself what he calls temperaments and conditions\nand conceptions and impressions, and a lot more like that. And he tells us\nGod is not in heaven, but goes about in everything, wood and stone and\nanimals--the meanest of them, too; and if his mother asks him why he talks\nsuch stuff, he laughs at her and says if once he gets the 'stuff' pat off,\nthere will be nothing to prevent him from being the only rich man, the\nonly king, and counting every one else slaves and offscourings._\n\nWhen he had finished, mark the reverend philosopher's answer. _You should\nconsider_, he said, _that if he had never come to me, he would have\nbehaved far worse--very possibly have come to the gallows. As it is,\nphilosophy and the respect he has for it have been a check upon him, so\nthat you find he keeps within bounds and is not quite unbearable; the\nphilosophic system and name tutor him with their presence, and the\nthought of disgracing them shames him. I should be quite justified in\ntaking your money, if not for any positive improvement I have effected,\nyet for the abstentions due to his respect for philosophy; the very\nnurses will tell you as much: children should go to school, because, even\nif they are not old enough to learn, they will at least be out of\nmischief there. My conscience is quite easy about him; if you like to\nselect any of your friends who is acquainted with Stoicism and bring him\nhere to-morrow, you shall see how the boy can question and answer, how\nmuch he has learnt, how many books he has read on axioms, syllogisms,\nconceptions, duty, and all sorts of subjects. As for his hitting his\nmother or seducing girls, what have I to do with that? am I his keeper?_\n\nA dignified defence of philosophy for an old man! Perhaps _you_ will say\ntoo that it is a good enough reason for pursuing it, if it will keep us\nfrom worse employments. Were our original expectations from philosophy\nat all of a different nature, by the way? did they contemplate anything\nbeyond a more decent behaviour than the average? Why this obstinate\nsilence?\n\n_Her_. Oh, why but that I could cry like a baby? It cuts me to the\nheart, it is all so true; it is too much for me, when I think of my\nwretched, wasted years--paying all that money for my own labour, too! I\nam sober again after a debauch, I see what the object of my maudlin\naffection is like, and what it has brought upon me.\n\n_Ly_. No need for tears, dear fellow; that is a very sensible fable\nof Aesop's. A man sat on the shore and counted the waves breaking;\nmissing count, he was excessively annoyed. But the fox came up and said\nto him: 'Why vex yourself, good sir, over the past ones? you should let\nthem go, and begin counting afresh.' So you, since this is your mind, had\nbetter reconcile yourself now to living like an ordinary man; you will\ngive up your extravagant haughty hopes and put yourself on a level with\nthe commonalty; if you are sensible, you will not be ashamed to unlearn\nin your old age, and change your course for a better.\n\nNow I beg you not to fancy that I have said all this as an anti-Stoic,\nmoved by any special dislike of your school; my arguments hold against\nall schools. I should have said just the same if you had chosen Plato or\nAristotle, and condemned the others unheard. But, as Stoicism was your\nchoice, the argument has seemed to be aimed at that, though it had no\nsuch special application.\n\n_Her_. You are quite right. And now I will be off to metamorphose\nmyself. When we next meet, there will be no long, shaggy beard, no\nartificial composure; I shall be natural, as a gentleman should. I may go\nas far as a fashionable coat, by way of publishing my renunciation of\nnonsense. I only wish there were an emetic that would purge out every\ndoctrine they have instilled into me; I assure you, if I could reverse\nChrysippus's plan with the hellebore, and drink forgetfulness, not of the\nworld but of Stoicism, I would not think twice about it. Well, Lycinus, I\nowe you a debt indeed; I was being swept along in a rough turbid torrent,\nunresisting, drifting with the stream; when lo, you stood there and\nfished me out, a true _deus ex machina_. I have good enough reason,\nI think, to shave my head like the people who get clear off from a wreck;\nfor I am to make votive offerings to-day for the dispersion of that thick\ncloud which was over my eyes. Henceforth, if I meet a philosopher on my\nwalks (and it will not be with my will), I shall turn aside and avoid him\nas I would a mad dog.\n\n\n\n\nHERODOTUS AND AETION\n\n\nI devoutly wish that Herodotus's other characteristics were imitable; not\nall of them, of course--that is past praying for--, but any one of them:\nthe agreeable style, the constructive skill, the native charm of his\nIonic, the sententious wealth, or any of a thousand beauties which he\ncombined into one whole, to the despair of imitators. But there is one\nthing--the use he made of his writings, and the speed with which he\nattained the respect of all Greece; from that you, or I, or any one else,\nmight take a hint. As soon as he had sailed from his Carian home for\nGreece, he concentrated his thoughts on the quickest and easiest method\nof winning a brilliant reputation for himself and his works. He might\nhave gone the round, and read them successively at Athens, Corinth,\nArgos, and Sparta; but that would be a long toilsome business, he\nthought, with no end to it; so he would not do it in detail, collecting\nhis recognition by degrees, and scraping it together little by little;\nhis idea was, if possible, to catch all Greece together. The great\nOlympic Games were at hand, and Herodotus bethought him that here was the\nvery occasion on which his heart was set. He seized the moment when the\ngathering was at its fullest, and every city had sent the flower of its\ncitizens; then he appeared in the temple hall, bent not on sight-seeing,\nbut on bidding for an Olympic victory of his own; he recited his\n_Histories_, and bewitched his hearers; nothing would do but each\nbook must be named after one of the Muses, to whose number they\ncorresponded.\n\nHe was straightway known to all, better far than the Olympic winners.\nThere was no man who had not heard his name; they had listened to him at\nOlympia, or they were told of him by those who had been there; he had\nonly to appear, and fingers were pointing at him: 'There is the great\nHerodotus, who wrote the Persian War in Ionic, and celebrated our\nvictories.' That was what he made out of his _Histories_; a single\nmeeting sufficed, and he had the general unanimous acclamation of all\nGreece; his name was proclaimed, not by a single herald; every spectator\ndid that for him, each in his own city.\n\nThe royal road to fame was now discovered; it was the regular practice of\nmany afterwards to deliver their discourses at the festival; Hippias the\nrhetorician was on his own ground there; but Prodicus came from Ceos,\nAnaximenes from Chios, Polus from Agrigentum; and a rapid fame it\nbrought, to them and many others.\n\nHowever, I need not have cited ancient rhetoricians, historians, and\nchroniclers like these; in quite recent times the painter Aetion is said\nto have brought his picture, _Nuptials of Roxana and Alexander_, to\nexhibit at Olympia; and Proxenides, High Steward of the Games on the\noccasion, was so delighted with his genius that he gave him his daughter.\n\nIt must have been a very wonderful picture, I think I hear some one say,\nto make the High Steward give his daughter to a stranger. Well, I have\nseen it--it is now in Italy--, so I can tell you. A fair chamber, with\nthe bridal bed in it; Roxana seated--and a great beauty she is--with\ndowncast eyes, troubled by the presence of Alexander, who is standing.\nSeveral smiling Loves; one stands behind Roxana, pulling away the veil on\nher head to show her to Alexander; another obsequiously draws off her\nsandal, suggesting bed-time; a third has hold of Alexander's mantle, and\nis dragging him with all his might towards Roxana. The King is offering\nher a garland, and by him as supporter and groom's-man is Hephaestion,\nholding a lighted torch and leaning on a very lovely boy; this is\nHymenaeus, I conjecture, for there are no letters to show. On the other\nside of the picture, more Loves playing among Alexander's armour; two are\ncarrying his spear, as porters do a heavy beam; two more grasp the\nhandles of the shield, tugging it along with another reclining on it,\nplaying king, I suppose; and then another has got into the breast-plate,\nwhich lies hollow part upwards; he is in ambush, and will give the royal\nequipage a good fright when it comes within reach.\n\nAll this is not idle fancy, on which the painter has been lavishing\nneedless pains; he is hinting that Alexander has also another love, in\nWar; though he loves Roxana, he does not forget his armour. And, by the\nway, there was some extra nuptial virtue in the picture itself, outside\nthe realm of fancy; for it did Aetion's wooing for him. He departed with\na wedding of his own as a sort of pendant to that of Alexander;\n_his_ groom's-man was the King; and the price of his marriage-piece\nwas a marriage.\n\nHerodotus, then (to return to him), thought that the Olympic festival\nwould serve a second purpose very well--that of revealing to the Greeks a\nwonderful historian who had related their victories as he had done. As\nfor me--and in Heaven's name do not suppose me so beside myself as to\nintend any comparison between my works and his; I desire his favour too\nmuch for that--but one experience I have in common with him. On my first\nvisit to Macedonia, _my_ thoughts too were busy with my best policy.\nMy darling wish was to be known to you all, and to exhibit my writings to\nas many Macedonians as might be; I decided that it would be too great an\nundertaking at such a time of year to go round in person visiting city by\ncity; but if I seized the occasion of this your meeting, appeared before\nyou all, and delivered my discourse, my aspirations, I thought, might be\nrealized that way.\n\nAnd now here are you met together, the _elite_ of every city, the\ntrue soul of Macedonia; the town which lodges you is the chief of all,\nlittle enough resembling Pisa, with its crowding, its tents and hovels\nand stifling heat; there is as great a difference between this audience\nand that promiscuous crowd, mainly intent upon mere athletics, and\nthinking of Herodotus only as a stop-gap; here we have orators,\nhistorians, professors, the first in each kind--that is much in itself;\nmy arena, it seems, need not suffer from comparison with Olympia. And\nthough, if you insist on matching me with the Polydamases, Glaucuses, and\nMilos of literature, you must think me a very presumptuous person, it is\nopen to you on the other hand to put them out of your thoughts\naltogether; and if you strip and examine me independently, you may decide\nthat at least I need not be whipped. [Footnote: Cf. _Remarks addressed\nto an Illiterate Book-fancier_, 9.] Considering the nature of the\ncontest, I may well be satisfied with that measure of success.\n\n\n\n\nZEUXIS AND ANTIOCHUS\n\n\nI was lately walking home after lecturing, when a number of my audience\n(you are now my friends, gentlemen, and there can be no objection to my\ntelling you this)--these persons, then, came to me and introduced\nthemselves, with the air of admiring hearers. They accompanied me a\nconsiderable way, with such laudatory exclamations that I was reduced to\nblushing at the discrepancy between praise and thing praised. Their chief\npoint, which they were absolutely unanimous in emphasizing, was that the\nsubstance of my work was so fresh, so crammed with novelty. I had better\ngive you their actual phrases: 'How new! What paradoxes, to be sure! What\ninvention the man has! His ideas are quite unequalled for originality.'\nThey said a great deal of this sort about my fascinating lecture, as they\ncalled it; they could have had no motive for pretending, or addressing\nsuch flatteries to a stranger who had no independent claims on their\nattention.\n\nThese commendations, to be quite frank, were very far from gratifying to\nme; when at length they left me to myself, my reflections took this\ncourse:--_So the only attraction in my work is that it is unusual, and\ndoes not follow the beaten track; good vocabulary, orthodox composition,\ninsight, subtlety, Attic grace, general constructive skill--these may for\naught I know be completely wanting; else indeed they would hardly have\nleft them unnoticed, and approved my method only as new and startling.\nFool that I was, I did indeed guess, when they jumped up to applaud, that\nnovelty was part of the attraction; I knew that Homer spoke truly when he\nsaid there is favour for the new song; but I did not see that novelty was\nto have so vast a share--the whole, indeed--of the credit; I thought it\ngave a sort of adventitious charm, and contributed, its part to the\nsuccess, but that the real object of commendation--what extracted the\ncheers--was those other qualities. Why, I have been absurdly self-\nsatisfied, and come very near believing them when they called me the one\nand only real Greek, and such nonsense. But behold, my gold is turned to\nashes; my fame, after all, is little different from that enjoyed by a\nconjuror._\n\nNow I should like to give you an illustration from painting. The great\nZeuxis, after he had established his artistic supremacy, seldom or never\npainted such common popular subjects as Heroes, Gods, and battle-pieces;\nhe was always intent on novelty; he would hit upon some extravagant and\nstrange design, and then use it to show his mastery of the art. One of\nthese daring pieces of his represented a female Centaur, nursing a pair\nof infant Centaur twins. There is a copy of the picture now at Athens,\ntaken exactly from the original. The latter is said to have been put on\nship--board for Italy with the rest of Sulla's art treasures, and to have\nbeen lost with them by the sinking of the ship, off Malea, I think it\nwas. The picture of the picture I have seen, and the best word-picture I\ncan manage of that I am now to give you; I am no connoisseur, you must\nunderstand, but I have a vivid recollection of it as I saw it in an\nAthenian studio not long ago; and my warm admiration of it as a work of\nart may perhaps inspire me with a clear description.\n\nOn fresh green-sward appears the mother Centaur, the whole equine part of\nher stretched on the ground, her hoofs extended backwards; the human part\nis slightly raised on the elbows; the fore feet are not extended like the\nothers, for she is only partially on her side; one of them is bent as in\nthe act of kneeling, with the hoof tucked in, while the other is\nbeginning to straighten and take a hold on the ground--the action of a\nhorse rising. Of the cubs she is holding one in her arms suckling it in\nthe human fashion, while the other is drawing at the mare's dug like a\nfoal. In the upper part of the picture, as on higher ground, is a Centaur\nwho is clearly the husband of the nursing mother; he leans over laughing,\nvisible only down to the middle of his horse body; he holds a lion whelp\naloft in his right hand, terrifying the youngsters with it in sport.\n\nThere are no doubt qualities in the painting which evade analysis by a\nmere amateur, and yet involve supreme craftsmanship--such things as\nprecision of line, perfect mastery of the palette, clever brush-work,\nmanagement of shadow, perspective, proportion, and relation of the parts\nto the whole; but I leave all that to the professionals whose business it\nis to appreciate it; what strikes _me_ especially about Zeuxis is\nthe manifold scope which he has found for his extraordinary skill, in a\nsingle subject. You have in the husband a truly terrible savage creature;\nhis locks toss about, he is almost covered with hair, human part as well\nas equine; the shoulders high to monstrosity; the look, even in his merry\nmood, brutal, uncivilized, wild.\n\nIn contrast with him, the animal half of the female is lovely; a\nThessalian filly, yet unbroken and unbacked, might come nearest; and the\nhuman upper half is also most beautiful, with the one exception of the\nears, which are pointed as in a satyr. At the point of junction which\nblends the two natures, there is no sharp line of division, but the most\ngradual of transitions; a touch here, a trait there, and you are\nsurprised to find the change complete. It was perfectly wonderful, again,\nto see the combination of wildness and infancy, of terrible and tender,\nin the young ones, looking up in baby curiosity at the lion-cub, while\nthey held on to breast and dug, and cuddled close to their dam.\n\nZeuxis imagined that when the picture was shown the technique of it would\ntake visitors by storm. Well, they did acclaim him; they could hardly\nhelp that, with such a masterpiece before them; but their commendations\nwere all in the style of those given to me the other night; it was the\nstrangeness of the idea, the fresh unhackneyed sentiment of the picture,\nand so on. Zeuxis saw that they were preoccupied with the novelty of his\nsubject, art was at a discount, and truth of rendering quite a minor\nmatter. 'Oh, pack it up, Miccio,' he said to his pupil, 'and you and the\nothers take it home; these people are delighted with the earthy part of\nthe work; the questions of its aim, its beauty, its artistic merit, are\nof no importance whatever; novelty of subject goes for much more than\ntruth of rendering.'\n\nSo said Zeuxis, not in the best of tempers. Antiochus Soter had a\nsomewhat similar experience about his battle with the Galatians. If you\nwill allow me, I propose to give you an account of that event also. These\npeople were good fighters, and on this occasion in great force; they were\ndrawn up in a serried phalanx, the first rank, which consisted of steel-\nclad warriors, being supported by men of the ordinary heavy-armed type to\nthe depth of four-and-twenty; twenty thousand cavalry held the flanks;\nand there were eighty scythed, and twice that number of ordinary war\nchariots ready to burst forth from the centre. These dispositions filled\nAntiochus with apprehension, and he thought the task was too hard for\nhim. His own preparations had been hurried, on no great scale, and\ninadequate to the occasion; he had brought quite a small force, mostly of\nskirmishers and light-armed troops; more than half his men were without\ndefensive armour. He was disposed to negotiate and find some honourable\ncomposition.\n\nTheodotas of Rhodes, however, a brave and skilful officer, put him in\nheart again. Antiochus had sixteen elephants; Theodotas advised him to\nconceal these as well as he could for the present, not letting their\nsuperior height betray them; when the signal for battle was given, the\nshock just at hand, the enemy's cavalry charging, and their phalanx\nopening to give free passage to the chariots, then would be the time for\nthe elephants. A section of four was to meet the cavalry on each flank,\nand the remaining eight to engage the chariot squadron. 'By this means,'\nhe concluded, 'the horses will be frightened, and there will be a\nstampede into the Galatian infantry.' His anticipations were realized,\nthus:\n\nNeither the Galatians nor their horses had ever seen an elephant, and\nthey were so taken aback by the strange sight that, long before the\nbeasts came to close quarters, the mere sound of their trumpeting, the\nsight of their gleaming tusks relieved against dark bodies, and minatory\nwaving trunks, was enough; before they were within bow-shot, the enemy\nbroke and ran in utter disorder; the infantry were spitted on each\nother's spears, and trampled by the cavalry who came scurrying on to\nthem. The chariots, turning in like manner upon their own friends,\nwhirled about among them by no means harmlessly; it was a Homeric scene\nof 'rumbling tumbling cars'; when once the horses shied at those\nformidable elephants, off went the drivers, and 'the lordless chariots\nrattled on,' their scythes maiming and carving any of their late masters\nwhom they came within reach of; and, in that chaos, many were the\nvictims. Next came the elephants, trampling, tossing, tearing, goring;\nand a very complete victory they had made of it for Antiochus.\n\nThe carnage was great, and all the Galatians were either killed or\ncaptured, with the exception of a quite small band which got off to the\nmountains; Antiochus's Macedonians sang the Paean, gathered round,\nand garlanded him with acclamations on the glorious victory. But the\nKing--so the story goes--was in tears; 'My men,' he said, 'we have more\nreason for shame; saved by those sixteen brutes! if their strangeness\nhad not produced the panic, where should we have been?' And on the\ntrophy he would have nothing carved except just an elephant.\n\nGentlemen, _de me fabula_; are my resources like those of Antiochus--\nquite unfit for battle on the whole, but including some elephants, some\nqueer impositions, some jugglery, in fact? That is what all the praise I\nhear points at. The things I really relied upon seem to be of little\naccount; the mere fact that my picture is of a female Centaur exercises\nfascination; it passes for a novelty and a marvel, as indeed it is. The\nrest of Zeuxis's pains is thrown away, I suppose. But ah, no, not thrown\naway--; _you_ are connoisseurs, and judge by the rules of art. I\nonly hope the show may be worthy of the spectators.\n\n\n\n\nHARMONIDES\n\n\n'Tell me, Timotheus,' said Harmonides the flute-player one day to his\nteacher, 'tell me how I may win distinction in my art. What can I do to\nmake myself known all over Greece? Everything but this you have taught\nme. I have a correct ear, thanks to you, and a smooth, even delivery, and\nhave acquired the light touch so essential to the rendering of rapid\nmeasures; rhythmical effect, the adaptation of music to dance, the true\ncharacter of the different moods--exalted Phrygian, joyous Lydian,\nmajestic Dorian, voluptuous Ionic--all these I have mastered with your\nassistance. But the prime object of my musical aspirations seems out of\nmy reach: I mean popular esteem, distinction, and notoriety; I would have\nall eyes turn in my direction, all tongues repeat my name: \"There goes\nHarmonides, the great flute-player.\" Now when _you_ first came from\nyour home in Boeotia, and performed in the _Procne_, and won the\nprize for your rendering of the _Ajax Furens_, composed by your\nnamesake, there was not a man who did not know the name of Timotheus of\nThebes; and in these days you have only to show yourself, and people\nflock together as birds do at the sight of an owl in daylight. It is for\nthis that I sought to become a flute-player; this was to be the reward of\nall my toil. The skill without the glory I would not take at a gift, not\nthough I should prove to be a Marsyas or an Olympus in disguise. What is\nthe use of a light that is to be hidden under a bushel? Show me then,\nTimotheus, how I may avail myself of my powers and of my art. I shall be\ndoubly your debtor: not for my skill alone, but for the glory that skill\nconfers.'\n\n'Why, really,' says Timotheus, 'it is no such easy matter, Harmonides, to\nbecome a public character, or to gain the prestige and distinction to\nwhich you aspire; and if you propose to set about it by performing in\npublic, you will find it a long business, and at the best will never\nachieve a universal reputation. Where will you find a theatre or circus\nlarge enough to admit the whole nation as your audience? But if you would\nattain your object and become known, take this hint. By all means perform\noccasionally in the theatres, but do not concern yourself with the\npublic. Here is the royal road to fame: get together a small and select\naudience of connoisseurs, real experts, whose praise, whose blame are\nequally to be relied upon; display your skill to these; and if you can\nwin _their_ approval, you may rest content that in a single hour you\nhave gained a national reputation. I argue thus. If you are known to be\nan admirable performer by persons who are themselves universally known\nand admired, what have you to do with public opinion? Public opinion must\ninevitably follow the opinion of the best judges. The public after all is\nmainly composed of untutored minds, that know not good from bad\nthemselves; but when they hear a man praised by the great authorities,\nthey take it for granted that he is not undeserving of praise, and praise\nhim accordingly. It is the same at the games: most of the spectators know\nenough to clap or hiss, but the judging is done by some five or six\npersons.'\n\nHarmonides had no time to put this policy into practice. The story goes\nthat in his first public competition he worked so energetically at his\nflute, that he breathed his last into it, and expired then and there,\nbefore he could be crowned. His first Dionysiac performance was also his\nlast.\n\nBut Timotheus's remarks need not be confined to Harmonides, nor to his\nprofession: they seem applicable to all whose ambition prompts them to\nexhibit their talents and to aim at the approbation of the public.\nAccordingly, when I, like Harmonides, was debating within myself the\nspeediest means of becoming known, I took Timotheus's advice: 'Who,' I\nasked myself, 'is the foremost man in all this city? Whose credit is\nhighest with his neighbours? Who shall be my _multum in parvo_?'\nOnly one name could reasonably suggest itself--your own; which stands for\nthe perfection of every excellence, the glass of culture and the mould of\nwit. To submit my works to you, to win _your_ approbation--if such a\nthing might be!--were to reach the goal of my desire; for your suffrage\ncarries the rest with it. Whom, indeed, could I substitute in your place,\nand hope to preserve a reputation for sanity? In a sense, no doubt, I\nshall be hazarding all on one cast of the die: yet with more truth I\nmight be said to have summoned the whole population into one audience-\nchamber; for your single judgement must assuredly outweigh the rest,\ntaken individually or collectively. The Spartan kings had two votes each\nto the ordinary man's one: but you are a whole Privy Council and Senate\nin yourself. Your influence is unequalled in the Court of Literature,\nand, above all, yours is the casting-vote of acquittal; an encouraging\nthought for me, who might well be uneasy otherwise at the extent of my\nhardihood. Moreover, I am not wholly without a claim on your interest, as\nbelonging to that city which has so often enjoyed peculiar benefits at\nyour hand, in addition to those which it has shared with the nation at\nlarge; and this encourages me to hope that in the present instance, if\njudgement is going against me, and the votes of acquittal are in a\nminority, you will use your prerogative, and make all right with that\ncasting-vote of yours. I may have had successes, I may have made a name,\nmy lectures may have been well received:--all this amounts to nothing; it\nis visionary; it is a mere bubble. The truth must come to light now; I am\nput to a final test; there will be no room for doubt or hesitation after\nthis. It rests with you, whether my literary rank shall be assured, or my\npretensions--but no! with such a contest before me, I will abstain from\nwords of evil omen.\n\nYe Gods, give me approval _here_, and set the seal upon my\nreputation! I may then face the world with a light heart: he who has\ncarried the prize at Olympia need fear no other course.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCYTHIAN\n\n\nAnacharsis was not the first Scythian who was induced by the love of\nGreek culture to leave his native country and visit Athens: he had been\npreceded by Toxaris, a man of high ability and noble sentiments, and an\neager student of manners and customs; but of low origin, not like\nAnacharsis a member of the royal family or of the aristocracy of his\ncountry, but what they call _'an eight-hoof man,'_ a term which\nimplies the possession of a waggon and two oxen. Toxaris never returned\nto Scythia, but died at Athens, where he presently came to be ranked\namong the Heroes; and sacrifice is still paid to 'the Foreign Physician,'\nas he was styled after his deification. Some account of the significance\nof this name, the origin of his worship, and his connexion with the sons\nof Asclepius, will not, I think, be out of place: for it will be seen\nfrom this that the Scythians, in conferring immortality on mortals, and\nsending them to keep company with Zamolxis, do not stand alone; since the\nAthenians permit themselves to make Gods of Scythians upon Greek soil.\n\nAt the time of the great plague, the wife of Architeles the Areopagite\nhad a vision: the Scythian Toxaris stood over her and commanded her to\ntell the Athenians that the plague would cease if they would sprinkle\ntheir back-streets with wine. The Athenians attended to his instructions,\nand after several sprinklings had been performed, the plague troubled\nthem no more; whether it was that the perfume of the wine neutralized\ncertain noxious vapours, or that the hero, being a medical hero, had some\nother motive for his advice. However that may be, he continues to this\nday to draw a fee for his professional services, in the shape of a white\nhorse, which is sacrificed on his tomb. This tomb was pointed out by\nDimaenete as the place from which he issued with his instructions about\nthe wine; and beneath it Toxaris was found buried, his identity being\nestablished not merely by the inscription, of which only a part remained\nlegible, but also by the figure engraved on the monument, which was that\nof a Scythian, with a bow, ready strung, in his left hand, and in the\nright what appeared to be a book. You may still make out more than half\nthe figure, with the bow and book complete: but the upper portion of the\nstone, including the face, has suffered from the ravages of time. It is\nsituated not far from the Dipylus, on your left as you leave the Dipylus\nfor the Academy. The mound is of no great size, and the pillar lies\nprostrate: yet it never lacks a garland, and there are statements to the\neffect that fever-patients have been known to be cured by the hero; which\nindeed is not surprising, considering that he once healed an entire city.\n\nHowever, my reason for mentioning Toxaris was this. He was still alive,\nwhen Anacharsis landed at Piraeus and made his way up to Athens, in no\nsmall perturbation of spirit; a foreigner and a barbarian, everything was\nstrange to him, and many things caused him uneasiness; he knew not what\nto do with himself; he saw that every one was laughing at his attire; he\ncould find no one to speak his native tongue;--in short he was heartily\nsick of his travels, and made up his mind that he would just see Athens,\nand then retreat to his ship without loss of time, get on board, and so\nback to the Bosphorus; once there he had no great journey to perform\nbefore he would be home again. In this frame of mind he had already\nreached the Ceramicus, when his good genius appeared to him in the guise\nof Toxaris. The attention of the latter was immediately arrested by the\ndress of his native country, nor was it likely that he would have any\ndifficulty in recognizing Anacharsis, who was of noble birth and of the\nhighest rank in Scythia. Anacharsis, on the other hand, could not be\nexpected to see a compatriot in Toxaris, who was dressed in the Greek\nfashion, without sword or belt, wore no beard, and from his fluent speech\nmight have been an Athenian born; so completely had time transformed him.\n'You are surely Anacharsis, the son of Daucetas?' he said, addressing him\nin the Scythian language. Anacharsis wept tears of joy; he not only heard\nhis mother-tongue, but heard it from one who had known him in Scythia.\n'How comes it, sir, that you know me?' he asked.\n\n'I too am of that country; my name is Toxaris; but it is probably not\nknown to you, for I am a man of no family.'\n\n'Are you that Toxaris,' exclaimed the other, 'of whom I heard that for\nlove of Greece he had left wife and children in Scythia, and gone to\nAthens, and was there dwelling in high honour?'\n\n'What, is my name still remembered among you?--Yes, I am Toxaris.'\n\n'Then,' said Anacharsis, 'you see before you a disciple, who has caught\nyour enthusiasm for Greece; it was with no other object than this that I\nset out on my travels. The hardships I have endured in the countries\nthrough which I passed on my way hither are infinite; and I had already\ndecided, when I met you, that before the sun set I would return to my\nship; so much was I disturbed at the strange and outlandish sights that I\nhave seen. And now, Toxaris, I adjure you by Scimetar and Zamolxis, our\ncountry's Gods,--take me by the hand, be my guide, and make me acquainted\nwith all that is best in Athens and in the rest of Greece; their great\nmen, their wise laws, their customs, their assemblies, their\nconstitution, their everyday life. You and I have both travelled far to\nsee these things: you will not suffer me to depart without seeing them?'\n\n'What! come to the very door, and then turn back? This is not the\nlanguage of enthusiasm. However, there is no fear of that--you will not\ngo back, Athens will not let you off so easily. She is not so much at a\nloss for charms wherewith to detain the stranger: she will take such a\nhold on you, that you will forget your own wife and children--if you have\nany. Now I will put you into the readiest way of seeing Athens, ay, and\nGreece, and the glories of Greece. There is a certain philosopher living\nhere; he is an Athenian, but has travelled a great deal in Asia and\nEgypt, and held intercourse with the most eminent men. For the rest, he\nis none of your moneyed men: indeed, he is quite poor; be prepared for an\nold man, dressed as plainly as could be. Yet his virtue and wisdom are\nheld in such esteem, that he was employed by them to draw up a\nconstitution, and his ordinances form their rule of life. Make this man\nyour friend, study him, and rest assured that in knowing him you know\nGreece; for he is an epitome of all that is excellent in the Greek\ncharacter. I can do you no greater service than to introduce you to him.'\n\n'Let us lose no time, then, Toxaris. Take me to him. But perhaps that is\nnot so easily done? He may slight your intercessions on my behalf?'\n\n'You know not what you say. Nothing gives him greater pleasure than to\nhave an opportunity of showing his hospitality to strangers. Only follow\nme, and you shall see how courteous and benevolent he is, and how devout\na worshipper of the God of Hospitality. But stay: how fortunate! here he\ncomes towards us. See, he is wrapped in thought, and mutters to himself.\n--Solon!' he cried; 'I bring you the best of gifts--a stranger who craves\nyour friendship. He is a Scythian of noble family; but has left all and\ncome here to enjoy the society of Greeks, and to view the wonders of\ntheir country. I have hit upon a simple expedient which will enable him\nto do both, to see all that is to be seen, and to form the most desirable\nacquaintances: in other words, I have brought him to Solon, who, if I\nknow anything of his character, will not refuse to take him under his\nprotection, and to make him a Greek among Greeks.--It is as I told you,\nAnacharsis: having seen Solon, you have seen all; behold Athens; behold\nGreece. You are a stranger no longer: all men know you, all men are your\nfriends; this it is to possess the friendship of the venerable Solon.\nConversing with him, you will forget Scythia and all that is in it. Your\ntoils are rewarded, your desire is fulfilled. In him you have the\nmainspring of Greek civilization, in him the ideals of Athenian\nphilosophers are realized. Happy man--if you know your happiness--to be\nthe friend and intimate of Solon!'\n\nIt would take too long to describe the pleasure of Solon at Toxaris's\n'gift,' his words on the occasion, and his subsequent intercourse with\nAnacharsis--how he gave him the most valuable instruction, procured him\nthe friendship of all Athens, showed him the sights of Greece, and took\nevery trouble to make his stay in the country a pleasant one; and how\nAnacharsis for his part regarded the sage with such reverence, that he\nwas never willingly absent from his side. Suffice it to say, that the\npromise of Toxaris was fulfilled: thanks to Solon's good offices,\nAnacharsis speedily became familiar with Greece and with Greek society,\nin which he was treated with the consideration due to one who came thus\nstrongly recommended; for here too Solon was a lawgiver: those whom he\nesteemed were loved and admired by all. Finally, if we may believe the\nstatement of Theoxenus, Anacharsis was presented with the freedom of the\ncity, and initiated into the mysteries; nor does it seem likely that he\nwould ever have returned to Scythia, had not Solon died.\n\nAnd now perhaps I had better put the moral to my tale, if it is not to\nwander about in a headless condition. What are Anacharsis and Toxaris\ndoing here to-day in Macedonia, bringing Solon with them too, poor old\ngentleman, all the way from Athens? It is time for me to explain. The\nfact is, my situation is pretty much that of Anacharsis. I crave your\nindulgence, in venturing to compare myself with royalty. Anacharsis,\nafter all, was a barbarian; and I should hope that we Syrians are as good\nas Scythians. And I am not comparing myself with Anacharsis the king, but\nAnacharsis the barbarian. When first I set foot in your city, I was\nfilled with amazement at its size, its beauty, its population, its\nresources and splendour generally. For a time I was dumb with admiration;\nthe sight was too much for me. I felt like the island lad Telemachus, in\nthe palace of Menelaus; and well I might, as I viewed this city in all\nher pride;\n\n A garden she, whose flowers are ev'ry blessing.\n\nThus affected, I had to bethink me what course I should adopt. For as to\nlecturing here, my mind had long been made up about _that_; what\nother audience could I have in view, that I should pass by this great\ncity in silence? To make a clean breast of it, then, I set about\ninquiring who were your great men; for it was my design to approach them,\nand secure their patronage and support in facing the public. Unlike\nAnacharsis, who had but one informant, and a barbarian at that, I had\nmany; and all told me the same tale, in almost the same words. 'Sir,'\nthey said, 'we have many excellent and able men in this city--nowhere\nwill you find more: but two there are who stand pre-eminent; who in birth\nand in prestige are without a rival, and in learning and eloquence might\nbe matched with the Ten Orators of Athens. They are regarded by the\npublic with feelings of absolute devotion: their will is law; for they\nwill nothing but the highest interests of the city. Their courtesy, their\nhospitality towards strangers, their unassuming benevolence, their\nmodesty in the midst of greatness, their gentleness, their affability,--\nall these you will presently experience, and will have something to say\non the subject yourself. But--wonder of wonders!--these two are of one\nhouse, father and son. For the father, conceive to yourself a Solon, a\nPericles, an Aristides: as to the son, his manly comeliness and noble\nstature will attract you at the first glance; and if he do but say two\nwords, your ears will be taken captive by the charm that sits upon his\ntongue. When he speaks in public, the city listens like one man, open-\nmouthed; 'tis Athens listening to Alcibiades; yet the Athenians presently\nrepented of their infatuation for the son of Clinias, but here love grows\nto reverence; the welfare of this city, the happiness of her citizens,\nare all bound up in one man. Once let the father and son admit you to\ntheir friendship, and the city is yours; they have but to raise a finger,\nto put your success beyond a doubt.'--Such, by Heaven (if Heaven must be\ninvoked for the purpose), such was the unvarying report I heard; and I\nnow know from experience that it fell far short of the truth.\n\n  Then up, nor waste thy days In indolent delays,\n\nas the Cean poet cries; I must strain every nerve, work body and soul, to\ngain these friends. That once achieved, fair weather and calm seas are\nbefore me, and my haven is near at hand.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WAY TO WRITE HISTORY\n\n\nMY DEAR PHILO,\n\nThere is a story of a curious epidemic at Abdera, just after the\naccession of King Lysimachus. It began with the whole population's\nexhibiting feverish symptoms, strongly marked and unintermittent from the\nvery first attack. About the seventh day, the fever was relieved, in some\ncases by a violent flow of blood from the nose, in others by perspiration\nnot less violent. The mental effects, however, were most ridiculous; they\nwere all stage-struck, mouthing blank verse and ranting at the top of\ntheir voices. Their favourite recitation was the _Andromeda_ of\nEuripides; one after another would go through the great speech of\nPerseus; the whole place was full of pale ghosts, who were our seventh-\nday tragedians vociferating,\n\n  O Love, who lord'st it over Gods and men,\n\nand the rest of it. This continued for some time, till the coming of\nwinter put an end to their madness with a sharp frost. I find the\nexplanation of the form it took in this fact: Archelaus was then the\ngreat tragic actor, and in the middle of the summer, during some very hot\nweather, he had played the _Andromeda_ there; most of them took the\nfever in the theatre, and convalescence was followed by a relapse--into\ntragedy, the _Andromeda_ haunting their memories, and Perseus\nhovering, Gorgon's head in hand, before the mind's eye.\n\nWell, to compare like with like, the majority of our educated class is\nnow suffering from an Abderite epidemic. They are not stage-struck,\nindeed; that would have been a minor infatuation--to be possessed with\nother people's verses, not bad ones either; no; but from the beginning of\nthe present excitements--the barbarian war, the Armenian disaster, the\nsuccession of victories--you cannot find a man but is writing history;\nnay, every one you meet is a Thucydides, a Herodotus, a Xenophon. The old\nsaying must be true, and war be the father of all things [Footnote: See\nnote on _Icaromenippus_, 8.], seeing what a litter of historians it\nhas now teemed forth at a birth.\n\nSuch sights and sounds, my Philo, brought into my head that old anecdote\nabout the Sinopean. A report that Philip was marching on the town had\nthrown all Corinth into a bustle; one was furbishing his arms, another\nwheeling stones, a third patching the wall, a fourth strengthening a\nbattlement, every one making himself useful somehow or other. Diogenes\nhaving nothing to do--of course no one thought of giving _him_ a\njob--was moved by the sight to gird up his philosopher's cloak and begin\nrolling his tub-dwelling energetically up and down the Craneum; an\nacquaintance asked, and got, the explanation: 'I do not want to be\nthought the only idler in such a busy multitude; I am rolling my tub to\nbe like the rest.'\n\nI too am reluctant to be the only dumb man at so vociferous a season; I\ndo not like walking across the stage, like a 'super', in gaping silence;\nso I decided to roll _my_ cask as best I could. I do not intend to\nwrite a history, or attempt actual narrative; I am not courageous enough\nfor that; have no apprehensions on my account; I realize the danger of\nrolling the thing over the rocks, especially if it is only a poor little\njar of brittle earthenware like mine; I should very soon knock against\nsome pebble and find myself picking up the pieces. Come, I will tell you\nmy idea for campaigning in safety, and keeping well out of range.\n\n Give a wide berth to all that foam and spray, and to the anxieties which\nvex the historian--that I shall be wise enough to do; but I propose to\ngive a little advice, and lay down a few principles for the benefit of\nthose who do venture. I shall have a share in their building, if not in\nthe dedicatory inscription; my finger-tips will at least have touched\ntheir wet mortar.\n\nHowever, most of them see no need for advice here: _there might as well\nbe an art of talking, seeing, or eating; history-writing is perfectly\neasy, comes natural, is a universal gift; all that is necessary is the\nfaculty of translating your thoughts into words_. But the truth is--you\nknow it without my telling, old friend--, it is _not_ a task to be lightly\nundertaken, or carried through without effort; no, it needs as much care\nas any sort of composition whatever, if one means to create 'a possession\nfor ever,' as Thucydides calls it. Well, I know I shall not get a hearing\nfrom many of them, and some will be seriously offended--especially any who\nhave finished and produced their work; in cases where its first reception\nwas favourable, it would be folly to expect the authors to recast or\ncorrect; has it not the stamp of finality? is it not almost a State\ndocument? Yet even they may profit by my words; _we_ are not likely to be\nattacked again; we have disposed of all our enemies; but there might be a\nCelto-Gothic or an Indo-Bactrian war; then our friends' composition might\nbe improved by the application of my measuring-rod--always supposing that\nthey recognize its correctness; failing that, let them do their own\nmensuration with the old foot-rule; the doctor will not particularly mind,\nthough all Abdera insists on spouting the _Andromeda_.\n\nAdvice has two provinces--one of choice, the other of avoidance; let us\nfirst decide what the historian is to avoid--of what faults he must purge\nhimself--, and then proceed to the measures he must take for putting\nhimself on the straight high road. This will include the manner of his\nbeginning, the order in which he should marshal his facts, the questions\nof proportion, of discreet silence, of full or cursory narration, of\ncomment and connexion. Of all that, however, later on; for the present we\ndeal with the vices to which bad writers are liable. As to those faults\nof diction, construction, meaning, and general amateurishness, which are\ncommon to every kind of composition, to discuss them is neither\ncompatible with my space nor relevant to my purpose.\n\nBut there are mistakes peculiar to history; your own observation will\nshow you just those which a constant attendance at authors'\nreadings [Footnote: These were very common in Roman Imperial times, for\npurposes of advertisement, of eliciting criticism, &c. 'The audience at\nrecitations may be compared with the modern literary reviews, discharging\nthe functions of a preventive and emendatory, not merely of a\ncorrectional tribunal. Before publication a work might thus be known to\nmore hearers than it would now find readers' Mayor, _Juvenal_, iii.\n9.] has impressed on me; you have only to keep your ears open at every\nopportunity. It will be convenient, however, to refer by the way to a few\nillustrations in recent histories. Here is a serious fault to begin with.\nIt is the fashion to neglect the examination of facts, and give the space\ngained to eulogies of generals and commanders; those of their own side\nthey exalt to the skies, the other side they disparage intemperately.\nThey forget that between history and panegyric there is a great gulf\nfixed, barring communication; in musical phrase, the two things are a\ncouple of octaves apart. The panegyrist has only one concern--to commend\nand gratify his living theme some way or other; if misrepresentation will\nserve his purpose, he has no objection to that. History, on the other\nhand, abhors the intrusion of any least scruple of falsehood; it is like\nthe windpipe, which the doctors tell us will not tolerate a morsel of\nstray food.\n\nAnother thing these gentlemen seem not to know is that poetry and history\noffer different wares, and have their separate rules. Poetry enjoys\nunrestricted freedom; it has but one law--the poet's fancy. He is\ninspired and possessed by the Muses; if he chooses to horse his car with\nwinged steeds, or set others a-galloping over the sea, or standing corn,\nnone challenges his right; his Zeus, with a single cord, may haul up\nearth and sea, and hold them dangling together--there is no fear the cord\nmay break, the load come tumbling down and be smashed to atoms. In a\ncomplimentary picture of Agamemnon, there is nothing against his having\nZeus's head and eyes, his brother Posidon's chest, Ares's belt--in fact,\nthe son of Atreus and Aerope will naturally be an epitome of all\nDivinity; Zeus or Posidon or Ares could not singly or severally provide\nthe requisite perfections. But, if history adopts such servile arts, it\nis nothing but poetry without the wings; the exalted tones are missing;\nand imposition of other kinds without the assistance of metre is only the\nmore easily detected. It is surely a great, a superlative weakness, this\ninability to distinguish history from poetry; what, bedizen history, like\nher sister, with tale and eulogy and their attendant exaggerations? as\nwell take some mighty athlete with muscles of steel, rig him up with\npurple drapery and meretricious ornament, rouge and powder his cheeks;\nfaugh, what an object would one make of him with such defilements!\n\nI would not be understood to exclude eulogy from history altogether; it\nis to be kept to its place and used with moderation, is not to tax the\nreader's patience; I shall presently show, indeed, that in all such\nmatters an eye is to be had to posterity. It is true, there is a school\nwhich makes a pretty division of history into the agreeable and the\nuseful, and defends the introduction of panegyric on the ground that it\nis agreeable, and pleases the general reader. But nothing could be\nfurther from the truth. In the first place the division is quite a false\none; history has only one concern and aim, and that is the useful; which\nagain has one single source, and that is truth. The agreeable is no doubt\nan addition, if it is present; so is beauty to an athlete; but a\nNicostratus, who is a fine fellow and proves himself a better man than\neither of his opponents, gets his recognition as a Heracles, however ugly\nhis face may be; and if one opponent is the handsome Alcaeus himself--\nhandsome enough to make Nicostratus in love with him, says the story--,\nthat does not affect the issue. History too, if it can deal incidentally\nin the agreeable, will attract a multitude of lovers; but so long as it\ndoes its proper business efficiently--and that is the establishment of\ntruth--, it may be indifferent to beauty.\n\nIt is further to be remarked, that in history sheer extravagance has not\neven the merit of being agreeable; and the extravagance of eulogy is\ndoubly repulsive, as extravagance, and as eulogy; at least it is only\nwelcome to the vulgar majority, not to that critical, that perhaps\nhypercritical audience, whom no slip can escape, who are all eyes like\nArgus, but keener than he, who test every word as a moneychanger might\nhis coins, rejecting the false on the spot, but accepting the good and\nheavy and true; it is they that we should have in mind as we write\nhistory, and never heed the others, though they applaud till they crack\ntheir voices. If you neglect the critics, and indulge in the cloying\nsweetness of tales and eulogies and such baits, you will soon find your\nhistory a 'Heracles in Lydia.' No doubt you have seen some picture of\nhim: he is Omphale's slave, dressed up in an absurd costume, his lion-\nskin and club transferred to her, as though she were the true Heracles,\nwhile he, in saffron robe and purple jacket, is combing wool and wincing\nunder Omphale's slipper. A degrading spectacle it is--the dress loose and\nflapping open, and all that was man in him turned to woman.\n\nThe vulgar may very likely extend their favour to this; but the select\n(whose judgement you disregard) will get a good deal of entertainment out\nof your heterogeneous, disjointed, fragmentary stuff. There is nothing\nwhich has not a beauty of its own; but take it out of its proper sphere,\nand the misuse turns its beauty to ugliness. Eulogy, I need hardly say,\nmay possibly please one person, the eulogized, but will disgust every one\nelse; this is particularly so with the monstrous exaggerations which are\nin fashion; the authors are so intent on the patron-hunt that they cannot\nrelinquish it without a full exhibition of servility; they have no idea\nof finesse, never mask their flattery, but blurt out their unconvincing\nbald tale anyhow.\n\nThe consequence is, they miss even their immediate end; the objects of\ntheir praise are more inclined (and quite right too) to dislike and\ndiscard them for toadies--if they are men of spirit, at any rate.\nAristobulus inserted in his history an account of a single combat between\nAlexander and Porus, and selected this passage to read aloud to the\nformer; he reckoned that his best chance of pleasing was to invent heroic\ndeeds for the king, and heighten his achievements. Well, they were on\nboard ship in the Hydaspes; Alexander took hold of the book, and tossed\nit overboard; 'the author should have been treated the same way, by\nrights,' he added, 'for presuming to fight duels for me like that, and\nshoot down elephants single-handed.' A very natural indignation in\nAlexander, of a piece with his treatment of the intrusive architect; this\nperson offered to convert the whole of Mount Athos into a colossal statue\nof the king--who however decided that he was a toady, and actually gave\nhim less employment in ordinary than before.\n\nThe fact is, there is nothing agreeable in these things, except to any\none who is fool enough to enjoy commendations which the slightest inquiry\nwill prove to be unfounded; of course there _are_ ugly persons--women more\nespecially--who ask artists to paint them as beautiful as they can; they\nthink they will be really better-looking if the painter heightens the rose\na little and distributes a good deal of the lily. There you have the\norigin of the present crowd of historians, intent only upon the passing\nday, the selfish interest, the profit which they reckon to make out of\ntheir work; execration is their desert--in the present for their\nundisguised clumsy flattery, in the future for the stigma which their\nexaggerations bring upon history in general. If any one takes some\nadmixture of the agreeable to be an absolute necessity, let him be\ncontent with the independent beauties of style; these are agreeable\nwithout being false; but they are usually neglected now, for the better\nfoisting upon us of irrelevant substitutes.\n\nPassing from that point, I wish to put on record some fresh recollections\nof Ionian histories--supported, now I think of it, by Greek analogies\nalso of recent date--both concerned with the war already alluded to. You\nmay trust my report, the Graces be my witness; I would take oath to its\ntruth, if it were polite to swear on paper. One writer started with\ninvoking the Muses to lend a hand. What a tasteful exordium! How suited\nto the historic spirit! How appropriate to the style! When he had got a\nlittle way on, he compared our ruler to Achilles, and the Parthian king\nto Thersites; he forgot that Achilles would have done better if he had\nhad Hector instead of Thersites to beat, if there had been a man of might\nfleeing in front,\n\n  But at his heels a mightier far than he.\n\nHe next proceeded to say something handsome about himself, as a fit\nchronicler of such brilliant deeds. As he got near his point of\ndeparture, he threw in a word for his native town of Miletus, adding that\nhe was thus improving on Homer, who never so much as mentioned his\nbirthplace. And he concluded his preface with a plain express promise to\nadvance our cause and personally wage war against the barbarians, to the\nbest of his ability. The actual history, and recital of the causes of\nhostilities, began with these words:--'The detestable Vologesus (whom\nHeaven confound!) commenced war on the following pretext.'\n\nEnough of him. Another is a keen emulator of Thucydides, and by way of\nclose approximation to his model starts with his own name--most graceful\nof beginnings, redolent of Attic thyme! Look at it: 'Crepereius\nCalpurnianus of Pompeiopolis wrote the history of the war between Parthia\nand Rome, how they warred one upon the other, beginning with the\ncommencement of the war.' After that exordium, what need to describe the\nrest--what harangues he delivers in Armenia, resuscitating our old friend\nthe Corcyrean envoy--what a plague he inflicts on Nisibis (which would\nnot espouse the Roman cause), lifting the whole thing bodily from\nThucydides--except the Pelasgicum and the Long Walls, where the victims\nof the earlier plague found shelter; there the difference ends; like the\nother, 'it began in Ethiopia, whence it descended to Egypt,' and to most\nof the Parthian empire, where it very discreetly remained. I left him\nengaged in burying the poor Athenians in Nisibis, and knew quite well how\nhe would continue after my exit. Indeed it is a pretty common belief at\npresent that you are writing like Thucydides, if you just use his actual\nwords, _mutatis mutandis_. [Footnote: Omitting, with Dindorf, the words\nwhich appear in the Teubner text, after emendation, as: mikra rakia, opos\nkai autos au phaiaes, on di autaen.] Ah, and I almost forgot to mention\none thing: this same writer gives many names of weapons and military\nengines in Latin--_phossa_ for trench, _pons_ for bridge, and so forth.\nJust think of the dignity of history, and the Thucydidean style--the Attic\nembroidered with these Latin words, like a toga relieved and picked out\nwith the purple stripe--so harmonious!\n\nAnother puts down a bald list of events, as prosy and commonplace as a\nprivate's or a carpenter's or a sutler's diary. However, there is more\nsense in this poor man's performance; he flies his true colours from the\nfirst; he has cleared the ground for some educated person who knows how\nto deal with history. The only fault I have to find with him is that he\ninscribes his volumes with a solemnity rather disproportioned to the rank\nof their contents--'Parthian History, by Callimorphus, Surgeon of the 6th\nPikemen, volume so-and-so.' Ah, yes, and there is a lamentable preface,\nwhich closes with the remark that, since Asclepius is the son of Apollo,\nand Apollo director of the Muses and patron of all culture, it is very\nproper for a doctor to write history. Also, he starts in Ionic, but very\nsoon, for no apparent reason, abandons it for every-day Greek, still\nkeeping the Ionic _es_ and _ks_ and _ous_, but otherwise writing like\nordinary people--rather too ordinary, indeed.\n\nPerhaps I should balance him with a philosophic historian; this\ngentleman's name I will conceal, and merely indicate his attitude, as\nrevealed in a recent publication at Corinth. Much had been expected of\nhim, but not enough; starting straight off with the first sentence of the\npreface, he subjects his readers to a dialectic catechism, his thesis\nbeing the highly philosophic one, that no one but a philosopher should\nwrite history. Very shortly there follows a second logical process,\nitself followed by a third; in fact the whole preface is one mass of\ndialectic figures. There is flattery, indeed, _ad nauseam_, eulogy\nvulgar to the point of farce; but never without the logical trimmings;\nalways that dialectical catechism. I confess it strikes me as a vulgarity\nalso, hardly worthy of a philosopher with so long and white a beard, when\nhe gives it in his preface as our ruler's special good fortune that\nphilosophers should consent to record his actions; he had better have\nleft us to reach that conclusion for ourselves--if at all.\n\nAgain, it would be a sinful neglect to omit the man who begins like\nthis:--'I devise to tell of Romans and Persians'; then a little later,\n'For 'twas Heaven's decree that the Persians should suffer evils'; and\nagain, 'One Osroes there was, whom Hellenes name Oxyroes'--and much more\nin that style. He corresponds, you see, to one of my previous examples;\nonly he is a second Herodotus, and the other a second Thucydides.\n\nThere is another distinguished artist in words--again rather more\nThucydidean than Thucydides--, who gives, according to his own idea, the\nclearest, most convincing descriptions of every town, mountain, plain, or\nriver. I wish my bitterest foe no worse fate than the reading of them.\nFrigid? Caspian snows, Celtic ice, are warm in comparison. A whole book\nhardly suffices him for the Emperor's shield--the Gorgon on its boss,\nwith eyes of blue and white and black, rainbow girdle, and snakes twined\nand knotted. Why, Vologesus's breeches or his bridle, God bless me, they\ntake up several thousand lines apiece; the same for the look of Osroes's\nhair as he swims the Tigris--or what the cave was like that sheltered\nhim, ivy and myrtle and bay clustered all together to shut out every ray\nof light. You observe how indispensable it all is to the history; without\nthe scene, how could we have comprehended the action?\n\nIt is helplessness about the real essentials, or ignorance of what should\nbe given, that makes them take refuge in word-painting--landscapes,\ncaves, and the like; and when they do come upon a series of important\nmatters, they are just like a slave whose master has left him his money\nand made him a rich man; he does not know how to put on his clothes or\ntake his food properly; partridges or sweetbreads or hare are served; but\nhe rushes in, and fills himself up with pea soup or salt fish, till he is\nfit to burst. Well, the man I spoke of gives the most unconvincing wounds\nand singular deaths: some one has his big toe injured, and dies on the\nspot; the general Priscus calls out, and seven-and-twenty of the enemy\nfall dead at the sound. As to the numbers killed, he actually falsifies\ndispatches; at Europus he slaughters 70,236 of the enemy, while the\nRomans lose two, and have seven wounded! How any man of sense can tolerate\nsuch stuff, I do not know.\n\nHere is another point quite worth mention. This writer has such a passion\nfor unadulterated Attic, and for refining speech to the last degree of\npurity, that he metamorphoses the Latin names and translates them into\nGreek; Saturninus figures as Cronius, Fronto must be Phrontis, Titianus\nTitanius, with queerer transmogrifications yet. Further, on the subject\nof Severian's death, he accuses all other writers of a blunder in putting\nhim to the sword; he is really to have starved himself to death, as the\nmost painless method; the fact, however, is that it was all over in three\ndays, whereas seven days is the regular time for starvation; are we\nperhaps to conceive an Osroes waiting about for Severian to complete the\nprocess, and putting off his assault till after the seventh day?\n\nThen, Philo, how shall we class the historians who indulge in poetical\nphraseology? 'The catapult rocked responsive,' they say; 'Loud thundered\nthe breach'; or, somewhere else in this delectable history, 'Thus Edessa\nwas girdled with clash of arms, and all was din and turmoil,' or, 'The\ngeneral pondered in his heart how to attack the wall.' Only he fills up\nthe interstices with such wretched common lower-class phrases as 'The\nmilitary prefect wrote His Majesty,' 'The troops were procuring the\nneedful,' 'They got a wash [Footnote: It was suggested in the Introduction\nthat Lucian's criticism is for practical purposes out of date; but\nPrescott writes: 'He was surrounded by a party of friends, who had\n_dropped in_, it seems, after mass, to inquire after the state of his\nhealth, some of whom had remained to partake of his repast.'] and put in\nan appearance,' and so on. It is like an actor with one foot raised on a\nhigh buskin, and the other in a slipper.\n\nYou will find others writing brilliant high-sounding prefaces of\noutrageous length, raising great expectations of the wonders to follow--\nand then comes a poor little appendix of a--history; it is like nothing\nin the world but a child--say the Eros you must have seen in a picture\nplaying in an enormous mask of Heracles or a Titan; _parturiunt montes_,\ncries the audience, very naturally. That is not the way to do things; the\nwhole should be homogeneous and uniform, and the body in proportion to the\nhead--not a helmet of gold, a ridiculous breastplate patched up out of\nrags or rotten leather, shield of wicker, and pig-skin greaves. You will\nfind plenty of historians prepared to set the Rhodian Colossus's head on\nthe body of a dwarf; others on the contrary show us headless bodies, and\nplunge into the facts without exordium. These plead the example of\nXenophon, who starts with 'Darius and Parysatis had two children'; if they\nonly knew it, there is such a thing as a _virtual_ exordium, not realized\nas such by everybody; but of that hereafter.\n\nHowever, any mistake in mere expression or arrangement is excusable; but\nwhen you come to fancy geography, differing from the other not by miles\nor leagues, but by whole days' journeys, where is the classical model for\nthat? One writer has taken so little trouble with his facts--never met a\nSyrian, I suppose, nor listened to the stray information you may pick up\nat the barber's--, that he thus locates Europus:--'Europus lies in\nMesopotamia, two days' journey from the Euphrates, and is a colony from\nEdessa.' Not content with that, this enterprising person has in the same\nbook taken up my native Samosata and shifted it, citadel, walls, and all,\ninto Mesopotamia, giving it the two rivers for boundaries, and making\nthem shave past it, all but touching the walls on either side. I suspect\nyou would laugh at me, Philo, if I were to set about convincing you that\nI am neither Parthian nor Mesopotamian, as this whimsical colony-planter\nmakes me.\n\nBy the way, he has also a very attractive tale of Severian, learnt, he\nassures us on oath, from one of the actual fugitives. According to this,\nhe would not die by the sword, the rope, or poison, but contrived a death\nwhich should be tragic and impressive. He was the owner of some large\ngoblets of the most precious glass; having made up his mind to die, he\nbroke the largest of these, and used a splinter of it for the purpose,\ncutting his throat with the glass. A dagger or a lancet, good enough\ninstruments for a manly and heroic death, he could not come at, forsooth!\n\nThen, as Thucydides composed a funeral oration over the first victims of\nthat old war, our author feels it incumbent on him to do the same for\nSeverian; they all challenge Thucydides, you see, little as he can be\nheld responsible for the Armenian troubles. So he buries Severian, and\nthen solemnly ushers up to the grave, as Pericles's rival, one Afranius\nSilo, a centurion; the flood of rhetoric which follows is so copious and\nremarkable that it drew tears from me--ye Graces!--tears of laughter;\nmost of all where the eloquent Afranius, drawing to a close, makes\nmention, with weeping and distressful moans, of all those costly dinners\nand toasts. But he is a very Ajax in his conclusion. He draws his sword,\ngallantly as an Afranius should, and in sight of all cuts his throat over\nthe grave--and God knows it was high time for an execution, if oratory\ncan be felony. The historian states that all the spectators admired and\nlauded Afranius; as for me, I was inclined to condemn him on general\ngrounds--he had all but given a catalogue of sauces and dishes, and shed\ntears over the memory of departed cakes--, but his capital offence was\nthat he had not cut the historian-tragedian's throat before he left this\nlife himself.\n\nI assure you, my friend, I could largely increase my list of such\noffenders; but one or two more will suffice, before proceeding to the\nsecond part of my undertaking, the suggestions for improvement. There are\nsome, then, who leave alone, or deal very cursorily with, all that is\ngreat and memorable; amateurs and not artists, they have no selective\nfaculty, and loiter over copious laboured descriptions of the veriest\ntrifles; it is as if a visitor to Olympia, instead of examining,\ncommending or describing to his stay-at-home friends the general\ngreatness and beauty of the Zeus, were to be struck with the exact\nsymmetry and polish of its footstool, or the proportions of its shoe, and\ngive all his attention to these minor points.\n\nFor instance, I have known a man get through the battle of Europus in\nless than seven whole lines, and then spend twenty mortal hours on a dull\nand perfectly irrelevant tale about a Moorish trooper. The trooper's name\nwas Mausacas; he wandered up the hills in search of water, and came upon\nsome Syrian yokels getting their lunch; at first they were afraid of him,\nbut when they found he was on the right side, they invited him to share\nthe meal; for one of them had travelled in the Moorish country, having a\nbrother serving in the army. Then come long stories and descriptions of\nhow he hunted there, and saw a great herd of elephants at pasture, and\nwas nearly eaten up by a lion, and what huge fish he had bought at\nCaesarea. So this quaint historian leaves the terrible carnage to go on\nat Europus, and lets the pursuit, the forced armistice, the settling of\noutposts, shift for themselves, while he lingers far into the evening\nwatching Malchion the Syrian cheapen big mackarel at Caesarea; if night\nhad not come all too soon, I dare say he would have dined with him when\nthe fish was cooked. If all this had not been accurately set down in the\nhistory, what sad ignorance we should have been left in! The loss to the\nRomans would have been irreparable, if Mausacas the Moor had got nothing\nto quench his thirst, and come back fasting to camp. Yet I am wilfully\nomitting innumerable details of yet greater importance--the arrival of a\nflute-girl from the next village, the exchange of gifts (Mausacas's was a\nspear, Malchion's a brooch), and other incidents most essential to the\nbattle of Europus. It is no exaggeration to say that such writers never\ngive the rose a glance, but devote all their curiosity to the thorns on\nits stem.\n\nAnother entertaining person, who has never set foot outside Corinth, nor\ntravelled as far as its harbour--not to mention seeing Syria or Armenia\n--, starts with words which impressed themselves on my memory:--'Seeing\nis believing: I therefore write what I have seen, not what I have been\ntold.' His personal observation has been so close that he describes the\nParthian 'Dragons' (they use this ensign as a numerical formula--a\nthousand men to the Dragon, I believe): they are huge live dragons, he\nsays, breeding in Persian territory beyond Iberia; these are first\nfastened to great poles and hoisted up aloft, striking terror at a\ndistance while the advance is going on; then, when the battle begins,\nthey are released and set on the enemy; numbers of our men, it seems,\nwere actually swallowed by them, and others strangled or crushed in their\ncoils; of all this he was an eye-witness, taking his observations,\nhowever, from a safe perch up a tree. Thank goodness he did not come to\nclose quarters with the brutes! we should have lost a very remarkable\nhistorian, and one who did doughty deeds in this war with his own right\nhand; for he had many adventures, and was wounded at Sura (in the course\nof a stroll from the Craneum to Lerna, apparently). All this he used to\nread to a Corinthian audience, which was perfectly aware that he had\nnever so much as seen a battle-picture. Why, he did not know one weapon\nor engine from another; the names of manoeuvres and formations had no\nmeaning for him; flank or front, line or column, it was all one.\n\nThen there is a splendid fellow, who has boiled down into the compass of\nfive hundred lines (or less, to be accurate) the whole business from\nbeginning to end--campaigns in Armenia, in Syria, in Mesopotamia, on the\nTigris, and in Media; and having done it, he calls it a history. His\ntitle very narrowly misses being longer than his book: 'An account of the\nlate campaigns of the Romans in Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Media, by\nAntiochianus, victor at the festival of Apollo'; he had probably won some\njunior flat race.\n\nI have known one writer compile a history of the future, including the\ncapture of Vologesus, the execution of Osroes (he is to be thrown to the\nlions), and, crowning all, our long-deferred triumph. In this prophetic\nvein, he sweeps hastily on to the end of his work; yet he finds time for\nthe foundation in Mesopotamia of a city, greatest of the great, and\nfairest of the fair; he is still debating, however, whether the most\nappropriate name will be Victoria, Concord, or Peacetown; that is yet\nunsettled; we must leave the fair city unnamed for the present; but it is\nalready thickly populated--with empty dreams and literary drivellings. He\nhas also pledged himself to an account of coming events in India, and a\ncircumnavigation of the Atlantic; nay, the pledge is half redeemed; the\npreface to the _India_ is complete; the third legion, the Celtic\ncontingent, and a small Moorish division, have crossed the Indus in full\nforce under Cassius; our most original historian will soon be posting us\nup in their doings--their method of 'receiving elephants,' for instance--\nin letters dated Muziris or Oxydracae.\n\nThese people's uneducated antics are infinite; they have no eyes for the\nnoteworthy, nor, if they had eyes, any adequate faculty of expression;\ninvention and fiction provide their matter, and belief in the first word\nthat comes their style; they pride themselves on the number of books they\nrun to, and yet more on their titles; for these again are quite absurd:\n_--So-and-so's so many books of Parthian victories; The Parthis_, book I;\n_The Parthis_, book II--quite a rival to the _Atthis_, eh? Another does it\n(I have read the book) still more neatly--'_The Parthonicy of Demetrius of\nSagalassus_.' I do not wish to ridicule or make a jest of these pretty\nhistories; I write for a practical purpose: any one who avoids these and\nsimilar errors is already well on the road to historical success; nay, he\nis almost there, if the logical axiom is correct, that, with\nincompatibles, denial of the one amounts to affirmation of the other.\n\n_Well_, I may be told, _you have now a clear field; the thorns and\nbrambles have all been extirpated, the debris of others' buildings has\nbeen carted of, the rough places have been made smooth; come, do a little\nconstruction yourself, and show that you are not only good at destroying,\nbut capable of yourself planning a model, in which criticism itself shall\nfind nothing to criticize._\n\nWell then, my perfect historian must start with two indispensable\nqualifications; the one is political insight, the other the faculty of\nexpression; the first is a gift of nature, which can never be learnt; the\nsecond should have been acquired by long practice, unremitting toil, and\nloving study of the classics. There is nothing technical here, and no\nroom for any advice of mine; this essay does not profess to bestow\ninsight and acumen on those who are not endowed with them by nature;\nvaluable, or invaluable rather, would it have been, if it could recast\nand modify like that, transmute lead into gold, tin into silver, magnify\na Conon or Leotrophides into Titormus or Milo.\n\nBut what is the function of professional advice? not the creation of\nqualities which should be already there, but the indication of their\nproper use. No trainer, of course,--let him be Iccus, Herodicus, Theon,\nor who he may--will suggest that he can take a Perdiccas [Footnote:\nOmitting, with Dindorf, a note on Perdiccas which runs thus: 'if\nPerdiccas it was, and not rather Seleucus's son Antiochus, who was wasted\nto a shadow by his passion for his step-mother.'] and make an Olympic\nvictor of him, fit to face Theagenes of Thasos or Polydamas of Scotussa;\nwhat he _will_ tell you is that, given a constitution that will\nstand training, his system will considerably improve it. So with us--we\nare not to have every failure cast in our teeth, if we claim to have\ninvented a system for so great and difficult a subject. We do not offer\nto take the first comer and make a historian of him--only to point out to\nany one who has natural insight and acquired literary skill certain\nstraight roads (they may or may not be so in reality) which will bring\nhim with less waste of time and effort to his goal.\n\nI do not suppose you will object that the man with insight has no need of\nsystem and instruction upon the things he is ignorant of; in that case he\nmight have played the harp or flute untaught, and in fact have been\nomniscient. But, as things are at present, he cannot perform in these\nways untaught, though with some assistance he will learn very easily, and\nsoon be able to get along by himself.\n\nYou now know what sort of a pupil I (like the trainer) insist upon. He\nmust not be weak either at understanding or at making himself understood,\nbut a man of penetration, a capable administrator--potentially, that is,\n--with a soldierly spirit (which does not however exclude the civil\nspirit), and some military experience; at the least he must have been in\ncamp, seen troops drilled or manoeuvred, know a little about weapons and\nmilitary engines, the differences between line and column, cavalry and\ninfantry tactics (with the reasons for them), frontal and flank attacks;\nin a word, none of your armchair strategists relying wholly on hearsay.\n\nBut first and foremost, let him be a man of independent spirit, with\nnothing to fear or hope from anybody; else he will be a corrupt judge\nopen to undue influences. If Philip's eye is knocked out at Olynthus by\nAster the Amphipolite archer, it is not his business to exclaim, but just\nto show him as he is; he is not to think whether Alexander will be\nannoyed by a circumstantial account of the cruel murder of Clitus at\ntable. If a Cleon has the ear of the assembly, and a monopoly of the\ntribune, he will not shrink on that account from describing him as a\npestilent madman; all Athens will not stop him from dwelling on the\nSicilian disaster, the capture of Demosthenes, the death of Nicias, the\nthirst, the foul water, and the shooting down of the drinkers. He will\nconsider very rightly that no man of sense will blame him for recounting\nthe effects of misfortune or folly in their entirety; he is not the\nauthor, but only the reporter of them. If a fleet is destroyed, it is not\nhe who sinks it; if there is a rout, he is not in pursuit--unless perhaps\nhe ought to have prayed for better things, and omitted to do so. Of\ncourse, if silence or contradiction would have put matters right,\nThucydides might with a stroke of the pen have knocked down the\ncounterwall on Epipolae, sent Hermocrates's trireme to the bottom, let\ndaylight through the accursed Gylippus before he had done blocking the\nroads with wall and trench, and, finally, have cast the Syracusans into\ntheir own quarries and sent the Athenians cruising round Sicily and Italy\nwith Alcibiades's first high hopes still on board. Alas, not Fate itself\nmay undo the work of Fate.\n\nThe historian's one task is to tell the thing as it happened. This he\ncannot do, if he is Artaxerxes's physician [Footnote: See Ctesias in\nNotes] trembling before him, or hoping to get a purple cloak, a golden\nchain, a horse of the Nisaean breed, in payment for his laudations. A\nfair historian, a Xenophon, a Thucydides, will not accept that position.\nHe may nurse some private dislikes, but he will attach far more\nimportance to the public good, and set the truth high above his hate; he\nmay have his favourites, but he will not spare their errors. For history,\nI say again, has this and this only for its own; if a man will start upon\nit, he must sacrifice to no God but Truth; he must neglect all else; his\nsole rule and unerring guide is this--to think not of those who are\nlistening to him now, but of the yet unborn who shall seek his converse.\n\nAny one who is intent only upon the immediate effect may reasonably be\nclassed among the flatterers; and History has long ago realized that\nflattery is as little congenial to her as the arts of personal adornment\nto an athlete's training. An anecdote of Alexander is to the point. 'Ah,\nOnesicritus,' said he, 'how I should like to come to life again for a\nlittle while, and see how your stuff strikes people by that time; at\npresent they have good enough reason to praise and welcome it; that is\ntheir way of angling for a share of my favour.' On the same principle\nsome people actually accept Homer's history of Achilles, full of\nexaggerations as it is; the one great guarantee which they recognize of\nhis truth is the fact that his subject was not living; that leaves him no\nmotive for lying.\n\nThere stands my model, then: fearless, incorruptible, independent, a\nbeliever in frankness and veracity; one that will call a spade a spade,\nmake no concession to likes and dislikes, nor spare any man for pity or\nrespect or propriety; an impartial judge, kind to all, but too kind to\nnone; a literary cosmopolite with neither suzerain nor king, never\nheeding what this or that man may think, but setting down the thing that\nbefell.\n\nThucydides is our noble legislator; he marked the admiration that met\nHerodotus and gave the Muses' names to his nine books; and thereupon he\ndrew the line which parts a good historian from a bad: our work is to be\na possession for ever, not a bid for present reputation; we are not to\nseize upon the sensational, but bequeath the truth to them that come\nafter; he applies the test of use, and defines the end which a wise\nhistorian will set before himself: it is that, should history ever repeat\nitself, the records of the past may give present guidance.\n\nSuch are to be my historian's principles. As for diction and style, he is\nnot to set about his work armed to the teeth from the rhetorician's\narsenal of impetuosity and incisiveness, rolling periods, close-packed\narguments, and the rest; for him a serener mood. His matter should be\nhomogeneous and compact, his vocabulary fit to be understanded of the\npeople, for the clearest possible setting forth of his subject.\n\nFor to those marks which we set up for the historic spirit--frankness and\ntruth--corresponds one at which the historic style should first of all\naim, namely, a lucidity which leaves nothing obscure, impartially\navoiding abstruse out-of-the-way expressions, and the illiberal jargon of\nthe market; we wish the vulgar to comprehend, the cultivated to commend\nus. Ornament should be unobtrusive, and never smack of elaboration, if it\nis not to remind us of over-seasoned dishes.\n\nThe historian's spirit should not be without a touch of the poetical; it\nneeds, like poetry, to employ impressive and exalted tones, especially\nwhen it finds itself in the midst of battle array and conflicts by land\nor sea; it is then that the poetic gale must blow to speed the vessel on,\nand help her ride the waves in majesty. But the diction is to be content\nwith _terra firma_, rising a little to assimilate itself to the beauty and\ngrandeur of the subject, but never startling the hearer, nor forgetting a\ndue restraint; there is great risk at such times of its running wild and\nfalling into poetic frenzy; and then it is that writers should hold\nthemselves in with bit and bridle; with them as with horses an\nuncontrollable temper means disaster. At these times it is best for the\nspirit to go a-horseback, and the expression to run beside on foot,\nholding on to the saddle so as not to be outstripped.\n\nAs to the marshalling of your words, a moderate compromise is desirable\nbetween the harshness which results from separating what belongs\ntogether, and the jingling concatenations--one may almost call them--\nwhich are so common; one extreme is a definite vice, and the other\nrepellent.\n\nFacts are not to be collected at haphazard, but with careful, laborious,\nrepeated investigation; when possible, a man should have been present and\nseen for himself; failing that, he should prefer the disinterested\naccount, selecting the informants least likely to diminish or magnify\nfrom partiality. And here comes the occasion for exercising the judgement\nin weighing probabilities.\n\nThe material once complete, or nearly so, an abstract should be made of\nit, and a rough draught of the whole work put down, not yet distributed\ninto its parts; the detailed arrangement should then be introduced, after\nwhich adornment may be added, the diction receive its colour, the\nphrasing and rhythm be perfected.\n\nThe historian's position should now be precisely that of Zeus in Homer,\nsurveying now the Mysians', now the Thracian horsemen's land. Even so\n_he_ will survey now his own party (telling us what we looked like\nto him from his post of vantage), now the Persians, and yet again both at\nonce, if they come to blows. And when they are face to face, his eyes are\nnot to be on one division, nor yet on one man, mounted or afoot--unless\nit be a Brasidas leading the forlorn hope, or a Demosthenes repelling it;\nhis attention should be for the generals first of all; their exhortations\nshould be recorded, the dispositions they make, and the motives and plans\nthat prompted them. When the engagement has begun, he should give us a\nbird's-eye view of it, show the scales oscillating, and accompany\npursuers and pursued alike.\n\nAll this, however, with moderation; a subject is not to be ridden to\ndeath; no neglect of proportion, no childish engrossment, but easy\ntransitions. He should call a halt here, while he crosses over to another\nset of operations which demands attention; that settled up, he can return\nto the first set, now ripe for him; he must pass swiftly to each in turn,\nkeeping his different lines of advance as nearly as possible level, fly\nfrom Armenia to Media, thence swoop straight upon Iberia, and then take\nwing for Italy, everywhere present at the nick of time.\n\nHe has to make of his brain a mirror, unclouded, bright, and true of\nsurface; then he will reflect events as they presented themselves to him,\nneither distorted, discoloured, nor variable. Historians are not writing\nfancy school essays; what they have to say is before them, and will get\nitself said somehow, being solid fact; their task is to arrange and put\nit into words; they have not to consider what to say, but how to say it.\nThe historian, we may say, should be like Phidias, Praxiteles, Alcamenes,\nor any great sculptor. They similarly did not create the gold, silver,\nivory, or other material they used; it was ready to their hands, provided\nby Athens, Elis, or Argos; they only made the model, sawed, polished,\ncemented, proportioned the ivory, and plated it with gold; that was what\ntheir art consisted in--the right arrangement of their material. The\nhistorian's business is similar--to superinduce upon events the charm of\norder, and set them forth in the most lucid fashion he can manage. When\nsubsequently a hearer feels as though he were looking at what is being\ntold him, and expresses his approval, then our historical Phidias's work\nhas reached perfection, and received its appropriate reward.\n\nWhen all is ready, a writer will sometimes start without formal preface,\nif there is no pressing occasion to clear away preliminaries by that\nmeans, though even then his explanation of what he is to say constitutes\na virtual preface.\n\nWhen a formal preface is used, one of the three objects to which a public\nspeaker devotes his exordium may be neglected; the historian, that is,\nhas not to bespeak goodwill--only attention and an open mind. The way to\nsecure the reader's attention is to show that the affairs to be narrated\nare great in themselves, throw light on Destiny, or come home to his\nbusiness and bosom; and as to the open mind, the lucidity in the body of\nthe work, which is to secure that, will be facilitated by a preliminary\nview of the causes in operation and a precise summary of events.\n\nPrefaces of this character have been employed by the best historians--by\nHerodotus, 'to the end that what befell may not grow dim by lapse of\ntime, seeing that it was great and wondrous, and showed forth withal\nGreeks vanquishing and barbarians vanquished'; and by Thucydides,\n'believing that that war would be great and memorable beyond any previous\none; for indeed great calamities took place during its course.'\n\nAfter the preface, long or short in proportion to the subject, should\ncome an easy natural transition to the narrative; for the body of the\nhistory which remains is nothing from beginning to end but a long\nnarrative; it must therefore be graced with the narrative virtues--\nsmooth, level, and consistent progress, neither soaring nor crawling, and\nthe charm of lucidity--which is attained, as I remarked above, partly by\nthe diction, and partly by the treatment of connected events. For, though\nall parts must be independently perfected, when the first is complete the\nsecond will be brought into essential connexion with it, and attached\nlike one link of a chain to another; there must be no possibility of\nseparating them; no mere bundle of parallel threads; the first is not\nsimply to be next to the second, but part of it, their extremities\nintermingling.\n\nBrevity is always desirable, and especially where matter is abundant; and\nthe problem is less a grammatical than a substantial one; the solution, I\nmean, is to deal summarily with all immaterial details, and give adequate\ntreatment to the principal events; much, indeed, is better omitted\naltogether. Suppose yourself giving a dinner, and extremely well\nprovided; there is pastry, game, kickshaws without end, wild boar, hare,\nsweetbreads; well, you will not produce among these a pike, or a bowl of\npeasoup, just because they are there in the kitchen; you will dispense\nwith such common things.\n\nRestraint in descriptions of mountains, walls, rivers, and the like, is\nvery important; you must not give the impression that you are making a\ntasteless display of word-painting, and expatiating independently while\nthe history takes care of itself. Just a light touch--no more than meets\nthe need of clearness--, and you should pass on, evading the snare, and\ndenying yourself all such indulgences. You have the mighty Homer's\nexample in such a case; poet as he is, he yet hurries past Tantalus and\nIxion, Tityus and the rest of them. If Parthenius, Euphorion, or\nCallimachus had been in his place, how many lines do you suppose it would\nhave taken to get the water to Tantalus's lip; how many more to set Ixion\nspinning? Better still, mark how Thucydides--a very sparing dealer in\ndescription--leaves the subject at once, as soon as he has given an idea\n(very necessary and useful, too) of an engine or a siege-operation, of\nthe conformation of Epipolae, or the Syracusan harbour. It may occur to\nyou that his account of the plague is long; but you must allow for the\nsubject; then you will appreciate his brevity; _he_ is hastening on;\nit is only that the weight of matter holds him back in spite of himself.\n\nWhen it comes in your way to introduce a speech, the first requirement is\nthat it should suit the character both of the speaker and of the occasion;\nthe second is (once more) lucidity; but in these cases you have the\ncounsel's right of showing your eloquence.\n\nNot so with praise or censure; these should be sparing, cautious,\navoiding hypercriticism and producing proofs, always brief, and never\nintrusive; historical characters are not prisoners on trial. Without\nthese precautions you will share the ill name of Theopompus, who delights\nin flinging accusations broadcast, makes a business of the thing in fact,\nand of himself rather a public prosecutor than a historian.\n\nIt may occasionally happen that some extraordinary story has to be\nintroduced; it should be simply narrated, without guarantee of its truth,\nthrown down for any one to make what he can of it; the writer takes no\nrisks and shows no preference.\n\nBut the general principle I would have remembered--it will ever be on my\nlips--is this: do not write merely with an eye to the present, that those\nnow living may commend and honour you; aim at eternity, compose for\nposterity, and from it ask your reward; and that reward?--that it be said\nof you, 'This was a man indeed, free and free-spoken; flattery and\nservility were not in him; he was truth all through.' It is a name which\na man of judgement might well prefer to all the fleeting hopes of the\npresent.\n\nDo you know the story of the great Cnidian architect? He was the builder\nof that incomparable work, whether for size or beauty, the Pharus tower.\nIts light was to warn ships far out at sea, and save them from running on\nthe Paraetonia, a spot so fatal to all who get among its reefs that\nescape is said to be hopeless. When the building was done, he inscribed\non the actual masonry his own name, but covered this up with plaster, on\nwhich he then added the name of the reigning king. He knew that, as\nhappened later, letters and plaster would fall off together, and reveal\nthe words:\n\nSOSTRATUS SON OF DEXIPHANES OF CNIDUS ON BEHALF OF ALL MARINERS TO THE\nSAVIOUR GODS\n\n_He_ looked not, it appears, to that time, nor to the space of his\nown little life, but to this time, and to all time, as long as his tower\nshall stand and his art abide.\n\nSo too should the historian write, consorting with Truth and not with\nflattery, looking to the future hope, not to the gratification of the\nflattered.\n\nThere is your measuring-line for just history. If any one be found to use\nit, well; I have not written in vain: if none, yet have I rolled my tub\non the Craneum.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRUE HISTORY\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nAthletes and physical trainers do not limit their attention to the\nquestions of perfect condition and exercise; they say there is a time for\nrelaxation also--which indeed they represent as the most important\nelement in training. I hold it equally true for literary men that after\nsevere study they should unbend the intellect, if it is to come perfectly\nefficient to its next task.\n\nThe rest they want will best be found in a course of literature which\ndoes not offer entertainment pure and simple, depending on mere wit or\nfelicity, but is also capable of stirring an educated curiosity--in a way\nwhich I hope will be exemplified in the following pages. They are\nintended to have an attraction independent of any originality of subject,\nany happiness of general design, any verisimilitude in the piling up of\nfictions. This attraction is in the veiled reference underlying all the\ndetails of my narrative; they parody the cock-and-bull stories of ancient\npoets, historians, and philosophers; I have only refrained from adding a\nkey because I could rely upon you to recognize as you read.\n\nCtesias, son of Ctesiochus of Cnidus, in his work on India and its\ncharacteristics, gives details for which he had neither the evidence of\nhis eyes nor of hearsay. Iambulus's _Oceanica_ is full of marvels;\nthe whole thing is a manifest fiction, but at the same time pleasant\nreading. Many other writers have adopted the same plan, professing to\nrelate their own travels, and describing monstrous beasts, savages, and\nstrange ways of life. The fount and inspiration of their humour is the\nHomeric Odysseus, entertaining Alcinous's court with his prisoned winds,\nhis men one-eyed or wild or cannibal, his beasts with many heads, and his\nmetamorphosed comrades; the Phaeacians were simple folk, and he fooled\nthem to the top of their bent.\n\nWhen I come across a writer of this sort, I do not much mind his lying;\nthe practice is much too well established for that, even with professed\nphilosophers; I am only surprised at his expecting to escape detection.\nNow I am myself vain enough to cherish the hope of bequeathing something\nto posterity; I see no reason for resigning my right to that inventive\nfreedom which others enjoy; and, as I have no truth to put on record,\nhaving lived a very humdrum life, I fall back on falsehood--but falsehood\nof a more consistent variety; for I now make the only true statement you\nare to expect--that I am a liar. This confession is, I consider, a full\ndefence against all imputations. My subject is, then, what I have neither\nseen, experienced, nor been told, what neither exists nor could\nconceivably do so. I humbly solicit my readers' incredulity.\n\nBOOK I\n\nStarting on a certain date from the Pillars of Heracles, I sailed with a\nfair wind into the Atlantic. The motives of my voyage were a certain\nintellectual restlessness, a passion for novelty, a curiosity about the\nlimits of the ocean and the peoples who might dwell beyond it. This being\nmy design, I provisioned and watered my ship on a generous scale. My crew\namounted to fifty, all men whose interests, as well as their years,\ncorresponded with my own. I had further provided a good supply of arms,\nsecured the best navigator to be had for money, and had the ship--a\nsloop--specially strengthened for a long and arduous voyage.\n\nFor a day and a night we were carried quietly along by the breeze, with\nland still in sight. But with the next day's dawn the wind rose to a\ngale, with a heavy sea and a dark sky; we found ourselves unable to take\nin sail. We surrendered ourselves to the elements, let her run, and were\nstorm-driven for more than eleven weeks. On the eightieth day the sun\ncame out quite suddenly, and we found ourselves close to a lofty wooded\nisland, round which the waves were murmuring gently, the sea having\nalmost fallen by this time. We brought her to land, disembarked, and\nafter our long tossing lay a considerable time idle on shore; we at last\nmade a start, however, and leaving thirty of our number to guard the ship\nI took the other twenty on a tour of inspection.\n\nWe had advanced half a mile inland through woods, when we came upon a\nbrazen pillar, inscribed in Greek characters--which however were worn and\ndim--'Heracles and Dionysus reached this point.' Not far off were two\nfootprints on rock; one might have been an acre in area, the other being\nsmaller; and I conjecture that the latter was Dionysus's, and the other\nHeracles's; we did obeisance, and proceeded. Before we had gone far, we\nfound ourselves on a river which ran wine; it was very like Chian; the\nstream full and copious, even navigable in parts. This evidence of\nDionysus's sojourn was enough to convince us that the inscription on the\npillar was authentic. Resolving to find the source, I followed the river\nup, and discovered, instead of a fountain, a number of huge vines covered\nwith grapes; from the root of each there issued a trickle of perfectly\nclear wine, the joining of which made the river. It was well stocked with\ngreat fish, resembling wine both in colour and taste; catching and eating\nsome, we at once found ourselves intoxicated; and indeed when opened the\nfish were full of wine-lees; presently it occurred to us to mix them with\nordinary water fish, thus diluting the strength of our spirituous food.\n\nWe now crossed the river by a ford, and came to some vines of a most\nextraordinary kind. Out of the ground came a thick well-grown stem; but\nthe upper part was a woman, complete from the loins upward. They were\nlike our painters' representations of Daphne in the act of turning into a\ntree just as Apollo overtakes her. From the finger-tips sprang vine\ntwigs, all loaded with grapes; the hair of their heads was tendrils,\nleaves, and grape-clusters. They greeted us and welcomed our approach,\ntalking Lydian, Indian, and Greek, most of them the last. They went so\nfar as to kiss us on the mouth; and whoever was kissed staggered like a\ndrunken man. But they would not permit us to pluck their fruit, meeting\nthe attempt with cries of pain. Some of them made further amorous\nadvances; and two of my comrades who yielded to these solicitations found\nit impossible to extricate themselves again from their embraces; the man\nbecame one plant with the vine, striking root beside it; his fingers\nturned to vine twigs, the tendrils were all round him, and embryo grape-\nclusters were already visible on him.\n\nWe left them there and hurried back to the ship, where we told our tale,\nincluding our friends' experiment in viticulture. Then after taking some\ncasks ashore and filling them with wine and water we bivouacked near the\nbeach, and next morning set sail before a gentle breeze. But about\nmidday, when we were out of sight of the island, a waterspout suddenly\ncame upon us, which swept the ship round and up to a height of some three\nhundred and fifty miles above the earth. She did not fall back into the\nsea, but was suspended aloft, and at the same time carried along by a\nwind which struck and filled the sails.\n\nFor a whole week we pursued our airy course, and on the eighth day\ndescried land; it was an island with air for sea, glistening, spherical,\nand bathed in light. We reached it, cast anchor, and landed; inspection\nsoon showed that it was inhabited and cultivated. In the daytime nothing\ncould be discerned outside of it; but night revealed many neighbouring\nislands, some larger and some smaller than ours; there was also another\nland below us containing cities, rivers, seas, forests, and mountains;\nand this we concluded to be our Earth.\n\nWe were intending to continue our voyage, when we were discovered and\ndetained by the Horse-vultures, as they are called. These are men mounted\non huge vultures, which they ride like horses; the great birds have\nordinarily three heads. It will give you some idea of their size if I\nstate that each of their quill-feathers is longer and thicker than the\nmast of a large merchantman. This corps is charged with the duty of\npatrolling the land, and bringing any strangers it may find to the king;\nthis was what was now done with us. The king surveyed us, and, forming\nhis conclusions from our dress, 'Strangers,' said he, 'you are Greeks,\nare you not?' we assented. 'And how did you traverse this vast space of\nair?' In answer we gave a full account of ourselves, to which he at once\nreplied with his own history. It seemed he too was a mortal, named\nEndymion, who had been conveyed up from our Earth in his sleep, and after\nhis arrival had become king of the country; this was, he told us, what we\nknew on our Earth as the moon. He bade us be of good cheer and entertain\nno apprehensions; all our needs should be supplied.\n\n'And if I am victorious,' he added, 'in the campaign which I am now\ncommencing against the inhabitants of the Sun, I promise you an extremely\npleasant life at my court.' We asked about the enemy, and the quarrel.\n'Phaethon,' he replied, 'king of the Sun (which is inhabited, like the\nMoon), has long been at war with us. The occasion was this: I wished at\none time to collect the poorest of my subjects and send them as a colony\nto Lucifer, which is uninhabited. Phaethon took umbrage at this, met the\nemigrants half way with a troop of Horse-ants, and forbade them to\nproceed. On that occasion, being in inferior force, we were worsted and\nhad to retreat; but I now intend to take the offensive and send my\ncolony. I shall be glad if you will participate; I will provide your\nequipment and mount you on vultures from the royal coops; the expedition\nstarts to-morrow.' I expressed our readiness to do his pleasure.\n\nThat day we were entertained by the king; in the morning we took our\nplace in the ranks as soon as we were up, our scouts having announced the\napproach of the enemy. Our army numbered 100,000 (exclusive of camp-\nfollowers, engineers, infantry, and allies), the Horse-vultures amounting\nto 80,000, and the remaining 20,000 being mounted on Salad-wings. These\nlatter are also enormous birds, fledged with various herbs, and with\nquill-feathers resembling lettuce leaves. Next these were the Millet-\nthrowers and the Garlic-men. Endymion had also a contingent from the\nNorth of 30,000 Flea-archers and 50,000 Wind-coursers. The former have\ntheir name from the great fleas, each of the bulk of a dozen elephants,\nwhich they ride. The Wind-coursers are infantry, moving through the air\nwithout wings; they effect this by so girding their shirts, which reach\nto the ankle, that they hold the wind like a sail and propel their\nwearers ship-fashion. These troops are usually employed as skirmishers.\n70,000 Ostrich-slingers and 50,000 Horse-cranes were said to be on their\nway from the stars over Cappadocia. But as they failed to arrive I did\nnot actually see them; and a description from hearsay I am not prepared\nto give, as the marvels related of them put some strain on belief.\n\nSuch was Endymion's force. They were all armed alike; their helmets were\nmade of beans, which grow there of great size and hardness; the\nbreastplates were of overlapping lupine-husks sewn together, these husks\nbeing as tough as horn; as to shields and swords, they were of the Greek\ntype.\n\nWhen the time came, the array was as follows: on the right were the\nHorse-vultures, and the King with the _elite_ of his forces,\nincluding ourselves. The Salad-wings held the left, and in the centre\nwere the various allies. The infantry were in round numbers 60,000,000;\nthey were enabled to fall in thus: there are in the Moon great numbers of\ngigantic spiders, considerably larger than an average Aegean island;\nthese were instructed to stretch webs across from the Moon to Lucifer; as\nsoon as the work was done, the King drew up his infantry on this\nartificial plain, entrusting the command to Nightbat, son of Fairweather,\nwith two lieutenants.\n\nOn the enemy's side, Phaethon occupied the left with his Horse-ants; they\nare great winged animals resembling our ants except in size; but the\nlargest of them would measure a couple of acres. The fighting was done\nnot only by their riders; they used their horns also; their numbers were\nstated at 50,000. On their right was about an equal force of Sky-gnats--\narchers mounted on great gnats; and next them the Sky-pirouetters, light-\narmed infantry only, but of some military value; they slung monstrous\nradishes at long range, a wound from which was almost immediately fatal,\nturning to gangrene at once; they were supposed to anoint their missiles\nwith mallow juice. Next came the Stalk-fungi, 10,000 heavy-armed troops\nfor close quarters; the explanation of their name is that their shields\nare mushrooms, and their spears asparagus stalks. Their neighbours were\nthe Dog-acorns, Phaethon's contingent from Sirius. These were 5,000 in\nnumber, dog-faced men fighting on winged acorns. It was reported that\nPhaethon too was disappointed of the slingers whom he had summoned from\nthe Milky Way, and of the Cloud-centaurs. These latter, however, arrived,\nmost unfortunately for us, after the battle was decided; the slingers\nfailed altogether, and are said to have felt the resentment of Phaethon,\nwho wasted their territory with fire. Such was the force brought by the\nenemy.\n\nAs soon as the standards were raised and the asses on both sides (their\ntrumpeters) had brayed, the engagement commenced. The Sunite left at once\nbroke without awaiting the onset of the Horse-vultures, and we pursued,\nslaying them. On the other hand, their right had the better of our left,\nthe Sky-gnats pressing on right up to our infantry. When these joined in,\nhowever, they turned and fled, chiefly owing to the moral effect of our\nsuccess on the other flank. The rout became decisive, great numbers were\ntaken and slain, and blood flowed in great quantities on to the clouds,\nstaining them as red as we see them at sunset; much of it also dropped\nearthwards, and suggested to me that it was possibly some ancient event\nof the same kind which persuaded Homer that Zeus had rained blood at the\ndeath of Sarpedon.\n\nRelinquishing the pursuit, we set up two trophies, one for the infantry\nengagement on the spiders' webs, and one on the clouds for the air-\nbattle. It was while we were thus engaged that our scouts announced the\napproach of the Cloud-centaurs, whom Phaethon had expected in time for\nthe battle. They were indeed close upon us, and a strange sight, being\ncompounded of winged horses and men; the human part, from the middle\nupwards, was as tall as the Colossus of Rhodes, and the equine the size\nof a large merchantman. Their number I cannot bring myself to write down,\nfor fear of exciting incredulity. They were commanded by Sagittarius.\nFinding their friends defeated, they sent a messenger after Phaethon to\nbring him back, and, themselves in perfect order, charged the disarrayed\nMoonites, who had left their ranks and were scattered in pursuit or\npillage; they routed the whole of them, chased the King home, and killed\nthe greater part of his birds; they tore up the trophies, and overran the\nwoven plain; I myself was taken, with two of my comrades. Phaethon now\narrived, and trophies were erected on the enemy's part. We were taken off\nto the Sun the same day, our hands tied behind with a piece of the\ncobweb.\n\nThey decided not to lay siege to the city; but after their return they\nconstructed a wall across the intervening space, cutting off the Sun's\nrays from the Moon. This wall was double, and built of clouds; the\nconsequence was total eclipse of the Moon, which experienced a continuous\nnight. This severity forced Endymion to negotiate. He entreated that the\nwall might be taken down, and his kingdom released from this life of\ndarkness; he offered to pay tribute, conclude an alliance, abstain from\nhostilities in future, and give hostages for these engagements. The\nSunites held two assemblies on the question, in the first of which they\nrefused all concessions; on the second day, however, they relented, and\npeace was concluded on the following terms.\n\nArticles of peace between the Sunites and their allies of the one part,\nand the Moonites and their allies of the other part.\n\n1. The Sunites shall demolish the party-wall, shall make no further\nincursion into the Moon, and shall hold their captives to ransom at a\nfixed rate.\n\n2. The Moonites shall restore to the other stars their autonomy, shall\nnot bear arms against the Sunites, and shall conclude with them a mutual\ndefensive alliance.\n\n3. The King of the Moonites shall pay to the King of the Sunites,\nannually, a tribute of ten thousand jars of dew, and give ten\nthousand hostages of his subjects.\n\n4. The high contracting parties shall found the colony of Lucifer in\ncommon, and shall permit persons of any other nationality to join the\nsame.\n\n5. These articles shall be engraved on a pillar of electrum, which shall\nbe set up on the border in mid-air.\n\nSworn to on behalf of the Sun by Firebrace, Heaton, and Flashman; and on\nbehalf of the Moon by Nightwell, Monday, and Shimmer.\n\nPeace concluded, the removal of the wall and restoration of captives at\nonce followed. As we reached the Moon, we were met and welcomed by our\ncomrades and King Endymion, all weeping for joy. The King wished us to\nremain and take part in founding the colony, and, women not existing in\nthe Moon, offered me his son in marriage. I refused, asking that we might\nbe sent down to the sea again; and finding that he could not prevail, he\nentertained us for a week, and then sent us on our way.\n\nI am now to put on record the novelties and singularities which attracted\nmy notice during our stay in the Moon.\n\nWhen a man becomes old, he does not die, but dissolves in smoke into the\nair. There is one universal diet; they light a fire, and in the embers\nroast frogs, great numbers of which are always flying in the air; they\nthen sit round as at table, snuffing up the fumes which rise and serve\nthem for food; their drink is air compressed in a cup till it gives off a\nmoisture resembling dew. Beauty with them consists in a bald head and\nhairless body; a good crop of hair is an abomination. On the comets, as I\nwas told by some of their inhabitants who were there on a visit, this is\nreversed. They have beards, however, just above the knee; no toe-nails,\nand but one toe on each foot. They are all tailed, the tail being a large\ncabbage of an evergreen kind, which does not break if they fall upon it.\n\nTheir mucus is a pungent honey; and after hard work or exercise they\nsweat milk all over, which a drop or two of the honey curdles into\ncheese. The oil which they make from onions is very rich, and as fragrant\nas balsam. They have an abundance of water-producing vines, the stones of\nwhich resemble hailstones; and my own belief is that it is the shaking of\nthese vines by hurricanes, and the consequent bursting of the grapes,\nthat results in our hailstorms. They use the belly as a pouch in which to\nkeep necessaries, being able to open and shut it. It contains no\nintestines or liver, only a soft hairy lining; their young, indeed, creep\ninto it for protection from cold.\n\nThe clothing of the wealthy is soft glass, and of the poor, woven brass;\nthe land is very rich in brass, which they work like wool after steeping\nit in water. It is with some hesitation that I describe their eyes, the\nthing being incredible enough to bring doubt upon my veracity. But the\nfact is that these organs are removable; any one can take out his eyes\nand do without till he wants them; then he has merely to put them in; I\nhave known many cases of people losing their own and borrowing at need;\nand some--the rich, naturally--keep a large stock. Their ears are plane-\nleaves, except with the breed raised from acorns; theirs being of wood.\n\nAnother marvel I saw in the palace. There is a large mirror suspended\nover a well of no great depth; any one going down the well can hear every\nword spoken on our Earth; and if he looks at the mirror, he sees every\ncity and nation as plainly as though he were standing close above each.\nThe time I was there, I surveyed my own people and the whole of my native\ncountry; whether they saw me also, I cannot say for certain. Any one who\ndoubts the truth of this statement has only to go there himself, to be\nassured of my veracity.\n\nWhen the time came, we took our leave of King and court, got on board,\nand weighed anchor. Endymion's parting gifts to me were two glass shirts,\nfive of brass, and a suit of lupine armour, all of which, however, I\nafterwards left in the whale's belly; he also sent, as our escort for the\nfirst fifty miles, a thousand of his Horse-vultures.\n\nWe passed on our way many countries, and actually landed on Lucifer, now\nin process of settlement, to water. We then entered the Zodiac and passed\nthe Sun on the left, coasting close by it. My crew were very desirous of\nlanding, but the wind would not allow of this. We had a good view of the\ncountry, however, and found it covered with vegetation, rich, well-\nwatered, and full of all good things. The Cloud-centaurs, now in\nPhaethon's pay, espied us and pounced upon the ship, but left us alone\nwhen they learned that we were parties to the treaty.\n\nBy this time our escort had gone home. We now took a downward course, and\ntwenty-four hours' sailing brought us to Lampton. This lies between the\natmospheres of the Pleiads and the Hyads, though in point of altitude it\nis considerably lower than the Zodiac. When we landed, we found no human\nbeings, but numberless lamps bustling about or spending their time in the\nmarket-place and harbour; some were small, and might represent the lower\nclasses, while a few, the great and powerful, were exceedingly bright and\nconspicuous. They all had their own homes or lodgings, and their\nindividual names, like us; we heard them speak, and they did us no harm,\noffering us entertainment, on the contrary; but we were under some\napprehension, and none of us accepted either food or bed. There is a\nGovernment House in the middle of the city, where the Governor sits all\nnight long calling the roll-call; any one not answering to his name is\ncapitally punished as a deserter; that is to say, he is extinguished. We\nwere present and witnessed the proceedings, and heard lamps defending\ntheir conduct and advancing reasons for their lateness. I there\nrecognized our own house lamp, accosted him, and asked for news of my\nfriends, in which he satisfied me. We stayed there that night, set sail\nnext morning, and found ourselves sailing, now, nearly as low as the\nclouds. Here we were surprised to find Cloud-cuckoo-land; we were\nprevented from landing by the direction of the wind, but learned that the\nKing's name was Crookbeak, son of Fitz-Ousel. I bethought me of\nAristophanes, the learned and veracious poet whose statements had met\nwith unmerited incredulity. Three days more, and we had a distinct view\nof the Ocean, though there was no land visible except the islands\nsuspended in air; and these had now assumed a brilliant fiery hue. About\nnoon on the fourth day the wind slackened and fell, and we were deposited\nupon the sea.\n\nThe joy and delight with which the touch of water affected us is\nindescribable; transported at our good fortune, we flung ourselves\noverboard and swam, the weather being calm and the sea smooth. Alas, how\noften is a change for the better no more than the beginning of disaster!\nWe had but two days' delightful sail, and by the rising sun of the third\nwe beheld a crowd of whales and marine monsters, and among them one far\nlarger than the rest--some two hundred miles in length. It came on open-\nmouthed, agitating the sea far in front, bathed in foam, and exhibiting\nteeth whose length much surpassed the height of our great phallic images,\nall pointed like sharp stakes and white as elephants' tusks. We gave each\nother a last greeting, took a last embrace, and so awaited our doom. The\nmonster was upon us; it sucked us in; it swallowed ship and crew entire.\nWe escaped being ground by its teeth, the ship gliding in through the\ninterstices.\n\nInside, all was darkness at first, in which we could distinguish nothing;\nbut when it next opened its mouth, an enormous cavern was revealed, of\ngreat extent and height; a city of ten thousand inhabitants might have\nhad room in it. Strewn about were small fish, the _disjecta membra_\nof many kinds of animal, ships' masts and anchors, human bones, and\nmerchandise; in the centre was land with hillocks upon it, the alluvial\ndeposit, I supposed, from what the whale swallowed. This was wooded with\ntrees of all kinds, and vegetables were growing with all the appearance\nof cultivation. The coast might have measured thirty miles round. Sea-\nbirds, such as gulls and halcyons, nested on the trees.\n\nWe spent some time weeping, but at last got our men up and had the ship\nmade fast, while we rubbed wood to get a fire and prepared a meal out of\nthe plentiful materials around us; there were fragments of various fish,\nand the water we had taken in at Lucifer was unexhausted. Upon getting up\nnext day, we caught glimpses, as often as the whale opened his mouth, of\nland, of mountains, it might be of the sky alone, or often of islands; we\nrealized that he was dashing at a great rate to every part of the sea. We\ngrew accustomed to our condition in time, and I then took seven of my\ncomrades and entered the wood in search of information. I had scarcely\ngone half a mile when I came upon a shrine, which its inscription showed\nto have been raised to Posidon; a little further were a number of graves\nwith pillars upon them, and close by a spring of clear water; we also\nheard a dog bark, saw some distant smoke, and conjectured that there\nmust be a habitation.\n\nWe accordingly pressed on, and found ourselves in presence of an old man\nand a younger one, who were working hard at a plot of ground and watering\nit by a channel from the spring. We stood still, divided between fear and\ndelight. They were standing speechless, no doubt with much the same\nfeelings. At length the old man spoke:--'What are you, strangers; are you\nspirits of the sea, or unfortunate mortals like ourselves? As for us, we\nare men, bred on land; but now we have suffered a sea change, and swim\nabout in this containing monster, scarce knowing how to describe our\nstate; reason tells us we are dead, but instinct that we live.' This\nloosed my tongue in turn. 'We too, father,' I said, 'are men, just\narrived; it is but a day or two since we were swallowed with our ship.\nAnd now we have come forth to explore the forest; for we saw that it was\nvast and dense. Methinks some heavenly guide has brought us to the sight\nof you, to the knowledge that we are not prisoned all alone in this\nmonster. I pray you, let us know your tale, who you are and how you\nentered.' Then he said that, before he asked or answered questions, he\nmust give us such entertainment as he could; so saying, he brought us to\nhis house--a sufficient dwelling furnished with beds and what else he\nmight need--, and set before us green-stuff and nuts and fish, with wine\nfor drink. When we had eaten our fill, he asked for our story. I told him\nall as it had passed, the storm, the island, the airy voyage, the war,\nand so to our descent into the whale.\n\nIt was very strange, he said, and then gave us his history in return. 'I\nam a Cyprian, gentlemen. I left my native land on a trading voyage with\nmy son here and a number of servants. We had a fine ship, with a mixed\ncargo for Italy; you may have seen the wreckage in the whale's mouth. We\nhad a fair voyage to Sicily, but on leaving it were caught in a gale, and\ncarried in three days out to the Atlantic, where we fell in with the\nwhale and were swallowed, ship and crew; of the latter we two alone\nsurvived. We buried our men, built a temple to Posidon, and now live this\nlife, cultivating our garden, and feeding on fish and nuts. It is a great\nwood, as you see, and in it are vines in plenty, from which we get\ndelicious wine; our spring you may have noticed; its water is of the\npurest and coldest. We use leaves for bedding, keep a good fire, snare\nthe birds that fly in, and catch living fish by going out on the\nmonster's gills; it is there also that we take our bath when we are\ndisposed. There is moreover at no great distance a salt lake two or three\nmiles round, producing all sorts of fish; in this we swim and sail, in a\nlittle boat of my building. It is now seven and twenty years since we\nwere swallowed.\n\n'Our lot might have been endurable enough, but we have bad and\ntroublesome neighbours, unfriendly savages all.' 'What,' said I, 'are\nthere other inhabitants?' 'A great many,' he replied, 'inhospitable and\nabhorrent to the sight. The western part of the wood (so to name the\ncaudal region) is occupied by the Stockfish tribe; they have eels' eyes\nand lobster faces, are bold warriors, and eat their meat raw. Of the\nsides of the cavern, the right belongs to the Tritonomendetes, who from\nthe waist upwards are human, and weazels below; their notions of justice\nare slightly less rudimentary than the others'. The left is in possession\nof the Crabhands and the Tunnyheads, two tribes in close alliance. The\ncentral part is inhabited by the Crays and the Flounderfoots, the latter\nwarlike and extremely swift. As to this district near the mouth, the\nEast, as it were, it is in great part desert, owing to the frequent\ninundations. I hold it of the Flounderfoots, paying an annual tribute of\nfive hundred oysters.\n\n'Such is the land; and now it is for you to consider how we may make head\nagainst all these tribes, and what shall be our manner of life.' 'What\nmay their numbers be, all told?' I asked. 'More than a thousand.' 'And\nhow armed?' 'They have no arms but fishbones.' 'Why then,' I said, 'let\nus fight them by all means; we are armed, and they are not; and, if we\nwin, we shall live secure.' We agreed on this course, and returned to the\nship to make our preparations. The pretext for war was to be non-payment\nof the tribute, which was on the point of falling due. Messengers, in\nfact, shortly came to demand it, but the old man sent them about their\nbusiness with an insolent answer. The Flounderfoots and Crays were\nenraged, and commenced operations with a tumultuous inroad upon\nScintharus--this was our old man's name.\n\nExpecting this, we were awaiting the attack in full armour. We had put\nfive and twenty men in ambush, with directions to fall on the enemy's\nrear as soon as they had passed; they executed their orders, and came on\nfrom behind cutting them down, while the rest of us--five and twenty\nalso, including Scintharus and his son--met them face to face with a\nspirited and resolute attack. It was risky work, but in the end we routed\nand chased them to their dens. They left one hundred and seventy dead,\nwhile we lost only our navigating officer, stabbed in the back with a\nmullet rib, and one other.\n\nWe held the battlefield for the rest of that day and the night following,\nand erected a trophy consisting of a dolphin's backbone upright. Next day\nthe news brought the other tribes out, with the Stockfish under a general\ncalled Slimer on the right, the Tunnyheads on the left, and the Crabhands\nin the centre; the Tritonomendetes stayed at home, preferring neutrality.\nWe did not wait to be attacked, but charged them near Posidon's temple\nwith loud shouts, which echoed as in a subterranean cave. Their want of\narmour gave us the victory; we pursued them to the wood, and were\nhenceforth masters.\n\nSoon after, they sent heralds to treat for recovery of their dead, and\nfor peace. But we decided to make no terms with them, and marching out\nnext day exterminated the whole, with the exception of the\nTritonomendetes. These too, when they saw what was going on, made a rush\nfor the gills, and cast themselves into the sea. We went over the\ncountry, now clear of enemies, and occupied it from that time in\nsecurity. Our usual employments were exercise, hunting, vine-dressing,\nand fruit-gathering; we were in the position of men in a vast prison from\nwhich escape is out of the question, but within which they have luxury\nand freedom of movement. This manner of life lasted for a year and eight\nmonths.\n\nIt was on the fifth of the next month, about the second gape (the whale,\nI should say, gaped regularly once an hour, and we reckoned time that\nway)--about the second gape, then, a sudden shouting and tumult became\naudible; it sounded like boatswains giving the time and oars beating.\nMuch excited, we crept right out into our monster's mouth, stood inside\nthe teeth, and beheld the most extraordinary spectacle I ever looked\nupon--giants of a hundred yards in height rowing great islands as we do\ntriremes. I am aware that what I am to relate must sound improbable; but\nI cannot help it. Very long islands they were, but of no great height;\nthe circumference of each would be about eleven miles; and its complement\nof giants was some hundred and twenty. Of these some sat along each side\nof the island, rowing with big cypresses, from which the branches and\nleaves were not stripped; in the stern, so to speak, was a considerable\nhillock, on which stood the helmsman with his hand on a brazen steering-\noar of half a mile in length; and on the deck forward were forty in\narmour, the combatants; they resembled men except in their hair, which\nwas flaming fire, so that they could dispense with helmets. The work of\nsails was done by the abundant forest on all the islands, which so caught\nand held the wind that it drove them where the steersman wished; there\nwas a boatswain timing the stroke, and the islands jumped to it like\ngreat galleys.\n\nWe had seen only two or three at first; but there appeared afterwards as\nmany as six hundred, which formed in two lines and commenced an action.\nMany crashed into each other stem to stem, many were rammed and sunk,\nothers grappled, fought an obstinate duel, and could hardly get clear\nafter it. Great courage was shown by the troops on deck, who boarded and\ndealt destruction, giving no quarter. Instead of grappling-irons, they\nused huge captive squids, which they swung out on to the hostile island;\nthese grappled the wood and so held the island fast. Their missiles,\neffective enough, were oysters the size of waggons, and sponges which\nmight cover an acre.\n\nAeolocentaur and Thalassopot were the names of the rival chiefs; and the\nquestion between them was one of plunder; Thalassopot was supposed to\nhave driven off several herds of dolphins, the other's property; we could\nhear them vociferating the charge and calling out their Kings' names.\nAeolocentaur's fleet finally won, sinking one hundred and fifty of the\nenemy's islands and capturing three with their crews; the remainder\nbacked away, turned and fled. The victors pursued some way, but, as it\nwas now evening, returned to the disabled ones, secured most of the\nenemy's, and recovered their own, of which as many as eighty had been\nsunk. As a trophy of victory they slung one of the enemy's islands to a\nstake which they planted in our whale's head. They lay moored round him\nthat night, attaching cables to him or anchoring hard by; they had vast\nglass anchors, very strong. Next morning they sacrificed on the whale's\nback, buried their dead there, and sailed off rejoicing, with something\ncorresponding to our paean. So ended the battle of the islands.\n\nBOOK II\n\nI now began to find life in the whale unendurable; I was tired to death\nof it, and concentrated my thoughts on plans of escape. Our first idea\nwas to excavate a passage through the beast's right side, and go out\nthrough it. We actually began boring, but gave it up when we had\npenetrated half a mile without getting through. We then determined to set\nfire to the forest, our object being the death of the whale, which would\nremove all difficulties. We started burning from the tail end; but for a\nwhole week he made no sign; on the eighth and ninth days it was apparent\nthat he was unwell; his jaws opened only languidly, and each time closed\nagain very soon. On the tenth and eleventh days mortification had set in,\nevidenced by a horrible stench; on the twelfth, it occurred to us, just\nin time, that we must take the next occasion of the mouth's being open to\ninsert props between the upper and lower molars, and so prevent his\nclosing it; else we should be imprisoned and perish in the dead body. We\nsuccessfully used great beams for the purpose, and then got the ship\nready with all the water and provisions we could manage. Scintharus was\nto navigate her. Next day the whale was dead.\n\nWe hauled the vessel up, brought her through one of the gaps, slung her\nto the teeth, and so let her gently down to the water. We then ascended\nthe back, where we sacrificed to Posidon by the side of the trophy, and,\nas there was no wind, encamped there for three days. On the fourth day we\nwere able to start. We found and came into contact with many corpses, the\nrelics of the sea-fight, and our wonder was heightened when we measured\nthem. For some days we enjoyed a moderate breeze, after which a violent\nnorth wind rose, bringing hard frost; the whole sea was frozen--not\nmerely crusted over, but solidified to four hundred fathoms' depth; we\ngot out and walked about. The continuance of the wind making life\nintolerable, we adopted the plan, suggested by Scintharus, of hewing an\nextensive cavern in the ice, in which we stayed a month, lighting fires\nand feeding on fish; we had only to dig these out. In the end, however,\nprovisions ran short, and we came out; the ship was frozen in, but we got\nher free; we then hoisted sail, and were carried along as well as if we\nhad been afloat, gliding smoothly and easily over the ice. After five\ndays more the temperature rose, a thaw set in, and all was water again.\n\nA stretch of five and thirty miles brought us to a small desert isle,\nwhere we got water--of which we were now in want--, and shot two wild\nbulls before we departed. These animals had their horns not on the top of\nthe head, but, as Momus recommended, below the eyes. Not long after this,\nwe entered a sea of milk, in which we observed an island, white in\ncolour, and full of vines. The island was one great cheese, quite firm,\nas we afterwards ascertained by eating it, and three miles round. The\nvines were covered with fruit, but the drink we squeezed from it was milk\ninstead of wine. In the centre of the island was a temple to Galatea the\nNereid, as the inscription informed us. During our stay there, the ground\nitself served us for bread and meat, and the vine-milk for drink. We\nlearned that the queen of these regions was Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus,\non whom Posidon had conferred this dignity at her decease.\n\nAfter spending five days there we started again with a gentle breeze and\na rippling sea. A few days later, when we had emerged from the milk into\nblue salt water, we saw numbers of men walking on the sea; they were like\nourselves in shape and stature, with the one exception of the feet, which\nwere of cork; whence, no doubt, their name of Corksoles. It struck us as\ncurious that they did not sink in, but travelled quite comfortably clear\nof the water. Some of them came up and hailed us in Greek, saying that\nthey were making their way to their native land of Cork. They ran\nalongside for some distance, and then turned off and went their own way,\nwishing us a pleasant voyage. A little further we saw several islands;\nclose to us on the left was Cork, our friends' destination, consisting of\na city founded on a vast round cork; at a greater distance, and a little\nto the right, were five others of considerable size and high out of the\nwater, with great flames rising from them.\n\nThere was also a broad low one, as much as sixty miles in length,\nstraight in our course. As we drew near it, a marvellous air was wafted\nto us, exquisitely fragrant, like the scent which Herodotus describes as\ncoming from Arabia Felix. Its sweetness seemed compounded of rose,\nnarcissus, hyacinth, lilies and violets, myrtle and bay and flowering\nvine. Ravished with the perfume, and hoping for reward of our long toils,\nwe drew slowly near. Then were unfolded to us haven after haven, spacious\nand sheltered, and crystal rivers flowing placidly to the sea. There were\nmeadows and groves and sweet birds, some singing on the shore, some on\nthe branches; the whole bathed in limpid balmy air. Sweet zephyrs just\nstirred the woods with their breath, and brought whispering melody,\ndelicious, incessant, from the swaying branches; it was like Pan-pipes\nheard in a desert place. And with it all there mingled a volume of human\nsound, a sound not of tumult, but rather of revels where some flute, and\nsome praise the fluting, and some clap their hands commending flute or\nharp.\n\nDrawn by the spell of it we came to land, moored the ship, and left her,\nin charge of Scintharus and two others. Taking our way through flowery\nmeadows we came upon the guardians of the peace, who bound us with rose-\ngarlands--their strongest fetters--and brought us to the governor. As we\nwent they told us this was the island called of the Blest, and its\ngovernor the Cretan Rhadamanthus. When we reached the court, we found\nthere were three cases to be taken before our turn would come.\n\nThe first was that of Ajax, son of Telamon, and the question was whether\nhe was to be admitted to the company of Heroes; it was objected that he\nhad been mad and taken his own life. After long pleadings Rhadamanthus\ngave his decision: he was to be put under the charge of Hippocrates the\nphysician of Cos for the hellebore treatment, and, when he had recovered\nhis wits, to be made free of the table.\n\nThe second was a matrimonial case, the parties Theseus and Menelaus, and\nthe issue possession of Helen. Rhadamanthus gave it in favour of\nMenelaus, on the ground of the great toils and dangers the match had cost\nhim--added to the fact that Theseus was provided with other wives in the\nAmazon queen and the daughters of Minos.\n\nThe third was a dispute for precedence between Alexander son of Philip\nand Hannibal the Carthaginian; it was won by the former, who had a seat\nassigned him next to Cyrus the elder.\n\nIt was now our turn. The judge asked by what right we set foot on this\nholy ground while yet alive. In answer we related our story. He then had\nus removed while he held a long consultation with his numerous assessors,\namong whom was the Athenian Aristides the Just. He finally reached a\nconclusion and gave judgement: on the charges of curiosity and travelling\nwe were remanded till the date of our deaths; for the present we were to\nstay in the island, with admission to the Heroic society, for a fixed\nterm, after which we must depart. The limit he appointed for our stay was\nseven months.\n\nOur rose-chains now fell off of their own accord, we were released and\ntaken into the city, and to the Table of the Blest. The whole of this\ncity is built of gold, and the enclosing wall of emerald. It has seven\ngates, each made of a single cinnamon plank. The foundations of the\nhouses, and all ground inside the wall, are ivory; temples are built of\nberyl, and each contains an altar of one amethyst block, on which they\noffer hecatombs. Round the city flows a river of the finest perfume, a\nhundred royal cubits in breadth, and fifty deep, so that there is good\nswimming. The baths, supplied with warm dew instead of ordinary water,\nare in great crystal domes heated with cinnamon wood.\n\nTheir raiment is fine cobweb, purple in colour. They have no bodies, but\nare intangible and unsubstantial--mere form without matter; but, though\nincorporeal, they stand and move, think and speak; in short, each is a\nnaked soul, but carries about the semblance of body; one who did not\ntouch them would never know that what he looked at was not substantial;\nthey are shadows, but upright, and coloured. A man there does not grow\nold, but stays at whatever age he brought with him. There is no night,\nnor yet bright day; the morning twilight, just before sunrise, gives the\nbest idea of the light that prevails. They have also but one season,\nperpetual spring, and the wind is always in the west.\n\nThe country abounds in every kind of flower, in shrubs and garden herbs.\nThere are twelve vintages in the year, the grapes ripening every month;\nand they told us that pomegranates, apples, and other fruits were\ngathered thirteen times, the trees producing twice in their month Minous.\nInstead of grain, the corn develops loaves, shaped like mushrooms, at the\ntop of the stalks. Round the city are 365 springs of water, the same of\nhoney, and 500, less in volume however, of perfume. There are also seven\nrivers of milk and eight of wine.\n\nThe banqueting-place is arranged outside the city in the Elysian Plain.\nIt is a fair lawn closed in with thick-grown trees of every kind, in the\nshadow of which the guests recline, on cushions of flowers. The waiting\nand handing is done by the winds, except only the filling of the wine-\ncup. That is a service not required; for all round stand great trees of\npellucid crystal, whose fruit is drinking-cups of every shape and size. A\nguest arriving plucks a cup or two and sets them at his place, where they\nat once fill with wine. So for their drink; and instead of garlands, the\nnightingales and other singing birds pick flowers with their beaks from\nthe meadows round, and fly over snowing the petals down and singing the\nwhile. Nor is perfume forgotten; thick clouds draw it up from the springs\nand river, and hanging overhead are gently squeezed by the winds till\nthey spray it down in fine dew.\n\nDuring the meal there is music and song. In the latter kind, Homer's\nverse is the favourite; he is himself a member of the festal company,\nreclining next above Odysseus. The choirs are of boys and girls,\nconducted and led by Eunomus the Locrian, Arion of Lesbos, Anacreon and\nStesichorus; this last had made his peace with Helen, and I saw him\nthere. When these have finished, a second choir succeeds, of swans and\nswallows and nightingales; and when their turn is done, all the trees\nbegin to pipe, conducted by the winds.\n\nI have still to add the most important element in their good cheer: there\nare two springs hard by, called the Fountain of Laughter, and the\nFountain of Delight. They all take a draught of both these before the\nbanquet begins, after which the time goes merrily and sweetly.\n\nI should now like to name the famous persons I saw. To begin with, all\nthe demi-gods, and the besiegers of Troy, with the exception of Ajax the\nLocrian; he, they said, was undergoing punishment in the place of the\nwicked. Of barbarians there were the two Cyruses, Anacharsis the\nScythian, Zamolxis the Thracian, and the Latin Numa; and then Lycurgus\nthe Spartan, Phocion and Tellus of Athens, and the Wise Men, but without\nPeriander. And I saw Socrates son of Sophroniscus in converse with Nestor\nand Palamedes; clustered round him were Hyacinth the Spartan, Narcissus\nof Thespiae, Hylas, and many another comely boy. With Hyacinth I\nsuspected that he was in love; at least he was for ever poking questions\nat him. I heard that Rhadamanthus was dissatisfied with Socrates, and had\nseveral times threatened him with expulsion, if he insisted on talking\nnonsense, and would not drop his irony and enjoy himself. Plato was the\nonly one I missed, but I was told that he was living in his own Utopia,\nworking the constitution and laws which he had drawn up.\n\nFor popularity, Aristippus and Epicurus bore the palm, in virtue of their\nkindliness, sociability, and good-fellowship. Aesop the Phrygian was\nthere, and held the office of jester. Diogenes of Sinope was much\nchanged; he had married Lais the courtesan, and often in his cups would\noblige the company with a dance, or other mad pranks. The Stoics were not\nrepresented at all; they were supposed to be still climbing the steep\nhill of Virtue; and as to Chrysippus himself, we were told that he was\nnot to set foot on the island till he had taken a fourth course of\nhellebore. The Academics contemplated coming, but were taking time for\nconsideration; they could not yet regard it as a certainty that any such\nisland existed. There was probably the added difficulty that they were\nnot comfortable about the judgement of Rhadamanthus, having themselves\ndisputed the possibility of judgement. It was stated that many of them\nhad started to follow persons travelling to the island, but, their energy\nfailing, had abandoned the journey half-way and gone back.\n\nI have mentioned the most noteworthy of the company, and add that the\nmost highly respected among them are, first Achilles, and second Theseus.\n\nBefore many days had passed, I accosted the poet Homer, when we were both\ndisengaged, and asked him, among other things, where he came from; it was\nstill a burning question with us, I explained. He said he was aware that\nsome brought him from Chios, others from Smyrna, and others again from\nColophon; the fact was, he was a Babylonian, generally known not as\nHomer, but as Tigranes; but when later in life he was given as a\n_homer_ or hostage to the Greeks, that name clung to him. Another of\nmy questions was about the so-called spurious lines; had he written them,\nor not? He said they were all genuine; so I now knew what to think of the\ncritics Zenodotus and Aristarchus, and all their lucubrations. Having got\na categorical answer on that point, I tried him next on his reason for\nstarting the Iliad at the wrath of Achilles; he said he had no exquisite\nreason; it had just come into his head that way. Another thing I wanted\nto know was whether he had composed the Odyssey before the Iliad, as\ngenerally believed. He said this was not so. As to his reported\nblindness, I did not need to ask; he had his sight, so there was an end\nof that. It became a habit of mine, whenever I saw him at leisure, to go\nup and ask him things, and he answered quite readily--especially after\nhis acquittal; a libel suit had been brought against him by Thersites, on\nthe ground of the ridicule to which he is subjected in the poem; Homer\nhad briefed Odysseus, and been acquitted.\n\nIt was during our sojourn that Pythagoras arrived; he had undergone seven\ntransmigrations, lived the lives of that number of animals, and completed\nhis psychic travels. It was the entire right half of him that was gold.\nHe was at once given the franchise, but the question was still pending\nwhether he was to be known as Pythagoras or Euphorbus. Empedocles also\ncame, scorched all over and baked right through; but not all his\nentreaties could gain him admittance.\n\nThe progress of time brought round the Games of the Dead. The umpires\nwere Achilles, holding that office for the fifth, and Theseus for the\nseventh time. A full report would take too long; but I will summarize the\nevents. The wrestling went to Carus the Heraclid, who won the garland\nfrom Odysseus. The boxing resulted in a tie; the pair being the Egyptian\nAreus, whose grave is in Corinth, and Epeus. For mixed boxing and\nwrestling they have no prize. Who won the flat race, I have forgotten. In\npoetry, Homer really did much the best, but the award was for Hesiod. All\nprizes were plaited wreaths of peacock feathers.\n\nJust after the Games were over, news came that the Damned had broken\ntheir fetters, overpowered their guard, and were on the point of invading\nthe island, the ringleaders being Phalaris of Agrigentum, Busiris the\nEgyptian, Diomedes the Thracian, Sciron, and Pityocamptes. Rhadamanthus\nat once drew up the Heroes on the beach, giving the command to Theseus,\nAchilles, and Ajax Telamonius, now in his right senses. The battle was\nfought, and won by the Heroes, thanks especially to Achilles. Socrates,\nwho was in the right wing, distinguished himself still more than in his\nlifetime at Delium, standing firm and showing no sign of trepidation as\nthe enemy came on; he was afterwards given as a reward of valour a large\nand beautiful park in the outskirts, to which he invited his friends for\nconversation, naming it the Post-mortem Academy.\n\nThe defeated party were seized, re-fettered, and sent back for severer\ntorments. Homer added to his poems a description of this battle, and at\nmy departure handed me the MS. to bring back to the living world; but it\nwas unfortunately lost with our other property. It began with the line:\n\n  Tell now, my Muse, how fought the mighty Dead.\n\nAccording to their custom after successful war, they boiled beans, held\nthe feast of victory, and kept high holiday. From this Pythagoras alone\nheld aloof, fasting and sitting far off, in sign of his abhorrence of\nbean-eating.\n\nWe were in the middle of our seventh month, when an incident happened.\nScintharus's son, Cinyras, a fine figure of a man, had fallen in love\nwith Helen some time before, and it was obvious that she was very much\ntaken with the young fellow; there used to be nods and becks and takings\nof wine between them at table, and they would go off by themselves for\nstrolls in the wood. At last love and despair inspired Cinyras with the\nidea of an elopement. Helen consented, and they were to fly to one of the\nneighbouring islands, Cork or Cheese Island. They had taken three of the\nboldest of my crew into their confidence; Cinyras said not a word to his\nfather, knowing that he would put a stop to it. The plan was carried out;\nunder cover of night, and in my absence--I had fallen asleep at table--,\nthey got Helen away unobserved and rowed off as hard as they could.\n\nAbout midnight Menelaus woke up, and finding his wife's place empty\nraised an alarm, and got his brother to go with him to King Rhadamanthus.\nJust before dawn the look-outs announced that they could make out the\nboat, far out at sea. So Rhadamanthus sent fifty of the Heroes on board a\nboat hollowed out of an asphodel trunk, with orders to give chase.\nPulling their best, they overtook the fugitives at noon, as they were\nentering the milky sea near the Isle of Cheese; so nearly was the escape\neffected. The boat was towed back with a chain of roses. Helen shed\ntears, and so felt her situation as to draw a veil over her face. As to\nCinyras and his associates, Rhadamanthus interrogated them to find\nwhether they had more accomplices, and, being assured to the contrary,\nhad them whipped with mallow twigs, bound, and dismissed to the place of\nthe wicked.\n\nIt was further determined that we should be expelled prematurely from the\nisland; we were allowed only one day's grace. This drew from me loud\nlaments and tears for the bliss that I was now to exchange for renewed\nwanderings. They consoled me for their sentence, however, by telling me\nthat it would not be many years before I should return to them, and\nassigning me my chair and my place at table--a distinguished one--in\nanticipation. I then went to Rhadamanthus, and was urgent with him to\nreveal the future to me, and give me directions for our voyage. He told\nme that I should come to my native land after many wanderings and perils,\nbut as to the time of my return he would give me no certainty. He\npointed, however, to the neighbouring islands, of which five were\nvisible, besides one more distant, and informed me that the wicked\ninhabited these, the near ones, that is, 'from which you see the great\nflames rising; the sixth yonder is the City of Dreams; and beyond that\nagain, but not visible at this distance, is Calypso's isle. When you have\npassed these, you will come to the great continent which is opposite your\nown; there you will have many adventures, traverse divers tribes, sojourn\namong inhospitable men, and at last reach your own continent.' That was\nall he would say.\n\nBut he pulled up a mallow root and handed it to me, bidding me invoke it\nat times of greatest danger. When I arrived in this world, he charged me\nto abstain from stirring fire with a knife, from lupines, and from the\nsociety of boys over eighteen; these things if I kept in mind, I might\nlook for return to the island. That day I made ready for our voyage, and\nwhen the banquet hour came, I shared it. On the morrow I went to the poet\nHomer and besought him to write me a couplet for inscription; when he had\ndone it, I carved it on a beryl pillar which I had set up close to the\nharbour; it ran thus:\n\n  This island, ere he took his homeward way,\n  The blissful Gods gave Lucian to survey.\n\nI stayed out that day too, and next morning started, the Heroes attending\nto see me off. Odysseus took the opportunity to come unobserved by\nPenelope and give me a letter for Calypso in the isle Ogygia.\nRhadamanthus sent on board with me the ferryman Nauplius, who, in case we\nwere driven on to the islands, might secure us from seizure by\nguaranteeing that our destination was different. As soon as our progress\nbrought us out of the scented air, it was succeeded by a horrible smell\nas of bitumen, brimstone, and pitch all burning together; mingled with\nthis were the disgusting and intolerable fumes of roasting human flesh;\nthe air was dark and thick, distilling a pitchy dew upon us; we could\nalso hear the crack of whips and the yelling of many voices.\n\nWe only touched at one island, on which we also landed. It was completely\nsurrounded by precipitous cliffs, arid, stony, rugged, treeless,\nunwatered. We contrived to clamber up the rocks, and advanced along a\ntrack beset with thorns and snags--a hideous scene. When we reached the\nprison and the place of punishment, what first drew our wonder was the\ncharacter of the whole. The very ground stood thick with a crop of knife-\nblades and pointed stakes; and it was ringed round with rivers, one of\nslime, a second of blood, and the innermost of flame. This last was very\nbroad and quite impassable; the flame flowed like water, swelled like the\nsea, and teemed with fish, some resembling firebrands, and others, the\nsmall ones, live coals; these were called lamplets.\n\nOne narrow way led across all three; its gate was kept by Timon of\nAthens. Nauplius secured us admission, however, and then we saw the\nchastisement of many kings, and many common men; some were known to us;\nindeed there hung Cinyras, swinging in eddies of smoke. Our guides\ndescribed the life and guilt of each culprit; the severest torments were\nreserved for those who in life had been liars and written false history;\nthe class was numerous, and included Ctesias of Cnidus, and Herodotus.\nThe fact was an encouragement to me, knowing that I had never told a lie.\n\nI soon found the sight more than I could bear, and returning to the ship\nbade farewell to Nauplius and resumed the voyage. Very soon we seemed\nquite close to the Isle of Dreams, though there was a certain dimness and\nvagueness about its outline; but it had something dreamlike in its very\nnature; for as we approached it receded, and seemed to get further and\nfurther off. At last we reached it and sailed into Slumber, the port,\nclose to the ivory gates where stands the temple of the Cock. It was\nevening when we landed, and upon proceeding to the city we saw many\nstrange dreams. But I intend first to describe the city, as it has not\nbeen done before; Homer indeed mentions it, but gives no detailed\ndescription.\n\nThe whole place is embowered in wood, of which the trees are poppy and\nmandragora, all thronged with bats; this is the only winged thing that\nexists there. A river, called the Somnambule, flows close by, and there\nare two springs at the gates, one called Wakenot, and the other\nNightlong. The rampart is lofty and of many colours, in the rainbow\nstyle. The gates are not two, as Homer says, but four, of which two look\non to the plain Stupor; one of them is of iron, the other of pottery, and\nwe were told that these are used by the grim, the murderous, and the\ncruel. The other pair face the sea and port, and are of horn--it was by\nthis that we had entered--and of ivory. On the right as you enter the\ncity stands the temple of Night, which deity divides with the Cock their\nchief allegiance; the temple of the latter is close to the port. On the\nleft is the palace of Sleep. He is the governor, with two lieutenants,\nNightmare, son of Whimsy, and Flittergold, son of Fantasy. A well in the\nmiddle of the market-place goes by the name of Heavyhead; beside which\nare the temples of Deceit and Truth. In the market also is the shrine in\nwhich oracles are given, the priest and prophet, by special appointment\nfrom Sleep, being Antiphon the dream-interpreter.\n\nThe dreams themselves differed widely in character and appearance. Some\nwere well-grown, smooth-skinned, shapely, handsome fellows, others rough,\nshort, and ugly; some apparently made of gold, others of common cheap\nstuff. Among them some were found with wings, and other strange\nvariations; others again were like the mummers in a pageant, tricked out\nas kings or Gods or what not. Many of them we felt that we had seen in\nour world, and sure enough these came up and claimed us as old\nacquaintance; they took us under their charge, found us lodgings,\nentertained us with lavish kindness, and, not content with the\nmagnificence of this present reception, promised us royalties and\nprovinces. Some of them also took us to see our friends, doing the return\ntrip all in the day.\n\nFor thirty days and nights we abode there--a very feast of sleep. Then on\na sudden came a mighty clap of thunder: we woke; jumped up; provisioned;\nput off. In three days we were at the Isle of Ogygia, where we landed.\nBefore delivering the letter, I opened and read it; here are the\ncontents: _ODYSSEUS TO CALYPSO, GREETING. Know that in the faraway days\nwhen I built my raft and sailed away from you, I suffered shipwreck; I\nwas hard put to it, but Leucothea brought me safe to the land of the\nPhaeacians; they gave me passage home, and there I found a great company\nsuing for my wife's hand and living riotously upon our goods. All them I\nslew, and in after years was slain by Telegonus, the son that Circe bare\nme. And now I am in the Island of the Blest, ruing the day when I left\nthe life I had with you, and the everlasting life you proffered. I watch\nfor opportunity, and meditate escape and return_. Some words were\nadded, commending us to her hospitality.\n\nA little way from the sea I found the cave just as it is in Homer, and\nherself therein at her spinning. She took and read the letter, wept for a\nspace, and then offered us entertainment; royally she feasted us, putting\nquestions the while about Odysseus and Penelope; what were her looks? and\nwas she as discreet as Odysseus had been used to vaunt her? To which we\nmade such answers as we thought she would like.\n\nLeaving her, we went on board, and spent the night at anchor just off\nshore; in the morning we started with a stiff breeze, which grew to a\ngale lasting two days; on the third day we fell in with the Pumpkin-\npirates. These are savages of the neighbouring islands who prey upon\npassing ships. They use large boats made of pumpkins ninety feet long.\nThe pumpkin is dried and hollowed out by removal of the pulp, and the\nboat is completed by the addition of cane masts and pumpkin-leaf sails.\nTwo boatfuls of them engaged us, and we had many casualties from their\npumpkin-seed missiles. The fight was long and well matched; but about\nnoon we saw a squadron of Nut-tars coming up in rear of the enemy. It\nturned out that the two parties were at war; for as soon as our\nassailants observed the others, they left us alone and turned to engage\nthem.\n\nMeanwhile we hoisted sail and made the best of our way off, leaving them\nto fight it out. It was clear that the Nut-tars must win, as they had\nboth superior numbers--there were five sail of them--and stronger\nvessels. These were made of nutshells, halved and emptied, measuring\nninety feet from stem to stern. As soon as they were hull down, we\nattended to our wounded; and from that time we made a practice of keeping\non our armour, to be in instant readiness for an attack--no vain\nprecaution either.\n\nBefore sunset, for instance, there assailed us from a bare island some\ntwenty men mounted on large dolphins--pirates again. Their dolphins\ncarried them quite well, curvetting and neighing. When they got near,\nthey divided, and subjected us to a cross fire of dry cuttlefish and\ncrabs' eyes. But our arrows and javelins were too much for them, and\nthey fled back to the island, few of them unwounded.\n\nAt midnight, in calm weather, we found ourselves colliding with an\nenormous halcyon's nest; it was full seven miles round. The halcyon was\nbrooding, not much smaller herself than the nest. She got up, and very\nnearly capsized us with the fanning of her wings; however, she went off\nwith a melancholy cry. When it was getting light, we got on to the nest,\nand found on examination that it was composed like a vast raft of large\ntrees. There were five hundred eggs, larger in girth than a tun of Chian.\nWe could make out the chicks inside and hear them croaking; we hewed open\none egg with hatchets, and dug out an unfledged chick bulkier than twenty\nvultures.\n\nSailing on, we had left the nest some five and twenty miles behind, when\na miracle happened. The wooden goose of our stern-post suddenly clapped\nits wings and started cackling; Scintharus, who was bald, recovered his\nhair; most striking of all, the ship's mast came to life, putting forth\nbranches sideways, and fruit at the top; this fruit was figs, and a bunch\nof black grapes, not yet ripe. These sights naturally disturbed us, and\nwe fell to praying the Gods to avert any disaster they might portend.\n\nWe had proceeded something less than fifty miles when we saw a great\nforest, thick with pines and cypresses. This we took for the mainland;\nbut it was in fact deep sea, set with trees; they had no roots, but yet\nremained in their places, floating upright, as it were. When we came near\nand realized the state of the case, we could not tell what to do; it was\nimpossible to sail between the trees, which were so close as to touch one\nanother, and we did not like the thought of turning back. I climbed the\ntallest tree to get a good view, and found that the wood was five or six\nmiles across, and was succeeded by open water. So we determined to hoist\nthe ship on to the top of the foliage, which was very dense, and get her\nacross to the other sea, if possible. It proved to be so. We attached a\nstrong cable, got up on the tree-tops, and hauled her after us with some\ndifficulty; then we laid her on the branches, hoisted sail, and floating\nthus were propelled by the wind. A line of Antimachus came into my head:\n\n  And as they voyaged thus the woodland through--\n\nWell, we made our way over and reached the water, into which we let her\ndown in the same way. We then sailed through clear transparent sea, till\nwe found ourselves on the edge of a great gorge which divided water from\nwater, like the land fissures which are often produced by earthquakes. We\ngot the sails down and brought her to just in time to escape making the\nplunge. We could bend over and see an awful mysterious gulf perhaps a\nhundred miles deep, the water standing wall against wall. A glance round\nshowed us not far off to the right a water bridge which spanned the\nchasm, and gave a moving surface crossing from one sea to the other. We\ngot out the sweeps, pulled her to the bridge, and with great exertions\neffected that astonishing passage.\n\nThere followed a sail through smooth water, and then a small island, easy\nof approach, and inhabited; its occupants were the Ox-heads, savage men\nwith horns, after the fashion of our poets' Minotaur. We landed and went\nin search of water and provisions, of which we were now in want. The\nwater we found easily, but nothing else; we heard, however, not far off,\na numerous lowing; supposing it to indicate a herd of cows, we went a\nlittle way towards it, and came upon these men. They gave chase as soon\nas they saw us, and seized three of my comrades, the rest of us getting\noff to sea. We then armed--for we would not leave our friends unavenged--\nand in full force fell on the Ox-heads as they were dividing our\nslaughtered men's flesh. Our combined shout put them to flight, and in\nthe pursuit we killed about fifty, took two alive, and returned with our\ncaptives. We had found nothing to eat; the general opinion was for\nslaughtering the prisoners; but I refused to accede to this, and kept\nthem in bonds till an embassy came from the Ox-heads to ransom them; so\nwe understood the motions they made, and their tearful supplicatory\nlowings. The ransom consisted of a quantity of cheese, dried fish,\nonions, and four deer; these were three-footed, the two forefeet being\njoined into one. In exchange for all this we restored the prisoners, and\nafter one day's further stay departed.\n\nBy this time we were beginning to observe fish, birds on the wing, and\nother signs of land not far off; and we shortly saw men, practising a\nmode of navigation new to us; for they were boat and crew in one. The\nmethod was this: they float on their backs, erect a sail, and then,\nholding the sheets with their hands, catch the wind. These were succeeded\nby others who sat on corks, to which were harnessed pairs of dolphins,\ndriven with reins. They neither attacked nor avoided us, but drove along\nin all confidence and peace, admiring the shape of our craft and\nexamining it all round.\n\nThat evening we touched at an island of no great size. It was occupied by\nwhat we took for women, talking Greek. They came and greeted us with\nkisses, were attired like courtesans, all young and fair, and with long\nrobes sweeping the ground. Cabbalusa was the name of the island, and\nHydramardia the city's. These women paired off with us and led the way to\ntheir separate homes. I myself tarried a little, under the influence of\nsome presentiment, and looking more closely observed quantities of human\nbones and skulls lying about. I did not care to raise an alarm, gather my\nmen, and resort to arms; instead, I drew out my mallow, and prayed\nearnestly to it for escape from our perilous position. Shortly after, as\nmy hostess was serving me, I saw that in place of human feet she had\nass's hoofs; whereupon I drew my sword, seized, bound, and closely\nquestioned her. Reluctantly enough she had to confess; they were sea-\nwomen called Ass-shanks, and their food was travellers. 'When we have\nmade them drunk,' she said, 'and gone to rest with them, we overpower\nthem in their sleep.' After this confession I left her there bound, went\nup on to the roof, and shouted for my comrades. When they appeared, I\nrepeated it all to them, showed them the bones, and brought them in to\nsee my prisoner; she at once vanished, turning to water; however, I\nthrust my sword into this experimentally, upon which the water became\nblood.\n\nThen we marched hurriedly down to our ship and sailed away. With the\nfirst glimmering of dawn we made out a mainland, which we took for the\ncontinent that faces our own. We reverently saluted it, made prayer, and\nheld counsel upon our best course. Some were for merely landing and\nturning back at once, others for leaving the ship, and going into the\ninterior to make trial of the inhabitants. But while we were\ndeliberating, a great storm arose, which dashed us, a complete wreck, on\nthe shore. We managed to swim to land, each snatching up his arms and\nanything else he could.\n\nSuch are the adventures that befell me up to our arrival at that other\ncontinent: our sea-voyage; our cruise among the islands and in the air;\nthen our experiences in and after the whale; with the Heroes; with the\ndreams; and finally with the Ox-heads and the Ass-shanks. Our fortunes on\nthe continent will be the subject of the following books.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TYRANNICIDE\n\n_A man forces his way into the stronghold of a tyrant, with the\nintention of killing him. Not finding the tyrant himself, he kills his\nson, and leaves the sword sticking in his body. The tyrant, coming, and\nfinding his son dead, slays himself with the same sword.--The assailant\nnow claims that the killing of the son entitles him to the reward of\ntyrannicide._\n\n\nTwo tyrants--a father advanced in years, a son in the prime of life,\nwaiting only to step into his nefarious heritage--have fallen by my hand\non a single day: I come before this court, claiming but one reward for my\ntwofold service. My case is unique. With one blow I have rid you of two\nmonsters: with my sword I slew the son; grief for the son slew the\nfather. The misdeeds of the tyrant are sufficiently punished: he has\nlived to see his son perish untimely; and--wondrous sequel!--the tyrant's\nown hand has freed us from tyranny. I slew the son, and used his death to\nslay another: in his life he shared the iniquities of his father; in his\ndeath, so far as in him lay, he was a parricide. Mine is the hand that\nfreed you, mine the sword that accomplished all: as to the order and\nmanner of procedure, there, indeed, I have deviated from the common\npractice of tyrannicides: I slew the son, who had strength to resist me,\nand left my sword to deal with the aged father. In acting thus, I had\nthought to increase your obligation to me; a twofold deliverance--I had\nsupposed--would entitle me to a twofold reward; for I have freed you not\nfrom tyranny alone, but from the fear of tyranny, and by removing the\nheir of iniquity have made your salvation sure. And now it seems that my\nservices are to go for nothing; I, the preserver of the constitution, am\nto forgo the recompense prescribed by its laws. It is surely from no\npatriotic motive, as he asserts, that my adversary disputes my claim;\nrather it is from grief at the loss of the tyrants, and a desire to\navenge their death.\n\nBear with me, gentlemen, for a little, while I dwell in some detail upon\nthose evils of tyranny with which you are only too familiar; I shall thus\nenable you to realize the extent of my services, and to enjoy the\ncontemplation of sufferings from which you have escaped. Ours was not the\ncommon experience: we had not _one_ tyranny, _one_ servitude to\nendure, we were not subjected to the caprice of a single master. Other\ncities have had their tyrant: it was reserved for us to have two tyrants\nat once, to groan beneath a double oppression. That of the old man was\nlight by comparison, his anger mildness, his resentment long-suffering;\nage had blunted his passions, checked their headlong impetus, and curbed\nthe lust of pleasure. His crimes, so it is said, were involuntary;\nresulting from no tyrannical disposition in himself, but from the\ninstigations of his son. For in him paternal affection had too clearly\nbecome a mania; his son was all in all to him; he did his bidding,\ncommitted every crime at his pleasure, dealt out punishment at his\ncommand, was subservient to him in all things; the minister of a tyrant's\ncaprice, and that tyrant his son. The young man left him in possession of\nthe name and semblance of rule; so much he conceded to his years: but in\nall essentials _he_ was the real tyrant. By him the power of the\ntyrant was upheld; by him and by him alone the fruits of tyranny were\ngathered. He it was who maintained the garrison, intimidated the victims\nof oppression, and butchered those who meditated resistance; who laid\nviolent hands on boys and maidens, and trampled on the sanctity of\nmarriage. Murder, banishment, confiscation, torture, brutality; all\nbespeak the wantonness of youth. The father followed his son's lead, and\nhad no word of blame for the crimes in which he participated. Our\nsituation became unbearable: for when the promptings of passion draw\nsupport from the authority of rule, then iniquity knows no further\nbounds.\n\nWe knew moreover (and here was the bitterest thought of all) that our\nservitude must endure--ay, endure for ever; that our city was doomed to\npass in unending succession from master to master, to be the heritage of\nthe oppressor. To others it is no small consolation that they may count\nthe days, and say in their hearts: 'The end will be soon; he will die,\nand we shall be free.' We had no such hope: there stood the heir of\ntyranny before our eyes. There were others--men of spirit--who cherished\nlike designs with myself; yet all lacked resolution to strike the blow;\nfreedom was despaired of; to contend against a succession of tyrants\nseemed a hopeless task.\n\nYet I was not deterred. I had reckoned the difficulties of my\nundertaking, and shrank not back, but faced the danger. Alone, I issued\nforth to cope with tyranny in all its might. Alone, did I say? nay, not\nalone; I had my sword for company, my ally and partner in tyrannicide. I\nsaw what the end was like to be: and, seeing it, resolved to purchase\nyour freedom with my blood. I grappled with the outer watch, with\ndifficulty routed the guards, slew all I met, broke down all resistance,\n--and so to the fountain-head, the well-spring of tyranny, the source of\nall our calamities; within his stronghold I found him, and there slew him\nwith many wounds, fighting valiantly for his life.\n\nFrom that moment, my end was gained: tyranny was destroyed; we were free\nmen. There remained the aged father, alone, unarmed, desolate; his guards\nscattered, his strong protector slain; no adversary this for a brave man.\nAnd now I debated within myself: 'My work is done, my aim achieved, all\nis as I would have it. And how shall this remnant of tyranny be punished?\nHe is unworthy of the hand that shed that other blood: the glory of a\nnoble enterprise shall not be so denied. No, let some other executioner\nbe found. It were too much happiness for him to die, and never know the\nworst; let him see all, for his punishment, and let the sword be ready to\nhis hand; to that sword I leave the rest.' In this design I withdrew; and\nthe sword--as I had foreseen--did its office, slew the tyrant, and put\nthe finishing touch to my work. And now I come to you, bringing democracy\nwith me, and call upon all men to take heart, and hear the glad tidings\nof liberty. Enjoy the work of my hands! You see the citadel cleared of\nthe oppressors; you are under no man's orders; the law holds its course;\nhonours are awarded, judgements given, pleadings heard. And all springs\nfrom one bold stroke, from the slaying of that son whom his father might\nnot survive. I claim from you the recompense that is my due; and that in\nno paltry, grasping spirit; it was not for a wage's sake that I sought to\nserve my country; but I would have my deed confirmed by your award; I\nwould not be disparaged by slanderous tongues, as one who attempted and\nfailed, and was deemed unworthy of honour.\n\nMy adversary tells me that I am unreasonable in asking for reward and\ndistinction. I did not slay the tyrant; I have not fulfilled the\nrequirements of the statute; there is a flaw in my claim.--And what more\ndoes he want of me? Say: did I flinch? did I not ascend into the citadel?\ndid I not slay? are we not free men? have we a master? do we hear a\ntyrant's threats? did any of the evil-doers escape me?--No; all is peace;\nthe laws are in force; freedom is assured; democracy is established; our\nwives, our daughters are unmolested, our sons are safe; the city keeps\nfestival in the general joy. And who is the cause of it all? who has\nwrought the change? Has any man a prior claim? Then I withdraw; be his\nthe honour and the reward. But if not--if mine was the deed, mine the\nrisk, mine the courage to ascend and smite and punish, dealing vengeance\non the father through the son--then why depreciate my services? why seek\nto deprive me of a people's gratitude?\n\n'But you did not kill the _tyrant_; the law assigns the reward to\nhim who kills the tyrant.' And pray what is the difference between\nkilling him and causing his death? I see none. The law-giver had but one\nend in view,--freedom, equality, deliverance from oppression. This was\nthe signal service that he deemed worthy of recompense; and this service\nyou cannot deny that I have rendered. In slaying one whom the tyrant\ncould not survive, I myself wrought the tyrant's death. His was the hand:\nthe deed was mine. Let us not chop logic as to the manner and\ncircumstances of his death, but rather ask: has he ceased to exist, and\nam I the cause? Your scruples might go further, and object to some future\ndeliverer of his country, that he struck not with the sword, but with a\nstick or a stone or the like. Had I blockaded the tyrant, and brought\nabout his death by starvation, you would still, I suppose, have objected\nthat it was not the work of my own hand? Again there would have been a\nflaw in my claim? The increased bitterness of such a death would have\ncounted for nothing with you? Confine your attention to this one\nquestion: does any of our oppressors survive? is there any ground for\nanxiety, any vestige of our past misery? If not, if all is peace, then\nnone but an envious detractor would attempt to deprive me of the reward\nof my labours by inquiring into the means employed.\n\nMoreover, it is laid down in our laws (unless after all these years of\nservitude my memory plays me false) that blood-guiltiness is of two\nkinds. A man may slay another with his own hand, or, without slaying him,\nhe may put death unavoidably in his way; in the latter case the penalty\nis the same as in the former; and rightly, it being the intention of the\nlaw that the cause should rank with the act itself; the manner in which\ndeath is brought about is not the question. You would not acquit a man\nwho in this sense had slain another; you would punish him as a murderer:\nhow then can you refuse to reward as a benefactor the man who, by parity\nof reasoning, has shown himself to be the liberator of his country?\n\nNor again can it be objected that all I did was to strike the blow, and\nthat the resulting benefits were accidental, and formed no part of my\ndesign. What had I to fear, when once the stronger of our oppressors was\nslain? And why did I leave my sword in the wound, if not because I\nforesaw the very thing that would happen? Are you prepared to deny that\nthe death so occasioned was that of a tyrant both in name and in fact,\nor that his death was an event for which the state would gladly pay an\nabundant reward? I think not. If then the tyrant is slain, how can you\nwithhold the reward from him who occasioned his death? What\nscrupulousness is this--to concern yourself with the manner of his end,\nwhile you are enjoying the freedom that results from it? Democracy is\nrestored: what more can you demand from him who restored it? You refer us\nto the terms of the law: well, the law looks only at the end; of the\nmeans it says nothing; it has no concern with them. Has not the reward of\ntyrannicide been paid before now to him who merely expelled a tyrant? And\nrightly so: for he too has made free men of slaves. But I have done more:\nbanishment may be followed by restitution: but here the family of tyrants\nis utterly annihilated and destroyed; the evil thing is exterminated,\nroot and branch.\n\nI implore you, gentlemen, to review my conduct from beginning to end, and\nsee whether there has been any such omission on my part as to make my act\nappear less than tyrannicide in the eye of the law. The high patriotic\nresolve which prompts a man to face danger for the common good, and to\npurchase the salvation of his country at the price of his own life; this\nis the first requirement. Have I been wanting here? Have I lacked\ncourage? Have I shrunk back at the prospect of the dangers through which\nI must pass? My enemy cannot say it of me. Now at this stage let us\npause. Consider only the intention, the design, apart from its success;\nand suppose that I come before you to claim the reward of patriotism\nmerely on the ground of my resolve. I have failed, and another, following\nin my footsteps, has slain the tyrant. Say, is it unreasonable in such a\ncase to allow my claim? 'Gentlemen,' I might say, 'the will, the\nintention, was mine; I made the attempt, I did what I could; my resolve\nentitles me of itself to your reward.' What would my enemy say to that?\n\nBut in fact my case stands far otherwise. I mounted into the stronghold,\nI faced danger, I had innumerable difficulties to contend with, before I\nslew the son. Think not that it was a light or easy matter, to make my\nway past the watch, and single-handed to overcome one body of guards\nafter another and put them to flight: herein is perhaps the greatest\ndifficulty with which the tyrannicide has to contend. It is no such great\nmatter to bring the tyrant to bay, and dispatch him. Once overcome the\nguards that surround him, and success is ensured; little remains to be\ndone. I could not make my way to the tyrants till I had mastered every\none of their satellites and bodyguards: each of those preliminary\nvictories had to be won. Once more I pause, and consider my situation. I\nhave got the better of the guards; I am master of the garrison; I present\nyou the tyrant stripped, unarmed, defenceless. May I claim some credit\nfor this, or do you still require his blood? Well, if blood you must\nhave, that too is not wanting; my hands are not unstained; the glorious\ndeed is accomplished; the youthful tyrant, the terror of all men, his\nfather's sole security and protection, the equivalent of many bodyguards,\nis slain in the prime of his strength. Have I not earned my reward? Am I\nto have no credit for all that is done? What if I had killed one of his\nguards, some underling, some favourite domestic? Would it not have been\nthought a great thing, to go up and dispatch the tyrant's friend within\nhis own walls, in the midst of his armed attendants? But who _was_\nmy victim? The tyrant's son, himself a more grievous tyrant than his\nfather, more cruel in his punishments, more violent in his excesses; a\npitiless master; one, above all, whose succession to the supreme power\npromised a long continuance of our miseries. Shall I concede that this is\nthe sum of my achievements? Shall we put it, that the tyrant has escaped,\nand lives? Still I claim my recompense. What say you, gentlemen? do you\nwithhold it? The son, perhaps, caused you no uneasiness; he was no\ndespot, no grievous oppressor?\n\nAnd now for the final stroke. All that my adversary demands of me, I have\nperformed; and that in the most effectual manner. I slew the tyrant when\nI slew his son; slew him not with a single blow--he could have asked no\neasier expiation of his guilt than that--but with prolonged torment. I\nshowed him his beloved lying in the dust, in pitiable case, weltering in\nblood. And what if he were a villain? he was still his son, still the old\nman's likeness in the pride of youth. These are the wounds that fathers\nfeel; this the tyrannicide's sword of justice; this the death, the\nvengeance, that befits cruelty and oppression. The tyrant who dies in a\nmoment, and knows not his loss, and sees not such sights as these, dies\nunpunished. I knew--we all knew--his affection for his son; knew that not\nfor one day would he survive his loss. Other fathers may be devoted to\ntheir sons: his devotion was something more than theirs. How should it be\notherwise? In him, and in him alone, the father saw the zealous guardian\nof his lawless rule, the champion of his old age, the sole prop of\ntyranny. If grief did not kill him on the spot, despair, I knew, must do\nso; there could be no further joy in life for him when his protector was\nslain. Nature, grief, despair, foreboding, terror,--these were my allies;\nwith these I hemmed him in, and drove him to his last desperate resolve.\nKnow that your oppressor died childless, heartbroken, weeping, groaning\nin spirit; the time of his mourning was short, but it was a father\nmourning for his son; he died by his own hand, bitterest, most awful of\ndeaths; that death comes lightly, by comparison, which is dealt by\nanother.\n\nWhere is my sword?\n\nDoes any one else know anything of this sword? Does any one claim it? Who\ntook it up into the citadel? The tyrant used this sword. Who had it\nbefore him? Who put it in his way?--Sword, fellow labourer, partner of my\nenterprise,--we have faced danger and shed blood to no purpose. We are\nslighted. Men say that we have not earned our reward.\n\nSuppose that I had advanced a claim solely on my sword's behalf: suppose\nthat I had said to you: 'Gentlemen, the tyrant had resolved to slay\nhimself, but was without a weapon at the moment, when this sword of mine\nsupplied his need, and thereby played its part in our deliverance.'\nShould you not have considered that the owner of a weapon so public-\nspirited was entitled to honour and reward? Should you not have\nrecompensed him, and inscribed his name among those of your benefactors;\nconsecrated his sword, and worshipped it as a God?\n\nNow consider how the tyrant may be supposed to have acted and spoken as\nhis end approached.--His son lies mortally wounded at my hand; the wounds\nare many, and are exposed to view, that so the father's heart may be torn\nasunder at the very first sight of him. He cries out piteously to his\nfather, not for help--he knows the old man's feebleness--, but for\nsympathy in his sufferings. I meanwhile am making my way home: I have\nwritten in the last line of my tragedy, and now I leave the stage clear\nfor the actor; there is the body, the sword, all that is necessary to\ncomplete the scene. The father enters. He beholds his son, his only son,\ngasping, blood-stained, weltering in gore; he sees the wounds--mortal\nwound upon wound--and exclaims: 'Son, we are slain, we are destroyed, we\nare stricken in the midst of our power. Where is the assassin? For what\nfate does he reserve me, who am dead already in thy death, O my son?\nBecause I am old he fears me not, he withholds his vengeance, and would\nprolong my torment.' Then he looks for a sword; he has always gone\nunarmed himself, trusting all to his son. The sword is not wanting; it\nhas been waiting for him all this time; I left it ready for the deed that\nwas to follow. He draws it from the wound and speaks: 'Sword, that but a\nmoment past hast slain me, complete thy work: comfort the stricken\nfather, aid his aged hand; dispatch, slay, make an end of the tyrant and\nhis grief. Would that I had met thee first, that my blood had been shed\nbefore his! I could but have died a tyrant's death, and should have left\nan avenger behind me. And now I die childless: I have not so much as a\nmurderer at my need.' Even as he speaks, with trembling hand he plunges\nthe sword into his breast: he is in haste to die; but that feeble hand\nlacks strength to do its dread office.\n\nIs he punished? Are these wounds? Is this death? A tyrant's death? Is\nthere reward for this?\n\nThe closing scene you have all witnessed: the son--no mean antagonist--\nprostrate in death; the father fallen upon him; blood mingling with\nblood, the drink-offering of Victory and Freedom; and in the midst my\nsword, that wrought all; judge by its presence there, whether the weapon\nwas unworthy of its master, whether it did him faithful service. Had all\nbeen done by my hand, it had been little; the strangeness of the deed is\nits glory. The tyranny was overthrown by me, and no other; but many\nactors had their part to play in the drama. The first part was mine; the\nsecond was the son's; the third the tyrant's; and my sword was never\nabsent from the stage.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISINHERITED\n\n_A disinherited son adopts the medical profession. His father going\nmad, and being given up by the other physicians, he treats him\nsuccessfully, and is then reinstated in his rights. Subsequently his\nstep-mother also goes mad; he is bidden to cure her, and, declaring his\ninability to do so, is once more disinherited._\n\n\nThere is neither novelty nor strangeness, gentlemen of the jury, in my\nfather's present proceedings. It is not the first time his passions have\ntaken this direction; it has become an instinctive habit with him to pay\na visit to this familiar court. Still, my unfortunate position has this\nmuch of novelty about it: the charge I have to meet is not personal, but\nprofessional; I am to be punished for the inability of Medicine to do my\nfather's bidding. A curious demand, surely, that healing should be done\nto order, and depend not on the limits of one's art, but on the wishes of\none's father. For my part, I should be only too glad to find drugs in the\npharmacopoeia which could relieve not only disordered wits, but\ndisordered tempers; then I might be serviceable to my father. As it is,\nhe is completely cured of madness, but is worse-tempered than ever. The\nbitterest part of it is, he is sane enough in all other relations, and\nmad only where his healer is concerned. You see what my medical fee\namounts to; I am again disinherited, cut off from my family once more, as\nthough the sole purpose of my brief reinstatement had been the\naccentuation of my disgrace by repetition.\n\nWhen a thing is within the limits of possibility, I require no bidding; I\ncame before I was summoned, to see what I could do in this case. But when\nthere is absolutely no hope, I will not meddle. With this particular\npatient, such caution is especially incumbent upon me; how my father\nwould treat me, if I tried and failed, I can judge by his disinheriting\nme when I refused to try. Gentlemen, I am sorry for my stepmother's\nillness--for she was an excellent woman; I am sorry for my father's\ndistress thereat; I am most sorry of all that I should seem rebellious,\nand be unable to give the required service; but the disease is incurable,\nand my art is not omnipotent. I do not see the justice of disinheriting\none who, when he cannot do a thing, refuses to undertake it.\n\nThe present case throws a clear light upon the reasons for my first\ndisinheriting. The allegations of those days I consider to have been\ndisposed of by my subsequent life; and the present charges I shall do my\nbest to clear away with a short account of my proceedings. Wilful and\ndisobedient son that I am, a disgrace to my father, unworthy of my\nfamily, I thought proper to say very little indeed in answer to his long\nand vehement denunciations. Banished from my home, I reflected that I\nshould find my most convincing plea, my best acquittal, in the life I\nthen led, in practically illustrating the difference between my father's\npicture and the reality, in devotion to the worthiest pursuits and\nassociation with the most reputable company. But I had also a\npresentiment of what actually happened; it occurred to me even then that\na perfectly sane father does not rage causelessly at his son, nor trump\nup false accusations against him. Persons were not wanting who detected\nincipient madness; it was the warning and precursor of a stroke which\nwould fall before long--this unreasoning dislike, this harsh conduct,\nthis fluent abuse, this malignant prosecution, all this violence,\npassion, and general ill temper. Yes, gentlemen, I saw that the time\nmight come when Medicine would serve me well.\n\nI went abroad, attended lectures by the most famous foreign physicians,\nand by hard work and perseverance mastered my craft. Upon my return, I\nfound that my father's madness had developed, and that he had been given\nup by the local doctors, who are not distinguished for insight, and are\nmuch to seek in accurate diagnosis. I did no more than a son's duty when\nI forgot and forgave the disinheritance, and visited him without waiting\nto be called in; I had in fact nothing to complain of that was properly\nhis act; his errors were not his, but, as I have implied, those of his\nillness. I came unsummoned, then. But I did not treat him at once; that\nis not our custom, nor what our art enjoins upon us. What we are taught\nto do is first of all to ascertain whether the disease is curable or\nincurable--has it passed beyond our control? After that, if it is\nsusceptible of treatment, we treat it, and do our very best to relieve\nthe sufferer. But if we realize that the complaint has got the entire\nmastery, we have nothing to do with it at all. That is the tradition that\nhas come down to us from the fathers of our art, who direct us not to\nattempt hopeless cases. Well, I found that there was yet hope for my\nfather; the complaint had not gone too far; I watched him for a long\ntime; formed my conclusions with scrupulous care; then, I commenced\noperations and exhibited my drugs without hesitation--though many of his\nfriends were suspicious of my prescription, impugned the treatment, and\ntook notes to be used against me.\n\nMy step-mother was present, distressed and doubtful--the result not of\nany dislike to me, but of pure anxiety, based on her full knowledge of\nhis sad condition; no one but her, who had lived with and nursed him,\nknew the worst. However, I never faltered; the symptoms would not lie to\nme, nor my art fail me; when the right moment came, I applied the\ntreatment, in spite of the timidity of some of my friends, who were\nafraid of the scandal that might result from a failure; it would be said\nthat the medicine was my vengeful retort to the disinheritance. To make a\nlong story short, it was at once apparent that he had taken no harm; he\nwas in his senses again, and aware of all that went on. The company were\namazed; my step-mother thanked me, and every one could see that she was\ndelighted both at my triumph and at her husband's recovery. He himself--\nto give credit where it is due--did not take time to consider, nor to ask\nadvice, but, as soon as he heard the story, undid what he had done, made\nme his son again, hailed me as his preserver and benefactor, confessed\nthat I had now given my proofs, and withdrew his previous charges. All\nthis was delightful to the better, who were many, among his friends, but\ndistasteful to the persons who enjoy a quarrel more than a\nreconciliation. I observed at the time that all were not equally pleased;\nthere were changes of colour, uneasy glances, signs of mortification, in\none quarter at least, which told of envy and hatred. With us, who had\nrecovered each other, all was naturally affection and rejoicing.\n\nQuite a short time after, my step-mother's disorder commenced--a very\nterrible and unaccountable one, gentlemen of the jury. I observed it from\nits very beginning; it was no slight superficial case, this; it was a\nlong-established but hitherto latent mental disease, which now burst out\nand forced its way into notice. There are many signs by which we know\nthat madness is incurable--among them a strange one which I noticed in\nthis case. Ordinary society has a soothing, alleviating effect; the\npatient forgets to be mad; but if he sees a doctor, or even hears one\nmentioned, he at once displays acute irritation--an infallible sign that\nhe is far gone, incurable in fact. I was distressed to notice this\nsymptom; my step-mother was a worthy person who deserved a better fate,\nand I was all compassion for her.\n\nBut my father in his simplicity, knowing neither when nor how the trouble\nbegan, and quite unable to gauge its gravity, bade me cure her by the\ndrugs that had cured him. His idea was that madness was to be nothing\nelse but mad; the disease was the same, its effects the same, and it must\nadmit of the same treatment. When I told him, as was perfectly true, that\nhis wife was incurable, and confessed that the case was beyond me, he\nthought it an outrage, said I was refusing because I chose to, and\ntreating the poor woman shamefully--in short, visited upon me the\nlimitations of my art. Such ebullitions are common enough in distress; we\nall lose our tempers then with the people who tell us the truth. I must\nnevertheless defend myself and my profession, as well as I can, against\nhis strictures.\n\nI will begin with some remarks upon the law under which I am to be\ndisinherited; my father will please to observe that it is not quite so\nmuch now as before a matter for his absolute discretion. You will find,\nsir, that the author of the law has not conferred the right of disherison\nupon any father against any son upon any pretext. It is true he has armed\nfathers with this weapon; but he has also protected sons against its\nillegitimate use. That is the meaning of his insisting that the procedure\nshall not be irresponsible and uncontrolled, but come under the legal\ncognizance of inspectors whose decision will be uninfluenced by passion\nor misrepresentation. He knew how often irritation is unreasonable, and\nwhat can be effected by a lying tale, a trusted slave, or a spiteful\nwoman. He would not have the deed done without form of law; sons were not\nto be condemned unheard and out of hand; they are to have the ear of the\ncourt for so long by the clock, and there is to be adequate inquiry into\nthe facts.\n\nMy father's competence, then, being confined to preferring his\ncomplaints, and the decision whether they are reasonable or not resting\nwith you, I shall be within my rights in requesting you to defer\nconsideration of the grievance on which he bases the present suit, until\nyou have determined whether a second disinheritance is admissible in the\nabstract. He has cast me off, has exercised his legal rights, enforced\nhis parental powers to the full, and then restored me to my position as\nhis son. Now it is iniquitous, I maintain, that fathers should have these\nunlimited penal powers, that disgrace should be multiplied, apprehension\nmade perpetual, the law now chastize, now relent, now resume its\nseverity, and justice be the shuttlecock of our fathers' caprices. It is\nquite proper for the law to humour, encourage, give effect to, _one_\npunitive impulse on the part of him who has begotten us; but if, after\nshooting his bolt, insisting on his right, indulging his wrath, he\ndiscovers our merits and takes us back, then he should be held to his\ndecision, and not allowed to oscillate, waver, do and undo any more.\nOriginally, he had no means of knowing whether his offspring would turn\nout well or ill; that is why parents who have decided to bring up\nchildren before they knew their nature are permitted to reject such as\nare found unworthy of their family.\n\nBut when a man has taken his son back, not upon compulsion, but of his\nown motion and after inquiry, how can further chopping and changing be\njustified? What further occasion for the law? Its author might fairly say\nto you, sir: _If your son was vicious and deserved to be disinherited,\nwhat were you about to recall him? Why have him home again? Why suspend\nthe law's operation? You were a free agent; you need not have done it.\nThe laws are not your play-ground; you are not to put the courts in\nmotion every time your mood varies; the laws are not to be suspended to-\nday and enforced to-morrow, with juries to look on at the proceedings, or\nrather to be the ministers of your whims, executioners or peace-makers\naccording to your taste and fancy. The boy cost you one begetting, and\none rearing; in return for which you may disinherit him, once, always\nprovided you have reason to show for it. Disinheriting as a regular\nhabit, a promiscuous pastime, is not included in the_ patria potestas.\n\nGentlemen of the jury, I entreat you in Heaven's name not to permit him,\nafter voluntarily reinstating me, reversing the previous decision, and\nrenouncing his anger, to revive the old sentence and have recourse to the\nsame paternal rights; the period of their validity is past and gone; his\nown act suffices to annul and exhaust their power. You know the general\nrule of the courts, that a party dissatisfied with the verdict of a\nballot--provided jury is allowed an appeal to another court; but that is\nnot so when the parties have agreed upon arbitrators, and, after such\nselection, put the matter in their hands. They had the choice, there, of\nnot recognizing the court _ab initio_; if they nevertheless did so,\nthey may fairly be expected to abide by its award. Similarly you, sir,\nhad the choice of never taking back your son, if you thought him\nunworthy; having decided that he was worthy, and taken him back, you\ncannot be permitted to disinherit him anew; the evidence of his not\ndeserving it is your own admission of his worth. It is only right that\nthe reinstatement and reconciliation should be definitive, after such\nabundant investigation; there have been two trials, observe: the first,\nthat in which you rejected me; the second, that in your own conscience,\nwhich reversed the decision of the other; the fact of reversal only adds\nforce to the later result. Abide, then, by your second thoughts, and\nuphold your own verdict. You are to be my father; such was your\ndetermination, approved and ratified.\n\nSuppose I were not your begotten, but only your adopted son, I hold that\nyou could not then have disinherited me; for what it is originally open\nto us not to do, we have no right, having done, to undo. But where there\nis both the natural tie, and that of deliberate choice, how can a second\nrejection, a repeated deprivation of the one relationship, be justified?\nOr again, suppose I had been a slave, and you had seen reason to put me\nin irons, and afterwards, convinced of my innocence, made me a free man;\ncould you, upon an angry impulse, have enslaved me again? Assuredly not;\nthe law makes these acts binding and irrevocable. Upon this contention,\nthat the voluntary annulment of a disinheritance precludes a repetition\nof the act, I could enlarge further, but will not labour the point.\n\nYou have next to consider the character of the man now to be\ndisinherited. I lay no stress upon the fact that I was then nothing, and\nam now a physician; my art will not help me here. As little do I insist\nthat I was then young, and am now middle-aged, with my years as a\nguarantee against misconduct; perhaps there is not much in that either.\nBut, gentlemen, at the time of my previous expulsion, if I had never done\nmy father any harm (as I should maintain), neither had I done him any\ngood; whereas now I have recently been his preserver and benefactor;\ncould there be worse ingratitude than so, and so soon, to requite me for\nsaving him from that terrible fate? My care of him goes for nothing; it\nis lightly forgotten, and I am driven forth desolate--I, whose wrongs\nmight have excused my rejoicing at his troubles, but who, so far from\nbearing malice, saved him and restored him to his senses.\n\nFor, gentlemen, it is no ordinary slight kindness that he is choosing\nthis way of repaying. You all know (though he may not realize) what he\nwas capable of doing, what he had to endure, what his state was, in fact,\nduring those bad days. The doctors had given him up, his relations had\ncleared away and dared not come near him; but I undertook his case and\nrestored him to the power of--accusing me and going to law. Let me help\nyour imagination, sir. You were very nearly in the state in which your\nwife now is, when I gave you back your understanding. It is surely not\nright that my reward for that should be this--that your understanding\nshould be used against me alone. That it is no trifling kindness I have\ndone you is apparent from the very nature of your accusation. The ground\nof your hatred is that she whom I do not cure is in extremities, is\nterribly afflicted; then, seeing that I relieved you of just such an\naffliction, there is surely better reason for you to love and be grateful\nto me for your own release from such horrors. But you are unconscionable\nenough to make the first employment of your restored faculties an\nindictment of me; you smite your healer, the ancient hate revives, and we\nhave you reciting the same old law again. My art's handsome fee, the\nworthy payment for my drugs, is--your present manifestation of vigour!\n\nBut you, gentlemen of the jury, will you allow him to punish his\nbenefactor, drive away his preserver, pay for his wits with hatred, and\nfor his recovery with chastisement? I hope better things of your justice.\nHowever flagrantly I had now been misconducting myself, I had a large\nbalance of gratitude to draw upon. With that consideration in his memory,\nhe need not have been extreme to mark what is now done amiss; it might\nhave inspired him with ready indulgence, the more if the antecedent\nservice was great enough to throw anything that might follow into the\nshade. That fairly states my relation to him; I preserved him; he owes\nhis life absolutely to me; his existence, his sanity, his understanding,\nare my gifts, given, moreover, when all others despaired and confessed\nthat the case was beyond their skill.\n\nThe service that I did was the more meritorious, it seems to me, in that\nI was not at the time my father's son, nor under any obligation to\nundertake the case; I was independent of him, a mere stranger; the\nnatural bond had been snapped. Yet I was not indifferent; I came as a\nvolunteer, uninvited, at my own instance. I brought help, I persevered, I\neffected the cure, I restored him, thereby securing myself at once a\nfather and an acquittal; I conquered anger with kindness, disarmed law\nwith affection, purchased readmission to my family with important\nservice, proved my filial loyalty at that critical moment, was adopted\n(or adopted myself, rather) on the recommendation of my art, while my\nconduct in trying circumstances proved me a son by blood also. For I had\nanxiety and fatigue enough in being always on the spot, ministering to my\npatient, watching for my opportunities, now humouring the disease when it\ngathered strength, now availing myself of a remission to combat it. Of\nall a physician's tasks the most hazardous is the care of patients like\nthis, with the personal attendance it involves; for in their moments of\nexasperation they are apt to direct their fury upon any one they can come\nat. Yet I never shrank or hesitated; I was always there; I had a life-\nand-death struggle with the malady, and the final victory was with me and\nmy drugs.\n\nNow I can fancy a person who hears all this objecting hastily, 'What a\nfuss about giving a man a dose of medicine!' But the fact is, there are\nmany preliminaries to be gone through; the ground has to be prepared; the\nbody must first be made susceptible to treatment; the patient's whole\ncondition has to be studied; he must be purged, reduced, dieted, properly\nexercised, enabled to sleep, coaxed into tranquillity. Now other invalids\nwill submit to all this; but mania robs its victims of self-control; they\nare restive and jib; their physicians are in danger, and treatment at a\ndisadvantage. Constantly, when we are on the very point of success and\nfull of hope, some slight hitch occurs, and a relapse takes place which\nundoes all in a moment, neutralizing our care and tripping up our art.\n\nNow, after my going through all this, after my wrestle with this\nformidable disease and my triumph over so elusive an ailment, is it still\nyour intention to support him in disinheriting me? Shall he interpret the\nlaws as he will against his benefactor? Will you look on while he makes\nwar upon nature? I obey nature, gentlemen of the jury, in saving my\nfather from death, and myself from the loss of him, unjust as he had\nbeen. He on the contrary defers to law (he calls it law) in ruining and\ncutting off from his kin the son who has obliged him. He is a cruel\nfather, I a loving son. I own the authority of nature: he spurns and\nflings it from him. How misplaced is this paternal hate! How worse\nmisplaced this filial love! For I must reproach myself--my father will\nhave it so. And the reproach? That where I should hate (for I am hated),\nI love, and where I should love little, I love much. Yet surely nature\nrequires of parents that they love their children more than of children\nthat they love their parents. But he deliberately disregards both the\nlaw, which secures children their family rights during good behaviour,\nand nature, which inspires parents with fervent love for their offspring.\nHaving greater incentives to affection, you might suppose that he would\nconfer the fruits of it upon me in larger measure, or at the least\nreciprocate and emulate my love. Alas, far from it! he returns hate for\nlove, persecution for devotion, wrong for service, disinheritance for\nrespect; the laws which guard, he converts into means of assailing, the\nrights of children. Ah, my father, how do you force law into your service\nin this battle against nature!\n\nThe facts, believe me, are not as you would have them. You are a bad\nexponent, sir, of good laws. In this matter of affection there is no war\nbetween law and nature; they hunt in couples, they work together for the\nremedying of wrongs. When you evil entreat your benefactor, you are\nwronging nature; now I ask, do you wrong the laws as well as nature? You\ndo; it is their intention to be fair and just and give sons their rights;\nbut you will not allow it; you hound them on again and again upon one\nchild as though he were many; you keep them ever busy punishing, when\ntheir own desire is peace and goodwill between father and son. I need\nhardly add that, as against the innocent, they may be said to have no\nexistence. But let me tell you, ingratitude also is an offence known to\nthe law; an action will lie against a person who fails to recompense his\nbenefactor. If he adds to such failure an attempt to punish, he has\nsurely reached the uttermost limits of wrong in this sort. And now I\nthink I have sufficiently established two points: first, my father has\nnot the right, after once exerting his parental privilege and availing\nhimself of the law, to disinherit me again; and secondly, it is on\ngeneral grounds inadmissible to cast off and expel from his family one\nwho has rendered service so invaluable.\n\nLet us next proceed to the actual reasons given for the disinheritance;\nlet us inquire into the nature of the charge. We must first go back for a\nmoment to the intention of the legislator. We will grant you for the sake\nof argument, sir, that it is open to you to disinherit as often as you\nplease; we will further concede you this right against your benefactor;\nbut I presume that disinheritance is not to be the beginning and the\nending in itself; you will not resort to it, that is, without sufficient\ncause. The legislator's meaning is not that the father can disinherit,\nwhatever his grievance may be, that nothing is required beyond the wish\nand a complaint; in that case, what is the court's function? No,\ngentlemen, it is your business to inquire whether the parental anger\nrests upon good and sufficient grounds. That is the question which I am\nnow to put before you; and I will take up the story from the moment when\nsanity was restored.\n\nThe first-fruits of this was the withdrawal of the disinheritance; I was\npreserver, benefactor, everything. So far my conduct is not open to\nexception, I take it. Well, and later on what fault has my father to\nfind? What attention or filial duty did I omit? Did I stay out o' nights,\nsir? Do you charge me with untimely drinkings and revellings? Was I\nextravagant? Did I get into some disreputable brawl? Did any such\ncomplaint reach you? None whatever. Yet these are just the offences for\nwhich the law contemplates disherison. Ah, but my step-mother fell ill.\nIndeed, and do you make that a charge against me? Do you prefer a suit\nfor ill health? I understand you to say no.\n\nWhat _is_ the grievance, then?-_That you refuse to treat her at my\nbidding, and for such disobedience to your father deserve to be\ndisinherited_.--Gentlemen, I will explain presently how the nature of\nthis demand results in a seeming disobedience, but a real inability.\nMeanwhile, I simply remark that neither the authority which the law\nconfers on him, nor the obedience to which I am bound, is indiscriminate.\nAmong orders, some have no sanction, while the disregard of others\njustifies anger and punishment. My father may be ill, and I neglect him;\nhe may charge me with the management of his house, and I take no notice;\nhe may tell me to look after his country estate, and I evade the task. In\nall these and similar cases, the parental censure will be well deserved.\nBut other things again are for the sons to decide, as questions of\nprofessional skill or policy--especially if the father's interests are\nnot touched. If a painter's father says to him, 'Paint this, my boy, and\ndo not paint that'; or a musician's, 'Strike this note, and not the\nother'; or a bronze-founder's, 'Cast so-and-so'; would it be tolerable\nthat the son should be disinherited for not taking such advice? Of course\nnot.\n\nBut the medical profession should be left still more to their own\ndiscretion than other artists, in proportion to the greater nobility of\ntheir aims and usefulness of their work; this art should have a special\nright of choosing its objects; this sacred occupation, taught straight\nfrom Heaven, and pursued by the wisest of men, should be secured against\nall compulsion, enslaved to no law, intimidated and penalized by no\ncourt, exposed to no votes or paternal threats or uninstructed passions.\nIf I had told my father directly and expressly, 'I will not do it, I\nrefuse the case, though I could treat it, I hold my art at no man's\nservice but my own and yours, as far as others are concerned I am a\nlayman'--if I had taken that position, where is the masterful despot who\nwould have applied force and compelled me to practise against my will?\nThe appropriate inducements are request and entreaty, not laws and\nbrowbeating and tribunals; the physician is to be persuaded, not\ncommanded; he is to choose, not be terrorized; he is not to be haled to\nhis patient, but to come with his consent and at his pleasure.\nGovernments are wont to give physicians the public recognition of\nhonours, precedence, immunities and privileges; and shall the art which\nhas State immunities not be exempt from the _patria fotestas_?\n\nAll this I was entitled to say simply as a professional man, even on the\nassumption that you had had me taught, and devoted much care and expense\nto my training, that this particular case had been within my competence,\nand I had yet declined it. But in fact you have to consider also how\nutterly unreasonable it is that you should not let me use at my own\ndiscretion my own acquisition. It was not as your son nor under your\nauthority that I acquired this art; and yet it was for your advantage\nthat I acquired it--you were the first to profit by it--, though you had\ncontributed nothing to my training. Will you mention the fees you paid?\nHow much did the stock of my surgery cost you? Not one penny. I was a\npauper, I knew not where to turn for necessaries, and I owed my\ninstruction to my teachers' charity. The provision my father made for my\neducation was sorrow, desolation, distress, estrangement from my friends\nand banishment from my family. And do you then claim to have the use of\nmy skill, the absolute control of what was acquired independently? You\nshould be content with the previous service rendered to yourself, not\nunder obligation, but of free will; for even on that occasion nothing\ncould have been demanded of me on the score of gratitude.\n\nMy kindness of the past is not to be my duty of the future; a voluntary\nfavour is not to be turned into an obligation to take unwelcome orders;\nthe principle is not to be established that he who once cures a man is\nbound to cure any number of others at his bidding ever after. That would\nbe to appoint the patients we cure our absolute masters; _we_ should\nbe paying _them_, and the fee would be slavish submission to their\ncommands. Could anything be more absurd? Because you were ill, and I was\nat such pains to restore you, does that make you the owner of my art?\n\nAll this I could have said, if the tasks he imposed upon me had been\nwithin my powers, and I had declined to accept all of them, or, on\ncompulsion, any of them. But I now wish you to look further into their\nnature. 'You cured me of madness (says he); my wife is now mad and in the\ncondition I was in (that of course is his idea); she has been given up as\nI was by the other doctors, but you have shown that nothing is too hard\nfor you; very well, then, cure her too, and make an end of her illness.'\nNow, put like that, it sounds very reasonable, especially in the ears of\na layman innocent of medical knowledge. But if you will listen to what I\nhave to say for my art, you will find that there _are_ things too\nhard for us, that all ailments are not alike, that the same treatment and\nthe same drugs will not always answer; and then you will understand what\na difference there is between refusing and being unable. Pray bear with\nme while I generalize a little, without condemning my disquisition as\npedantic, irrelevant, or ill-timed.\n\nTo begin with, human bodies differ in nature and temperament; compounded\nas they admittedly are of the same elements, they are yet compounded in\ndifferent proportions. I am not referring at present to sexual\ndifferences; the _male_ body is not the same or alike in different\nindividuals; it differs in temperament and constitution; and from this it\nresults that in different men diseases also differ both in character and\nin intensity; one man's body has recuperative power and is susceptible to\ntreatment; another's is utterly crazy, open to every infection, and\nwithout vigour to resist disease. To suppose, then, that all fever, all\nconsumption, lung-disease, or mania, being generically the same, will\naffect every subject in the same way, is what no sensible, thoughtful, or\nwell-informed person would do; the same disease is easily curable in one\nman, and not in another. Why, sow the same wheat in various soils, and\nthe results will vary. Let the soil be level, deep, well watered, well\nsunned, well aired, well ploughed, and the crop will be rich, fat,\nplentiful. Elevated stony ground will make a difference, no sun another\ndifference, foothills another, and so on. Just so with disease; its soil\nmakes it thrive and spread, or starves it. Now all this quite escapes my\nfather; he makes no inquiries of this sort, but assumes that all mania in\nevery body is the same, and to be treated accordingly.\n\nBesides such differences between males, it is obvious that the female\nbody differs widely from the male both in the diseases it is subject to\nand in its capacity or non-capacity of recovery. The bracing effect of\ntoil, exercise, and open air gives firmness and tone to the male; the\nfemale is soft and unstrung from its sheltered existence, and pale with\nanaemia, deficient caloric and excess of moisture. It is consequently, as\ncompared with the male, open to infection, exposed to disease, unequal to\nvigorous treatment, and, in particular, liable to mania. With their\nemotional, mobile, excitable tendencies on the one hand, and their\ndefective bodily strength on the other, women fall an easy prey to this\naffliction.\n\nIt is quite unfair, then, to expect the physician to cure both sexes\nindifferently; we must recognize how far apart they are, their whole\nlives, pursuits, and habits, having been distinct from infancy. Do not\ntalk of a mad person, then, but specify the sex; do not confound\ndistinctions and force all cases under the supposed identical title of\nmadness; keep separate what nature separates, and then examine the\nrespective possibilities. I began this exposition with stating that the\nfirst thing we doctors look to is the nature and temperament of our\npatient's body: which of the humours predominates in it; is it full-\nblooded or the reverse; at, or past, its prime; big or little; fat or\nlean? When a man has satisfied himself upon these and other such points,\nhis opinion, favourable or adverse, upon the prospects of recovery may be\nimplicitly relied upon.\n\nIt must be remembered too that madness itself has a thousand forms,\nnumberless causes, and even some distinct names. Delusion, infatuation,\nfrenzy, lunacy--these are not the same; they all express different\ndegrees of the affection. Again, the causes are not only different in men\nand women, but, in men, they are different for the old and for the young;\nfor instance, in young men some redundant humour is the usual cause;\nwhereas with the old a shrewdly timed slander, or very likely a fancied\ndomestic slight, will get hold of them, first cloud their understanding,\nand finally drive them distracted. As for women, all sorts of things\neffect a lodgement and make easy prey of them, especially bitter dislike,\nenvy of a prosperous rival, pain or anger. These feelings smoulder on,\ngaining strength with time, till at last they burst out in madness.\n\nSuch, sir, has been your wife's case, perhaps with the addition of some\nrecent trouble; for she used to have no strong dislikes, yet she is now\nin the grasp of the malady--and that beyond hope of medical relief. For\nif any physician undertakes and cures the case, you have my permission to\nhate me for the wrong I have done you. Yet I must go so far as to say\nthat, even had the case not been so desperate--had there been a glimmer\nof hope--even then I should not have lightly intervened, nor been very\nready to administer drugs; I should have been afraid of what might\nhappen, and of the sort of stories that might get about. You know the\nuniversal belief that every step-mother, whatever her general merits,\nhates her step-sons; it is supposed to be a feminine mania from which\nnone of them is exempt. If the disease had taken a wrong turn, and the\nmedicine failed of its effect, there would very likely have been\nsuspicions of intentional malpractice.\n\nYour wife's condition, sir--and I describe it to you after close\nobservation--, is this: she will never mend, though she take ten thousand\ndoses of medicine. It is therefore undesirable to make the experiment,\nunless your object is merely to compel me to fail and cover me with\ndisgrace. Pray do not enable my professional brethren to triumph over me;\ntheir jealousy is enough. If you disinherit me again, I shall be left\ndesolate, but I shall pray for no evil upon your head. But suppose--\nthough God forbid!--suppose your malady should return; relapses are\ncommon enough in such cases, under irritation; what is my course then to\nbe? Doubt not, I shall restore you once more; I shall not desert the post\nwhich nature assigns to children; I for my part shall not forget my\ndescent. And then if you recover, must I look for another restitution?\nYou understand me? your present proceedings are calculated to awake your\ndisease and stir it to renewed malignancy. It is but the other day that\nyou emerged from your sad condition, and you are vehement and loud--worst\nof all, you are full of anger, indulging your hatred and appealing once\nmore to the law. Alas, father, even such was the prelude to your first\nmadness.\n\n\n\n\nPHALARIS, I\n\n\nWe are sent to you, Priests of Delphi, by Phalaris our master, with\ninstructions to present this bull to the God, and to speak the necessary\nwords on behalf of the offering and its donor. Such being our errand, it\nremains for us to deliver his message, which is as follows:\n\n'It is my desire above all things, men of Delphi, to appear to the Greeks\nas I really am, and not in that character in which Envy and Malice,\navailing themselves of the ignorance of their hearers, have represented\nme: and if to the Greeks in general, then most of all to you, who are\nholy men, associates of the God, sharers (I had almost said) of his\nhearth and home. If I can clear myself before you, if I can convince you\nthat I am not the cruel tyrant I am supposed to be, then I may consider\nmyself cleared in the eyes of all the world. For the truth of my\nstatements, I appeal to the testimony of the God himself. Methinks\n_he_ is not likely to be deceived by lying words. It may be an easy\nmatter to mislead men: but to escape the penetration of a God--and that\nGod Apollo--is impossible.\n\n'I was a man of no mean family; in birth, in breeding, in education, the\nequal of any man in Agrigentum. In my political conduct I was ever\npublic-spirited, in my private life mild and unassuming; no unseemly act,\nno deed of violence, oppression, or headstrong insolence was ever laid to\nmy charge in those early days. But our city at that time was divided into\nfactions: I saw myself exposed to the plots of my political opponents,\nwho sought to destroy me by every means: if I would live in security, if\nI would preserve the city from destruction, there was but one course open\nto me--to seize upon the government, and thereby baffle my opponents, put\nan end to their machinations, and bring my countrymen to their senses.\nThere were not a few who approved my design: patriots and men of cool\njudgement, they understood my sentiments, and saw that I had no\nalternative. With their help, I succeeded without difficulty in my\nenterprise.\n\n'From that moment, the disturbances ceased. My opponents, became my\nsubjects, I their ruler; and the city was freed from dissension. From\nexecutions and banishments and confiscations I abstained, even in the\ncase of those who had plotted against my life. Such strong measures are\nindeed never more necessary than at the commencement of a new rule: but I\nwas sanguine; I proposed to treat them as my equals, and to win their\nallegiance by clemency, mildness, and humanity. My first act was to\nreconcile myself with my enemies, most of whom I invited to my table and\ntook into my confidence.\n\n'I found the city in a ruinous condition, owing to the neglect of the\nmagistrates, who had commonly been guilty of embezzlement, if not of\nwholesale plunder. I repaired the evil by means of aqueducts, beautified\nthe city with noble buildings, and surrounded it with walls. The public\nrevenues were easily increased by proper attention on the part of the\nfiscal authorities. I provided for the education of the young and the\nmaintenance of the old; and for the general public I had games and\nspectacles, banquets and doles. As for rape and seduction, tyrannical\nviolence or intimidation, I abhorred the very name of such things.\n\n'I now began to think of laying down my power; and how to do so with\nsafety was my only concern. The cares of government and public business\nhad begun to weigh upon me; I found my position as burdensome as it was\ninvidious. But it was still a question, how to render the city\nindependent of such assistance for the future. And whilst I--honest man!\n--was busied with such thoughts, my enemies were even then combining\nagainst me, and debating the ways and means of rebellion; conspiracies\nwere forming, arms and money were being collected, neighbour states were\ninvited to assist, embassies were on their way to Sparta and Athens. The\ntorments that were in store for me, had I fallen into their hands, I\nafterwards learnt from their public confession under torture, from which\nit appeared that they had vowed to tear me limb from limb with their own\nhands. For my escape from such a fate, I have to thank the Gods, who\nunmasked the conspiracy; and, in particular, the God of Delphi, who sent\ndreams to warn me, and dispatched messengers with detailed information.\n\n'And now, men of Delphi, I would ask your advice. Imagine yourselves to-\nday in the perilous situation in which I then stood; and tell me what was\nmy proper course. I had almost fallen unawares into the hands of my\nenemies, and was casting about for means of safety. Leave Delphi for a\nwhile, and transport yourselves in spirit to Agrigentum: behold the\npreparations of my enemies: listen to their threats; and say, what is\nyour counsel? Shall I sit quietly on the brink of destruction, exercising\nclemency and long-suffering as heretofore? bare my throat to the sword?\nsee my nearest and dearest slaughtered before my eyes? What would this be\nbut sheer imbecility? Shall I not rather bear myself like a man of\nspirit, give the rein to my rational indignation, avenge my injuries upon\nthe conspirators, and use my present power with a view to my future\nsecurity? This, I know, would have been your advice.\n\n'Now observe my procedure. I sent for the guilty persons, heard their\ndefence, produced my evidence, established every point beyond a doubt;\nand when they themselves admitted the truth of the accusation, I punished\nthem; for I took it ill, not that they had plotted against my life, but\nthat on their account I was compelled to abandon my original policy. From\nthat day to this, I have consulted my own safety by punishing conspiracy\nas often as it has shown itself.\n\n'And men call me cruel! They do not stop to ask who was the aggressor;\nthey condemn what they think the cruelty of my vengeance, but pass\nlightly over the provocation, and the nature of the crime. It is as if a\nman were to see a temple-robber hurled from the rock at Delphi, and,\nwithout reflecting how the transgressor had stolen into your temple by\nnight, torn down the votive-offerings, and laid hands upon the graven\nimage of the God, were to exclaim against the inhumanity of persons who,\ncalling themselves Greeks and holy men, could yet find it in them to\ninflict this awful punishment upon their fellow Greek, and that within\nsight of the holy place;--for the rock, as I am told, is not far from the\ncity. Surely you would laugh to scorn such an accusation as this; and\nyour _cruel_ treatment of the impious would be universally applauded.\n\n'But so it is: the public does not inquire into the character of a ruler,\ninto the justice or injustice of his conduct; the mere name of tyranny\nensures men's hatred; the tyrant might be an Aeacus, a Minos, a\nRhadamanthus,--they would be none the less eager for his destruction;\ntheir thoughts ever run on those tyrants who have been bad rulers, and\nthe good, because they bear the same name, are held in the like\ndetestation. I have heard that many of your tyrants in Greece have been\nwise men, who, labouring under that opprobrious title, have yet given\nproofs of benevolence and humanity, and whose pithy maxims are even now\nstored up in your temple among the treasures of the God.\n\n'Observe, moreover, the prominence given to punishment by all\nconstitutional legislators; they know that when the fear of punishment is\nwanting, nothing else is of avail. And this is doubly so with us who are\ntyrants; whose power is based upon compulsion; who live in the midst of\nenmity and treachery. The bugbear terrors of the law would never serve\nour turn. Rebellion is a many-headed Hydra: we cut off one guilty head,\ntwo others grow in its place. Yet we must harden our hearts, smite them\noff as they grow, and--like lolaus--sear the wounds; thus only shall we\nhold our own. The man who has once become involved in such a strife as\nthis must play the part that he has undertaken; to show mercy would be\nfatal. Do you suppose that any man was ever so brutal, so inhuman, as to\nrejoice in torture and groans and bloodshed for their own sake, when\nthere was no occasion for punishment? Many is the time that I have wept\nwhile others suffered beneath the lash, and groaned in spirit over the\nhard fate that subjected me to a torment more fierce and more abiding\nthan theirs. For to the man who is benevolent by nature, and harsh only\nby compulsion, it is more painful to inflict punishment than it would be\nto undergo it.\n\n'Now I will speak my mind frankly. If I had to choose between punishing\ninnocent men, and facing death myself, believe me, I should have no\nhesitation in accepting the latter alternative. But if I am asked,\nwhether I had rather die an undeserved death than give their deserts to\nthose who plotted against my life, I answer no; and once more, Delphians,\nI appeal to you: which is better--to die when I deserve not death, or to\nspare my enemies who deserve not mercy? [Footnote: Apparently the speaker\nintended to repeat the last pair of alternatives in different words:\ninstead of which, he gives us one of those alternatives twice over.\nLucian's tautologic genius fails him for once.] No man surely can be such\na fool that he would not rather live than preserve his enemies by his\ndeath. Yet in spite of this how many have I spared who were palpably\nconvicted of conspiring against me; such were Acanthus, Timocrates, and\nhis brother Leogoras, all of whom I saved out of regard for our former\nintercourse.\n\n'If you would learn more of me, apply to any of the strangers who have\nvisited Agrigentum; and see what account they give of the treatment they\nreceived, and of my hospitality to all who land on my coasts. My\nmessengers are waiting for them in every port, to inquire after their\nnames and cities, that they may not go away without receiving due honour\nat my hands. Some--the wisest of the Greeks--have come expressly to visit\nme, so far are they from avoiding intercourse with me. It was but lately\nthat I received a visit from the sage Pythagoras. The account that he had\nheard of me was belied by his experience; and on taking his departure he\nexpressed admiration of my justice, and deplored the circumstances which\nmade severity a duty. Now is it likely that one who is so benevolent to\nstrangers should deal unjustly with his fellow citizens? is it not to be\nsupposed that the provocation has been unusually great?\n\n'So much then in defence of my own conduct; I have spoken the words of\ntruth and justice, and would persuade myself that I have merited your\napprobation rather than your resentment. And now I must explain to you\nthe origin of my present offering, and the manner in which it came into\nmy hands. For it was by no instructions of mine that the statuary made\nthis bull: far be it from me to aspire to the possession of such works of\nart! A countryman of my own, one Perilaus, an admirable artist, but a man\nof evil disposition, had so far mistaken my character as to think that he\ncould win my regard by the invention of a new form of torture; the love\nof torture, he thought, was my ruling passion. He it was who made the\nbull and brought it to me. I no sooner set eyes on this beautiful and\nexquisite piece of workmanship, which lacked only movement and sound to\ncomplete the illusion, than I exclaimed: \"Here is an offering fit for the\nGod of Delphi: to him I must send it.\" \"And what will you say,\" rejoined\nPerilaus, who stood by, \"when you see the ingenious mechanism within it,\nand learn the purpose it is designed to serve?\" He opened the back of the\nanimal, and continued: \"When you are minded to punish any one, shut him\nup in this receptacle, apply these pipes to the nostrils of the bull, and\norder a fire to be kindled beneath. The occupant will shriek and roar in\nunremitting agony; and his cries will come to you through the pipes as\nthe tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings. Your victim\nwill be punished, and you will enjoy the music.\"\n\n'His words revolted me. I loathed the thought of such ingenious cruelty,\nand resolved to punish the artificer in kind. \"If this is anything more\nthan an empty boast, Perilaus,\" I said to him, \"if your art can really\nproduce this effect, get inside yourself, and pretend to roar; and we\nwill see whether the pipes will make such music as you describe.\" He\nconsented; and when he was inside I closed the aperture, and ordered a\nfire to be kindled. \"Receive,\" I cried, \"the due reward of your wondrous\nart: let the music-master be the first to play.\" Thus did his ingenuity\nmeet with its deserts. But lest the offering should be polluted by his\ndeath, I caused him to be removed while he was yet alive, and his body to\nbe flung dishonoured from the cliffs. The bull, after due purification, I\nsent as an offering to your God, with an inscription upon it, setting\nforth all the circumstances; the names of the donor and of the artist,\nthe evil design of the latter, and the righteous sentence which condemned\nhim to illustrate by his own agonized shrieks the efficacy of his musical\ndevice.\n\n'And now, men of Delphi, you will be doing me no more than justice, if\nyou join my ambassadors in making sacrifice on my behalf, and set up the\nbull in a conspicuous part of the temple; that all men may know what is\nmy attitude towards evil-doers, and in what manner I chastise their\ninordinate craving after wickedness. Herein is a sufficient indication of\nmy character: Perilaus punished, the bull consecrated, not reserved for\nthe bellowings of other victims. The first and last melody that issued\nfrom those pipes was wrung from their artificer; that one experiment\nmade, the harsh, inhuman notes are silenced for ever. So much for the\npresent offering, which will be followed by many others, so soon as the\nGod vouchsafes me a respite from my work of chastisement.'\n\nSuch was the message of Phalaris; and his statement is in strict\naccordance with the facts. You may safely accept our testimony, as we are\nacquainted with the circumstances, and can have no object in deceiving\nyou on the present occasion. Must entreaty be added? Then on behalf of\none whose character has been misrepresented, and whose severities were\nforced upon him against his will, we implore you,--we who are\nAgrigentines, Greeks like yourselves and of Dorian origin--to accept his\noffer of friendship, and not to thwart his benevolent intentions towards\nyour community and the individuals of which it is composed. Take the bull\ninto your keeping; consecrate it; and offer up your prayers on behalf of\nAgrigentum and of Phalaris. Suffer us not to have come hither in vain:\nrepulse not our master with scorn: nor deprive the God of an offering\nwhose intrinsic beauty is only equalled by its righteous associations.\n\n\n\n\nPHALARIS, II\n\n\nMen of Delphi: I stand in no public relation to the city of Agrigentum,\nin no private relation to its ruler; I am bound to him neither by\ngratitude for past favours, nor by the prospect of future friendship: but\nI have heard the just and temperate plea advanced by his emissaries, and\nI rise to advocate the claims of religion, the interests of our\ncommunity, the duties of the priesthood; I charge you, thwart not the\npious intention of a mighty prince, nor deprive the God of an offering\nwhich in the intention of the donor is already his, and which is destined\nto serve as an eternal threefold record,--of the sculptor's art, of\ninventive cruelty, and of righteous retribution. To me it seems that only\nto have raised this question, only to have halted between acceptance and\nrejection, is in itself an offence against Heaven; nay, a glaring\nimpiety. For what is this but a sacrilege more heinous than that of the\ntemple-robber, who does but plunder those sacred things to which you\nwould even deny consecration? I implore you,--your fellow priest, your\npartner in good report (if so it may be), or in evil (should that now\nbefall us), implores you: close not the temple-doors upon the devout\nworshipper; suffer us not to be known to the world as men who examine\njealously into the offerings that are brought, and subject the donor to\nthe narrow scrutiny of a court, and to the hazard of a vote. For who\nwould not be deterred at the thought that the God accepts no offering\nwithout the previous sanction of his priests?\n\nAlready Apollo has declared his true opinion. Had he hated Phalaris, or\nscorned his gift, it had been easy for him to sink the gift and the ship\nthat bore it in mid-ocean; instead, we learn that he vouchsafed them a\ncalm passage and a safe arrival at Cirrha. Clearly the monarch's piety is\nacceptable in his sight. It behoves you to confirm his decision, and to\nadd this bull to the glories of the temple. Strange indeed, if the sender\nof so magnificent a gift is to meet with rejection at the temple-door,\nand his piety to be rewarded with the judgement that his offering is\nunclean.\n\nMy opponent tells a harrowing tale of butchery and violence, of plunder\nand abduction; it is much that he does not call himself an eyewitness\nthereof; we might suppose that he was but newly arrived from Agrigentum,\ndid we not know that his travels have never carried him on board ship. In\nmatters of this kind, it is not advisable to place much reliance even on\nthe assertions of the supposed victims; there is no knowing how far they\nare speaking the truth;--as to bringing allegations ourselves, when we\nknow nothing of the facts, that is out of the question. Granting even\nthat something of the kind _did_ happen, it happened in Sicily: we\nare at Delphi; we are not called upon to interfere. Do we propose to\nabandon the temple for the law-court? Are we, whose office it is to\nsacrifice, and minister to the God, and receive his offerings,--are we to\nsit here debating whether certain cities on the other side of the Ionian\nsea are well or ill governed? Let other men's affairs be as they may, it\nis our business, as I take it, to know our own: our past history, our\npresent situation, our best interests. We need not wait for Homer to\ninform us that we inhabit a land of crags, and are tillers of a rocky\nsoil; our eyes tell us that; if we depended on our soil, we must go\nhungry all our days. Apollo; his temple; his oracle; his worshippers; his\nsacrifices;--these are the fields of the Delphians, these their revenues,\ntheir wealth, their maintenance. I can speak the truth here. It is as the\npoets say: we sow not, we plough not, yet all things grow for our use;\nfor a God is our husbandman, and gives us not the good things of Greece\nonly; all that Phrygia, all that Lydia, all that Persia, Assyria,\nPhoenicia, Italy, and the far North can yield,--all comes to Delphi. We\nlive in prosperity and plenty; in the esteem of mankind we are second to\nnone but the God himself. So it was in the beginning: so it is now: and\nso may it ever be!\n\nBut who has ever heard before of our putting an offering to the vote, or\nhindering men from paying sacrifice? No one; and herein, as I maintain,\nis the secret of our temple's greatness, and of the abundant wealth of\nits offerings. Then let us have no innovations now, no new-fangled\ninstitutions, no inquiries into the origin and nature and nationality and\npedigree of a gift; let us take what is brought to us, and set it in the\nstore-chamber without more ado. In this way we shall best serve both the\nGod and his worshippers. I think it would be well if, before you\ndeliberate further on the question before you, you would consider how\ngreat and how various are the issues involved. There is the God, his\ntemple, his sacrifices and offerings, the ancient customs and ordinances,\nthe reputation of the oracle; again, our city as a whole, our common\ninterests, and those of every individual Delphian among us; lastly--and I\nknow not what consideration could seem of more vital importance to a\nwell-judging mind--, our own credit or discredit with the world at large.\n\nI say, then, we have to deal not with Phalaris, not with a single tyrant,\nnot with this bull, not with so much weight of bronze,--but with every\nking and prince who frequents our temple at this day; with gold and\nsilver and all the precious offerings that should pour in upon the God;\nthat God whose interests claim our first attention. Say, why should we\nchange the old-established usage in regard to offerings? What fault have\nwe to find with the ancient custom, that we should propose innovations?\nNever yet, from the day when Delphi was first inhabited, and Apollo\nprophesied, and the tripod gave utterance, and the priestess was\ninspired, never yet have the bringers of gifts been subjected to\nscrutiny. And shall they now? Consider how the ancient custom, which\ngranted free access to all men, has filled the temple with treasures; how\nall men have brought their offerings, and how some have impoverished\nthemselves to enrich the God. My mind misgives me that, when you have\nassumed the censorship of offerings, you will lack employment: men may\nrefuse to submit themselves to your court; they may think it is enough to\nspend their money, without having to undergo the risk of a rejection for\ntheir pains. Would life be worth living, to the man who should be judged\nunworthy to offer sacrifice?\n\n\n\n\nALEXANDER THE ORACLE-MONGER\n\n\nYou, my dear Celsus, possibly suppose yourself to be laying upon me quite\na trifling task: _Write me down in a book and send me the life and\nadventures, the tricks and frauds, of the impostor Alexander of\nAbonutichus_. In fact, however, it would take as long to do this in\nfull detail as to reduce to writing the achievements of Alexander of\nMacedon; the one is among villains what the other is among heroes.\nNevertheless, if you will promise to read with indulgence, and fill up\nthe gaps in my tale from your imagination, I will essay the task. I may\nnot cleanse that Augean stable completely, but I will do my best, and\nfetch you out a few loads as samples of the unspeakable filth that three\nthousand oxen could produce in many years.\n\nI confess to being a little ashamed both on your account and my own.\nThere are you asking that the memory of an arch-scoundrel should be\nperpetuated in writing; here am I going seriously into an investigation\nof this sort--the doings of a person whose deserts entitled him not to be\nread about by the cultivated, but to be torn to pieces in the\namphitheatre by apes or foxes, with a vast audience looking on. Well,\nwell, if any one does cast reflections of that sort upon us, we shall at\nleast have a precedent to plead. Arrian himself, disciple of Epictetus,\ndistinguished Roman, and product of lifelong culture as he was, had just\nour experience, and shall make our defence. He condescended, that is, to\nput on record the life of the robber Tilliborus. The robber we propose to\nimmortalize was of a far more pestilent kind, following his profession\nnot in the forests and mountains, but in cities; _he_ was not content to\noverrun a Mysia or an Ida; _his_ booty came not from a few scantily\npopulated districts of Asia; one may say that the scene of his\ndepredations was the whole Roman Empire.\n\nI will begin with a picture of the man himself, as lifelike (though I am\nnot great at description) as I can make it with nothing better than\nwords. In person--not to forget that part of him--he was a fine handsome\nman with a real touch of divinity about him, white-skinned, moderately\nbearded; he wore besides his own hair artificial additions which matched\nit so cunningly that they were not generally detected. His eyes were\npiercing, and suggested inspiration, his voice at once sweet and\nsonorous. In fact there was no fault to be found with him in these\nrespects.\n\nSo much for externals. As for his mind and spirit--well, if all the kind\nGods who avert disaster will grant a prayer, it shall be that they bring\nme not within reach of such a one as he; sooner will I face my bitterest\nenemies, my country's foes. In understanding, resource, acuteness, he was\nfar above other men; curiosity, receptiveness, memory, scientific\nability--all these were his in overflowing measure. But he used them for\nthe worst purposes. Endowed with all these instruments of good, he very\nsoon reached a proud pre-eminence among all who have been famous for\nevil; the Cercopes, Eurybatus, Phrynondas, Aristodemus, Sostratus--all\nthrown into the shade. In a letter to his father-in-law Rutilianus, which\nputs his own pretensions in a truly modest light, he compares himself to\nPythagoras. Well, I should not like to offend the wise, the divine\nPythagoras; but if he had been Alexander's contemporary, I am quite sure\nhe would have been a mere child to him. Now by all that is admirable, do\nnot take that for an insult to Pythagoras, nor suppose I would draw a\nparallel between their achievements. What I mean is: if any one would\nmake a collection of all the vilest and most damaging slanders ever\nvented against Pythagoras--things whose truth I would not accept for a\nmoment--, the sum of them would not come within measurable distance of\nAlexander's cleverness. You are to set your imagination to work and\nconceive a temperament curiously compounded of falsehood, trickery,\nperjury, cunning; it is versatile, audacious, adventurous, yet dogged in\nexecution; it is plausible enough to inspire confidence; it can assume\nthe mask of virtue, and seem to eschew what it most desires. I suppose no\none ever left him after a first interview without the impression that\nthis was the best and kindest of men, ay, and the simplest and most\nunsophisticated. Add to all this a certain greatness in his objects; he\nnever made a small plan; his ideas were always large.\n\nWhile in the bloom of his youthful beauty, which we may assume to have\nbeen great both from its later remains and from the report of those who\nsaw it, he traded quite shamelessly upon it. Among his other patrons was\none of the charlatans who deal in magic and mystic incantations; they\nwill smooth your course of love, confound your enemies, find you\ntreasure, or secure you an inheritance. This person was struck with the\nlad's natural qualifications for apprenticeship to his trade, and finding\nhim as much attracted by rascality as attractive in appearance, gave him\na regular training as accomplice, satellite, and attendant. His own\nostensible profession was medicine, and his knowledge included, like that\nof Thoon the Egyptian's wife,\n\n  Many a virtuous herb, and many a bane;\n\nto all which inheritance our friend succeeded. This teacher and lover of\nhis was a native of Tyana, an associate of the great Apollonius, and\nacquainted with all his heroics. And now you know the atmosphere in which\nAlexander lived.\n\nBy the time his beard had come, the Tyanean was dead, and he found\nhimself in straits; for the personal attractions which might once have\nbeen a resource were diminished. He now formed great designs, which he\nimparted to a Byzantine chronicler of the strolling competitive order, a\nman of still worse character than himself, called, I believe, Cocconas.\nThe pair went about living on occult pretensions, shearing 'fat-heads,'\nas they describe ordinary people in the native Magian lingo. Among these\nthey got hold of a rich Macedonian woman; her youth was past, but not her\ndesire for admiration; they got sufficient supplies out of her, and\naccompanied her from Bithynia to Macedonia. She came from Pella, which\nhad been a flourishing place under the Macedonian kingdom, but has now a\npoor and much reduced population.\n\nThere is here a breed of large serpents, so tame and gentle that women\nmake pets of them, children take them to bed, they will let you tread on\nthem, have no objection to being squeezed, and will draw milk from the\nbreast like infants. To these facts is probably to be referred the common\nstory about Olympias when she was with child of Alexander; it was\ndoubtless one of these that was her bed-fellow. Well, the two saw these\ncreatures, and bought the finest they could get for a few pence.\n\nAnd from this point, as Thucydides might say, the war takes its\nbeginning. These ambitious scoundrels were quite devoid of scruples, and\nthey had now joined forces; it could not escape their penetration that\nhuman life is under the absolute dominion of two mighty principles, fear\nand hope, and that any one who can make these serve his ends may be sure\nof a rapid fortune. They realized that, whether a man is most swayed by\nthe one or by the other, what he must most depend upon and desire is a\nknowledge of futurity. So were to be explained the ancient wealth and\nfame of Delphi, Delos, Clarus, Branchidae; it was at the bidding of the\ntwo tyrants aforesaid that men thronged the temples, longed for fore-\nknowledge, and to attain it sacrificed their hecatombs or dedicated their\ngolden ingots. All this they turned over and debated, and it issued in\nthe resolve to establish an oracle. If it were successful, they looked\nfor immediate wealth and prosperity; the result surpassed their most\nsanguine expectations.\n\nThe next things to be settled were, first the theatre of operations, and\nsecondly the plan of campaign. Cocconas favoured Chalcedon, as a\nmercantile centre convenient both for Thrace and Bithynia, and accessible\nenough for the province of Asia, Galatia, and tribes still further east.\nAlexander, on the other hand, preferred his native place, urging very\ntruly that an enterprise like theirs required congenial soil to give it a\nstart, in the shape of 'fat-heads' and simpletons; that was a fair\ndescription, he said, of the Paphlagonians beyond Abonutichus; they were\nmostly superstitious and well-to-do; one had only to go there with some\none to play the flute, the tambourine, or the cymbals, set the proverbial\nmantic sieve [Footnote: I have no information on Coscinomancy or sieve-\ndivination. 'This kind of divination was generally practised to discover\nthieves ... They tied a thread to the sieve, by which it was upheld, then\nprayed to the Gods to direct and assist them. After which they repeated\nthe names of the person suspected, and he at whose name the sieve whirled\nround or moved was thought to have committed the fact' _Francklin's\nLucian._] a-spinning, and there they would all be gaping as if he were\na God from heaven.\n\nThis difference of opinion did not last long, and Alexander prevailed.\nDiscovering, however, that a use might after all be made of Chalcedon,\nthey went there first, and in the temple of Apollo, the oldest in the\nplace, they buried some brazen tablets, on which was the statement that\nvery shortly Asclepius, with his father Apollo, would pay a visit to\nPontus, and take up his abode at Abonutichus. The discovery of the\ntablets took place as arranged, and the news flew through Bithynia and\nPontus, first of all, naturally, to Abonutichus. The people of that place\nat once resolved to raise a temple, and lost no time in digging the\nfoundations. Cocconas was now left at Chalcedon, engaged in composing\ncertain ambiguous crabbed oracles. He shortly afterwards died, I believe,\nof a viper's bite.\n\nAlexander meanwhile went on in advance; he had now grown his hair and\nwore it in long curls; his doublet was white and purple striped, his\ncloak pure white; he carried a scimetar in imitation of Perseus, from\nwhom he now claimed descent through his mother. The wretched\nPaphlagonians, who knew perfectly well that his parentage was obscure and\nmean on both sides, nevertheless gave credence to the oracle, which ran:\n\n  Lo, sprung from Perseus, and to Phoebus dear,\n  High Alexander, Podalirius' son!\n\nPodalirius, it seems, was of so highly amorous a complexion that the\ndistance between Tricca and Paphlagonia was no bar to his union with\nAlexander's mother. A Sibylline prophecy had also been found:\n\n  Hard by Sinope on the Euxine shore\n  Th' Italic age a fortress prophet sees.\n  To the first monad let thrice ten be added,\n  Five monads yet, and then a triple score:\n  Such the quaternion of th' alexic name.\n\n[Footnote: In 1. 2 of the oracle, the Italic age is the Roman Empire; the\nfortress prophet is one who belongs to a place ending in--tichus (fort).\n11>> 3-5 mean: Take 1, 30, 5, 60 (the Greek symbols for which are the\nletters of the alphabet A, L, E, X), and you will have four letters of\nthe name of your coming protector (alexic).]\n\nThis heroic entry into his long-left home placed Alexander conspicuously\nbefore the public; he affected madness, and frequently foamed at the\nmouth--a manifestation easily produced by chewing the herb soap-wort,\nused by dyers; but it brought him reverence and awe. The two had long ago\nmanufactured and fitted up a serpent's head of linen; they had given it a\nmore or less human expression, and painted it very like the real article;\nby a contrivance of horsehair, the mouth could be opened and shut, and a\nforked black serpent tongue protruded, working on the same system. The\nserpent from Pella was also kept ready in the house, to be produced at\nthe right moment and take its part in the drama--the leading part,\nindeed.\n\nIn the fullness of time, his plan took shape. He went one night to the\ntemple foundations, still in process of digging, and with standing water\nin them which had collected from the rainfall or otherwise; here he\ndeposited a goose egg, into which, after blowing it, he had inserted some\nnew-born reptile. He made a resting-place deep down in the mud for this,\nand departed. Early next morning he rushed into the market-place, naked\nexcept for a gold-spangled loin-cloth; with nothing but this and his\nscimetar, and shaking his long loose hair, like the fanatics who collect\nmoney in the name of Cybele, he climbed on to a lofty altar and delivered\na harangue, felicitating the city upon the advent of the God now to bless\nthem with his presence. In a few minutes nearly the whole population was\non the spot, women, old men, and children included; all was awe, prayer,\nand adoration. He uttered some unintelligible sounds, which might have\nbeen Hebrew or Phoenician, but completed his victory over his audience,\nwho could make nothing of what he said, beyond the constant repetition of\nthe names Apollo and Asclepius.\n\nHe then set off at a run for the future temple. Arrived at the excavation\nand the already completed sacred fount, he got down into the water,\nchanted in a loud voice hymns to Asclepius and Apollo, and invited the\nGod to come, a welcome guest, to the city. He next demanded a bowl, and\nwhen this was handed to him, had no difficulty in putting it down at the\nright place and scooping up, besides water and mud, the egg in which the\nGod had been enclosed; the edges of the aperture had been joined with wax\nand white lead. He took the egg in his hand and announced that here he\nheld Asclepius. The people, who had been sufficiently astonished by the\ndiscovery of the egg in the water, were now all eyes for what was to\ncome. He broke it, and received in his hollowed palm the hardly developed\nreptile; the crowd could see it stirring and winding about his fingers;\nthey raised a shout, hailed the God, blessed the city, and every mouth\nwas full of prayers--for treasure and wealth and health and all the other\ngood things that he might give. Our hero now departed homewards, still\nrunning, with the new-born Asclepius in his hands--the twice-born, too,\nwhereas ordinary men can be born but once, and born moreover not of\nCoronis [Footnote: Coronis was the mother of Asclepius; 'corone' is Greek\nfor a crow.] nor even of her namesake the crow, but of a goose! After him\nstreamed the whole people, in all the madness of fanatic hopes.\n\nHe now kept the house for some days, in hopes that the Paphlagonians\nwould soon be drawn in crowds by the news. He was not disappointed; the\ncity was filled to overflowing with persons who had neither brains nor\nindividuality, who bore no resemblance to men that live by bread, and had\nonly their outward shape to distinguish them from sheep. In a small room\nhe took his seat, very imposingly attired, upon a couch. He took into his\nbosom our Asclepius of Pella (a very fine and large one, as I observed),\nwound its body round his neck, and let its tail hang down; there was\nenough of this not only to fill his lap, but to trail on the ground also;\nthe patient creature's head he kept hidden in his armpit, showing the\nlinen head on one side of his beard exactly as if it belonged to the\nvisible body.\n\nPicture to yourself a little chamber into which no very brilliant light\nwas admitted, with a crowd of people from all quarters, excited,\ncarefully worked up, all a-flutter with expectation. As they came in,\nthey might naturally find a miracle in the development of that little\ncrawling thing of a few days ago into this great, tame, human-looking\nserpent. Then they had to get on at once towards the exit, being pressed\nforward by the new arrivals before they could have a good look. An exit\nhad been specially made just opposite the entrance, for all the world\nlike the Macedonian device at Babylon when Alexander was ill; he was\n_in extremis_, you remember, and the crowd round the palace were\neager to take their last look and give their last greeting. Our\nscoundrel's exhibition, though, is said to have been given not once, but\nmany times, especially for the benefit of any wealthy new-comers.\n\nAnd at this point, my dear Celsus, we may, if we will be candid, make\nsome allowance for these Paphlagonians and Pontics; the poor uneducated\n'fat-heads' might well be taken in when they handled the serpent--a\nprivilege conceded to all who choose--and saw in that dim light its head\nwith the mouth that opened and shut. It was an occasion for a Democritus,\nnay, for an Epicurus or a Metrodorus, perhaps, a man whose intelligence\nwas steeled against such assaults by scepticism and insight, one who, if\nhe could not detect the precise imposture, would at any rate have been\nperfectly certain that, though this escaped him, the whole thing was a\nlie and an impossibility.\n\nBy degrees Bithynia, Galatia, Thrace, came flocking in, every one who had\nbeen present doubtless reporting that he had beheld the birth of the God,\nand had touched him after his marvellous development in size and in\nexpression. Next came pictures and models, bronze or silver images, and\nthe God acquired a name. By divine command, metrically expressed, he was\nto be known as Glycon. For Alexander had delivered the line:\n\n  Glycon my name, man's light, son's son to Zeus.\n\nAnd now at last the object to which all this had led up, the giving of\noracular answers to all applicants, could be attained. The cue was taken\nfrom Amphilochus in Cilicia. After the death and disappearance at Thebes\nof his father Amphiaraus, Amphilochus, driven from his home, made his way\nto Cilicia, and there did not at all badly by prophesying to the\nCilicians at the rate of threepence an oracle. After this precedent,\nAlexander proclaimed that on a stated day the God would give answers to\nall comers. Each person was to write down his wish and the object of his\ncuriosity, fasten the packet with thread, and seal it with wax, clay, or\nother such substance. He would receive these, and enter the holy place\n(by this time the temple was complete, and the scene all ready), whither\nthe givers should be summoned in order by a herald and an acolyte; he\nwould learn the God's mind upon each, and return the packets with their\nseals intact and the answers attached, the God being ready to give a\ndefinite answer to any question that might be put.\n\nThe trick here was one which would be seen through easily enough by a\nperson of your intelligence (or, if I may say so without violating\nmodesty, of my own), but which to the ordinary imbecile would have the\npersuasiveness of what is marvellous and incredible. He contrived various\nmethods of undoing the seals, read the questions, answered them as seemed\ngood, and then folded, sealed, and returned them, to the great\nastonishment of the recipients. And then it was, 'How could he possibly\nknow what I gave him carefully secured under a seal that defies\nimitation, unless he were a true God, with a God's omniscience?'\n\nPerhaps you will ask what these contrivances were; well, then--the\ninformation may be useful another time. One of them was this. He would\nheat a needle, melt with it the under part of the wax, lift the seal off,\nand after reading warm the wax once more with the needle--both that below\nthe thread and that which formed the actual seal--and re-unite the two\nwithout difficulty. Another method employed the substance called\ncollyrium; this is a preparation of Bruttian pitch, bitumen, pounded\nglass, wax, and mastich. He kneaded the whole into collyrium, heated it,\nplaced it on the seal, previously moistened with his tongue, and so took\na mould. This soon hardened; he simply opened, read, replaced the wax,\nand reproduced an excellent imitation of the original seal as from an\nengraved stone. One more I will give you. Adding some gypsum to the glue\nused in book-binding he produced a sort of wax, which was applied still\nwet to the seal, and on being taken off solidified at once and provided a\nmatrix harder than horn, or even iron. There are plenty of other devices\nfor the purpose, to rehearse which would seem like airing one's\nknowledge. Moreover, in your excellent pamphlets against the magians\n(most useful and instructive reading they are) you have yourself\ncollected enough of them--many more than those I have mentioned.\n\nSo oracles and divine utterances were the order of the day, and much\nshrewdness he displayed, eking out mechanical ingenuity with obscurity,\nhis answers to some being crabbed and ambiguous, and to others absolutely\nunintelligible. He did however distribute warning and encouragement\naccording to his lights, and recommend treatments and diets; for he had,\nas I originally stated, a wide and serviceable acquaintance with drugs;\nhe was particularly given to prescribing 'cytmides,' which were a salve\nprepared from goat's fat, the name being of his own invention. For the\nrealization of ambitions, advancement, or successions, he took care never\nto assign early dates; the formula was, 'All this shall come to pass when\nit is my will, and when my prophet Alexander shall make prayer and\nentreaty on your behalf.'\n\nThere was a fixed charge of a shilling the oracle. And, my friend, do not\nsuppose that this would not come to much; he made something like L3,000\n_per annum_; people were insatiable--would take from ten to fifteen\noracles at a time. What he got he did not keep to himself, nor put it by\nfor the future; what with accomplices, attendants, inquiry agents, oracle\nwriters and keepers, amanuenses, seal-forgers, and interpreters, he had\nnow a host of claimants to satisfy.\n\nHe had begun sending emissaries abroad to make the shrine known in\nforeign lands; his prophecies, discovery of runaways, conviction of\nthieves and robbers, revelations of hidden treasure, cures of the sick,\nrestoration of the dead to life--all these were to be advertised. This\nbrought them running and crowding from all points of the compass; victims\nbled, gifts were presented, and the prophet and disciple came off better\nthan the God; for had not the oracle spoken?--\n\n  Give what ye give to my attendant priest;\n  My care is not for gifts, but for my priest.\n\nA time came when a number of sensible people began to shake off their\nintoxication and combine against him, chief among them the numerous\nEpicureans; in the cities, the imposture with all its theatrical\naccessories began to be seen through. It was now that he resorted to a\nmeasure of intimidation; he proclaimed that Pontus was overrun with\natheists and Christians, who presumed to spread the most scandalous\nreports concerning him; he exhorted Pontus, as it valued the God's\nfavour, to stone these men. Touching Epicurus, he gave the following\nresponse. An inquirer had asked how Epicurus fared in Hades, and was\ntold:\n\n  Of slime is his bed,\n  And his fetters of lead.\n\nThe prosperity of the oracle is perhaps not so wonderful, when one learns\nwhat sensible, intelligent questions were in fashion with its votaries.\nWell, it was war to the knife between him and Epicurus, and no wonder.\nWhat fitter enemy for a charlatan who patronized miracles and hated\ntruth, than the thinker who had grasped the nature of things and was in\nsolitary possession of that truth? As for the Platonists, Stoics,\nPythagoreans, they were his good friends; he had no quarrel with them.\nBut the unmitigated Epicurus, as he used to call him, could not but be\nhateful to him, treating all such pretensions as absurd and puerile.\nAlexander consequently loathed Amastris beyond all the cities of Pontus,\nknowing what a number of Lepidus's friends and others like-minded it\ncontained. He would not give oracles to Amastrians; when he once did, to\na senator's brother, he made himself ridiculous, neither hitting upon a\npresentable oracle for himself, nor finding a deputy equal to the\noccasion. The man had complained of colic, and what he meant to prescribe\nwas pig's foot dressed with mallow. The shape it took was:\n\n  In basin hallowed\n  Be pigments mallowed.\n\nI have mentioned that the serpent was often exhibited by request; he was\nnot completely visible, but the tail and body were exposed, while the\nhead was concealed under the prophet's dress. By way of impressing the\npeople still more, he announced that he would induce the God to speak,\nand give his responses without an intermediary. His simple device to this\nend was a tube of cranes' windpipes, which he passed, with due regard to\nits matching, through the artificial head, and, having an assistant\nspeaking into the end outside, whose voice issued through the linen\nAsclepius, thus answered questions. These oracles were called\n_autophones_, and were not vouchsafed casually to any one, but reserved\nfor officials, the rich, and the lavish.\n\nIt was an autophone which was given to Severian regarding the invasion of\nArmenia. He encouraged him with these lines:\n\n  Armenia, Parthia, cowed by thy fierce spear,\n  To Rome, and Tiber's shining waves, thou com'st,\n  Thy brow with leaves and radiant gold encircled.\n\nThen when the foolish Gaul took his advice and invaded, to the total\ndestruction of himself and his army by Othryades, the adviser expunged\nthat oracle from his archives and substituted the following:\n\n  Vex not th' Armenian land; it shall not thrive;\n  One in soft raiment clad shall from his bow\n  Launch death, and cut thee off from life and light.\n\nFor it was one of his happy thoughts to issue prophecies after the event\nas antidotes to those premature utterances which had not gone right.\nFrequently he promised recovery to a sick man before his death, and after\nit was at no loss for second thoughts:\n\n  No longer seek to arrest thy fell disease;\n  Thy fate is manifest, inevitable.\n\nKnowing the fame of Clarus, Didymus, and Mallus for sooth-saying much\nlike his own, he struck up an alliance with them, sending on many of his\nclients to those places. So\n\n  Hie thee to Clarus now, and hear my sire.\n\nAnd again,\n\n  Draw near to Branchidae and counsel take.\n\nOr\n\n  Seek Mallus; be Amphilochus thy counsellor.\n\nSo things went within the borders of Ionia, Cilicia, Paphlagonia, and\nGalatia. When the fame of the oracle travelled to Italy and entered Rome,\nthe only question was, who should be first; those who did not come in\nperson sent messages, the powerful and respected being the keenest of\nall. First and foremost among these was Rutilianus; he was in most\nrespects an excellent person, and had filled many high offices in Rome;\nbut he suffered from religious mania, holding the most extraordinary\nbeliefs on that matter; show him a bit of stone smeared with unguents or\ncrowned with flowers, and he would incontinently fall down and worship,\nand linger about it praying and asking for blessings. The reports about\nour oracle nearly induced him to throw up the appointment he then held,\nand fly to Abonutichus; he actually did send messenger upon messenger.\nHis envoys were ignorant servants, easily taken in. They came back having\nreally seen certain things, relating others which they probably thought\nthey had seen and heard, and yet others which they deliberately invented\nto curry favour with their master. So they inflamed the poor old man and\ndrove him into confirmed madness.\n\nHe had a wide circle of influential friends, to whom he communicated the\nnews brought by his successive messengers, not without additional touches\nof his own. All Rome was full of his tales; there was quite a commotion,\nthe gentlemen of the Court being much fluttered, and at once taking\nmeasures to learn something of their own fate. The prophet gave all who\ncame a hearty welcome, gained their goodwill by hospitality and costly\ngifts, and sent them off ready not merely to report his answers, but to\nsing the praises of the God and invent miraculous tales of the shrine and\nits guardian.\n\nThis triple rogue now hit upon an idea which would have been too clever\nfor the ordinary robber. Opening and reading the packets which reached\nhim, whenever he came upon an equivocal, compromising question, he\nomitted to return the packet; the sender was to be under his thumb, bound\nto his service by the terrifying recollection of the question he had\nwritten down. You know the sort of things that wealthy and powerful\npersonages would be likely to ask. This blackmail brought him in a good\nincome.\n\nI should like to quote you one or two of the answers given to Rutilianus.\nHe had a son by a former wife, just old enough for advanced teaching. The\nfather asked who should be his tutor, and was told,\n\n  Pythagoras, and the mighty battle-bard.\n\nWhen the child died a few days after, the prophet was abashed, and quite\nunable to account for this summary confutation. However, dear good\nRutilianus very soon restored the oracle's credit by discovering that\nthis was the very thing the God had foreshown; he had not directed him to\nchoose a living teacher; Pythagoras and Homer were long dead, and\ndoubtless the boy was now enjoying their instructions in Hades. Small\nblame to Alexander if he had a taste for dealings with such specimens of\nhumanity as this.\n\nAnother of Rutilianus's questions was, Whose soul he had succeeded to,\nand the answer:\n\n  First thou wast Peleus' son, and next Menander;\n  Then thine own self; next, a sunbeam shalt be;\n  And nine score annual rounds thy life shall measure.\n\nAt seventy, he died of melancholy, not waiting for the God to pay in\nfull.\n\nThat was an autophone too. Another time Rutilianus consulted the oracle\non the choice of a wife. The answer was express:\n\n  Wed Alexander's daughter and Selene's.\n\nHe had long ago spread the report that the daughter he had had was by\nSelene: she had once seen him asleep, and fallen in love, as is her way\nwith handsome sleepers. The sensible Rutilianus lost no time, but sent\nfor the maiden at once, celebrated the nuptials, a sexagenarian\nbridegroom, and lived with her, propitiating his divine mother-in-law\nwith whole hecatombs, and reckoning himself now one of the heavenly\ncompany.\n\nHis finger once in the Italian pie, Alexander devoted himself to getting\nfurther. Sacred envoys were sent all over the Roman Empire, warning the\nvarious cities to be on their guard against pestilence and\nconflagrations, with the prophet's offers of security against them. One\noracle in particular, an autophone again, he distributed broadcast at a\ntime of pestilence. It was a single line:\n\n  Phoebus long-tressed the plague-cloud shall dispel.\n\nThis was everywhere to be seen written up on doors as a prophylactic. Its\neffect was generally disappointing; for it somehow happened that the\nprotected houses were just the ones to be desolated. Not that I would\nsuggest for a moment that the line was their destruction; but,\naccidentally no doubt, it did so fall out. Possibly common people put too\nmuch confidence in the verse, and lived carelessly without troubling to\nhelp the oracle against its foe; were there not the words fighting their\nbattle, and long-tressed Phoebus discharging his arrows at the pestilence?\n\nIn Rome itself he established an intelligence bureau well manned with his\naccomplices. They sent him people's characters, forecasts of their\nquestions, and hints of their ambitions, so that he had his answers ready\nbefore the messengers reached him.\n\nIt was with his eye on this Italian propaganda, too, that he took a\nfurther step. This was the institution of mysteries, with hierophants and\ntorch-bearers complete. The ceremonies occupied three successive days. On\nthe first, proclamation was made on the Athenian model to this effect:\n'If there be any atheist or Christian or Epicurean here spying upon our\nrites, let him depart in haste; and let all such as have faith in the God\nbe initiated and all blessing attend them.' He led the litany with,\n'Christians, avaunt!' and the crowd responded, 'Epicureans, avaunt!' Then\nwas presented the child-bed of Leto and birth of Apollo, the bridal of\nCoronis, Asclepius born. The second day, the epiphany and nativity of the\nGod Glycon.\n\nOn the third came the wedding of Podalirius and Alexander's mother; this\nwas called Torch-day, and torches were used. The finale was the loves of\nSelene and Alexander, and the birth of Rutilianus's wife. The torch-\nbearer and hierophant was Endymion-Alexander. He was discovered lying\nasleep; to him from heaven, represented by the ceiling, enter as Selene\none Rutilia, a great beauty, and wife of one of the Imperial procurators.\nShe and Alexander were lovers off the stage too, and the wretched husband\nhad to look on at their public kissing and embracing; if there had not\nbeen a good supply of torches, things might possibly have gone even\nfurther. Shortly after, he reappeared amidst a profound hush, attired as\nhierophant; in a loud voice he called, 'Hail, Glycon!', whereto the\nEumolpidae and Ceryces of Paphlagonia, with their clod-hopping shoes and\ntheir garlic breath, made sonorous response, 'Hail, Alexander!'\n\nThe torch ceremony with its ritual skippings often enabled him to bestow\na glimpse of his thigh, which was thus discovered to be of gold; it was\npresumably enveloped in cloth of gold, which glittered in the lamp-light.\nThis gave rise to a debate between two wiseacres, whether the golden\nthigh meant that he had inherited Pythagoras's soul, or merely that their\ntwo souls were alike; the question was referred to Alexander himself, and\nKing Glycon relieved their perplexity with an oracle:\n\n  Waxes and wanes Pythagoras' soul: the seer's\n  Is from the mind of Zeus an emanation.\n  His Father sent him, virtuous men to aid,\n  And with his bolt one day shall call him home.\n\nI will now give you a conversation between Glycon and one Sacerdos of\nTius; the intelligence of the latter you may gauge from his questions. I\nread it inscribed in golden letters in Sacerdos's house at Tius. 'Tell\nme, lord Glycon,' said he, 'who you are.' 'The new Asclepius.' 'Another,\ndifferent from the former one? Is that the meaning?' 'That it is not\nlawful for you to learn.' 'And how many years will you sojourn and\nprophesy among us?' 'A thousand and three.' 'And after that, whither will\nyou go?' 'To Bactria; for the barbarians too must be blessed with my\npresence.' 'The other oracles, at Didymus and Clarus and Delphi, have\nthey still the spirit of your grandsire Apollo, or are the answers that\nnow come from them forgeries?' 'That, too, desire not to know; it is not\nlawful.' 'What shall I be after this life?' 'A camel; then a horse; then\na wise man, no less a prophet than Alexander.' Such was the conversation.\nThere was added to it an oracle in verse, inspired by the fact that\nSacerdos was an associate of Lepidus:\n\n  Shun Lepidus; an evil fate awaits him.\n\nAs I have said, Alexander was much afraid of Epicurus, and the solvent\naction of his logic on imposture.\n\nOn one occasion, indeed, an Epicurean got himself into great trouble by\ndaring to expose him before a great gathering. He came up and addressed\nhim in a loud voice. 'Alexander, it was you who induced So-and-so the\nPaphlagonian to bring his slaves before the governor of Galatia, charged\nwith the murder of his son who was being educated in Alexandria. Well,\nthe young man is alive, and has come back, to find that the slaves had\nbeen cast to the beasts by your machinations.' What had happened was\nthis. The lad had sailed up the Nile, gone on to a Red Sea port, found a\nvessel starting for India, and been persuaded to make the voyage. He\nbeing long overdue, the unfortunate slaves supposed that he had either\nperished in the Nile or fallen a victim to some of the pirates who\ninfested it at that time; so they came home to report his disappearance.\nThen followed the oracle, the sentence, and finally the young man's\nreturn with the story of his absence.\n\nAll this the Epicurean recounted. Alexander was much annoyed by the\nexposure, and could not stomach so well deserved an affront; he directed\nthe company to stone the man, on pain of being involved in his impiety\nand called Epicureans. However, when they set to work, a distinguished\nPontic called Demostratus, who was staying there, rescued him by\ninterposing his own body; the man had the narrowest possible escape from\nbeing stoned to death--as he richly deserved to be; what business had he\nto be the only sane man in a crowd of madmen, and needlessly make himself\nthe butt of Paphlagonian infatuation?\n\nThis was a special case; but it was the practice for the names of\napplicants to be read out the day before answers were given; the herald\nasked whether each was to receive his oracle; and sometimes the reply\ncame from within, To perdition! One so repulsed could get shelter, fire\nor water, from no man; he must be driven from land to land as a\nblasphemer, an atheist, and--lowest depth of all--an Epicurean.\n\nIn this connexion Alexander once made himself supremely ridiculous.\nComing across Epicurus's _Accepted Maxims_, the most admirable of\nhis books, as you know, with its terse presentment of his wise\nconclusions, he brought it into the middle of the market-place, there\nburned it on a fig-wood fire for the sins of its author, and cast its\nashes into the sea. He issued an oracle on the occasion:\n\n  The dotard's maxims to the flames be given.\n\nThe fellow had no conception of the blessings conferred by that book upon\nits readers, of the peace, tranquillity, and independence of mind it\nproduces, of the protection it gives against terrors, phantoms, and\nmarvels, vain hopes and inordinate desires, of the judgement and candour\nthat it fosters, or of its true purging of the spirit, not with torches\nand squills and such rubbish, but with right reason, truth, and\nfrankness.\n\nPerhaps the greatest example of our rogue's audacity is what I now come\nto. Having easy access to Palace and Court by Rutilianus's influence, he\nsent an oracle just at the crisis of the German war, when M. Aurelius was\non the point of engaging the Marcomanni and Quadi. The oracle required\nthat two lions should be flung alive into the Danube, with quantities of\nsacred herbs and magnificent sacrifices. I had better give the words:\n\n  To rolling Ister, swoln with Heaven's rain,\n  Of Cybelean thralls, those mountain beasts,\n  Fling ye a pair; therewith all flowers and herbs\n  Of savour sweet that Indian air doth breed.\n  Hence victory, and fame, and lovely peace.\n\nThese directions were precisely followed; the lions swam across to the\nenemy's bank, where they were clubbed to death by the barbarians, who\ntook them for dogs or a new kind of wolves; and our forces immediately\nafter met with a severe defeat, losing some twenty thousand men in one\nengagement. This was followed by the Aquileian incident, in the course of\nwhich that city was nearly lost. In view of these results, Alexander\nwarmed up that stale Delphian defence of the Croesus oracle: the God had\nforetold a victory, forsooth, but had not stated whether Romans or\nbarbarians should have it.\n\nThe constant increase in the number of visitors, the inadequacy of\naccommodation in the city, and the difficulty of finding provisions for\nconsultants, led to his introducing what he called _night oracles_.\nHe received the packets, slept upon them, in his own phrase, and gave\nanswers which the God was supposed to send him in dreams. These were\ngenerally not lucid, but ambiguous and confused, especially when he came\nto packets sealed with exceptional care. He did not risk tampering with\nthese, but wrote down any words that came into his head, the results\nobtained corresponding well enough to his conception of the oracular.\nThere were regular interpreters in attendance, who made considerable sums\nout of the recipients by expounding and unriddling these oracles. This\noffice contributed to his revenue, the interpreters paying him L250 each.\n\nSometimes he stirred the wonder of the silly by answers to persons who\nhad neither brought nor sent questions, and in fact did not exist. Here\nis a specimen:\n\n  Who is't, thou askst, that with Calligenia\n  All secretly defiles thy nuptial bed?\n  The slave Protogenes, whom most thou trustest.\n  Him thou enjoyedst: he thy wife enjoys--\n  The fit return for that thine outrage done.\n  And know that baleful drugs for thee are brewed,\n  Lest thou or see or hear their evil deeds.\n  Close by the wall, at thy bed's head, make search.\n  Thy maid Calypso to their plot is privy.\n\nThe names and circumstantial details might stagger a Democritus, till a\nmoment's thought showed him the despicable trick.\n\nHe often gave answers in Syriac or Celtic to barbarians who questioned\nhim in their own tongue, though he had difficulty in finding compatriots\nof theirs in the city. In these cases there was a long interval between\napplication and response, during which the packet might be securely\nopened at leisure, and somebody found capable of translating the\nquestion. The following is an answer given to a Scythian:\n\n  Morphi ebargulis for night\n  Chnenchicrank shall leave the light.\n\nAnother oracle to some one who neither came nor existed was in prose.\n'Return the way thou earnest,' it ran; 'for he that sent thee hath this\nday been slain by his neighbour Diocles, with aid of the robbers Magnus,\nCeler, and Bubalus, who are taken and in chains.'\n\nI must give you one or two of the answers that fell to my share. I asked\nwhether Alexander was bald, and having sealed it publicly with great\ncare, got a night oracle in reply:\n\n  Sabardalachu malach Attis was not he.\n\nAnother time I did up the same question--What was Homer's birthplace?--in\ntwo packets given in under different names. My servant misled him by\nsaying, when asked what he came for, a cure for lung trouble; so the\nanswer to one packet was:\n\n  Cytmide and foam of steed the liniment give.\n\nAs for the other packet, he got the information that the sender was\ninquiring whether the land or the sea route to Italy was preferable. So\nhe answered, without much reference to Homer:\n\n  Fare not by sea; land-travel meets thy need.\n\nI laid a good many traps of this kind for him; here is another. I asked\nonly one question, but wrote outside the packet in the usual form, So-\nand-so's eight Queries, giving a fictitious name and sending the eight\nshillings. Satisfied with the payment of the money and the inscription on\nthe packet, he gave me eight answers to my one question. This was, When\nwill Alexander's imposture be detected? The answers concerned nothing in\nheaven or earth, but were all silly and meaningless together. He\nafterwards found out about this, and also that I had tried to dissuade\nRutilianus both from the marriage and from putting any confidence in the\noracle; so he naturally conceived a violent dislike for me. When\nRutilianus once put a question to him about me, the answer was:\n\n  Night-haunts and foul debauch are all his joy.\n\nIt is true his dislike was quite justified. On a certain occasion I was\npassing through Abonutichus, with a spearman and a pikeman whom my friend\nthe governor of Cappadocia had lent me as an escort on my way to the sea.\nAscertaining that I was the Lucian he knew of, he sent me a very polite\nand hospitable invitation. I found him with a numerous company; by good\nluck I had brought my escort. He gave me his hand to kiss according to\nhis usual custom. I took hold of it as if to kiss, but instead bestowed\non it a sound bite that must have come near disabling it. The company,\nwho were already offended at my calling him Alexander instead of Prophet,\nwere inclined to throttle and beat me for sacrilege. But he endured the\npain like a man, checked their violence, and assured them that he would\neasily tame me, and illustrate Glycon's greatness in converting his\nbitterest foes to friends. He then dismissed them all, and argued the\nmatter with me: he was perfectly aware of my advice to Rutilianus; why\nhad I treated him so, when I might have been preferred by him to great\ninfluence in that quarter? By this time I had realized my dangerous\nposition, and was only too glad to welcome these advances; I presently\nwent my way in all friendship with him. The rapid change wrought in me\ngreatly impressed the observers.\n\nWhen I intended to sail, he sent me many parting gifts, and offered to\nfind us (Xenophon and me, that is; I had sent my father and family on to\nAmastris) a ship and crew--which offer I accepted in all confidence. When\nthe passage was half over, I observed the master in tears arguing with\nhis men, which made me very uneasy. It turned out that Alexander's orders\nwere to seize and fling us overboard; in that case his war with me would\nhave been lightly won. But the crew were prevailed upon by the master's\ntears to do us no harm. 'I am sixty years old, as you can see,' he said\nto me; 'I have lived an honest blameless life so far, and I should not\nlike at my time of life, with a wife and children too, to stain my hands\nwith blood.' And with that preface he informed us what we were there for,\nand what Alexander had told him to do.\n\nHe landed us at Aegiali, of Homeric fame, and thence sailed home. Some\nBosphoran envoys happened to be passing, on their way to Bithynia with\nthe annual tribute from their king Eupator. They listened kindly to my\naccount of our dangerous situation, I was taken on board, and reached\nAmastris safely after my narrow escape. From that time it was war between\nAlexander and me, and I left no stone unturned to get my revenge. Even\nbefore his plot I had hated him, revolted by his abominable practices,\nand I now busied myself with the attempt to expose him; I found plenty of\nallies, especially in the circle of Timocrates the Heracleot philosopher.\nBut Avitus, the then governor of Bithynia and Pontus, restrained me, I\nmay almost say with prayers and entreaties. He could not possibly spoil\nhis relations with Rutilianus, he said, by punishing the man, even if he\ncould get clear evidence against him. Thus arrested in my course, I did\nnot persist in what must have been, considering the disposition of the\njudge, a fruitless prosecution.\n\nAmong instances of Alexander's presumption, a high place must be given to\nhis petition to the Emperor: the name of Abonutichus was to be changed to\nIonopolis; and a new coin was to be struck, with a representation on the\nobverse of Glycon, and, on the reverse, Alexander bearing the garlands\nproper to his paternal grandfather Asclepius, and the famous scimetar of\nhis maternal ancestor Perseus.\n\nHe had stated in an oracle that he was destined to live to a hundred and\nfifty, and then die by a thunderbolt; he had in fact, before he reached\nseventy, an end very sad for a son of Podalirius, his leg mortifying from\nfoot to groin and being eaten of worms; it then proved that he was bald,\nas he was forced by pain to let the doctors make cooling applications to\nhis head, which they could not do without removing his wig.\n\nSo ended Alexander's heroics; such was the catastrophe of his tragedy;\none would like to find a special providence in it, though doubtless\nchance must have the credit. The funeral celebration was to be worthy of\nhis life, taking the form of a contest--for possession of the oracle. The\nmost prominent of the impostors his accomplices referred it to\nRutilianus's arbitration which of them should be selected to succeed to\nthe prophetic office and wear the hierophantic oracular garland. Among\nthese was numbered the grey-haired physician Paetus, dishonouring equally\nhis grey hairs and his profession. But Steward-of-the-Games Rutilianus\nsent them about their business ungarlanded, and continued the defunct in\npossession of his holy office.\n\nMy object, dear friend, in making this small selection from a great mass\nof material has been twofold. First, I was willing to oblige a friend and\ncomrade who is for me the pattern of wisdom, sincerity, good humour,\njustice, tranquillity, and geniality. But secondly I was still more\nconcerned (a preference which you will be very far from resenting)\nto strike a blow for Epicurus, that great man whose holiness and divinity\nof nature were not shams, who alone had and imparted true insight into the\ngood, and who brought deliverance to all that consorted with him. Yet I\nthink casual readers too may find my essay not unserviceable, since it is\nnot only destructive, but, for men of sense, constructive also.\n\n\n\n\nOF PANTOMIME\n[Footnote: 'Pantomime' has been chosen as the most natural translation of\n_orchaesis_, which in this dialogue has reference for the most part to the\nballet-dancer (_pantomimus_) of imperial times. On the other hand,\nLycinus, in order to establish the antiquity and the universality of an\nart that for all practical purposes dates only from the Augustan era, and\n(despite the Greek artists) is Roman in origin, avails himself of the\nwider meaning of _orchaesis_ to give us the historic and prehistoric\nassociations of _dance_ in Greece and elsewhere; and in such passages it\nseemed advisable to sacrifice consistency, and to translate _orchaesis_\ndance.]\n\n\n_Lycinus. Crato_\n\n_Ly_. Here are heavy charges, Crato; I suppose you have been getting\nup this subject for some time. You are not content with attacking the\nwhole pantomimic art, practical and theoretic; we too, the pleased\nspectators thereof, come in for our share: we have been lavishing our\nadmiration, it seems, on effeminate triflers. And now let me show you how\ncompletely you have been mistaken; you will find that the art you have\nbeen maligning is the greatest boon of our existence. There is some\nexcuse for your strictures: how should you know any better, confirmed\nascetic that you are, believing that virtue consists in being\nuncomfortable?\n\n_Cr_. Now, my dear sir, can any one who calls himself a man, and an\neducated man, and in some sort a student of philosophy,--can such a one\nleave those higher pursuits, leave communing with the sages of old, to\nsit still and listen to the sound of a flute, and watch the antics of an\neffeminate creature got up in soft raiment to sing lascivious songs and\nmimic the passions of prehistoric strumpets, of Rhodopes and Phaedras and\nParthenopes, to the accompaniment of twanging string and shrilling pipe\nand clattering heel? It is too absurd: these are not amusements for a\ngentleman; not amusements for Lycinus. When I first heard of your\nspending your time in this way, I was divided betwixt shame and\nindignation, to think that you could so far forget Plato and Chrysippus\nand Aristotle, as to sit thus having your ears tickled with a feather. If\nyou want amusements, are there not a thousand things _worth_ seeing\nand hearing? Can you not hear classical music performed at the great\nfestivals? Are there not lofty tragedy and brilliant comedy,--things that\nhave been deemed worthy of state recognition? My friend, you have a long\nreckoning to settle with men of learning, if you would not be repudiated\naltogether, and expelled from the congregation of the wise. I think your\nbest course will be a point-blank denial: declare flatly that you never\ndid anything of the kind. Anyhow, you must watch your conduct for the\nfuture: we do not want to find that our Lycinus has changed his sex, and\nbecome a Bacchante or a Lydian damsel. That would be as much to our\ndiscredit as to yours: for ours should be Odysseus's part,--to tear you\nfrom the lotus, and bring you back to your accustomed pursuits; to save\nyou from the clutches of these stage Sirens before it is too late. The\nSirens, after all, did but plot against men's ears; it needed but a\nlittle wax, and a man might sail past them uninjured: but yours is a\ncaptivity of ear and eye, of body and soul.\n\n_Ly_. Goodness gracious! All the Cynic in you is loose, and snarls\nat me. At the same time, I think your Lotus-and-Siren simile is rather\noff the point: you see, the people who ate the Lotus and listened to the\nSirens paid for the gratification of ear and palate with their lives:\nwhereas I not only have a great deal more enjoyment than they had, but am\nall the better for it. I have experienced no oblivion of my domestic\naffairs, nor blindness to my own interests; in fact--if I may venture to\nsay so--you will find my penetration and practical wisdom considerably\nincreased by my theatrical experiences. Homer has it exactly: the\nspectator\n\n  Returns a gladder and a wiser man.\n\n_Cr_. Dear, dear! Yours is a sad case, Lycinus. You are not even ashamed;\nyou seem quite pleased with yourself. That is the worst of it: there seems\nno hope of your recovery, while you can actually commend the mire in which\nyou wallow.\n\n_Ly_. Now, Crato,--you talk of pantomimes and theatres,--have you seen\nthese performances yourself, that you are so hard on them? or do you\ndecide that they are 'foul mire' without personal experience? If you have\nseen them, you are just as bad as I am; and if not, are you justified in\ncensuring them? does it not savour of over-confidence, to condemn what\nyou know nothing about?\n\n_Cr_. Truly that would be the climax: that I should show my long beard and\nwhite hairs amid that throng of women and lunatics; and clap and yell in\nunseemly rapture over the vile contortions of an abandoned buffoon.\n\n_Ly_. I can make allowance for you. But wait till I have prevailed on you\nto give it a fair trial, to accept the judgement of your own eyes: after\nthat you will never be happy till you have secured the best seat in the\ntheatre, where you may hear every syllable, mark every gesture.\n\n_Cr_. While this beard is yet unplucked, these limbs unshaven, God forbid\nthat I should ever find happiness in such things. As it is, my poor\nfriend, I see that _you_ are wholly possessed.\n\n_Ly_. Now suppose you were to abstain from further abuse, and hear what I\nhave to say of the merits of Pantomime; of the manner in which it combines\nprofit with amusement; instructing, informing, perfecting the intelligence\nof the beholder; training his eyes to lovely sights, filling his ears with\nnoble sounds, revealing a beauty in which body and soul alike have their\nshare. For that music and dancing are employed to produce these results is\nno disparagement of the art; it is rather a recommendation.\n\n_Cr_. I have not much time for listening to a madman's discourse in praise\nof his own madness. However--if you must deluge me with nonsense--I am\nprepared to do you that friendly office. My ears are at your service: they\nneed no wax to render them deaf to foolishness. Henceforth I will be\nsilent: speak on;--no one is listening.\n\n_Ly._ Thank you, Crato; just what I wanted. As to 'foolishness,' that\nremains to be seen. Now, to begin with, you seem to be quite ignorant of\nthe antiquity of the pantomimic art. It is not a new thing; it does not\ndate from to-day or yesterday; not, that is to say, from our grandfathers'\ntimes, nor from _their_ grandfathers' times. The best antiquarians, let me\ntell you, trace dancing back to the creation of the universe; it is coeval\nwith that Eros who was the beginning of all things. In the dance of the\nheavenly bodies, in the complex involutions whereby the planets are\nbrought into harmonious intercourse with the fixed stars, you have an\nexample of that art in its infancy, which, by gradual development, by\ncontinual improvements and additions, seems at length to have reached its\nclimax in the subtle harmonious versatility of modern Pantomime.\n\nThe first step, we learn, was taken by Rhea, who was so pleased with the\nart that she introduced it among the Corybantes in Phrygia and the\nCuretes in Crete. She was richly rewarded: for by their dancing they\nsaved her child Zeus, who owes it to them (nor can he with decency deny\nit) that he escaped the paternal teeth. The dancing was performed in full\narmour; sword clashed against shield, and inspired heels beat martial\ntime upon the ground. The art was presently taken up by the leading men\nin Crete, who by dint of practice became admirable dancers; and this\napplies not only to private persons, but to men of the first eminence,\nand of royal blood. Thus Homer, when he calls Meriones a dancer, is not\ndisparaging him, but paying him a compliment: his dancing fame, it seems,\nhad spread not only throughout the Greek world, but even into the camp of\nhis enemies, the Trojans, who would observe, no doubt, on the field of\nbattle that agility and grace of movement which he had acquired as a\ndancer. The passage runs as follows:\n\n  Meriones, great dancer though thou be,\n  My spear had stopped thy dancings,--\n\nit did not, however, do so; his practice in that art enabling him,\napparently, to evade without difficulty any spears that might be hurled\nat him.\n\nI could mention a number of other heroes who went through a similar\ncourse of training, and made a serious study of dancing: but I will\nconfine myself to the case of Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, and a\nmost eminent dancer. He it was who invented that beautiful dance called\nafter him the Pyrrhic; a circumstance which may be supposed to have\nafforded more gratification to his father than his comeliness, or his\nprowess in other respects. Thus Troy, impregnable till then, falls a\nvictim to the dancer's skill, and is levelled with the dust.\n\nThe Lacedaemonians, who are reputed the bravest of the Greeks, ever since\nthey learnt from Castor and Pollux the Caryatic (a form of dance which is\ntaught in the Lacedaemonian town of Caryae), will do nothing without the\naccompaniment of the Muses: on the field of battle their feet keep time\nto the flute's measured notes, and those notes are the signal for their\nonset. Music and rhythm ever led them on to victory. To this day you may\nsee their young men dividing their attention between dance and drill;\nwhen wrestling and boxing are over, their exercise concludes with the\ndance. A flute-player sits in their midst, beating time with his foot,\nwhile they file past and perform their various movements in rhythmic\nsequence, the military evolutions being followed by dances, such as\nDionysus and Aphrodite love. Hence the song they sing is an invitation to\nAphrodite and the Loves to join in their dance and revel; while the other\n(I should have said that they have two songs) contains instructions to\nthe dancers: 'Forward, lads: foot it lightly: reel it bravely' (i.e.\ndance actively). It is the same with the chain dance, which is performed\nby men and girls together, dancing alternately, so as to suggest the\nalternating beads of a necklace. A youth leads off the dance: his active\nsteps are such as will hereafter be of use to him on the field of battle:\na maiden follows, with the modest movements that befit her sex; manly\nvigour, maidenly reserve,--these are the beads of the necklace.\nSimilarly, their Gymnopaedia is but another form of dance.\n\nYou have read your Homer; so that I need say nothing of the Shield of\nAchilles, with its choral dance, modelled on that which Daedalus designed\nfor Ariadne; nor of the two dancers ('tumblers,' he calls them) there\nrepresented as leading the dance; nor again of the 'whirling dance of\nyouth,' so beautifully wrought thereon by Hephaestus. As to the\nPhaeacians, living as they did in the lap of luxury, nothing is more\nnatural than that _they_ should have rejoiced in the dance. Odysseus, we\nfind, is particularly struck with this: he gazes with admiration on the\n'twinkling of their feet.' In Thessaly, again, dancing was such a\nprominent feature, that their rulers and generals were called 'Dancers-in-\nchief,' as may be seen from the inscriptions on the statues of their great\nmen: 'Elected Prime Dancer,' we read; and again: 'This statue was erected\nat the public expense to commemorate Ilation's well-danced victory.'\n\nI need hardly observe that among the ancient mysteries not one is to be\nfound that does not include dancing. Orpheus and Musaeus, the best\ndancers of their time, were the founders of these rites; and their\nordinances show the value they attached to rhythm and dance as elements\nin religion. To illustrate this point would be to make the ceremonial\nknown to the uninitiated: but so much is matter of common knowledge, that\npersons who divulge the mysteries are popularly spoken of as 'dancing\nthem out.' In Delos, not even sacrifice could be offered without dance\nand musical accompaniment. Choirs of boys gathered and performed their\ndance to the sound of flute and lyre, and the best of them were chosen to\nact characters; the songs written for these occasions were known as\nchorales; and the ancient lyric poetry abounded in such compositions.\n\nBut I need not confine myself to the Greeks. The Indians, when they rise\nto offer their morning salutation to the Sun, do not consider it enough\nto kiss their hands after the Greek fashion; turning to the East, they\nsilently greet the God with movements that are designed to represent his\nown course through the heavens; and with this substitute for our prayers\nand sacrifices and choral celebrations they seek his favour at the\nbeginning of every day and at its close. The Ethiopians go further, and\ndance even while they fight; the shaft an Ethiopian draws from that\narrow-crown that serves him in place of a quiver will never be discharged\nbefore he has intimidated his enemy with the threatening gestures of the\nwar-dance.\n\nHaving dealt with India and Ethiopia, let us now consider the neighbouring\ncountry of Egypt. If I am not mistaken, the Egyptian Proteus of ancient\nlegend is no other than a dancer, whose mimetic skill enables him to adapt\nhimself to every character: in the activity of his movements, he is liquid\nas water, rapid as fire; he is the raging lion, the savage panther, the\ntrembling bough; he is what he will. The legend takes these data, and\ngives them a supernatural turn,--for mimicry substituting metamorphosis.\nOur modern pantomimes have the same gift, and Proteus himself sometimes\nappears as the subject of their rapid transformations. And it may be\nconjectured that in that versatile lady Empusa we have but another artist\nof the same kind, mythologically treated.\n\nOur attention is next claimed by the Roman dance of the Salii, a\npriesthood drawn from the noblest families; the dance is performed in\nhonour of Mars, the most warlike of the Gods, and is of a particularly\nsolemn and sacred character. According to a Bithynian legend, which\nagrees well with this Italian institution, Priapus, a war-like divinity\n(probably one of the Titans, or of the Idaean Dactyls, whose profession\nit was to teach the use of arms), was entrusted by Hera with the care of\nher son Ares, who even in childhood was remarkable for his courage and\nferocity. Priapus would not put weapons into his hands till he had turned\nhim out a perfect dancer; and he was rewarded by Hera with a tenth part\nof all Ares's spoils. As to the rites of Dionysus, you know, without my\ntelling you, that they consisted in dancing from beginning to end. Of the\nthree main types of dance, the cordax, the sicinnis, and the emmelia,\neach was the invention and bore the name of one of the Satyrs, his\nfollowers. Assisted by this art, and accompanied by these revellers, he\nconquered Tyrrhenians, Indians, Lydians, dancing those warlike tribes\ninto submission.\n\nThen beware, my enlightened friend, of the guilt of sacrilege. Will you\nattack the holy mystic art in which so many Gods delight; by which their\nworshippers do them honour; which affords so much pleasure, so much\nuseful instruction? To return once more to the poets: when I think of\nyour affection for Homer and Hesiod, I am amazed to find you disputing\nthe preeminence they assign to the dance. Homer, in enumerating all that\nis sweetest and best, mentions sleep, love, song, and dance; but of these\ndance alone is 'faultless.' He testifies, moreover, to the 'sweetness' of\nsong: now our art includes 'sweet song' as well as the 'faultless dance'\nwhich you take upon you to censure. Again, in another passage we read:\n\n  To one the God hath given warlike deeds:\n  But to another dance and lovely song.\n\nAnd lovely indeed is the song that accompanies the dance; it is the Gods'\nbest gift. Homer seems to divide all things under the two heads of war\nand peace; and among the things of peace he singles out these two as the\nbest counterpart to the things of war. Hesiod, not speaking from hearsay,\nbut coming fresh from the sight of the Muses' morning dance, has this\nhigh tribute to them in the beginning of his poem:\n\n  Their dainty feet round the dark waters dance,\n\nabout the altar of Zeus.--My dear sir, your onslaught upon the dance is\nlittle short of blasphemy.\n\nSocrates--that wisest of men, if we may accept the judgement of the\nPythian oracle--not only approved of dancing, but made a careful study of\nit; and, in his zeal for grace and elegance, for harmonious movement and\ncarriage of the body, thought it no shame, reverend sage that he was, to\nrank this among the most important branches of learning. And well might\nhe have an enthusiasm for dancing, who scrupled not to study the humblest\narts; who frequented the schools of the flute-girls, and could stoop to\nlearn wisdom from the mouth of an Aspasia. Yet in his days the art was in\nits infancy, its beauties undeveloped. Had Socrates seen the artists who\nhave made modern Pantomime what it is, he would assuredly have given it\nhis exclusive attention, and assigned it the first place in the education\nof youth.\n\nI think you forget, when you advocate the claims of tragedy and comedy,\nthat each of them has its own peculiar form of dance; tragedy its\nemmelia, comedy its cordax, supplemented occasionally by the sicinnis.\nYou began by asserting the superiority of tragedy, of comedy, and of the\nperiodic performances on flute and lyre, which you pronounce to be\nrespectable, because they are included in public competitions. Let us\ntake each of these and compare its merits with those of dancing. The\nflute and the lyre, to be sure, we might leave out of the discussion, as\nthese have their part to play in the dance.\n\nIn forming our estimate of tragedy, let us first consider its externals--\nthe hideous, appalling spectacle that the actor presents. His high boots\nraise him up out of all proportion; his head is hidden under an enormous\nmask; his huge mouth gapes upon the audience as if he would swallow them;\nto say nothing of the chest-pads and stomach-pads with which he contrives\nto give himself an artificial corpulence, lest his deficiency in this\nrespect should emphasize his disproportionate height. And in the middle\nof it all is the actor, shouting away, now high, now low,--_chanting_ his\niambics as often as not; could anything be more revolting than this sing-\nsong recitation of tragic woes? The actor is a mouthpiece: that is his\nsole responsibility;--the poet has seen to the rest, ages since. From an\nAndromache or a Hecuba, one can endure recitative: but when Heracles\nhimself comes upon the stage, and so far forgets himself, and the respect\ndue to the lion-skin and club that he carries, as to deliver a solo, no\nreasonable person can deny that such a performance is in execrable taste.\nThen again, your objection to dancing--that men act women's parts--is\nequally applicable to tragedy and comedy, in which indeed there are more\nwomen than men.\n\nBy comedy, the absurdity of the masks--of a Davus, for instance, or a\nTibius, or a cook--is actually claimed as one of its attractions. On the\nother hand, I need not tell you how decent, how seemly, is the dancer's\nattire; any one who is not blind can see that for himself. His very mask\nis elegant, and well adapted to his part; there is no gaping here; the\nlips are closed, for the dancer has plenty of other voices at his\nservice. In old days, dancer and singer were one: but the violent\nexercise caused shortness of breath; the song suffered for it, and it was\nfound advisable to have the singing done independently.\n\nAs to the subjects treated, they are the same for both, Pantomime\ndiffering from tragedy only in the infinite variety of its plots, and in\nthe superior ingenuity and learning displayed in them. Dancing may not be\nincluded in our public competitions; but the reason is that the stewards\nregard it as a matter too high and solemn to be subjected to criticism. I\nforbear to add that in one Italian city--the greatest of the Chalcidian\nname--a special lustre has been added to the public games by the\nintroduction of a dancing competition.\n\nAnd now, before I proceed further, I wish to offer an explanation of\nthemany omissions I have made, which might otherwise be attributed to\nignorance. I am well aware that the subject has already been dealt with\nby a number of writers, who have chiefly occupied themselves with a\ndescription of the various forms of dance, and a catalogue of their\nnames, their characters, and their inventors; and this they regard as a\nproof of erudition. Such work I leave to the ambition of dullards and\npedants, as foreign to my own purpose. I would have you observe, and bear\nin mind, that I do not propose to make a complete history of the art of\ndancing; nor is it my object to enumerate the names of dances, except so\nfar as I have already done, in handling a few of the principal types: on\nthe contrary, I am chiefly concerned with pointing out the profit and\npleasure to be derived from modern Pantomime, which did not begin to take\nits present admirable form in ancient days, but only in the time of\nAugustus, or thereabouts. In those earlier times we have but the\nbeginnings of the art; the tree is taking root; the flower and the fruit\nhave reached their perfection only in our own day, and it is with these\nthat I have to do. The tongs-dance, the crane-dance, and others I pass\nover because they are alien to my subject; similarly, if I have said\nnothing of the Phrygian dance,--that riotous convivial fling, which was\nperformed by energetic yokels to the piping of a flute-girl, and which\nstill prevails in country districts,--I have omitted it not from\nignorance, but because it has no connexion with the Pantomime of to-day.\nI have the authority of Plato, in his _Laws_, for approving some\nforms of dance and rejecting others; he there examines the dance from the\ntwo points of view of pleasure and utility, banishes those forms that are\nunseemly, and selects others for his recommendation.\n\nOf dancing then, in the strict sense of the word, I have said enough. To\nenlarge further upon its history would be pedantic. And now I come to the\npantomime. What must be his qualifications? what his previous training?\nwhat his studies? what his subsidiary accomplishments? You will find that\nhis is no easy profession, nor lightly to be undertaken; requiring as it\ndoes the highest standard of culture in all its branches, and involving a\nknowledge not of music only, but of rhythm and metre, and above all of\nyour beloved philosophy, both natural and moral, the subtleties of\ndialectic alone being rejected as serving no useful purpose. Rhetoric,\ntoo, in so far as that art is concerned with the exposition of human\ncharacter and human passions, claims a share of its attention. Nor can it\ndispense with the painter's and the sculptor's arts; in its close\nobservance of the harmonious proportions that these teach, it is the\nequal of an Apelles or a Phidias. But above all Mnemosyne, and her\ndaughter Polyhymnia, must be propitiated by an art that would remember\nall things. Like Calchas in Homer, the pantomime must know all 'that is,\nthat was, that shall be'; nothing must escape his ever ready memory.\nFaithfully to represent his subject, adequately to express his own\nconceptions, to make plain all that might be obscure;--these are the\nfirst essentials for the pantomime, to whom no higher compliment could be\npaid than Thucydides's tribute to Pericles, who, he says, 'could not only\nconceive a wise policy, but render it intelligible to his hearers'; the\nintelligibility, in the present case, depending on clearness of\ngesticulation.\n\nFor his materials, he must draw continually, as I have said, upon his\nunfailing memory of ancient story; and memory must be backed by taste and\njudgement. He must know the history of the world, from the time when it\nfirst emerged from Chaos down to the days of Egyptian Cleopatra. These\nlimitations we will concede to the pantomime's wide field of knowledge;\nbut within them he must be familiar with every detail:--the mutilation of\nUranus, the origin of Aphrodite, the battle of Titans, the birth of Zeus,\nRhea's deception, her substitution of a stone for her child, the binding\nof Cronus, the partition of the world between the three brothers. Again,\nthe revolt of the Giants, Prometheus's theft of fire, his creation of\nmankind, and the punishment that followed; the might of Eros and of\nAnteros, the wanderings of the island Delos, the travail of Leto, the\nPython's destruction, the evil design of Tityus, the flight of eagles,\nwhereby the earth's centre was discovered. He must know of Deucalion, in\nwhose days the whole world suffered shipwreck, of that single chest\nwherein were preserved the remnants of the human race, of the new\ngeneration born of stones; of the rending of Iacchus, the guile of Hera,\nthe fiery death of Semele, the double birth of Dionysus; of Athene and\nHephaestus and Erichthonius, of the strife for the possession of Athens,\nof Halirrhothius and that first trial on the Areopagus, and all the\nlegendary lore of Attica. Above all, the wanderings of Demeter, the\nfinding of Persephone, the hospitality of Celeus; Triptolemus's plough,\nIcarius's vineyard, and the sad end of Erigone; the tale of Boreas and\nOrithyia, of Theseus, and of Aegeus; of Medea in Greece, and of her\nflight thereafter into Persia, and of Erechtheus's daughters and\nPandion's, and all that they did and suffered in Thrace. Acamas, and\nPhyllis, and that first rape of Helen, and the expedition of Castor and\nPollux against Athens, and the fate of Hippolytus, and the return of the\nHeraclids,--all these may fairly be included in the Athenian mythology,\nfrom the vast bulk of which I select only these few examples.\n\nThen in Megara we have Nisus, his daughter Scylla, and his purple lock;\nthe invasion of Minos, and his ingratitude towards his benefactress. Then\nwe come to Cithaeron, and the story of the Thebans, and of the race of\nLabdacus; the settlement of Cadmus on the spot where the cow rested, the\ndragon's teeth from which the Thebans sprang up, the transformation of\nCadmus into a serpent, the building of the walls of Thebes to the sound\nof Amphion's lyre, the subsequent madness of the builder, the boast of\nNiobe his wife, her silent grief; Pentheus, Actaeon, Oedipus, Heracles;\nhis labours and slaughter of his children.\n\nCorinth, again, abounds in legends: of Glauce and of Creon; in earlier\ndays, of Bellerophon and Stheneboea, and of the strife between Posidon\nand the Sun; and, later, of the frenzy of Athamas, of Nephele's children\nand their flight through the air on the ram's back, and of the\ndeification of Ino and Melicertes. Next comes the story of Pelops's line,\nof all that befell in Mycenae, and before Mycenae was; of Inachus and Io\nand Argus her guardian; of Atreus and Thyestes and Aerope, of the golden\nram and the marriage of Pelopeia, the murder of Agamemnon and the\npunishment of Clytemnestra; and before their days, the expedition of the\nSeven against Thebes, the reception of the fugitives Tydeus and Polynices\nby their father-in-law Adrastus; the oracle that foretold their fate, the\nunburied slain, the death of Antigone, and that of Menoeceus.\n\nNor is any story more essential to the pantomime's purpose than that of\nHypsipyle and Archemorus in Nemea; and, in older days, the imprisonment\nof Danae, the begetting of Perseus, his enterprise against the Gorgons;\nand connected therewith is the Ethiopian narrative of Cassiopea, and\nCepheus, and Andromeda, all of whom the belief of later generations has\nplaced among the stars. To these must be added the ancient legend of\nAegyptus and Danaus, and of that guilty wedding-night.\n\nLacedaemon, too, supplies him with many similar subjects: Hyacinth, and\nhis rival lovers, Zephyr and Apollo, and the quoit that slew him, the\nflower that sprang up from his blood, and the inscription of woe thereon;\nthe raising of Tyndareus from the dead, and the consequent wrath of\nZeusagainst Asclepius; again, the reception of Paris by Menelaus, and the\nrape of Helen, the sequel to his award of the golden apple. For the\nSpartan mythology must be held to include that of Troy, in all its\nabundance and variety. Of all who fell at Troy, not one but supplies a\nsubject for the stage; and all--from the rape of Helen to the return of\nthe Greeks--must ever be borne in mind: the wanderings of Aeneas, the\nlove of Dido; and side by side with this the story of Orestes, and his\ndaring deeds in Scythia. And there are earlier episodes which will not be\nout of place; they are all connected with the tale of Troy: such are the\nseclusion of Achilles in Scyrus, the madness of Odysseus, the solitude of\nPhiloctetes, with the whole story of Odysseus's wanderings, of Circe and\nTelegonus, of Aeolus, controller of the winds, down to the vengeance\nwreaked upon the suitors of Penelope; and, earlier, Odysseus's plot\nagainst Palamedes, the resentment of Nauplius, the frenzy of the one\nAjax, the destruction of the other on the rocks.\n\nElis, too, affords many subjects for the intending pantomime: Oenomaus,\nMyrtilus, Cronus, Zeus, and that first Olympian contest. Arcadia, no less\nrich in legendary lore, gives him the flight of Daphne, the\ntransformation of Callisto into a bear, the drunken riot of the Centaurs,\nthe birth of Pan, the love of Alpheus, and his submarine wanderings.\n\nExtending our view, we find that Crete, too, may be laid under\ncontribution: Europa's bull, Pasiphae's, the Labyrinth, Ariadne, Phaedra,\nAndrogeos; Daedalus and Icarus; Glaucus, and the prophecy of Polyides;\nand Talos, the island's brazen sentinel.\n\nIt is the same with Aetolia: there you will find Althaea, Meleager,\nAtalanta, and the fatal brand; the strife of Achelous with Heracles, the\nbirth of the Sirens, the origin of the Echinades, those islands on which\nAlcmaeon dwelt after his frenzy was past; and, following these, the story\nof Nessus, and of Deianira's jealousy, which brought Heracles to the pyre\nupon Oeta. Thrace, too, has much that is indispensable to the pantomime:\nof the head of murdered Orpheus, that sang while it floated down the\nstream upon his lyre; of Haemus and of Rhodope; and of the chastisement\nof Lycurgus.\n\nThessalian story, richer still, tells of Pelias and Jason; of Alcestis;\nand of the Argo with her talking keel and her crew of fifty youths; of\nwhat befell them in Lemnos; of Aeetes, Medea's dream, the rending of\nAbsyrtus, the eventful flight from Colchis; and, in later days, of\nProtesilaus and Laodamia.\n\nCross once more to Asia, and Samos awaits you, with the fall of\nPolycrates, and his daughter's flight into Persia; and the ancient story\nof Tantalus's folly, and of the feast that he gave the Gods; of butchered\nPelops, and his ivory shoulder.\n\nIn Italy, we have the Eridanus, Phaethon, and his poplar-sisters, who\nwept tears of amber for his loss.\n\nThe pantomime must be familiar, too, with the story of the Hesperides,\nand the dragon that guarded the golden fruit; with burdened Atlas, and\nGeryon, and the driving of the oxen from Erythea; and every tale of\nmetamorphosis, of women turned into trees or birds or beasts, or (like\nCaeneus and Tiresias) into men. From Phoenicia he must learn of Myrrha\nand Adonis, who divides Assyria betwixt grief and joy; and in more modern\ntimes of all that Antipater [Footnote: Not Antipater, but Antiochus, is\nmeant.] and Seleucus suffered for the love of Stratonice.\n\nThe Egyptian mythology is another matter: it cannot be omitted, but on\naccount of its mysterious character it calls for a more symbolical\nexposition;--the legend of Epaphus, for instance, and that of Osiris, and\nthe conversion of the Gods into animals; and, in particular, their love\nadventures, including those of Zeus himself, with his various\ntransformations.\n\nHades still remains to be added, with all its tragic tale of guilt and\nthe punishment of guilt, and the loyal friendship that brought Theseus\nthither with Pirithous. In a word, all that Homer and Hesiod and our best\npoets, especially the tragedians, have sung,--all must be known to the\npantomime. From the vast, nay infinite, mass of mythology, I have made\nthis trifling selection of the more prominent legends; leaving the rest\nfor poets to celebrate, for pantomimes to exhibit, and for your\nimagination to supply from the hints already given; and all this the\nartist must have stored up in his memory, ready to be produced when\noccasion demands.\n\nSince it is his profession to imitate, and to show forth his subject by\nmeans of gesticulation, he, like the orators, must acquire lucidity;\nevery scene must be intelligible without the aid of an interpreter; to\nborrow the expression of the Pythian oracle,\n\n  Dumb though he be, and speechless, he is heard\n\nby the spectator. According to the story, this was precisely the\nexperience of the Cynic Demetrius. He had inveighed against Pantomime in\njust your own terms. The pantomime, he said, was a mere appendage to\nflute and pipe and beating feet; he added nothing to the action; his\ngesticulations were aimless nonsense; there was no meaning in them;\npeople were hoodwinked by the silken robes and handsome mask, by the\nfluting and piping and the fine voices, which served to set off what in\nitself was nothing. The leading pantomime of the day--this was in Nero's\nreign--was apparently a man of no mean intelligence; unsurpassed, in\nfact, in wideness of range and in grace of execution. Nothing, I think,\ncould be more reasonable than the request he made of Demetrius, which\nwas, to reserve his decision till he had witnessed his performance, which\nhe undertook to go through without the assistance of flute or song. He\nwas as good as his word. The time-beaters, the flutes, even the chorus,\nwere ordered to preserve a strict silence; and the pantomime, left to his\nown resources, represented the loves of Ares and Aphrodite, the tell-tale\nSun, the craft of Hephaestus, his capture of the two lovers in the net,\nthe surrounding Gods, each in his turn, the blushes of Aphrodite, the\nembarrassment of Ares, his entreaties,--in fact the whole story.\nDemetrius was ravished at the spectacle; nor could there be higher praise\nthan that with which he rewarded the performer. 'Man,' he shrieked at the\ntop of his voice, 'this is not seeing, but hearing and seeing, both:'tis\nas if your hands were tongues!'\n\nAnd before we leave Nero's times, I must tell you of the high tribute\npaid to the art by a foreigner of the royal family of Pontus, who was\nvisiting the Emperor on business, and had been among the spectators of\nthis same pantomime. So convincing were the artist's gestures, as to\nrender the subject intelligible even to one who (being half a Greek)\ncould not follow the vocal accompaniment. When he was about to return to\nhis country, Nero, in taking leave of him, bade him choose what present\nhe would have, assuring him that his request should not be refused. 'Give\nme,' said the Pontian, 'your great pantomime; no gift could delight me\nmore.' 'And of what use can he be to you in Pontus?' asked the Emperor.\n'I have foreign neighbours, who do not speak our language; and it is not\neasy to procure interpreters. Your pantomime could discharge that office\nperfectly, as often as required, by means of his gesticulations.' So\nprofoundly had he been impressed with the extraordinary clearness of\npantomimic representation.\n\nThe pantomime is above all things an actor: that is his first aim, in the\npursuit of which (as I have observed) he resembles the orator, and\nespecially the composer of 'declamations,' whose success, as the\npantomime knows, depends like his own upon verisimilitude, upon the\nadaptation of language to character: prince or tyrannicide, pauper or\nfarmer, each must be shown with the peculiarities that belong to him. I\nmust give you the comment of another foreigner on this subject. Seeing\nfive masks laid ready--that being the number of parts in the piece--and\nonly one pantomime, he asked who were going to play the other parts. He\nwas informed that the whole piece would be performed by a single actor.\n'Your humble servant, sir,' cries our foreigner to the artist; 'I observe\nthat you have but one body: it had escaped me, that you possessed several\nsouls.'\n\nThe term 'pantomime,' which was introduced by the Italian Greeks, is an\napt one, and scarcely exaggerates the artist's versatility. 'Oh boy,'\ncries the poet, in a beautiful passage,\n\n  As that sea-beast, whose hue\n  With each new rock doth suffer change,\n  So let thy mind free range\n  Through ev'ry land, shaping herself anew.\n\nMost necessary advice, this, for the pantomime, whose task it is to\nidentify himself with his subject, and make himself part and parcel of\nthe scene that he enacts. It is his profession to show forth human\ncharacter and passion in all their variety; to depict love and anger,\nfrenzy and grief, each in its due measure. Wondrous art!--on the same\nday, he is mad Athamas and shrinking Ino; he is Atreus, and again he is\nThyestes, and next Aegisthus or Aerope; all one man's work.\n\nOther entertainments of eye or ear are but manifestations of a single\nart: 'tis flute or lyre or song; 'tis moving tragedy or laughable comedy.\nThe pantomime is all-embracing in the variety of his equipment: flute and\npipe, beating foot and clashing cymbal, melodious recitative, choral\nharmony. Other arts call out only one half of a man's powers--the bodily\nor the mental: the pantomime combines the two. His performance is as much\nan intellectual as a physical exercise: there is meaning in his\nmovements; every gesture has its significance; and therein lies his chief\nexcellence. The enlightened Lesbonax of Mytilene called pantomimes\n'manual philosophers,' and used to frequent the theatre, in the\nconviction that he came out of it a better man than he went in. And\nTimocrates, his teacher, after accidentally witnessing a pantomimic\nperformance, exclaimed: 'How much have I lost by my scrupulous devotion\nto philosophy!' I know not what truth there may be in Plato's analysis of\nthe soul into the three elements of spirit, appetite, and reason: but\neach of the three is admirably illustrated by the pantomime; he shows us\nthe angry man, he shows us the lover, and he shows us every passion under\nthe control of reason; this last--like touch among the senses--is all-\npervading. Again, in his care for beauty and grace of movement, have we\nnot an illustration of the Aristotelian principle, which makes beauty a\nthird part of Good? Nay, I once heard some one hazard a remark, to the\neffect that the philosophy of Pantomime went still further, and that in\nthe _silence_ of the characters a Pythagorean doctrine was shadowed\nforth.\n\nAll professions hold out some object, either of utility or of pleasure:\nPantomime is the only one that secures both these objects; now the\nutility that is combined with pleasure is doubled in value. Who would\nchoose to look on at a couple of young fellows spilling their blood in a\nboxing-match, or wrestling in the dust, when he may see the same subject\nrepresented by the pantomime, with the additional advantages of safety\nand elegance, and with far greater pleasure to the spectator? The\nvigorous movements of the pantomime--turn and twist, bend and spring--\nafford at once a gratifying spectacle to the beholder and a wholesome\ntraining to the performer; I maintain that no gymnastic exercise is its\nequal for beauty and for the uniform development of the physical powers,\n--of agility, suppleness, and elasticity, as of solid strength.\n\nConsider then the universality of this art: it sharpens the wits, it\nexercises the body, it delights the spectator, it instructs him in the\nhistory of bygone days, while eye and ear are held beneath the spell of\nflute and cymbal and of graceful dance. Would you revel in sweet song?\nNowhere can you procure that enjoyment in greater variety and perfection.\nWould you listen to the clear melody of flute and pipe? Again the\npantomime supplies you. I say nothing of the excellent moral influence of\npublic opinion, as exercised in the theatre, where you will find the\nevil-doer greeted with execration, and his victim with sympathetic tears.\nThe pantomime's most admirable quality I have yet to mention,--his\ncombination of strength and suppleness of limb; it is as if brawny\nHeracles and soft Aphrodite were presented to us in one and the same\nperson.\n\nI now propose to sketch out the mental and physical qualifications\nnecessary for a first-rate pantomime. Most of the former, indeed, I have\nalready mentioned: he must have memory, sensibility, shrewdness, rapidity\nof conception, tact, and judgement; further, he must be a critic of\npoetry and song, capable of discerning good music and rejecting bad. For\nhis body, I think I may take the Canon of Polyclitus as my model. He must\nbe perfectly proportioned: neither immoderately tall nor dwarfishly\nshort; not too fleshy (a most unpromising quality in one of his\nprofession) nor cadaverously thin. Let me quote you certain comments of\nthe people of Antioch, who have a happy knack in expressing their views\non such subjects. They are a most intelligent people, and devoted to\nPantomime; each individual is all eyes and ears for the performance; not\na word, not a gesture escapes them. Well, when a small man came on in the\ncharacter of Hector, they cried out with one voice: 'Here is Astyanax;\nand where is Hector?' On another occasion, an exceedingly tall man was\ntaking the part of Capaneus scaling the walls of Thebes; 'Step over'\nsuggested the audience; 'you need no ladder.' The well-meant activity of\na fat and heavy dancer was met with earnest entreaties to 'spare the\nplatform'; while a thin performer was recommended to 'take care of his\nhealth.' I mention these criticisms, not on account of their humorous\ncharacter, but as an illustration of the profound interest that whole\ncities have sometimes taken in Pantomime, and of their ability to discern\nits merits and demerits.\n\nAnother essential for the pantomime is ease of movement. His frame must\nbe at once supple and well-knit, to meet the opposite requirements of\nagility and firmness. That he is no stranger to the science of the\nboxing--and the wrestling-ring, that he has his share of the athletic\naccomplishments of Hermes and Pollux and Heracles, you may convince\nyourself by observing his renderings of those subjects. The eyes,\naccording to Herodotus, are more credible witnesses than the ears; though\nthe pantomime, by the way, appeals to both kinds of evidence.\n\nSuch is the potency of his art, that the amorous spectator is cured of\nhis infirmity by perceiving the evil effects of passion, and he who\nenters the theatre under a load of sorrow departs from it with a serene\ncountenance, as though he had drunk of that draught of forgetfulness\n\n  That lulls all pain and wrath.\n\nHow natural is his treatment of his subjects, how intelligible to every\none of his audience, may be judged from the emotion of the house whenever\nanything is represented that calls for sorrow or compassion. The Bacchic\nform of Pantomime, which is particularly popular in Ionia and Pontus, in\nspite of its being confined to satyric subjects has taken such possession\nof those peoples, that, when the Pantomime season comes round in each\ncity, they leave all else and sit for whole days watching Titans and\nCorybantes, Satyrs and neat-herds. Men of the highest rank and position\nare not ashamed to take part in these performances: indeed, they pride\nthemselves more on their pantomimic skill than on birth and ancestry and\npublic services.\n\nNow that we know what are the qualities that a good pantomime ought to\npossess, let us next consider the faults to which he is liable.\nDeficiencies of person I have already handled; and the following I think\nis a fair statement of their mental imperfections. Pantomimes cannot all\nbe artists; there are plenty of ignorant performers, who bungle their\nwork terribly. Some cannot adapt themselves to their music; they are\nliterally 'out of tune'; rhythm says one thing, their feet another.\nOthers are free from this fault, but jumble up their chronology. I\nremember the case of a man who was giving the birth of Zeus, and Cronus\neating his own children: seduced by the similarity of subject, he ran off\ninto the tale of Atreus and Thyestes. In another case, Semele was just\nbeing struck by the lightning, when she was transformed into Creusa, who\nwas not even born at that time. Still, it seems to me that we have no\nright to visit the sins of the artist upon the art: let us recognize him\nfor the blunderer that he is, and do justice to the accuracy and skill of\ncompetent performers.\n\nThe fact is, the pantomime must be completely armed at every point. His\nwork must be one harmonious whole, perfect in balance and proportion,\nself-consistent, proof against the most minute criticism; there must be\nno flaws, everything must be of the best; brilliant conception, profound\nlearning, above all human sympathy. When every one of the spectators\nidentifies himself with the scene enacted, when each sees in the\npantomime as in a mirror the reflection of his own conduct and feelings,\nthen, and not till then, is his success complete. But let him reach that\npoint, and the enthusiasm of the spectators becomes uncontrollable, every\nman pouring out his whole soul in admiration of the portraiture that\nreveals him to himself. Such a spectacle is no less than a fulfilment of\nthe oracular injunction KNOW THYSELF; men depart from it with increased\nknowledge; they have learnt something that is to be sought after,\nsomething that should be eschewed.\n\nBut in Pantomime, as in rhetoric, there can be (to use a popular phrase)\ntoo much of a good thing; a man may exceed the proper bounds of\nimitation; what should be great may become monstrous, softness may be\nexaggerated into effeminacy, and the courage of a man into the ferocity\nof a beast. I remember seeing this exemplified in the case of an actor of\nrepute. In most respects a capable, nay, an admirable performer, some\nstrange fatality ran him a-ground upon this reef of over-enthusiasm. He\nwas acting the madness of Ajax, just after he has been worsted by\nOdysseus; and so lost control of himself, that one might have been\nexcused for thinking his madness was something more than feigned. He tore\nthe clothes from the back of one of the iron-shod time-beaters, snatched\na flute from the player's hands, and brought it down in such trenchant\nsort upon the head of Odysseus, who was standing by enjoying his triumph,\nthat, had not his cap held good, and borne the weight of the blow, poor\nOdysseus must have fallen a victim to histrionic frenzy. The whole house\nran mad for company, leaping, yelling, tearing their clothes. For the\nilliterate riffraff, who knew not good from bad, and had no idea of\ndecency, regarded it as a supreme piece of acting; and the more\nintelligent part of the audience, realizing how things stood, concealed\ntheir disgust, and instead of reproaching the actor's folly by silence,\nsmothered it under their plaudits; they saw only too clearly that it was\nnot Ajax but the pantomime who was mad. Nor was our spirited friend\ncontent till he had distinguished himself yet further: descending from\nthe stage, he seated himself in the senatorial benches between two\nconsulars, who trembled lest he should take one of them for a ram and\napply the lash. The spectators were divided between wonder and amusement;\nand some there were who suspected that his ultra-realism had culminated\nin reality. However, it seems that when he came to his senses again he\nbitterly repented of this exploit, and was quite ill from grief,\nregarding his conduct as that of a veritable madman, as is clear from his\nown words. For when his partisans begged him to repeat the performance,\nhe recommended another actor for the part of Ajax, saying that 'it was\nenough for him to have been mad once.' His mortification was increased by\nthe success of his rival, who, though a similar part had been written for\nhim, played it with admirable judgement and discretion, and was\ncomplimented on his observance of decorum, and of the proper bounds of\nhis art.\n\nI hope, my dear Crato, that this cursory description of the Pantomime may\nmitigate your wrath against its devoted admirer. If you can bring\nyourself to bear me company to the theatre, you will be captivated; you\nwill run Pantomime-mad. I shall have no occasion to exclaim, with Circe,\n\n  Strange, that my drugs have wrought no change in thee!\n\nThe change will come; but will not involve an ass's head, nor a pig's\nheart, but only an improved understanding. In your delight at the potion,\nyou will drain it off, and leave not a drop for any one else. Homer says,\nof the golden wand of Hermes, that with it he\n\n  charms the eyes of men,\n  When so he will, and rouses them that sleep.\n\nSo it is with Pantomime. It charms the eyes-to wakefulness; and quickens\nthe mental faculties at every turn.\n\n_Cr_. Enough, Lycinus: behold your convert! My eyes and ears are\nopened. When next you go to the theatre, remember to take a seat for me\nnext your own. I too would issue from those doors a wiser man.\n\n\n\n\nLEXIPHANES\n\n\n_Lycinus. Lexiphanes. Sopolis_\n\n_Ly_. What, our exquisite with his essay?\n\n_Lex_. Ah, Lycinus, 'tis but a fledgeling of mine; 'tis all\nincondite.\n\n_Ly_. O ho, conduits--that is your subject, is it?\n\n_Lex_. You mistake me; I said nothing of conduits; you are behind the\ntimes; incondite--'tis the word we use now when a thing lacks the\nfinishing touches. But you are the deaf adder that stoppeth her ears.\n\n_Ly_. I beg your pardon, my dear fellow; but conduit, incondite, you\nknow. Well now, what is the idea of your piece?\n\n_Lex_. A symposium, a modest challenge to the son of Ariston.\n\n_Ly_. There are a good many sons of Aristons; but, from the symposium, I\npresume you mean Plato.\n\n_Lex_. You take me; what I said could fit no other.\n\n_Ly_. Well, come, read me a little of it; do not send me away thirsty; I\nsee there is nectar in store.\n\n_Lex_. Ironist, avaunt! And now open your ears to my charming; adder me no\nadders.\n\n_Ly_. Go ahead; I am no Adam, nor Eve either.\n\n_Lex_. Have an eye to my conduct of the discourse, whether it be fair in\ncommencement, fair in speech, fair in diction, fair in nomenclature.\n\n_Ly_. Oh, we know what to expect from Lexiphanes. But come, begin.\n\n_Lex_. _'Then to dinner,' quoth Callicles, 'then to our post-prandial\ndeambulation in the Lyceum; but now 'tis time for our parasolar unction,\nere we bask and bathe and take our nuncheon; go we our way. Now, boy,\nstrigil and mat, towels and soap; transport me them bathwards, and\nsee to the bath-penny; you will find it a-ground by the chest. And thou,\nLexiphanes, comest thou, or tarriest here?' 'Its a thousand years,'\nquoth I, 'till I bathe; for I am in no comfort, with sore posteriors from\nmy mule-saddle. Trod the mule-man as on eggs, yet kept his beast a-moving.\nAnd when I got to the farm, still no peace for the wicked. I found the\nhinds shrilling the harvest-song, and there were persons burying my\nfather, I think it was. I just gave them a hand with the grave and things,\nand then I left them; it was so cold, and I had prickly heat; one does,\nyou know, in a hard frost. So I went round the plough-lands; and there I\nfound garlic growing, delved radishes, culled chervil and all herbs,\nbought parched barley, and (for not yet had the meadows reached the\nredolency that tempts the ten toes)-so to mule-back again; whence this\ntenderness behind. And now I walk with pain, and the sweat runs down; my\nbones languish, and yearn for the longest of water-swims; 'tis ever my joy\nto wash me after toil.\n\nI will speed back to my boy; 'tis like he waits for me at the pease-\npuddingry, or the curiosity shop; yet stay; his instructions were to meet\nme at the frippery. Ah, hither comes he in the nick of time: ay, and has\npurchased a beesting-pudding and girdle-cakes and leeks, sausages and\nsteak, dewlap and tripe and collops.--Good, Atticion, you have made most\nof my journey no thoroughfare.' 'Why, sir, I have been looking round the\ncorner for you till I squint. Where dined you yesterday? with\nOnomacritus?' 'God bless me, no. I was off to the country; hey presto!\nand there we were. You know how I dote on the country. I suppose you all\nthought I was making the glasses ring. Now go in, and spice all these\nthings, and scour the kneading-trough, ready to shred the lettuces. I\nshall be of for a dry rub.'\n\n'We are with you,' cried Philinus, 'Onomarchus, Hellanicus, and I; the\ndial's mid point is in shadow; beware, or we shall bathe in the\nCarimants' water, huddled and pushed by the vulgar herd.' Then said\nHellanicus: 'Ah, and my eyes are disordered; my pupils are turbid, I wink\nand blink, the tears come unbidden, my eyes crave the ophthalmic leech's\nhealing drug, mortar-brayed and infused, that they may blush and blear no\nmore, nor moistly peer.'\n\nIn such wise conversing, all our company departed. Arrived at the\ngymnasium, we stripped; the finger-wrench, the garotte, the standing-\ngrip, each had its votaries; one oiled and suppled his joints; another\npunched the bladder; a third heaved and swung the dumb-bells. Then, when\nwe had rubbed ourselves, and ridden pick-a-back, and had our sport of the\ngymnasium, we took our plunge, Philinus and I, in the warm basin, and\ndeparted. But the rest dipped frigid heads, soused in, and swam\nsubaqueous, a wonder to behold. Then back we came, and one here, one\nthere, did this and that. Shod, with toothed comb I combed me. For I had\nhad a short crop, not to convict-measure, but saucer-wise, deflation\nhaving set in on crown and chin-tip. One chewed lupines, another cleared\nhis fasting throat, a third took fish soup on radish-wafer sippets; this\nate olives, that supped down barley.\n\nWhen it was dinner-time, we took it reclining, both chairs and couches\nstanding ready. A joint-stock meal it was, and the contributions many and\nvarious. Pigs' pettitoes, ribs of beef, paunch and pregnant womb of sow,\nfried liver lobe, garlic paste, sauce piquante, mayonnaise, and so on;\npastry, ramequins, and honey-cakes. In the aquatic line, much of the\ncartilaginous, of the testaceous much; many a salt slice, basket-hawked,\neels of Copae, fowls of the barn-door, a cock past crowing-days, and fish\nto keep him company; add to these a sheep roast whole, and ox's rump of\ntoothless eld. The loaves were firsts, no common stuff, and therewithal\nremainders from the new moon; vegetables both radical and excrescent. For\nthe wine, 'twas of no standing, but came from the skin; its sweetness was\ngone, but its roughness remained.\n\nOn the dolphin-foot table stood divers store of cups; the eye-shutter,\nthe ladle, slender-handled, genuine Mentor; crane-neck and gurgling\nbombyl; and many an earth-born child of Thericlean furnace, the wide-\nmouthed, the kindly-lipped; Phocaean, Cnidian work, but all light as air,\nand thin as eggshell; bowls and pannikins and posied cups; oh, 'twas a\nwell-stocked sideboard.\n\nBut the kettle boiled over, and sent the ashes flying about our heads. It\nwas bumpers and no heeltaps, and we were full to the throat. Then to the\nnard; and enter to us guitar and light fantastic toe. Thereafter, one\nshinned up the ladder, on post-prandial japery intent, another beat the\ndevil's tattoo, a third writhed cachinnatory.\n\nAt this moment broke in upon us from the bath, all uninvited, Megalonymus\nthe attorney, Chaereas the goldsmith, striped back and all, and the\nbruiser Eudemus. I asked them what they were about to come so late. Quoth\nChaereas; 'I was working a locket and ear-rings and bangles for my\ndaughter; that is why I come after the fair.' 'I was otherwise engaged,'\nsaid Megalonymus; 'know you not that it was a lawless day and a dumb? So,\nas it was linguistice, there was truce to my calendarial clockings and\nplea-mensurations. But hearing the governor was giving a warm reception,\nI took my shiniest clothes, fresh from the tailor, and my unmatched\nshoes, and showed myself out.\n\n'The first I met were a torch-bearer, a hierophant, and others of the\ninitiated, haling Dinias before the judge, and protesting that he had\ncalled them by their names, though he well knew that, from the time of\ntheir sanctification, they were nameless, and no more to be named but by\nhallowed names; so then he appealed to me.' 'Dinias?' I put in; 'Who is\nDinias?' 'Oh, he's a dance-for-your-supper carry-your-luggage rattle-\nyour-patter gaming-house sort of man; eschews the barber, and takes care\nof his poor chest and toes.' 'Well,' said I, 'paid he the penalty in some\nwise, or showed a clean pair of heels?' 'Our delicate goer is now fast\nbound. The governor, regardless of his retiring disposition, slipped him\non a pair of bracelets and a necklace, and brought him acquainted with\nstocks and boot. The poor worm quaked for fear, and could not contain\nhimself, and offered money, if so he might save his soul alive.'\n\n'As for me,' said Eudemus, 'I was sent for in the gloaming by Damasias,\nthe athlete many-victoried of yore, now pithless from age; you know him\nin bronze in the market. He was busy with roast and boiled. He was this\nday to exdomesticate his daughter, and was decking her out for her\nhusband, when a baleful incident occurred, which cleft the feast in\ntwain. For Dion his son, on grievance unknown, if it were not rather the\nhostility of Heaven, hanged himself; and be sure he was a dead man, had I\nnot been there, and dislocated and loosed him from his implication. Long\ntime I squatted a-knee, pricking and rocking, and sounding him, to see\nwhether his throat was still whole. What profited most was compressure of\nthe extremities with both my hands.'\n\n'What, Dion the effeminate, the libertine, the debauchee, the mastich-\nchewer, the too susceptible to amorous sights?' 'Yes; the lecher and\nwhore-master. Well, Damasias fell down and worshipped the Goddess (they\nhave an Artemis by Scopas in the middle of the court), he and his old\nwhite-headed wife, and implored her compassion. The Goddess straightway\nnodded assent, and he was well; and now he is their Theodorus, or indeed\ntheir manifest Artemidorus. So they made offerings to her, among them\ndarts and bows and arrows; for these are acceptable in her sight; bow-\nwoman she, far-dartress, telepolemic'\n\n'Let us drink, then' said Megalonymus; 'here have I brought you a flagon\nof antiquated wine, with cream cheese and windfall olives--I keep them\nunder seal, and the seals are worm-eaten--and others brine-steeped, and\nthese fictile cups, thin-edged, firm-based, that we might drink\ntherefrom, and a pasty of tripe rolled like a top-knot.--Now, you sir,\npour me in some more water; if my head begins to ache, I shall be sending\nfor your master to talk to you.--You know, gentlemen, what megrims I get,\nand what a numskull mine is. After drinking, we will chirp a little as is\nour wont; 'tis not amiss to prate in one's cups'\n\n'So be it,' quoth I; 'we are the very pink and perfection of the true\nAttic' 'Done with you!' says Callicles, 'frequent quizzings are a\nwhetstone of conversation' 'For my part,' cries Eudemus, '--it grows\nchill--I like my liquor stronger, and more of it; I am deathly cold; if I\ncould get some warmth into me, I had rather listen to these light-\nfingered gentry of flute and lyre.' 'What is this you say, Eudemus?' says\nI; 'You would exact mutation from us? are we so hard-mouthed, so\nuntongued? For my tongue, 'tis garriturient. I was just getting under\nway, and making ready to hail you with a fine old Attic shower. 'Tis as\nif a three-master were sailing before the breeze, with stay-sails wind-\nbellied, scudding along wave-skimming, and you should throw out two-\ntongued anchorage and iron stoppers and ship-fetters, and block her\nfoaming course, in envy of her fair-windedness.' 'Why then, if you will,\nsplash and dash and crash through the waves; and I upsoaring, and\ndrinking the while, will watch like Homer's Zeus from some bald-crowned\nhill or from Heaven-top, while you and your ship are swept along with the\nwind behind you.'_\n\n_Ly_. Thanks, Lexiphanes; enough of drink and reading. I assure you\nI am full beyond my capacity as it is; if I do not succeed in quickly\nunloading my stomach of what you have put into it, there is not a doubt I\nshall go raving mad under the intoxication of your exuberant verbosity.\nAt first I was inclined to be amused; but there is such a lot of it, and\nall just alike; I pity you now, poor misguided one, trapped in your\nendless maze, sick unto death, a prey to melancholia.\n\nWhere in the world can you have raked up all this rubbish from? How long\nhas it taken you? Or what sort of a hive could ever keep together such a\nswarm of lop-sided monstrosities? Of some you are the proud creator, the\nrest you have dug up from dark lurking-places, till 'tis\n\n  Curse on you, piling woe on mortal woe!\n\nHow have you gathered all the minor sewers into one cloaca maxima, and\ndischarged the whole upon my innocent head! Have you never a friend or\nrelation or well-wisher? Did you never meet a plain-dealer to give you a\ndose of candour? That would have cured you. You are dropsical, man; you\nare like to burst with it; and you take it for muscular healthy\nstoutness; you are congratulated only by the fools who do not see what is\nthe matter; the instructed cannot help being sorry for you.\n\nBut here in good time comes Sopolis; we will put you in the good doctor's\nhands, tell him all about it, and see if anything can be done for you. He\nis a clever man; he has taken many a helpless semi-lunatic like you in\nhand and dosed him into sanity.--Good day, Sopolis. Lexiphanes here is a\nfriend of mine, you know. Now I want you to undertake his case; he\nis afflicted with a delirious affection of the vocal organs, and I fear\na complete breakdown. Pray take measures to cure him.\n\n_Lex_. Heal him, not me, Sopolis; he is manifestly moon-struck; persons\nduly pia-matered he accounts beside their five wits; he might come from\nSamos and call Mnesarchus father; for he enjoins silence and linguinanity.\nBut by the unabashed Athene, by Heracles the beast-killer, no jot or\ntittle of notice shall he have from me. 'Tis my foreboding that I fall not\nin with him again. For his censures, I void my rheum upon them.\n\n_Sop_. What is the matter with him, Lycinus?\n\n_Ly_. Why, _this_ is the matter; don't you hear? He leaves us his\ncontemporaries, and goes a thousand years off to talk to us, which he\ndoes by aid of these tongue-gymnastics and extraordinary compounds--\nprides himself upon it, too, as if it were a great thing to disguise\nyourself, and mutilate the conversational currency.\n\n_Sop_. Well, to be sure, this is a serious case; we must do all we\ncan for him. Providentially, here is an emetic I had just mixed for a\nbilious patient; here, Lexiphanes, drink it off; the other man can wait;\nlet us purge you of this vocal derangement, and get you a clean bill of\nhealth. Come along, down with it; you will feel much easier.\n\n_Lex_. I know not what you would be at, you and Lycinus, with your\ndrenches; I fear me you are more like to end than mend my speech.\n\n_Ly_. Drink, quick; it will make a man of you in thought and word.\n\n_Lex_. Well, if I must. Lord, what is this? How it rumbles! I must have\nswallowed a ventriloquist.\n\n_Sop_. Now, let it come. Look, look! Here comes _in sooth, anon_ follows,\nclose upon them _quoth he, withal, sirrah, I trow,_ and a general\nsprinkling of _sundry_. But try again; tickle your throat; that will help.\n_Hard, by_ has not come up yet, nor _a-weary_, nor _rehearse_, nor\n_quandary_. Oh, there are lots of them lurking yet, a whole stomachful. It\nwould be well to get rid of some of them by purging; there should be an\nimpressive explosion when _orotundity_ makes its windy exit. However, he\nis pretty well cleaned out, except for what may be left in the lower\nbowels. Lycinus, I shall now leave him in your charge; teach him better\nways, and tell him what are the right words to use.\n\n_Ly_. I will, Sopolis; and thank you for clearing the way. Now,\nLexiphanes, listen to me. If you want sincere commendations upon your\nstyle, and success with popular audiences, give a wide berth to that sort\nof stuff. Make a beginning with the great poets, read them with some one\nto help you, then go on to the orators, and when you have assimilated\ntheir vocabulary, proceed in due time to Thucydides and Plato, not\nforgetting a thorough course also of pleasant Comedy and grave Tragedy.\nWhen you have culled the best that all these can show, you may reckon\nthat you have a style. You have not realized it, but at present you are\nlike the toymen's dolls, all gaudy colouring outside, and inside, fragile\nclay.\n\nIf you will take this advice, put up for a little while with being called\nuneducated, and not be ashamed to mend your ways, you may face an\naudience without a tremor; you will not then be a laughing-stock any\nmore; the cultivated will no longer exercise their irony upon you and\nnickname you the Hellene and the Attic just because you are less\nintelligible than many barbarians. But above all things, do bear in mind\nnot to ape the worst tricks of the last generation's professors; you are\nalways nibbling at their wares; put your foot upon them once for all, and\ntake the ancients for your model. And no dallying with unsubstantial\nflowers of speech; accustom yourself, like the athletes, to solid food.\nAnd let your devotions be paid to the Graces and to Lucidity, whom you\nhave so neglected.\n\nFurther, put a stopper on bombast and grandiloquence and mannerism; be\nneither supercilious nor overbearing; cease to carp at other people's\nperformances and to count their loss your gain. And then, perhaps the\ngreatest of all your errors is this: instead of arranging your matter\nfirst, and then elaborating the diction, you find some out-of-the-way\nword, or are captivated by one of your own invention, and try to build up\nyour meaning round it; if you cannot get it in somehow or other, though\nit may have nothing to do with the matter, you are inconsolable; do you\nremember the _mobled queen_ you let off the other day? It was quite\noff the point, and you did not know what it meant yourself; however, its\noddness tickled the ears of the ignorant many; as for the cultivated,\nthey were equally amused at you and at your admirers.\n\nAgain, could anything be more ludicrous than for one who claims to be a\npurist, drawing from the undefiled fountain of antiquity, to mix in\n(though indeed that reverses the proportion) expressions that would be\nimpossible to the merest schoolboy? I felt as if I should like the earth\nto swallow me up, when I heard you talk of a man's _chemise_, and use\n_valet_ of a woman; who does not know that a man wears a shirt, and that a\nvalet is male? But you abound in far more flagrant blunders than these: I\nhave _chidden_, not _chode_ you; we do not _write_ a friend, we _write to_\nhim; we say _'onest_, not _honest_; these usages of yours cannot claim\neven alien rights among us. Moreover, we do not like even poetry to read\nlike the dictionary. But the sort of poetry to which your prose\ncorresponds would be Dosiadas's _Altar_, Lycophron's _Alexandra_, or any\nmore pestilent pedantry that may happen to exist. If you take the pains to\nunlearn all this, you will have done the best you can for yourself. If you\nlet yourself be seduced by your sweet baits again, I have at least put in\nmy word of warning, and you will have only yourself to blame when you find\nyourself on the downward path.","title":"The Works of Lucian of Samosata \u2014 Volume 02","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":92637}