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Title: The Works of Lucian of Samosata, Volume 1

Author: Lucian of Samosata

Translators: H.W. Fowler and F.G. Fowler

Release Date: November 27, 2002 [eBook #6327]
[Most recently updated: April 8, 2023]

Language: English

Produced by: Beth Constantine, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA ***




THE WORKS OF LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA

Complete with exceptions specified in the preface




TRANSLATED BY

H. W. FOWLER AND F. G. FOWLER




IN FOUR VOLUMES




What work nobler than transplanting foreign thought into the barren domestic
soil? except indeed planting thought of your own, which the fewest are
privileged to do.—_Sarlor Resartus_.

At each flaw, be this your first thought: the author doubtless said something
quite different, and much more to the point. And then you may hiss _me_
off, if you will.—LUCIAN, _Nigrinus, 9_.

(LUCIAN) The last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic wit.—_Lord
Macaulay_.




VOLUME I




PREFACE


The text followed in this translation is that of Jacobitz, Teubner,
1901, all deviations from which are noted.

In the following list of omissions, italics denote that the piece is
marked as spurious both by Dindorf and by Jacobitz. The other omissions
are mainly by way of expurgation. In a very few other passages some
isolated words and phrases have been excised; but it has not been
thought necessary to mark these in the texts by asterisks.

_Halcyon_; Deorum Dialogi, iv, v, ix, x, xvii, xxii, xxiii; Dialogi
Marini, xiii; Vera Historia, I. 22, II. 19; Alexander, 41,42; Eunuchus;
_De Astrologia_; _Amores_; _Lucius_ sive _Asinus_; Rhetorum Preceptor,
23; _Hippias_; Adversus Indoctum, 23; Pseudologista; _Longaevi_;
Dialogi Meretricii, v, vi, x; De Syria Dea; _Philopatris; Charidemus;
Nero_; Tragodopodagra; Ocypus; Epigrammata.

A word may be said about four pieces that seem to stand apart from the
rest. Of these, the _Trial in the Court of Vowels_ and _A Slip of the
Tongue_ will be interesting only to those who are familiar with Greek.
The _Lexiphanes_ and _A Purist Purized_, satirizing the pedants and
euphuists of Lucian's day, almost defy translation, and they must be
accepted at best as an effort to give the general effect of the
original.

The _Notes explanatory_ at the end of vol. iv will be used by the
reader at his discretion. Reference is made to them at the foot of the
page only when it is not obvious what name should be consulted.

The translators take this opportunity of offering their heartiest
thanks to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press for undertaking this
work; and, in particular, to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford University,
Dr. Merry, who has been good enough to read the proofs, and to give
much valuable advice both on the difficult subject of excision and on
details of style and rendering. In this connexion, however, it should
be added that for the retention of many modern phrases, which may
offend some readers as anachronistic, responsibility rests with the
translators alone.


CONTENTS of VOL. I


 PREFACE
 INTRODUCTION
 THE VISION
 A LITERARY PROMETHEUS
 NIGRINUS
 TRIAL IN THE COURT OF VOWELS
 TIMON THE MISANTHROPE
 PROMETHEUS ON CAUCASUS
 DIALOGUES OF THE GODS
i, ii, iii, vi, vii, viii, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, xviii, xix, xx,
xxi, xxiv, xxv, xxvi.
 DIALOGUES OF THE SEA-GODS
i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, viii, ix, x, xi, xii, xiv, xv.
 DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD
I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII,
XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXIX,
XXX.
 MENIPPUS
 CHARON
 OF SACRIFICE
 SALE OF CREEDS
 THE FISHER
 VOYAGE TO THE LOWER WORLD



INTRODUCTION

1. LIFE.
2. PROBABLE ORDER OF WRITINGS.
3. CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE TIME.
4. LUCIAN AS A WRITER.


It is not to be understood that all statements here made are either
ascertained facts or universally admitted conjectures. The introduction
is intended merely to put those who are not scholars, and probably have
not books of reference at hand, in a position to approach the
translation at as little disadvantage as may be. Accordingly, we give
the account that commends itself to us, without discussion or reference
to authorities. Those who would like a more complete idea of Lucian
should read Croiset's _Essai sur la vie et les oeuvres de Lucien_, on
which the first two sections of this introduction are very largely
based. The only objections to the book (if they are objections) are
that it is in French, and of 400 octavo pages. It is eminently
readable.

1. LIFE

With the exception of a very small number of statements, of which the
truth is by no means certain, all that we know of Lucian is derived
from his own writings. And any reader who prefers to have his facts at
first rather than at second hand can consequently get them by reading
certain of his pieces, and making the natural deductions from them.
Those that contain biographical matter are, in the order corresponding
to the periods of his life on which they throw light, _The Vision,
Demosthenes, Nigrinus, The Portrait-study_ and _Defence_ (in which
Lucian is _Lycinus_), _The Way to write History, The double Indictment_
(in which he is _The Syrian_), _The Fisher_ (_Parrhesiades_), _Swans
and Amber, Alexander_, _Hermotimus_ (_Lycinus_), _Menippus and
Icaromenippus_ (in which _Menippus_ represents him), _A literary
Prometheus, Herodotus, Zeuxis, Harmonides, The Scythian_, _The Death of
Peregrine_, _The Book-fancier_, _Demonax_, _The Rhetorician's Vade
mecum_, _Dionysus_, _Heracles_, _A Slip of the Tongue_, _Apology for
'The dependent Scholar.'_ Of these _The Vision_ is a direct piece of
autobiography; there is intentional but veiled autobiography in several
of the other pieces; in others again conclusions can be drawn from
comparison of his statements with facts known from external sources.

Lucian lived from about 125 to about 200 A.D., under the Roman Emperors
Antoninus Pius, M. Aurelius and Lucius Verus, Commodus, and perhaps
Pertinax. He was a Syrian, born at Samosata on the Euphrates, of
parents to whom it was of importance that he should earn his living
without spending much time or money on education. His maternal uncle
being a statuary, he was apprenticed to him, having shown an aptitude
for modelling in the wax that he surreptitiously scraped from his
school writing-tablets. The apprenticeship lasted one day. It is clear
that he was impulsive all through life; and when his uncle corrected
him with a stick for breaking a piece of marble, he ran off home,
disposed already to think he had had enough of statuary. His mother
took his part, and he made up his mind by the aid of a vision that came
to him the same night.

It was the age of the rhetoricians. If war was not a thing of the past,
the shadow of the _pax Romana_ was over all the small states, and the
aspiring provincial's readiest road to fame was through words rather
than deeds. The arrival of a famous rhetorician to lecture was one of
the important events in any great city's annals; and Lucian's works are
full of references to the impression these men produced, and the envy
they enjoyed. He himself was evidently consumed, during his youth and
early manhood, with desire for a position like theirs. To him, sleeping
with memories of the stick, appeared two women, corresponding to
_Virtue_ and _Pleasure_ in Prodicus's _Choice of Heracles_—the working
woman _Statuary_, and the lady _Culture_. They advanced their claims to
him in turn; but before _Culture_ had completed her reply, the choice
was made: he was to be a rhetorician. From her reminding him that she
was even now not all unknown to him, we may perhaps assume that he
spoke some sort of Greek, or was being taught it; but he assures us
that after leaving Syria he was still a barbarian; we have also a
casual mention of his offering a lock of his hair to the Syrian goddess
in his youth.

He was allowed to follow his bent and go to Ionia. Great Ionian cities
like Smyrna and Ephesus were full of admired sophists or teachers of
rhetoric. But it is unlikely that Lucian's means would have enabled him
to become the pupil of these. He probably acquired his skill to a great
extent by the laborious method, which he ironically deprecates in _The
Rhetorician's Vade mecum_, of studying exhaustively the old Attic
orators, poets, and historians.

He was at any rate successful. The different branches that a
rhetorician might choose between or combine were: (1) Speaking in court
on behalf of a client; (2) Writing speeches for a client to deliver;
(3) Teaching pupils; (4) Giving public displays of his skill. There is
a doubtful statement that Lucian failed in (1), and took to (2) in
default. His surviving rhetorical pieces (_The Tyrannicide, The
Disinherited, Phalaris_) are declamations on hypothetical cases which
might serve either for (3) or (4); and _The Hall, The Fly, Dipsas_, and
perhaps _Demosthenes_, suggest (4). A common form of exhibition was for
a sophist to appear before an audience and let them propose subjects,
of which he must choose one and deliver an impromptu oration upon it.

Whatever his exact line was, he earned an income in Ionia, then in
Greece, had still greater success in Italy, and appears to have settled
for some time in Gaul, perhaps occupying a professorial chair there.
The intimate knowledge of Roman life in some aspects which appears in
_The dependent Scholar_ suggests that he also lived some time in Rome.
He seems to have known some Latin, since he could converse with boatmen
on the Po; but his only clear reference (_A Slip of the Tongue_, 13)
implies an imperfect knowledge of it; and there is not a single mention
in all his works, which are crammed with literary allusions, of any
Latin author. He claims to have been during his time in Gaul one of the
rhetoricians who could command high fees; and his descriptions of
himself as resigning his place close about his lady's (i.e. Rhetoric's)
person, and as casting off his wife Rhetoric because she did not keep
herself exclusively to him, show that he regarded himself, or wished to
be regarded, as having been at the head of his profession.

This brings us to about the year 160 A.D. We may conceive Lucian now to
have had some of that yearning for home which he ascribes in the
_Patriotism_ even to the successful exile. He returned home, we
suppose, a distinguished man at thirty-five, and enjoyed impressing the
fact on his fellow citizens in _The Vision_. He may then have lived at
Antioch as a rhetorician for some years, of which we have a memorial in
_The Portrait-study_. Lucius Verus, M. Aurelius's colleague, was at
Antioch in 162 or 163 A.D. on his way to the Parthian war, and _The
Portrait-study_ is a panegyric on Verus's mistress Panthea, whom Lucian
saw there.

A year or two later we find him migrating to Athens, taking his father
with him, and at Athens he settled and remained many years. It was on
this journey that the incident occurred, which he relates with such a
curious absence of shame in the _Alexander_, of his biting that
charlatan's hand.

This change in his manner of life corresponds nearly with the change in
habit of mind and use of his powers that earned him his immortality.
His fortieth year is the date given by himself for his abandonment of
Rhetoric and, as he calls it, taking up with Dialogue, or, as we might
say, becoming a man of letters. Between Rhetoric and Dialogue there was
a feud, which had begun when Socrates five centuries before had fought
his battles with the sophists. Rhetoric appeals to the emotions and
obscures the issues (such had been Socrates's position); the way to
elicit truth is by short question and answer. The Socratic method,
illustrated by Plato, had become, if not the only, the accredited
instrument of philosophers, who, so far as they are genuine, are
truth-seekers; Rhetoric had been left to the legal persons whose object
is not truth but victory. Lucian's abandonment of Rhetoric was
accordingly in some sort his change from a lawyer to a philosopher. As
it turned out, however, philosophy was itself only a transitional stage
with him.

Already during his career as a rhetorician, which we may put at 145-164
A.D., he seems both to have had leanings to philosophy, and to have
toyed with dialogue. There is reason to suppose that the _Nigrinus_,
with its strong contrast between the noise and vulgarity of Rome and
the peace and culture of Athens, its enthusiastic picture of the charm
of philosophy for a sensitive and intelligent spirit, was written in
150 A.D., or at any rate described an incident that occurred in that
year; and the _Portrait-study_ and its _Defence_, dialogues written
with great care, whatever their other merits, belong to 162 or 163 A.D.
But these had been excursions out of his own province. After settling
at Athens he seems to have adopted the writing of dialogues as his
regular work. The _Toxaris_, a collection of stories on friendship,
strung together by dialogue, the _Anacharsis_, a discussion on the
value of physical training, and the _Pantomime_, a description slightly
relieved by the dialogue form, may be regarded as experiments with his
new instrument. There is no trace in them of the characteristic use
that he afterwards made of dialogue, for the purposes of satire.

That was an idea that we may suppose to have occurred to him after the
composition of the _Hermotimus_. This is in form the most philosophic
of his dialogues; it might indeed be a dialogue of Plato, of the merely
destructive kind; but it is at the same time, in matter, his farewell
to philosophy, establishing that the pursuit of it is hopeless for
mortal man. From this time onward, though he always professes himself a
lover of true philosophy, he concerns himself no more with it, except
to expose its false professors. The dialogue that perhaps comes next,
_The Parasite_, is still Platonic in form, but only as a parody; its
main interest (for a modern reader is outraged, as in a few other
pieces of Lucian's, by the disproportion between subject and treatment)
is in the combination for the first time of satire with dialogue.

One more step remained to be taken. In the piece called _A literary
Prometheus_, we are told what Lucian himself regarded as his claim to
the title of an original writer. It was the fusing of Comedy and
Dialogue—the latter being the prose conversation hat had hitherto been
confined to philosophical discussion. The new literary form, then, was
conversation, frankly for purposes of entertainment, as in Comedy, but
to be read and not acted. In this kind of writing he remains, though he
has been often imitated, first in merit as clearly as in time; and
nearly all his great masterpieces took this form. They followed in
rapid succession, being all written, perhaps, between 165 and 175 A.D.
And we make here no further comment upon them, except to remark that
they fall roughly into three groups as he drew inspiration successively
from the writers of the New Comedy (or Comedy of ordinary life) like
Menander, from the satires of Menippus, and from writers of the Old
Comedy (or Comedy of fantastic imagination) like Aristophanes. The best
specimens of the first group are _The Liar_ and the _Dialogues of the
Hetaerae;_ of the second, the _Dialogues of the Dead_ and _of the Gods,
Menippus_ and _Icaromenippus, Zeus cross-examined;_ of the third,
_Timon, Charon, A Voyage to the lower World, The Sale of Creeds, The
Fisher, Zeus Tragoedus, The Cock, The double Indictment, The Ship_.

During these ten or more years, though he lived at Athens, he is to be
imagined travelling occasionally, to read his dialogues to audiences in
various cities, or to see the Olympic Games. And these excursions gave
occasion to some works not of the dialogue kind; the _Zeuxis_ and
several similar pieces are introductions to series of readings away
from Athens; The _Way to write History_, a piece of literary criticism
still very readable, if out of date for practical purposes, resulted
from a visit to Ionia, where all the literary men were producing
histories of the Parthian war, then in progress (165 A.D.). An
attendance at the Olympic Games of 169 A.D. suggested _The Death of
Peregrine_, which in its turn, through the offence given to Cynics, had
to be supplemented by the dialogue of _The Runaways. The True History_,
most famous, but, admirable as it is, far from best of his works,
presumably belongs to this period also, but cannot be definitely
placed. The _Book-fancier_ and _The Rhetorician's Vade mecum_ are
unpleasant records of bitter personal quarrels.

After some ten years of this intense literary activity, producing,
reading, and publishing, Lucian seems to have given up both the writing
of dialogues and the presenting of them to audiences, and to have lived
quietly for many years. The only pieces that belong here are the _Life
of Demonax_, the man whom he held the best of all philosophers, and
with whom he had been long intimate at Athens, and that of Alexander,
the Asiatic charlatan, who was the prince of impostors as Demonax of
philosophers. When quite old, Lucian was appointed by the Emperor
Commodus to a well-paid legal post in Egypt. We also learn, from the
new introductory lectures called _Dionysus_ and _Heracles_, that he
resumed the practice of reading his dialogues; but he wrote nothing
more of importance. It is stated in Suidas that he was torn to pieces
by dogs; but, as other statements in the article are discredited, it is
supposed that this is the Christian revenge for Lucian's imaginary
hostility to Christianity. We have it from himself that he suffered
from gout in his old age. He solaced himself characteristically by
writing a play on the subject; but whether the goddess Gout, who gave
it its name, was appeased by it, or carried him off, we cannot tell.

2. PROBABLE ORDER OF WRITINGS

The received order in which Lucian's works stand is admitted to be
entirely haphazard. The following arrangement in groups is roughly
chronological, though it is quite possible that they overlap each
other. It is M. Croiset's, put into tabular form. Many details in it
are open to question; but to read in this order would at least be more
satisfactory to any one who wishes to study Lucian seriously than to
take the pieces as they come. The table will also serve as a rough
guide to the first-class and the inferior pieces. The names italicized
are those of pieces rejected as spurious by M. Croiset, and therefore
not placed by him; we have inserted them where they seem to belong; as
to their genuineness, it is our opinion that the objections made (not
by M. Croiset, who does not discuss authenticity) to the _Demosthenes_
and _The Cynic_ at least are, in view of the merits of these,
unconvincing.

(i) About 145 to 160 A.D. Lucian a rhetorician in Ionia, Greece, Italy,
and Gaul.

The Tyrannicide, a rhetorical exercise.

The Disinherited.

Phalaris I & II.

_Demosthenes_, a panegyric.

Patriotism, an essay.

The Fly, an essay.

Swans and Amber, an introductory lecture.

Dipsas, an introductory lecture.

The Hall, an introductory lecture.

Nigrinus, a dialogue on philosophy, 150 A.D.

(ii) About 160 to 164 A.D. After Lucian's return to Asia.

The Portrait-study, a panegyric in dialogue, 162 A.D.

Defence of The Portrait-study, in dialogue.

A Trial in the Court of Vowels, a _jeu d'esprit_.

Hesiod, a short dialogue.

The Vision, an autobiographical address.

(iii) About 165 A.D. At Athens.

Pantomime, art criticism in dialogue.

Anacharsis, a dialogue on physical training.

Toxaris, stories of friendship in dialogue.

Slander, a moral essay.

The Way to write History, an essay in literary criticism.

The next eight groups, iv-xi, belong to the years from about 165 A.D.
to about 175 A.D., when Lucian was at his best and busiest; iv-ix are
to be regarded roughly as succeeding each other in time; x and xi being
independent in this respect. Pieces are assigned to groups mainly
according to their subjects; but some are placed in groups that do not
seem at first sight the most appropriate, owing to specialties in their
treatment; e.g. _The Ship_ might seem more in place with vii than with
ix; but M. Croiset finds in it a maturity that induces him to put it
later.

(iv) About 165 A.D.

Hermotimus, a philosophic dialogue.

The Parasite, a parody of a philosophic dialogue.

(v) Influence of the New Comedy writers.

The Liar, a dialogue satirizing superstition.

A Feast of Lapithae, a dialogue satirizing the manners of philosophers.

Dialogues of the Hetaerae, a series of short dialogues.

(vi) Influence of the Menippean satire.

Dialogues of the Dead, a series of short dialogues.

Dialogues of the Gods, a series of short dialogues.

Dialogues of the Sea-Gods, a series of short dialogues.

Menippus, a dialogue satirizing philosophy.

Icaromenippus, a dialogue satirizing philosophy and religion.

Zeus cross-examined, a dialogue satirizing religion.

_The Cynic_, a dialogue against luxury.

_Of Sacrifice_, an essay satirizing religion.

Saturnalia, dialogue and letters on the relation of rich and poor.

The True History, a parody of the old Greek historians,

(vii) Influence of the Old Comedy writers: vanity of human wishes.

A Voyage to the Lower World, a dialogue on the vanity of power.

Charon, a dialogue on the vanity of all things.

Timon, a dialogue on the vanity of riches.

The Cock, a dialogue on the vanity of riches and power,

(viii) Influence of the Old Comedy writers: dialogues satirizing
religion.

Prometheus on Caucasus.

Zeus Tragoedus.

The Gods in Council.

(ix) Influence of the Old Comedy writers: satire on philosophers.

The Ship, a dialogue on foolish aspirations.

The Life of Peregrine, a narrative satirizing the Cynics, 169 A.D.

The Runaways, a dialogue satirizing the Cynics.

The double Indictment, an autobiographic dialogue.

The Sale of Creeds, a dialogue satirizing philosophers.

The Fisher, an autobiographic dialogue satirizing philosophers.

(x) 165-175 A.D. Introductory lectures.

Herodotus.

Zeuxis.

Harmonides.

The Scythian.

A literary Prometheus.

(xi) 165-175 A.D. Scattered pieces standing apart from the great
dialogue series, but written during the same period.

The Book-fancier, an invective. About 170 A.D.

_The Purist purized_, a literary satire in dialogue.

Lexiphanes, a literary satire in dialogue.

The Rhetorician's Vade-mecum, a personal satire. About 178 A.D.

(xii) After 180 A.D.

Demonax, a biography.

Alexander, a satirical biography,

(xiii) In old age.

Mourning, an essay.

Dionysus, an introductory lecture.

Heracles, an introductory lecture.

Apology for 'The dependent Scholar.'

A Slip of the Tongue.

In conclusion, we have to say that this arrangement of M. Croiset's,
which we have merely tabulated without intentionally departing from it
in any particular, seems to us well considered in its broad lines;
there are a few modifications which we should have been disposed to
make in it; but we thought it better to take it entire than to exercise
our own judgment in a matter where we felt very little confidence.

3. CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE TIME

'M. Aurelius has for us moderns this great superiority in interest over
Saint Louis or Alfred, that he lived and acted in a state of society
modern by its essential characteristics, in an epoch akin to our own,
in a brilliant centre of civilization. Trajan talks of "our enlightened
age" just as glibly as _The Times_ talks of it.' M. Arnold, _Essays in
Criticism, M. Aurelius_.

The age of M. Aurelius is also the age of Lucian, and with any man of
that age who has, like these two, left us a still legible message we
can enter into quite different relations from those which are possible
with what M. Arnold calls in the same essay 'classical-dictionary
heroes.' A twentieth-century Englishman, a second-century Greek or
Roman, would be much more at home in each other's century, if they had
the gift of tongues, than in most of those which have intervened. It is
neither necessary nor possible to go deeply into the resemblance here
[Footnote: Some words of Sir Leslie Stephen's may be given, however,
describing the welter of religious opinions that prevailed at both
epochs: 'The analogy between the present age and that which witnessed
the introduction of Christianity is too striking to have been missed by
very many observers. The most superficial acquaintance with the general
facts shows how close a parallel might be drawn by a competent
historian. There are none of the striking manifestations of the present
day to which it would not be easy to produce an analogy, though in some
respects on a smaller scale. Now, as then, we can find mystical
philosophers trying to evolve a satisfactory creed by some process of
logical legerdemain out of theosophical moonshine; and amiable and
intelligent persons labouring hard to prove that the old mythology
could be forced to accept a rationalistic interpretation—whether in
regard to the inspection of entrails or prayers for fine weather; and
philosophers framing systems of morality entirely apart from the
ancient creeds, and sufficiently satisfactory to themselves, while
hopelessly incapable of impressing the popular mind; and politicians,
conscious that the basis of social order was being sapped by the decay
of the faith in which it had arisen, and therefore attempting the
impossible task of galvanizing dead creeds into a semblance of
vitality; and strange superstitions creeping out of their
lurking-places, and gaining influence in a luxurious society whose
intelligence was an ineffectual safeguard against the most grovelling
errors; and a dogged adherence of formalists and conservatives to
ancient ways, and much empty profession of barren orthodoxy; and,
beneath all, a vague disquiet, a breaking up of ancient social and
natural bonds, and a blind groping toward some more cosmopolitan creed
and some deeper satisfaction for the emotional needs of mankind.'—_The
Religion of all Sensible Men_ in _An Agnostic's Apology_, 1893.]; all
that need be done is to pass in review those points of it, some
important, and some trifling, which are sure to occur in a detached way
to readers of Lucian.

The Graeco-Roman world was as settled and peaceful, as conscious of its
imperial responsibilities, as susceptible to boredom, as greedy of
amusement, could show as numerous a leisured class, and believed as
firmly in money, as our own. What is more important for our purpose, it
was questioning the truth of its religion as we are to-day questioning
the truth of ours. Lucian was the most vehement of the questioners. Of
what played the part then that the Christian religion plays now, the
pagan religion was only one half; the other half was philosophy. The
gods of Olympus had long lost their hold upon the educated, but not
perhaps upon the masses; the educated, ill content to be without any
guide through the maze of life, had taken to philosophy instead.
Stoicism was the prevalent creed, and how noble a form this could take
in a cultivated and virtuous mind is to be seen in the _Thoughts_ of M.
Aurelius. The test of a religion, however, is not what form it takes in
a virtuous mind, but what effects it produces on those of another sort.
Lucian applies the test of results alike to the religion usually so
called, and to its philosophic substitute. He finds both wanting; the
test is not a satisfactory one, but it is being applied by all sorts
and conditions of men to Christianity in our own time; so is the second
test, that of inherent probability, which he uses as well as the other
upon the pagan theology; and it is this that gives his writings, even
apart from their wit and fancy, a special interest for our own time.
Our attention seems to be concentrated more and more on the ethical, as
opposed to the speculative or dogmatic aspect of religion; just such
was Lucian's attitude towards philosophy.

Some minor points of similarity may be briefly noted. As we read the
_Anacharsis_, we are reminded of the modern prominence of athletics;
the question of football _versus_ drill is settled for us; light is
thrown upon the question of conscription; we think of our Commissions
on national deterioration, and the schoolmaster's wail over the
athletic _Frankenstein's_ monster which, like _Eucrates_ in _The Liar_,
he has created but cannot control. The 'horsy talk in every street' of
the _Nigrinus_ calls up the London newsboy with his 'All the winners.'
We think of palmists and spiritualists in the police-courts as we read
of Rutilianus and the Roman nobles consulting the impostor Alexander.
This sentence reads like the description of a modern man of science
confronted with the supernatural: 'It was an occasion for a man whose
intelligence was steeled against such assaults by scepticism and
insight, one who, if he could not detect the precise imposture, would
at any rate have been perfectly certain that, though this escaped him,
the whole thing was a lie and an impossibility.' The upper-class
audiences who listened to Lucian's readings, taking his points with
quiet smiles instead of the loud applause given to the rhetorician,
must have been something like that which listens decorously to an
Extension lecturer. When Lucian bids us mark 'how many there are who
once were but cyphers, but whom words have raised to fame and opulence,
ay, and to noble lineage too,' we remember not only Gibbon's remark
about the very Herodes Atticus of whom Lucian may have been thinking
('The family of Herod, at least after it had been favoured by fortune,
was lineally descended from Cimon and Miltiades'), but also the modern
_carriere ouverte aux talents_, and the fact that Tennyson was a lord.
There are the elements of a socialist question in the feelings between
rich and poor described in the _Saturnalia_; while, on the other hand,
the fact of there being an audience for the _Dialogues of the Hetaerae_
is an illustration of that spirit of _humani nihil a me alienum puto_
which is again prevalent today. We care now to realize the thoughts of
other classes besides our own; so did they in Lucian's time; but it is
significant that Francklin in 1780, refusing to translate this series,
says: 'These dialogues exhibit to us only such kind of conversation as
we may hear in the purlieus of Covent Garden—lewd, dull, and insipid.'
The lewdness hardly goes beyond the title; they are full of humour and
insight; and we make no apology for translating most of them. Lastly, a
generation that is always complaining of the modern over-production of
books feels that it would be at home in a state of society in which our
author found that, not to be too singular, he must at least write about
writing history, if he declined writing it himself, even as Diogenes
took to rolling his tub, lest he should be the only idle man when
Corinth was bustling about its defences.

As Lucian is so fond of saying, 'this is but a small selection of the
facts which might have been quoted' to illustrate the likeness between
our age and his. It may be well to allude, on the other hand, to a few
peculiarities of the time that appear conspicuously in his writings.

The Roman Empire was rather Graeco-Roman than Roman; this is now a
commonplace. It is interesting to observe that for Lucian 'we' is on
occasion the Romans; 'we' is also everywhere the Greeks; while at the
same time 'I' is a barbarian and a Syrian. Roughly speaking, the Roman
element stands for energy, material progress, authority, and the Greek
for thought; the Roman is the British Philistine, the Greek the man of
culture. Lucian is conscious enough of the distinction, and there is no
doubt where his own preference lies. He may be a materialist, so far as
he is anything, in philosophy; but in practice he puts the things of
the mind before the things of the body.

If our own age supplies parallels for most of what we meet with in the
second century, there are two phenomena which are to be matched rather
in an England that has passed away. The first is the Cynics, who swarm
in Lucian's pages like the begging friars in those of a historical
novelist painting the middle ages. Like the friars, they began nobly in
the desire for plain living and high thinking; in both cases the
thinking became plain, the living not perhaps high, but the best that
circumstances admitted of, and the class—with its numbers hugely
swelled by persons as little like their supposed teachers as a Marian
or Elizabethan persecutor was like the founder of Christianity—a pest
to society. Lucian's sympathy with the best Cynics, and detestation of
the worst, make Cynicism one of his most familiar themes. The second is
the class so vividly presented in _The dependent Scholar_—the indigent
learned Greek who looks about for a rich vulgar Roman to buy his
company, and finds he has the worst of the bargain. His successors, the
'trencher chaplains' who 'from grasshoppers turn bumble-bees and wasps,
plain parasites, and make the Muses mules, to satisfy their
hunger-starved panches, and get a meal's meat,' were commoner in
Burton's days than in our own, and are to be met in Fielding, and
Macaulay, and Thackeray.

Two others of Lucian's favourite figures, the parasite and the
legacy-hunter, exist still, no doubt, as they are sure to in every
complex civilization; but their operations are now conducted with more
regard to the decencies. This is worth remembering when we are
occasionally offended by his frankness on subjects to which we are not
accustomed to allude; he is not an unclean or a sensual writer, but the
waters of decency have risen since his time and submerged some things
which were then visible.

A slight prejudice, again, may sometimes be aroused by Lucian's trick
of constant and trivial quotation; he would rather put the simplest
statement, or even make his transition from one subject to another, in
words of Homer than in his own; we have modern writers too who show the
same tendency, and perhaps we like or dislike them for it in proportion
as their allusions recall memories or merely puzzle us; we cannot all
be expected to have agreeable memories stirred by insignificant Homer
tags; and it is well to bear in mind by way of palliation that in Greek
education Homer played as great a part as the Bible in ours. He might
be taken simply or taken allegorically; but one way or the other he was
the staple of education, and it might be assumed that every one would
like the mere sound of him.

We may end by remarking that the public readings of his own works, to
which the author makes frequent reference, were what served to a great
extent the purpose of our printing-press. We know that his pieces were
also published; but the public that could be reached by hand-written
copies would bear a very small proportion to that which heard them from
the writer's own lips; and though the modern system may have the
advantage on the whole, it is hard to believe that the unapproached
life and naturalness of Lucian's dialogue does not owe something to
this necessity.

4. LUCIAN AS A WRITER

With all the sincerity of Lucian in _The True History_, 'soliciting his
reader's incredulity,' we solicit our reader's neglect of this
appreciation. We have no pretensions whatever to the critical faculty;
the following remarks are to be taken as made with diffidence, and
offered to those only who prefer being told what to like, and why, to
settling the matter for themselves.

Goethe, aged fourteen, with seven languages on hand, devised the plan
of a correspondence kept up by seven imaginary brothers scattered over
the globe, each writing in the language of his adopted land. The
stay-at-home in Frankfort was to write Jew-German, for which purpose
some Hebrew must be acquired. His father sent him to Rector Albrecht.
The rector was always found with one book open before him—a
well-thumbed Lucian. But the Hebrew vowel-points were perplexing, and
the boy found better amusement in putting shrewd questions on what
struck him as impossibilities or inconsistencies in the Old-Testament
narrative they were reading. The old gentleman was infinitely amused,
had fits of mingled coughing and laughter, but made little attempt at
solving his pupil's difficulties, beyond ejaculating _Er narrischer
Kerl! Er narrischer Junge_! He let him dig for solutions, however, in
an English commentary on the shelves, and occupied the time with
turning the familiar pages of his Lucian [Footnote: _Wahrheit und
Dichtung_, book iv. ]. The wicked old rector perhaps chuckled to think
that here was one who bade fair to love Lucian one day as well as he
did himself.

For Lucian too was one who asked questions—spent his life doing little
else; if one were invited to draw him with the least possible
expenditure of ink, one's pen would trace a mark of interrogation. That
picture is easily drawn; to put life into it is a more difficult
matter. However, his is not a complex character, for all the irony in
which he sometimes chooses to clothe his thought; and materials are at
least abundant; he is one of the self-revealing fraternity; his own
personal presence is to be detected more often than not in his work. He
may give us the assistance, or he may not, of labelling a character
_Lucian_ or _Lycinus_; we can detect him, _volentes volentem_, under
the thin disguise of _Menippus_ or _Tychiades_ or _Cyniscus_ as well.
And the essence of him as he reveals himself is the questioning spirit.
He has no respect for authority. Burke describes the majority of
mankind, who do not form their own opinions, as 'those whom Providence
has doomed to live on trust'; Lucian entirely refuses to live on trust;
he 'wants to know.' It was the wish of _Arthur Clennam_, who had in
consequence a very bad name among the _Tite Barnacles_ and other
persons in authority. Lucian has not escaped the same fate; 'the
scoffer Lucian' has become as much a commonplace as '_fidus Achates_,'
or 'the well-greaved Achaeans,' the reading of him has been
discountenanced, and, if he has not actually lost his place at the
table of Immortals, promised him when he temporarily left the Island of
the Blest, it has not been so 'distinguished' a place as it was to have
been and should have been. And all because he 'wanted to know.'

His questions, of course, are not all put in the same manner. In the
_Dialogues of the Gods_, for instance, the mark of interrogation is not
writ large; they have almost the air at first of little stories in
dialogue form, which might serve to instruct schoolboys in the
attributes and legends of the gods—a manual charmingly done, yet a
manual only. But we soon see that he has said to himself: Let us put
the thing into plain natural prose, and see what it looks like with its
glamour of poetry and reverence stripped off; the Gods do human things;
why not represent them as human persons, and see what results? What did
result was that henceforth any one who still believed in the pagan
deities might at the cost of an hour's light reading satisfy himself
that his gods were not gods, or, if they were, had no business to be.
Whether many or few did so read and so satisfy themselves, we have no
means of knowing; it is easy to over-estimate the effect such writing
may have had, and to forget that those who were capable of being
convinced by exposition of this sort would mostly be those who were
already convinced without; still, so far as Lucian had any effect on
the religious position, it must have been in discrediting paganism and
increasing the readiness to accept the new faith beginning to make its
way. Which being so, it was ungrateful of the Christian church to turn
and rend him. It did so, partly in error. Lucian had referred in the
_Life of Peregrine_ to the Christians, in words which might seem
irreverent to Christians at a time when they were no longer an obscure
sect; he had described and ridiculed in _The Liar_ certain 'Syrian'
miracles which have a remarkable likeness to the casting out of spirits
by Christ and the apostles; and worse still, the _Philopatris_ passed
under his name. This dialogue, unlike what Lucian had written in the
_Peregrine_ and _The Liar_, is a deliberate attack on Christianity. It
is clear to us now that it was written two hundred years after his
time, under Julian the Apostate; but there can be no more doubt of its
being an imitation of Lucian than of its not being his; it consequently
passed for his, the story gained currency that he was an apostate
himself, and his name was anathema for the church. It was only partly
in error, however. Though Lucian might be useful on occasion ('When
Tertullian or Lactantius employ their labours in exposing the falsehood
and extravagance of Paganism, they are obliged to transcribe the
eloquence of Cicero or the wit of Lucian' [Footnote: Gibbon, _Decline
and Fall_, cap. xv.]), the very word heretic is enough to remind us
that the Church could not show much favour to one who insisted always
on thinking for himself. His works survived, but he was not read,
through the Middle Ages. With the Renaissance he partly came into his
own again, but still laboured under the imputations of scoffing and
atheism, which confined the reading of him to the few.

The method followed in the _Dialogues of the Gods_ and similar pieces
is a very indirect way of putting questions. It is done much more
directly in others, the _Zeus cross-examined_, for instance. Since the
fallen angels

  reasoned high
  Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate—
  Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute—
  And found no end, in wandering mazes lost,


these subjects have had their share of attention; but the questions can
hardly be put more directly, or more neatly, than in the _Zeus
cross-examined_, and the thirtieth _Dialogue of the Dead_.

He has many other interrogative methods besides these, which may be
left to reveal themselves in the course of reading. As for answering
questions, that is another matter. The answer is sometimes apparent,
sometimes not; he will not refrain from asking a question just because
he does not know the answer; his _role_ is asking, not answering. Nor
when he gives an answer is it always certain whether it is to be taken
in earnest. Was he a cynic? one would say so after reading _The Cynic_;
was he an Epicurean? one would say so after reading the _Alexander_;
was he a philosopher? one would say Yes at a certain point of the
_Hermotimus_, No at another. He doubtless had his moods, and he was
quite unhampered by desire for any consistency except consistent
independence of judgement. Moreover, the difficulty of getting at his
real opinions is increased by the fact that he was an ironist. We have
called him a self-revealer; but you never quite know where to have an
ironical self-revealer. Goethe has the useful phrase, 'direct irony'; a
certain German writer 'makes too free a use of direct irony, praising
the blameworthy and blaming the praiseworthy—a rhetorical device which
should be very sparingly employed. In the long run it disgusts the
sensible and misleads the dull, pleasing only the great intermediate
class to whom it offers the satisfaction of being able to think
themselves more shrewd than other people, without expending much
thought of their own' (_Wahrheit und Dichtung_, book vii). Fielding
gives us in _Jonathan Wild_ a sustained piece of 'direct irony'; you
have only to reverse everything said, and you get the author's meaning.
Lucian's irony is not of that sort; you cannot tell when you are to
reverse him, only that you will have sometimes to do so. He does use
the direct kind; _The Rhetorician's Vade mecum_ and _The Parasite_ are
examples; the latter is also an example (unless a translator, who is
condemned not to skip or skim, is an unfair judge) of how tiresome it
may become. But who shall say how much of irony and how much of genuine
feeling there is in the fine description of the philosophic State given
in the _Hermotimus_ (with its suggestions of _Christian_ in _The
Pilgrim's Progress_, and of the 'not many wise men after the flesh, not
many mighty, not many noble'), or in the whimsical extravagance (as it
strikes a modern) of the _Pantomime_, or in the triumph permitted to
the Cynic (against 'Lycinus' too) in the dialogue called after him? In
one of his own introductory lectures he compares his pieces aptly
enough to the bacchante's thyrsus with its steel point concealed.

With his questions and his irony and his inconsistencies, it is no
wonder that Lucian is accused of being purely negative and destructive.
But we need not think he is disposed of in that way, any more than our
old-fashioned literary education is disposed of when it has been
pointed out that it does not equip its _alumni_ with knowledge of
electricity or of a commercially useful modern language; it may have
equipped them with something less paying, but more worth paying for.
Lucian, it is certain, will supply no one with a religion or a
philosophy; but it may be doubted whether any writer will supply more
fully both example and precept in favour of doing one's thinking for
oneself; and it may be doubted also whether any other intellectual
lesson is more necessary. He is _nullius addictus iurare in verba
magistri_, if ever man was; he is individualist to the core. No
religion or philosophy, he seems to say, will save you; the thing is to
think for yourself, and be a man of sense. 'It was but small
consolation,' says _Menippus_, 'to reflect that I was in numerous and
wise and eminently sensible company, if I was a fool still, all astray
in my quest for truth.' _Vox populi_ is no _vox dei_ for him; he is
quite proof against majorities; _Athanasius contra mundum_ is more to
his taste. "What is this I hear?" asked Arignotus, scowling upon me;
"you deny the existence of the supernatural, when there is scarcely a
man who has not seen some evidence of it?" "Therein lies my
exculpation," I replied; "I do not believe in the supernatural,
because, unlike the rest of mankind, I do not see it; if I saw, I
should doubtless believe, just as you all do."' That British schoolboys
should have been brought up for centuries on Ovid, and Lucian have been
tabooed, is, in view of their comparative efficacy in stimulating
thought, an interesting example of _habent sua fata libelli_.

It need not be denied that there is in him a certain lack of feeling,
not surprising in one of his analytic temper, but not agreeable either.
He is a hard bright intelligence, with no bowels; he applies the knife
without the least compunction—indeed with something of savage
enjoyment. The veil is relentlessly torn from family affection in the
_Mourning_. _Solon_ in the _Charon_ pursues his victory so far as to
make us pity instead of scorning _Croesus_. _Menippus_ and his kind, in
the shades, do their lashing of dead horses with a disagreeable gusto,
which tempts us to raise a society for the prevention of cruelty to the
Damned. A voyage through Lucian in search of pathos will yield as
little result as one in search of interest in nature. There is a touch
of it here and there (which has probably evaporated in translation) in
the _Hermotimus_, the _Demonax_, and the _Demosthenes_; but that is
all. He was perhaps not unconscious of all this himself. 'But what is
your profession?' asks _Philosophy_. 'I profess hatred of imposture and
pretension, lying and pride… However, I do not neglect the
complementary branch, in which love takes the place of hate; it
includes love of truth and beauty and simplicity, and all that is akin
to love. _But the subjects for this branch of the profession are sadly
few_.'

Before going on to his purely literary qualities, we may collect here a
few detached remarks affecting rather his character than his skill as
an artist. And first of his relations to philosophy. The statements in
the _Menippus_ and the _Icaromenippus_, as well as in _The Fisher_ and
_The double Indictment_, have all the air of autobiography (especially
as they are in the nature of digressions), and give us to understand
that he had spent much time and energy on philosophic study. He claims
_Philosophy_ as his mistress in _The Fisher_, and in a case where he is
in fact judge as well as party, has no difficulty in getting his claim
established. He is for ever reminding us that he loves philosophy and
only satirizes the degenerate philosophers of his day. But it _will_
occur to us after reading him through that he has dissembled his love,
then, very well. There is not a passage from beginning to end of his
works that indicates any real comprehension of any philosophic system.
The external characteristics of the philosophers, the absurd stories
current about them, and the popular misrepresentations of their
doctrines—it is in these that philosophy consists for him. That he had
read some of them there is no doubt; but one has an uneasy suspicion
that he read Plato because he liked his humour and his style, and did
not trouble himself about anything further. Gibbon speaks of 'the
philosophic maze of the writings of Plato, of which the dramatic is
perhaps more interesting than the argumentative part.' That is quite a
legitimate opinion, provided you do not undertake to judge philosophy
in the light of it. The apparently serious rejection of geometrical
truth in the _Hermotimus_ may fairly suggest that Lucian was as
unphilosophic as he was unmathematical. Twice, and perhaps twice only,
does he express hearty admiration for a philosopher. Demonax is 'the
best of all philosophers'; but then he admired him just because he was
so little of a philosopher and so much a man of ordinary common sense.
And Epicurus is 'the thinker who had grasped the nature of things and
been in solitary possession of truth'; but then that is in the
_Alexander_, and any stick was good enough to beat that dog with. The
fact is, Lucian was much too well satisfied with his own judgement to
think that he could possibly require guidance, and the commonplace test
of results was enough to assure him that philosophy was worthless: 'It
is no use having all theory at your fingers' ends, if you do not
conform your conduct to the right.' There is a description in the
_Pantomime_ that is perhaps truer than it is meant to pass for.
'Lycinus' is called 'an educated man, and _in some sort_ a student of
philosophy.'

If he is not a philosopher, he is very much a moralist; it is because
philosophy deals partly with morals that he thinks he cares for it. But
here too his conclusions are of a very commonsense order. The Stoic
notion that 'Virtue consists in being uncomfortable' strikes him as
merely absurd; no asceticism for him; on the other hand, no lavish
extravagance and _Persici apparatus_; a dinner of herbs with the
righteous—that is, the cultivated Athenian—, a neat repast of Attic
taste, is honestly his idea of good living; it is probable that he
really did sacrifice both money and fame to live in Athens rather than
in Rome, according to his own ideal. That ideal is a very modest one;
when _Menippus_ took all the trouble to get down to Tiresias in Hades
via Babylon, his reward was the information that 'the life of the
ordinary man is the best and the most prudent choice.' So thought
Lucian; and it is to be counted to him for righteousness that he
decided to abandon 'the odious practices that his profession imposes on
the advocate—deceit, falsehood, bluster, clamour, pushing,' for the
quiet life of a literary man (especially as we should probably never
have heard his name had he done otherwise). Not that the life was so
quiet as it might have been. He could not keep his satire impersonal
enough to avoid incurring enmities. He boasts in the _Peregrine_ of the
unfeeling way in which he commented on that enthusiast to his
followers, and we may believe his assurance that his writings brought
general dislike and danger upon him. His moralizing (of which we are
happy to say there is a great deal) is based on Tiresias's
pronouncement. Moralizing has a bad name; but than good moralizing
there is, when one has reached a certain age perhaps, no better
reading. Some of us like it even in our novels, feel more at home with
Fielding and Thackeray for it, and regretfully confess ourselves
unequal to the artistic aloofness of a Flaubert. Well, Lucian's
moralizings are, for those who like such things, of the right quality;
they are never dull, and the touch is extremely light. We may perhaps
be pardoned for alluding to half a dozen conceptions that have a
specially modern air about them. The use that Rome may serve as a
school of resistance to temptation (_Nigrinus_, 19) recalls Milton's
'fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never
sallies out and seeks her adversary.' 'Old age is wisdom's youth, the
day of her glorious flower' (_Heracles_, 8) might have stood as a text
for Browning's _Rabbi ben Ezra_. The brands visible on the tyrant's
soul, and the refusal of Lethe as a sufficient punishment (_Voyage to
the lower World_, 24 and 28), have their parallels in our new
eschatology. The decision of _Zeus_ that _Heraclitus_ and _Democritus_
are to be one lot that laughter and tears will go together (_Sale of
Creeds_, l3)—accords with our views of the emotional temperament.
_Chiron_ is impressive on the vanity of fruition (_Dialogues of the
Dead_, 26). And the figuring of _Truth_ as 'the shadowy creature with
the indefinite complexion' (_The Fisher_, 16) is only one example of
Lucian's felicity in allegory.

Another weak point, for which many people will have no more inclination
to condemn him than for his moralizing, is his absolute indifference to
the beauties of nature. Having already given him credit for regarding
nothing that is human as beyond his province, it is our duty to record
the corresponding limitation; of everything that was not human he was
simply unconscious; with him it was not so much that the _proper_ as
that the _only_ study of mankind is man. The apparent exceptions are
not real ones. If he is interested in the gods, it is as the creatures
of human folly that he takes them to be. If he writes a toy essay with
much parade of close observation on the fly, it is to show how amusing
human ingenuity can be on an unlikely subject. But it is worth notice
that 'the first of the moderns,' though he shows himself in many
descriptions of pictures quite awake to the beauty manufactured by man,
has in no way anticipated the modern discovery that nature is
beautiful. To readers who have had enough of the pathetic fallacy, and
of the second-rate novelist's local colour, Lucian's tacit assumption
that there is nothing but man is refreshing. That he was a close enough
observer of human nature, any one can satisfy himself by glancing at
the _Feast of Lapithae_, the _Dialogues of the Hetaerae_, some of the
_Dialogues of the Gods_, and perhaps best of all, _The Liar_.

As it occurs to himself to repel the imputation of plagiarism in _A
literary Prometheus_, the point must be briefly touched upon. There is
no doubt that Homer preceded him in making the gods extremely, even
comically, human, that Plato showed him an example of prose dialogue,
that Aristophanes inspired his constructive fancy, that Menippus
provided him with some ideas, how far developed on the same lines we
cannot now tell, that Menander's comedies and Herodas's mimes
contributed to the absolute naturalness of his conversation. If any, or
almost any, of these had never existed, Lucian would have been more or
less different from what he is. His originality is not in the least
affected by that; we may resolve him theoretically into his elements;
but he too had the gift, that out of three sounds he framed, not a
fourth sound, but a star. The question of his originality is no more
important—indeed much less so—than that of Sterne's.

When we pass to purely literary matters, the first thing to be remarked
upon is the linguistic miracle presented to us. It is useless to dwell
upon it in detail, since this is an introduction not to Lucian, but to
a translation of Lucian; it exists, none the less. A Syrian writes in
Greek, and not in the Greek of his own time, but in that of five or six
centuries before, and he does it, if not with absolute correctness, yet
with the easy mastery that we expect only from one in a million of
those who write in their mother tongue, and takes his place as an
immortal classic. The miracle may be repeated; an English-educated
Hindu may produce masterpieces of Elizabethan English that will rank
him with Bacon and Ben Jonson; but it will surprise us, when it does
happen. That Lucian was himself aware of the awful dangers besetting
the writer who would revive an obsolete fashion of speech is shown in
the _Lexiphanes_.

Some faults of style he undoubtedly has, of which a word or two should
perhaps be said. The first is the general taint of rhetoric, which is
sometimes positively intolerable, and is liable to spoil enjoyment even
of the best pieces occasionally. Were it not that 'Rhetoric made a
Greek of me,' we should wish heartily that he had never been a
rhetorician. It is the practice of talking on unreal cases, doubtless
habitual with him up to forty, that must be responsible for the
self-satisfied fluency, the too great length, and the perverse
ingenuity, that sometimes excite our impatience. Naturally, it is in
the pieces of inferior subject or design that this taint is most
perceptible; and it must be forgiven in consideration of the fact that
without the toilsome study of rhetoric he would not have been the
master of Greek that he was.

The second is perhaps only a special case of the first. Julius Pollux,
a sophist whom Lucian is supposed to have attacked in _The
Rhetorician's Vade mecum_, is best known as author of an _Onomasticon_,
or word-list, containing the most important words relating to certain
subjects. One would be reluctant to believe that Lucian condescended to
use his enemy's manual; but it is hard to think that he had not one of
his own, of which he made much too good use. The conviction is
constantly forced on a translator that when Lucian has said a thing
sufficiently once, he has looked at his Onomasticon, found that there
are some words he has not yet got in, and forthwith said the thing
again with some of them, and yet again with the rest.

The third concerns his use of illustrative anecdotes, comparisons, and
phrases. It is true that, if his pieces are taken each separately, he
is most happy with all these (though it is hard to forgive Alexander's
bathe in the Cydnus with which _The Hall_ opens); but when they are
read continuously, the repeated appearances of the tragic actor
disrobed, the dancing apes and their nuts, of Zeus's golden cord, and
of the 'two octaves apart,' produce an impression of poverty that makes
us momentarily forget his real wealth.

We have spoken of the annoying tendency to pleonasm in Lucian's style,
which must be laid at the door of rhetoric. On the other hand let it
have part of the credit for a thing of vastly more importance, his
choice of dialogue as a form when he took to letters. It is quite
obvious that he was naturally a man of detached mind, with an
inclination for looking at both sides of a question. This was no doubt
strengthened by the common practice among professional rhetoricians of
writing speeches on both sides of imaginary cases. The level-headedness
produced by this combination of nature and training naturally led to
the selection of dialogue. In one of the preliminary trials of _The
double Indictment, Drink_, being one of the parties, and consciously
incapable at the moment of doing herself justice, employs her opponent,
_The Academy_, to plead for as well as against her. There are a good
many pieces in which Lucian follows the same method. In _The Hall_ the
legal form is actually kept; in the _Peregrine_ speeches are delivered
by an admirer and a scorner of the hero; in _The Rhetorician's Vade
mecum_ half the piece is an imaginary statement of the writer's enemy;
in the _Apology for 'The dependent Scholar'_ there is a long imaginary
objection set up to be afterwards disposed of; the _Saturnalian
Letters_ are the cases of rich and poor put from opposite sides. None
of these are dialogues; but they are all less perfect devices to secure
the same object, the putting of the two views that the man of detached
mind recognizes on every question. Not that justice is always the
object; these devices, and dialogue still more, offer the further
advantage of economy; no ideas need be wasted, if the subject is
treated from more than one aspect. The choice of dialogue may be
accounted for thus; it is true that it would not have availed much if
the chooser had not possessed the nimble wit and the endless power of
varying the formula which is so astonishing in Lucian; but that it was
a matter of importance is proved at once by comparing the _Alexander_
with _The Liar_, or _The dependent Scholar_ with the _Feast of
Lapithae_. Lucian's non-dialogue pieces (with the exception of _The
True History_) might have been written by other people; the dialogues
are all his own.

About five-and-thirty of his pieces (or sets of pieces) are in
dialogue, and perhaps the greatest proof of his artistic skill is that
the form never palls; so great is the variety of treatment that no one
of them is like another. The point may be worth dwelling on a little.
The main differences between dialogues, apart from the particular
writer's characteristics, are these: the persons may be two only, or
more; they may be well or ill-matched; the proportions and relations
between conversation and narrative vary; and the objects in view are
not always the same. It is natural for a writer to fall into a groove
with some or all of these, and produce an effect of sameness. Lucian,
on the contrary, so rings the changes by permutations and combinations
of them that each dialogue is approached with a delightful uncertainty
of what form it may take. As to number of persons, it is a long step
from the _Menippus_ to the crowded _dramatis personae_ of _The Fisher_
or the _Zeus Tragoedus_, in the latter of which there are two
independent sets, one overhearing and commenting upon the other. It is
not much less, though of another kind, from _The Parasite_, where the
interlocutor is merely a man of straw, to the _Hermotimus_, where he
has life enough to give us ever fresh hopes of a change in fortune, or
to the _Anacharsis_, where we are not quite sure, even when all is
over, which has had the best. Then if we consider conversation and
narrative, there are all kinds. _Nigrinus_ has narrative in a setting
of dialogue, _Demosthenes_ vice versa, _The Liar_ reported dialogue
inside dialogue; _Icaromenippus_ is almost a narrative, while _The
Runaways_ is almost a play. Lastly, the form serves in the _Toxaris_ as
a vehicle for stories, in the _Hermotimus_ for real discussion, in
_Menippus_ as relief for narrative, in the _Portrait-study_ for
description, in _The Cock_ to convey moralizing, in _The double
Indictment_ autobiography, in the _Lexiphanes_ satire, and in the short
series it enshrines prose idylls.

These are considerations of a mechanical order, perhaps; it may be
admitted that technical skill of this sort is only valuable in giving a
proper chance to more essential gifts; but when those exist, it is of
the highest value. And Lucian's versatility in technique is only a
symbol of his versatile powers in general. He is equally at home in
heaven and earth and hell, with philosophers and cobblers, telling a
story, criticizing a book, describing a picture, elaborating an
allegory, personifying an abstraction, parodying a poet or a historian,
flattering an emperor's mistress, putting an audience into good temper
with him and itself, unveiling an imposture, destroying a religion or a
reputation, drawing a character. The last is perhaps the most
disputable of the catalogue. How many of his personages are realities
to us when we have read, and not mere labels for certain modes of
thought or conduct? Well, characterization is not the first, but only
the second thing with him; what is said matters rather more than who
says it; he is more desirous that the argument should advance than that
the person should reveal himself; nevertheless, nothing is ever said
that is out of character; while nothing can be better of the kind than
some of his professed personifications, his _Plutus_ or his
_Philosophy_, we do retain distinct impressions of at least an
irresponsible _Zeus_ and a decorously spiteful _Hera_, a well-meaning,
incapable _Helius_, a bluff _Posidon_, a gallant _Prometheus_, a
one-idea'd _Charon_; _Timon_ is more than misanthropy, _Eucrates_ than
superstition, _Anacharsis_ than intelligent curiosity, _Micyllus_ than
ignorant poverty, poor _Hermotimus_ than blind faith, and Lucian than a
scoffer.



THE WORKS OF LUCIAN



THE VISION

A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY


When my childhood was over, and I had just left school, my father
called a council to decide upon my profession. Most of his friends
considered that the life of culture was very exacting in toil, time,
and money: a life only for fortune's favourites; whereas our resources
were quite narrow, and urgently called for relief. If I were to take up
some ordinary handicraft, I should be making my own living straight
off, instead of eating my father's meat at my age; and before long my
earnings would be a welcome contribution.

So the next step was to select the most satisfactory of the
handicrafts; it must be one quite easy to acquire, respectable,
inexpensive as regards plant, and fairly profitable. Various
suggestions were made, according to the taste and knowledge of the
councillors; but my father turned to my mother's brother, supposed to
be an excellent statuary, and said to him: 'With you here, it would be
a sin to prefer any other craft; take the lad, regard him as your
charge, teach him to handle, match, and grave your marble; he will do
well enough; you know he has the ability.' This he had inferred from
certain tricks I used to play with wax. When I got out of school, I
used to scrape off the wax from my tablets and work it into cows,
horses, or even men and women, and he thought I did it creditably; my
masters used to cane me for it, but on this occasion it was taken as
evidence of a natural faculty, and my modelling gave them good hopes of
my picking up the art quickly.

As soon as it seemed convenient for me to begin, I was handed over to
my uncle, and by no means reluctantly; I thought I should find it
amusing, and be in a position to impress my companions; they should see
me chiselling gods and making little images for myself and my
favourites. The usual first experience of beginners followed: my uncle
gave me a chisel, and told me to give a gentle touch to a plaque lying
on the bench: 'Well begun is half done,' said he, not very originally.
In my inexperience I brought down the tool too hard, and the plaque
broke; he flew into a rage, picked up a stick which lay handy, and gave
me an introduction to art which might have been gentler and more
encouraging; so I paid my footing with tears.

I ran off, and reached home still howling and tearful, told the story
of the stick, and showed my bruises. I said a great deal about his
brutality, and added that it was all envy: he was afraid of my being a
better sculptor than he. My mother was very angry, and abused her
brother roundly; as for me, I fell asleep that night with my eyes still
wet, and sorrow was with me till the morning.

So much of my tale is ridiculous and childish. What you have now to
hear, gentlemen, is not so contemptible, but deserves an attentive
hearing; in the words of Homer,

  To me in slumber wrapt a dream divine
  Ambrosial night conveyed,


a dream so vivid as to be indistinguishable from reality; after all
these years, I have still the figures of its persons in my eyes, the
vibration of their words in my ears; so clear it all was.

Two women had hold of my hands, and were trying vehemently and
persistently to draw me each her way; I was nearly pulled in two with
their contention; now one would prevail and all but get entire
possession of me, now I would fall to the other again, All the time
they were exchanging loud protests: 'He is mine, and I mean to keep
him;' 'Not yours at all, and it is no use your saying he is.' One of
them seemed to be a working woman, masculine looking, with untidy hair,
horny hands, and dress kilted up; she was all powdered with plaster,
like my uncle when he was chipping marble. The other had a beautiful
face, a comely figure, and neat attire. At last they invited me to
decide which of them I would live with; the rough manly one made her
speech first.

'Dear youth, I am Statuary—the art which you yesterday began to learn,
and which has a natural and a family claim upon you. Your grandfather'
(naming my mother's father) 'and both your uncles practised it, and it
brought them credit. If you will turn a deaf ear to this person's
foolish cajolery, and come and live with me, I promise you wholesome
food and good strong muscles; you shall never fear envy, never leave
your country and your people to go wandering abroad, and you shall be
commended not for your words, but for your works.

'Let not a slovenly person or dirty clothes repel you; such were the
conditions of that Phidias who produced the Zeus, of Polyclitus who
created the Hera, of the much-lauded Myron, of the admired Praxiteles;
and all these are worshipped with the Gods. If you should come to be
counted among them, you will surely have fame enough for yourself
through all the world, you will make your father the envy of all
fathers, and bring your country to all men's notice.' This and more
said Statuary, stumbling along in a strange jargon, stringing her
arguments together in a very earnest manner, and quite intent on
persuading me. But I can remember no more; the greater part of it has
faded from my memory. When she stopped, the other's turn came.

'And I, child, am Culture, no stranger to you even now, though you have
yet to make my closer acquaintance. The advantages that the profession
of a sculptor will bring with it you have just been told; they amount
to no more than being a worker with your hands, your whole prospects in
life limited to that; you will be obscure, poorly and illiberally paid,
mean-spirited, of no account outside your doors; your influence will
never help a friend, silence an enemy, nor impress your countrymen; you
will be just a worker, one of the masses, cowering before the
distinguished, truckling to the eloquent, living the life of a hare, a
prey to your betters. You may turn out a Phidias or a Polyclitus, to be
sure, and create a number of wonderful works; but even so, though your
art will be generally commended, no sensible observer will be found to
wish himself like you; whatever your real qualities, you will always
rank as a common craftsman who makes his living with his hands.

'Be governed by me, on the other hand, and your first reward shall be a
view of the many wondrous deeds and doings of the men of old; you shall
hear their words and know them all, what manner of men they were; and
your soul, which is your very self, I will adorn with many fair
adornments, with self-mastery and justice and reverence and mildness,
with consideration and understanding and fortitude, with love of what
is beautiful, and yearning for what is great; these things it is that
are the true and pure ornaments of the soul. Naught shall escape you
either of ancient wisdom or of present avail; nay, the future too, with
me to aid, you shall foresee; in a word, I will instill into you, and
that in no long time, all knowledge human and divine.

'This penniless son of who knows whom, contemplating but now a vocation
so ignoble, shall soon be admired and envied of all, with honour and
praise and the fame of high achievement, respected by the high-born and
the affluent, clothed as I am clothed' (and here she pointed to her own
bright raiment), 'held worthy of place and precedence; and if you leave
your native land, you will be no unknown nameless wanderer; you shall
wear my marks upon you, and every man beholding you shall touch his
neighbour's arm and say, That is he.

'And if some great moment come to try your friends or country, then
shall all look to you. And to your lightest word the many shall listen
open-mouthed, and marvel, and count you happy in your eloquence, and
your father in his son. 'Tis said that some from mortal men become
immortal; and I will make it truth in you; for though you depart from
life yourself, you shall keep touch with the learned and hold communion
with the best. Consider the mighty Demosthenes, whose son he was, and
whither I exalted him; consider Aeschines; how came a Philip to pay
court to the cymbal-woman's brat? how but for my sake? Dame Statuary
here had the breeding of Socrates himself; but no sooner could he
discern the better part, than he deserted her and enlisted with me;
since when, his name is on every tongue.

'You may dismiss all these great men, and with them all glorious deeds,
majestic words, and seemly looks, all honour, repute, praise,
precedence, power, and office, all lauded eloquence and envied wisdom;
these you may put from you, to gird on a filthy apron and assume a
servile guise; then will you handle crowbars and graving tools, mallets
and chisels; you will be bowed over your work, with eyes and thoughts
bent earthwards, abject as abject can be, with never a free and manly
upward look or aspiration; all your care will be to proportion and
fairly drape your works; to proportioning and adorning yourself you
will give little heed enough, making yourself of less account than your
marble.'

I waited not for her to bring her words to an end, but rose up and
spoke my mind; I turned from that clumsy mechanic woman, and went
rejoicing to lady Culture, the more when I thought upon the stick, and
all the blows my yesterday's apprenticeship had brought me. For a time
the deserted one was wroth, with clenched fists and grinding teeth; but
at last she stiffened, like another Niobe, into marble. A strange fate,
but I must request your belief; dreams are great magicians, are they
not?

Then the other looked upon me and spoke:—'For this justice done me,'
said she, 'you shall now be recompensed; come, mount this car'—and lo,
one stood ready, drawn by winged steeds like Pegasus—, 'that you may
learn what fair sights another choice would have cost you.' We mounted,
she took the reins and drove, and I was carried aloft and beheld towns
and nations and peoples from the East to the West; and methought I was
sowing like Triptolemus; but the nature of the seed I cannot call to
mind—only this, that men on earth when they saw it gave praise, and all
whom I reached in my flight sent me on my way with blessings.

When she had presented these things to my eyes, and me to my admirers,
she brought me back, no more clad as when my flight began; I returned,
methought, in glorious raiment. And finding my father where he stood
waiting, she showed him my raiment, and the guise in which I came, and
said a word to him upon the lot which they had come so near appointing
for me. All this I saw when scarce out of my childhood; the confusion
and terror of the stick, it may be, stamped it on my memory.

'Good gracious,' says some one, before I have done, 'what a longwinded
lawyer's vision!' 'This,' interrupts another, 'must be a winter dream,
to judge by the length of night required; or perhaps it took three
nights, like the making of Heracles. What has come over him, that he
babbles such puerilities? memorable things indeed, a child in bed, and
a very ancient, worn-out dream! what stale frigid stuff! does he take
us for interpreters of dreams?' Sir, I do not. When Xenophon related
that vision of his which you all know, of his father's house on fire
and the rest, was it just by way of a riddle? was it in deliberate
ineptitude that he reproduced it? a likely thing in their desperate
military situation, with the enemy surrounding them! no, the relation
was to serve a useful purpose.

Similarly I have had an object in telling you my dream. It is that the
young may be guided to the better way and set themselves to Culture,
especially any among them who is recreant for fear of poverty, and
minded to enter the wrong path, to the ruin of a nature not all
ignoble. Such an one will be strengthened by my tale, I am well
assured; in me he will find an apt example; let him only compare the
boy of those days, who started in pursuit of the best and devoted
himself to Culture regardless of immediate poverty, with the man who
has now come back to you, as high in fame, to put it at the lowest, as
any stonecutter of them all.

H.



A LITERARY PROMETHEUS

So you will have me a Prometheus? If your meaning is, my good sir, that
my works, like his, are of clay, I accept the comparison and hail my
prototype; potter me to your heart's content, though _my_ clay is poor
common stuff, trampled by common feet till it is little better than
mud. But perhaps it is in exaggerated compliment to my ingenuity that
you father my books upon the subtlest of the Titans; in that case I
fear men will find a hidden meaning, and detect an Attic curl on your
laudatory lips. Where do you find my ingenuity? in what consists the
great subtlety, the Prometheanism, of my writings? enough for me if you
have not found them sheer earth, all unworthy of Caucasian clay-pits.
How much better a claim to kinship with Prometheus have you gentlemen
who win fame in the courts, engaged in real contests; _your_ works have
true life and breath, ay, and the warmth of fire. That is Promethean
indeed, though with the difference, it may be, that you do not work in
clay; your creations are oftenest of gold; we on the other hand who
come before popular audiences and offer mere lectures are exhibitors of
imitations only. However, I have the general resemblance to Prometheus,
as I said before—a resemblance which I share with the dollmakers—, that
my modelling is in clay; but then there is no motion, as with him, not
a sign of life; entertainment and pastime is the beginning and the end
of my work. So I must look for light elsewhere; possibly the title is a
sort of _lucus a non lucendo_, applied to me as to Cleon in the comedy:

Full well Prometheus-Cleon plans—the past.


Or again, the Athenians used to call Prometheuses the makers of jars
and stoves and other, clay-workers, with playful reference to the
material, and perhaps to the use of fire in baking the ware. If that is
all your 'Prometheus' means, you have aimed your shaft well enough, and
flavoured your jest with the right Attic tartness; my productions are
as brittle as their pottery; fling a stone, and you may smash them all
to pieces.

But here some one offers me a crumb of comfort: 'That was not the
likeness he found between you and Prometheus; he meant to commend your
innovating originality: at a time when human beings did not exist,
Prometheus conceived and fashioned them; he moulded and elaborated
certain living things into agility and beauty; he was practically their
creator, though Athene assisted by putting breath into the clay and
bringing the models to life.' So says my some one, giving your remark
its politest possible turn. Perhaps he has hit the true meaning; not
that I can rest content, however, with the mere credit of innovation,
and the absence of any original to which my work can be referred; if it
is not good as well as original, I assure you I shall be ashamed of it,
bring down my foot and crush it out of existence; its novelty shall not
avail (with me at least) to save its ugliness from annihilation. If I
thought otherwise, I admit that a round dozen of vultures would be none
too many for the liver of a dunce who could not see that ugliness was
only aggravated by strangeness.

Ptolemy, son of Lagus, imported two novelties into Egypt; one was a
pure black Bactrian camel, the other a piebald man, half absolutely
black and half unusually white, the two colours evenly distributed; he
invited the Egyptians to the theatre, and concluded a varied show with
these two, expecting to bring down the house. The audience, however,
was terrified by the camel and almost stampeded; still, it _was_ decked
all over with gold, had purple housings and a richly jewelled bridle,
the spoil of Darius' or Cambyses' treasury, if not of Cyrus' own. As
for the man, a few laughed at him, but most shrank as from a monster.
Ptolemy realized that the show was a failure, and the Egyptians proof
against mere novelty, preferring harmony and beauty. So he withdrew and
ceased to prize them; the camel died forgotten, and the parti-coloured
man became the reward of Thespis the fluteplayer for a successful
after-dinner performance.

I am afraid my work is a camel in Egypt, and men's admiration limited
to the bridle and purple housings; as to combinations, though the
components may be of the most beautiful (as Comedy and Dialogue in the
present case), that will not ensure a good effect, unless the mixture
is harmonious and well-proportioned; it is possible that the resultant
of two beauties may be bizarre. The readiest instance to hand is the
centaur: not a lovely creature, you will admit, but a savage, if the
paintings of its drunken bouts and murders go for anything. Well, but
on the other hand is it not possible for two such components to result
in beauty, as the combination of wine and honey in superlative
sweetness? That is my belief; but I am not prepared to maintain that
_my_ components have that property; I fear the mixture may only have
obscured their separate beauties.

For one thing, there was no great original connexion or friendship
between Dialogue and Comedy; the former was a stay-at-home, spending
his time in solitude, or at most taking a stroll with a few intimates;
whereas Comedy put herself in the hands of Dionysus, haunted the
theatre, frolicked in company, laughed and mocked and tripped it to the
flute when she saw good; nay, she would mount her anapaests, as likely
as not, and pelt the friends of Dialogue with nicknames—doctrinaires,
airy metaphysicians, and the like. The thing she loved of all else was
to chaff them and drench them in holiday impertinence, exhibit them
treading on air and arguing with the clouds, or measuring the jump of a
flea, as a type of their ethereal refinements. But Dialogue continued
his deep speculations upon Nature and Virtue, till, as the musicians
say, the interval between them was two full octaves, from the highest
to the lowest note. This ill-assorted pair it is that we have dared to
unite and harmonize—reluctant and ill-disposed for reconciliation.

And here comes in the apprehension of yet another Promethean analogy:
have I confounded male and female, and incurred the penalty? Or no—when
will resemblances end?—have I, rather, cheated my hearers by serving
them up bones wrapped in fat, comic laughter in philosophic solemnity?
As for stealing—for Prometheus is the thief's patron too—I defy you
there; that is the one fault you cannot find with me: from whom should
I have stolen? if any one has dealt before me in such forced unions and
hybrids, I have never made his acquaintance. But after all, what am I
to do? I have made my bed, and I must lie in it; Epimetheus may change
his mind, but Prometheus, never.

H.



NIGRINUS

[Lucian to Nigrinus. Health.

There is a proverb about carrying 'owls to Athens'—an absurd
undertaking, considering the excellent supply already on the spot. Had
it been my intention, in presenting Nigrinus with a volume of my
composition, to indulge him of all people with a display of literary
skill, I should indeed have been an arrant 'owl-fancier in Athens.' As
however my object is merely to communicate to you my present
sentiments, and the profound impression produced upon me by your
eloquence, I may fairly plead Not Guilty, even to the charge of
Thucydides, that 'Men are bold from ignorance, where mature
consideration would render them cautious.' For I need not say that
devotion to my subject is partly responsible for my present hardihood;
it is not _all_ the work of ignorance. Farewell.]

NIGRINUS

A DIALOGUE


_Lucian. A Friend_

_Fr_. What a haughty and dignified Lucian returns to us from his
journey! He will not vouchsafe us a glance; he stands aloof, and will
hold no further communion with us. Altogether a supercilious Lucian!
The change is sudden. Might one inquire the cause of this altered
demeanour?

_Luc_. 'Tis the work of Fortune.

_Fr_. Of Fortune!

_Luc_. As an incidental result of my journey, you see in me a happy
man; 'thrice-blest,' as the tragedians have it.

_Fr_. Dear me. What, in this short time?

_Luc_. Even so.

_Fr_. But what does it all mean? What is the secret of your elation? I
decline to rejoice with you in this abridged fashion; I must have
details. Tell me all about it.

_Luc_. What should you think, if I told you that I had exchanged
servitude for freedom; poverty for true wealth; folly and presumption
for good sense?

_Fr_. Extraordinary! But I am not quite clear of your meaning yet.

_Luc_. Why, I went off to Rome to see an oculist—my eyes had been
getting worse—

_Fr_. Yes, I know about that. I have been hoping that you would light
on a good man.

_Luc_. Well, I got up early one morning with the intention of paying a
long-deferred visit to Nigrinus, the Platonic philosopher. On reaching
his house, I knocked, and was duly announced and admitted to his
presence. I found him with a book in his hand, surrounded by various
statues of the ancient philosophers. Before him lay a tablet, with
geometrical figures described on it, and a globe of reeds, designed
apparently to represent the universe. He greeted me cordially, and
asked after my welfare. I satisfied his inquiries, and demanded, in my
turn, how he did, and whether he had decided on another trip to Greece.
Once on that subject, he gave free expression to his sentiments; and, I
assure you, 'twas a veritable feast of ambrosia to me. The spells of
the Sirens (if ever there were Sirens), of the Pindaric 'Charmers,' of
the Homeric lotus, are things to be forgotten, after his truly divine
eloquence. Led on by his theme, he spoke the praises of philosophy, and
of the freedom which philosophy confers; and expressed his contempt for
the vulgar error which sets a value upon wealth and renown and dominion
and power, upon gold and purple, and all that dazzles the eyes of the
world,—and once attracted my own! I listened with rapt attention, and
with a swelling heart. At the time, I knew not what had come over me;
my feelings were indescribable. My dearest idols, riches and renown,
lay shattered; one moment I was ready to shed bitter tears over the
disillusionment, the next, I could have laughed for scorn of these very
things, and was exulting in my escape from the murky atmosphere of my
past life into the brightness of the upper air. The result was curious:
I forgot all about my ophthalmic troubles, in the gradual improvement
of my spiritual vision; for till that day I had grovelled in spiritual
blindness. Little by little I came into the condition with which you
were twitting me just now. Nigrinus's words have raised in me a joyous
exaltation of spirit which precludes every meaner thought. Philosophy
seems to have produced the same effect on me as wine is said to have
produced on the Indians the first time they drank it. The mere taste of
such potent liquor threw them into a state of absolute frenzy, the
intoxicating power of the wine being doubled in men so warm-blooded by
nature. This is my case. I go about like one possessed; I am drunk with
the words of wisdom.

_Fr_. This is not drunkenness, but sobriety and temperance. But I
should like to hear what Nigrinus actually said, if that may be. It is
only right that you should take that trouble for me; I am your friend,
and share your interests.

_Luc_. Enough! You urge a willing steed. I was about to bespeak your
attention. You must be my witness to the world, that there is reason in
my madness. Indeed, apart from this, the work of recollection is a
pleasure, and has become a constant practice with me; twice, thrice in
a day I repeat over his words, though there is none to hear. A lover,
in the absence of his mistress, remembers some word, some act of hers,
dwells on it, and beguiles hours of sickness with her feigned presence.
Sometimes he thinks he is face to face with her; words, heard long
since, come again from her lips; he rejoices; his soul cleaves to the
memory of the past, and has no time for present vexations. It is so
with me. Philosophy is far away, but I have heard a philosopher's
words. I piece them together, and revolve them in my heart, and am
comforted. Nigrinus is the beacon-fire on which, far out in mid-ocean,
in the darkness of night, I fix my gaze; I fancy him present with me in
all my doings; I hear ever the same words. At times, in moments of
concentration, I see his very face, his voice rings in my ears. Of him
it may truly be said, as of Pericles,

In every heart he left his sting.


_Fr_. Stay, gentle enthusiast. Take a good breath, and start again; I
am waiting to hear what Nigrinus said. You beat about the bush in a
manner truly exasperating.

_Luc_. True, I must make a start, as you say. And yet… Tell me, did you
never see a tragedy (nay, the comedies fare no better) murdered by bad
acting, and the culprits finally hissed off the stage for their pains?
As often as not the play is a perfectly good one, and has scored a
success.

_Fr_. I know the sort of thing; and what about it?

_Luc_. I am afraid that before I have done you will find that I make as
sad work of it as they do,—jumbling things together pell-mell, spoiling
the whole point sometimes by inadequate expression; and you will end by
damning the play instead of the actor. I could put up with my own share
of the disgrace; but it would vex me indeed, that my subject should be
involved in my downfall; I cannot have _it_ discredited for my
shortcomings. Remember, then: whatever the imperfections in my speech,
the author is not to be called to account; he sits far aloof from the
stage, and knows nothing of what is going forward. The memory of the
actor is all that you are invited to criticize; I am neither more nor
less than the 'Messenger' in a tragedy. At each flaw in the argument,
be this your first thought, that the author probably said something
quite different, and much more to the point;—and then you may hiss me
off if you will.

_Fr_. Bless me; here is quite a professional exordium! You are about to
add, I think, that 'your consultation with your client has been but
brief'; that you 'come into court imperfectly instructed'; that 'it
were to be desired that your client were here to plead his own cause;
as it is, you are reduced to such a meagre and inadequate statement of
the case, as memory will supply.' Am I right? Well then, spare yourself
the trouble, as far as I am concerned. Imagine all these preliminaries
settled. I stand prepared to applaud: but if you keep me waiting, I
shall harbour resentment all through the case, and hiss you
accordingly.

_Luc_. I should, indeed, have been glad to avail myself of the
arguments you mention, and of others too. I might have said, that mine
would be no set speech, no orderly statement such as that I heard; that
is wholly beyond me. Nor can I speak in the person of Nigrinus. There
again I should be like a bad actor, taking the part of Agamemnon, or
Creon, or Heracles' self; he is arrayed in cloth of gold, and looks
very formidable, and his mouth opens tremendously wide; and what comes
out of it? A little, shrill, womanish pipe of a voice that would
disgrace Polyxena or Hecuba! I for my part have no intention of
exposing myself in a mask several sizes too large for me, or of wearing
a robe to which I cannot do credit. Rather than play the hero's part,
and involve him in my discomfiture, I will speak in my own person.

_Fr_. Will the man never have done with his masks and his stages?

_Luc_. Nay, that is all. And now to my subject. Nigrinus's first words
were in praise of Greece, and in particular of the Athenians. They are
brought up, he said, to poverty and to philosophy. The endeavours,
whether of foreigners or of their own countrymen, to introduce luxury
into their midst, find no favour with them. When a man comes among them
with this view, they quietly set about to correct his tendency, and by
gentle degrees to bring him to a better course of life. He mentioned
the case of a wealthy man who arrived at Athens in all the vulgar pomp
of retinue and gold and gorgeous raiment, expecting that every eye
would be turned upon him in envy of his lot; instead of which, they
heartily pitied the poor worm, and proceeded to take his education in
hand. Not an ill-natured word, not an attempt at direct interference:
it was a free city; he was at liberty to live in it as he thought fit.
But when he made a public nuisance of himself in the baths or
gymnasiums, crowding in with his attendants, and taking up all the
room, someone would whisper, in a sly aside, as if the words were not
meant to reach his ears: 'He is afraid he will never come out from here
alive; yet all is peace; there is no need of such an army.' The remark
would be overheard, and would have its educational effect. They soon
eased him of his embroidery and purple, by playful allusions to flower
and colour. 'Spring is early.'—'How did that peacock get here?'—'His
mother must have lent him that shawl,'—and so on. The same with the
rest, his rings, his elaborate coiffure, and his table excesses. Little
by little he came to his senses, and left Athens very much the better
for the public education he had received.

Nor do they scruple to confess their poverty. He mentioned a sentence
which he heard pronounced unanimously by the assembled people at the
Panathenaic festival. A citizen had been arrested and brought before
the Steward for making his appearance in coloured clothes. The
onlookers felt for him, and took his part; and when the herald declared
that he had violated the law by attending the festival in that attire,
they all exclaimed with one voice, as if they had been in consultation,
'that he must be pardoned for wearing those clothes, as he had no
others.'

He further commended the Athenian liberty, and unpretentious style of
living; the peace and learned leisure which they so abundantly enjoy.
To dwell among such men, he declared, is to dwell with philosophy; a
single-hearted man, who has been taught to despise wealth, may here
preserve a pure morality; no life could be more in harmony with the
determined pursuit of all that is truly beautiful. But the man over
whom gold has cast its spell, who is in love with riches, and measures
happiness by purple raiment and dominion, who, living his life among
flatterers and slaves, knows not the sweets of freedom, the blessings
of candour, the beauty of truth; he who has given up his soul to
Pleasure, and will serve no other mistress, whose heart is set on
gluttony and wine and women, on whose tongue are deceit and hypocrisy;
he again whose ears must be tickled with lascivious songs, and the
voluptuous notes of flute and lyre;—let all such (he cried) dwell here
in Rome; the life will suit them. Our streets and market-places are
filled with the things they love best. They may take in pleasure
through every aperture, through eye and ear, nostril and palate; nor
are the claims of Aphrodite forgotten. The turbid stream surges
everlastingly through our streets; avarice, perjury, adultery,—all
tastes are represented. Under that rush of waters, modesty, virtue,
uprightness, are torn from the soul; and in their stead grows the tree
of perpetual thirst, whose flowers are many strange desires.

Such was Rome; such were the blessings she taught men to enjoy. 'As for
me,' he continued, 'on returning from my first voyage to Greece, I
stopped short a little way from the city, and called myself to account,
in the words of Homer, for my return.

Ah, wretch! and leav'st thou then the light of day—the joyous freedom
of Greece,
And wouldst behold—


the turmoil of Rome? slander and insolence and gluttony, flatterers and
false friends, legacy-hunters and murderers? And what wilt thou do
here? thou canst not endure these things, neither canst thou escape
them! Thus reasoning, I withdrew myself out of range, as Zeus did
Hector,

Far from the scene of slaughter, blood and strife,


and resolved henceforth to keep my house. I lead the life you see—a
spiritless, womanish life, most men would account it—holding converse
with Philosophy, with Plato, with Truth. From my high seat in this vast
theatre, I look down on the scene beneath me; a scene calculated to
afford much entertainment; calculated also to try a man's resolution to
the utmost. For, to give evil its due, believe me, there is no better
school for virtue, no truer test of moral strength, than life in this
same city of Rome. It is no easy thing, to withstand so many
temptations, so many allurements and distractions of sight and sound.
There is no help for it: like Odysseus, we must sail past them all; and
there must be no binding of hands, no stopping of our ears with wax;
that would be but sorry courage: our ears must hear, our hands must be
free,—and our contempt must be genuine. Well may that man conceive an
admiration of philosophy, who is a spectator of so much folly; well may
he despise the gifts of Fortune, who views this stage, and its
multitudinous actors. The slave grows to be master, the rich man is
poor, the pauper becomes a prince, a king; and one is His Majesty's
friend, and another is his enemy, and a third he banishes. And here is
the strangest thing of all: the affairs of mankind are confessedly the
playthings of Fortune, they have no pretence to security; yet, with
instances of this daily before their eyes, men will reach after wealth
and power;—not one of them but carries his load of hopes unrealized.

'But I said that there was entertainment also to be derived from the
scene; and I will maintain it. Our rich men are an entertainment in
themselves, with their purple and their rings always in evidence, and
their thousand vulgarities. The latest development is the _salutation
by proxy_; [Footnote: The _spoken_ salutation being performed by a
servant.] they favour us with a glance, and that must be happiness
enough. By the more ambitious spirits, an obeisance is expected; this
is not performed at a distance, after the Persian fashion—you go right
up, and make a profound bow, testifying with the angle of your body to
the self-abasement of your soul; you then kiss his hand or breast—and
happy and enviable is he who may do so much! And there stands the great
man, protracting the illusion as long as may be. (I heartily acquiesce,
by the way, in the churlish sentence which excludes us from a nearer
acquaintance with their _lips_.)

'But if these men are amusing, their courtiers and flatterers are
doubly so. They rise in the small hours of the night, to go their round
of the city, to have doors slammed in their faces by slaves, to swallow
as best they may the compliments of "Dog," "Toadeater," and the like.
And the guerdon of their painful circumambulations? A vulgarly
magnificent dinner, the source of many woes! They eat too much, they
drink more than they want, they talk more than they should; and then
they go away, angry and disappointed, grumbling at their fare, and
protesting against the scant courtesy shown them by their insolent
patron. You may see them vomiting in every alley, squabbling at every
brothel. The daylight most of them spend in bed, furnishing employment
for the doctors. Most of them, I say; for with some it has come to
this, that they actually have no time to be ill. My own opinion is
that, of the two parties, the toadies are more to blame, and have only
themselves to thank for their patron's insolence. What can they expect
him to think, after their commendations of his wealth, their panegyrics
on money, their early attendance at his doors, their servile
salutations? If by common consent they would abstain, were it only for
a few days, from this voluntary servitude, the tables must surely be
turned, and the rich come to the doors of the paupers, imploring them
not to leave such blessedness as theirs without a witness, their fine
houses and elegant furniture lying idle for want of some one to use
them. Not wealth, but the envy that waits on wealth, is the object of
their desire. The truth is, gold and ivory and noble mansions are of
little avail to their owner, if there is no one to admire them. If we
would break the power of the rich, and bring down their pretensions, we
must raise up within their borders a stronghold of Indifference. As it
is, their vanity is fostered by the court that is paid to them. In
ordinary men, who have no pretence to education, this conduct, no
doubt, is less to be blamed. But that men who call themselves
philosophers should actually outdo the rest in degradation,—this,
indeed, is the climax. Imagine my feelings, when I see a brother
philosopher, an old man, perhaps, mingling in the herd of sycophants;
dancing attendance on some great man; adapting himself to the
conversational level of a possible host! One thing, indeed, serves to
distinguish him from his company, and to accentuate his disgrace;—he
wears the garb of philosophy. It is much to be regretted that actors of
uniform excellence in other respects will not dress conformably to
their part. For in the achievements of the table, what toadeater
besides can be compared with them? There is an artlessness in their
manner of stuffing themselves, a frankness in their tippling, which
defy competition; they sponge with more spirit than other men, and sit
on with greater persistency. It is not an uncommon thing for the more
courtly sages to oblige the company with a song.'

All this he treated as a jest. But he had much to say on the subject of
those paid philosophers, who hawk about virtue like any other
marketable commodity. 'Hucksters' and 'petty traders' were his words
for them. A man who proposes to teach the contempt of wealth, should
begin (he maintained) by showing a soul above fees. And certainly he
has always acted on this principle himself. He is not content with
giving his services gratis to all comers, but lends a helping hand to
all who are in difficulties, and shows an absolute disregard for
riches. So far is he from grasping at other men's goods, that he could
anticipate without concern the deterioration of his own property. He
possessed an estate at no great distance from the city, on which for
many years he had never even set foot. Nay, he disclaimed all right of
property in it; meaning, I suppose, that we have no natural claim to
such things; law, and the rights of inheritance, give us the use of
them for an indefinite period, and for that time we are styled
'owners'; presently our term lapses, and another succeeds to the
enjoyment of a name.

There are other points in which he sets an admirable example to the
serious followers of philosophy: his frugal life, his systematic habits
of bodily exercise, his modest bearing, his simplicity of dress, but
above all, gentle manners and a constant mind. He urges his followers
not to postpone the pursuit of good, as so many do, who allow
themselves a period of grace till the next great festival, after which
they propose to eschew deceit and lead a righteous life; there must be
no shilly-shallying, when virtue is the goal for which we start. On the
other hand, there are philosophers whose idea of inculcating virtue in
their youthful disciples is to subject them to various tests of
physical endurance; whose favourite prescription is the strait
waistcoat, varied with flagellations, or the enlightened process of
scarification. Of these Nigrinus evidently had no opinion. According to
him, our first care should be to inure the _soul_ to pain and hardship;
he who aspired to educate men aright must reckon with soul as well as
body, with the age of his pupils, and with their previous training; he
would then escape the palpable blunder of overtasking them. Many a one
(he affirmed) had succumbed under the unreasonable strain put upon him;
and I met with an instance myself, of a man who had tasted the
hardships of those schools, but no sooner heard the words of true
wisdom, than he fled incontinently to Nigrinus, and was manifestly the
better for the change.

Leaving the philosophers to themselves, he reverted to more general
subjects: the din and bustle of the city, the theatres, the
race-course, the statues of charioteers, the nomenclature of horses,
the horse-talk in every side-street. The rage for horses has become a
positive epidemic; many persons are infected with it whom one would
have credited with more sense.

Then the scene changed to the pomp and circumstance attendant upon
funerals and testamentary dispositions. 'Only once in his life' (he
observed) 'does your thoroughbred Roman say what he means; and then,'
meaning, in his will, 'it comes too late for him to enjoy the credit of
it.' I could not help laughing when he told me how they thought it
necessary to carry their follies with them to the grave, and to leave
the record of their inanity behind them in black and white; some
stipulating that their clothes or other treasures should be burnt with
them, others that their graves should be watched by particular
servants, or their monuments crowned with flowers;—sapient end to a
life of sapience! 'Of their doings in this world,' said he, 'you may
form some idea from their injunctions with reference to the next. These
are they who will pay a long price for an entree; whose floors are
sprinkled with wine and saffron and spices; who in midwinter smother
themselves in roses, ay, for roses are scarce, and out of season, and
altogether desirable; but let a thing come in its due course, and oh,
'tis vile, 'tis contemptible. These are they whose drink is of costly
essences.' He had no mercy on them here. 'Very bunglers in sensuality,
who know not her laws, and confound her ordinances, flinging down their
souls to be trampled beneath the heels of luxury! As the play has it,
Door or window, all is one to them. Such pleasures are rank solecism.'
One observation of his in the same spirit fairly caps the famous
censure of Momus. Momus found fault with the divine artificer for not
putting his bull's horns in front of the eyes. Similarly, Nigrinus
complained that when these men crown themselves in their banquets, they
put the garlands in the wrong place; if they are so fond of the smell
of violets and roses, they should tie on their garlands as close as may
be under their nostrils; they could then snuff up the smell to their
hearts' content.

Proceeding to the gentlemen who make such a serious work of their
dinner, he was exceedingly merry over their painful elaborations of
sauce and seasoning. 'Here again,' he cried, 'these men are sore put to
it, to procure the most fleeting of enjoyments. Grant them four inches
of palate apiece—'tis the utmost we can allow any man—and I will prove
to you that they have four inches of gratification for their trouble.
Thus: there is no satisfaction to be got out of the costliest viands
before consumption; and after it a full stomach is none the better for
the price it has cost to fill it. _Ergo_, the money is paid for the
pleasure snatched _in transitu_. But what are we to expect? These men
are too grossly ignorant to discern those truer pleasures with which
Philosophy rewards our resolute endeavours.'

The Baths proved a fertile topic, what with the insolence of the
masters and the jostlings of their men;—'they will not stand without
the support of a slave; it is much that they retain enough vitality to
get away on their own legs at all.' One practice which obtains in the
streets and Baths of Rome seemed to arouse his particular resentment.
Slaves have to walk on ahead of their masters, and call out to them to
'look to their feet,' whenever there is a hole or a lump in their way;
it has come to this, that men must be _reminded that they are walking_.
'It is too much,' he cried; 'these men can get through their dinner
with the help of their own teeth and fingers; they can hear with their
own ears: yet they must have other men's eyes to see for them! They are
in possession of all their faculties: yet they are content to be spoken
to in language which should only be addressed to poor maimed wretches!
And this goes on in broad daylight, in our public places; and among the
sufferers are men who are responsible for the welfare of cities!'

This he said, and much more to the same effect. At length he was
silent. All the time I had listened in awestruck attention, dreading
the moment when he should cease. And when it was all over, my condition
was like that of the Phaeacians. For a long time I gazed upon him,
spellbound; then I was seized with a violent attack of giddiness; I was
bathed in perspiration, and when I attempted to speak, I broke down; my
voice failed, my tongue stammered, and at last I was reduced to tears.
Mine was no surface wound from a random shaft. The words had sunk deep
into a vital part; had come with true aim, and cleft my soul asunder.
For (if I may venture to philosophize on my own account) I conceive the
case thus:-A well-conditioned human soul is like a target of some soft
material. As life goes on, many archers take aim thereat; and every
man's quiver is full of subtle and varied arguments, but not every man
shoots aright. Some draw the bow too tight, and let fly with undue
violence. These hit the true direction, but their shafts do not lodge
in the mark; their impetus carries them right through the soul, and
they pass on their way, leaving only a gaping wound behind them. Others
make the contrary mistake: their bows are too slack, and their shafts
never reach their destination; as often as not their force is spent at
half distance, and they drop to earth. Or if they reach the mark, they
do but graze its surface; there can be no deep wound, where the archer
lacks strength. But a good marksman, a Nigrinus, begins with a careful
examination of the mark, in case it should be particularly soft,—or
again too hard; for there are marks which will take no impression from
an arrow. Satisfied on this point, he dips his shaft, not in the
poisons of Scythia or Crete, but in a certain ointment of his own,
which is sweet in flavour and gentle in operation; then, without more
ado, he lets fly. The shaft speeds with well-judged swiftness, cleaves
the mark right through, and remains lodged in it; and the drug works
its way through every part. Thus it is that men hear his words with
mingled joy and grief; and this was my own case, while the drug was
gently diffusing itself through my soul. Hence I was moved to
apostrophize him in the words of Homer:

So aim; and thou shalt bring (to some) salvation.


For as it is not every man that is maddened by the sound of the
Phrygian flute, but only those who are inspired of Cybele, and by those
strains are recalled to their frenzy,—so too not every man who hears
the words of the philosophers will go away possessed, and stricken at
heart, but only those in whose nature is something akin to philosophy.

_Fr_. These are fearful and wonderful words; nay, they are divine. All
that you said of ambrosia and lotus is true; I little knew how
sumptuous had been your feast. I have listened to you with strange
emotion, and now that you have ceased, I feel oppressed, nay, in your
own language, 'sore stricken.' This need not surprise you. A person who
has been bitten by a mad dog not only goes mad himself, you know, but
communicates his madness to any one whom he bites whilst he is in that
state, so that the infection may be carried on by this means through a
long succession of persons.

_Luc_. Ah, then you confess to a tenderness?

_Fr_. I do; and beg that you will think upon some medicine for both our
wounded breasts.

_Luc_. We must take a hint from Telephus.

_Fr_. What is that?

_Luc_. We want a hair of the dog that bit us.

F.



TRIAL IN THE COURT OF VOWELS

Archon, Aristarchus of Phalerum.
Seventh Pyanepsion.
Court of the Seven Vowels.
Action for assault with robbery.
Sigma _v_. Tau.
Plaintiff's case—that the words in-ττ-are wrongfully withheld from him.


Vowels of the jury.—For some time this Mr. Tau's trespasses and
encroachments on my property were of minor importance; I made no claim
for damages, and affected unconsciousness of what I heard; my
conciliatory temper both you and the other letters have reason to know.
His covetousness and folly, however, have now so puffed him up, that he
is no longer content with my habitual concessions, but insists on more;
I accordingly find myself compelled to get the matter settled by you
who know both sides of it. The fact is, I am in bodily fear, owing to
the crushing to which I am subjected. This evergrowing aggression will
end by ousting me completely from my own; I shall be almost dumb, lose
my rank as a letter, and be degraded to a mere noise.

Justice requires then that not merely you, the jury in this case, but
the other letters also, should be on your guard against such attempts.
If any one who chooses is to be licensed to leave his own place and
usurp that of others, with no objection on your part (whose concurrence
is an indispensable condition of all writing), I fail to see how
combinations are to have their ancient constitutional rights secured to
them. But my first reliance is upon you, who will surely never be
guilty of the negligence and indifference which permits injustice; and
even if you decline the contest, I have no intention of sitting down
under that injustice myself.

It is much to be regretted that the assaults of other letters were not
repelled when they first began their lawless practices; then we should
not be watching the still pending dispute between Lambda and Rho for
possession of κιφαλαλγία or κιφαλαργία, κίσηλις or κίσηρις: Gamma would
not have had to defend its rights over γυάφαλλα, constantly almost at
blows with Kappa in the debatable land, and _per contra_ it would
itself have dropped its campaign against Lambda (if indeed it is more
dignified than petty larceny) for converting μόλις to μόγις: in fact
lawless confusion generally would have been nipped in the bud. And it
is well to abide by the established order; such trespasses betray a
revolutionary spirit.

Now our first legislators—Cadmus the islander, Palamedes, son of
Nauplius, or Simonides, whom some authorities credit with the
measure—were not satisfied with determining merely our order of
precedence in the alphabet; they also had an eye to our individual
qualities and faculties. You, Vowels of the jury, constitute the first
Estate, because you can be uttered independently; the semi-vowels,
requiring support before they can be distinctly heard, are the second;
and the lowest Estate they declared to consist of those nine which
cannot be sounded at all by themselves. The vowels are accordingly the
natural guardians of our laws.

But this—this Tau—I would give him a worse designation, but that is a
manifest impossibility; for without the assistance of two good
presentable members of your Estate, Alpha and Upsilon, he would be a
mere nonentity—he it is that has dared to outdo all injuries that I
have ever known, expelling me from the nouns and verbs of my
inheritance, and hunting me out of my conjunctions and prepositions,
till his rapacity has become quite unbearable. I am now to trace
proceedings from the beginning.

I was once staying at Cybelus, a pleasant little town, said to be an
Athenian colony; my travelling companion was the excellent Rho, best of
neighbours. My host was a writer of comedies, called Lysimachus; he
seems to have been a Boeotian by descent, though he represented himself
as coming from the interior of Attica. It was while with him that I
first detected Tau's depredations*. For some earlier occasional
attempts (as when he took to τετταράκοντα for τεσσαράκοντα, τήμερον for
σήμερον, with little pilferings of that sort) I had explained as a
trick and peculiarity of pronunciation; I had tolerated the sound
without letting it annoy me seriously.

[*Footnote: For the probably corrupt passage § 7 fin.—§ 8 init. I
accept Dindorf’s rearrangement as follows: mechr men gar oligois
epecheirei, tettarakonta legein axioun, eti de taemeron kai ta homoia
epispomenon, sunaetheian thmaen idia tauti legein, kai oiston aen moi
to akousma kai ou panu ti edaknomaen ep autois. 8. hupote d ek touton
arxamenon etolmaese kattiteron eipein kai kattuma kai pittan, eita
aperuthriasan kai basilitgan onomazein, aposteroun me ton
suggegenaemenun moi kai suntethrammenun grammatun, ou metrius ipi
toutois aganaktu.]


But impunity emboldened him; kassiteros became kattiteros, kassuma and
pissa shared its fate; and then he cast off all shame and assaulted
basigissa. I found myself losing the society in which I had been born
and bred;* at such a time equanimity is out of place; I am tortured
with apprehension; how long will it be before suka is tuka? Bear with
me, I beseech you; I despair and have none to help me; do I not well to
be angry? It is no petty everyday peril, this threatened separation
from my long-tried familiars. My kissa, my talking bird that nestled in
my breast, he has torn away and named anew; my phassa, my nhssai, my
khossuphoi—all gone; and I had Aristarchus's own word that they were
mine; half my melissai he has lured to strange hives; Attica itself he
has invaded, and wrongfully annexed its Hymettus (as he calls it); and
you and the rest looked on at the seizure.

[*Footnote: For the probably corrupt passage § 7 fin.—§ 8 init. I
accept Dindorf’s rearrangement as follows: mechr men gar oligois
epecheirei, tettarakonta legein axioun, eti de taemeron kai ta homoia
epispomenon, sunaetheian thmaen idia tauti legein, kai oiston aen moi
to akousma kai ou panu ti edaknomaen ep autois. 8. hupote d ek touton
arxamenon etolmaese kattiteron eipein kai kattuma kai pittan, eita
aperuthriasan kai basilitgan onomazein, aposteroun me ton
suggegenaemenun moi kai suntethrammenun grammatun, ou metrius ipi
toutois aganaktu.]


But why dwell on such trifles? I am driven from all Thessaly (Thettaly,
forsooth!), θαλασσα is now _mare clausum_ to me; he will not leave me a
poor garden-herb like seutlion, I have never a passalos to hang myself
upon. What a long-suffering letter I am myself, your own knowledge is
witness enough. When Zeta stole my smaragdos, and robbed me of all
Smyrna, I never took proceedings against him; Xi might break all
sunthhkai, and appeal to Thucydides (who ought to know) as sympathizing
with his xystem; I let them alone. My neighbour Rho I made no
difficulty about pardoning as an invalid, when he transplanted my
mursinai into his garden, or, in a fit of the spleen, took liberties
with my khopsh. So much for my temper.

Tau's, on the other hand, is naturally violent; its manifestations are
not confined to me. In proof that he has not spared other letters, but
assaulted Delta, Theta, Zeta, and almost the whole alphabet, I wish his
various victims to be put in the box. Now, Vowels of the jury, mark the
evidence of Delta:—'He robbed me of _endelecheia_, which he claimed,
quite illegally, as _entelecheia_.' Mark Theta beating his breast and
plucking out his hair in grief for the loss of _kolokunthh_. And Zeta
mourns for _surizein_ and _salpizein_—nay, _cannot_ mourn, for lack of
his gryzein. What tolerance is possible, what penalty adequate, for
this criminal letter's iniquities?

But his wrongs are not even limited to us, his own species; he has now
extended his operations to mankind, as I shall show. He does not permit
their tongues to work straight. (But that mention of mankind calls me
back for a moment, reminding me how he turns glossa into glotta, half
robbing me of the tongue itself. Ay, you are a disease of the tongue in
every sense, Tau.) But I return from that digression, to plead the
cause of mankind and its wrongs. The prisoner's designs include the
constraint, racking, and mutilation of their utterance. A man sees a
beautiful thing, and wishes to describe it as kalon, but in comes Tau,
and forces the man to say ταλόν: _he_ must have precedence everywhere,
of course. Another man has something to say about a vine, and lo,
before it is out, it is metamorphosed by this miserable creature into
misery; he has changed slaema to tlaema, with a suggestive hint of
τλήμων. And, not content with middle-class victims, he aims at the
Persian king himself, the one for whom land and sea are said to have
made way and changed their nature: Cyrus comes out at his bidding as
Tyrus.

Such are his verbal offences against man; his offences in deed remain.
Men weep, and bewail their lot, and curse Cadmus with many curses for
introducing Tau into the family of letters; they say it was his body
that tyrants took for a model, his shape that they imitated, when they
set up the erections on which men are crucified. Stayros the vile
engine is called, and it derives its vile name from him. Now, with all
these crimes upon him, does he not deserve death, nay, many deaths? For
my part I know none bad enough but that supplied by his own shape—that
shape which he gave to the gibbet named Stayros after him by men.

H.



TIMON THE MISANTHROPE

_Timon. Zeus. Hermes. Plutus. Poverty. Gnathonides. Philiades. Demeas.
Thrasycles. Blepsias_.

_Tim_. O Zeus, thou arbiter of friendship, protector of the guest,
preserver of fellowship, lord of the hearth, launcher of the lightning,
avenger of oaths, compeller of clouds, utterer of thunder (and pray add
any other epithets; those cracked poets have plenty ready, especially
when they are in difficulties with their scansion; then it is that a
string of your names saves the situation and fills up the metrical
gaps), O Zeus, where is now your resplendent lightning, where your
deep-toned thunder, where the glowing, white-hot, direful bolt? we know
now 'tis all fudge and poetic moonshine—barring what value may attach
to the rattle of the names. That renowned projectile of yours, which
ranged so far and was so ready to your hand, has gone dead and cold, it
seems; never a spark left in it to scorch iniquity.

If men are meditating perjury, a smouldering lamp-wick is as likely to
frighten them off it as the omnipotent's levin-bolt; the brand you hold
over them is one from which they see neither flame nor smoke can come;
a little soot-grime is the worst that need be apprehended from a touch
of it. No wonder if Salmoneus challenged you to a thundering-match; he
was reasonable enough when he backed his artificial heat against so
cool-tempered a Zeus. Of course he was; there are you in your
opiate-trance, never hearing the perjurers nor casting a glance at
criminals, your glazed eyes dull to all that happens, and your ears as
deaf as a dotard's.

When you were young and keen, and your temper had some life in it, you
used to bestir yourself against crime and violence; there were no
armistices in those days; the thunderbolt was always hard at it, the
aegis quivering, the thunder rattling, the lightning engaged in a
perpetual skirmish. Earth was shaken like a sieve, buried in snow,
bombarded with hail. It rained cats and dogs (if you will pardon my
familiarity), and every shower was a waterspout. Why, in Deucalion's
time, hey presto, everything was swamped, mankind went under, and just
one little ark was saved, stranding on the top of Lycoreus and
preserving a remnant of human seed for the generation of greater
wickedness.

Mankind pays you the natural wages of your laziness; if any one offers
you a victim or a garland nowadays, it is only at Olympia as a
perfunctory accompaniment of the games; he does it not because he
thinks it is any good, but because he may as well keep up an old
custom. It will not be long, most glorious of deities, before they
serve you as you served Cronus, and depose you. I will not rehearse all
the robberies of your temple—those are trifles; but they have laid
hands on your person at Olympia, my lord High-Thunderer, and you had
not the energy to wake the dogs or call in the neighbours; surely they
might have come to the rescue and caught the fellows before they had
finished packing up the swag. But there sat the bold Giant-slayer and
Titan-conqueror letting them cut his hair, with a fifteen-foot
thunderbolt in his hand all the time! My good sir, when is this
careless indifference to cease? how long before you will punish such
wickedness? Phaethon-falls and Deucalion-deluges—a good many of them
will be required to suppress this swelling human insolence.

To leave generalities and illustrate from my own case—I have raised any
number of Athenians to high position, I have turned poor men into rich,
I have assisted every one that was in want, nay, flung my wealth
broadcast in the service of my friends, and now that profusion has
brought me to beggary, they do not so much as know me; I cannot get a
glance from the men who once cringed and worshipped and hung upon my
nod. If I meet one of them in the street, he passes me by as he might
pass the tombstone of one long dead; it has fallen face upwards,
loosened by time, but he wastes no moment deciphering it. Another will
take the next turning when he sees me in the distance; I am a sight of
ill omen, to be shunned by the man whose saviour and benefactor I had
been not so long ago.

Thus in disgrace with fortune, I have betaken me to this corner of the
earth, where I wear the smock-frock and dig for sixpence a day, with
solitude and my spade to assist meditation. So much gain I reckon upon
here—to be exempt from contemplating unmerited prosperity; no sight
that so offends the eye as that. And now, Son of Cronus and Rhea, may I
ask you to shake off that deep sound sleep of yours—why, Epimenides's
was a mere nap to it—, put the bellows to your thunderbolt or warm it
up in Etna, get it into a good blaze, and give a display of spirit,
like a manly vigorous Zeus? or are we to believe the Cretans, who show
your grave among their sights?

_Zeus_. Hermes, who is that calling out from Attica? there, on the
lower slopes of Hymettus—a grimy squalid fellow in a smock-frock; he is
bending over a spade or something; but he has a tongue in his head, and
is not afraid to use it. He must be a philosopher, to judge from his
fluent blasphemy.

_Her_. What, father! have you forgotten Timon—son of Echecratides, of
Collytus? many is the time he has feasted us on unexceptionable
victims; the rich _parvenu_ of the whole hecatombs, you know, who used
to do us so well at the Diasia.

_Zeus_. Dear, dear, _quantum mutatus_! is this the admired, the rich,
the popular? What has brought him to this pass? There he is in filth
and misery, digging for hire, labouring at that ponderous spade.

_Her_. Why, if you like to put it so, it was kindness and generosity
and universal compassion that ruined him; but it would be nearer the
truth to call him a fool and a simpleton and a blunderer; he did not
realize that his proteges were carrion crows and wolves; vultures were
feeding on his unfortunate liver, and he took them for friends and good
comrades, showing a fine appetite just to please him. So they gnawed
his bones perfectly clean, sucked out with great precision any marrow
there might be in them, and went off, leaving him as dry as a tree
whose roots have been severed; and now they do not know him or
vouchsafe him a nod—no such fools—, nor ever think of showing him
charity or repaying his gifts. That is how the spade and smock-frock
are accounted for; he is ashamed to show his face in town; so he hires
himself out to dig, and broods over his wrongs—the rich men he has made
passing him contemptuously by, apparently quite unaware that his name
is Timon.

_Zeus_. This is a case we must take up and see to. No wonder he is down
on his luck. We should be putting ourselves on the level of his
despicable sycophants, if we forgot all the fat ox and goat thighs he
has burnt on our altars; the savour of them is yet in my nostrils. But
I have been so busy, there is such a din of perjury, assault, and
burglary; I am so frightened of the temple-robbers—they swarm now, you
cannot keep them out, nor take a nap with any safety; and, with one
thing and another, it is an age since I had a look at Attica. I have
hardly been there since philosophy and argument came into fashion;
indeed, with their shouting-matches going on, prayers are quite
inaudible. One must sit with one's ears plugged, if one does not want
the drums of them cracked; such long vociferous rigmaroles about
Incorporeal Things, or something they call Virtue! That is how we came
to neglect this man—who really deserved better.

However, go to him now without wasting any more time, Hermes, and take
Plutus with you. Thesaurus is to accompany Plutus, and they are both to
stay with Timon, and not leave him so lightly this time, even though
the generous fellow does his best to find other hosts for them. As to
those parasites, and the ingratitude they showed him, I will attend to
them before long; they shall have their deserts as soon as I have got
the thunderbolt in order again. Its two best spikes are broken and
blunted; my zeal outran my discretion the other day when I took that
shot at Anaxagoras the sophist; the Gods non-existent, indeed! that was
what he was telling his disciples. However, I missed him (Pericles had
held up his hand to shield him), and the bolt glanced off on to the
Anaceum, set it on fire, and was itself nearly pulverized on the rock.
But meanwhile it will be quite sufficient punishment for them to see
Timon rolling in money.

_Her_. Nothing like lifting up your voice, making yourself a nuisance,
and showing a bold front; it is equally effective whether you are
pleading with juries or deities. Here is Timon developing from pauper
to millionaire, just because his prayer was loud and free enough to
startle Zeus; if he had dug quietly with his face to his work, he might
have dug to all eternity, for any notice he would have got.

_Pl_. Well, Zeus, I am not going to him.

_Zeus_. Your reason, good Plutus; have I not told you to go?

_Pl_. Good God! why, he insulted me, threw me about, dismembered me—me,
his old family friend—and practically pitchforked me out of the house;
he could not have been in a greater hurry to be rid of me if I had been
a live coal in his hand. What, go there again, to be transferred to
toadies and flatterers and harlots? No, no, Zeus; send me to people who
will appreciate the gift, take care of me, value and cherish me. Let
these gulls consort with the poverty which they prefer to me; she will
find them a smock-frock and a spade, and they can be thankful for a
miserable pittance of sixpence a day, these reckless squanderers of
1,000 pound presents.

_Zeus_. Ah, Timon will not treat you that way again. If his loins are
not of cast iron, his spade-work will have taught him a thing or two
about your superiority to poverty. You are so particular, you know;
now, you are finding fault with Timon for opening the door to you and
letting you wander at your own sweet will, instead of keeping you in
jealous seclusion. Yesterday it was another story: you were imprisoned
by rich men under bolts and locks and seals, and never allowed a
glimpse of sunlight. That was the burden of your complaint—you were
stifled in deep darkness. We saw you pale and careworn, your fingers
hooked with coin-counting, and heard how you would like to run away, if
only you could get the chance. It was monstrous, then, that you should
be kept in a bronze or iron chamber, like a Danae condemned to
virginity, and brought up by those stern unscrupulous tutors, Interest,
Debit and Credit.

They were perfectly ridiculous, you know, loving you to distraction,
but not daring to enjoy you when they might; you were in their power,
yet they could not give the reins to their passion; they kept awake
watching you with their eyes glued to bolt and seal; the enjoyment that
satisfied them was not to enjoy you themselves, but to prevent others'
enjoying you—true dogs in the manger. Yes, and then how absurd it was
that they should scrape and hoard, and end by being jealous of their
own selves! Ah, if they could but see that rascally
slave—steward—trainer—sneaking in bent on carouse! little enough _he_
troubles his head about the luckless unamiable owner at his nightly
accounts by a dim little half-fed lamp. How, pray, do you reconcile
your old strictures of this sort with your contrary denunciation of
Timon?

_Pl_. Oh, if you consider the thing candidly, you will find both
attitudes reasonable. It is clear enough that Timon's utter negligence
comes from slackness, and not from any consideration for me. As for the
other sort, who keep me shut up in the obscurity of strong-boxes,
intent on making me heavy and fat and unwieldy, never touching me
themselves, and never letting me see the light, lest some one else
should catch sight of me, I always thought of them as fools and
tyrants; what harm had I done that they should let me rot in close
confinement? and did not they know that in a little while they would
pass away and have to resign me to some other lucky man?

No, give me neither these nor the off-hand gentry; my beau ideal is the
man who steers a middle course, as far from complete abstention as from
utter profusion. Consider, Zeus, by your own great name; suppose a man
were to take a fair young wife, and then absolutely decline all jealous
precautions, to the point of letting her wander where she would by day
or night, keeping company with any one who had a mind to her—or put it
a little stronger, and let him be procurer, janitor, pander, and
advertiser of her charms in his own person—well, what sort of love is
his? come, Zeus, you have a good deal of experience, you know what love
is.

On the other hand, let a man make a suitable match for the express
purpose of raising heirs, and then let him neither himself have
anything to do with her ripe, yet modest, beauty, nor allow any other
to set eyes on it, but shut her up in barren, fruitless virginity; let
him say all the while that he is in love with her, and let his pallid
hue, his wasting flesh and his sunken eyes confirm the statement;—is he
a madman, or is he not? he should be raising a family and enjoying
matrimony; but he lets this fair-faced lovely girl wither away; he
might as well be bringing up a perpetual priestess of Demeter. And now
you understand my feelings when one set of people kick me about or
waste me by the bucketful, and the others clap irons on me like a
runaway convict.

_Zeus_. However, indignation is superfluous; both sets have just what
they deserve—one as hungry and thirsty and dry-mouthed as Tantalus,
getting no further than gaping at the gold; and the other finding its
food swept away from its very gullet, as the Harpies served Phineus.
Come, be off with you; you will find Timon has much more sense
nowadays.

_Pl_. Oh, of course! he will not do his best to let me run out of a
leaky vessel before I have done running in! oh no, he will not be
consumed with apprehensions of the inflow's gaining on the waste and
flooding him! I shall be supplying a cask of the Danaids; no matter how
fast I pour in, the thing will not hold water; every gallon will be out
almost before it is in; the bore of the waste-pipe is so large, and
never a plug.

_Zeus_. Well, if he does not stop the hole—if the leak is more than
temporary—you will run out in no time, and he can find his smock-frock
and spade again in the dregs of the cask. Now go along, both of you,
and make the man rich. And, Hermes, on your way back, remember to bring
the Cyclopes with you from Etna; my thunderbolt wants the grindstone;
and I have work for it as soon as it is sharp.

_Her_. Come along, Plutus. Hullo! limping? My good man, I did not know
you were lame as well as blind.

_Pl_. No, it is intermittent. As sure as Zeus sends me _to_ any one, a
sort of lethargy comes over me, my legs are like lead, and I can hardly
get to my journey's end; my destined host is sometimes an old man
before I reach him. As a parting guest, on the other hand, you may see
me wing my way swifter than any dream. 'Are you ready?' and almost
before 'Go' has sounded, up goes my name as winner; I have flashed
round the course absolutely unseen sometimes.

_Her_. You are not quite keeping to the truth; I could name you plenty
of people who yesterday had not the price of a halter to hang
themselves with, and to-day have developed into lavish men of fortune;
they drive their pair of high-steppers, whereas a donkey would have
been beyond their means before. They go about in purple raiment with
jewelled fingers, hardly convinced yet that their wealth is not all a
dream.

_Pl_. Ah, those are special cases, Hermes. I do not go on my own feet
on those occasions, and it is not Zeus who sends me, but Pluto, who has
his own ways of conferring wealth and making presents; Pluto and Plutus
are not unconnected, you see. When I am to flit from one house to
another, they lay me on parchment, seal me up carefully, make a parcel
of me and take me round. The dead man lies in some dark corner,
shrouded from the knees upward in an old sheet, with the cats fighting
for possession of him, while those who have expectations wait for me in
the public place, gaping as wide as young swallows that scream for
their mother's return.

Then the seal is taken off, the string cut, the parchment opened, and
my new owner's name made known. It is a relation, or a parasite, or
perhaps a domestic minion, whose value lay in his vices and his smooth
cheeks; he has continued to supply his master with all sorts of
unnatural pleasures beyond the years which might excuse such service,
and now the fine fellow is richly rewarded. But whoever it is, he
snatches me up, parchment included, and is off with me in a flash; he
used to be called Pyrrhias or Dromo or Tibius, but now he is Megacles,
Megabyzus, or Protarchus; off he goes, leaving the disappointed ones
staring at each other in very genuine mourning—over the fine fish which
has jumped out of the landing-net after swallowing their good bait.

The fellow who _has_ pounced on me has neither taste nor feeling; the
sight of fetters still gives him a start; crack a whip in his
neighbourhood, and his ears tingle; the treadmill is an abode of awe to
him. He is now insufferable—insults his new equals, and whips his old
fellows to see what that side of the transaction feels like. He ends by
finding a mistress, or taking to the turf, or being cajoled by
parasites; these have only to swear he is handsomer than Nireus, nobler
than Cecrops or Codrus, wiser than Odysseus, richer than a dozen
Croesuses rolled into one; and so the poor wretch disperses in a moment
what cost so many perjuries, robberies, and swindles to amass.

_Her_. A very fair picture. But when you go on your own feet, how can a
blind man like you find the way? Zeus sends you to people who he thinks
deserve riches; but how do you distinguish them?

_Pl_. Do you suppose I do find them? not much. I should scarcely have
passed Aristides by, and gone to Hipponicus, Callias, and any number of
other Athenians whose merits could have been valued in copper.

_Her_. Well, but what do you do when he sends you?

_Pl_. I just wander up and down till I come across some one; the first
comer takes me off home with him, and thanks—whom but the God of
windfalls, yourself?

_Her_. So Zeus is in error, and you do not enrich deserving persons
according to his pleasure?

_Pl_. My dear fellow, how can he expect it? He knows I am blind, and he
sends me groping about for a thing so hard to detect, and so nearly
extinct this long time, that a Lynceus would have his work cut out
spying for its dubious remains. So you see, as the good are few, and
cities are crowded with multitudes of the bad, I am much more likely to
come upon the latter in my rambles, and they keep me in their nets.

_Her_. But when you are leaving them, how do you find escape so easy?
you do not know the way.

_Pl_. Ah, there is just one occasion which brings me quickness of eye
and foot; and that is flight.

_Her_. Yet another question. You are not only blind (excuse my
frankness), but pallid and decrepit; how comes it, then, that you have
so many lovers? All men's looks are for you; if they get possession of
you, they count themselves happy men; if they miss you, life is not
worth living. Why, I have known not a few so sick for love of you that
they have scaled some sky-pointing crag, and thence hurled themselves
to unplumbed ocean depths [Footnote: See Apology for 'The Dependent
Scholar,'], when they thought they were scorned by you, because you
would not acknowledge their first salute. I am sure you know yourself
well enough to confess that they must be lunatics, to rave about such
charms as yours.

_Pl_. Why, you do not suppose they see me in my true shape, lame,
blind, and so forth?

_Her_. How else, unless they are all as blind themselves?

_Pl_. They are not blind, my dear boy; but the ignorant misconceptions
now so prevalent obscure their vision. And then I contribute; not to be
an absolute fright when they see me, I put on a charming mask, all gilt
and jewels, and dress myself up. They take the mask for my face, fall
in love with its beauty, and are dying to possess it. If any one were
to strip and show me to them naked, they would doubtless reproach
themselves for their blindness in being captivated by such an ugly
misshapen creature,

_Her_. How about fruition, then? When they are rich, and have put the
mask on themselves, they are still deluded; if any one tries to take it
off, they would sooner part with their heads than with it; and it is
not likely they do not know by that time that the beauty is
adventitious, now that they have an inside view.

_Pl_. There too I have powerful allies.

_Her_. Namely—?

_Pl_. When a man makes my acquaintance, and opens the door to let me
in, there enter unseen by my side Arrogance, Folly, Vainglory,
Effeminacy, Insolence, Deceit, and a goodly company more. These possess
his soul; he begins to admire mean things, pursues what he should
abhor, reveres me amid my bodyguard of the insinuating vices which I
have begotten, and would consent to anything sooner than part with me.

_Her_. What a smooth, slippery, unstable, evasive fellow you are,
Plutus! there is no getting a firm hold of you; you wriggle through
one's fingers somehow, like an eel or a snake. Poverty is so
different—sticky, clinging, all over hooks; any one who comes near her
is caught directly, and finds it no simple matter to get clear. But all
this gossip has put business out of our heads.

_Pl_. Business? What business?

_Her_. We have forgotten to bring Thesaurus, and we cannot do without
him.

_Pl_. Oh, never mind him. When I come up to see you, I leave him on
earth, with strict orders to stay indoors, and open to no one unless he
hears my voice.

_Her_. Then we may make our way into Attica; hold on to my cloak till I
find Timon's retreat.

_Pl_. It is just as well to keep touch; if you let me drop behind, I am
as likely as not to be snapped up by Hyperbolus or Cleon. But what is
that noise? it sounds like iron on stone.

_Her_. Ah, here is Timon close to us; what a steep stony little plot he
has got to dig! Good gracious, I see Poverty and Toil in attendance,
Endurance, Wisdom, Courage, and Hunger's whole company in full
force—much more efficient than your guards, Plutus.

_Pl_. Oh dear, let us make the best of our way home, Hermes. We shall
never produce any impression on a man surrounded by such troops.

_Her_. Zeus thought otherwise; so no cowardice.

_Pov_. Slayer of Argus, whither away, you two hand in hand?

_Her_. Zeus has sent us to Timon here.

_Pov_. Now? What has Plutus to do with Timon now? I found him suffering
under Luxury's treatment, put him in the charge of Wisdom and Toil
(whom you see here), and made a good worthy man of him. Do you take me
for such a contemptible helpless creature that you can rob me of my
little all? have I perfected him in virtue, only to see Plutus take
him, trust him to Insolence and Arrogance, make him as soft and limp
and silly as before, and return him to me a worn-out rag again?

_Her_. It is Zeus's will.

_Pov_. I am off, then. Toil, Wisdom, and the rest of you, quick march!
Well, he will realize his loss before long; he had a good help meet in
me, and a true teacher; with me he was healthy in body and vigorous in
spirit; he lived the life of a man, and could be independent, and see
the thousand and one needless refinements in all their absurdity.

_Her_. There they go, Plutus; let us come to him.

_Tim_. Who are you, villains? What do you want here, interrupting a
hired labourer? You shall have something to take with you, confound you
all! These clods and stones shall provide you with a broken head or
two.

_Her_. Stop, Timon, don't throw. We are not men; I am Hermes, and this
is Plutus; Zeus has sent us in answer to your prayers. So knock off
work, take your fortune, and much good may it do you!

_Tim_. I dare say you _are_ Gods; that shall not save you. I hate every
one, man or God; and as for this blind fellow, whoever he may be, I am
going to give him one over the head with my spade.

_Pl_. For God's sake, Hermes, let us get out of this! the man is
melancholy-mad, I believe; he will do me a mischief before I get off.

_Her_. Now don't be foolish, Timon; cease overdoing the ill-tempered
boor, hold out your hands, take your luck, and be a rich man again.
Have Athens at your feet, and from your solitary eminence you can
forget ingratitude.

_Tim_. I have no use for you; leave me in peace; my spade is riches
enough for me; for the rest, I am perfectly happy if people will let me
alone.

_Her_. My dear sir—so unsociable?

So stiff and stubborn a reply to Zeus?


A misanthrope you may well be, after the way men have treated you; but
with the Gods so thoughtful for you, you need not be a misotheist.

_Tim_. Very well, Hermes; I am extremely obliged to you and Zeus for
your thoughtfulness—there; but I will not have Plutus.

_Her_. Why, pray?

_Tim_. He brought me countless troubles long ago—put me in the power of
flatterers, set designing persons on me, stirred up ill-feeling,
corrupted me with indulgence, exposed me to envy, and wound up with
treacherously deserting me at a moment's notice. Then the excellent
Poverty gave me a drilling in manly labour, conversed with me in all
frankness and sincerity, rewarded my exertions with a sufficiency, and
taught me to despise superfluities; all hopes of a livelihood were to
depend on myself, and I was to know my true wealth, unassailable by
parasites' flattery or informers' threats, hasty legislatures or
decree-mongering legislators, and which even the tyrant's machinations
cannot touch.

So, toil-hardened, working with a will at this bit of ground, my eyes
rid of city offences, I get bread enough and to spare out of my spade.
Go your ways, then, Hermes, and take Plutus back to Zeus. I am quite
content to let every man of them go hang.

_Her_. Oh, that would be a pity; they are not all hanging-ripe. Don't
make a passionate child of yourself, but admit Plutus. Zeus's gifts are
too good to be thrown away.

_Pl_. Will you condescend to argue with me, Timon? or does my voice
provoke you?

_Tim_. Oh, talk away; but be brief; no rascally lawyer's 'opening the
case.' I can put up with a few words from you, for Hermes' sake.

_Pl_. A speech of some length might seem to be needed, considering the
number of your charges; however, just examine your imputations of
injustice. It was I that gave you those great objects of
desire—consideration, precedence, honours, and every delight; all eyes
and tongues and attentions were yours—my gifts; and if flatterers
abused you, I am not responsible for that. It is I who should rather
complain; you prostituted me vilely to scoundrels, whose laudations and
cajolery of you were only samples of their designs upon me. As to your
saying that I wound up by betraying you, you have things topsy-turvy
again; _I_ may complain; you took every method to estrange me, and
finally kicked me out neck and crop. That is why your revered Dame
Poverty has supplied you with a smock-frock to replace your soft
raiment. Why, I begged and prayed Zeus (and Hermes heard me) that I
might be excused from revisiting a person who had been so unfriendly to
me as you.

_Her_. But you see how he is changed, Plutus; you need not be afraid to
live with him now. Just go on digging, Timon; and you, Plutus, put
Thesaurus in position; he will come at your call.

_Tim_. I must obey, and be a rich man again, Hermes; what can one do,
when Gods insist? But reflect what troubles you are bringing on my
luckless head; I have had a blissful life of late, and now for no fault
of my own I am to have my hands full of gold and care again.

_Her_. Hard, intolerable fate! yet endure for my sake, if only that the
flatterers may burst themselves with envy. And now for heaven, via
Etna.

_Pl_. He is off, I suppose, from the beating of his wings. Now, you
stay where you are, while I go and fetch Thesaurus to you; or rather,
dig hard. Here, Gold! Thesaurus I say! answer Timon's summons and let
him unearth you. Now, Timon, with a will; a deep stroke or two. I will
leave you together.

_Tim_. Come, spade, show your mettle; stick to it; invite Thesaurus to
step up from his retreat…. O God of Wonders! O mystic priests! O lucky
Hermes! whence this flood of gold? Sure, 'tis all a dream; methinks
'twill be ashes when I wake. And yet—coined gold, ruddy and heavy, a
feast of delight!

O gold, the fairest gift to mortal eyes!


be it night, or be it day,

Thou dost outshine all else like living fire.


Come to me, my own, my beloved. I doubt the tale no longer; well might
Zeus take the shape of gold; where is the maid that would not open her
bosom to receive so fair a lover gliding through the roof?

Talk of Midas, Croesus, Delphic treasures! they were all nothing to
Timon and his wealth; why, the Persian King could not match it. My
spade, my dearest smock-frock, you must hang, a votive offering to Pan.
And now I will buy up this desert corner, and build a tiny castle for
my treasure, big enough for me to live in all alone, and, when I am
dead, to lie in. And be the rule and law of my remaining days to shun
all men, be blind to all men, scorn all men. Friendship, hospitality,
society, compassion—vain words all. To be moved by another's tears, to
assist another's need—be such things illegal and immoral. Let me live
apart like a wolf; be Timon's one friend—Timon.

All others are my foes and ill-wishers; to hold communion with them is
pollution; to set eyes upon one of them marks the day unholy; let them
be to me even as images of bronze or stone. I will receive no herald
from them, keep with them no truce; the bounds of my desert are the
line they may not cross. Cousin and kinsman, neighbour and
countryman—these are dead useless names, wherein fools may find a
meaning. Let Timon keep his wealth to himself, scorn all men, and live
in solitary luxury, quit of flattery and vulgar praise; let him
sacrifice and feast alone, his own associate and neighbour, far from*
the world. Yea, when his last day comes, let there be none to close his
eyes and lay him out, but himself alone.

[*Footnote: Reading, with Dindorf, _hekas on_ for _ekseion_.]


Be the name he loves Misanthropus, and the marks whereby he may be
known peevishness and spleen, wrath and rudeness and abhorrence. If
ever one burning to death should call for help against the flames, let
me help—with pitch and oil. If another be swept past me by a winter
torrent, and stretch out his hands for aid, then let mine press him
down head under, that he never rise again. So shall they receive as
they have given. Mover of this resolution—Timon, son of Echecratides of
Collytus. Presiding officer—the same Timon. The ayes have it. Let it be
law, and duly observed.

All the same, I would give a good deal to have the fact of my enormous
wealth generally known; they would all be fit to hang themselves over
it…. Why, what is this? Well, that is quick work. Here they come
running from every point of the compass, all dusty and panting; they
have smelt out the gold somehow or other. Now, shall I get on top of
this knoll, keep up a galling fire of stones from my point of vantage,
and get rid of them that way? Or shall I make an exception to my law by
parleying with them for once? contempt might hit harder than stones.
Yes, I think that is better; I will stay where I am, and receive them.
Let us see, who is this in front? Ah, Gnathonides the flatterer; when I
asked an alms of him the other day, he offered me a halter; many a cask
of my wine has he made a beast of himself over. I congratulate him on
his speed; first come, first served.

_Gna_. What did I tell them?—Timon was too good a man to be abandoned
by Providence. How are you, Timon? as good-looking and good-tempered,
as good a fellow, as ever?

_Tim_. And you, Gnathonides, still teaching vultures rapacity, and men
cunning?

_Gna_. Ah, he always liked his little joke. But where do you dine? I
have brought a new song with me, a march out of the last musical thing
on.

_Tim_. It will be a funeral march, then, and a very touching one, with
spade _obbligato_.

_Gna_. What means this? This is assault, Timon; just let me find a
witness! … Oh, my God, my God! … I'll have you before the Areopagus for
assault and battery.

_Tim_. You'd better not wait much longer, or you'll have to make it
murder.

_Gna_. Mercy, mercy! … Now, a little gold ointment to heal the wound;
it is a first-rate styptic.

_Tim_. What! you _won't_ go, won't you?

_Gna_. Oh, I am going. But you shall repent this. Alas, so genial once,
and now so rude!

_Tim_. Now who is this with the bald crown? Why, it is Philiades; if
there is a loathsome flatterer, it is he. When I sang that song that
nobody else would applaud, he lauded me to the skies, and swore no
dying swan could be more tuneful; his reward was one of my farms, and a
500 pounds portion for his daughter. And then when he found I was ill,
and had come to him for assistance, his generous aid took the form of
blows.

_Phil_. You shameless creatures! yes, yes, _now_ you know Timon's
merits! _now_ Gnathonides would be his friend and boon-companion! well,
he has the right reward of ingratitude. Some of us were his familiars
and playmates and neighbours; but _we_ hold back a little; we would not
seem to thrust ourselves upon him. Greeting, lord Timon; pray let me
warn you against these abominable flatterers; they are your humble
servants during meal-times, and else about as useful as carrion crows.
Perfidy is the order of the day; everywhere ingratitude and vileness. I
was just bringing a couple of hundred pounds, for your immediate
necessities, and was nearly here before I heard of your splendid
fortune. So I just came on to give you this word of caution; though
indeed you are wise enough (I would take your advice before Nestor's
myself) to need none of my counsel.

_Tim_. Quite so, Philiades. But come near, will you not, and receive
my—spade!

_Phil_. Help, help! this thankless brute has broken my head, for giving
him good counsel.

_Tim_. Now for number three. Lawyer Demeas—my cousin, as he calls
himself, with a decree in his hand. Between three and four thousand it
was that I paid in to the Treasury in ready money for him; he had been
fined that amount and imprisoned in default, and I took pity on him.
Well, the other day he was distributing-officer of the festival money
[Footnote: Every citizen had the right to receive from the State the
small sum which would pay for his admission to theatrical or other
festival entertainments.]; when I applied for my share, he pretended I
was not a citizen.

_Dem_. Hail, Timon, ornament of our race, pillar of Athens, shield of
Hellas! The Assembly and both Councils are met, and expect your
appearance. But first hear the decree which I have proposed in your
honour. 'WHEREAS Timon son of Echecratides of Collytus who adds to high
position and character a sagacity unmatched in Greece is a consistent
and indefatigable promoter of his country's good and Whereas he has
been victorious at Olympia on one day in boxing wrestling and running
as well as in the two and the four-horse chariot races—'

_Tim_. Why, I was never so much as a spectator at Olympia.

_Dem_. What does that matter? you will be some day. It looks better to
have a good deal of that sort in—'and Whereas he fought with
distinction last year at Acharnae cutting two Peloponnesian companies
to pieces—'

_Tim_. Good work that, considering that my name was not on the
muster-rolls, because I could not afford a suit of armour.

_Dem_. Ah, you are modest; but it would be ingratitude in us to forget
your services—'and Whereas by political measures and responsible advice
and military action he has conferred great benefits on his country Now
for all these reasons it is the pleasure of the Assembly and the
Council the ten divisions of the High Court and the Borough Councils
individually and collectively THAT a golden statue of the said Timon be
placed on the Acropolis alongside of Athene with a thunderbolt in the
hand and a seven-rayed aureole on the head Further that golden garlands
be conferred on him and proclaimed this day at the New Tragedies
[Footnote: See _Dionysia_ in Notes] the said day being kept in his
honour as the Dionysia. Mover of the Decree Demeas the pleader the said
Timon's near relation and disciple the said Timon being as
distinguished in pleading as in all else wherein it pleases him to
excel.'

So runs the decree. I had designed also to present to you my son, whom
I have named Timon after you.

_Tim_. Why, I thought you were a bachelor, Demeas.

_Dem_. Ah, but I intend to marry next year; my child—which is to be a
boy—I hereby name Timon.

_Tim_. I doubt whether you will feel like marrying, my man, when I have
given you—this!

_Dem_. Oh Lord! what is that for? … You are plotting a _coup d'etat_,
you Timon; you assault free men, and you are neither a free man nor a
citizen yourself. You shall soon be called to account for your crimes;
it was you set fire to the Acropolis, for one thing.

_Tim_. Why, you scoundrel, the Acropolis has not been set on fire; you
are a common blackmailer.

_Dem_. You got your gold by breaking into the Treasury.

_Tim_. It has not been broken into, either; you are not even plausible.

_Dem_. There is time for the burglary yet; meantime, you are in
possession of the treasures.

_Tim_. Well, here is another for you, anyhow.

_Dem_. Oh! oh! my back!

_Tim_. Don't make such a noise, if you don't want a third. It would be
too absurd, you know, if I could cut two companies of Spartans to
pieces without my armour, and not be able to give a single little
scoundrel his deserts. My Olympic boxing and wrestling victories would
be thrown away.

Whom have we now? is this Thrasycles the philosopher? sure enough it
is. A halo of beard, eyebrows an inch above their place, superiority in
his air, a look that might storm heaven, locks waving to the wind—'tis
a very Boreas or Triton from Zeuxis' pencil. This hero of the careful
get-up, the solemn gait, the plain attire—in the morning he will utter
a thousand maxims, expounding Virtue, arraigning self- indulgence,
lauding simplicity; and then, when he gets to dinner after his bath,
his servant fills him a bumper (he prefers it neat), and draining this
Lethe-draught he proceeds to turn his morning maxima inside out; he
swoops like a hawk on dainty dishes, elbows his neighbour aside, fouls
his beard with trickling sauce, laps like a dog, with his nose in his
plate, as if he expected to find Virtue there, and runs his finger all
round the bowl, not to lose a drop of the gravy. Let him monopolize
pastry or joint, he will still criticize the carving—that is all the
satisfaction his ravenous greed brings him—; when the wine is in,
singing and dancing are delights not fierce enough; he must brawl and
rave. He has plenty to say in his cups—he is then at his best in that
kind—upon temperance and decorum; he is full of these when his
potations have reduced him to ridiculous stuttering. Next the wine
disagrees with him, and at last he is carried out of the room, holding
on with all his might to the flute-girl. Take him sober, for that
matter, and you will hardly find his match at lying, effrontery or
avarice. He is _facile princeps_ of flatterers, perjury sits on his
tongue-tip, imposture goes before him, and shamelessness is his good
comrade; oh, he is a most ingenious piece of work, finished at all
points, a _multum in parvo_. I am afraid his kind heart will be grieved
presently. Why, how is this, Thrasycles? I must say, you have taken
your time about coming.

_Thr_. Ah, Timon, I am not come like the rest of the crowd; _they_ are
dazzled by your wealth; they are gathered together with an eye to gold
and silver and high living; they will soon be showing their servile
tricks before your unsuspicious, generous self. As for me, you know a
crust is all the dinner I care for; the relish I like best is a bit of
thyme or cress; on festal days I may go as far as a sprinkling of salt.
My drink is the crystal spring; and this threadbare cloak is better
than your gay robes. Gold—I value it no higher than pebbles on the
beach. What brought _me_ was concern for you; I would not have you
ruined by this same pestilent wealth, this temptation for plunderers;
many is the man it has sunk in helpless misery. Take my advice, and
fling it bodily into the sea; a good man, to whom the wealth of
philosophy is revealed, has no need of the other. It does not matter
about deep water, my good sir; wade in up to your waist when the tide
is near flood, and _let no one see you but me_. Or if that is not
satisfactory, here is another plan even better. Get it all out of the
house as quick as you can, not reserving a penny for yourself, and
distribute it to the poor five shillings to one, five pounds to
another, a hundred to a third; philosophy might constitute a claim to a
double or triple share. For my part—and I do not ask for myself, only
to divide it among my needy friends—I should be quite content with as
much as my scrip would hold; it is something short of two standard
bushels; if one professes philosophy, one must be moderate and have few
needs—none that go beyond the capacity of a scrip.

_Tim_. Very right, Thrasycles. But instead of a mere scripful, pray
take a whole headful of clouts, standard measure by the spade.

_Thr_. Land of liberty, equality, legality! protect me against this
ruffian!

_Tim_. What is your grievance, my good man? is the measure short? here
is a pint or two extra, then, to put it right.

Why, what now? here comes a crowd; friend Blepsias, Laches, Gniphon;
their name is legion; they shall howl soon. I had better get up on the
rock; my poor tired spade wants a little rest; I will collect all the
stones I can lay hands on, and pepper them at long range.

_Bl_. Don't throw, Timon; we are going.

_Tim_. Whether the retreat will be bloodless, however, is another
question.

H.



PROMETHEUS ON CAUCASUS

_Hermes. Hephaestus. Prometheus._

_Her_. This, Hephaestus, is the Caucasus, to which it is our painful
duty to nail our companion. We have now to select a suitable crag, free
from snow, on which the chains will have a good hold, and the prisoner
will hang in all publicity.

_Heph_. True. It will not do to fix him too low down, or these _men_ of
his might come to their maker's assistance; nor at the top, where he
would be invisible from the earth. What do you say to a middle course?
Let him hang over this precipice, with his arms stretched across from
crag to crag.

_Her_. The very thing. Steep rocks, slightly overhanging, inaccessible
on every side; no foothold but a mere ledge, with scarcely room for the
tips of one's toes; altogether a sweet spot for a crucifixion. Now,
Prometheus, come and be nailed up; there is no time to lose.

_Prom_. Nay, hear me; Hephaestus! Hermes! I suffer injustice: have
compassion on my woes!

_Her_. In other words, disobey orders, and promptly be gibbeted in your
stead! Do you suppose there is not room on the Caucasus to peg out a
couple of us? Come, your right hand! clamp it down, Hephaestus, and in
with the nails; bring down the hammer with a will. Now the left; make
sure work of that too.—So!—The eagle will shortly be here, to trim your
liver; so ingenious an artist is entitled to every attention.

_Prom_. O Cronus, and Iapetus, and Mother Earth! Behold the sufferings
of the innocent!

_Her_. Why, as to innocence,—to begin with, there was that business of
the sacrificial meats, your manner of distributing which was most
unfair, most disingenuous: you got all the choice parts for yourself,
and put Zeus off with bones 'wrapped up in shining fat'; I remember the
passage in Hesiod; those are his very words. Then you made these human
beings; creatures of unparalleled wickedness, the women especially. And
to crown all, you stole fire, the most precious possession of the Gods,
and gave it to them. And with all this on your conscience, you protest
that you have done nothing to deserve captivity.

_Prom_. Ah, Hermes; you are as bad as Hector; you 'blame the
blameless.' For such crimes as these, I deserve a round pension, if
justice were done. And by the way, I should like, if you can spare the
time, to answer to these charges, and satisfy you of the injustice of
my sentence. You can employ your practised eloquence on behalf of Zeus,
and justify his conduct in nailing me up here at the Gates of the
Caspian, for all Scythia to behold and pity.

_Her_. There is nothing to be gained now by an appeal to another court;
it is too late. Proceed, however. We have to wait in any case till the
eagle comes to look after that liver of yours; and the time might be
worse spent than in listening to the subtleties of such a master in
impudence as yourself.

_Prom_. You begin then, Hermes. Exert all your powers of invective;
leave no stone unturned to establish the righteousness of papa's
judgements.—You, Hephaestus, shall compose the jury.

_Heph_. The jury! Not a bit of it; I am a party in this case. My
furnace has been cold, ever since you stole that fire.

_Prom_. Well, at this rate you had better divide the prosecution
between you. You conduct the case of larceny, and Hermes can handle the
man-making, and the misappropriation of meat. I shall expect a great
deal of you; you are both artists.

_Heph_. Hermes shall speak for me. The law is not in my line; my forge
takes up most of my time. But Hermes is an orator; he has made a study
of these things.

_Prom_. Well! I should never have thought that Hermes would have the
heart to reproach me with larceny; he ought to have a fellow-feeling
for me there. However, with this further responsibility on your
shoulders, there is no time to be lost, son of Maia; out with your
accusation, and have done with it.

_Her_. To deal adequately with your crimes, Prometheus, would require
many words and much preparation. It is not enough to mention the
several counts of the accusation; how, entrusted with the distribution
of meats, you defrauded the crown by retaining the choicer portions for
your own use; how you created the race of men, with absolutely no
justification for so doing; how you stole fire and conveyed it to these
same men. You seem not to realize, my friend, that, all-things
considered, Zeus has dealt very handsomely by you. Now, if you deny the
charges, I shall be compelled to establish your guilt at some length,
and to set the facts in the clearest possible light. But if you admit
the distribution of meat in the manner described, the introduction of
men, and the theft of fire,—then my case is complete, and there is no
more to be said. To expatiate further would be to talk nonsense.

_Prom_. Perhaps there has been some nonsense talked already; that
remains to be seen. But as you say your case is now complete, I will
see what I can do in the way of refutation. And first about that meat.
Though, upon my word, I blush for Zeus when I name it: to think that he
should be so touchy about trifles, as to send off a God of my quality
to crucifixion, just because he found a little bit of bone in his
share! Does he forget the services I have rendered him? And does he
think what it is that he is so angry about, and how childish it is to
show temper about a little thing like that? What if he did miss getting
the better share? Why, Hermes, these tricks that are played over the
wine-cups are not worth thinking twice about. A joke, perhaps, is
carried a little too far, in the warmth of the feast; still, it is a
joke, and resentment should be left behind in the dregs of the bowl. I
have no patience with your long memories; this nursing of grievances,
this raking up of last night's squabbles, is unworthy of a king, let
alone a king of Gods. Once take away from our feasts the little
elegancies of quip and crank and wile, and what is left? Muzziness;
repletion; silence;—cheerful accompaniments these to the wine-bowl! For
my part, I never supposed that Zeus would give the matter a thought the
next morning; much less that he would make such a stir about it, and
think himself so mightily injured; my little manoeuvre with the meat
was merely a playful experiment, to see which he would choose. It might
have been worse. Instead of giving him the inferior half, I might have
defrauded him of the whole. And what if I had? Would that have been a
case for putting heaven and earth in commotion, for deep designs of
chain and cross and Caucasus, dispatchings of eagles, rendings of
livers? These things tell a sad tale, do they not, of the puny soul,
the little mind, the touchy temper of the aggrieved party? How would he
take the loss of a whole ox, who storms to such purpose over a few
pounds of meat? How much more reasonable is the conduct of mortals,
though one would have expected them to be more irritable than Gods! A
mortal would never want his cook crucified for dipping a finger into
the stew-pan, or filching a mouthful from the roast; they overlook
these things. At the worst their resentment is satisfied with a box on
the ears or a rap on the head. I find no precedent among them for
crucifixion in such cases. So much for the affair of the meat; there is
little credit to be got in the refutation of such a charge, and still
less in the bringing of it.

I am next to speak of my creation of mankind. And here the terms of
your accusation are ambiguous. I have to choose between two distinct
possibilities. Do you maintain that I had no right to create men at
all, that I ought to have left the senseless clay alone? Or do you only
complain of the form in which I designed them? However, I shall have
something to say on both points. I shall first endeavour to show that
no harm has accrued to the Gods from my bringing mankind into
existence; and shall then proceed to the positive advantages and
improvements which have resulted to them from the peopling of the
earth. The question as to the harm done by my innovation is best
answered by an appeal to the past, to those days when the race of
heaven-born Gods stood alone, and earth was a hideous shapeless mass, a
tangle of rude vegetation. The Gods had no altars then, nor temples
(for who should raise them?), no images of wood or stone, such as now
abound in every corner of the earth, and are honoured with all
observance. It was to me that the idea occurred—amid my ceaseless
meditations on the common welfare, on the aggrandizement of the Gods
and the promotion of order and beauty in the universe—of setting all to
rights with a handful of clay; of creating living things, and moulding
them after our own likeness. I saw what was lacking to our godhead:
some counterpart, some foil wherein to set off its blessedness. And
that counterpart must be mortal; but in all else exquisitely contrived,
perfect in intelligence, keen to appreciate our superiority. Thereupon,
I moulded my material,

With water mingling clay,


and created man, calling in Athene to aid me in the task. And this is
my rank offence against the Gods. Destructive work,—to reduce inanimate
clay to life and motion! The Gods, it seems, are Gods no longer, now
that there are mortal creatures on the earth. To judge at least by
Zeus's indignation, one would suppose that the Gods suffered some loss
of prestige from the creation of mankind; unless it is that he is
afraid of another revolt, of their waging war with heaven, like the
Giants.

That the cause of the Gods suffered nothing at my hands is evident;
show me the slightest instance to the contrary, and I will say no more;
I have but my deserts. But for the positive benefits I have conferred,
use the evidence of your eyes. The earth, no longer barren and
untilled, is decked with cities and farms and the fruits of
cultivation; the sea has its ships, the islands their inhabitants.
Everywhere are altars and temples, everywhere festivals and sacrifices:

  Zeus with his presence fills their gatherings,
  He fills their streets.


Had I created mankind for my own private convenience, it might perhaps
have denoted a grasping spirit: but I made them common property; they
are at the service of every God of you. Nay more: temples of Zeus, and
Apollo, and Hera, temples of Hermes, are everywhere to be seen; but who
ever saw a temple of Prometheus? You may judge from this, how far I
have sacrificed the common cause to my private ambition.

And further. Consider, Hermes: can any good thing whatsoever, be it
gift of Nature or work of our hands, give the full measure of enjoyment
to its possessor, when there is none to see, none to admire? You see
whither my question tends? But for mankind, the glories of the universe
must have been without a witness; and there was little satisfaction to
be derived from a wealth which was doomed to excite no envy in others.
We should have lacked a standard for comparison; and should never have
known the extent of our happiness, while all were as happy as
ourselves. The great is not great, till it is compared with the small.
Yet instead of honouring me for my political insight, you crucify me;
such are the wages of wisdom!

Ah, but (you will say) there is so much wickedness among them;
adultery, war, incest, parricide. Well, I fancy these are not unknown
among ourselves? And I am sure no one would think that a reason for
saying that Uranus and Ge made a mistake in creating us. Or again, you
will complain that we have so much trouble in looking after them. At
that rate, a shepherd ought to object to the possession of a flock,
because he has to look after it. Besides, a certain show of occupation
is rather gratifying than otherwise; the responsibility is not
unwelcome,—it helps to pass the time. What should we do, if we had not
mankind to think of? There would be nothing to live for; we should sit
about drinking nectar and gorging ourselves with ambrosia. But what
fairly takes away my breath is, your assurance in finding fault with my
_women_ in particular, when all the time you are in love with them: our
bulls and satyrs and swans are never tired of making descents upon the
Earth; women, they find, are good enough to be made the mothers of
Gods!

Yes, yes (you will say), it was quite right that men should be created,
but they should not have been made in our likeness. And what better
model could I have taken than this, whose perfection I knew? Was I to
make them brute beasts without understanding? Had they been other than
they are, how should they have paid you due honour and sacrifice? When
the hecatombs are getting ready, you think nothing of a journey to the
ends of the earth to see the 'blameless Ethiopians'; and my reward for
procuring you these advantages is—crucifixion! But on this subject I
have said enough.

And now, with your permission, I will approach the subject of that
stolen fire, of which we hear so much. I have a question to ask, which
I beg you will answer frankly. Has there been one spark less fire in
Heaven, since men shared it with us? Of course not. It is the nature of
fire, that it does not become less by being imparted to others. A fire
is not put out by kindling another from it. No, this is sheer envy: you
cannot bear that men should have a share of this necessary, though you
have suffered no harm thereby. For shame! Gods should be beneficent,
'givers of good'; they should be above all envy. Had I taken away fire
altogether, and left not a spark behind, it would have been no great
loss. You have no use for it. You are never cold; you need no
artificial light; nor is ambrosia improved by boiling. To man, on the
other hand, fire is indispensable for many purposes, particularly for
those of sacrifice; how else are they to fill their streets with the
savour of burnt-offerings, and the fumes of frankincense? how else to
burn fat thigh-pieces upon your altars? I observe that you take a
particular pleasure in the steam arising therefrom, and think no feast
more delicious than the smell of roast meat, as it mounts heavenwards

In eddying clouds of smoke.


Your present complaint, you see, is sadly at variance with this taste.
I wonder you do not forbid the Sun to shine on mankind. He too is of
fire, and fire of a purer and diviner quality. Has anything been said
to _him_ about his lavish expenditure of your property?

And now I have done. If there is any flaw in my defence, it is for you
two to refute me. I shall answer your objections in due course.

_Her_. Nay, you are too hard for us, Prometheus; we will not attempt a
sophist of your mettle. Well for you that Zeus is not within earshot,
or you would have had a round dozen of hungry vultures to reckon with,
for certain; in clearing your own character, you have grievously
mishandled his. But one thing puzzles me: you are a prophet; you ought
to have foreseen your sentence.

_Prom_. All this I knew, and more than this; for I shall be released;
nay, even now the day is not far off when one of your blood shall come
from Thebes, and shoot this eagle with which you threaten me [Footnote:
See _Prometheus_ in Notes.].

_Her_. With all my heart! I shall be delighted to see you free again,
and feasting in our midst; but not, my friend, not carving for us!

_Prom_. You may take my word for it; I shall be with you again. I have
the wherewithal to pay abundantly for my ransom.

_Her_. Oh, indeed? Come, tell us all about it.

_Prom_. You know Thetis—But no; the secret is best kept. Ransom and
reward depend upon it.

_Her_. Well, you know best. Now, Hephaestus, we must be going; see,
here comes the eagle.—Bear a brave heart, Prometheus; and all speed to
your Theban archer, who is to set a term to this creature's activity.

F.



DIALOGUES OF THE GODS

I

_Prometheus. Zeus_

_Prom_. Release me, Zeus; I have suffered enough.

_Zeus_. Release you? you? Why, by rights your irons should be heavier,
you should have the whole weight of Caucasus upon you, and instead of
one, a dozen vultures, not just pecking at your liver, but scratching
out your eyes. You made these abominable human creatures to vex us, you
stole our fire, you invented women. I need not remind you how you
overreached me about the meat-offerings; my portion, bones disguised in
fat: yours, all the good.

_Prom_. And have I not been punished enough—riveted to the Caucasus all
these years, feeding your bird (on which all worst curses light!) with
my liver?

_Zeus_. 'Tis not a tithe of your deserts.

_Prom_. Consider, I do not ask you to release me for nothing. I offer
you information which is invaluable.

_Zeus_. Promethean wiles!

_Prom_. Wiles? to what end? you can find the Caucasus another time; and
there are chains to be had, if you catch me cheating.

_Zeus_. Tell me first the nature of your 'invaluable' offer.

_Prom_. If I tell you your present errand right, will that convince you
that I can prophesy too?

_Zeus_. Of course it will.

_Prom_. You are bound on a little visit to Thetis.

_Zeus_. Right so far. And the sequel? I trust you now.

_Prom_. Have no dealings with her, Zeus. As sure as Nereus's daughter
conceives by you, your child shall mete you the measure you meted to—

_Zeus_. I shall lose my kingdom, you would say?

_Prom_. Avert it, Fate! I say only, that union portends this issue.

_Zeus_. Thetis, farewell! and for this Hephaestus shall set you free.

H.

II

_Eros. Zeus_

_Eros_. You might let me off, Zeus! I suppose it _was_ rather too bad
of me; but there!—I am but a child; a wayward child.

_Zeus_. A child, and born before Iapetus was ever thought of? You bad
old man! Just because you have no beard, and no white hairs, are you
going to pass yourself off for a child?

_Eros_. Well, and what such mighty harm has the old man ever done you,
that you should talk of chains?

_Zeus_. Ask your own guilty conscience, what harm. The pranks you have
played me! Satyr, bull, swan, eagle, shower of gold,—I have been
everything in my time; and I have you to thank for it. You never by any
chance make the women in love with _me_; no one is ever smitten with
_my_ charms, that I have noticed. No, there must be magic in it always;
I must be kept well out of sight. They like the bull or the swan well
enough: but once let them set eyes on _me_, and they are frightened out
of their lives.

_Eros_. Well, of course. They are but mortals; the sight of Zeus is too
much for them.

_Zeus_. Then why are Branchus and Hyacinth so fond of Apollo?

_Eros_. Daphne ran away from him, anyhow; in spite of his beautiful
hair and his smooth chin. Now, shall I tell you the way to win hearts?
Keep that aegis of yours quiet, and leave the thunderbolt at home; make
yourself as smart as you can; curl your hair and tie it up with a bit
of ribbon, get a purple cloak, and gold-bespangled shoes, and march
forth to the music of flute and drum;—and see if you don't get a finer
following than Dionysus, for all his Maenads.

_Zeus_. Pooh! I'll win no hearts on such terms.

_Eros_. Oh, in that case, don't fall in love. Nothing could be simpler.

_Zeus_. I dare say; but I like being in love, only I don't like all
this fuss. Now mind; if I let you off, it is on this understanding.

F.

III

_Zeus. Hermes_

_Zeus_. Hermes, you know Inachus's beautiful daughter?

_Her_. I do. Io, you mean?

_Zeus_. Yes; she is not a girl now, but a heifer.

_Her_. Magic at work! how did that come about?

_Zeus_. Hera had a jealous fit, and transformed her. But that is not
all; she has thought of a new punishment for the poor thing. She has
put a cowherd in charge, who is all over eyes; this Argus, as he is
called, pastures the heifer, and never goes to sleep.

_Her_. Well, what am I to do?

_Zeus_. Fly down to Nemea, where the pasture is, kill Argus, take Io
across the sea to Egypt, and convert her into Isis. She shall be
henceforth an Egyptian Goddess, flood the Nile, regulate the winds, and
rescue mariners.

H.

VI

_Hera. Zeus_

_Hera_. Zeus! What is your opinion of this man Ixion?

_Zeus_. Why, my dear, I think he is a very good sort of man; and the
best of company. Indeed, if he were unworthy of our company, he would
not be here.

_Hera_. He _is_ unworthy! He is a villain! Discard him!

_Zeus_. Eh? What has he been after? I must know about this.

_Hera_. Certainly you must; though I scarce know how to tell you. The
wretch!

_Zeus_. Oh, oh; if he is a 'wretch,' you must certainly tell me all
about it. I know what 'wretch' means, on your discreet tongue. What, he
has been making love?

_Hera_. And to me! to me of all people! It has been going on for a long
time. At first, when he would keep looking at me, I had no idea—. And
then he would sigh and groan; and when I handed my cup to Ganymede
after drinking, he would insist on having it, and would stop drinking
to kiss it, and lift it up to his eyes; and then he would look at me
again. And then of course I knew. For a long time I didn't like to say
anything to you; I thought his mad fit would pass. But when he actually
dared to _speak_ to me, I left him weeping and groveling about, and
stopped my ears, so that I might not hear his impertinences, and came
to tell you. It is for you to consider what steps you will take.

_Zeus_. Whew! I have a rival, I find; and with my own lawful wife. Here
is a rascal who has tippled nectar to some purpose. Well, we have no
one but ourselves to blame for it: we make too much of these mortals,
admitting them to our table like this. When they drink of our nectar,
and behold the beauties of Heaven (so different from those of Earth!),
'tis no wonder if they fall in love, and form ambitious schemes! Yes,
Love is all-powerful; and not with mortals only: we Gods have sometimes
fallen beneath his sway.

_Hera_. He has made himself master of _you_; no doubt of that. He does
what he likes with you;—leads you by the nose. You follow him whither
he chooses, and assume every shape at his command; you are his chattel,
his toy. I know how it will be: you are going to let Ixion off, because
you have had relations with his wife; she is the mother of Pirithous.

_Zeus_. Why, what a memory you have for these little outings of
mine!—Now, my idea about Ixion is this. It would never do to punish
him, or to exclude him from our table; that would not look well. No; as
he is so fond of you, so hard hit—even to weeping point, you tell me,—

_Hera_. Zeus! What _are_ you going to say?

_Zeus_. Don't be alarmed. Let us make a cloud-phantom in your likeness,
and after dinner, as he lies awake (which of course he will do, being
in love), let us take it and lay it by his side. 'Twill put him out of
his pain: he will fancy he has attained his desire.

_Hera_. Never! The presumptuous villain!

_Zeus_. Yes, I know. But what harm can it do to you, if Ixion makes a
conquest of a cloud?

_Hera_. But he will think that _I_ am the cloud; he will be working his
wicked will upon _me_ for all he can tell.

_Zeus_. Now you are talking nonsense. The cloud is not Hera, and Hera
is not the cloud. Ixion will be deceived; that is all.

_Hera_. Yes, but these men are all alike—they have no delicacy. I
suppose, when he goes home, he will boast to every one of how he has
enjoyed the embraces of Hera, the wife of Zeus! Why, he may tell them
that _I_ am in love with _him_! And they will believe it; _they_ will
know nothing about the cloud.

_Zeus_. If he says anything of the kind he shall soon find himself in
Hades, spinning round on a wheel for all eternity. That will keep him
busy! And serve him right; not for falling in love—I see no great harm
in that—but for letting his tongue wag.

F.

VII

_Hephaestus. Apollo_

_Heph_. Have you seen Maia's baby, Apollo? such a pretty little thing,
with a smile for everybody; you can see it is going to be a treasure.

_Ap_. That baby a treasure? well, in mischief, Iapetus is young beside
it.

_Heph_. Why, what harm can it do, only just born?

_Ap_. Ask Posidon; it stole his trident. Ask Ares; he was surprised to
find his sword gone out of the scabbard. Not to mention myself,
disarmed of bow and arrows.

_Heph_. Never! that infant? he has hardly found his legs yet; he is not
out of his baby-linen.

_Ap_. Ah, you will find out, Hephaestus, if he gets within reach of
you.

_Heph_. He has been.

_Ap_. Well? all your tools safe? none missing?

_Heph_. Of course not.

_Ap_. I advise you to make sure.

_Heph_. Zeus! where are my pincers?

_Ap_. Ah, you will find them among the baby-linen.

_Heph_. So light-fingered? one would swear he had practised petty
larceny in the womb.

_Ap_. Ah, and you don't know what a glib young chatterbox he is; and,
if he has his way, he is to be our errand-boy! Yesterday he challenged
Eros—tripped up his heels somehow, and had him on his back in a
twinkling; before the applause was over, he had taken the opportunity
of a congratulatory hug from Aphrodite to steal her girdle; Zeus had
not done laughing before—the sceptre was gone. If the thunderbolt had
not been too heavy, and very hot, he would have made away with that
too.

_Heph_. The child has some spirit in him, by your account.

_Ap_. Spirit, yes—and some music, moreover, young as he is.

_Heph_. How can you tell that?

_Ap_. He picked up a dead tortoise somewhere or other, and contrived an
instrument with it. He fitted horns to it, with a cross-bar, stuck in
pegs, inserted a bridge, and played a sweet tuneful thing that made an
old harper like me quite envious. Even at night, Maia was saying, he
does not stay in Heaven; he goes down poking his nose into Hades—on a
thieves' errand, no doubt. Then he has a pair of wings, and he has made
himself a magic wand, which he uses for marshalling souls—convoying the
dead to their place.

_Heph_. Ah, I gave him that, for a toy.

_Ap_. And by way of payment he stole—

_Heph_. Well thought on; I must go and get them; you may be right about
the baby-linen.

H.


VIII _Hephaestus. Zeus_

_Heph_. What are your orders, Zeus? You sent for me, and here I am;
with such an edge to my axe as would cleave a stone at one blow.

_Zeus_. Ah; that's right, Hephaestus. Just split my head in half, will
you?

_Heph_. You think I am mad, perhaps?—Seriously, now, what can I do for
you?

_Zeus_. What I say: crack my skull. Any insubordination, now, and you
shall taste my resentment; it will not be the first time. Come, a good
lusty stroke, and quick about it. I am in the pangs of travail; my
brain is in a whirl.

_Heph_. Mind you, the consequences may be serious: the axe is sharp,
and will prove but a rough midwife.

_Zeus_. Hew away, and fear nothing. I know what I am about.

_Heph_. H'm. I don't like it: however, one must obey orders…. Why, what
have we here? A maiden in full armour! This is no joke, Zeus. You might
well be waspish, with this great girl growing up beneath your _pia
mater_; in armour, too! You have been carrying a regular barracks on
your shoulders all this time. So active too! See, she is dancing a
war-dance, with shield and spear in full swing. She is like one
inspired; and (what is more to the point) she is extremely pretty, and
has come to marriageable years in these few minutes; those grey eyes,
even, look well beneath a helmet. Zeus, I claim her as the fee for my
midwifery.

_Zeus_. Impossible! She is determined to remain a maid for ever. Not
that _I_ have any objection, personally.

_Heph_. That is all I want. You can leave the rest to me. I'll carry
her off this moment.

_Zeus_. Well, if you think it so easy. But I am sure it is a hopeless
case.

F.

XI

_Aphrodite. Selene_

_Aph_. What is this I hear about you, Selene? When your car is over
Caria, you stop it to gaze at Endymion sleeping hunter-fashion in the
open; sometimes, they tell me, you actually get out and go down to him.

_Sel_. Ah, Aphrodite, ask that son of yours; it is he must answer for
it all.

_Aph_. Well now, what a naughty boy! he gets his own mother into all
sorts of scrapes; I must go down, now to Ida for Anchises of Troy, now
to Lebanon for my Assyrian stripling;—mine? no, he put Persephone in
love with him too, and so robbed me of half my darling. I have told him
many a time that if he would not behave himself I would break his
artillery for him, and clip his wings; and before now I have smacked
his little behind with my slipper. It is no use; he is frightened and
cries for a minute or two, and then forgets all about it. But tell me,
is Endymion handsome? That is always a comfort in our humiliation.

_Sel_. _Most_ handsome, _I_ think, my dear; you should see him when he
has spread out his cloak on the rock and is asleep; his javelins in his
left hand, just slipping from his grasp, the right arm bent upwards,
making a bright frame to the face, and he breathing softly in helpless
slumber. Then I come noiselessly down, treading on tiptoe not to wake
and startle him—but there, you know all about it; why tell you the
rest? I am dying of love, that is all.

H.

XII

_Aphrodite. Eros_

_Aph_. Child, child, you must think what you are doing. It is bad
enough on earth,—you are always inciting men to do some mischief, to
themselves or to one another;—but I am speaking of the Gods. You change
Zeus into shape after shape as the fancy takes you; you make Selene
come down from the sky; you keep Helius loitering about with Clymene,
till he sometimes forgets to drive out at all. As for the naughty
tricks you play on your own mother, you know you are safe there. But
Rhea! how could you _dare_ to set her on thinking of that young fellow
in Phrygia, an old lady like her, the mother of so many Gods? Why, you
have made her quite mad: she harnesses those lions of hers, and drives
about all over Ida with the Corybantes, who are as mad as herself,
shrieking high and low for Attis; and there they are, slashing their
arms with swords, rushing about over the hills, like wild things, with
dishevelled hair, blowing horns, beating drums, clashing cymbals; all
Ida is one mad tumult. I am quite uneasy about it; yes, you wicked boy,
your poor mother is quite uneasy: some day when Rhea is in one of her
mad fits (or when she is in her senses, more likely), she will send the
Corybantes after you, with orders to tear you to pieces, or throw you
to the lions. You are so venturesome!

_Eros_. Be under no alarm, mother; I understand lions perfectly by this
time. I get on to their backs every now and then, and take hold of
their manes, and ride them about; and when I put my hand into their
mouths, they only lick it, and let me take it out again. Besides, how
is Rhea going to have time to attend to me? She is too busy with Attis.
And I see no harm in just pointing out beautiful things to people; they
can leave them alone;—it is nothing to do with me. And how would you
like it if Ares were not in love with you, or you with him?

_Aph_. Masterful boy! always the last word! But you will remember this
some day.

F.

XIII

_Zeus. Asclepius. Heracles_

_Zeus_. Now, Asclepius and Heracles, stop that quarrelling; you might
as well be men; such behaviour is very improper and out of place at the
table of the Gods.

_Her_. Is this druggist fellow to have a place above me, Zeus?

_Asc_. Of course I am; I am your better.

_Her_. Why, you numskull? because it was Zeus's bolt that cracked your
skull, for your unholy doings, and now you have been allowed your
immortality again out of sheer pity?

_Asc_. You twit me with my fiery end; you seem to have forgotten that
you too were burnt to death, on Oeta.

_Her_. Was there no difference between your life and mine, then? I am
Zeus's son, and it is well known how I toiled, cleansing the earth,
conquering monsters, and chastising men of violence. Whereas you are a
root-grubber and a quack; I dare say you have your use for doctoring
sick men, but you never did a bold deed in your life.

_Asc_. That comes well from you, whose burns I healed, when you came up
all singed not so long ago; between the tunic and the flames, your body
was half consumed. Anyhow, it would be enough to mention that I was
never a slave like you, never combed wool in Lydia, masquerading in a
purple shawl and being slippered by an Omphale, never killed my wife
and children in a fit of the spleen.

_Her._ If you don't stop being rude, I shall soon show you that
immortality is not much good. I will take you up and pitch you head
over heels out of Heaven, and Apollo himself shall never mend your
broken crown.

_Zeus._ Cease, I say, and let us hear ourselves speak, or I will send
you both away from table. Heracles, Asclepius died before you, and has
the right to a better place.

H.

XIV

_Hermes. Apollo_

_Her_. Why so sad, Apollo?

_Ap_. Alas, Hermes,—my love!

_Her_. Oh; that's bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of
Daphne?

_Ap_. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.

_Her_. Hyacinth? he is not dead?

_Ap_. Dead.

_Her_. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!

_Ap_. It was the work of my own hand.

_Her_. You must have been mad!

_Ap_. Not mad; it was an accident.

_Her_. Oh? and how did it happen?

_Ap_. He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him.
I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr
(damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth,
though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him)—Zephyr came
blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child's
head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all was
over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in Zephyr, and
pursued his flight to the mountain. As for the child, I buried him at
Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have caused a flower
to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed with letters of
woe.—Is my grief unreasonable?

_Her_. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a
mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.

F.

XV

_Hermes. Apollo_

_Her_. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry
two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!

_Ap_. Luck, Hermes—that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up
with his company; they see him running with sweat, bent over the forge,
all sooty-faced; and yet they cuddle and kiss him, and sleep with him!

_Her_. Yes, it makes me angry too; how I envy him! Ah, Apollo, you may
let your locks grow, and play your harp, and be proud of your looks; I
am a healthy fellow, and can touch the lyre; but, when it comes to
bedtime, we lie alone.

_Ap_. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great
passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more
attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of
them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.

_Her_. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.

_Ap_. I know; that is how Hermaphroditus is accounted for. But perhaps
you can tell me how it is that Aphrodite and Charis are not jealous of
one another.

_Her_. Because one is his wife in Lemnus and the other in Heaven.
Besides, Aphrodite cares most about Ares; he is her real love; so she
does not trouble her head about the blacksmith.

_Ap_. Do you think Hephaestus sees?

_Her_. Oh, he sees, yes; but what can he do? he knows what a martial
young fellow it is; so he holds his tongue. He talks of inventing a
net, though, to take them in the act with.

_Ap_. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that act.

H.

XVI

_Hera. Leto_

_Hera_. I must congratulate you, madam, on the children with whom you
have presented Zeus.

_Leto_. Ah, madam; we cannot all be the proud mothers of Hephaestuses.

_Hera_. My boy may be a cripple, but at least he is of some use. He is
a wonderful smith, and has made Heaven look another place; and
Aphrodite thought him worth marrying, and dotes on him still. But those
two of yours !—that girl is wild and mannish to a degree; and now she
has gone off to Scythia, and her doings _there_ are no secret; she is
as bad as any Scythian herself,—butchering strangers and eating them!
Apollo, too, who pretends to be so clever, with his bow and his lyre
and his medicine and his prophecies; those oracle-shops that he has
opened at Delphi, and Clarus, and Dindyma, are a cheat; he takes good
care to be on the safe side by giving ambiguous answers that no one can
understand, and makes money out of it, for there are plenty of fools
who like being imposed upon,—but sensible people know well enough that
most of it is clap-trap. The prophet did not know that he was to kill
his favourite with a quoit; he never foresaw that Daphne would run away
from him, so handsome as he is, too, such beautiful hair! I am not
sure, after all, that there is much to choose between your children and
Niobe's.

_Leto_. Oh, of course; my children are butchers and impostors. I know
how you hate the sight of them. You cannot bear to hear my girl
complimented on her looks, or my boy's playing admired by the company.

_Hera_. His playing, madam!—excuse a smile;—why, if the Muses had not
favoured him, his contest with Marsyas would have cost him his skin;
poor Marsyas was shamefully used on that occasion; 'twas a judicial
murder.—As for your charming daughter, when Actaeon once caught sight
of her charms, she had to set the dogs upon him, for fear he should
tell all he knew: I forbear to ask where the innocent child picked up
her knowledge of obstetrics.

_Leto_. You set no small value on yourself, madam, because you are the
wife of Zeus, and share his throne; you may insult whom you please. But
there will be tears presently, when the next bull or swan sets out on
his travels, and you are left neglected.

F.

XVIII

_Hera. Zeus_

_Hera_. Well, Zeus, I should be ashamed if _I_ had such a son; so
effeminate, and so given to drinking; tying up his hair in a ribbon,
indeed! and spending most of his time among mad women, himself as much
a woman as any of them; dancing to flute and drum and cymbal! He
resembles any one rather than his father.

_Zeus_. Anyhow, my dear, this wearer of ribbons, this woman among
women, not content with conquering Lydia, subduing Thrace, and
enthralling the people of Tmolus, has been on an expedition all the way
to India with his womanish host, captured elephants, taken possession
of the country, and led their king captive after a brief resistance.
And he never stopped dancing all the time, never relinquished the
thyrsus and the ivy; always drunk (as you say) and always inspired! If
any scoffer presumes to make light of his ceremonial, he does not go
unpunished; he is bound with vine-twigs; or his own mother mistakes him
for a fawn, and tears him limb from limb. Are not these manful doings,
worthy of a son of Zeus? No doubt he is fond of his comforts, too, and
his amusements; we need not complain of that: you may judge from his
drunken achievements, what a handful the fellow would be if he were
sober.

_Hera_. I suppose you will tell me next, that the invention of wine is
very much to his credit; though you see for yourself how drunken men
stagger about and misbehave themselves; one would think the liquor had
made them mad. Look at Icarius, the first to whom he gave the vine:
beaten to death with mattocks by his own boon companions!

_Zeus_. Pooh, nonsense. That is not Dionysus's fault, nor the wine's
fault; it comes of the immoderate use of it. Men _will_ drink their
wine neat, and drink too much of it. Taken in moderation, it engenders
cheerfulness and benevolence. Dionysus is not likely to treat any of
his guests as Icarius was treated.—No; I see what it is:—you are
jealous, my love; you can't forget about Semele, and so you must
disparage the noble achievements of her son.

F.

XIX

_Aphrodite_. _Eros_

_Aph_. Eros, dear, you have had your victories over most of the
Gods—Zeus, Posidon, Rhea, Apollo, nay, your own mother; how is it you
make an exception for Athene? against her your torch has no fire, your
quiver no arrows, your right hand no cunning.

_Eros_. I am afraid of her, mother; those awful flashing eyes! she is
like a man, only worse. When I go against her with my arrow on the
string, a toss of her plume frightens me; my hand shakes so that it
drops the bow.

_Aph_. I should have thought Ares was more terrible still; but you
disarmed and conquered him.

_Eros_. Ah, he is only too glad to have me; he calls me to him. Athene
always eyes me so! once when I flew close past her, quite by accident,
with my torch, 'If you come near me,' she called out, 'I swear by my
father, I will run you through with my spear, or take you by the foot
and drop you into Tartarus, or tear you in pieces with my own
hands'—and more such dreadful things. And she has such a sour look; and
then on her breast she wears that horrid face with the snaky hair; that
frightens me worst of all; the nasty bogy—I run away directly I see it.

_Aph_. Well, well, you are afraid of Athene and the Gorgon; at least so
you say, though you do not mind Zeus's thunderbolt a bit. But why do
you let the Muses go scot free? do _they_ toss their plumes and hold
out Gorgons' heads?

_Eros_. Ah, mother, they make me bashful; they are so grand, always
studying and composing; I love to stand there listening to their music.

_Aph_. Let them pass too, because they are grand. And why do you never
take a shot at Artemis?

_Eros_. Why, the great thing is that I cannot catch her; she is always
over the hills and far away. But besides that, her heart is engaged
already.

_Aph_. Where, child?

_Eros_. In hunting stags and fawns; she is so fleet, she catches them
up, or else shoots them; she can think of nothing else. Her brother,
now, though he is an archer too, and draws a good arrow—

_Aph_. I know, child, you have hit _him_ often enough.

H.

XX.
THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS

_Zeus. Hermes. Hera. Athene. Aphrodite. Paris_

_Zeus_. Hermes, take this apple, and go with it to Phrygia; on the
Gargaran peak of Ida you will find Priam's son, the herdsman. Give him
this message: 'Paris, because you are handsome, and wise in the things
of love, Zeus commands you to judge between the Goddesses, and say
which is the most beautiful. And the prize shall be this apple.'—Now,
you three, there is no time to be lost: away with you to your judge. I
will have nothing to do with the matter: I love you all exactly alike,
and I only wish you could all three win. If I were to give the prize to
one of you, the other two would hate me, of course. In these
circumstances, I am ill qualified to be your judge. But this young
Phrygian to whom you are going is of the royal blood—a relation of
Ganymede's,—and at the same time a simple countryman; so that we need
have no hesitation in trusting his eyes.

_Aph_. As far as I am concerned, Zeus, Momus himself might be our
judge; _I_ should not be afraid to show myself. What fault could he
find with _me_? But the others must agree too.

_Hera_. Oh, we are under no alarm, thank you,—though your admirer Ares
should be appointed. But Paris will do; whoever Paris is.

_Zeus_. And my little Athene; have we her approval? Nay, never blush,
nor hide your face. Well, well, maidens will be coy; 'tis a delicate
subject. But there, she nods consent. Now, off with you; and mind, the
beaten ones must not be cross with the judge; I will not have the poor
lad harmed. The prize of beauty can be but one.

_Herm_. Now for Phrygia. I will show the way; keep close behind me,
ladies, and don't be nervous. I know Paris well: he is a charming young
man; a great gallant, and an admirable judge of beauty. Depend on it,
he will make a good award.

_Aph_. I am glad to hear that; I ask for nothing better than a just
judge.—Has he a wife, Hermes, or is he a bachelor?

_Herm_. Not exactly a bachelor.

_Aph_. What do you mean?

_Herm_. I believe there is a wife, as it were; a good enough sort of
girl—a native of those parts—but sadly countrified! I fancy he does not
care very much about her.—Why do you ask?

_Aph_. I just wanted to know.

_Ath_. Now, Hermes, that is not fair. No whispering with Aphrodite.

_Herm_. It was nothing, Athene; nothing about you. She only asked me
whether Paris was a bachelor.

_Ath_. What business is that of hers?

_Herm_. None that I know of. She meant nothing by the question; she
just wanted to know.

_Ath_. Well, and is he?

_Herm_. Why, no.

_Ath_. And does he care for military glory? has he ambition? Or is he a
_mere_ neatherd?

_Herm_. I couldn't say for certain. But he is a young man, so it is to
be presumed that distinction on the field of battle is among his
desires.

_Aph_. There, you see; _I_ don't complain; I say nothing when you
whisper with _her_. Aphrodite is not so particular as some people.

_Herm_. Athene asked me almost exactly the same as you did; so don't be
cross. It will do you no harm, my answering a plain
question.—Meanwhile, we have left the stars far behind us, and are
almost over Phrygia. There is Ida: I can make out the peak of Gargarum
quite plainly; and if I am not mistaken, there is Paris himself.

_Hera_. Where is he? I don't see him.

_Herm_. Look over there to the left, Hera: not on the top, but down the
side, by that cave where you see the herd.

_Hera_. But I _don't_ see the herd.

_Herm_. What, don't you see them coming out from between the
rocks,—where I am pointing, look—and the man running down from the
crag, and keeping them together with his staff?

_Hera_. I see him now; if he it is.

_Herm_. Oh, that is Paris. But we are getting near; it is time to
alight and walk. He might be frightened, if we were to descend upon him
so suddenly.

_Hera_. Yes; very well. And now that we are on the earth, you might go
on ahead, Aphrodite, and show us the way. You know the country, of
course, having been here so often to see Anchises; or so I have heard.

_Aph_. Your sneers are thrown away on me, Hera.

_Herm_. Come; I'll lead the way myself. I spent some time on Ida, while
Zeus was courting Ganymede. Many is the time that I have been sent here
to keep watch over the boy; and when at last the eagle came, I flew by
his side, and helped him with his lovely burden. This is the very rock,
if I remember; yes, Ganymede was piping to his sheep, when down swooped
the eagle behind him, and tenderly, oh, so tenderly, caught him up in
those talons, and with the turban in his beak bore him off, the
frightened boy straining his neck the while to see his captor. I picked
up his pipes—he had dropped them in his fright and—ah! here is our
umpire, close at hand. Let us accost him.—Good-morrow, herdsman!

_Par_. Good-morrow, youngster. And who may you be, who come thus far
afield? And these dames? They are over comely, to be wandering on the
mountain-side.

_Herm_. 'These dames,' good Paris, are Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite; and
I am Hermes, with a message from Zeus. Why so pale and tremulous?
Compose yourself; there is nothing the matter. Zeus appoints you the
judge of their beauty. 'Because you are handsome, and wise in the
things of love' (so runs the message), 'I leave the decision to you;
and for the prize,—read the inscription on the apple.'

_Par_. Let me see what it is about. FOR THE FAIR, it says. But, my lord
Hermes, how shall a mortal and a rustic like myself be judge of such
unparalleled beauty? This is no sight for a herdsman's eyes; let the
fine city folk decide on such matters. As for me, I can tell you which
of two goats is the fairer beast; or I can judge betwixt heifer and
heifer;—'tis my trade. But here, where all are beautiful alike, I know
not how a man may leave looking at one, to look upon another. Where my
eyes fall, there they fasten,—for there is beauty: I move them, and
what do I find? more loveliness! I am fixed again, yet distracted by
neighbouring charms. I bathe in beauty: I am enthralled: ah, why am I
not _all_ eyes like Argus? Methinks it were a fair award, to give the
apple to all three. Then again: one is the wife and sister of Zeus; the
others are his daughters. Take it where you will, 'tis a hard matter to
judge.

_Herm_. So it is, Paris. At the same time—Zeus's orders! There is no
way out of it.

_Par_. Well, please point out to them, Hermes, that the losers must not
be angry with me; the fault will be in my eyes only.

_Herm_. That is quite understood. And now to work.

_Par_. I must do what I can; there is no help for it. But first let me
ask,—am I just to look at them as they are, or must I go into the
matter thoroughly?

_Herm_. That is for you to decide, in virtue of your office. You have
only to give your orders; it is as you think best.

_Par_. As I think best? Then I will be thorough.

_Herm_. Get ready, ladies. Now, Mr. Umpire.—I will look the other way.

_Hera_. I approve your decision, Paris. I will be the first to submit
myself to your inspection. You shall see that I have more to boast of
than white arms and large eyes: nought of me but is beautiful.

_Par_. Aphrodite, will you also prepare?

_Ath_. Oh, Paris,—make her take off that girdle, first; there is magic
in it; she will bewitch you. For that matter, she has no right to come
thus tricked out and painted,—just like a courtesan! She ought to show
herself unadorned.

_Par_. They are right about the girdle, madam; it must go.

_Aph_. Oh, very well, Athene: then take off that helmet, and show your
head bare, instead of trying to intimidate the judge with that waving
plume. I suppose you are afraid the colour of your eyes may be noticed,
without their formidable surroundings.

_Ath_. Oh, here is my helmet.

_Aph_. And here is my girdle.

_Hera_. Now then.

_Par_. God of wonders! What loveliness is here! Oh, rapture! How
exquisite these maiden charms! How dazzling the majesty of Heaven's
true queen! And oh, how sweet, how enthralling is Aphrodite's smile!
'Tis too much, too much of happiness.—But perhaps it would be well for
me to view each in detail; for as yet I doubt, and know not where to
look; my eyes are drawn all ways at once.

_Aph_. Yes, that will be best.

_Par_. Withdraw then, you and Athene; and let Hera remain.

_Hera_. So be it; and when you have finished your scrutiny, you have
next to consider, how you would like the present which I offer you.
Paris, give me the prize of beauty, and you shall be lord of all Asia.

_Par_. I will take no presents. Withdraw. I shall judge as I think
right. Approach, Athene.

_Ath_. Behold. And, Paris, if you will say that I am the fairest, I
will make you a great warrior and conqueror, and you shall always win,
in every one of your battles.

_Par_. But I have nothing to do with fighting, Athene. As you see,
there is peace throughout all Lydia and Phrygia, and my father's
dominion is uncontested. But never mind; I am not going to take your
present, but you shall have fair play. You can robe again and put on
your helmet; I have seen. And now for Aphrodite.

_Aph_. Here I am; take your time, and examine carefully; let nothing
escape your vigilance. And I have something else to say to you,
handsome Paris. Yes, you handsome boy, I have long had an eye on you; I
think you must be the handsomest young fellow in all Phrygia. But it is
such a pity that you don't leave these rocks and crags, and live in a
town; you will lose all your beauty in this desert. What have you to do
with mountains? What satisfaction can your beauty give to a lot of
cows? You ought to have been married long ago; not to any of these
dowdy women hereabouts, but to some Greek girl; an Argive, perhaps, or
a Corinthian, or a Spartan; Helen, now, is a Spartan, and such a pretty
girl—quite as pretty as I am—and so susceptible! Why, if she once
caught sight of _you_, she would give up everything, I am sure, to go
with you, and a most devoted wife she would be. But you have heard of
Helen, of course?

_Par_. No, ma'am; but I should like to hear all about her now.

_Aph_. Well, she is the daughter of Leda, the beautiful woman, you
know, whom Zeus visited in the disguise of a swan.

_Par_. And what is she like?

_Aph_. She is fair, as might be expected from the swan, soft as down
(she was hatched from an egg, you know), and such a lithe, graceful
figure; and only think, she is so much admired, that there was a war
because Theseus ran away with her; and she was a mere child then. And
when she grew up, the very first men in Greece were suitors for her
hand, and she was given to Menelaus, who is descended from Pelops.—Now,
if you like, she shall be your wife.

_Par_. What, when she is married already?

_Aph_. Tut, child, you are a simpleton: _I_ understand these things.

_Par_. I should like to understand them too.

_Aph_. You will set out for Greece on a tour of inspection: and when
you get to Sparta, Helen will see you; and for the rest—her falling in
love, and going back with you—that will be my affair.

_Par_. But that is what I cannot believe,—that she will forsake her
husband to cross the seas with a stranger, a barbarian.

_Aph_. Trust me for that. I have two beautiful children, Love and
Desire. They shall be your guides. Love will assail her in all his
might, and compel her to love you: Desire will encompass you about, and
make you desirable and lovely as himself; and I will be there to help.
I can get the Graces to come too, and between us we shall prevail.

_Par_. How this will end, I know not. All I do know is, that I am in
love with Helen already. I see her before me—I sail for Greece I am in
Sparta—I am on my homeward journey, with her at my side! Ah, why is
none of it true?

_Aph_. Wait. Do not fall in love yet. You have first to secure my
interest with the bride, by your award. The union must be graced with
my victorious presence: your marriage-feast shall be my feast of
victory. Love, beauty, wedlock; all these you may purchase at the price
of yonder apple.

_Par_. But perhaps after the award you will forget all about _me_?

_Aph_. Shall I swear?

_Par_. No; but promise once more.

_Aph_. I promise that you shall have Helen to wife; that she shall
follow you, and make Troy her home; and I will be present with you, and
help you in all.

_Par_. And bring Love, and Desire, and the Graces?

_Aph._ Assuredly; and Passion and Hymen as well.

_Par_. Take the apple: it is yours.

F.

XXI

_Ares. Hermes_

_Ar_. Did you hear Zeus's threat, Hermes? most complimentary, wasn't
it, and most practicable? 'If I choose,' says he, 'I could let down a
cord from Heaven, and all of you might hang on to it and do your very
best to pull me down; it would be waste labour; you would never move
me. On the other hand, if I chose to haul up, I should have you all
dangling in mid air, with earth and sea into the bargain and so on; you
heard? Well, I dare say he _is_ too much for any of us individually,
but I will never believe he outweighs the whole of us in a body, or
that, even with the makeweight of earth and sea, we should not get the
better of him.

_Her_. Mind what you say, Ares; it is not safe to talk like that; we
might get paid out for chattering.

_Ar_. You don't suppose I should say this to every one; I am not afraid
of you; I know you can keep a quiet tongue. I _must_ tell you what made
me laugh most while he stormed: I remember not so long ago, when
Posidon and Hera and Athene rebelled and made a plot for his capture
and imprisonment, he was frightened out of his wits; well, there were
only three of them, and if Thetis had not taken pity on him and called
in the hundred-handed Briareus to the rescue, he would actually have
been put in chains, with his thunder and his bolt beside him. When I
worked out the sum, I could not help laughing.

_Her_. Oh, do be quiet; such things are too risky for you to say or me
to listen to.

H.

XXIV

_Hermes_. _Maia_

_Her_. Mother, I am the most miserable god in Heaven.

_Ma_. Don't say such things, child.

_Her_. Am I to do all the work of Heaven with my own hands, to be
hurried from one piece of drudgery to another, and never say a word? I
have to get up early, sweep the dining-room, lay the cushions and put
all to rights; then I have to wait on Zeus, and take his messages, up
and down, all day long; and I am no sooner back again (no time for a
wash) than I have to lay the table; and there was the nectar to pour
out, too, till this new cup-bearer was bought. And it really is too
bad, that when every one else is in bed, I should have to go off to
Pluto with the Shades, and play the usher in Rhadamanthus's court. It
is not enough that I must be busy all day in the wrestling-ground and
the Assembly and the schools of rhetoric, the dead must have their
share in me too. Leda's sons take turn and turn about betwixt Heaven
and Hades—_I_ have to be in both every day. And why should the sons of
Alemena and Semele, paltry women, why should they feast at their ease,
and I—the son of Maia, the grandson of Atlas—wait upon them? And now
here am I only just back from Sidon, where he sent me to see after
Europa, and before I am in breath again—off I must go to Argos, in
quest of Danae, 'and you can take Boeotia on your way,' says father,
'and see Antiope.' I am half dead with it all. Mortal slaves are better
off than I am: they have the chance of being sold to a new master; I
wish I had the same!

_Ma_. Come, come, child. You must do as your father bids you, like a
good boy. Run along now to Argos and Boeotia; don't loiter, or you will
get a whipping. Lovers are apt to be hasty.

F.

XXV

_Zeus. Helius_

_Zeus_. What have you been about, you villainous Titan? You have
utterly done for the earth, trusting your car to a silly boy like that;
he has got too near and scorched it in one place, and in another killed
everything with frost by withdrawing the heat too far; there is not a
single thing he has not turned upside down; if I had not seen what was
happening and upset him with the thunderbolt, there would not have been
a remnant of mankind left. A pretty deputy driver!

_Hel_. I was wrong, Zeus; but do not be angry with me; my boy pressed
me so; how could I tell it would turn out so badly?

_Zeus_. Oh, of course you didn't know what a delicate business it is,
and how the slightest divergence ruins everything! it never occurred to
you that the horses are spirited, and want a tight hand! oh no! why,
give them their heads a moment, and they are out of control; just what
happened: they carried him now left, now right, now clean round
backwards, and up or down, just at their own sweet will; he was utterly
helpless.

_Hel_. I knew it all; I held out for a long time and told him he
mustn't drive. But he wept and entreated, and his mother Clymene joined
in, and at last I put him up. I showed him how to stand, and how far he
was to mount upwards, and where to begin descending, and how to hold
the reins, and keep the spirited beasts under control; and I told him
how dangerous it was, if he did not keep the track. But, poor boy, when
he found himself in charge of all that fire, and looking down into
yawning space, he was frightened, and no wonder; and the horses soon
knew I was not behind them, took the child's measure, left the track,
and wrought all this havoc; he let go the reins—I suppose he was afraid
of being thrown out—and held on to the rail. But he has suffered for
it, and my grief is punishment enough for me, Zeus.

_Zeus_. Punishment enough, indeed! after daring to do such a thing as
that!—Well, I forgive you this time. But if ever you transgress again,
or send another substitute like him, I will show you how much hotter
the thunderbolt is than your fire. Let his sisters bury him by the
Eridanus, where he was upset. They shall weep amber tears and be
changed by their grief into poplars. As for you, repair the car—the
pole is broken, and one of the wheels crushed—, put the horses to and
drive yourself. And let this be a lesson to you.

H.

XXVI

_Apollo. Hermes_

_Ap_. Hermes, have you any idea which of those two is Castor, and which
is Pollux? I never can make out.

_Her_. It was Castor yesterday, and Pollux to-day.

_Ap_. How do you tell? They are exactly alike.

_Her_. Why, Pollux's face is scarred with the wounds he got in boxing;
those that Amycus, the Bebrycian, gave him, when he was on that
expedition with Jason, are particularly noticeable. Castor has no
marks; his face is all right.

_Ap_. Good; I am glad I know that. Everything else is the same for
both. Each has his half egg-shell, with the star on top, each his
javelin and his white horse. I am always calling Pollux Castor, and
Castor Pollux. And, by the way, why are they never both here together?
Why should they be alternately gods and shades?

_Her_. That is their brotherly way. You see, it was decreed that one of
the sons of Leda must die, and the other be immortal; and by this
arrangement they split the immortality between them.

_Ap_. Rather a stupid way of doing it: if one of them is to be in
Heaven, whilst the other is underground, they will never see one
another at all; and I suppose that is just what they wanted to do. Then
again: all the other gods practise some useful profession, either here
or on earth; for instance, I am a prophet, Asclepius is a doctor, you
are a first-rate gymnast and trainer, Artemis ushers children into the
world; now what are these two going to do? surely two such great
fellows are not to have a lazy time of it?

_Her_. Oh no. Their business is to wait upon Posidon, and ride the
waves; and if they see a ship in distress, they go aboard of her, and
save the crew.

_Ap_. A most humane profession.

F.



DIALOGUES OF THE SEA-GODS

I

_Doris. Galatea_.

_Dor_. A handsome lover, Galatea, this Sicilian shepherd who they say
is so mad for you!

_Gal_. Don't be sarcastic, Doris; he is Posidon's son, after all.

_Dor_. Well, and if he were Zeus's, and still such a wild shaggy
creature, with only one eye (there is nothing uglier than to have only
one eye), do you think his birth would improve his beauty?

_Gal_. Shagginess and wildness, as you call them, are not ugly in a
man; and his eye looks very well in the middle of his forehead, and
sees just as well as if it were two.

_Dor_. Why, my dear, from your raptures about him one would think it
was you that were in love, not he.

_Gal_. Oh no, I am not in love; but it is too bad, your all running him
down as you do. It is my belief you are jealous, Do you remember? we
were playing on the shore at the foot of Etna, where the long strip of
beach comes between the mountain and the sea; he was feeding his sheep,
and spied us from above; yes, but he never so much as glanced at the
rest of you; I was the pretty one; he was all eyes—eye, I mean—for me.
That is what makes you spiteful, because it showed I was better than
you, good enough to be loved, while you were taken no notice of.

_Dor_. Hoity-toity! jealous indeed! because a one-eyed shepherd thinks
you pretty! Why, what could he see in you but your white skin? and he
only cared for that because it reminded him of cheese and milk; he
thinks everything pretty that is like them. If you want to know any
more than that about your looks, sit on a rock when it is calm, and
lean over the water; just a bit of white skin, that is all; and who
cares for that, if it is not picked out with some red?

_Gal_. Well, if I _am_ all white, I have got a lover of some sort;
there is not a shepherd or a sailor or a boatman to care for any of
you. Besides, Polyphemus is very musical.

_Dor_. Take care, dear; we heard him singing the other day when he
serenaded you. Heavens! one would have taken him for an ass braying.
And his lyre! what a thing! A stag's skull, with its horns for the
uprights; he put a bar across, and fastened on the strings without any
tuning-pegs! then came the performance, all harsh and out of tune; he
shouted something himself, and the lyre played something else, and the
love ditty sent us into fits of laughter. Why, Echo, chatterbox that
she is, would not answer him; she was ashamed to be caught mimicking
such a rough ridiculous song. Oh, and the pet that your beau brought
you in his arms!—a bear cub nearly as shaggy as himself. Now then,
Galatea, do you still think we envy you your lover?

_Gal_. Well, Doris, only show us your own; no doubt he is much
handsomer, and sings and plays far better.

_Dor_. Oh, I have not got one; _I_ do not set up to be lovely. But one
like the Cyclops—faugh, he might be one of his own goats!—he eats raw
meat, they say, and feeds on travellers—one like him, dear, you may
keep; I wish you nothing worse than to return his love.

H.

II

_Cyclops. Posidon_

_Cy_. Only look, father, what that cursed stranger has been doing to
me! He made me drunk, and set upon me whilst I was asleep, and blinded
me.

_Po_. Who has dared to do this?

_Cy_. He called himself 'Noman' at first: but when he had got safely
out of range, he said his name was Odysseus.

_Po_. I know—the Ithacan; on his way back from Troy. But how did he
come to do such a thing? He is not distinguished for courage.

_Cy_. When I got back from the pasture, I caught a lot of the fellows
in my cave. Evidently they had designs upon the sheep: because when I
had blocked up my doorway (I have a great big stone for that), and
kindled a fire, with a tree that I had brought home from the
mountain,—there they were trying to hide themselves. I saw they were
robbers, so I caught a few of them, and ate them of course, and then
that scoundrel of a Noman, or Odysseus, whichever it is, gave me
something to drink, with a drug in it; it tasted and smelt very good,
but it was villanously heady stuff; it made everything spin round; even
the cave seemed to be turning upside down, and I simply didn't know
where I was; and finally I fell off to sleep. And then he sharpened
that stake, and made it hot in the fire, and blinded me in my sleep;
and blind I have been ever since, father.

_Po_. You must have slept pretty soundly, my boy, or you would have
jumped up in the middle of it. Well, and how did Odysseus get off? He
couldn't move that stone away, _I_ know.

_Cy_. I took that away myself, so as to catch him as he went out. I sat
down in the doorway, and felt about for him with my hands. I just let
the sheep go out to pasture, and told the ram everything I wanted done.

_Po_. Ah! and they slipped out under the sheep? But you should have set
the other Cyclopes on to him.

_Cy_. I did call them, and they came: but when they asked me who it was
that was playing tricks with me, I said 'Noman'; and then they thought
I was mad, and went off home again. The villain! that name of his was
just a trick! And what I minded most was the way in which he made game
of my misfortune: 'Not even Papa can put this right,' he said.

_Po_. Never mind, my boy; I will be even with him. I may not be able to
cure blindness, but he shall know that I have something to say to
mariners. He is not home yet.

F.

III

_Posidon. Alpheus_

_Pos_. What is the meaning of this, Alpheus? unlike others, when you
take your plunge you do not mingle with the brine as a river should;
you do not put an end to your labours by dispersing; you hold together
through the sea, keep your current fresh, and hurry along in all your
original purity; you dive down to strange depths like a gull or a
heron; I suppose you will come to the top again and show yourself
somewhere or other.

_Al_. Do not press me, Posidon; a love affair; and many is the time you
have been in love yourself.

_Pos_. Woman, nymph, or Nereid?

_Al_. All wrong; she is a fountain.

_Pos_. A fountain? and where does she flow?

_Al_. She is an islander—in Sicily. Her name is Arethusa.

_Pos_. Ah, I commend your taste. She is pellucid, and bubbles up in
perfect purity; the water as bright over her pebbles as if it were a
mass of silver.

_Al_. You know my fountain, Posidon, and no mistake. It is to her that
I go.

_Pos_. Go, then; and may the course of love run smooth! But pray where
did you meet her? Arcadia and Syracuse, you know!

_Al_. I am in a hurry; you are detaining me, with these superfluous
questions.

_Pos_. Ah, so I am. Be off to your beloved, rise from the sea, mingle
your channels and be one water.

H.

IV

_Menelaus. Proteus_

_Me_. I can understand your turning into _water_, you know, Proteus,
because you _are_ a sea-god. I can even pass the tree; and the lion is
not wholly beyond the bounds of belief. But the idea of your being able
to turn into _fire_, living under water as you do,—this excites my
surprise, not to say my incredulity.

_Pro_. Don't let it; because I can.

_Me_. I have seen you do it. But (to be frank with you) I think there
must be some deception; you play tricks with one's eyes; you don't
really turn into anything of the kind?

_Pro_. Deception? What deception can there possibly be? Everything is
above-board. Your eyes were open, I suppose, and you saw me change into
all these things? If that is not enough for you, if you think it is a
fraud, an optical illusion, I will turn into fire again, and you can
touch me with your hand, my sagacious friend. You will then be able to
conclude whether I am only visible fire, or have the additional
property of burning.

_Me_. That would be rash.

_Pro_. I suppose you have never seen such a thing as a polypus, nor
observed the proceedings of that fish?

_Me_. I have seen them; as to their proceedings, I shall be glad of
your information.

_Pro_. The polypus, having selected his rock, and attached himself by
means of his suckers, assimilates himself to it, changing his colour to
match that of the rock. By this means he hopes to escape the
observation of fishermen: there is no contrast of colour to betray his
presence; he looks just like stone.

_Me_. So I have heard. But yours is quite another matter, Proteus.

_Pro_. I don't know what evidence would satisfy you, if you reject that
of your own eyes.

_Me_. I have seen it done, but it is an extraordinary business; fire
and water, one and the same person!

F.

V

_Panope. Galene_

_Pa_. Galene, did you see what Eris did yesterday at the Thessalian
banquet, because she had not had an invitation?

_Ga_, No, I was not with you; Posidon had told me to keep the sea quiet
for the occasion. What did Eris do, then, if she was not there?

_Pa_. Thetis and Peleus had just gone off to the bridal chamber,
conducted by Amphitrite and Posidon, when Eris came in unnoticed—which
was easy enough; some were drinking, some dancing, or attending to
Apollo's lyre or the Muses' songs—Well, she threw down a lovely apple,
solid gold, my dear; and there was written on it, FOR THE FAIR. It
rolled along as if it knew what it was about, till it came in front of
Hera, Aphrodite, and Athene. Hermes picked it up and read out the
inscription; of course we Nereids kept quiet; what should _we_ do in
such company? But they all made for it, each insisting that it was
hers; and if Zeus had not parted them, there would have been a battle.
He would not decide the matter himself, though they asked him to. 'Go,
all of you, to Ida,' he said, 'to the son of Priam; he is a man of
taste, quite capable of picking out the beauty; he will be no bad
judge.'

_Ga_. Yes. and the Goddesses, Panope?

_Pa_. They are going to Ida to-day, I believe; we shall soon have news
of the result.

_Ga_. Oh, I can tell you that now; if the umpire is not a blind man, no
one else can win, with Aphrodite in for it.

_Triton. Posidon. Amymone_

_Tri_. Posidon, there is such a pretty girl coming to Lerna for water
every day; I don't know that I ever saw a prettier.

_Pos_. What is she, a lady? or a mere water-carrier?

_Tri_. Oh no; she is one of the fifty daughters of that Egyptian king.
Her name is Amymone; I asked about that and her family. Danaus
understands discipline; he is bringing them up to do everything for
themselves; they have to fetch water, and make themselves generally
useful.

_Pos_. And does she come all that way by herself, from Argos to Lerna?

_Tri_. Yes; and Argos, you know, is a thirsty place; she is always
having to get water.

_Pos_. Triton, this is most exciting. We must go and see her.

_Tri_. Very well. It is just her time now; I reckon she will be about
half-way to Lerna.

_Pos_. Bring out the chariot, then. Or no; it takes such a time getting
it ready, and putting the horses to. Just fetch me out a good fast
dolphin; that will be quickest.

_Tri_. Here is a racer for you.

_Pos_. Good; now let us be off. You swim alongside.—Here we are at
Lerna. I'll lie in ambush hereabouts; and you keep a look-out. When you
see her coming—

_Tri_. Here she comes.

_Pos_. A charming child; the dawn of loveliness. We must carry her off.

_Am_. Villain! where are you taking me to? You are a kidnapper. I know
who sent you—my uncle Aegyptus. I shall call my father.

_Tri_. Hush, Amymone; it is Posidon.

_Am_. Posidon? What do you mean? Unhand me, villain! would you drag me
into the sea? Help, help, I shall sink and be drowned.

_Pos_. Don't be frightened; no harm shall be done to you. Come, you
shall have a fountain called after you; it shall spring up in this very
place, near the waves; I will strike the rock with my trident.—Think
how nice it will be being dead, and not having to carry water any more,
like all your sisters.

F.

VII

_South Wind. West Wind_

_S_. Zephyr, is it true about Zeus and the heifer that Hermes is
convoying across the sea to Egypt?—that he fell in love with it?

_W_. Certainly. She was not a heifer then, though, but a daughter of
the river Inachus. Hera made her what she is now; Zeus was so deep in
love that Hera was jealous.

_S_. And is he still in love, now that she is a cow?

_W_. Oh, yes; that is why he has sent her to Egypt, and told us not to
stir up the sea till she has swum across; she is to be delivered there
of her child, and both of them are to be Gods.

_S_. The heifer a God?

_W_. Yes, I tell you. And Hermes said she was to be the patroness of
sailors and our mistress, and send out or confine any of us that she
chooses.

_S_. So we must regard ourselves as her servants at once?

_W_. Why, yes; she will be the kinder if we do. Ah, she has got across
and landed. Do you see? she does not go on four legs now; Hermes has
made her stand erect, and turned her back into a beautiful woman.

_S_. This is most remarkable, Zephyr; no horns, no tail, no cloven
hoofs; instead, a lovely maid. But what is the matter with Hermes? he
has changed his handsome face into a dog's.

_W_. We had better not meddle; he knows his own business best.

H.

VIII

_Posidon. Dolphins_

_Pos_. Well done, Dolphins!—humane as ever. Not content with your
former exploit, when Ino leapt with Melicertes from the Scironian
cliff, and you picked the boy up and conveyed him to the Isthmus, one
of you swims from Methymna to Taenarum with this musician on his back,
mantle and lyre and all. Those sailors had almost had their wicked will
of him; but you were not going to stand that.

_Dol_. You need not be surprised to find us doing a good turn to a man,
Posidon; we were men before we were fishes.

_Pos_. Yes; I think it was too bad of Dionysus to celebrate his victory
by such a transformation scene; he might have been content with adding
you to the roll of his subjects.—Well, Dolphin, tell me all about
Arion.

_Dol_. From what I can gather, Periander was very fond of him, and was
always sending for him to perform; till Arion grew quite rich at his
expense, and thought he would take a trip to Methymna, and show off his
wealth at home. He took ship accordingly; but it was with a crew of
rogues. He had made no secret of the gold and silver he had with him;
and when they were in mid Aegean, the sailors rose against him. As I
was swimming alongside, I heard all that went on. 'Since your minds are
made up,' says Arion, 'at least let me get my mantle on, and sing my
own dirge; and then I will throw myself into the sea of my own
accord.'—The sailors agreed. He threw his minstrel's cloak about him,
and sang a most sweet melody; and then he let himself drop into the
water, never doubting but that his last moment had come. But I caught
him up on my back, and swam to shore with him at Taenarum.

_Pos_. I am glad to find you a patron of the arts. This was handsome
pay for a song.

F.

IX

_Posidon. Amphitrite and other Nereids_

_Pos_. The strait where the child fell shall be called Hellespont after
her. And as for her body, you Nereids shall take it to the Troad to be
buried by the inhabitants.

_Amph_. Oh no, Posidon. Let her grave be the sea which bears her name.
We are so sorry for her; that step-mother's treatment of her was
shocking.

_Pos_. No, my dear, that may not be. And indeed it is not desirable
that she should lie here under the sand; her grave shall be in the
Troad, as I said, or in the Chersonese. It will be no small consolation
to her that Ino will have the same fate before long. She will be chased
by Athamas from the top of Cithaeron down the ridge which runs into the
sea, and there plunge in with her son in her arms. But her we must
rescue, to please Dionysus; Ino was his nurse and suckled him, you
know.

_Amph_. Rescue a wicked creature like her?

_Pos_. Well, we do not want to disoblige Dionysus.

_Nereid_. I wonder what made the poor child fall off the ram; her
brother Phrixus held on all right.

_Pos_. Of course he did; a lusty youth equal to the flight; but it was
all too strange for her; sitting on that queer mount, looking down on
yawning space, terrified, overpowered by the heat, giddy with the
speed, she lost her hold on the ram's horns, and down she came into the
sea.

_Nereid_. Surely her mother Nephele should have broken her fall.

_Pos_. I dare say; but Fate is a great deal too strong for Nephele.

H.

X

_Iris. Posidon_

_Ir_. Posidon: you know that floating island, that was torn away from
Sicily, and is still drifting about under water; you are to bring it to
the surface, Zeus says, and fix it well in view in the middle of the
Aegean; and mind it is properly secured; he has a use for it.

_Pos_. Very good. And when I have got it up, and anchored it, what is
he going to do with it?

_Ir_. Leto is to lie in there; her time is near.

_Pos_. And is there no room in Heaven? Or is Earth too small to hold
her children?

_Ir_. Ah, you see, Hera has bound the Earth by a great oath not to give
shelter to Leto in her travail. This island, however, being out of
sight, has not committed itself.

_Pos_. I see.—Island, be still! Rise once more from the depths; and
this time there must be no sinking. Henceforth you are _terra firma_;
it will be your happiness to receive my brother's twin children,
fairest of the Gods.—Tritons, you will have to convey Leto across. Let
all be calm.—As to that serpent who is frightening her out of her
senses, wait till these children are born; they will soon avenge their
mother.—You can tell Zeus that all is ready. Delos stands firm: Leto
has only to come.

F.

XI

_The Xanthus. The Sea_

_Xan_. O Sea, take me to you; see how horribly I have been treated;
cool my wounds for me.

_Sea_. What is this, Xanthus? who has burned you?

_Xan_. Hephaestus. Oh, I am burned to cinders! oh, oh, oh, I boil!

_Sea_. What made him use his fire upon you?

_Xan_. Why, it was all that son of your Thetis. He was slaughtering the
Phrygians; I tried entreaties, but he went raging on, damming my stream
with their bodies; I was so sorry for the poor wretches, I poured down
to see if I could make a flood and frighten him off them. But
Hephaestus happened to be about, and he must have collected every
particle of fire he had in Etna or anywhere else; on he came at me,
scorched my elms and tamarisks, baked the poor fishes and eels, made me
boil over, and very nearly dried me up altogether. You see what a state
I am in with the burns.

_Sea_. Indeed you are thick and hot, Xanthus, and no wonder; the dead
men's blood accounts for one, and the fire for the other, according to
your story. Well, and serve you right; assaulting my grandson, indeed!
paying no more respect to the son of a Nereid than that!

_Xan_. Was I not to take compassion on the Phrygians? they are my
neighbours.

_Sea_. And was Hephaestus not to take compassion on Achilles? He is the
son of Thetis.

H.

XII

_Doris. Thetis_

_Dor_. Crying, dear?

_The_. Oh, Doris, I have just seen a lovely girl thrown into a chest by
her father, and her little baby with her; and he gave the chest to some
sailors, and told them, as soon as they were far enough from the shore,
to drop it into the water; he meant them to be drowned, poor things.

_Dor_. Oh, sister, but why? What was it all about? Did you hear?

_The_. Her father, Acrisius, wanted to keep her from marrying. And, as
she was so pretty, he shut her up in an iron room. And—I don't know
whether it's true—but they say that Zeus turned himself into gold, and
came showering down through the roof, and she caught the gold in her
lap,—and it was Zeus all the time. And then her father found out about
it—he is a horrid, jealous old man—and he was furious, and thought she
had been receiving a lover; and he put her into the chest, the moment
the child was born.

_Dor_. And what did she do then?

_The_. She never said a word against her own sentence; _she_ was ready
to submit: but she pleaded hard for the child's life, and cried, and
held him up for his grandfather to see; and there was the sweet babe,
that thought no harm, smiling at the waves. I am beginning again, at
the mere remembrance of it.

_Dor_. You make me cry, too. And is it all over?

_The_. No; the chest has carried them safely so far; it is by Seriphus.

_Dor_. Then why should we not save them? We can put the chest into
those fishermen's nets, look; and then of course they will be hauled
in, and come safe to shore.

_The_. The very thing. She shall not die; nor the child, sweet
treasure!

F.

XIV

_Triton. Iphianassa. Doris. Nereids_

_Tri_. Well, ladies: so the monster you sent against the daughter of
Cepheus has got killed himself, and never done Andromeda any harm at
all!

_Nereid_. Who did it? I suppose Cepheus was just using his daughter as
a bait, and had a whole army waiting in ambush to kill him?

_Tri_. No, no.—Iphianassa, you remember Perseus, Danae's boy?—they were
both thrown into the sea by the boy's grandfather, in that chest, you
know, and you took pity on them.

_Iph_. I know; why, I suppose he is a fine handsome young fellow by
now?

_Tri_. It was he who killed your monster.

_Iph_. But why? This was not the way to show his gratitude.

_Tri_. I'll tell you all about it. The king had sent him on this
expedition against the Gorgons, and when he got to Libya—

_Iph_. How did he get there? all by himself? he must have had some one
to help him?—it is a dangerous journey otherwise.

_Tri_. He flew,—Athene gave him wings.—Well, so when he got to where
the Gorgons were living, he caught them napping, I suppose, cut off
Medusa's head, and flew away.

_Iph_. How could he see them? The Gorgons are a forbidden sight.
Whoever looks at them will never look at any one else again.

_Tri_. Athene held up her shield—I heard him telling Andromeda and
Cepheus about it afterwards—Athene showed him the reflection of the
Gorgon in her shield, which is as bright as any mirror; so he took hold
of her hair in his left hand, grasped his scimetar with the right,
still looking at the reflection, cut off her head, and was off before
her sisters woke up. Lowering his flight as he reached the Ethiopian
coast yonder, he caught sight of Andromeda, fettered to a jutting rock,
her hair hanging loose about her shoulders; ye Gods, what loveliness
was there exposed to view! And first pity of her hard fate prompted him
to ask the cause of her doom: but Fate had decreed the maiden's
deliverance, and presently Love stole upon him, and he resolved to save
her. The hideous monster now drew near, and would have swallowed her:
but the youth, hovering above, smote him with the drawn scimetar in his
right hand, and with his left uncovered the petrifying Gorgon's head:
in one moment the monster was lifeless; all of him that had met that
gaze was turned to stone. Then Perseus released the maiden from her
fetters, and supported her, as with timid steps she descended from the
slippery rock.—And now he is to marry her in Cepheus's palace, and take
her home to Argos; so that where she looked for death, she has found an
uncommonly good match.

_Iph_. I am not sorry to hear it. It is no fault of hers, if her mother
has the vanity to set up for our rival.

_Dor_. Still, she _is_ Andromeda's mother; and we should have had our
revenge on her through the daughter.

_Iph_. My dear, let bygones be bygones. What matter if a barbarian
queen's tongue runs away with her? She is sufficiently punished by the
fright. So let us take this marriage in good part.

F.

XV

_West Wind. South Wind_

_W_. Such a splendid pageant I never saw on the waves, since the day I
first blew. You were not there, Notus?

_S_. Pageant, Zephyr? what pageant? and whose?

_W_. You missed a most ravishing spectacle; such another chance you are
not likely to have.

_S_. I was busy with the Red Sea; and I gave the Indian coasts a little
airing too. So I don't know what you are talking about.

_W_. Well, you know Agenor the Sidonian?

_S_. Europa's father? what of him?

_W_. Europa it is that I am going to tell you about.

_S_. You need not tell me that Zeus has been in love with her this long
while; that is stale news.

_W_. We can pass the love, then, and get on to the sequel.

Europa had come down for a frolic on the beach with her playfellows.
Zeus transformed himself into a bull, and joined the game. A fine sight
he was—spotless white skin, crumpled horns, and gentle eyes. He
gambolled on the shore with them, bellowing most musically, till Europa
took heart of grace and mounted him. No sooner had she done it than,
with her on his back, Zeus made off at a run for the sea, plunged in,
and began swimming; she was dreadfully frightened, but kept her seat by
clinging to one of his horns with her left hand, while the right held
her skirt down against the puffs of wind.

_S_. A lovely sight indeed, Zephyr, in every sense—Zeus swimming with
his darling on his back.

_W_. Ay, but what followed was lovelier far.

Every wave fell; the sea donned her robe of peace to speed them on
their way; we winds made holiday and joined the train, all eyes;
fluttering Loves skimmed the waves, just dipping now and again a
heedless toe—in their hands lighted torches, on their lips the nuptial
song; up floated Nereids—few but were prodigal of naked charms—and
clapped their hands, and kept pace on dolphin steeds; the Triton
company, with every sea-creature that frights not the eye, tripped it
around the maid; for Posidon on his car, with Amphitrite by him, led
them in festal mood, ushering his brother through the waves. But,
crowning all, a Triton pair bore Aphrodite, reclined on a shell,
heaping the bride with all flowers that blow.

So went it from Phoenice even to Crete. But, when he set foot on the
isle, behold, the bull was no more; 'twas Zeus that took Europa's hand
and led her to the Dictaean Cave—blushing and downward-eyed; for she
knew now the end of her bringing.

But we plunged this way and that, and roused the still seas anew.

_S_. Ah me, what sights of bliss! and I was looking at griffins, and
elephants, and blackamoors!

H.



DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD

I

_Diogenes. Pollux_

_Diog_. Pollux, I have a commission for you; next time you go up—and I
think it is your turn for earth to-morrow—if you come across Menippus
the Cynic—you will find him about the Craneum at Corinth, or in the
Lyceum, laughing at the philosophers' disputes—well, give him this
message:—Menippus, Diogenes advises you, if mortal subjects for
laughter begin to pall, to come down below, and find much richer
material; where you are now, there is always a dash of uncertainty in
it; the question will always intrude—who can be quite sure about the
hereafter? Here, you can have your laugh out in security, like me; it
is the best of sport to see millionaires, governors, despots, now mean
and insignificant; you can only tell them by their lamentations, and
the spiritless despondency which is the legacy of better days. Tell him
this, and mention that he had better stuff his wallet with plenty of
lupines, and any un-considered trifles he can snap up in the way of
pauper doles [Footnote: In the Greek, 'a Hecate's repast lying at a
street corner.' 'Rich men used to make offerings to Hecate on the 30th
of every month as Goddess of roads at street corners; and these
offerings were at once pounced upon by the poor, or, as here, the
Cynics.' _Jacobitz_.] or lustral eggs. [Footnote: 'Eggs were often used
as purificatory offerings and set out in front of the house purified.'
_Id_.]

_Pol_. I will tell him, Diogenes. But give me some idea of his
appearance.

_Diog_. Old, bald, with a cloak that allows him plenty of light and
ventilation, and is patched all colours of the rainbow; always
laughing, and usually gibing at pretentious philosophers.

_Pol_. Ah, I cannot mistake him now.

_Diog_. May I give you another message to those same philosophers?

_Pol_. Oh, I don't mind; go on.

_Diog_. Charge them generally to give up playing the fool, quarrelling
over metaphysics, tricking each other with horn and crocodile puzzles
[Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes.] and teaching people to waste wit on
such absurdities.

_Pol_. Oh, but if I say anything against their wisdom, they will call
me an ignorant blockhead.

_Diog_. Then tell them from me to go to the devil.

_Pol_. Very well; rely upon me.

_Diog_. And then, my most obliging of Polluxes, there is this for the
rich:—O vain fools, why hoard gold? why all these pains over interest
sums and the adding of hundred to hundred, when you must shortly come
to us with nothing beyond the dead-penny?

_Pol_. They shall have their message too.

_Diog_. Ah, and a word to the handsome and strong; Megillus of Corinth,
and Damoxenus the wrestler will do. Inform them that auburn locks, eyes
bright or black, rosy cheeks, are as little in fashion here as tense
muscles or mighty shoulders; man and man are as like as two peas, tell
them, when it comes to bare skull and no beauty.

_Pol_. That is to the handsome and strong; yes, I can manage that.

_Diog_. Yes, my Spartan, and here is for the poor. There are a great
many of them, very sorry for themselves and resentful of their
helplessness. Tell them to dry their tears and cease their cries;
explain to them that here one man is as good as another, and they will
find those who were rich on earth no better than themselves. As for
your Spartans, you will not mind scolding them, from me, upon their
present degeneracy?

_Pol_. No, no, Diogenes; leave Sparta alone; that is going too far;
your other commissions I will execute.

_Diog_. Oh, well, let them off, if you care about it; but tell all the
others what I said.

H.

II

_Before Pluto: Croesus, Midas, and Sardanapalus v. Menippus_

_Cr_. Pluto, we can stand this snarling Cynic no longer in our
neighbourhood; either you must transfer him to other quarters, or we
are going to migrate.

_Pl_. Why, what harm does he do to your ghostly community?

_Cr_. Midas here, and Sardanapalus and I, can never get in a good cry
over the old days of gold and luxury and treasure, but he must be
laughing at us, and calling us rude names; 'slaves' and 'garbage,' he
says we are. And then he sings; and that throws us out.—In short, he is
a nuisance.

_Pl_. Menippus, what's this I hear?

_Me_. All perfectly true, Pluto. I detest these abject rascals! Not
content with having lived the abominable lives they did, they keep on
talking about it now they are dead, and harping on the good old days. I
take a positive pleasure in annoying them.

_Pl_. Yes, but you mustn't. They have had terrible losses; they feel it
deeply.

_Me_. Pluto! you are not going to lend _your_ countenance to these
whimpering fools?

_Pl_. It isn't that: but I won't have you quarrelling.

_Me_. Well, you scum of your respective nations, let there be no
misunderstanding; I am going on just the same. Wherever you are, there
shall I be also; worrying, jeering, singing you down.

_Cr_. Presumption!

_Me_. Not a bit of it. Yours was the presumption, when you expected men
to fall down before you, when you trampled on men's liberty, and forgot
there was such a thing as death. Now comes the weeping and gnashing of
teeth: for all is lost!

_Cr_. Lost! Ah God! My treasure-heaps—

_Mid_. My gold—

_Sar_. My little comforts—

_Me_. That's right: stick to it! You do the whining, and I'll chime in
with a string of GNOTHI-SAUTONS, best of accompaniments.

F.

III

_Menippus. Amphilochus. Trophonius_

_Me_. Now I wonder how it is that you two dead men have been honoured
with temples and taken for prophets; those silly mortals imagine you
are Gods.

_Amp_. How can we help it, if they are fools enough to have such
fancies about the dead?

_Me_. Ah, they would never have had them, though, if you had not been
charlatans in your lifetime, and pretended to know the future and be
able to foretell it to your clients.

_Tro_. Well, Menippus, Amphilochus can take his own line, if he likes;
as for me, I _am_ a Hero, and _do_ give oracles to any one who comes
down to me. It is pretty clear you were never at Lebadea, or you would
not be so incredulous.

_Me_. What do you mean? I must go to Lebadea, swaddle myself up in
absurd linen, take a cake in my hand, and crawl through a narrow
passage into a cave, before I could tell that you are a dead man, with
nothing but knavery to differentiate you from the rest of us? Now, on
your seer-ship, what _is_ a Hero? I am sure _I_ don't know.

_Tro_. He is half God, and half man.

_Me_. So what is neither man (as you imply) nor God, is both at once?
Well, at present what has become of your diviner half?

_Tro_. He gives oracles in Boeotia.

_Me_. What you may mean is quite beyond me; the one thing I know for
certain is that you are dead—the whole of you.

H.

IV

_Hermes. Charon_

_Her_. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will
prevent any unpleasantness later on.

_Ch_. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight.

_Her_. One anchor, to your order, five shillings.

_Ch_. That is a lot of money.

_Her_. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap,
fourpence.

_Ch_. Five and four; put that down.

_Her_. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; ten-pence.

_Ch_. Down with it.

_Her_. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the
lot.

_Ch_. They were worth the money.

_Her_. That's all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay
it?

_Ch_. I can't just now, Hermes; we shall have a war or a plague
presently, and then the passengers will come shoaling in, and I shall
be able to make a little by jobbing the fares.

_Her_. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray
for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid?

_Ch_. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just
now, as you see, owing to the peace.

_Her_. That is just as well, though it does keep me waiting for my
money. After all, though, Charon, in old days men were men; you
remember the state they used to come down in,—all blood and wounds
generally. Nowadays, a man is poisoned by his slave or his wife; or
gets dropsy from overfeeding; a pale, spiritless lot, nothing like the
men of old. Most of them seem to meet their end in some plot that has
money for its object.

_Ch_. Ah; money is in great request.

_Her_. Yes; you can't blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment.

F.

V

_Pluto. Hermes_

_Pl_. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no
children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?

_Her_. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?

_Pl_. Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer,
please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me
down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest
of them.

_Her_. It would seem so strange, wouldn't it?

_Pl_. On the contrary, it would be ideal justice. What business have
they to pray for his death, or pretend to his money? they are no
relations. The most abominable thing about it is that they vary these
prayers with every public attention; when he is ill, every one knows
what they are after, and yet they vow offerings if he recovers; talk of
versatility! So let him be immortal, and bring them away before him
with their mouths still open for the fruit that never drops.

_Her_. Well, they _are_ rascals, and it would be a comic ending. He
leads them a pretty life too, on hope gruel; he always looks more dead
than alive, but he is tougher than a young man. They have divided up
the inheritance among them, and feed on imaginary bliss.

_Pl_. Just so; now he is to throw off his years like Iolaus, and
rejuvenate, while they in the middle of their hopes find themselves
here with their dream-wealth left behind them. Nothing like making the
punishment fit the crime.

_Her_. Say no more, Pluto; I will fetch you them one after another;
seven of them, is it?

_Pl_. Down with them; and he shall change from an old man to a blooming
youth, and attend their funerals.

H.

VI

_Terpsion. Pluto_

_Ter_. Now is this fair, Pluto,—that I should die at the age of thirty,
and that old Thucritus go on living past ninety?

_Pl_. Nothing could be fairer. Thucritus lives and is in no hurry for
his neighbours to die; whereas you always had some design against him;
you were waiting to step into his shoes.

_Ter_. Well, an old man like that is past getting any enjoyment out of
his money; he ought to die, and make room for younger men.

_Pl_. This is a novel principle: the man who can no longer derive
pleasure from his money is to die!—Fate and Nature have ordered it
otherwise.

_Ter_. Then they have ordered it wrongly. There ought to be a proper
sequence according to seniority. Things are turned upside down, if an
old man is to go on living with only three teeth in his head, half
blind, tottering about with a pair of slaves on each side to hold him
up, drivelling and rheumy-eyed, having no joy of life, a living tomb,
the derision of his juniors,—and young men are to die in the prime of
their strength and beauty. 'Tis contrary to nature. At any rate the
young men have a right to know when the old are going to die, so that
they may not throw away their attentions on them for nothing, as is
sometimes the case. The present arrangement is a putting of the cart
before the horse.

_Pl_. There is a great deal more sound sense in it than you suppose,
Terpsion. Besides, what right have you young fellows got to be prying
after other men's goods, and thrusting yourselves upon your childless
elders? You look rather foolish, when you get buried first; it tickles
people immensely; the more fervent your prayers for the death of your
aged friend, the greater is the general exultation when you precede
him. It has become quite a profession lately, this amorous devotion to
old men and women,—childless, of course; children destroy the illusion.
By the way though, some of the beloved objects see through your dirty
motives well enough by now; they have children, but they pretend to
hate them, and so have lovers all the same. When their wills come to be
read, their faithful bodyguard is not included: nature asserts itself,
the children get their rights, and the lovers realize, with gnashings
of teeth, that they have been taken in.

_Ter_. Too true! The luxuries that Thucritus has enjoyed at my expense!
He always looked as if he were at the point of death. I never went to
see him, but he would groan and squeak like a chicken barely out of the
shell: I considered that he might step into his coffin at any moment,
and heaped gift upon gift, for fear of being outdone in generosity by
my rivals; I passed anxious, sleepless nights, reckoning and arranging
all; 'twas this, the sleeplessness and the anxiety, that brought me to
my death. And he swallows my bait whole, and attends my funeral
chuckling.

_Pl_. Well done, Thucritus! Long may you live to enjoy your wealth,—and
your joke at the youngsters' expense; many a toady may you send hither
before your own time comes!

_Ter_. Now I think of it, it _would_ be a satisfaction if Charoeades
were to die before him.

_Pl_. Charoeades! My dear Terpsion, Phido, Melanthus,—every one of them
will be here before Thucritus,—all victims of this same anxiety!

_Ter_. That is as it should be. Hold on, Thucritus!

F.

VII

_Zenophantus. Callidemides_

_Ze_. Ah, Callidemides, and how did _you_ come by your end? As for me,
I was free of Dinias's table, and there died of a surfeit; but that is
stale news; you were there, of course.

_Cal_. Yes, I was. Now there was an element of surprise about _my_
fate. I suppose you know that old Ptoeodorus?

_Ze_. The rich man with no children, to whom you gave most of your
company?

_Cal_. That is the man; he had promised to leave me his heir, and I
used to show my appreciation. However, it went on such a time; Tithonus
was a juvenile to him; so I found a short cut to my property. I bought
a potion, and agreed with the butler that next time his master called
for wine (he is a pretty stiff drinker) he should have this ready in a
cup and present it; and I was pledged to reward the man with his
freedom.

_Ze_. And what happened? this is interesting.

_Cal_. When we came from bath, the young fellow had two cups ready, one
with the poison for Ptoeodorus, and the other for me; but by some
blunder he handed me the poisoned cup, and Ptoeodorus the plain; and
behold, before he had done drinking, there was I sprawling on the
ground, a vicarious corpse! Why are you laughing so, Zenophantus? I am
your friend; such mirth is unseemly.

_Ze_. Well, it was such a humorous exit. And how did the old man
behave?

_Cal_. He was dreadfully distressed for the moment; then he saw, I
suppose, and laughed as much as you over the butler's trick.

_Ze_. Ah, short cuts are no better for you than for other people, you
see; the high road would have been safer, if not quite so quick.

H.

VIII

_Cnemon. Damnippus_

_Cne_. Why, 'tis the proverb fulfilled! The fawn hath taken the lion.

_Dam_. What's the matter, Cnemon?

_Cne_. The matter! I have been fooled, miserably fooled. I have passed
over all whom I should have liked to make my heirs, and left my money
to the wrong man.

_Dam_. How was that?

_Cne_. I had been speculating on the death of Hermolaus, the
millionaire. He had no children, and my attentions had been well
received by him. I thought it would be a good idea to let him know that
I had made my will in his favour, on the chance of its exciting his
emulation.

_Dam_. Yes; and Hermolaus?

_Cne_. What _his_ will was, I don't know. I died suddenly,—the roof
came down about my ears; and now Hermolaus is my heir. The pike has
swallowed hook and bait.

_Dam_. And your anglership into the bargain. The pit that you digged
for other….

_Cue_. That's about the truth of the matter, confound it.

F.

IX

_Simylus. Polystratus_

_Si_. So here you are at last, Polystratus; you must be something very
like a centenarian.

_Pol_. Ninety-eight.

_Si_. And what sort of a life have you had of it, these thirty years?
you were about seventy when I died.

_Pol_. Delightful, though you may find it hard to believe.

_Si_. It is surprising that you could have any joy of your life—old,
weak, and childless, moreover.

_Pol_. In the first place, I could do just what I liked; there were
still plenty of handsome boys and dainty women; perfumes were sweet,
wine kept its bouquet, Sicilian feasts were nothing to mine.

_Si_. This _is_ a change, to be sure; you were very economical in my
day.

_Pol_. Ah, but, my simple friend, these good things were presents—came
in streams. From dawn my doors were thronged with visitors, and in the
day it was a procession of the fairest gifts of earth.

_Si_. Why, you must have seized the crown after my death.

_Pol_. Oh no, it was only that I inspired a number of tender passions.

_Si_. Tender passions, indeed! what, you, an old man with hardly a
tooth left in your head!

_Pol_. Certainly; the first of our townsmen were in love with me. Such
as you see me, old, bald, blear-eyed, rheumy, they delighted to do me
honour; happy was the man on whom my glance rested a moment.

_Si_. Well, then, you had some adventure like Phaon's, when he rowed
Aphrodite across from Chios; your God granted your prayer and made you
young and fair and lovely again.

_Pol_. No, no; I was as you see me, and I was the object of all desire.

_Si_. Oh, I give it up.

_Pol_. Why, I should have thought you knew the violent passion for old
men who have plenty of money and no children.

_Si_. Ah, now I comprehend your beauty, old fellow; it was the _Golden_
Aphrodite bestowed it.

_Pol_. I assure you, Simylus, I had a good deal of satisfaction out of
my lovers; they idolized me, almost. Often I would be coy and shut some
of them out. Such rivalries! such jealous emulations!

_Si_. And how did you dispose of your fortune in the end?

_Pol_. I gave each an express promise to make him my heir; he believed,
and treated me to more attentions than ever; meanwhile I had another
genuine will, which was the one I left, with a message to them all to
go hang.

_Si_. Who was the heir by this one? one of your relations, I suppose.

_Pol_. Not likely; it was a handsome young Phrygian I had lately
bought.

_Si_. Age?

_Pol_. About twenty.

_Si_. Ah, I can guess his office.

_Pol_. Well, you know, he deserved the inheritance much better than
they did; he was a barbarian and a rascal; but by this time he has the
best of society at his beck. So he inherited; and now he is one of the
aristocracy; his smooth chin and his foreign accent are no bars to his
being called nobler than Codrus, handsomer than Nireus, wiser than
Odysseus.

_Si_. Well, _I_ don't mind; let him be Emperor of Greece, if he likes,
so long as he keeps the property away from that other crew.

H.

X

_Charon. Hermes. Various Shades_

_Ch_. I'll tell you how things stand. Our craft, as you see, is small,
and leaky, and three-parts rotten; a single lurch, and she will capsize
without more ado. And here are all you passengers, each with his
luggage. If you come on board like that, I am afraid you may have cause
to repent it; especially those who have not learnt to swim.

_Her_. Then how are we to make a trip of it?

_Ch_. I'll tell you. They must leave all this nonsense behind them on
shore, and come aboard in their skins. As it is, there will be no room
to spare. And in future, Hermes, mind you admit no one till he has
cleared himself of encumbrances, as I say. Stand by the gangway, and
keep an eye on them, and make them strip before you let them pass.

_Her_. Very good. Well, Number One, who are you?

_Men_. Menippus. Here are my wallet and staff; overboard with them. I
had the sense not to bring my cloak.

_Her_. Pass on, Menippus; you're a good fellow; you shall have the seat
of honour, up by the pilot, where you can see every one.—Here is a
handsome person; who is he?

_Char_. Charmoleos of Megara; the irresistible, whose kiss was worth a
thousand pounds.

_Her_. That beauty must come off,—lips, kisses, and all; the flowing
locks, the blushing cheeks, the skin entire. That's right. Now we're in
better trim;—you may pass on.—And who is the stunning gentleman in the
purple and the diadem?

_Lam_. I am Lampichus, tyrant of Gela.

_Her_. And what is all this splendour doing here, Lampichus?

_Lam_. How! would you have a tyrant come hither stripped?

_Her_. A tyrant! That would be too much to expect. But with a shade we
must insist. Off with these things.

_Lam_. There, then: away goes my wealth.

_Her_. Pomp must go too, and pride; we shall be overfreighted else.

_Lam_. At least let me keep my diadem and robes.

_Her_. No, no; off they come!

_Lam_. Well? That is all, as you see for yourself.

_Her_. There is something more yet: cruelty, folly, insolence, hatred.

_Lam_. There then: I am bare.

_Her_. Pass on.—And who may you be, my bulky friend?

_Dam_. Damasias the athlete.

_Her_. To be sure; many is the time I have seen you in the gymnasium.

_Dam_. You have. Well, I have peeled; let me pass.

_Her_. Peeled! my dear sir, what, with all this fleshy encumbrance?
Come, off with it; we should go to the bottom if you put one foot
aboard. And those crowns, those victories, remove them.

_Dam_. There; no mistake about it this time; I am as light as any shade
among them.

_Her_. That's more the kind of thing. On with you.—Crato, you can take
off that wealth and luxury and effeminacy; and we can't have that
funeral pomp here, nor those ancestral glories either; down with your
rank and reputation, and any votes of thanks or inscriptions you have
about you; and you need not tell us what size your tomb was; remarks of
that kind come heavy.

_Cra_. Well, if I must, I must; there's no help for it.

_Her_. Hullo! in full armour? What does this mean? and why this trophy?

_A General_. I am a great conqueror; a valiant warrior; my country's
pride.

_Her_. The trophy may stop behind; we are at peace; there is no demand
for arms.—Whom have we here? whose is this knitted brow, this flowing
beard? 'Tis some reverend sage, if outside goes for anything; he
mutters; he is wrapped in meditation.

_Men_. That's a philosopher, Hermes; and an impudent quack not the
bargain. Have him out of that cloak; you will find something to amuse
you underneath it.

_Her_. Off with your clothes first; and then we will see to the rest.
My goodness, what a bundle: quackery, ignorance, quarrelsomeness,
vainglory; idle questionings, prickly arguments, intricate conceptions;
humbug and gammon and wishy-washy hair-splittings without end; and
hullo! why here's avarice, and self-indulgence, and impudence! luxury,
effeminacy and peevishness!—Yes, I see them all; you need not try to
hide them. Away with falsehood and swagger and superciliousness; why,
the three-decker is not built that would hold you with all this
luggage.

_A Philosopher_. I resign them all, since such is your bidding.

_Men_. Have his beard off too, Hermes; only look what a ponderous bush
of a thing! There's a good five pounds' weight there.

_Her_. Yes; the beard must go.

_Phil_. And who shall shave me?

_Her_. Menippus here shall take it off with the carpenter's axe; the
gangway will serve for a block.

_Men_. Oh, can't I have a saw, Hermes? It would be much better fun.

_Her_. The axe must serve.—Shrewdly chopped!—Why, you look more like a
man and less like a goat already.

_Men_. A little off the eyebrows?

_Her_. Why, certainly; he has trained them up all over his forehead,
for reasons best known to himself.—Worm! what, snivelling? afraid of
death? Oh, get on board with you.

_Men_. He has still got the biggest thumper of all under his arm.

_Her_. What's that?

_Men_. Flattery; many is the good turn that has done him.

_Phil_. Oh, all right, Menippus; suppose you leave your independence
behind you, and your plain—speaking, and your indifference, and your
high spirit, and your jests!—No one else here has a jest about him.

_Her_. Don't you, Menippus! you stick to them; useful commodities,
these, on shipboard; light and handy.—You rhetorician there, with your
verbosities and your barbarisms, your antitheses and balances and
periods, off with the whole pack of them.

_Rhet_. Away they go.

_Her_. All's ready. Loose the cable, and pull in the gangway; haul up
the anchor; spread all sail; and, pilot, look to your helm. Good luck
to our voyage!—What are you all whining about, you fools? You
philosopher, late of the beard,—you're as bad as any of them.

_Phil_. Ah, Hermes: I had thought that the soul was immortal.

_Men_. He lies: that is not the cause of his distress.

_Her_. What is it, then?

_Men_. He knows that he will never have a good dinner again; never
sneak about at night with his cloak over his head, going the round of
the brothels; never spend his mornings in fooling boys out of their
money, under the pretext of teaching them wisdom.

_Phil_. And pray are _you_ content to be dead?

_Men_. It may be presumed so, as I sought death of my own accord.—By
the way, I surely heard a noise, as if people were shouting on the
earth?

_Her_. You did; and from more than one quarter.—There are people
running in a body to the Town-hall, exulting over the death of
Lampichus; the women have got hold of his wife; his infant children
fare no better,—the boys are giving them handsome pelting. Then again
you hear the applause that greets the orator Diophantus, as he
pronounces the funeral oration of our friend Crato. Ah yes, and that's
Damasias's mother, with her women, striking up a dirge. No one has tear
for you, Menippus; your remains are left in peace. Privileged person!

_Men_. Wait a bit: before long you will hear the mournful howl of dogs,
and the beating of crows' wings, as they gather to perform my funeral
rites.

_Her_. I like your spirit.—However, here we are in port. Away with you
all to the judgement-seat; it is straight ahead. The ferryman and I
must go back for a fresh load.

_Men_. Good voyage to you, Hermes.—Let us be getting on; what are you
all waiting for? We have got to face the judge, sooner or later; and by
all accounts his sentences are no joke; wheels, rocks, vultures are
mentioned. Every detail of our lives will now come to light!

F.

XI

_Crates. Diogenes_

_Cra_. Did you know Moerichus of Corinth, Diogenes? A shipowner,
rolling in money, with a cousin called Aristeas, nearly as rich. He had
a Homeric quotation:—Wilt thou heave me? shall I heave thee?

[Footnote: Homer, Il. xxiii. 724. When Ajax and Odysseus have wrestled
for some time without either's producing any impression, and the
spectators are getting tired of it, the former proposes a change in
tactics. "Let us hoist—try you with me or I with you." The idea
evidently is that each in turn is to offer only a passive resistance,
and let his adversary try to fling him thus.' _Leaf_.]

_Diog_. What was the point of it?

_Cra_. Why, the cousins were of equal age, expected to succeed to each
other's wealth, and behaved accordingly. They published their wills,
each naming the other sole heir in case of his own prior decease. So it
stood in black and white, and they vied with each other in showing that
deference which the relation demands. All the prophets, astrologers,
and Chaldean dream-interpreters alike, and Apollo himself for that
matter, held different views at different times about the winner; the
thousands seemed to incline now to Aristeas's side, now to Moerichus's.

_Diog_. And how did it end? I am quite curious.

_Cra_. They both died on the same day, and the properties passed to
Eunomius and Thrasycles, two relations who had never had a presentiment
of it. They had been crossing from Sicyon to Cirrha, when they were
taken aback by a squall from the north-west, and capsized in
mid-channel.

_Diog_. Cleverly done. Now, when we were alive, we never had such
designs on one another. I never prayed for Antisthenes's death, with a
view to inheriting his staff—though it was an extremely serviceable
one, which he had cut himself from a wild olive; and I do not credit
you, Crates, with ever having had an eye to my succession; it included
the tub, and a wallet with two pints of lupines in it.

_Cra_. Why, no; these things were superfluities to me—and to yourself,
indeed. The real necessities you inherited from Antisthenes, and I from
you; and in those necessities was more grandeur and majesty than in the
Persian Empire.

_Diog_. You allude to—-

_Cra_. Wisdom, independence, truth, frankness, freedom.

_Diog_. To be sure; now I think of it, I did inherit all this from
Antisthenes, and left it to you with some addition.

_Cra_. Others, however, were not interested in such property; no one
paid us the attentions of an expectant heir; they all had their eyes on
gold, instead.

_Diog_. Of course; they had no receptacle for such things as we could
give; luxury had made them so leaky—as full of holes as a worn-out
purse. Put wisdom, frankness, or truth into them, and it would have
dropped out; the bottom of the bag would have let them through, like
the perforated cask into which those poor Danaids are always pouring.
Gold, on the other hand, they could grip with tooth or nail or somehow.

_Cra_. Result: our wealth will still be ours down here; while they will
arrive with no more than one penny, and even that must be left with the
ferryman.

H.

XII

_Alexander. Hannibal. Minos. Scipio_

_Alex_. Libyan, I claim precedence of you. I am the better man.

_Han_. Pardon me.

_Alex_. Then let Minos decide.

_Mi_. Who are you both?

_Alex_. This is Hannibal, the Carthaginian: I am Alexander, the son of
Philip.

_Mi_. Bless me, a distinguished pair! And what is the quarrel about?

_Alex_. It is a question of precedence. He says he is the better
general: and I maintain that neither Hannibal nor (I might almost add)
any of my predecessors was my equal in strategy; all the world knows
that.

_Mi_. Well, you shall each have your say in turn: the Libyan first.

_Han_. Fortunately for me, Minos, I have mastered Greek since I have
been here; so that my adversary will not have even that advantage of
me. Now I hold that the highest praise is due to those who have won
their way to greatness from obscurity; who have clothed themselves in
power, and shown themselves fit for dominion. I myself entered Spain
with a handful of men, took service under my brother, and was found
worthy of the supreme command. I conquered the Celtiberians, subdued
Western Gaul, crossed the Alps, overran the valley of the Po, sacked
town after town, made myself master of the plains, approached the
bulwarks of the capital, and in one day slew such a host, that their
finger-rings were measured by bushels, and the rivers were bridged by
their bodies. And this I did, though I had never been called a son of
Ammon; I never pretended to be a god, never related visions of my
mother; I made no secret of the fact that I was mere flesh and blood.
My rivals were the ablest generals in the world, commanding the best
soldiers in the world; I warred not with Medes or Assyrians, who fly
before they are pursued, and yield the victory to him that dares take
it.

Alexander, on the other hand, in increasing and extending as he did the
dominion which he had inherited from his father, was but following the
impetus given to him by Fortune. And this conqueror had no sooner
crushed his puny adversary by the victories of Issus and Arbela, than
he forsook the traditions of his country, and lived the life of a
Persian; accepting the prostrations of his subjects, assassinating his
friends at his own table, or handing them over to the executioner. I in
my command respected the freedom of my country, delayed not to obey her
summons, when the enemy with their huge armament invaded Libya, laid
aside the privileges of my office, and submitted to my sentence without
a murmur. Yet I was a barbarian all unskilled in Greek culture; I could
not recite Homer, nor had I enjoyed the advantages of Aristotle's
instruction; I had to make a shift with such qualities as were mine by
nature.—It is on these grounds that I claim the pre-eminence. My rival
has indeed all the lustre that attaches to the wearing of a diadem,
and—I know not—for Macedonians such things may have charms: but I
cannot think that this circumstance constitutes a higher claim than the
courage and genius of one who owed nothing to Fortune, and everything
to his own resolution.

_Mi_. Not bad, for a Libyan.—Well, Alexander, what do you say to that?

_Alex_. Silence, Minos, would be the best answer to such confident
self-assertion. The tongue of Fame will suffice of itself to convince
you that I was a great prince, and my opponent a petty adventurer. But
I would have you consider the distance between us. Called to the throne
while I was yet a boy, I quelled the disorders of my kingdom, and
avenged my father's murder. By the destruction of Thebes, I inspired
the Greeks with such awe, that they appointed me their
commander-in-chief; and from that moment, scorning to confine myself to
the kingdom that I inherited from my father, I extended my gaze over
the entire face of the earth, and thought it shame if I should govern
less than the whole. With a small force I invaded Asia, gained a great
victory on the Granicus, took Lydia, lonia, Phrygia,—in short, subdued
all that was within my reach, before I commenced my march for Issus,
where Darius was waiting for me at the head of his myriads. You know
the sequel: yourselves can best say what was the number of the dead
whom on one day I dispatched hither. The ferryman tells me that his
boat would not hold them; most of them had to come across on rafts of
their own construction. In these enterprises, I was ever at the head of
my troops, ever courted danger. To say nothing of Tyre and Arbela, I
penetrated into India, and carried my empire to the shores of Ocean; I
captured elephants; I conquered Porus; I crossed the Tanais, and
worsted the Scythians—no mean enemies—in a tremendous cavalry
engagement. I heaped benefits upon my friends: I made my enemies taste
my resentment. If men took me for a god, I cannot blame them; the
vastness of my undertakings might excuse such a belief. But to
conclude. I died a king: Hannibal, a fugitive at the court of the
Bithynian Prusias—fitting end for villany and cruelty. Of his Italian
victories I say nothing; they were the fruit not of honest legitimate
warfare, but of treachery, craft, and dissimulation. He taunts me with
self-indulgence: my illustrious friend has surely forgotten the
pleasant time he spent in Capua among the ladies, while the precious
moments fleeted by. Had I not scorned the Western world, and turned my
attention to the East, what would it have cost me to make the bloodless
conquest of Italy, and Libya, and all, as far West as Gades? But
nations that already cowered beneath a master were unworthy of my
sword.—I have finished, Minos, and await your decision; of the many
arguments I might have used, these shall suffice.

_Sci_. First, Minos, let me speak.

_Mi_. And who are you, friend? and where do you come from?

_Sci_. I am Scipio, the Roman general, who destroyed Carthage, and
gained great victories over the Libyans.

_Mi_. Well, and what have you to say?

_Sci_. That Alexander is my superior, and I am Hannibal's, having
defeated him, and driven him to ignominious flight. What impudence is
this, to contend with Alexander, to whom I, your conqueror, would not
presume to compare myself!

_Mi_. Honestly spoken, Scipio, on my word! Very well, then: Alexander
comes first, and you next; and I think we must say Hannibal third. And
a very creditable third, too.

F.

XIII

_Diogenes. Alexander_

_Diog_. Dear me, Alexander, _you_ dead like the rest of us?

_Alex_. As you see, sir; is there anything extraordinary in a mortal's
dying?

_Diog_. So Ammon lied when he said you were his son; you were Philip's
after all.

_Alex_. Apparently; if I had been Ammon's, I should not have died.

_Diog_. Strange! there were tales of the same order about Olympias too.
A serpent visited her, and was seen in her bed; we were given to
understand that that was how you came into the world, and Philip made a
mistake when he took you for his.

_Alex_. Yes, I was told all that myself; however, I know now that my
mother's and the Ammon stories were all moonshine.

_Diog_. Their lies were of some practical value to you, though; your
divinity brought a good many people to their knees. But now, whom did
you leave your great empire to?

_Alex_. Diogenes, I cannot tell you. I had no time to leave any
directions about it, beyond just giving Perdiccas my ring as I died.
Why are you laughing?

_Diog_. Oh, I was only thinking of the Greeks' behaviour; directly you
succeeded, how they flattered you! their elected patron, generalissimo
against the barbarian; one of the twelve Gods according to some;
temples built and sacrifices offered to the Serpent's son! If I may
ask, where did your Macedonians bury you?

_Alex_. I have lain in Babylon a full month to-day; and Ptolemy of the
Guards is pledged, as soon as he can get a moment's respite from
present disturbances, to take and bury me in Egypt, there to be
reckoned among the Gods.

_Diog_. I have some reason to laugh, you see; still nursing vain hopes
of developing into an Osiris or Anubis! Pray, your Godhead, put these
expectations from you; none may re-ascend who has once sailed the lake
and penetrated our entrance; Aeacus is watchful, and Cerberus an
awkward customer. But there is one thing I wish you would tell me: how
do you like thinking over all the earthly bliss you left to come
here—your guards and armour-bearers and lieutenant-governors, your
heaps of gold and adoring peoples, Babylon and Bactria, your huge
elephants, your honour and glory, those conspicuous drives with
white-cinctured locks and clasped purple cloak? does the thought of
them _hurt_? What, crying? silly fellow! did not your wise Aristotle
include in his instructions any hint of the insecurity of fortune's
favours?

_Alex_. Wise? call him the craftiest of all flatterers. Allow me to
know a little more than other people about Aristotle; his requests and
his letters came to _my_ address; _I_ know how he profited by my
passion for culture; how he would toady and compliment me, to be sure!
now it was my beauty—that too is included under The Good; now it was my
deeds and my money; for money too he called a Good—he meant that he was
not going to be ashamed of taking it. Ah, Diogenes, an impostor; and a
past master at it too. For me, the result of his wisdom is that I am
distressed for the things you catalogued just now, as if I had lost in
them the chief Goods.

_Diog_. Wouldst know thy course? I will prescribe for your distress.
Our flora, unfortunately, does not include hellebore; but you take
plenty of Lethe-water—good, deep, repeated draughts; that will relieve
your distress over the Aristotelian Goods. Quick; here are Clitus,
Callisthenes, and a lot of others making for you; they mean to tear you
in pieces and pay you out. Here, go the opposite way; and remember,
repeated draughts.

H.

XIV

_Philip. Alexander_

_Phil_. You cannot deny that you are my son this time, Alexander; you
would not have died if you had been Ammon's.

_Alex_. I knew all the time that you, Philip, son of Amyntas, were my
father. I only accepted the statement of the oracle because I thought
it was good policy.

_Phil_. What, to suffer yourself to be fooled by lying priests?

_Alex_. No, but it had an awe-inspiring effect upon the barbarians.
When they thought they had a God to deal with, they gave up the
struggle; which made their conquest a simple matter.

_Phil_. And whom did _you_ ever conquer that was worth conquering? Your
adversaries were ever timid creatures, with their bows and their
targets and their wicker shields. It was other work conquering the
Greeks: Boeotians, Phocians, Athenians; Arcadian hoplites, Thessalian
cavalry, javelin-men from Elis, peltasts of Mantinea; Thracians,
Illyrians, Paeonians; to subdue these was something. But for gold-laced
womanish Medes and Persians and Chaldaeans,—why, it had been done
before: did you never hear of the expedition of the Ten Thousand under
Clearchus? and how the enemy would not even come to blows with them,
but ran away before they were within bow-shot?

_Alex_. Still, there were the Scythians, father, and the Indian
elephants; they were no joke. And _my_ conquests were not gained by
dissension or treachery; I broke no oath, no promise, nor ever
purchased victory at the expense of honour. As to the Greeks, most of
them joined me without a struggle; and I dare say you have heard how I
handled Thebes.

_Phil_. I know all about that; I had it from Clitus, whom you ran
through the body, in the middle of dinner, because he presumed to
mention my achievements in the same breath with yours. They tell me too
that you took to aping the manners of your conquered Medes; abandoned
the Macedonian cloak in favour of the _candys_, assumed the upright
tiara, and exacted oriental prostrations from Macedonian freemen! This
is delicious. As to your brilliant matches, and your beloved
Hephaestion, and your scholars in lions' cages,—the less said the
better. I have only heard one thing to your credit: you respected the
person of Darius's beautiful wife, and you provided for his mother and
daughters; there you acted like a king.

_Alex_. And have you nothing to say of my adventurous spirit, father,
when I was the first to leap down within the ramparts of Oxydracae, and
was covered with wounds?

_Phil_. Not a word. Not that it is a bad thing, in my opinion, for a
king to get wounded occasionally, and to face danger at the head of his
troops: but this was the last thing that you were called upon to do.
You were passing for a God; and your being wounded, and carried off the
field on a litter, bleeding and groaning, could only excite the
ridicule of the spectators: Ammon stood convicted of quackery, his
oracle of falsehood, his priests of flattery. The son of Zeus in a
swoon, requiring medical assistance! who could help laughing at the
sight? And now that you have died, can you doubt that many a jest is
being cracked on the subject of your divinity, as men contemplate the
God's corpse laid out for burial, and already going the way of all
flesh? Besides, your achievements lose half their credit from this very
circumstance which you say was so useful in facilitating your
conquests: nothing you did could come up to your divine reputation.

_Alex_. The world thinks otherwise. I am ranked with Heracles and
Dionysus; and, for that matter, I took Aornos, which was more than
either of them could do.

_Phil_. There spoke the son of Ammon. Heracles and Dionysus, indeed!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alexander; when will you learn to
drop that bombast, and know yourself for the shade that you are?

F.

XV

_Antilochus. Achilles_

_Ant_. Achilles, what you were saying to Odysseus the other day about
death was very poor-spirited; I should have expected better things from
a pupil of Chiron and Phoenix. I was listening; you said you would
rather be a servant on earth to some poor hind 'of scanty livelihood
possessed,' than king of all the dead. Such sentiments might have been
very well in the mouth of a poor-spirited cowardly Phrygian,
dishonourably in love with life: for the son of Peleus, boldest of all
Heroes, so to vilify himself, is a disgrace; it gives the lie to all
your life; you might have had a long inglorious reign in Phthia, and
your own choice was death and glory.

_Ach_. In those days, son of Nestor, I knew not this place; ignorant
whether of those two was the better, I esteemed that flicker of fame
more than life; now I see that it is worthless, let folk up there make
what verses of it they will. 'Tis dead level among the dead,
Antilochus; strength and beauty are no more; we welter all in the same
gloom, one no better than another; the shades of Trojans fear me not,
Achaeans pay me no reverence; each may say what he will; a man is a
ghost, 'or be he churl, or be he peer.' It irks me; I would fain be a
servant, and alive.

_Ant_. But what help, Achilles? 'tis Nature's decree that by all means
all die. We must abide by her law, and not fret at her commands.
Consider too how many of us are with you here; Odysseus comes ere long;
how else? Is there not comfort in the common fate? 'tis something not
to suffer alone. See Heracles, Meleager, and many another great one;
they, methinks, would not choose return, if one would send them up to
serve poor destitute men.

_Ach_. Ay, your intent is friendly; but I know not, the thought of the
past life irks me—and each of you too, if I mistake not. And if you
confess it not, the worse for you, smothering your pain.

_Ant_. Not the worse, Achilles; the better; for we see that speech is
unavailing. Be silent, bear, endure—that is our resolve, lest such
longings bring mockery on us, as on you.

H.

XVI

_Diogenes. Heracles_

_Diog_. Surely this is Heracles I see? By his godhead, 'tis no other!
The bow, the club, the lion's-skin, the giant frame; 'tis Heracles
complete. Yet how should this be?—a son of Zeus, and mortal? I say,
Mighty Conqueror, are you dead? I used to sacrifice to you in the other
world; I understood you were a God!

_Her_. Thou didst well. Heracles is with the Gods in Heaven,

And hath white-ankled Hebe there to wife.


I am his phantom.

_Diog_. His phantom! What then, can one half of any one be a God, and
the other half mortal?

_Her_. Even so. The God still lives. 'Tis I, his counterpart, am dead.

_Diog_. I see. You're a dummy; he palms you off upon Pluto, instead of
coming himself. And here are you, enjoying _his_ mortality!

_Her_. 'Tis somewhat as thou hast said.

_Diog_. Well, but where were Aeacus's keen eyes, that he let a
counterfeit Heracles pass under his very nose, and never knew the
difference?

_Her_. I was made very like to him.

_Diog_. I believe you! Very like indeed, no difference at all! Why, we
may find it's the other way round, that you are Heracles, and the
phantom is in Heaven, married to Hebe!

_Her_. Prating knave, no more of thy gibes; else thou shalt presently
learn how great a God calls me phantom.

_Diog_. H'm. That bow looks as if it meant business. And yet,—what have
I to fear now? A man can die but once. Tell me, phantom,—by your great
Substance I adjure you—did you serve him in your present capacity in
the upper world? Perhaps you were one individual during your lives, the
separation taking place only at your deaths, when he, the God, soared
heavenwards, and you, the phantom, very properly made your appearance
here?

_Her_. Thy ribald questions were best unanswered. Yet thus much thou
shalt know.—All that was Amphitryon in Heracles, is dead; I am that
mortal part. The Zeus in him lives, and is with the Gods in Heaven.

_Diog_. Ah, now I see! Alcmena had twins, you mean,—Heracles the son of
Zeus, and Heracles the son of Amphitryon? You were really half-bothers
all the time?

_Her_. Fool! not so. We twain were one Heracles.

_Diog_. It's a little difficult to grasp, the two Heracleses packed
into one. I suppose you must have been like a sort of Centaur, man and
God all mixed together?

_Her_. And are not all thus composed of two elements,—the body and the
soul? What then should hinder the soul from being in Heaven, with Zeus
who gave it, and the mortal part—myself—among the dead?

_Diog_. Yes, yes, my esteemed son of Amphitryon,—that would be all very
well if you were a body; but you see you are a phantom, you have no
body. At this rate we shall get three Heracleses.

_Her_. _Three_?

_Diog_. Yes; look here. One in Heaven: one in Hades, that's you, the
phantom: and lastly the body, which by this time has returned to dust.
That makes three. Can you think of a good father for number Three?

_Her_. Impudent quibbler! And who art _thou_?

_Diog_. I am Diogenes's phantom, late of Sinope. But my original, I
assure you, is not 'among th' immortal Gods,' but here among dead men;
where he enjoys the best of company, and snaps my fingers at Homer and
all hair-splitting.

F.

XVII

_Menippus. Tantalus_

_Me_. What are you crying out about, Tantalus? standing at the edge and
whining like that!

_Tan_. Ah, Menippus, I thirst, I perish!

_Me_. What, not enterprise enough to bend down to it, or scoop up some
in your palm?

_Tan_. It is no use bending down; the water shrinks away as soon as it
sees me coming. And if I do scoop it up and get it to my mouth, the
outside of my lips is hardly moist before it has managed to run through
my fingers, and my hand is as dry as ever.

_Me_. A very odd experience, that. But by the way, why do you want to
drink? you have no body—the part of you that was liable to hunger and
thirst is buried in Lydia somewhere; how can you, the spirit, hunger or
thirst any more?

_Tan_. Therein lies my punishment—soul thirsts as if it were body.

_Me_. Well, let that pass, as you say thirst is your punishment. But
why do you mind it? are you afraid of _dying_, for want of drink? I do
not know of any second Hades; can you die to this one, and go further?

_Tan_. No, that is quite true. But you see this is part of the
sentence: I must long for drink, though I have no need of it.

_Me_. There is no meaning in that. There _is_ a draught you need,
though; some neat hellebore is what _you_ want; you are suffering from
a converse hydrophobia; you are not afraid of water, but you are of
thirst.

_Tan_. I would as lief drink hellebore as anything, if I could but
drink.

_Me_. Never fear, Tantalus; neither you nor any other ghost will ever
do that; it is impossible, you see; just as well we have not all got a
penal thirst like you, with the water running away from us.

H.

XVIII

_Menippus. Hermes_

_Me_. Where are all the beauties, Hermes? Show me round; I am a
new-comer.

_Her_. I am busy, Menippus. But look over there to your right, and you
will see Hyacinth, Narcissus, Nireus, Achilles, Tyro, Helen, Leda,—all
the beauties of old.

_Me_. I can only see bones, and bare skulls; most of them are exactly
alike.

_Her_. Those bones, of which you seem to think so lightly, have been
the theme of admiring poets.

_Me_. Well, but show me Helen; I shall never be able to make her out by
myself.

_Her_. This skull is Helen.

_Me_. And for this a thousand ships carried warriors from every part of
Greece; Greeks and barbarians were slain, and cities made desolate.

_Her_. Ah, Menippus, you never saw the living Helen; or you would have
said with Homer,

  Well might they suffer grievous years of toil
  Who strove for such a prize.


We look at withered flowers, whose dye is gone from them, and what can
we call them but unlovely things? Yet in the hour of their bloom these
unlovely things were things of beauty.

_Me_. Strange, that the Greeks could not realize what it was for which
they laboured; how short-lived, how soon to fade.

_Her_. I have no time for moralizing. Choose your spot, where you will,
and lie down. I must go to fetch new dead.

F.

XIX

_Aeacus. Protesilaus. Menelaus. Paris_

_Aea_. Now then, Protesilaus, what do you mean by assaulting and
throttling Helen?

_Pro_. Why, it was all her fault that I died, leaving my house half
built, and my bride a widow.

_Aea_. You should blame Menelaus, for taking you all to Troy after such
a light-o'-love.

_Pro_. That is true; he shall answer it.

_Me_. No, no, my dear sir; Paris surely is the man; he outraged all
rights in carrying off his host's wife with him. _He_ deserves
throttling, if you like, and not from you only, but from Greeks and
barbarians as well, for all the deaths he brought upon them.

_Pro_. Ah, now I have it. Here, you—you _Paris! you_ shall not escape
my clutches.

_Pa_. Oh, come, sir, you will never wrong one of the same gentle craft
as yourself. Am I not a lover too, and a subject of your deity? against
love you know (with the best will in the world) how vain it is to
strive; 'tis a spirit that draws us whither it will.

_Pro_. There is reason in that. Oh, would that I had Love himself here
in these hands!

_Aea_. Permit me to charge myself with his defence. He does not
absolutely deny his responsibility for Paris's love; but that for your
death he refers to yourself, Protesilaus. You forgot all about your
bride, fell in love with fame, and, directly the fleet touched the
Troad, took that rash senseless leap, which brought you first to shore
and to death.

_Pro_. Now it is my turn to correct, Aeacus. The blame does not rest
with me, but with Fate; so was my thread spun from the beginning.

_Aea_. Exactly so; then why blame our good friends here?

H.

XX

_Menippus. Aeacus. Various Shades_

_Me_. In Pluto's name, Aeacus, show me all the sights of Hades.

_Aea_. That would be rather an undertaking, Menippus. However, you
shall see the principal things. Cerberus here you know already, and the
ferryman who brought you over. And you saw the Styx on your way, and
Pyriphlegethon.

_Me_. Yes, and you are the gate-keeper; I know all that; and I have
seen the King and the Furies. But show me the men of ancient days,
especially the celebrities.

_Aea_. This is Agamemnon; this is Achilles; near him, Idomeneus; next
comes Odysseus; then Ajax, Diomede, and all the great Greeks.

_Me_. Why, Homer, Homer, what is this? All your great heroes flung down
upon the earth, shapeless, undistinguishable; mere meaningless dust;
'strengthless heads,' and no mistake.—Who is this one, Aeacus?

_Aea_. That is Cyrus; and here is Croesus; beyond him Sardanapalus, and
beyond him again Midas. And yonder is Xerxes.

_Me_. Ha! and it was before this creature that Greece trembled? this is
our yoker of Hellesponts, our designer of Athos-canals?—Croesus too! a
sad spectacle! As to Sardanapalus, I will lend him a box on the ear,
with your permission.

_Aea_. And crack his skull, poor dear! Certainly not.

_Me_. Then I must content myself with spitting in his ladyship's face.

_Aea_. Would you like to see the philosophers?

_Me_. I should like it of all things.

_Aea_. First comes Pythagoras.

_Me_. Good-day, Euphorbus, _alias_ Apollo, _alias_ what you will.

_Py_. Good-day, Menippus.

_Me_. What, no golden thigh nowadays?

_Py_. Why, no. I wonder if there is anything to eat in that wallet of
yours?

_Me_. Beans, friend; you don't like beans.

_Py_. Try me. My principles have changed with my quarters. I find that
down here our parents' heads are in no way connected with beans.

_Aea_. Here is Solon, the son of Execestides, and there is Thales. By
them are Pittacus, and the rest of the sages, seven in all, as you see.

_Me_. The only resigned and cheerful countenances yet. Who is the one
covered with ashes, like a loaf baked in the embers? He is all over
blisters.

_Aea_. That is Empedocles. He was half-roasted when he got here from
Etna.

_Me_. Tell me, my brazen-slippered friend, what induced you to jump
into the crater?

_Em_. I did it in a fit of melancholy.

_Me_. Not you. Vanity, pride, folly; these were what burnt you up,
slippers and all; and serve you right. All that ingenuity was thrown
away, too: your death was detected.—Aeacus, where is Socrates?

_Aea_. He is generally talking nonsense with Nestor and Palamedes.

_Me_. But I should like to see him, if he is anywhere about.

_Aea_. You see the bald one?

_Me_. They are all bald; that is a distinction without a difference.

_Aea_. The snub-nosed one.

_Me_. There again: they are all snub-nosed.

_Soc_. Do you want me, Menippus?

_Me_. The very man I am looking for.

_Soc_. How goes it in Athens?

_Me_. There are a great many young men there professing philosophy; and
to judge from their dress and their walk, they should be perfect in it.

_Soc_. I have seen many such.

_Me_. For that matter, I suppose you saw Aristippus arrive, reeking
with scent; and Plato, the polished flatterer from Sicilian courts?

_Soc_. And what do they think about _me_ in Athens?

_Me_. Ah, you are fortunate in that respect. You pass for a most
remarkable man, omniscient in fact. And all the time—if the truth must
out—you know absolutely nothing.

_Soc_. I told them that myself: but they would have it that that was my
irony.

_Me_. And who are your friends?

_Soc_. Charmides; Phaedrus; the son of Clinias.

_Me_. Ha, ha! still at your old trade; still an admirer of beauty.

_Soc_. How could I be better occupied? Will you join us?

_Me_. No, thank you; I am off, to take up my quarters by Croesus and
Sardanapalus. I expect huge entertainment from their outcries.

_Aea_. I must be off, too; or some one may escape. You shall see the
rest another day, Menippus.

_Me_. I need not detain you. I have seen enough.

F.

XXI

_Menippus. Cerberus_

_Me_. My dear coz—for Cerberus and Cynic are surely related through the
dog—I adjure you by the Styx, tell me how Socrates behaved during the
descent. A God like you can doubtless articulate instead of barking, if
he chooses.

_Cer_. Well, while he was some way off, he seemed quite unshaken; and I
thought he was bent on letting the people outside realize the fact too.
Then he passed into the opening and saw the gloom; I at the same time
gave him a touch of the hemlock, and a pull by the leg, as he was
rather slow. Then he squalled like a baby, whimpered about his
children, and, oh, I don't know what he didn't do.

_Me_. So _he_ was one of the theorists, was he? His indifference was a
sham?

_Cer_. Yes; it was only that he accepted the inevitable, and put a bold
face on it, pretending to welcome the universal fate, by way of
impressing the bystanders. All that sort are the same, I tell you—bold
resolute fellows as far as the entrance; it is inside that the real
test comes.

_Me_. What did you think of _my_ performance?

_Cer_. Ah, Menippus, you were the exception; you are a credit to the
breed, and so was Diogenes before you. You two came in without any
compulsion or pushing, of your own free will, with a laugh for
yourselves and a curse for the rest.

F.

XXII

_Charon. Menippus. Hermes_

_Ch_. Your fare, you rascal.

_Me_. Bawl away, Charon, if it gives you any pleasure.

_Ch_. I brought you across: give me my fare.

_Me_. I can't, if I haven't got it.

_Ch_. And who is so poor that he has not got a penny?

_Me_. I for one; I don't know who else.

_Ch_. Pay: or, by Pluto, I'll strangle you.

_Me_. And I'll crack your skull with this stick.

_Ch_. So you are to come all that way for nothing?

_Me_. Let Hermes pay for me: he put me on board.

_Her_. I dare say! A fine time I shall have of it, if I am to pay for
the shades.

_Ch_. I'm not going to let you off.

_Me_. You can haul up your ship and wait, for all I care. If I have not
got the money, I can't pay you, can I?

_Ch_. You knew you ought to bring it?

_Me_. I knew that: but I hadn't got it. What would you have? I ought
not to have died, I suppose?

_Ch_. So you are to have the distinction of being the only passenger
that ever crossed gratis?

_Me_. Oh, come now: gratis! I took an oar, and I baled; and I didn't
cry, which is more than can be said for any of the others.

_Ch_. That's neither here nor there. I must have my penny; it's only
right.

_Me_. Well, you had better take me back again to life.

_Ch_. Yes, and get a thrashing from Aeacus for my pains! I like that.

_Me_. Well, don't bother me.

_Ch_. Let me see what you have got in that wallet.

_Me_. Beans: have some?—and a Hecate's supper.

_Ch_. Where did you pick up this Cynic, Hermes? The noise he made on
the crossing, too! laughing and jeering at all the rest, and singing,
when every one else was at his lamentations.

_Her_. Ah, Charon, you little know your passenger! Independence, every
inch of him: he cares for no one. 'Tis Menippus.

_Ch_. Wait till I catch you—-

_Me_. Precisely; I'll wait—till you catch me again.

F.

XXIII

_Protesilaus. Pluto. Persephone_

_Pro_. Lord, King, our Zeus! and thou, daughter of Demeter! Grant a
lover's boon!

_Pl_. What do you want? who are you?

_Pro_. Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus, of Phylace, one of the Achaean
host, the first that died at Troy. And the boon I ask is release and
one day's life.

_Pl_. Ah, friend, that is the love that all these dead men love, and
none shall ever win.

_Pro_. Nay, dread lord, 'tis not life I love, but the bride that I left
new wedded in my chamber that day I sailed away—ah me, to be slain by
Hector as my foot touched land! My lord, that yearning gives me no
peace. I return content, if she might look on me but for an hour.

_Pl_. Did you miss your dose of Lethe, man?

_Pro_. Nay, lord; but this prevailed against it.

_Pl_. Oh, well, wait a little; she will come to you one day; it is so
simple; no need for you to be going up.

_Pro_. My heart is sick with hope deferred; thou too, O Pluto, hast
loved; thou knowest what love is.

_Pl_. What good will it do you to come to life for a day, and then
renew your pains?

_Pro_. I think to win her to come with me, and bring two dead for one.

_Pl_. It may not be; it never has been.

_Pro_. Bethink thee, Pluto. 'Twas for this same cause that ye gave
Orpheus his Eurydice; and Heracles had interest enough to be granted
Alcestis; she was of my kin.

_Pl_. Would you like to present that bare ugly skull to your fair
bride? will she admit you, when she cannot tell you from another man? I
know well enough; she will be frightened and run from you, and you will
have gone all that way for nothing.

_Per_. Husband, doctor that disease yourself: tell Hermes, as soon as
Protesilaus reaches the light, to touch him with his wand, and make him
young and fair as when he left the bridal chamber.

_Pl_. Well, I cannot refuse a lady. Hermes, take him up and turn him
into a bridegroom. But mind, you sir, a strictly temporary one.

H.

XXIV

_Diogenes. Mausolus_

_Diog_. Why so proud, Carian? How are you better than the rest of us?

_Mau_. Sinopean, to begin with, I was a king; king of all Caria, ruler
of many Lydians, subduer of islands, conqueror of well-nigh the whole
of Ionia, even to the borders of Miletus. Further, I was comely, and of
noble stature, and a mighty warrior. Finally, a vast tomb lies over me
in Halicarnassus, of such dimensions, of such exquisite beauty as no
other shade can boast. Thereon are the perfect semblances of man and
horse, carved in the fairest marble; scarcely may a temple be found to
match it. These are the grounds of my pride: are they inadequate?

_Diog_. Kingship—beauty—heavy tomb; is that it?

_Mau_. It is as you say.

_Diog_. But, my handsome Mausolus, the power and the beauty are no
longer there. If we were to appoint an umpire now on the question of
comeliness, I see no reason why he should prefer your skull to mine.
Both are bald, and bare of flesh; our teeth are equally in evidence;
each of us has lost his eyes, and each is snub-nosed. Then as to the
tomb and the costly marbles, I dare say such a fine erection gives the
Halicarnassians something to brag about and show off to strangers: but
I don't see, friend, that you are the better for it, unless it is that
you claim to carry more weight than the rest of us, with all that
marble on the top of you.

_Mau_. Then all is to go for nothing? Mausolus and Diogenes are to rank
as equals?

_Diog_. Equals! My dear sir, no; I don't say that. While Mausolus is
groaning over the memories of earth, and the felicity which he supposed
to be his, Diogenes will be chuckling. While Mausolus boasts of the
tomb raised to him by Artemisia, his wife and sister, Diogenes knows
not whether he has a tomb or no—the question never having occurred to
him; he knows only that his name is on the tongues of the wise, as one
who lived the life of a man; a higher monument than yours, vile Carian
slave, and set on firmer foundations.

F.

XXV

_Nireus. Thersites. Menippus_

_Ni_. Here we are; Menippus shall award the palm of beauty. Menippus,
am I not better-looking than he?

_Me_. Well, who are you? I must know that first, mustn't I?

_Ni_. Nireus and Thersites.

_Me_. Which is which? I cannot tell that yet.

_Ther_. One to me; I am like you; you have no such superiority as Homer
(blind, by the way) gave you when he called you the handsomest of men;
he might peak my head and thin my hair, our judge finds me none the
worse. Now, Menippus, make up your mind which is handsomer.

_Ni_. I, of course, I, the son of Aglaia and Charopus,

Comeliest of all that came 'neath Trojan walls.


_Me_. But not comeliest of all that come 'neath the earth, as far as I
know. Your bones are much like other people's; and the only difference
between your two skulls is that yours would not take much to stove it
in. It is a tender article, something short of masculine.

_Ni_. Ask Homer what I was, when I sailed with the Achaeans.

_Me_. Dreams, dreams. I am looking at what you are; what you were is
ancient history.

_Ni_. Am I not handsomer here, Menippus?

_Me_. You are not handsome at all, nor any one else either. Hades is a
democracy; one man is as good as another here.

_Ther_. And a very tolerable arrangement too, if you ask me.

H.

XXVI

_Menippus. Chiron_

_Me_. I have heard that you were a god, Chiron, and that you died of
your own choice?

_Chi_. You were rightly informed. I am dead, as you see, and might have
been immortal.

_Me_. And what should possess you, to be in love with Death? He has no
charm for most people.

_Chi_. You are a sensible fellow; I will tell you. There was no further
satisfaction to be had from immortality.

_Me_. Was it not a pleasure merely to live and see the light?

_Chi_. No; it is variety, as I take it, and not monotony, that
constitutes pleasure. Living on and on, everything always the same;
sun, light, food, spring, summer, autumn, winter, one thing following
another in unending sequence,—I sickened of it all. I found that
enjoyment lay not in continual possession; that deprivation had its
share therein.

_Me_. Very true, Chiron. And how have you got on since you made Hades
your home?

_Chi_. Not unpleasantly. I like the truly republican equality that
prevails; and as to whether one is in light or darkness, that makes no
difference at all. Then again there is no hunger or thirst here; one is
independent of such things.

_Me_. Take care, Chiron! You may be caught in the snare of your own
reasonings.

_Chi_. How should that be?

_Me_. Why, if the monotony of the other world brought on satiety, the
monotony here may do the same. You will have to look about for a
further change, and I fancy there is no third life procurable.

_Chi_. Then what is to be done, Menippus?

_Me_. Take things as you find them, I suppose, like a sensible fellow,
and make the best of everything.

F.

XXVII

_Diogenes. Antisthenes. Crates_

_Diog_. Now, friends, we have plenty of time; what say you to a stroll?
we might go to the entrance and have a look at the new-comers—what they
are and how they behave.

_Ant_. The very thing. It will be an amusing sight—some weeping, some
imploring to be let go, some resisting; when Hermes collars them, they
will stick their heels in and throw their weight back; and all to no
purpose.

_Cra_. Very well; and meanwhile, let me give you my experiences on the
way down.

_Diog_. Yes, go on, Crates; I dare say you saw some entertaining
sights.

_Cra_. We were a large party, of which the most distinguished were
Ismenodorus, a rich townsman of ours, Arsaces, ruler of Media, and
Oroetes the Armenian. Ismenodorus had been murdered by robbers going to
Eleusis over Cithaeron, I believe. He was moaning, nursing his wound,
apostrophizing the young children he had left, and cursing his
foolhardiness. He knew Cithaeron and the Eleutherae district were all
devastated by the wars, and yet he must take only two servants with
him—with five bowls and four cups of solid gold in his baggage, too.
Arsaces was an old man of rather imposing aspect; he expressed his
feelings in true barbaric fashion, was exceedingly angry at being
expected to walk, and kept calling for his horse. In point of fact it
had died with him, it and he having been simultaneously transfixed by a
Thracian pikeman in the fight with the Cappadocians on the Araxes.
Arsaces described to us how he had charged far in advance of his men,
and the Thracian, standing his ground and sheltering himself with his
buckler, warded off the lance, and then, planting his pike, transfixed
man and horse together.

_Ant_. How could it possibly be done simultaneously?

_Cra_. Oh, quite simple. The Median was charging with his thirty-foot
lance in front of him; the Thracian knocked it aside with his buckler;
the point glanced by; then he knelt, received the charge on his pike,
pierced the horse's chest—the spirited beast impaling itself by its own
impetus—, and finally ran Arsaces through groin and buttock. You see
what happened; it was the horse's doing rather than the man's. However,
Arsaces did not at all appreciate equality, and wanted to come down on
horseback. As for Oroetes, he was so tender-footed that he could not
stand, far less walk. That is the way with all the Medes—once they are
off their horses, they go delicately on tiptoe as if they were treading
on thorns. He threw himself down, and there he lay; nothing would
induce him to get up; so the excellent Hermes had to pick him up and
carry him to the ferry; how I laughed!

_Ant_. When _I_ came down, I did not keep with the crowd; I left them
to their blubberings, ran on to the ferry, and secured a comfortable
seat for the passage. Then as we crossed, they were divided between
tears and sea-sickness, and gave me a merry time of it.

_Diog_. You two have described your fellow passengers; now for mine.
There came down with me Blepsias, the Pisatan usurer, Lampis, an
Acarnanian freelance, and the Corinthian millionaire Damis. The last
had been poisoned by his son, Lampis had cut his throat for love of the
courtesan Myrtium, and the wretched Blepsias is supposed to have died
of starvation; his awful pallor and extreme emaciation looked like it.
I inquired into the manner of their deaths, though I knew very well.
When Damis exclaimed upon his son, 'You only have your deserts,' I
remarked,—'an old man of ninety living in luxury yourself with your
million of money, and fobbing off your eighteen-year son with a few
pence! As for you, sir Acarnanian'—he was groaning and cursing
Myrtium—, 'why put the blame on Love? it belongs to yourself; you were
never afraid of an enemy—took all sorts of risks in other people's
service—and then let yourself be caught, my hero, by the artificial
tears and sighs of the first wench you came across.' Blepsias uttered
his own condemnation, without giving me time to do it for him: he had
hoarded his money for heirs who were nothing to him, and been fool
enough to reckon on immortality. I assure you it was no common
satisfaction I derived from their whinings.

But here we are at the gate; we must keep our eyes open, and get the
earliest view. Lord, lord, what a mixed crowd! and all in tears except
these babes and sucklings. Why, the hoary seniors are all lamentation
too; strange! has madam Life given them a love-potion? I must
interrogate this most reverend senior of them all.—Sir, why weep,
seeing that you have died full of years? has your excellency any
complaint to make, after so long a term? Ah, but you were doubtless a
king.

_Pauper_. Not so.

_Diog_. A provincial governor, then?

_Pauper_. No, nor that.

_Diog_. I see; you were wealthy, and do not like leaving your boundless
luxury to die.

_Pauper_. You are quite mistaken; I was near ninety, made a miserable
livelihood out of my line and rod, was excessively poor, childless, a
cripple, and had nearly lost my sight.

_Diog_. And you still wished to live?

_Pauper_. Ay, sweet is the light, and dread is death; would that one
might escape it!

_Diog_. You are beside yourself, old man; you are like a child kicking
at the pricks, you contemporary of the ferryman. Well, we need wonder
no more at youth, when age is still in love with life; one would have
thought it should court death as the cure for its proper ills.—And now
let us go our way, before our loitering here brings suspicion on us:
they may think we are planning an escape.

H.

XXVIII

_Menippus. Tiresias_

_Me_. Whether you are blind or not, Tiresias, would be a difficult
question. Eyeless sockets are the rule among us; there is no telling
Phineus from Lynceus nowadays. However, I know that you were a seer,
and that you enjoy the unique distinction of having been both man and
woman; I have it from the poets. Pray tell me which you found the more
pleasant life, the man's or the woman's?

_Ti_. The woman's, by a long way; it was much less trouble. Women have
the mastery of men; and there is no fighting for them, no manning of
walls, no squabbling in the assembly, no cross-examination in the
law-courts.

_Me_. Well, but you have heard how Medea, in Euripides, compassionates
her sex on their hard lot—on the intolerable pangs they endure in
travail? And by the way—Medea's words remind me did you ever have a
child, when you were a woman, or were you barren?

_Ti_. What do you mean by that question, Menippus?

_Me_. Oh, nothing; but I should like to know, if it is no trouble to
you.

_Ti_. I was not barren: but I did not have a child, exactly.

_Me_. No; but you might have had. That's all I wanted to know.

_Ti_. Certainly.

_Me_. And your feminine characteristics gradually vanished, and you
developed a beard, and became a man? Or did the change take place in a
moment?

_Ti_. Whither does your question tend? One would think you doubted the
fact.

_Me_. And what should I do but doubt such a story? Am I to take it in,
like a nincompoop, without asking myself whether it is possible or not?

_Ti_. At that rate, I suppose you are equally incredulous when you hear
of women being turned into birds or trees or beasts,—Aedon for
instance, or Daphne, or Callisto?

_Me_. If I fall in with any of these ladies, I will see what they have
to say about it. But to return, friend, to your own case: were you a
prophet even in the days of your femininity? or did manhood and
prophecy come together?

_Ti_. Pooh, you know nothing of the matter. I once settled a dispute
among the Gods, and was blinded by Hera for my pains; whereupon Zeus
consoled me with the gift of prophecy.

_Me_. Ah, you love a lie still, Tiresias. But there, 'tis your trade.
You prophets! There is no truth in you.

F.

XXIX

_Agamemnon. Ajax_

_Ag_. If you went mad and wrought your own destruction, Ajax, in
default of that you designed for us all, why put the blame on Odysseus?
Why would you not vouchsafe him a look or a word, when he came to
consult Tiresias that day? you stalked past your old comrade in arms as
if he was beneath your notice.

_Aj_. Had I not good reason? My madness lies at the door of my solitary
rival for the arms.

_Ag_. Did you expect to be unopposed, and carry it over us all without
a contest?

_Aj_. Surely, in such a matter. The armour was mine by natural right,
seeing I was Achilles's cousin. The rest of you, his undoubted
superiors, refused to compete, recognizing my claim. It was the son of
Laertes, he that I had rescued scores of times when he would have been
cut to pieces by the Phrygians, who set up for a better man and a
stronger claimant than I.

_Ag_. Blame Thetis, then, my good sir; it was she who, instead of
delivering the inheritance to the next of kin, brought the arms and
left the ownership an open question.

_Aj_. No, no; the guilt was in claiming them—alone, I mean.

_Ag_. Surely, Ajax, a mere man may be forgiven the sin of coveting
honour—that sweetest bait for which each one of us adventured; nay, and
he outdid you there, if a Trojan verdict counts.

_Aj_. Who inspired that verdict [Footnote: Athene is meant. The
allusion is to Homer, _Od. xi. 547_, a passage upon the contest for the
arms of Achilles, in which Odysseus states that 'The judges were the
sons of the Trojans, and Pallas Athene.']? I know, but about the Gods
we may not speak. Let that pass; but cease to hate Odysseus? 'tis not
in my power, Agamemnon, though Athene's self should require it of me.

H.

XXX

_Minos. Sostratus_

_Mi_. Sostratus, the pirate here, can be dropped into Pyriphlegethon,
Hermes; the temple-robber shall be clawed by the Chimera; and lay out
the tyrant alongside of Tityus, there to have his liver torn by the
vultures. And you honest fellows can make the best of your way to
Elysium and the Isles of the Blest; this it is to lead righteous lives.

_Sos_. A word with you, Minos. See if there is not some justice in my
plea.

_Mi_. What, more pleadings? Have you not been convicted of villany and
murder without end?

_Sos_. I have. Yet consider whether my sentence is just.

_Mi_. Is it just that you should have your deserts? If so, the sentence
is just.

_Sos_. Well, answer my questions; I will not detain you long.

_Mi_. Say on, but be brief; I have other cases waiting for me.

_Sos_. The deeds of my life—were they in my own choice, or were they
decreed by Fate?

_Mi_. Decreed, of course.

_Sos_. Then all of us, whether we passed for honest men or rogues, were
the instruments of Fate in all that we did?

_Mi_. Certainly; Clotho prescribes the conduct of every man at his
birth.

_Sos_. Now suppose a man commits a murder under compulsion of a power
which he cannot resist, an executioner, for instance, at the bidding of
a judge, or a bodyguard at that of a tyrant. Who is the murderer,
according to you?

_Mi_. The judge, of course, or the tyrant. As well ask whether the
sword is guilty, which is but the tool of his anger who is prime mover
in the affair.

_Sos_. I am indebted to you for a further illustration of my argument.
Again: a slave, sent by his master, brings me gold or silver; to whom
am I to be grateful? who goes down on my tablets as a benefactor?

_Mi_. The sender; the bringer is but his minister.

_Sos_. Observe then your injustice! You punish us who are but the
slaves of Clotho's bidding, and reward these, who do but minister to
another's beneficence. For it will never be said that it was in our
power to gainsay the irresistible ordinances of Fate?

_Mi_. Ah, Sostratus; look closely enough, and you will find plenty of
inconsistencies besides these. However, I see you are no common pirate,
but a philosopher in your way; so much you have gained by your
questions. Let him go, Hermes; he shall not be punished after that. But
mind, Sostratus, you must not put it into other people's heads to ask
questions of this kind.

F.



MENIPPUS

A NECROMANTIC EXPERIMENT

_Menippus. Philonides_

_Me_. All hail, my roof, my doors, my hearth and home! How sweet again
to see the light and thee!

_Phi_. Menippus the cynic, surely; even so, or there are visions about.
Menippus, every inch of him. What has he been getting himself up like
that for? sailor's cap, lyre, and lion-skin? However, here goes.—How
are you, Menippus? where do _you_ spring from? You have disappeared
this long time.

_Me_. Death's lurking-place I leave, and those dark gates Where Hades
dwells, a God apart from Gods.

_Phi_. Good gracious! has Menippus died, all on the quiet, and come to
life for a second spell?

_Me_. Not so; a _living_ guest in Hades I.

_Phi_. But what induced you to take this queer original journey?

_Me_. Youth drew me on—too bold, too little wise.

_Phi_. My good man, truce to your heroics; get off those iambic stilts,
and tell me in plain prose what this get-up means; what did you want
with the lower regions? It is a journey that needs a motive to make it
attractive.

_Me_. Dear friend, to Hades' realms I needs must go, To counsel with
Tiresias of Thebes.

_Phi_. Man, you must be mad; or why string verses instead of talking
like one friend with another?

_Me_. My dear fellow, you need not be so surprised. I have just been in
Euripides's and Homer's company; I suppose I am full to the throat with
verse, and the numbers come as soon as I open my mouth. But how are
things going up here? what is Athens about?

_Phi_. Oh, nothing new; extortion, perjury, forty per cent,
face-grinding.

_Me_. Poor misguided fools! they are not posted up in the latest
lower-world legislation; the recent decrees against the rich will be
too much for all their evasive ingenuity.

_Phi_. Do you mean to say the lower world has been making new
regulations for us?

_Me_. Plenty of them, I assure you. But I may not publish them, nor
reveal secrets; the result might be a suit for impiety in the court of
Rhadamanthus.

_Phi_. Oh now, Menippus, in Heaven's name, no secrets between friends!
you know I am no blabber; and I am initiated, if you come to that.

_Me_. 'Tis a hard thing you ask, and a perilous; yet for you I must
venture it. It was resolved, then, that these rich who roll in money
and keep their gold under lock and key like a Danae—-

_Phi_. Oh, don't come to the decrees yet; begin at the beginning. I am
particularly curious about your object in going, who showed you the
way, and the whole story of what you saw and heard down there; you are
a man of taste, and sure not to have missed anything worth looking at
or listening to.

_Me_. I can refuse you nothing, you see; what is one to do, when a
friend insists? Well, I will show you first the state of mind which put
me on the venture. When I was a boy, and listened to Homer's and
Hesiod's tales of war and civil strife—and they do not confine
themselves to the Heroes, but include the Gods in their descriptions,
adulterous Gods, rapacious Gods, violent, litigious, usurping,
incestuous Gods—, well, I found it all quite proper, and indeed was
intensely interested in it. But as I came to man's estate, I observed
that the laws flatly contradicted the poets, forbidding adultery,
sedition, and rapacity. So I was in a very hazy state of mind, and
could not tell what to make of it. The Gods would surely never have
been guilty of such behaviour if they had not considered it good; and
yet law-givers would never have recommended avoiding it, if avoidance
had not seemed desirable.

In this perplexity, I determined to go to the people they call
philosophers, put myself in their hands, and ask them to make what they
would of me and give me a plain reliable map of life. This was my idea
in going to them; but the effort only shifted me from the frying-pan
into the fire; it was just among these that my inquiry brought the
greatest ignorance and bewilderment to light; they very soon convinced
me that the real golden life is that of the man in the street. One of
them would have me do nothing but seek pleasure and ensue it; according
to him, Happiness was pleasure. Another recommended the exact
contrary—toil and moil, bring the body under, be filthy and squalid,
disgusting and abusive—concluding always with the tags from Hesiod
about Virtue, or something about indefatigable pursuit of the ideal.
Another bade me despise money, and reckon the acquisition of it as a
thing indifferent; he too had his contrary, who declared wealth a good
in itself. I will spare you their metaphysics; I was sickened with
daily doses of Ideas, Incorporeal Things, Atoms, Vacua, and a multitude
more. The extraordinary thing was that people maintaining the most
opposite views would each of them produce convincing plausible
arguments; when the same thing was called hot and cold by different
persons, there was no refuting one more than the other, however well
one knew that it could not be hot and cold at once. I was just like a
man dropping off to sleep, with his head first nodding forward, and
then jerking back.

Yet that absurdity is surpassed by another. I found by observation that
the practice of these same people was diametrically opposed to their
precepts. Those who preached contempt of wealth would hold on to it
like grim death, dispute about interest, teach for pay, and sacrifice
everything to the main chance, while the depreciators of fame directed
all their words and deeds to nothing else but fame; pleasure, which had
all their private devotions, they were almost unanimous in condemning.

Thus again disappointed of my hope, I was in yet worse case than
before; it was slight consolation to reflect that I was in numerous and
wise and eminently sensible company, if I was a fool still, all astray
in my quest of Truth. One night, while these thoughts kept me
sleepless, I resolved to go to Babylon and ask help from one of the
Magi, Zoroaster's disciples and successors; I had been told that by
incantations and other rites they could open the gates of Hades, take
down any one they chose in safety, and bring him up again. I thought
the best thing would be to secure the services of one of these, visit
Tiresias the Boeotian, and learn from that wise seer what is the best
life and the right choice for a man of sense. I got up with all speed
and started straight for Babylon. When I arrived, I found a wise and
wonderful Chaldean; he was white-haired, with a long imposing beard,
and called Mithrobarzanes. My prayers and supplications at last induced
him to name a price for conducting me down.

Taking me under his charge, he commenced with a new moon, and brought
me down for twenty-nine successive mornings to the Euphrates, where he
bathed me, apostrophizing the rising sun in a long formula, of which I
never caught much; he gabbled indistinctly, like bad heralds at the
Games; but he appeared to be invoking spirits. This charm completed, he
spat thrice upon my face, and I went home, not letting my eyes meet
those of any one we passed. Our food was nuts and acorns, our drink
milk and hydromel and water from the Choaspes, and we slept out of
doors on the grass. When he thought me sufficiently prepared, he took
me at midnight to the Tigris, purified and rubbed me over, sanctified
me with torches and squills and other things, muttering the charm
aforesaid, then made a magic circle round me to protect me from ghosts,
and finally led me home backwards just as I was; it was now time to
arrange our voyage.

He himself put on a magic robe, Median in character, and fetched and
gave me the cap, lion's skin, and lyre which you see, telling me if I
were asked my name not to say Menippus, but Heracles, Odysseus, or
Orpheus.

_Phi_. What was that for? I see no reason either for the get-up or for
the choice of names.

_Me_. Oh, obvious enough; there is no mystery in that. He thought that
as these three had gone down alive to Hades before us, I might easily
elude Aeacus's guard by borrowing their appearance, and be passed as an
_habitue_; there is good warrant in the theatre for the efficiency of
disguise.

Dawn was approaching when we went down to the river to embark; he had
provided a boat, victims, hydromel, and all necessaries for our mystic
enterprise. We put all aboard, and then,

Troubled at heart, with welling tears, we went.


For some distance we floated down stream, until we entered the marshy
lake in which the Euphrates disappears. Beyond this we came to a
desolate, wooded, sunless spot; there we landed, Mithrobarzanes leading
the way, and proceeded to dig a pit, slay our sheep, and sprinkle their
blood round the edge. Meanwhile the Mage, with a lighted torch in his
hand, abandoning his customary whisper, shouted at the top of his voice
an invocation to all spirits, particularly the Poenae and Erinyes,

Hecat's dark might, and dread Persephone,


with a string of other names, outlandish, unintelligible, and
polysyllabic.

As he ended, there was a great commotion, earth was burst open by the
incantation, the barking of Cerberus was heard far off, and all was
overcast and lowering;

Quaked in his dark abyss the King of Shades;


for almost all was now unveiled to us, the lake, and Phlegethon, and
the abode of Pluto. Undeterred, we made our way down the chasm, and
came upon Rhadamanthus half dead with fear. Cerberus barked and looked
like getting up; but I quickly touched my lyre, and the first note
sufficed to lull him. Reaching the lake, we nearly missed our passage
for that time, the ferry-boat being already full; there was incessant
lamentation, and all the passengers had wounds upon them; mangled legs,
mangled heads, mangled everything; no doubt there was a war going on.
Nevertheless, when good Charon saw the lion's skin, taking me for
Heracles, he made room, was delighted to give me a passage, and showed
us our direction when we got off.

We were now in darkness; so Mithrobarzanes led the way, and I followed
holding on to him, until we reached a great meadow of asphodel, where
the shades of the dead, with their thin voices, came flitting round us.
Working gradually on, we reached the court of Minos; he was sitting on
a high throne, with the Poenae, Avengers, and Erinyes standing at the
sides. From another direction was being brought a long row of persons
chained together; I heard that they were adulterers, procurers,
publicans, sycophants, informers, and all the filth that pollutes the
stream of life. Separate from them came the rich and usurers, pale,
pot-bellied, and gouty, each with a hundredweight of spiked collar upon
him. There we stood looking at the proceedings and listening to the
pleas they put in; their accusers were orators of a strange and novel
species.

_Phi_. Who, in God's name? shrink not; let me know all.

_Me_. It has not escaped your observation that the sun projects certain
shadows of our bodies on the ground.

_Phi_. How should it have?

_Me_. These, when we die, are the prosecutors and witnesses who bring
home to us our conduct on earth; their constant attendance and absolute
attachment to our persons secures them high credit in the witness-box.

Well, Minos carefully examined each prisoner, and sent him off to the
place of the wicked to receive punishment proportionate to his
transgressions. He was especially severe upon those who, puffed up with
wealth and authority, were expecting an almost reverential treatment;
he could not away with their ephemeral presumption and
superciliousness, their failure to realize the mortality of themselves
and their fortunes. Stripped of all that made them glorious, of wealth
and birth and power, there they stood naked and downcast,
reconstructing their worldly blessedness in their minds like a dream
that is gone; the spectacle was meat and drink to me; any that I knew
by sight I would come quietly up to, and remind him of his state up
here; what a spirit had his been, when morning crowds lined his hall,
expectant of his coming, being jostled or thrust out by lacqueys! at
last my lord Sun would dawn upon them, in purple or gold or rainbow
hues, not unconscious of the bliss he shed upon those who approached,
if he let them kiss his breast or his hand. These reminders seemed to
annoy them.

Minos, however, did allow his decision to be influenced in one case.
Dionysius of Syracuse was accused by Dion of many unholy deeds, and
damning evidence was produced by his shadow; he was on the point of
being chained to the Chimera, when Aristippus of Cyrene, whose name and
influence are great below, got him off on the ground of his constant
generosity as a patron of literature.

We left the court at last, and came to the place of punishment. Many a
piteous sight and sound was there—cracking of whips, shrieks of the
burning, rack and gibbet and wheel; Chimera tearing, Cerberus
devouring; all tortured together, kings and slaves, governors and
paupers, rich and beggars, and all repenting their sins. A few of them,
the lately dead, we recognized. These would turn away and shrink from
observation; or if they met our eyes, it would be with a slavish
cringing glance—how different from the arrogance and contempt that had
marked them in life! The poor were allowed half-time in their tortures,
respite and punishment alternating. Those with whom legend is so busy I
saw with my eyes—Ixion, Sisyphus, the Phrygian Tantalus in all his
misery, and the giant Tityus—how vast, his bulk covering a whole field!

Leaving these, we entered the Acherusian plain, and there found the
demi-gods, men and women both, and the common dead, dwelling in their
nations and tribes, some of them ancient and mouldering, 'strengthless
heads,' as Homer has it, others fresh, with substance yet in them,
Egyptians chiefly, these—so long last their embalming drugs. But to
know one from another was no easy task; all are so like when the bones
are bared; yet with pains and long scrutiny we could make them out.
They lay pell-mell in undistinguished heaps, with none of their earthly
beauties left. With all those anatomies piled together as like as could
be, eyes glaring ghastly and vacant, teeth gleaming bare, I knew not
how to tell Thersites from Nireus the beauty, beggar Irus from the
Phaeacian king, or cook Pyrrhias from Agamemnon's self. Their ancient
marks were gone, and their bones alike—uncertain, unlabelled,
indistinguishable.

When I saw all this, the life of man came before me under the likeness
of a great pageant, arranged and marshalled by Chance, who distributed
infinitely varied costumes to the performers. She would take one and
array him like a king, with tiara, bodyguard, and crown complete;
another she dressed like a slave; one was adorned with beauty, another
got up as a ridiculous hunchback; there must be all kinds in the show.
Often before the procession was over she made individuals exchange
characters; they could not be allowed to keep the same to the end;
Croesus must double parts and appear as slave and captive; Maeandrius,
starting as slave, would take over Polycrates's despotism, and be
allowed to keep his new clothes for a little while. And when the
procession is done, every one disrobes, gives up his character with his
body, and appears, as he originally was, just like his neighbour. Some,
when Chance comes round collecting the properties, are silly enough to
sulk and protest, as though they were being robbed of their own instead
of only returning loans. You know the kind of thing on the stage—tragic
actors shifting as the play requires from Creon to Priam, from Priam to
Agamemnon; the same man, very likely, whom you saw just now in all the
majesty of Cecrops or Erechtheus, treads the boards next as a slave,
because the author tells him to. The play over, each of them throws off
his gold-spangled robe and his mask, descends from the buskin's height,
and moves a mean ordinary creature; his name is not now Agamemnon son
of Atreus or Creon son of Menoeceus, but Polus son of Charicles of
Sunium or Satyrus son of Theogiton of Marathon. Such is the condition
of mankind, or so that sight presented it to me.

_Phi_. Now, if a man occupies a costly towering sepulchre, or leaves
monuments, statues, inscriptions behind him on earth, does not this
place him in a class above the common dead?

_Me_. Nonsense, my good man; if you had looked on Mausolus himself—the
Carian so famous for his tomb—, I assure you, you would never have
stopped laughing; he was a miserable unconsidered unit among the
general mass of the dead, flung aside in a dusty hole, with no profit
of his sepulchre but its extra weight upon him. No, friend, when Aeacus
gives a man his allowance of space—and it never exceeds a foot's
breadth—, he must be content to pack himself into its limits. You might
have laughed still more if you had beheld the kings and governors of
earth begging in Hades, selling salt fish for a living, it might be, or
giving elementary lessons, insulted by any one who met them, and cuffed
like the most worthless of slaves. When I saw Philip of Macedon, I
could not contain myself; some one showed him to me cobbling old shoes
for money in a corner. Many others were to be seen begging—people like
Xerxes, Darius, or Polycrates.

_Phi_. These royal downfalls are extraordinary almost—incredible. But
what of Socrates, Diogenes, and such wise men?

_Me_. Socrates still goes about proving everybody wrong, the same as
ever; Palamedes, Odysseus, Nestor, and a few other conversational
shades, keep him company. His legs, by the way, were still puffy and
swollen from the poison. Good Diogenes pitches close to Sardanapalus,
Midas, and other specimens of magnificence. The sound of their
lamentations and better-day memories keeps him in laughter and spirits;
he is generally stretched on his back roaring out a noisy song which
drowns lamentation; it annoys them, and they are looking out for a new
pitch where he may not molest them.

_Phi_. I am satisfied. And now for that decree which you told me had
been passed against the rich.

_Me_. Well remembered; that was what I meant to tell you about, but I
have somehow got far astray. Well, during my stay the presiding
officers gave notice of an assembly on matters of general interest. So,
when I saw every one flocking to it, I mingled with the shades and
constituted myself a member. Various measures were decided upon, and
last came this question of the rich. Many grave accusations were
preferred against them, including violence, ostentation, pride,
injustice; and at last a popular speaker rose and moved this decree.

DECREE

'Whereas the rich are guilty of many illegalities on earth, harrying
and oppressing the poor and trampling upon all their rights, it is the
pleasure of the Senate and People that after death they shall be
punished in their bodies like other malefactors, but their souls shall
be sent on earth to inhabit asses, until they have passed in that shape
a quarter-million of years, generation after generation, bearing
burdens under the tender mercies of the poor; after which they shall be
permitted to die. Mover of this decree—Cranion son of Skeletion of the
deme Necysia in the Alibantid [Footnote: The four names are formed from
words meaning skull, skeleton, corpse, anatomy.] tribe.' The decree
read, a formal vote was taken, in which the people accepted it. A snort
from Brimo and a bark from Cerberus completed the proceedings according
to the regular form.

So went the assembly. And now, in pursuance of my original design, I
went to Tiresias, explained my case fully, and implored him to give me
his views upon the best life. He is a blind little old man, pale and
weak-voiced. He smiled and said:—'My son, the cause of your perplexity,
I know, is the fact that doctors differ; but I may not enlighten you;
Rhadamanthus forbids.' 'Ah, say not so, father,' I exclaimed; 'speak
out, and leave me not to wander through life in a blindness worse than
yours.' So he drew me apart to a considerable distance, and whispered
in my ear:—'The life of the ordinary man is the best and most prudent
choice; cease from the folly of metaphysical speculation and inquiry
into origins and ends, utterly reject their clever logic, count all
these things idle talk, and pursue one end alone—how you may do what
your hand finds to do, and go your way with ever a smile and never a
passion.'

So he, and sought the lawn of asphodel.


It was now late, and I told Mithrobarzanes that our work was done, and
we might reascend. 'Very well, Menippus,' said he, 'I will show you an
easy short cut.' And taking me to a place where the darkness was
especially thick, he pointed to a dim and distant ray of light—a mere
pencil admitted through a chink. 'There,' he said, 'is the shrine of
Trophonius, from which the Boeotian inquirers start; go up that way,
and you will be on Grecian soil without more ado.' I was delighted,
took my leave of the Mage, crawled with considerable difficulty through
the aperture, and found myself, sure enough, at Lebadea.

H.



CHARON

_Hermes. Charon_

_Her_. So gay, Charon? What makes you leave your ferry to come up here?
You are quite a stranger in the upper world.

_Ch_. I thought I should like to see what life is like; what men do
with it, and what are these blessings of which they all lament the loss
when they come down to us. Never one of them has made the passage
dry-eyed. So I got leave from Pluto to take a day off, like that
Thessalian lad [Footnote: See Protesilaus in Notes.], you know; and
here I am, in the light of day. I am in luck, it seems, to fall in with
you. You will show me round, of course, and point out all that is to be
seen, as you know all about it.

_Her_. I have no time, good ferryman. I am bound on certain errands of
the Upper Zeus, certain human matters. He is short-tempered: any
loitering on my part, and he may hand me over to you Powers of Darkness
for good and all; or treat me as he did Hephaestus the other day—hurl
me down headlong from the threshold of Heaven; there would be a pair of
lame cupbearers then, to amuse the gods.

_Ch_. And you would leave an old messmate wandering at large on the
face of the earth? Think of the cruises we have sailed together, the
cargoes you and I have handled! You might remember one thing, son of
Maia; I have never set you down to bale or row. You lie sprawling about
the deck, you great strong lubber, snoring away, or chatting the whole
trip through with any communicative shade you can find; and the old man
plies both oars at once. Come, stand by me, like a true son of Zeus as
you are, and show me all the ins and outs, there's a dear lad. I want
to see something of life before I go back, and if you leave me in the
lurch, I shall be no better off than a blind man: _he_ comes to grief
because he is always in the dark, and, contrariwise, _I_ can make
nothing of it in the light. Do me this good turn, and I'll not forget
it.

_Her_. Clearly this is to be a flogging matter for me. There will go
some shrewd knocks to the settlement of this reckoning. However, I must
give you a helping hand. What is one to do, when a friend is so
pressing? Now, as to going over everything thoroughly, it is out of the
question; it would take us years. Meanwhile, I should have the
hue-and-cry out after me, you would be neglecting your ghostly work,
Pluto would lose the shades that you ought to be shipping over all that
time, and Aeacus would never take a single toll, and would be
proportionately furious. We have only to think, therefore, of
contriving you a general view of what is going on.

_Ch_. You must do the best you can for me. I know nothing of the
matter, being a stranger up here.

_Her_. The main thing is to get an elevation from which you may see in
every direction. If you could come up to Heaven, we should be saved any
further trouble; you would then have a good bird's-eye view of
everything. But it would be sacrilege for one so conversant with
phantoms to set foot in the courts of Zeus. Let us lose no time,
therefore, in looking out a good high mountain.

_Ch_. You know what I sometimes say to you on the ship, Hermes.—If a
sudden gust strikes the sail from a new quarter, and the waves are
rising high, you landsmen know not what to make of it; you are for
taking in sail, or slackening the sheet, or letting her go before the
wind, and then I tell you not to trouble your heads, for _I_ know what
to do. Well, now it is your turn; you are sailing this ship; do as you
think best, and I'll sit quiet, as a passenger should, and obey orders.

_Her_. Just so; leave it to me, and I will find a good look-out. How
would Caucasus do? Or is Parnassus higher? Olympus, perhaps, is higher
than either of them. Olympus! stay, that reminds me; I have a happy
thought. But there is work for two here; I shall want your assistance.

_Ch_. Give your orders, I'll bear a hand, to the best of my ability.

_Her_. Homer tells us how the sons of Aloeus [Footnote: See _Olus_ in
Notes.] (they were but two, like ourselves) took it into their heads,
when they were yet children, to drag up Ossa from its foundations, and
plant it on the top of Olympus, and then Pelion on the top of all; they
thought that would serve as a ladder for getting into heaven. The two
boys were rightly punished for their presumption. But _we_ have no
design against the Gods: why should not we take the hint, and make an
erection of mountains piled one on the top of another? From such a
height we should get a better view.

_Ch_. What, shall we two be able to lift Pelion or Ossa?

_Her_. Why not? We are gods; I should hope we are as good as those two
infants.

_Ch_. Yes; but I should never have thought we could do such a job as
that.

_Her_. Ah, my dear Charon, you don't understand these things; you have
no imagination. To the lofty spirit of Homer this is simplicity itself.
Just a couple of lines, and the mountains are in place;—we have only to
walk up. I wonder you make such a marvel of this. You know Atlas, of
course? He holds up the entire heaven by himself, Gods and all. And I
dare say you have heard how my brother Heracles relieved him once, and
took the burden on his own shoulders for a time?

_Ch_. Yes, I have heard it. But you and the poets best know whether it
is true.

_Her_. Oh, perfectly true. What should induce wise men to lie?—Come,
let us get to work on Ossa first; for so the masterbuilder directs:

  Ossa first;
  On Ossa leafy Pelion.


There! What think you of this? Is it suave work? is it poetry? I must
run up, and see whether we shall want another storey. Oh dear, we are
no way up as yet. On the East, it is all I can do to make out Ionia and
Lydia; on the West is nothing but Italy and Sicily; on the North,
nothing to be seen beyond the Danube; and on the South, Crete, none too
clear. It looks to me as if we should want Oeta, my nautical friend;
and Parnassus into the bargain.

_Ch_. So be it; but take care not to make the height too great for the
width; or down we shall come, ladder and all, and pay our footing in
the Homeric school of architecture with a cracked crown apiece.

_Her_. No fear; all will be safe enough. Pass Oeta along. Now trundle
Parnassus up. There; I'll go up again…. That's better! A fine view. You
can come now.

_Ch_. Give me a hand up, Hermes. This _is_ an erection, and no mistake!

_Her_. Well, you know, you would see everything. Safety is one thing,
my friend, and sight-seeing is another. Here is my hand; hang on, and
keep clear of the slippery bits. There, now _you_ are up. Let us sit
down; here are two peaks, one for each of us. Now take a general look
round at the prospect.

_Ch_. I see a vast stretch of land, and a huge lake surrounding it, and
mountains, and rivers bigger than Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon; and men,
tiny little things! and I suppose their dens.

_Her. Dens_? Those are cities!

_Ch_. I tell you what it is, Hermes; all this is no use. Here have we
been shifting about Parnassus (Castalia and all complete), and Oeta,
and these others, and we might have spared ourselves the trouble!

_Her_. How so?

_Ch_. Why, I can make nothing out up here. These cities and mountains
look for all the world like a map. It is _men_ that I am after; I want
to see what they do, and hear what they say. That is what I was
laughing about just now, when first you met me, and asked me what the
joke was. I had heard something that tickled me hugely.

_Her_. And what might that be?

_Ch_. One of them had been asked by a friend to dinner, I think it was,
the next day. 'Depend on it,' says he, 'I'll be with you.' And before
the words were out of his mouth, down came a tile—started somehow from
the roof—and he was a dead man! Ha, ha, thought I, _that_ promise will
never be kept. So I think I shall go down again; I want to see and
hear.

_Her_. Sit where you are. I will soon put that right; you shall see
with the best; Homer has a charm for this too. Now, the moment I say
the lines, there must be no more dull eyes; all must be clear as
daylight. Don't forget!

_Ch_. Say on.

_Her_.

  See, from before thine eyes I lift the veil;
  So shalt thou clearly know both God and man.


Well? Are the eyes any better?

_Ch_. A marvellous improvement! Lynceus is blind to me. Now, the next
thing I want is information. I have some questions to ask. Will you
have them couched in the Homeric style, to convince you that I am not
wholly unversed in his poems?

_Her_. And how should you know anything of Homer? A seaman, chained to
the oar!

_Ch_. Come, come; no abuse of my profession. The fact is, when he died,
and I ferried him over, I heard a good many of his ballads, and a few
of them still run in my head. There was a pretty stiff gale on at the
time, too. You see, he began singing a song about Posidon, which boded
no good to us mariners,—how Posidon gathered the clouds, and stirred
the depths with his trident, as with a ladle, and roused the whirlwind,
and a good deal more (enough to raise a storm of itself),—when suddenly
there came a black squall which nearly capsized the boat. The poet was
extremely ill, and disgorged such an avalanche of minstrelsy (Scylla,
Charybdis, the Cyclops, all came up bodily), that I had no difficulty
in preserving a few snatches. I should like to know, for instance,

  Who is yon hero, stout and strong and tall,
  O'ertopping all mankind by head and shoulders?


_Her_. That is Milo of Croton, the athlete. He has just picked up a
bull, and is carrying it along the race-course; and the Greeks are
applauding him.

_Ch_. It would be more to the point, if they were to offer their
congratulations to _me_. I shall presently be picking up Milo himself,
and putting him into my boat; that will be after he has had his fall
from Death, that most invincible of antagonists, who will have him on
his back before he knows what is happening. We shall hear a sad tale
then, no doubt, of the crowns and the applause he has left behind him.
Meanwhile, he is mightily elated over the bull exploit, and the
distinction it has won him. What is one to think? Does it ever occur to
him that he must _die_ some day?

_Her_. How should he think of death? He is at his zenith.

_Ch_. Well, never mind him. We shall have sport enough with him before
long; he will come aboard with no strength left to pick up a gnat, let
alone a bull. But pray,

  Who is yon haughty hero?
  No Greek, to judge by his dress.


_Her_. That is Cyrus, son of Cambyses, who transferred to the Persians
the ancient empire of the Medes. He has lately conquered Assyria, and
reduced Babylon; and now it looks as if he meditated an invasion of
Lydia, to complete his dominion by the overthrow of Croesus.

_Ch_. And whereabouts is Croesus?

_Her_. Look over there. You see the great city with the triple wall?
That is Sardis. And there, look, is Croesus himself, reclining on a
golden couch, and conversing with Solon the Athenian. Shall we listen
to what they are saying?

_Ch_. Yes, let us.

_Cr. Stranger, you have now seen my stores of treasure, my heaps of
bullion, and all my riches. Tell me therefore, whom do you account the
happiest of mankind_?

_Ch_. What will Solon say, I wonder?

_Her_. Trust Solon; he will not disgrace himself.

_So_. _Croesus, few men are happy. Of those whom I know, the happiest,
I think, were Cleobis and Biton, the sons of the Argive priestess_.

_Ch_. Ah, he means those two who yoked themselves to a waggon, and drew
their mother to the temple, and died the moment after. It was but the
other day.

_Cr_. _Ah. So they are first on the list. And who comes next_?

_So_. _Tellus the Athenian, who lived a righteous life, and died for
his country_.

_Cr_. _And where do I come, reptile_?

_So_. _That I am unable to say at present, Croesus; I must see you end
your days first. Death is the sure test;—a happy end to a life of
happiness_.

_Ch_. Bravo, Solon; _you_ have not forgotten us! As you say, Charon's
ferry is the proper place for the decision of these questions.—But who
are these men whom Croesus is sending out? And what have they got on
their shoulders?

_Her_. Those are bars of gold; they are going to Delphi, to pay for an
oracle, which oracle will presently be the ruin of Croesus. But oracles
are a hobby of his.

_Ch_. Oh, so that is _gold_, that glittering yellow stuff, with just a
tinge of red in it. I have often heard of gold, but never saw it
before.

_Her_. Yes, that is the stuff there is so much talking and squabbling
about.

_Ch_. Well now, I see no advantages about it, unless it is an advantage
that it is heavy to carry.

_Her_. Ah, you do not know what it has to answer for; the wars and
plots and robberies, the perjuries and murders; for this men will
endure slavery and imprisonment; for this they traffic and sail the
seas.

_Ch_. For this stuff? Why, it is not much different from copper. I know
copper, of course, because I get a penny from each passenger.

_Her_. Yes, but copper is plentiful, and therefore not much esteemed by
men. Gold is found only in small quantities, and the miners have to go
to a considerable depth for it. For the rest, it comes out of the
earth, just the same as lead and other metals.

_Ch_. What fools men must be, to be enamoured of an object of this
sallow complexion; and of such a weight!

_Her_. Well, Solon, at any rate, seems to have no great affection for
it. See, he is making merry with Croesus and his outlandish
magnificence. I think he is going to ask him a question. Listen.

_So_. _Croesus, will those bars be any use to Apollo, do you think?_

_Cr_. _Any use! Why there is nothing at Delphi to be compared to them._

_So_. _And that is all that is wanting to complete his happiness,
eh?—some bar gold?_

_Cr_. _Undoubtedly._

_So_. _Then they must be very hard up in Heaven, if they have to send
all the way to Lydia for their gold supply?_

_Cr_. _Where else is gold to be had in such abundance as with us?_

_So_. _Now is any iron found in Lydia?_

_Cr_. _Not much._

_So_. _Ah; so you are lacking in the more valuable metal._

_Cr_. _More valuable? Iron more valuable than gold?_

_So_. _Bear with me, while I ask you a few questions, and I will
convince you it is so._

_Cr_. _Well?_

_So_. _Of protector and protege, which is the better man?_

_Cr_. _The protector, of course._

_So_. _Now in the event of Cyrus's invading Lydia—there is some talk of
it—shall you supply your men with golden swords? or will iron be
required, on the occasion?_

_Cr_. _Oh, iron._

_So_. _Iron accordingly you must have, or your gold would be led
captive into Persia?_

_Cr_. _Blasphemer!_

_So_. _Oh, we will hope for the best. But it is clear, on your own
admission, that iron is better than gold._

_Cr_. _And what would you have me do? Recall the gold, and offer the
God bars of iron?_

_So_. _He has no occasion for iron either. Your offering (be the metal
what it may) will fall into other hands than his. It will be snapped up
by the Phocians, or the Boeotians, or the God's own priests; or by some
tyrant or robber. Your goldsmiths have no interest for Apollo._

_Cr_. _You are always having a stab at my wealth. It is all envy!_

_Her_. This blunt sincerity is not to the Lydian's taste. Things are
come to a strange pass, he thinks, if a poor man is to hold up his
head, and speak his mind in this frank manner! He will remember Solon
presently, when the time comes for Cyrus to conduct him in chains to
the pyre. I heard Clotho, the other day, reading over the various
dooms. Among other things, Croesus was to be led captive by Cyrus, and
Cyrus to be murdered by the queen of the Massagetae. There she is: that
Scythian woman, riding on a white horse; do you see?

_Ch_. Yes.

_Her_. That is Tomyris. She will cut off Cyrus's head, and put it into
a wine-skin filled with blood. And do you see his son, the boy there?
That is Cambyses. He will succeed to his father's throne; and, after
innumerable defeats in Libya and Ethiopia, will finally slay the god
Apis, and die a raving madman.

_Ch_. What fun! Why, at this moment no one would presume to meet their
eyes; from such a height do they look down on the rest of mankind. Who
would believe that before long one of them will be a captive, and the
other have his head in a bottle of blood?—But who is that in the purple
robe, Hermes?—the one with the diadem? His cook has just been cleaning
a fish, and is now handing him a ring,—"in yonder sea-girt isle";
"'tis, sure, some king."

_Her_.Ha, ha! A parody, this time.—That is Polycrates, tyrant of Samos.
He is extremely well pleased with his lot: yet that slave who now
stands at his side will betray him to the satrap Oroetes, and he will
be crucified. It will not take long to overturn _his_ prosperity, poor
man! This, too, I had from Clotho.

_Ch_. I like Clotho; she is a lady of spirit. Have at them, madam! Off
with their heads! To the cross with them! Let them know that they are
men. And let them be exalted in the meantime; the higher they mount,
the heavier will be the fall. I shall have a merry time of it
hereafter, identifying their naked shades, as they come aboard; no more
purple robes then; no tiaras; no golden couches!

_Her_. So much for royalty; and now to the common herd. Do you see
them, Charon;—on their ships and on the field of battle; crowding the
law-courts and following the plough; usurers here, beggars there?

_Ch_. I see them. What a jostling life it is! What a world of ups and
downs! Their cities remind me of bee-hives. Every man keeps a sting for
his neighbour's service; and a few, like wasps, make spoil of their
weaker brethren. But what are all these misty shapes that beset them on
every side?

_Her_. Hopes, Fears, Follies, Pleasures, Greeds, Hates, Grudges, and
such like. They differ in their habits. The Folly is a domestic
creature, with vested rights of its own. The same with the Grudge, the
Hate, the Envy, the Greed, the Know-not, and the What's-to-do. But the
Fear and the Hope fly overhead. The Fear swoops on its prey from above;
sometimes it is content with startling a man out of his wits, sometimes
it frightens him in real earnest. The Hope hovers almost within reach,
and just when a man thinks he is going to catch it, off it flies, and
leaves him gaping—like Tantalus in the water, you know. Now look
closely, and you will make out the Fates up aloft, spinning each man
his spindle-full; from that spindle a man hangs by a narrow thread. Do
you see what looks like a cobweb, coming down to each man from the
spindles?

_Ch_. I see each has a very slight thread. They are mostly entangled,
one with another, and that other with a third.

_Her_. Of course they are. Because the first man has got to be murdered
by the second, and he by the third; or again, B is to be A's heir (A's
thread being the shorter), and C is to be B's. That is what the
entangling means. But you see what thin threads they all have to depend
on. Now here is one drawn high up into the air; presently his thread
will snap, when the weight becomes too much for it, and down he will
come with a bang: whereas yonder fellow hangs so low that when he does
fall it makes no noise; his next-door neighbours will scarcely hear him
drop.

_Ch_. How absurd it all is!

_Her_. My dear Charon, there is no word for the absurdity of it. They
do take it all so seriously, that is the best of it; and then, long
before they have finished scheming, up comes good old Death, and whisks
them off, and all is over! You observe that he has a fine staff of
assistants at his command;—agues, consumptions, fevers, inflammations,
swords, robbers, hemlock, juries, tyrants,—not one of which gives them
a moment's concern so long as they are prosperous; but when they come
to grief, then it is Alack! and Well-a-day! and Oh dear me! If only
they would start with a clear understanding that they are mortal, that
after a brief sojourn on the earth they will wake from the dream of
life, and leave all behind them,—they would live more sensibly, and not
mind dying so much. As it is, they get it into their heads that what
they possess they possess for good and all; the consequence is, that
when Death's officer calls for them, and claps on a fever or a
consumption, they take it amiss; the parting is so wholly unexpected.
Yonder is a man building his house, urging the workmen to use all
dispatch. How would he take the news, that he was just to see the roof
on and all complete, when he would have to take his departure, and
leave all the enjoyment to his heir?—hard fate, not once to sup beneath
it! There again is one rejoicing over the birth of a son; the child is
to inherit his grandfather's name, and the father is celebrating the
occasion with his friends. He would not be so pleased, if he knew that
the boy was to die before he was eight years old! It is natural enough:
he sees before him some happy father of an Olympian victor, and has no
eyes for his neighbour there, who is burying a child; _that_ thin-spun
thread escapes his notice. Behold, too, the money-grubbers, whom the
aforesaid Death's-officers will never permit to be money-spenders; and
the noble army of litigant neighbours!

_Ch_. Yes! I see it all; and I ask myself, what is the satisfaction in
life? What is it that men bewail the loss of? Take their kings; they
seem to be best off, though, as you say, they have their happiness on a
precarious tenure; but apart from that, we shall find their pleasures
to be outweighed by the vexations inseparable from their position—worry
and anxiety, flattery here, conspiracy there, enmity everywhere; to say
nothing of the tyranny of Sorrow, Disease, and Passion, with whom there
is confessedly no respect of persons. And if the king's lot is a hard
one, we may make a pretty shrewd guess at that of the commoner. Come
now, I will give you a similitude for the life of man. Have you ever
stood at the foot of a waterfall, and marked the bubbles rising to the
surface and gathering into foam? Some are quite small, and break as
soon as they are born. Others last longer; new ones come to join them,
and they swell up to a great size: yet in the end they burst, as surely
as the rest; it cannot be otherwise. There you have human life. All men
are bubbles, great or small, inflated with the breath of life. Some are
destined to last for a brief space, others perish in the very moment of
birth: but all must inevitably burst.

_Her_. Homer compares mankind to leaves. Your simile is full as good as
his.

_Ch_. And being the things they are, they do—the things you see;
squabbling among themselves, and contending for dominion and power and
riches, all of which they will have to leave behind them, when they
come down to us with their penny apiece. Now that we are up here, how
would it be for me to cry out to them at the top of my voice, to
abstain from their vain endeavours, and live with the prospect of Death
before their eyes? 'Fools' (I might say), 'why so much in earnest? Rest
from your toils. You will not live for ever. Nothing of the pomp of
this world will endure; nor can any man take anything hence when he
dies. He will go naked out of the world, and his house and his lands
and his gold will be another's, and ever another's.' If I were to call
out something of this sort, loud enough for them to hear, would it not
do some good? Would not the world be the better for it?

_Her_. Ah, my poor friend, you know not what you say. Ignorance and
deceit have done for them what Odysseus did for his crew when he was
afraid of the Sirens; they have waxed men's ears up so effectually,
that no drill would ever open them. How then should they hear you? You
might shout till your lungs gave way. Ignorance is as potent here as
the waters of Lethe are with you. There are a few, to be sure, who from
a regard for Truth have refused the wax process; men whose eyes are
open to discern good and evil.

_Ch_. Well then, we might call out to _them_?

_Her_. There again: where would be the use of telling them what they
know already? See, they stand aloof from the rest of mankind, and scoff
at all that goes on; nothing is as they would have it. Nay, they are
evidently bent on giving life the slip, and joining you. Their
condemnations of folly make them unpopular here.

_Ch_. Well done, my brave boys! There are not many of them, though,
Hermes.

_Her_. These must serve. And now let us go down.

_Ch_. There is still one thing I had a fancy to see. Show me the
receptacles into which they put the corpses, and your office will have
been discharged.

_Her_. Ah, _sepulchres_, those are called, or _tombs_, or _graves_.
Well, do you see those mounds, and columns, and pyramids, outside the
various city walls? Those are the store-chambers of the dead.

_Ch_. Why, they are putting flowers on the stones, and pouring costly
essences upon them. And in front of some of the mounds they have piled
up faggots, and dug trenches. Look: there is a splendid banquet laid
out, and they are burning it all; and pouring wine and mead, I suppose
it is, into the trenches! What does it all mean?

_Her_. What satisfaction it affords to their friends in Hades, I am
unable to say. But the idea is, that the shades come up, and get as
close as they can, and feed upon the savoury steam of the meat, and
drink the mead in the trench.

_Ch_. Eat and drink, when their skulls are dry bone? But I am wasting
my breath: you bring them down every day;—_you_ can say whether they
are likely ever to get up again, once they are safely underground! That
would be too much of a good thing! You would have your work cut out for
you and no mistake, if you had not only to bring them down, but also to
take them up again when they wanted a drink. Oh, fools and blockheads!
You little know how we arrange matters, or what a gulf is set betwixt
the living and the dead!

  The buried and unburied, both are Death's.
  He ranks alike the beggar and the king;
  Thersites sits by fair-haired Thetis' son.
  Naked and withered roam the fleeting shades
  Together through the fields of asphodel.


_Her_. Bless me, what a deluge of Homer! And now I think of it, I must
show you Achilles's tomb. There it is on the Trojan shore, at Sigeum.
And across the water is Rhoeteum, where Ajax lies buried.

_Ch_. Rather small tombs, considering. Now show me the great cities,
those that we hear talked about in Hades; Nineveh, Babylon, Mycenae,
Cleonae, and Troy itself. I shipped numbers across from there, I
remember. For ten years running I had no time to haul my boat up and
clean it.

_Her_. Why, as to Nineveh, it is gone, friend, long ago, and has left
no trace behind it; there is no saying whereabouts it may have been.
But there is Babylon, with its fine battlements and its enormous wall.
Before long it will be as hard to find as Nineveh. As to Mycenae and
Cleonae, I am ashamed to show them to you, let alone Troy. You will
throttle Homer, for certain, when you get back, for puffing them so.
They were prosperous cities, too, in their day; but they have gone the
way of all flesh. Cities, my friend, die, just like men; stranger
still, so do rivers! Inachus is gone from Argos—not a puddle left.

_Ch_. Oh, Homer, Homer! You and your 'holy Troy,' and your 'city of
broad streets,' and your 'strong-walled Cleonae'!—By the way, what is
that battle going on over there? What are they murdering one another
about?

_Her_. It is between the Argives and the Lacedaemonians. The general
who lies there half-dead, writing an inscription on the trophy with his
own blood, is Othryades.

_Ch_. And what were they fighting for?

_Her_. For the field of battle, neither more nor less.

_Ch_. The fools! Not to know that though each one of them should win to
himself a whole Peloponnesus, he will get but a bare foot of ground
from Aeacus! As to yonder plain, one nation will till it after another,
and many a time will that trophy be turned up by the plough.

_Her_. Even so. And now let us get down, and put these mountains to
rights again. After which, I must be off on my errand, and you back to
your ferry. You will see me there before long, with the day's
contingent of shades.

_Ch_. I am much obliged to you, Hermes; the service shall be
perpetuated in my records. Thanks to you, my outing has been a success.
Dear, dear, what a world it is!—And never a word of Charon!

F.



OF SACRIFICE

Methinks that man must lie sore stricken under the hand of sorrow, who
has not a smile left for the folly of his superstitious brethren, when
he sees them at work on sacrifice and festival and worship of the gods,
hears the subject of their prayers, and marks the nature of their
creed. Nor, I fancy, will a smile be all. He will first have a question
to ask himself: Is he to call them devout worshippers or very outcasts,
who think so meanly of God as to suppose that he can require anything
at the hand of man, can take pleasure in their flattery, or be wounded
by their neglect? Thus the afflictions of the Calydonians, that long
tale of misery and violence, ending with the death of Meleager—all is
attributed to the resentment of Artemis, at Oeneus's neglect in not
inviting her to a feast. She must have taken the disappointment very
much to heart. I fancy I see her, poor Goddess, left all alone in
Heaven, after the rest have set out for Calydon, brooding darkly over
the fine spread at which she will not be present. Those Ethiopians,
too; privileged, thrice-happy mortals! Zeus, one supposes, is not
unmindful of the handsome manner in which they entertained him and all
his family for twelve days running. With the Gods, clearly, nothing
goes for nothing. Each blessing has its price. Health is to be had,
say, for a calf; wealth, for a couple of yoke of oxen; a kingdom, for a
hecatomb. A safe conduct from Troy to Pylos has fetched as much as nine
bulls, and a passage from Aulis to Troy has been quoted at a princess.
For six yoke of oxen and a robe, Athene sold Hecuba a reprieve for
Troy; and it is to be presumed that a cock, a garland, a handful of
frankincense, will each buy something.

Chryses, that experienced divine and eminent theologian, seems to have
realized this principle. Returning from his fruitless visit to
Agamemnon, he approaches Apollo with the air of a creditor, and demands
repayment of his loan. His attitude is one of remonstrance, almost,
'Good Apollo,' he cries, 'here have I been garlanding your temple,
where never garland hung before, and burning unlimited thigh-pieces of
bulls and goats upon your altars: yet when I suffer wrong, you take no
heed; you count my benefactions as nothing worth.' The God is quite put
out of countenance: he seizes his bow, settles down in the harbour and
smites the Achaeans with shafts of pestilence, them and their mules and
their dogs.

And now that I have mentioned Apollo, I cannot refrain from an allusion
to certain other passages in his life, which are recorded by the sages.
With his unfortunate love affairs—the sad end of Hyacinth, and the
cruelty of Daphne—we are not concerned. But when that vote of censure
was passed on him for the slaughter of the Cyclopes, he was dismissed
from Heaven, and condemned to share the fortunes of men upon earth. It
was then that he served Admetus in Thessaly, and Laomedon in Phrygia;
and in the latter service he was not alone. He and Posidon together,
since better might not be, made bricks and built the walls of Troy; and
did not even get their full wages;—the Phrygian, it is said, remained
their debtor for no less a sum than five-and-twenty shillings Trojan,
and odd pence. These, and yet holier mysteries than these, are the high
themes of our poets. They tell of Hephaestus and of Prometheus; of
Cronus and Rhea, and well-nigh all the family of Zeus. And as they
never commence their poems without bespeaking the assistance of the
Muses, we must conclude that it is under that divine inspiration that
they sing, how Cronus unmanned his father Uranus, and was king in his
room; and how, like Argive Thyestes, he swallowed his own children; and
how thereafter Rhea saved Zeus by the fraud of the stone, and the child
was exposed in Crete, and suckled by a goat, as Telephus was by a hind,
and Cyrus the Great by a bitch; and how he dethroned his father, and
threw him into prison, and was king; and of his many wives, and how
finally (like a Persian or an Assyrian) he married his own sister Hera;
and of his love adventures, and how he peopled the Heaven with gods,
ay, and with demi-gods, the rogue! for he wooed the daughters of earth,
appearing to them now in a shower of gold, now in the form of a bull or
a swan or an eagle; a very Proteus for versatility. Once, and only
once, he conceived within his own brain, and gave birth to Athene. For
Dionysus, they say, he tore from the womb of Semele before the fire had
yet consumed her, and hid the child within his thigh, till the time of
travail was come.

Similarly, we find Hera conceiving without external assistance, and
giving birth to Hephaestus; no child of fortune he, but a base
mechanic, living all his life at the forge, soot-begrimed as any
stoker. He is not even sound of limb; he has been lame ever since Zeus
threw him down from Heaven. Fortunately for us the Lemnians broke his
fall, or there would have been an end of him, as surely as there was of
Astyanax when he was flung from the battlements. But Hephaestus is
nothing to Prometheus. Who knows not the sorrows of that officious
philanthropist? How he too fell a victim to the wrath of Zeus, and was
carried into Scythia, and nailed up on Caucasus, with an eagle to keep
him company and make daily havoc of his liver? However, _there_ was a
reckoning settled, at any rate. But Rhea, now! We cannot, I think, pass
over her conduct unnoticed. It is surely most discreditable;—a lady of
her venerable years, the mother of such a family, still feeling the
pangs of love and jealousy, and carrying her beloved Attis about with
her in the lion-drawn car,—and he so ill qualified to play the lover's
part! After that, we can but wink, if we find Aphrodite making a slip,
or Selene time after time pulling up in mid-career to pay a visit to
Endymion.

But enough of scandal. Borne on the wings of poesy, let us take flight
for Heaven itself, as Homer and Hesiod have done before us, and see how
all is disposed up there. The vault is of brass on the under side, as
we know from Homer. But climb over the edge, and take a peep up. You
are now actually in Heaven. Observe the increase of light; here is a
purer Sun, and brighter stars; daylight is everywhere, and the floor is
of gold. We arrive first at the abode of the Seasons; they are the
fortresses of Heaven. Then we have Iris and Hermes, the servants and
messengers of Zeus; and next Hephaestus's smithy, which is stocked with
all manner of cunning contrivances. Last come the dwellings of the
Gods, and the palace of Zeus. All are the work of Hephaestus; and noble
work it is.

Hard by the throne of Zeus


(I suppose we must adapt our language to our altitude)

sit all the gods.


Their eyes are turned downwards; intently they search every corner of
the earth; is there nowhere a fire to be seen, or the steam of burnt-
offerings

... in eddying clouds upborne?


If a sacrifice is going forward, all mouths are open to feast upon the
smoke; like flies they settle on the altar to drink up the trickling
streams of blood. If they are dining at home, nectar and ambrosia is
the bill of fare. In ancient days, mortals have eaten and drunk at
their table. Such were Ixion and Tantalus; but they forgot their
manners, and talked too much. They are paying the penalty for it to
this day; and since then mortals have been excluded from Heaven.

The life of the Gods being such as I have described, our religious
ordinances are in admirable harmony with the divine requirements. Our
first care has been to supply each God with his sacred grove, his holy
hill, and his own peculiar bird or plant. The next step was to assign
them their various sacred cities. Apollo has the freedom of Delphi and
Delos, Athene that of Athens (there is no disputing _her_ nationality);
Hera is an Argive, Rhea a Mygdonian, Aphrodite a Paphian. As for Zeus,
he is a Cretan born and bred—and buried, as any native of that island
will show you. It was a mistake of ours to suppose that Zeus was
dispensing the thunder and the rain and the rest of it;—he has been
lying snugly underground in Crete all this time. As it would never have
done to leave the Gods without a hearth and home, temples were now
erected, and the services of Phidias, Polyclitus, and Praxiteles were
called in to create images in their likeness. Chance glimpses of their
originals (but where obtained I know not) enabled these artists to do
justice to the beard of Zeus, the perpetual youth of Apollo, the down
on Hermes's cheek, Posidon's sea-green hair, and Athene's flashing
eyes; with the result that on entering the temple of Zeus men believe
that they see before them, not Indian ivory, nor gold from a Thracian
mine, but the veritable son of Cronus and Rhea, translated to earth by
the hand of Phidias, with instructions to keep watch over the deserted
plains of Pisa, and content with his lot, if, once in four years, a
spectator of the games can snatch a moment to pay him sacrifice.

And now the altars stand ready; proclamation has been made, and
lustration duly performed. The victims are accordingly brought
forward—an ox from the plough, a ram or a goat, according as the
worshipper is a farmer, a shepherd, or a goatherd; sometimes it is only
frankincense or a honey cake; nay, a poor man may conciliate the God by
merely kissing his hand. But it is with the priests that we are
concerned. They first make sure that the victim is without blemish, and
worthy of the sacrificial knife; then they crown him with garlands and
lead him to the altar, where he is slaughtered before the God's eyes,
to the broken accompaniment of his own sanctimonious bellowings, most
musical, most melancholy. The delight of the Gods at such a spectacle,
who can doubt?

According to the proclamation, no man shall approach the holy ground
with _unclean hands_. Yet there stands the priest himself, wallowing in
gore; handling his knife like a very Cyclops, drawing out entrails and
heart, sprinkling the altar with blood,—in short, omitting no detail of
his holy office. Finally, he kindles fire, and sets the victim bodily
thereon, sheep or goat, unfleeced, unflayed. A godly steam, and fit for
godly nostrils, rises heavenwards, and drifts to each quarter of the
sky. The Scythian, by the way, will have nothing to do with paltry
cattle: he offers _men_ to Artemis; and the offering is appreciated.

But all this, and all that Assyria, Phrygia, and Lydia can show,
amounts to nothing much. If you would see the Gods in their glory, fit
denizens of Heaven, you must go to Egypt. There you will find that Zeus
has sprouted ram's horns, our old friend Hermes has the muzzle of a
dog, and Pan is perfect goat; ibis, crocodile, ape,—each is a God in
disguise.

And wouldst thou know the truth that lurks herein?


If so, you will find no lack of sages and scribes and shaven priests to
inform you (after expulsion of the _profanum vulgus_) how, when the
Giants and their other enemies rose against them, the Gods fled to
Egypt to hide themselves, and there took the form of goat and ram, of
bird and reptile, which forms they preserve to this day. Of all this
they have documentary evidence, dating from thousands of years back,
stored up in their temples. Their sacrifices differ from others only in
this respect, that they go into mourning for the victim, slaying him
first, and beating their breasts for grief afterwards, and (in some
parts) burying him as soon as he is killed. When their great god Apis
dies, off comes every man's hair, however much he values himself on it;
though he had the purple lock of Nisus, it would make no difference: he
must show a sad crown on the occasion, if he die for it. It is as the
result of an election that each succeeding Apis leaves his pasture for
the temple; his superior beauty and majestic bearing prove that he is
something more than bull.

On such absurdities as these, such vulgar credulity, remonstrance would
be thrown away; a Heraclitus would best meet the case, or a Democritus;
for the ignorance of these men is as laughable as their folly is
deplorable.

F.



SALE OF CREEDS

[Footnote: The distinction between the personified creeds or
philosophies here offered for sale, and their various founders or
principal exponents, is but loosely kept up. Not only do most of the
creeds bear the names of their founders, but some are even credited
with their physical peculiarities and their personal experiences.]

_Zeus. Hermes. Several Dealers. Creeds_.

_Zeus_. Now get those benches straight there, and make the place fit to
be seen. Bring up the lots, one of you, and put them in line. Give them
a rub up first, though; we must have them looking their best, to
attract bidders. Hermes, you can declare the sale-room open, and a
welcome to all comers.—_For Sale! A varied assortment of Live Creeds.
Tenets of every description.—Cash on delivery; or credit allowed on
suitable security_.

_Hermes_. Here they come, swarming in. No time to lose; we must not
keep them waiting.

_Zeus_. Well, let us begin.

_Her_. What are we to put up first?

_Zeus_. The Ionic fellow, with the long hair. He seems a showy piece of
goods.

_Her_. Step up, Pythagoreanism, and show yourself.

_Zeus_. Go ahead.

_Her_. Now here is a creed of the first water. Who bids for this
handsome article? What gentleman says Superhumanity? Harmony of the
Universe! Transmigration of souls! Who bids?

_First Dealer_. He looks all right. And what can he do?

_Her_. Magic, music, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, jugglery.
Prophecy in all its branches.

_First D_. Can I ask him some questions?

_Her_. Ask away, and welcome.

_First D_. Where do you come from?

_Py_. Samos.

_First D_. Where did you get your schooling?

_Py_. From the sophists in Egypt.

_First D_. If I buy you, what will you teach me?

_Py_. Nothing. I will remind you.

_First D_. Remind me?

_Py_. But first I shall have to cleanse your soul of its filth.

_First D_. Well, suppose the cleansing process complete. How is the
reminding done?

_Py_. We shall begin with a long course of silent contemplation. Not a
word to be spoken for five years.

_First D_. You would have been just the creed for Croesus's son! But
_I_ have a tongue in my head; I have no ambition to be a statue. And
after the five years' silence?

_Py_. You will study music and geometry.

_First D_. A charming recipe! The way to be wise: learn the guitar.

_Py_. Next you will learn to count.

_First D_. I can do that already.

_Py_. Let me hear you.

_First D_. One, two, three, four,—

_Py_. There you are, you see. _Four_ (as you call it) is _ten_. Four
the perfect triangle. Four the oath of our school.

_First D_. Now by Four, most potent Four!—higher and holier mysteries
than these I never heard.

_Py_. Then you will learn of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water; their action,
their movement, their shapes.

_First D_. Have Fire and Air and Water _shapes_?

_Py_. Clearly. That cannot move which lacks shape and form You will
also find that God is a number; an intelligence; a harmony.

_First D_. You surprise me.

_Py_. More than this, you have to learn that you yourself are not the
person you appear to be.

_First D_. What, I am some one else, not the I who am speaking to you?

_Py_. You are that you now: but you have formerly inhabited another
body, and borne another name. And in course of time you will change
once more.

_First D_. Why then I shall be immortal, and take one shape after
another? But enough of this. And now what is your diet?

_Py_. Of living things I eat none. All else I eat, except beans.

_First D_. And why no beans? Do you dislike them?

_Py_. No. But they are sacred things. Their nature is a mystery.
Consider them first in their generative aspect; take a green one and
peel it, and you will see what I mean. Again, boil one and expose it to
moonlight for a proper number of nights, and you have—blood. What is
more, the Athenians use beans to vote with.

_First D_. Admirable! A very feast of reason. Now just strip, and let
me see what you are like. Bless me, here is a creed with a golden
thigh! He is no mortal, he is a God. I must have him at any price. What
do you start him at?

_Her_. Forty pounds.

_First D_. He is mine for forty pounds.

_Zeus_. Take the gentleman's name and address.

_Her_. He must come from Italy, I should think; Croton or Tarentum, or
one of the Greek towns in those parts. But he is not the only buyer.
Some three hundred of them have clubbed together.

_Zeus_. They are welcome to him. Now up with the next.

_Her_. What about yonder grubby Pontian? [Footnote: See _Diogenes_ in
Notes.]

_Zeus_. Yes, he will do.

_Her_. You there with the wallet and cloak; come along, walk round the
room. Lot No. 2. A most sturdy and valiant creed, free-born. What
offers?

_Second D_. Hullo, Mr. Auctioneer, are you going to sell a free man?

_Her_. That was the idea.

_Second D_. Take care, he may have you up for kidnapping. This might be
matter for the Areopagus.

_Her_. Oh, he would as soon be sold as not. He feels just as free as
ever.

_Second D_. But what is one to do with such a dirty fellow? He is a
pitiable sight. One might put him to dig perhaps, or to carry water.

_Her_. That he can do and more. Set him to guard your house, and you
will find him better than any watch-dog.—They call him Dog for short.

_Second D_. Where does he come from? and what is his method?

_Her_. He can best tell you that himself.

_Second D_. I don't like his looks. He will probably snarl if I go near
him, or take a snap at me, for all I know. See how he lifts his stick,
and scowls; an awkward-looking customer!

_Her_. Don't be afraid. He is quite tame.

_Second D_. Tell me, good fellow, where do you come from?

_Dio_. Everywhere.

_Second D_. What does that mean?

_Dio_. It means that I am a citizen of the world.

_Second D_. And your model?

_Dio_. Heracles.

_Second D_. Then why no lion's-skin? You have the orthodox club.

_Dio_. My cloak is my lion's-skin. Like Heracles, I live in a state of
warfare, and my enemy is Pleasure; but unlike him I am a volunteer. My
purpose is to purify humanity.

_Second D_. A noble purpose. Now what do I understand to be your strong
subject? What is your profession?

_Dio_. The liberation of humanity, and the treatment of the passions.
In short, I am the prophet of Truth and Candour.

_Second D_. Well, prophet; and if I buy you, how shall you handle my
case?

_Dio_. I shall commence operations by stripping off your superfluities,
putting you into fustian, and leaving you closeted with Necessity. Then
I shall give you a course of hard labour. You will sleep on the ground,
drink water, and fill your belly as best you can. Have you money? Take
my advice and throw it into the sea. With wife and children and country
you will not concern yourself; there will be no more of that nonsense.
You will exchange your present home for a sepulchre, a ruin, or a tub.
What with lupines and close-written tomes, your knapsack will never be
empty; and you will vote yourself happier than any king. Nor will you
esteem it any inconvenience, if a flogging or a turn of the rack should
fall to your lot.

_Second D_. How! Am I a tortoise, a lobster, that I should be flogged
and feel it not?

_Dio_. You will take your cue from Hippolytus; _mutates mutandis_.

_Second D_. How so?

_Dio_. 'The heart may burn, the tongue knows nought thereof'.
[Footnote: Hippolytus (in Euripides's play of that name) is reproached
with having broken an oath, and thus defends himself: 'The tongue hath
sworn: the heart knew nought thereof.'] Above all, be bold, be
impudent; distribute your abuse impartially to king and commoner. They
will admire your spirit. You will talk the Cynic jargon with the true
Cynic snarl, scowling as you walk, and walking as one should who
scowls; an epitome of brutality. Away with modesty, good-nature, and
forbearance. Wipe the blush from your cheek for ever. Your
hunting-ground will be the crowded city. You will live alone in its
midst, holding communion with none, admitting neither friend nor guest;
for such would undermine your power. Scruple not to perform the deeds
of darkness in broad daylight: select your love-adventures with a view
to the public entertainment: and finally, when the fancy takes you,
swallow a raw cuttle-fish, and die. Such are the delights of Cynicism.

_Second D_. Oh, vile creed! Monstrous creed! Avaunt!

_Dio_. But look you, it is all so easy; it is within every man's reach.
No education is necessary, no nonsensical argumentation. I offer you a
short cut to Glory. You may be the merest clown—cobbler, fishmonger,
carpenter, money-changer; yet there is nothing to prevent your becoming
famous. Given brass and boldness, you have only to learn to wag your
tongue with dexterity.

_Second D_. All this is of no use to me. But I might make a sailor or a
gardener of you at a pinch; that is, if you are to be had cheap.
Three-pence is the most I can give.

_Her_. He is yours, to have and to hold. And good riddance to the
brawling foul-mouthed bully. He is a slanderer by wholesale.

_Zeus_. Now for the Cyrenaic, the crowned and purple-robed.

_Her_. Attend please, gentlemen all. A most valuable article, this, and
calls for a long purse. Look at him. A sweet thing in creeds. A creed
for a king. Has any gentleman a use for the Lap of Luxury? Who bids?

_Third D_. Come and tell me what you know. If you are a practical
creed, I will have you.

_Her_. Please not to worry him with questions, sir. He is drunk, and
cannot answer; his tongue plays him tricks, as you see.

_Third D_. And who in his senses would buy such an abandoned reprobate?
How he smells of scent! And how he slips and staggers about! Well, you
must speak for him, Hermes. What can he do? What is his line?

_Her_. Well, for any gentleman who is not strait-laced, who loves a
pretty girl, a bottle, and a jolly companion, he is the very thing. He
is also a past master in gastronomy, and a connoisseur in
voluptuousness generally. He was educated at Athens, and has served
royalty in Sicily [Footnote: See _Aristippus_ in Notes.], where he had
a very good character. Here are his principles in a nutshell: Think the
worst of things: make the most of things: get all possible pleasure out
of things.

_Third D_. You must look for wealthier purchasers. My purse is not
equal to such a festive creed.

_Her_. Zeus, this lot seems likely to remain on our hands.

_Zeus_. Put it aside, and up with another. Stay, take the pair from
Abdera and Ephesus; the creeds of Smiles and Tears. They shall make one
lot.

_Her_. Come forward, you two. Lot No. 4. A superlative pair. The
smartest brace of creeds on our catalogue.

_Fourth D_. Zeus! What a difference is here! One of them does nothing
but laugh, and the other might be at a funeral; he is all tears.—You
there! what is the joke?

_Democr_. You ask? You and your affairs are all one vast joke.

_Fourth D_. So! You laugh at us? Our business is a toy?

_Democr_. It is. There is no taking it seriously. All is vanity. Mere
interchange of atoms in an infinite void.

_Fourth D_. _Your_ vanity is infinite, if you like. Stop that laughing,
you rascal.—And you, my poor fellow, what are you crying for? I must
see what I can make of you.

_Heracl_. I am thinking, friend, upon human affairs; and well may I
weep and lament, for the doom of all is sealed. Hence my compassion and
my sorrow. For the present, I think not of it; but the future!—the
future is all bitterness. Conflagration and destruction of the world. I
weep to think that nothing abides. All things are whirled together in
confusion. Pleasure and pain, knowledge and ignorance, great and small;
up and down they go, the playthings of Time.

_Fourth D_. And what is Time?

_Heracl_. A child; and plays at draughts and blindman's-bluff.

_Fourth D_. And men?

_Heracl_. Are mortal Gods.

_Fourth D_. And Gods?

_Heracl_. Immortal men.

_Fourth D_. So! Conundrums, fellow? Nuts to crack? You are a very
oracle for obscurity.

_Heracl_. Your affairs do not interest me.

_Fourth D_. No one will be fool enough to bid for you at that rate.

_Heracl_. Young and old, him that bids and him that bids not, a murrain
seize you all!

_Fourth D_. A sad case. He will be melancholy mad before long. Neither
of these is the creed for my money.

_Her_. No one bids.

_Zeus_. Next lot.

_Her_. The Athenian there? Old Chatterbox?

_Zeus_. By all means.

_Her_. Come forward!—A good sensible creed this. Who buys Holiness?

_Fifth D_. Let me see. What are you good for?

_Soc_. I teach the art of love.

_Fifth D_. A likely bargain for me! I want a tutor for my young Adonis.

_Soc_. And could he have a better? The love I teach is of, the spirit,
not of the flesh. Under my roof, be sure, a boy will come to no harm.

_Fifth D_. Very unconvincing that. A teacher of the art of love, and
never meddle with anything but the spirit? Never use the opportunities
your office gives you?

_Soc_. Now by Dog and Plane-tree, it is as I say!

_Fifth D_. Heracles! What strange Gods are these?

_Soc_. Why, the Dog is a God, I suppose? Is not Anubis made much of in
Egypt? Is there not a Dog-star in Heaven, and a Cerberus in the lower
world?

_Fifth D_. Quite so. My mistake. Now what is your manner of life?

_Soc_. I live in a city of my own building; I make my own laws, and
have a novel constitution of my own.

_Fifth D._ I should like to hear some of your statutes.

_Soc_. You shall hear the greatest of them all. No woman shall be
restricted to one husband. Every man who likes is her husband.

_Fifth D_. What! Then the laws of adultery are clean swept away?

_Soc_. I should think they were! and a world of hair-splitting with
them.

_Fifth D_. And what do you do with the handsome boys?

_Soc_. Their kisses are the reward of merit, of noble and spirited
actions.

_Fifth D_. Unparalleled generosity!—And now, what are the main features
of your philosophy?

_Soc_. Ideas and types of things. All things that you see, the earth
and all that is upon it, the sea, the sky,—each has its counterpart in
the invisible world.

_Fifth D_. And where are they?

_Soc_. Nowhere. Were they anywhere, they were not what they are.

_Fifth D_. I see no signs of these 'types' of yours.

_Soc_. Of course not; because you are spiritually blind. _I_ see the
counterparts of all things; an invisible you, an invisible me;
everything is in duplicate.

_Fifth D_. Come, such a shrewd and lynx-eyed creed is worth a bid. Let
me see. What do you want for him?

_Her_. Five hundred.

_Fifth D_. Done with you. Only I must settle the bill another day.

_Her_. What name?

_Fifth D_. Dion; of Syracuse.

_Her_. Take him, and much good may he do you. Now I want Epicureanism.
Who offers for Epicureanism? He is a disciple of the laughing creed and
the drunken creed, whom we were offering just now. But he has one extra
accomplishment—impiety. For the rest, a dainty, lickerish creed.

_Sixth D_. What price?

_Her_. Eight pounds.

_Sixth D_. Here you are. By the way, you might let me know what he
likes to eat.

_Her_. Anything sweet. Anything with honey in it. Dried figs are his
favourite dish.

_Sixth D_. That is all right. We will get in a supply of Carian
fig-cakes.

_Zeus_. Call the next lot. Stoicism; the creed of the sorrowful
countenance, the close-cropped creed.

_Her_. Ah yes, several customers, I fancy, are on the look-out for him.
Virtue incarnate! The very quintessence of creeds! Who is for universal
monopoly?

_Seventh D_. How are we to understand that?

_Her_. Why, here is monopoly of wisdom, monopoly of beauty, monopoly of
courage, monopoly of justice. Sole king, sole orator, sole legislator,
sole millionaire.

_Seventh D_. And I suppose sole cook, sole tanner, sole carpenter, and
all that?

_Her_. Presumably.

_Seventh D_. Regard me as your purchaser, good fellow, and tell me all
about yourself. I dare say you think it rather hard to be sold for a
slave?

_Chrys_. Not at all. These things are beyond our control. And what is
beyond our control is indifferent.

_Seventh D_. I don't see how you make that out.

_Chrys_. What! Have you yet to learn that of _indifferentia_ some are
_praeposita_ and others _rejecta_?

_Seventh D_. Still I don't quite see.

_Chrys_. No; how should you? You are not familiar with our terms. You
lack the _comprehensio visi_. The earnest student of logic knows this
and more than this. He understands the nature of subject, predicate,
and contingent, and the distinctions between them.

_Seventh D_. Now in Wisdom's name, tell me, pray, what is a predicate?
what is a contingent? There is a ring about those words that takes my
fancy.

_Chrys_. With all my heart. A man lame in one foot knocks that foot
accidentally against a stone, and gets a cut. Now the man is _subject_
to lameness; which is the _predicate_. And the cut is a _contingency_.

_Seventh D_. Oh, subtle! What else can you tell me?

_Chrys_. I have verbal involutions, for the better hampering,
crippling, and muzzling of my antagonists. This is performed by the use
of the far-famed syllogism.

_Seventh D_. Syllogism! I warrant him a tough customer.

_Chrys_. Take a case. You have a child?

_Seventh D_. Well, and what if I have?

_Chrys_. A crocodile catches him as he wanders along the bank of a
river, and promises to restore him to you, if you will first guess
correctly whether he means to restore him or not. Which are you going
to say?

_Seventh D_. A difficult question. I don't know which way I should get
him back soonest. In Heaven's name, answer for me, and save the child
before he is eaten up.

_Chrys_. Ha, ha. I will teach you far other things than that.

_Seventh D_. For instance?

_Chrys_. There is the 'Reaper.' There is the 'Rightful Owner.' Better
still, there is the 'Electra' and the 'Man in the Hood.'

_Seventh D_. Who was he? and who was Electra?

_Chrys_. She was _the_ Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, to whom the
same thing was known and unknown at the same time. She knew that
Orestes was her brother: yet when he stood before her she did not know
(until he revealed himself) that her brother was Orestes. As to the Man
in the Hood, he will surprise you considerably. Answer me now: do you
know your own father?

_Seventh D_. Yes.

_Chrys_. Well now, if I present to you a man in a hood, shall you know
him? eh?

_Seventh D_. Of course not.

_Chrys_. Well, but the Man in the Hood is your father. You don't know
the Man in the Hood. Therefore you don't know your own father.

_Seventh D_. Why, no. But if I take his hood off, I shall get at the
facts. Now tell me, what is the end of your philosophy? What happens
when you reach the goal of virtue?

_Chrys_. In regard to things external, health, wealth, and the like, I
am then all that Nature intended me to be. But there is much previous
toil to be undergone. You will first sharpen your eyes on minute
manuscripts, amass commentaries, and get your bellyful of outlandish
terms. Last but not least, it is forbidden to be wise without repeated
doses of hellebore.

_Seventh D_. All this is exalted and magnanimous to a degree. But what
am I to think when I find that you are also the creed of cent-per-cent,
the creed of the usurer? Has _he_ swallowed his hellebore? is _he_ made
perfect in virtue?

_Chrys_. Assuredly. On none but the wise man does usury sit well.
Consider. His is the art of putting two and two together, and usury is
the art of putting interest together. The two are evidently connected,
and one as much as the other is the prerogative of the true believer;
who, not content, like common men, with simple interest, will also take
interest _upon_ interest. For interest, as you are probably aware, is
of two kinds. There is simple interest, and there is its offspring,
compound interest. Hear Syllogism on the subject. 'If I take simple
interest, I shall also take compound. But I _shall_ take simple
interest: therefore I shall take compound.'

_Seventh D_. And the same applies to the fees you take from your
youthful pupils? None but the true believer sells virtue for a fee?

_Chrys_. Quite right. I take the fee in my pupil's interest, not
because I want it. The world is made up of diffusion and accumulation.
I accordingly practise my pupil in the former, and myself in the
latter.

_Seventh D_. But it ought to be the other way. The pupil ought to
accumulate, and you, 'sole millionaire,' ought to diffuse.

_Chrys_. Ha! you jest with me? Beware of the shaft of insoluble
syllogism.

_Seventh D_. What harm can that do?

_Chrys_. It cripples; it ties the tongue, and turns the brain. Nay, I
have but to will it, and you are stone this instant.

_Seventh D_. Stone! You are no Perseus, friend?

_Chrys_. See here. A stone is a body?

_Seventh D_. Yes.

_Chrys_. Well, and an animal is a body?

_Seventh D_. Yes.

_Chrys_. And you are an animal?

_Seventh D_. I suppose I am.

_Chrys_. Therefore you are a body. Therefore a stone.

_Seventh D_. Mercy, in Heaven's name! Unstone me, and let me be flesh
as heretofore.

_Chrys_. That is soon done. Back with you into flesh! Thus: Is every
body animate?

_Seventh D_. No.

_Chrys_. Is a stone animate?

_Seventh D_. No.

_Chrys_. Now, you are a body?

_Seventh D_. Yes.

_Chrys_. And an animate body?

_Seventh D_. Yes.

_Chrys_. Then being animate, you cannot be a stone.

_Seventh D_. Ah! thank you, thank you. I was beginning to feel my limbs
growing numb and solidifying like Niobe's. Oh, I must have you. What's
to pay?

_Her_. Fifty pounds.

_Seventh D_. Here it is.

_Her_. Are you sole purchaser?

_Seventh D_. Not I. All these gentlemen here are going shares.

_Her_. A fine strapping lot of fellows, and will do the 'Reaper'
credit.

_Zeus_. Don't waste time. Next lot,—the Peripatetic!

_Her_. Now, my beauty, now, Affluence! Gentlemen, if you want Wisdom
for your money, here is a creed that comprises all knowledge.

_Eighth D_. What is he like?

_Her_. He is temperate, good-natured, easy to get on with; and his
strong point is, that he is twins.

_Eighth D_. How can that be?

_Her_. Why, he is one creed outside, and another inside. So remember,
if you buy him, one of him is called Esoteric, and the other Exoteric.

_Eighth D_. And what has he to say for himself?

_Her_. He has to say that there are three kinds of good: spiritual,
corporeal, circumstantial.

_Eighth D_. _There's_ something a man can understand. How much is he?

_Her_. Eighty pounds.

_Eighth D_. Eighty pounds is a long price.

_Her_. Not at all, my dear sir, not at all. You see, there is some
money with him, to all appearance. Snap him up before it is too late.
Why, from him you will find out in no time how long a gnat lives, to
how many fathoms' depth the sunlight penetrates the sea, and what an
oyster's soul is like.

_Eighth D_. Heracles! Nothing escapes him.

_Her_. Ah, these are trifles. You should hear some of his more abstruse
speculations, concerning generation and birth and the development of
the embryo; and his distinction between man, the laughing creature, and
the ass, which is neither a laughing nor a carpentering nor a shipping
creature.

_Eighth D_. Such knowledge is as useful as it is ornamental. Eighty
pounds be it, then.

_Her_. He is yours.

_Zeus_. What have we left?

_Her_. There is Scepticism. Come along, Pyrrhias, and be put up.
Quick's the word. The attendance is dwindling; there will be small
competition. Well, who buys Lot 9?

_Ninth D_. I. Tell me first, though, what do you know?

_Sc_. Nothing.

_Ninth D_. But how's that?

_Sc_. There does not appear to me to _be_ anything.

_Ninth D_. Are not _we_ something?

_Sc_. How do I know that?

_Ninth D_. And you yourself?

_Sc_. Of that I am still more doubtful.

_Ninth D_. Well, you _are_ in a fix! And what have you got those scales
for?

_Sc_. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced,
They must be absolutely equal—not a feather-weight to choose between
them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right.

_Ninth D_. What else can you turn your hand to?

_Sc_. Anything; except catching a runaway.

_Ninth D_. And why not that?

_Sc_. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp.

_Ninth D_. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And
what is the end of your knowledge?

_Sc_. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness.

_Ninth D_. What! sight and hearing both gone?

_Sc_. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that
distinguishes man from a worm.

_Ninth D_. You are worth money!—What shall we say for him?

_Her_. Four pounds.

_Ninth D_. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine?

_Sc_. I doubt it.

_Ninth D_. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for.

_Sc_. It is a difficult case…. I reserve my decision.

_Ninth D_. Now, come along with me, like a good slave.

_Sc_. But how am I to know whether what you say is true?

_Ninth D_. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators.

_Sc_. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any?

_Ninth D_. Oh, I'll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you
with a vengeance that I am your master.

_Sc_. Reserve your decision.

_Ninth D_. Too late. It is given.

_Her_. Stop that wrangling and go with your purchaser. Gentlemen, we
hope to see you here again to-morrow, when we shall be offering some
lots suitable for plain men, artisans, and shopkeepers.

F.



THE FISHER

A RESURRECTION PIECE

_Lucian or Parrhesiades. Socrates, Empedocles. Plato. Chrysippus.
Diogenes. Aristotle. Other Philosophers. Platonists. Pythagoreans.
Stoics. Peripatetics. Epicureans. Academics. Philosophy. Truth.
Temperance. Virtue. Syllogism. Exposure. Priestess of Athene_.


_Soc_. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with
clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him
no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder
to shoulder, close the ranks;

Let wallet succour wallet, staff aid staff!


We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed. You,
Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand firm,
all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his reveling. What, Epicurus,
Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages,

Be men; relume that erstwhile furious wrath!


Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you,
villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you
have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an
elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a
separate death to every one of us.

_First Phil_. Impale him, say I.

_Second Phil_. Yes, but scourge him first.

_Third Phil_. Tear out his eyes.

_Fourth Phil_. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue.

_Soc_. What say you, Empedocles?

_Emp_. Oh, fling him into a crater; that will teach him to vilify his
betters.

_Pl_. 'Twere best for him, Orpheus or Pentheus like, to

Find death, dashed all to pieces on the rock;


so each might have taken a piece home with him.

_Lu_. Forbear; spare me; I appeal to the God of suppliants.

_Soc_. Too late; no loophole is left you now. And you know your Homer:

'Twixt men and lions, covenants are null.'


_Lu_. Why, it is in Homer's name that I ask my boon. You will perhaps
pay reverence to his lines, and listen to a selection from him:

  Slay not; no churl is he; a ransom take
  Of bronze and gold, whereof wise hearts are fain.


_Pl_. Why, two can play at that game; _exempli gratia_,

  Reviler, babble not of gold, nor nurse
  Hope of escape from these our hands that hold thee.


_Lu_. Ah me, ah me! my best hopes dashed, with Homer! Let me fly to
Euripides; it may be he will protect me:

Leave him his life; the suppliant's life is sacred.


_Pl_. Does this happen to be Euripides too—

Evil men evil treated is no evil?


_Lu_. And will you slay me now for nought but words?

_Pl_. Most certainly; our author has something on that point too:

  Unbridled lips
  And folly's slips
  Invite Fate's whips.


_Lu_. Oh, very well; as you are all set on murdering me, and escape is
impossible, do at least tell me who you are, and what harm I have done
you; it must be something irreparable, to judge by your relentless
murderous pursuit.

_Pl_. What harm you have done us, vile fellow? your own conscience and
your fine dialogues will tell you; you have called Philosophy herself
bad names, and as for us, you have subjected us to the indignity of a
public auction, and put up wise men—ay, and free men, which is more—for
sale. We have reason to be angry; we have got a short leave of absence
from Hades, and come up against you—Chrysippus here, Epicurus and
myself, Aristotle yonder, the taciturn Pythagoras, Diogenes and all of
us that your dialogues have made so free with.

_Lu_. Ah, I breathe again. Once hear the truth about my conduct to you,
and you will never put me to death. You can throw away those stones.
Or, no, keep them; you shall have a better mark for them presently.

_Pl_. This is trifling. This day thou diest; nay, even now,

A suit of stones shalt don, thy livery due.


_Lu_. Believe me, good gentlemen, I have been at much pains on your
behalf; to slay me is to slay one who should rather be selected for
commendation a kindred spirit, a well-wisher, a man after your own
heart, a promoter, if I may be bold to say it, of your pursuits. See to
it that you catch not the tone of our latter-day philosophers, and be
thankless, petulant, and hard of heart, to him that deserves better of
you.

_Pl_. Talk of a brazen front! So to abuse us is to oblige us. I believe
you are under the delusion that you are really talking to slaves; after
the insolent excesses of your tongue, do you propose to chop gratitude
with us?

_Lu_. How or when was I ever insolent to you? I have always been an
admirer of philosophy, your panegyrist, and a student of the writings
you left. All that comes from my pen is but what you give me; I
deflower you, like a bee, for the behoof of mankind; and then there is
praise and recognition; they know the flowers, whence and whose the
honey was, and the manner of my gathering; their surface feeling is for
my selective art, but deeper down it is for you and your meadow, where
you put forth such bright blooms and myriad dyes, if one knows but how
to sort and mix and match, that one be not in discord with another.
Could he that had found you such have the heart to abuse those
benefactors to whom his little fame was due? then he must be a Thamyris
or Eurytus, defying the Muses who gave his gift of song, or challenging
Apollo with the bow, forgetful from whom he had his marksmanship.

_Pl_. All this, good sir, is quite according to the principles of
rhetoric; that is to say, it is clean contrary to the facts; your
unscrupulousness is only emphasized by this adding of insult to injury;
you confess that your arrows are from our quiver, and you use them
against us; your one aim is to abuse us. This is our reward for showing
you that meadow, letting you pluck freely, fill your bosom, and depart.
For this alone you richly deserve death.

_Lu_. There; your ears are partial; they are deaf to the right. Why, I
would never have believed that personal feeling could affect a Plato, a
Chrysippus, an Aristotle; with you, of all men, I thought there was dry
light. But, dear sirs, do not condemn me unheard; give me trial first.
Was not the principle of your establishing—that the law of the stronger
was not the law of the State, and that differences should be settled in
court after due hearing of both sides? Appoint a judge, then; be you my
accusers, by your own mouths or by your chosen representative; and let
me defend my own case; then if I be convicted of wrong, and that be the
court's decision, I shall get my deserts, and you will have no violence
upon your consciences. But if examination shows me spotless and
irreproachable, the court will acquit me, and then turn you your wrath
upon the deceivers who have excited you against me.

_Pl_. Ah, every cock to his own dunghill! You think you will hoodwink
the jury and get off. I hear you are a lawyer, an advocate, an old hand
at a speech. Have you any judge to suggest who will be proof against
such an experienced corrupter as you?

_Lu_. Oh, be reassured. The official I think of proposing is no
suspicious, dubious character likely to sell a verdict. What say you to
forming the court yourselves, with Philosophy for your President?

_Pl_. Who is to prosecute, if we are the jury?

_Lu_. Oh, you can do both; I am not in the least afraid; so much
stronger is my case; the defence wins, hands down.

_Pl_. Pythagoras, Socrates, what do you think? perhaps the man's appeal
to law is not unreasonable.

_Soc_. No; come along, form the court, fetch Philosophy, and see what
he has to say for himself. To condemn unheard is a sadly crude
proceeding, not for us; leave that to the hasty people with whom might
is right. We shall give occasion to the enemy to blaspheme if we stone
a man without a hearing, professed lovers of justice as we are. We
shall have to keep quiet about Anytus and Meletus, my accusers, and the
jury on that occasion, if we cannot spare an hour to hear this fellow
before he suffers.

_Pl_. Very true, Socrates. We will go and fetch Philosophy. The
decision shall be hers, and we will accept it, whatever it is.

_Lu_. Why, now, my masters, you are in a better and more law-abiding
mood. However, keep those stones, as I said; you will need them in
court. But where is Philosophy to be found? I do not know where she
lives, myself. I once spent a long time wandering about in search of
her house, wishing to make her acquaintance. Several times I met some
long-bearded people in threadbare cloaks who professed to be fresh from
her presence; I took their word for it, and asked them the way; but
they knew considerably less about it than I, and either declined to
answer, by way of concealing their ignorance, or else pointed to one
door after another. I have never been able to find the right one to
this day.

Many a time, upon some inward prompting or external offer of guidance,
I have come to a door with the confident hope that this time I really
was right; there was such a crowd flowing in and out, all of solemn
persons decently habited and thoughtful-faced; I would insinuate myself
into the press and go in too. What I found would be a woman who was not
really natural, however skillfully she played at beauty unadorned; I
could see at once that the apparent _neglige_ of her hair was studied
for effect, and the folds of her dress not so careless as they looked.
One could tell that nature was a scheme of decoration with her, and
artlessness an artistic device. The white lead and the rouge did not
absolutely defy detection, and her talk betrayed her real vocation; she
liked her lovers to appreciate her beauty, had a ready hand for
presents, made room by her side for the rich, and hardly vouchsafed her
poorer lovers a distant glance. Now and then, when her dress came a
little open by accident, I saw that she had on a massive gold necklace
heavier than a penal collar. That was enough for me; I would retrace my
steps, sincerely pitying the unfortunates whom she led by the—beard,
and their Ixion embracings of a phantom.

_Pl_. You are right there; the door is not conspicuous, nor generally
known. However, we need not go to her house; we will wait for her here
in the Ceramicus. I should think it is near her hour for coming back
from the Academy, and taking her walk in the Poecile; she is very
regular; to be sure, here she comes. Do you see the orderly, rather
prim lady there, with the kindly look in her eyes, and the slow
meditative walk?

_Lu_. I see several answering the description so far as looks and walk
and clothes go. Yet among them all the real lady Philosophy can be but
one.

_Pl_. True; but as soon as she opens her lips you will know.

_Philos_. Dear me, what are Plato and Chrysippus and Aristotle doing up
here, and the rest of them—a living dictionary of my teachings? Alive
again? how is this? have things been going wrong down there? you look
angry. And who is your prisoner? a rifler of tombs? A murderer? a
temple-robber?

_Pl_. Worse yet, Philosophy. He has dared to slander your most sacred
self, and all of us who have been privileged to impart anything from
you to posterity.

_Philos_. And did you lose your tempers over abusive words? Did you
forget how Comedy handled me at the Dionysia, and how I yet counted her
a friend? Did I ever sue her, or go and remonstrate? Or did I let her
enjoy her holidays in the harmless old-fashioned way? I know very well
that a jest spoils no real beauty, but rather improves it; so gold is
polished by hard rubs, and shines all the brighter for it. But you seem
to have grown passionate and censorious. Come, why are you strangling
him like that?

_Pl_. We have got this one day's leave, and come after him to give him
his deserts. Rumours had reached us of the things he used to say about
us in his lectures.

_Philos_. And are you going to kill him without a trial or a hearing? I
can see he wishes to say something.

_Pl_. No; we decided to refer it all to you. If you will accept the
task, the decision shall be yours.

_Philos_. Sir, what is your wish?

_Lu_. The same, dear Mistress; for none but you can find the truth. It
cost me much entreaty to get the case reserved for you.

_Pl_. You call her Mistress now, scoundrel; the other day you were
making out Philosophy the meanest of things, when before that great
audience you let her several doctrines go for a pitiful threepence
apiece.

_Philos_. It may be that it was not Ourself he then reviled, but some
impostors who practised vile arts in our name.

_Pl_. The truth will soon come to light, if you will hear his defence.

_Philos_. Come we to the Areopagus—or better, to the Acropolis, where
the panorama of Athens will be before us.

Ladies, will you stroll in the Poecile meanwhile? I will join you when
I have given judgement.

_Lu_. Who are these, Philosophy? methinks their appearance is seemly as
your own.

_Philos_. This with the masculine features is Virtue; then there is
Temperance, and Justice by her side. In front is Culture; and this
shadowy creature with the indefinite complexion is Truth.

_Lu_. I do not see which you mean.

_Philos_. Not see her? over there, all naked and unadorned, shrinking
from observation, and always slipping out of sight.

_Lu_. Now I just discern her. But why not bring them all with you?
there would be a fullness and completeness about that commission. Ah
yes, and I should like to brief Truth on my behalf.

_Philos_. Well thought of; come, all of you; you will not mind sitting
through a single case—in which we have a personal interest, too?

_Truth_. Go on, the rest of you; it is superfluous for me to hear what
I know all about before.

_Philos_. But, Truth dear, your presence will be useful to us; you will
show us what to think.

_Truth_. May I bring my two favourite maids, then?

_Philos_. And as many more as you like.

_Truth_. Come with me, Freedom and Frankness; this poor little adorer
of ours is in trouble without any real reason; we shall be able to get
him out of it. Exposure, my man, we shall not want you.

_Lu_. Ah yes, Mistress, let us have him, of all others; my opponents
are no ordinary ruffians; they are people who make a fine show and are
hard to expose; they have always some back way out of a difficulty; we
must have Exposure.

_Philos_. Yes, we must, indeed; and you had better bring Demonstration
too.

_Truth_. Come all of you, as you are such important legal persons.

_Ar_. What is this? Philosophy, he is employing Truth against us!

_Philos_. And are Plato and Chrysippus and Aristotle afraid of her
lying on his behalf, being who she is?

_Pl_. Oh, well, no; only he is a sad plausible rogue; he will take her
in.

_Philos_. Never fear; no wrong will be done, with madam Justice on the
bench by us. Let us go up.

Prisoner, your name?

_Lu_. Parrhesiades, son of Alethion, son of Elenxicles.*

[Footnote: i.e. Free-speaker, son of Truthful, son of Exposure.]


_Philos_. And your country?

_Lu_. I am a Syrian from the Euphrates, my lady. But is the question
relevant? Some of my accusers I know to be as much barbarians by blood
as myself; but character and culture do not vary as a man comes from
Soli or Cyprus, Babylon or Stagira. However, even one who could not
talk Greek would be none the worse in your eyes, so long as his
sentiments were right and just.

_Philos_. True, the question was unnecessary.

But what is your profession? that at least is essential.

_Lu_. I profess hatred of pretension and imposture, lying, and pride;
the whole loathsome tribe of them I hate; and you know how numerous
they are.

_Philos_. Upon my word, you must have your hands full at this
profession!

_Lu_. I have; you see what general dislike and danger it brings upon
me. However, I do not neglect the complementary branch, in which love
takes the place of hate; it includes love of truth and beauty and
simplicity and all that is akin to love. But the subjects for this
branch of the profession are sadly few; those of the other, for whom
hatred is the right treatment, are reckoned by the thousand. Indeed
there is some danger of the one feeling being atrophied, while the
other is over-developed.

_Philos_. That should not be; they run in couples, you know. Do not
separate your two branches; they should have unity in diversity.

_Lu_. You know better than I, Philosophy. My way is just to hate a
villain, and love and praise the good.

_Philos_. Well, well. Here we are at the appointed place. We will hold
the trial in the forecourt of Athene Polias. Priestess, arrange our
seats, while we salute the Goddess.

_Lu_. Polias, come to my aid against these pretenders, mindful of the
daily perjuries thou hearest from them. Their deeds too are revealed to
thee alone, in virtue of thy charge. Thou hast now thine hour of
vengeance. If thou see me in evil case, if blacks be more than whites,
then cast thou thy vote and save me!

_Philos_. So. Now we are seated, ready to hear your words. Choose one
of your number, the best accuser you may, make your charge, and bring
your proofs. Were all to speak, there would be no end. And you,
Parrhesiades, shall afterwards make your defence.

_Ch_. Plato, none of us will conduct the prosecution better than you.
Your thoughts are heaven-high, your style the perfect Attic; grace and
persuasion, insight and subtlety, the cogency of well-ordered proof—all
these are gathered in you. Take the spokesman's office and say what is
fitting on our behalf. Call to memory and roll in one all that ever you
said against Gorgias, Polus, Hippias, Prodicus; you have now to do with
a worse than them. Let him taste your irony; ply him with your keen
incessant questions; and if you will, perorate with the mighty Zeus
charioting his winged car through Heaven, and grudging if this fellow
get not his deserts.

_Pl_. Nay, nay; choose one of more strenuous temper—Diogenes,
Antisthenes, Crates, or yourself, Chrysippus. It is no time now for
beauty or literary skill; controversial and forensic resource is what
we want. This Parrhesiades is an orator.

_Diog_. Let me be accuser; no need for long speeches here. Moreover, I
was the worst treated of all; threepence was my price the other day.

_Pl_. Philosophy, Diogenes will speak for us. But mind, friend, you are
not to represent yourself alone, but think of us all. If we have any
private differences of doctrine, do not go into that; never mind now
which of us is right, but keep your indignation for Philosophy's wrongs
and the names he has called her. Leave alone the principles we differ
about, and maintain what is common to us all. Now mark, you stand for
us all; on you our whole fame depends; shall it come out majestic, or
in the semblance he has given it?

_Diog_. Never fear; nothing shall be omitted; I speak for all.
Philosophy may be softened by his words—she was ever gentle and
forgiving—_she_ may be minded to acquit him; but the fault shall not be
mine; I will show him that our staves are more than ornaments.

_Philos_. Nay, take not that way; words, not bludgeons; 'tis better so.
But no delay now; your time-allowance has begun; and the court is all
attention.

_Lu_. Philosophy, let the rest take their seats and vote with you,
leaving Diogenes as sole accuser.

_Philos_. Have you no fears of their condemning you?

_Lu_. None whatever; I wish to increase my majority, that is all.

_Philos_. I commend your spirit. Gentlemen, take your seats. Now,
Diogenes.

_Diog_. With our lives on earth, Philosophy, you are acquainted; I need
not dwell long upon them. Of myself I say nothing; but Pythagoras,
Plato, Aristotle, Chrysippus, and the rest—who knows not the benefits
that they conferred on mankind? I will come at once, then, to the
insults to which we have been subjected by the thrice accursed
Parrhesiades. He was, by his own account, an advocate; but he has left
the courts and the fame there to be won, and has availed himself of all
the verbal skill and proficiency so acquired for a campaign of abuse
against us. We are impostors and deceivers; his audiences must ridicule
and scorn us for nobodies. Did I say 'nobodies'? he has made us an
abomination, rather, in the eyes of the vulgar, and yourself with us,
Philosophy. Your teachings are balderdash and rubbish; the noblest of
your precepts to us he parodies, winning for himself applause and
approval, and for us humiliation. For so it is with the great public;
it loves a master of flouts and jeers, and loves him in proportion to
the grandeur of what he assails; you know how it delighted long ago in
Aristophanes and Eupolis, when they caricatured our Socrates on the
stage, and wove farcical comedies around him. But they at least
confined themselves to a single victim, and they had the charter of
Dionysus; a jest might pass at holiday time, and the laughing God might
be well pleased.

But this fellow gets together an upper-class audience, gives long
thought to his preparations, writes down his slanders in a thick
notebook, and uplifts his voice in vituperation of Plato, Pythagoras,
Aristotle, Chrysippus, and in short all of us; _he_ cannot plead
holiday time, nor yet any private grievance; he might perhaps be
forgiven if he had done it in self-defence; but it was he that opened
hostilities. Worst of all, Philosophy, he shelters himself under your
name, entices Dialogue from our company to be his ally and mouthpiece,
and induces our good comrade Menippus to collaborate constantly with
him; Menippus, more by token, is the one deserter and absentee on this
occasion.

Does he not then abundantly deserve his fate? What conceivable defence
is open to him, after his public defamation of all that is noblest? On
the public which listened to him, too, the spectacle of his condign
punishment will have a healthy effect; we shall see no more ridicule of
Philosophy. Tame submission to insult would naturally enough be taken,
not for moderation, but for insensibility and want of spirit. Who could
be expected to put up with his last performance? He brought us to
market like a gang of slaves, and handed us over to the auctioneer.
Some, I believe, fetched high prices; but others went for four or five
pounds, and as for me—confound his impudence, threepence! And fine fun
the audience had out of it! We did well to be angry; we have come from
Hades; and we ask you to give us satisfaction for this abominable
outrage.

_Resurgents_. Hear, hear! well spoken, Diogenes; well and loyally.

_Philos_. Silence in court! Time the defence. Parrhesiades, it is now
your turn; they are timing you; so proceed.

_Par_. Philosophy, Diogenes has been far indeed from exhausting his
material; the greater part of it, and the more strongly expressed, he
has passed by, for reasons best known to himself. I refer to statements
of mine which I am as far from denying that I made as from having
provided myself with any elaborate defence of them. Any of these that
have been omitted by him, and not previously emphasized by myself, I
propose now to quote; this will be the best way to show you who were
the persons that I sold by auction and inveighed against as pretenders
and impostors; please to concentrate your vigilance on the truth or
falsehood of my descriptions. If what I say is injurious or severe,
your censure will be more fairly directed at the perpetrators than at
the discoverer of such iniquities. I had no sooner realized the odious
practices which his profession imposes on an advocate—the deceit,
falsehood, bluster, clamour, pushing, and all the long hateful list,
than I fled as a matter of course from these, betook myself to your
dear service, Philosophy, and pleased myself with the thought of a
remainder of life spent far from the tossing waves in a calm haven
beneath your shadow.

At my first peep into your realm, how could I but admire yourself and
all these your disciples? there they were, legislating for the perfect
life, holding out hands of help to those that would reach it,
commending all that was fairest and best; fairest and best—but a man
must keep straight on for it and never slip, must set his eyes
unwaveringly on the laws that you have laid down, must tune and test
his life thereby; and that, Zeus be my witness, there are few enough in
these days of ours to do.

So I saw how many were in love, not with Philosophy, but with the
credit it brings; in the vulgar externals, so easy for any one to ape,
they showed a striking resemblance to the real article, perfect in
beard and walk and attire; but in life and conduct they belied their
looks, read your lessons backwards, and degraded their profession. Then
I was wroth; methought it was as though some soft womanish actor on the
tragic stage should give us Achilles or Theseus or Heracles himself; he
cannot stride nor speak out as a Hero should, but minces along under
his enormous mask; Helen or Polyxena would find him too realistically
feminine to pass for them; and what shall an invincible Heracles say?
Will he not swiftly pound man and mask together into nothingness with
his club, for womanizing and disgracing him?

Well, these people were about as fit to represent you, and the
degradation of it all was too much for me. Apes daring to masquerade as
heroes! emulators of the ass at Cyme! The Cymeans, you know, had never
seen ass or lion; so the ass came the lion over them, with the aid of a
borrowed skin and his most awe-inspiring bray; however, a stranger who
had often seen both brought the truth to light with a stick. But what
most distressed me, Philosophy, was this: when one of these people was
detected in rascality, impropriety, or immorality, every one put it
down to philosophy, and to the particular philosopher whose name the
delinquent took in vain without ever acting on his principles; the
living rascal disgraced you, the long dead; for you were not there in
the flesh to point the contrast; so, as it was clear enough that _his_
life was vile and disgusting, your case was given away by association
with his, and you had to share his disgrace.

This spectacle, I say, was too much for me; I began exposing them, and
distinguishing between them and you; and for this good work you now
arraign me. So then, if I find one of the Initiated betraying and
parodying the Mysteries of the two Goddesses, and if I protest and
denounce him, the transgression will be mine? There is something wrong
there; why, at the Games, if an actor who has to present Athene or
Posidon or Zeus plays his part badly, derogating from the divine
dignity, the stewards have him whipped; well, the Gods are not angry
with them for having the officers whip the man who wears their mask and
their attire; I imagine they approve of the punishment. To play a slave
or a messenger badly is a trifling offence, but to represent Zeus or
Heracles to the spectators in an unworthy manner—that is a crime and a
sacrilege.

I can indeed conceive nothing more extraordinary than that so many of
them should get themselves absolutely perfect in your words, and then
live precisely as if the sole object of reading and studying them had
been to reverse them in practice. All their professions of despising
wealth and appearances, of admiring nothing but what is noble, of
superiority to passion, of being proof against splendour, and
associating with its owners only on equal terms—how fair and wise and
laudable they all are! But they take pay for imparting them, they are
abashed in presence of the rich, their lips water at sight of coin;
they are dogs for temper, hares for cowardice, apes for imitativeness,
asses for lust, cats for thievery, cocks for jealousy. They are a
perfect laughing-stock with their strivings after vile ends, their
jostling of each other at rich men's doors, their attendance at crowded
dinners, and their vulgar obsequiousness at table. They swill more than
they should and would like to swill more than they do, they spoil the
wine with unwelcome and untimely disquisitions, and they cannot carry
their liquor. The ordinary people who are present naturally flout them,
and are revolted by the philosophy which breeds such brutes.

What is so monstrous is that every man of them says he has no needs,
proclaims aloud that wisdom is the only wealth, and directly afterwards
comes begging and makes a fuss if he is refused; it would hardly be
stranger to see one in kingly attire, with tall tiara, crown, and all
the attributes of royalty, asking his inferiors for a little something
more. When they want to get something, we hear a great deal, to be
sure, about community of goods—how wealth is a thing indifferent—and
what is gold and silver?—neither more nor less worth than pebbles on
the beach. But when an old comrade and tried friend needs help and
comes to them with his modest requirements, ah, then there is silence
and searchings of heart, unlearning of tenets and flat renunciation of
doctrines. All their fine talk of friendship, with Virtue and The Good,
have vanished and flown, who knows whither? they were winged words in
sad truth, empty phantoms, only meant for daily conversational use.

These men are excellent friends so long as there is no gold or silver
for them to dispute the possession of; exhibit but a copper or two, and
peace is broken, truce void, armistice ended; their books are blank,
their Virtue fled, and they so many dogs; some one has flung a bone
into the pack, and up they spring to bite each other and snarl at the
one which has pounced successfully. There is a story of an Egyptian
king who taught some apes the sword-dance; the imitative creatures very
soon picked it up, and used to perform in purple robes and masks; for
some time the show was a great success, till at last an ingenious
spectator brought some nuts in with him and threw them down. The apes
forgot their dancing at the sight, dropped their humanity, resumed
their apehood, and, smashing masks and tearing dresses, had a free
fight for the provender. Alas for the _corps de ballet_ and the gravity
of the audience!

These people are just those apes; it is they that I reviled; and I
shall never cease exposing and ridiculing them; but about you and your
like—for there _are_, in spite of all, some true lovers of philosophy
and keepers of your laws—about you or them may I never be mad enough to
utter an injurious or rude word! Why, what could I find to say? what is
there in your lives that lends itself to such treatment? but those
pretenders deserve my detestation, as they have that of heaven. Why,
tell me, all of you, what have such creatures to do with you? Is there
a trace in their lives of kindred and affinity? Does oil mix with
water? If they grow their beards and call themselves philosophers and
look solemn, do these things make them like you? I could have contained
myself if there had been any touch of plausibility in their acting; but
the vulture is more like the nightingale than they like philosophers.
And now I have pleaded my cause to the best of my ability. Truth, I
rely upon you to confirm my words.

_Philos_. Parrhesiades, retire to a further distance. Well, and our
verdict? How think you the man has spoken?

_Truth_. Ah, Philosophy, while he was speaking I was ready to sink
through the ground; it was all so true. As I listened, I could identify
every offender, and I was fitting caps all the time—this is so-and-so,
that is the other man, all over. I tell you they were all as plain as
in a picture—speaking likenesses not of their bodies only, but of their
very souls.

_Tem_. Yes, Truth, I could not help blushing at it.

_Philos_. What say you, gentlemen?

_Res_. Why, of course, that he is acquitted of the charge, and stands
recorded as our friend and benefactor. Our case is just that of the
Trojans, who entertained the tragic actor only to find him reciting
their own calamities. Well, recite away, our tragedian, with these
pests of ours for dramatis personae.

_Diog_. I too, Philosophy, give him my need of praise; I withdraw my
charges, and count him a worthy friend.

_Philos_. I congratulate you, Parrhesiades; you are unanimously
acquitted, and are henceforth one of us.

_Par_. Your humble servant. Or no, I must find more tragic words to fit
the solemnity of the occasion:

  Victorious might
  My life's path light,
  And ever strew with garlands bright!


_Vir_. Well, now we come to our second course; let us have in the other
people and try them for their insults. Parrhesiades shall accuse them
each in turn.

_Par_. Well said, Virtue. Syllogism, my boy, put your head out over the
city and summon the philosophers.

_Syl_. Oyez, oyez! All philosophers to the Acropolis to make their
defence before Virtue, Philosophy, and Justice.

_Par_. The proclamation does not bring them in flocks, does it? They
have their reasons for keeping clear of Justice. And a good many of
them are too busy with their rich friends. If you want them all to
come, Syllogism, I will tell you what to say.

_Philos_. No, no; call them yourself, Parrhesiades, in your own way.

_Par_. Quite a simple matter. Oyez, oyez! All who profess philosophy
and hold themselves entitled to the name of philosopher shall appear on
the Acropolis for largesse; 8 pounds, with a sesame cake, to each. A
long beard shall qualify for a square of compressed figs, in addition.
Every applicant to have with him, of temperance, justice, and
self-control, any that he is in possession of, it being clearly
understood that these are not indispensable, and, of syllogisms, a
complete set of five, these being the condition precedent of wisdom.

  Two golden talents in the midst are set,
  His prize who wrangles best amongst his peers.


Just look! the ascent packed with a pushing crowd, at the very first
sound of my 8 pounds. More of them along the Pelasgicum, more by the
temple of Asclepius, a bigger crowd still over the Areopagus. Why,
positively there are a few at the tomb of Talos; and see those putting
ladders against the temple of Castor and Pollux; up they climb, buzzing
and clustering like a swarm of bees. In Homeric phrase, on this side
are exceeding many, and on that

Ten thousand, thick as leaves and flowers in spring.


Noisily they settle, the Acropolis is covered with them in a trice;
everywhere wallet and beard, flattery and effrontery, staves and greed,
logic and avarice. The little company which came up at the first
proclamation is swamped beyond recovery, swallowed up in these later
crowds; it is hopeless to find them, because of the external
resemblance. That is the worst of it, Philosophy; you are really open
to censure for not marking and labelling them; these impostors are
often more convincing than the true philosophers.

_Philos_. It shall be done before long; at present let us receive them.

_Platon_. Platonists first!

_Pyth_. No, no; Pythagoreans first; our master is senior.

_Stoics_. Rubbish! the Porch is the best.

_Peri_. Now, now, this is a question of money; Peripatetics first
there!

_Epic_. Hand over those cakes and fig-squares; as to the money,
Epicureans will not mind waiting till the last.

_Acad_. Where are the two talents? none can touch the Academy at a
wrangle; we will soon show you that.

_Stoics_. Not if we know it.

_Philos_. Cease your strife. Cynics there, no more pushing! And keep
those sticks quiet. You have mistaken the nature of this summons. We
three, Philosophy, Virtue, and Truth, are about to decide which are the
true philosophers; that done, those whose lives are found to be in
accord with our pleasure will be made happy by our award; but the
impostors who are not truly of our kin we shall crush as they deserve,
that they may no more make vain claims to what is too high for them.
Ha! you fly? In good truth they do, jumping down the crags, most of
them. Why, the Acropolis is deserted, except for—yes, a few have stood
their ground and are not afraid of the judgement.

Attendants, pick up the wallet which yonder flying Cynic has dropped.
Let us see what it contains—beans? a book? some coarse crust?

_Par_. Oh dear no. Here is gold; some scent; a mirror; dice.

_Philos_. Ah, good honest man! such were his little necessaries for the
philosophic life, such his title to indulge in general abuse and
instruct his neighbours.

_Par_. There you have them. The problem before you is, how the general
ignorance is to be dispersed, and other people enabled to discriminate
between the genuine and the other sort. Find the solution, Truth; for
indeed it concerns you; Falsehood must not prevail; shall Ignorance
shield the base while they counterfeit the good, and you never know it?

_Truth_. I think we had better give Parrhesiades this commission; he
has been shown an honest man, our friend and your true admirer,
Philosophy. Let him take Exposure with him and have interviews with all
who profess philosophy; any genuine scion that he finds let him crown
with olive and entertain in the Banqueting Hall; and for the
rascals—ah, how many!—who are only costume philosophers, let him pull
their cloaks off them, clip their beards short with a pair of common
goatshears, and mark their foreheads or brand them between the
eyebrows; the design on the branding iron to be a fox or an ape.

_Philos_. Well planned, Truth. And, Parrhesiades, here is a test for
you; you know how young eagles are supposed to be tested by the sun;
well, our candidates have not got to satisfy us that they can look at
light, of course; but put gold, fame, and pleasure before their eyes;
when you see one remain unconscious and unattracted, there is your man
for the olive; but when one looks hard that way, with a motion of his
hand in the direction of the gold, first off with his beard, and then
off with him to the brander.

_Par_. I will follow your instructions, Philosophy; you will soon find
a large majority ornamented with fox or ape, and very few with olive.
If you like, though, I will get some of them up here for you to see.

_Philos_. What do you mean? bring them back after that stampede?

_Par_. Oh yes, if the priestess will lend me the line I see there and
the Piraean fisherman's votive hook; I will not keep them long.

_Priestess_. You can have them; and the rod to complete the equipment.

_Par_. Thanks; now quickly, please, a few dried figs and a handful of
gold.

_Priestess_. There.

_Philos_. What _is_ all this about?

_Priestess_. He has baited his hook with the figs and gold, and is
sitting on the parapet dangling it over the city.

_Philos_. What _are_ you doing, Parrhesiades? do you think you are
going to fish up stones from the Pelasgicum?

_Par_. Hush! I wait till I get a bite. Posidon, the fisherman's friend,
and you, dear Amphitrite, send me good fishing!

Ah, a fine bass; no, it is not; it is a gilthead.

_Expo_. A shark, you mean; there, see, he is getting near the hook,
open-mouthed too. He scents the gold; now he is close—touching—he has
it; up with him!

_Par_. Give me a hand with the line, Exposure; here he is. Now, my best
of fishes, what do we make of you? _Salmo Cynicus_, that is what _you_
are. Good gracious, what teeth! Aha, my brave fish, caught snapping up
trifles in the rocks, where you thought you could lurk unobserved? But
now you shall hang by the gills for every one to look at you. Pull out
hook and bait. Why, the hook is bare; he has not been long assimilating
the figs, eh? and the gold has gone down too.

_Diog_. Make him disgorge; we want the bait for some more.

_Par_. There, then. Now, Diogenes, do you know who it is? has the
fellow anything to do with you?

_Diog_. Nothing whatever.

_Par_. Well, what do you put him at? threepence was the price fixed the
other day.

_Diog_. Too much. His flavour and his looks are intolerable—a coarse
worthless brute. Drop him head first over the rock, and catch another.
But take care your rod does not bend to breaking point.

_Par_. No fear; they are quite light—about the weight of a gudgeon.

_Diog_. About the weight and about the wit. However, up with them.

_Par_. Look; what is this one? a sole? flat as a plate, thin as one of
his own fillets; he gapes for the hook; down it goes; we have him; up
he comes.

_Diog_. What is he?

_Expo_. His plateship would be a Platonist.

_Pl_. You too after the gold, villain?

_Par_. Well, Plato? what shall we do with him?

_Pl_. Off with him from the same rock.

_Diog_. Try again.

_Par_. Ah, here is a lovely one coming, as far as one can judge in deep
water, all the colours of the rainbow, with gold bars across the back.
Do you see, Exposure? this is the sham Aristotle. There he is; no, he
has shied. He is having a good look round; here he comes again; his
jaws open; caught! haul up.

_Ar_. You need not apply to me; I do not know him.

_Par_. Very well, Aristotle; over he goes.

Hullo! I see a whole school of them together, all one colour, and
covered with spines and horny scales, as tempting to handle as a
hedgehog. We want a net for these; but we have not got one. Well, it
will do if we pull up one out of the lot. The boldest of them will no
doubt try the hook.

_Expo_. You had better sheathe a good bit of the line before you let it
down; else he will gorge the gold and then saw the line through.

_Par_. There it goes. Posidon grant me a quick catch! There now! they
are fighting for the bait, a lot of them together nibbling at the figs,
and others with their teeth well in the gold. That is right; one
soundly hooked. Now let me see, what do _you_ call yourself? And yet
how absurd to try and make a fish speak; they are dumb. Exposure, tell
us who is his master,

_Expo_. Chrysippus.

_Par_. Ah, he must have a master with gold in his name, must he?
Chrysippus, tell me seriously, do you know these men? are you
responsible for the way they live?

_Ch_. My dear Parrhesiades, I take it ill that you should suggest any
connexion between me and such creatures.

_Par_. Quite right, and like you. Over he goes head first like the
others; if one tried to eat him, those spines might stick in one's
throat.

_Philos_. You have fished long enough, Parrhesiades; there are so many
of them, one might get away with gold, hook and all, and you have the
priestess to pay. Let us go for our usual stroll; and for all you it is
time to be getting back to your place, if you are not to outstay your
leave. Parrhesiades, you and Exposure can go the rounds now, and crown
or brand as I told you.

_Par_. Good, Philosophy. Farewell, ye best of men. Come, Exposure, to
our commission. Where shall we go first? the Academy, do you think, or
the Porch?

_Expo_. We will begin with the Lyceum.

_Par_. Well, it makes no difference. I know well enough that wherever
we go there will be few crowns wanted, and a good deal of branding.

H.



VOYAGE TO THE LOWER WORLD

_Charon. Clotho. Hermes. Shades. Rhadamanthus. Tisiphone. Lamp. Bed_

_Cha_. You see how it is, Clotho; here has all been ship-shape and
ready for a start this long time; the hold baled out, the mast stepped,
the sail hoisted, every oar in its rowlock; it is no fault of mine that
we don't weigh anchor and sail. 'Tis Hermes keeps us; he should have
been here long ago. Not a passenger on board, as you may see; and we
might have made the trip three times over by this. Evening is coming on
now; and never a penny taken all day! I know how it will be: Pluto will
think _I_ have been wanting to my work. It is not I that am to blame,
but our fine gentleman of a supercargo. He is just like any mortal: he
has taken a drink of their Lethe up there, and forgotten to come back
to us. He'll be wrestling with the lads, or playing on his lyre, or
giving his precious gift of the gab a good airing; or he's off after
plunder, the rascal, for what I know: 'tis all in the day's work with
him. He is getting too independent: he ought to remember that he
belongs to us, one half of him.

_Clo_. Well, well, Charon; perhaps he has been busy: Zeus may have had
some particular occasion for his services in the upper world; _he_ has
the use of him too, remember.

_Cha_. That doesn't say that he should make use of him beyond what's
reasonable. Hermes is common property. We have never kept him here when
he was due to go. No, I know what it is. In these parts of ours all is
mist and gloom and darkness, and nothing to be had but asphodel and
libations and sacrificial cakes and meats. Yonder in Heaven, all's
bright, with plenty of ambrosia, and no end of nectar. Small wonder
that he likes to loiter there. When he leaves us, 'tis on wings; it is
as though he escaped from prison. But when the time comes for return,
he tramps it on foot, and has much ado to get here at all.

_Clo_. Well, never mind now; here he comes, look, and a fine host of
passengers with him; a fine flock, rather; he hustles them along with
his staff like so many goats. But what's this? One of them is bound,
and another enjoying the joke; and there is one with a wallet slung
beside him, and a stick in his hand; a cantankerous-looking fellow; he
keeps the rest moving. And just look at Hermes! Bathed in perspiration,
and his feet covered with dust! See how he pants; he is quite out of
breath. What is the matter, Hermes? Tell us all about it; you seem
disturbed.

_Her_. The matter is that this rascal ran away; I had to go after him,
and had well nigh played you false for this trip, I can tell you.

_Clo_. Why, who is he? What did he want to run away for?

_Her_. His motive is sufficiently clear: he had a preference for
remaining alive. He is some king or tyrant, as I gather from his
piteous allusions to blessedness no longer his.

_Clo_. And the fool actually tried to run away, and thought to prolong
his life when the thread of Fate was exhausted?

_Her_. Tried! He would have got clean away, but for that capital fellow
there with the club; he gave me a hand, and we caught and bound him.
The whole way along, from the moment that Atropus handed him over to
me, he dragged and hung back, and dug his heels into the ground: it was
no easy work getting him along. Every now and then he would take to
prayers and entreaties: Would I let him go just for a few minutes? he
would make it worth my while. Of course I was not going to do that; it
was out of the question.—Well, we had actually got to the very pit's
mouth, when somehow or other this double-dyed knave managed to slip
off, whilst I was telling over the Shades to Aeacus, as usual, and he
checking them by your sister's invoice. The consequence was, we were
one short of tally. Aeacus raised his eyebrows. 'Hermes,' he said,
'everything in its right place: no larcenous work here, please. You
play enough of those tricks in Heaven. We keep strict accounts here:
nothing escapes us. The invoice says 1,004; there it is in black and
white. You have brought me one short, unless you say that Atropus was
too clever for you.' I coloured up at that; and then all at once I
remembered what had happened on the way, and when I looked round and
this fellow was nowhere to be seen, I knew that he must have made off,
and I set off after him along the road to the upper world, as fast as I
could go. My worthy friend here volunteered for the service; so we made
a race of it, and caught the runaway just as he got to Taenarum! It was
a near thing.

_Clo_. There now, Charon! And we were beginning to accuse Hermes of
neglect.

_Cha_. Well, and why are we waiting here, as if there had not been
enough delay already?

_Clo_. True. Let them come aboard. I'll to my post by the gangway, with
my notebook, and take their names and countries as they come up, and
details of their deaths; and you can stow them away as you get
them.—Hermes, let us have those babies in first; I shall get nothing
out of them.

_Her_. Here, skipper. Three hundred of them, including those that were
exposed.

_Cha_. A precious haul, on my word!—These are but green grapes, Hermes.

_Her_. Who next, Clotho? The Unwept?

_Clo_. Ah! I take you.—Yes, up with the old fellows. I have no time
to-day for prehistoric research. All over sixty, pass on! What's the
matter with them? They don't hear me; they are deaf with age. I think
you will have to pick them up, like the babies, and get them along that
way.

_Her_. Here they are; fine well-matured fruit, gathered in due season;
three hundred and ninety-eight of them.

_Cha_. Nay, nay; these are no better than raisins.

_Clo_. Bring up the wounded next, Hermes. _Now_ I can get to work. Tell
me how you were killed. Or no; I had better look at my notes, and call
you over. Eighty-four due to be killed in battle yesterday, in Mysia,
These to include Gobares, son of Oxyartes.

_Her_. Adsunt.

_Clo_. The seven who killed themselves for love. Also Theagenes, the
philosopher, for love of the Megarian courtesan.

_Her_. Here they are, look.

_Clo_. And the rival claimants to thrones, who slew one another?

_Her_. Here!

_Clo_. And the one murdered by his wife and her paramour?

_Her_. Straight in front of you.

_Clo_. Now the victims of the law,—the cudgelled and the crucified. And
where are those sixteen who were killed by robbers?

_Her_. Here; you may know them by their wounds. Am I to bring the women
too?

_Clo_. Yes, certainly; and all who were shipwrecked; it is the same
kind of death. And those who died of fever, bring them too, the doctor
Agathocles and all. Then there was a Cynic philosopher, who was to have
succumbed to a dinner with Dame Hecate, eked out with sacrificial eggs
and a raw cuttlefish; where is he?

_Cy_. Here I stand this long time, my good Clotho.—Now what had I done
to deserve such a weary spell of life? You gave me pretty nearly a
spindleful of it. I often tried to cut the thread and away; but somehow
it never would give.

_Clo_. I left you as a censor and physician of human frailties; pass
on, and good luck to you.

_Cy_. No, by Zeus! First let us see our captive safe on board. Your
judgement might be perverted by his entreaties.

_Clo_. Let me see; who is he?

_Her_. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes; tyrant.

_Clo_. Come up, Megapenthes.

_Me_. Nay, nay, my lady Clotho; suffer me to return for a little while,
and I will come of my own accord, without waiting to be summoned.

_Clo_. What do you want to go for?

_Me_. I crave permission to complete my palace; I left the building
half-finished.

_Clo_. Pooh! Come along.

_Me_. Oh Fate, I ask no long reprieve. Vouchsafe me this one day, that
I may inform my wife where my great treasure lies buried.

_Clo_. Impossible. 'Tis Fate's decree.

_Me_. And all that money is to be thrown away?

_Clo_. Not thrown away. Be under no uneasiness. Your cousin Megacles
will take charge of it.

_Me_. Oh, monstrous! My enemy, whom from sheer good nature I omitted to
put to death?

_Clo_. The same. He will survive you for rather more than forty years;
in the full enjoyment of your harem, your wardrobe, and your treasure.

_Me_. It is too bad of you, Clotho, to hand over my property to my
worst enemy.

_Clo_. My dear sir, it was Cydimachus's property first, surely? You
only succeeded to it by murdering him, and butchering his children
before his eyes.

_Me_. Yes, but it was mine after that.

_Clo_. Well, and now your term of possession expires.

_Me_. A word in your ear, madam; no one else must hear this.—Sirs,
withdraw for a space.—Clotho, if you will let me escape, I pledge
myself to give you a quarter of a million sterling this very day.

_Clo_. Ha, ha! So your millions are still running in your head?

_Me_. Shall I throw in the two mixing-bowls that I got by the murder of
Cleocritus? They weigh a couple of tons apiece; refined gold!

_Clo_. Drag him up. We shall never get him to come on board by himself.

_Me_. I call you all to witness! My city-wall, my docks, remain
unfinished. I only wanted five days more to complete them.

_Clo_. Never mind. It will be another's work now.

_Me_. Stay! One request I can make with a clear conscience.

_Clo_. Well?

_Me_. Suffer me only to complete the conquest of Persia; … and to
impose tribute on Lydia; … and erect a colossal monument to myself, …
and inscribe thereon the military achievements of my life. Then let me
die.

_Clo_. Creature, this is no single day's reprieve: you would want
something like twenty years.

_Me_. Oh, but I am quite prepared to give security for my expeditious
return. Nay, I could provide a substitute, if preferred—my
well-beloved!

_Clo_. Wretch! How often have you prayed that he might survive you!

_Me_. That was a long time ago. Now,—I see a better use for him.

_Clo_. But he is due to be here, shortly, let me tell you. He is to be
put to death by the new sovereign.

_Me_. Well, Clotho, I hope you will not refuse my last request.

_Clo_. Which is?

_Me_. I should like to know how things will be, now that I am gone.

_Clo_. Certainly; you shall have that mortification. Your wife will
pass into the hands of Midas, your slave; he has been her gallant for
some time past.

_Me_. A curse on him! 'Twas at her request that I gave him his freedom.

_Clo_. Your daughter will take her place in the harem of the present
monarch. Then all the old statues and portraits which the city set up
in your honour will be overturned,—to the entertainment, no doubt, of
the spectators.

_Me_. And will no friend resent these doings?

_Clo_. Who was your friend? Who had any reason to be? Need I explain
that the cringing courtiers who lauded your every word and deed were
actuated either by hope or by fear—time-servers every man of them, with
a keen eye to the main chance?

_Me_. And these are they whose feasts rang with my name! who, as they
poured their libations, invoked every blessing on my head! Not one but
would have died before me, could he have had his will; nay, they swore
by no other name.

_Clo_. Yes; and you dined with one of them yesterday, and it cost you
your life. It was that last cup you drank that brought you here.

_Me_. Ah, I noticed a bitter taste.—But what was his object?

_Clo_. Oh, you want to know too much. It is high time you came on
board.

_Me_. Clotho, I had a particular reason for desiring one more glimpse
of daylight. I have a burning grievance!

_Clo_. And what is that? Something of vast importance, I make no doubt.

_Me_. It is about my slave Carion. The moment he knew of my death, he
came up to the room where I lay; it was late in the evening; he had
plenty of time in front of him, for not a soul was watching by me; he
brought with him my concubine Glycerium (an old affair, this, I
suspect), closed the door, and proceeded to take his pleasure with her,
as if no third person had been in the room! Having satisfied the
demands of passion, he turned his attention to me. 'You little
villain,' he cried, 'many's the flogging I've had from you, for no
fault of mine!' And as he spoke he plucked out my hair and smote me on
the face. 'Away with you,' he cried finally, spitting on me, 'away to
the place of the damned!'—and so withdrew. I burned with resentment:
but there I lay stark and cold, and could do nothing. That baggage
Glycerium, too, hearing footsteps approaching, moistened her eyes and
pretended she had been weeping for me; and withdrew sobbing, and
repeating my name.—If I could but get hold of them—

_Clo_. Never mind what you would do to them, but come on board. The
hour is at hand when you must appear before the tribunal.

_Me_. And who will presume to give his vote against a tyrant?

_Clo_. Against a tyrant, who indeed? Against a Shade, Rhadamanthus will
take that liberty. He is strictly impartial, as you will presently
observe, in adapting his sentences to the requirements of individual
cases. And now, no more delay.

_Me_. Dread Fate, let me be some common man,—some pauper! I have been a
king,—let me be a slave! Only let me live!

_Clo_. Where is the one with the stick? Hermes, you and he must drag
him up feet foremost. He will never come up by himself.

_Her_. Come along, my runagate. Here you are, skipper. And I say, keep
an eye—

_Cha_. Never fear. We'll lash him to the mast.

_Me_. Look you, I must have the seat of honour.

_Clo_. And why exactly?

_Me_. Can you ask? Was I not a tyrant, with a guard of ten thousand
men?

_Cy_. Oh, dullard! And you complain of Carion's pulling your hair! Wait
till you get a taste of this stick; you shall know what it is to be a
tyrant.

_Me_. What, shall a Cynic dare to raise his staff against me? Sirrah,
have you forgotten the other day, when I had all but nailed you to the
cross, for letting that sharp censorious tongue of yours wag too
freely?

_Cynic_. Well, and now it is your turn to be nailed,—to the mast.

_Mi_. And what of me, mistress? Am I to be left out of the reckoning?
Because I am poor, must I be the last to come aboard?

_Clo_. Who are you?

_Mi_. Micyllus the cobbler.

_Clo_. A cobbler, and cannot wait your turn? Look at the tyrant: see
what bribes he offers us, only for a short reprieve. It is very strange
that delay is not to your fancy too.

_Mi_. It is this way, my lady Fate. I find but cold comfort in that
promise of the Cyclops: 'Outis shall be eaten last,' said he; but first
or last, the same teeth are waiting. And then, it is not the same with
me as with the rich. Our lives are what they call 'diametrically
opposed.' This tyrant, now, was thought happy while he lived; he was
feared and respected by all: he had his gold and his silver; his fine
clothes and his horses and his banquets; his smart pages and his
handsome ladies,—and had to leave them all. No wonder if he was vexed,
and felt the tug of parting. For I know not how it is, but these things
are like birdlime: a man's soul sticks to them, and will not easily
come away; they have grown to be a part of him. Nay, 'tis as if men
were bound in some chain that nothing can break; and when by sheer
force they are dragged away, they cry out and beg for mercy. They are
bold enough for aught else, but show them this same road to Hades, and
they prove to be but cowards. They turn about, and must ever be looking
back at what they have left behind them, far off though it be,—like men
that are sick for love. So it was with the fool yonder: as we came
along, he was for running away; and now he tires you with his
entreaties. As for me, I had no stake in life; lands and horses, money
and goods, fame, statues,—I had none of them; I could not have been in
better trim: it needed but one nod from Atropus,—I was busied about a
boot at the time, but down I flung knife and leather with a will,
jumped up, and never waited to get my shoes, or wash the blacking from
my hands, but joined the procession there and then, ay, and headed it,
looking ever forward; I had left nothing behind me that called for a
backward glance. And, on my word, things begin to look well already.
Equal rights for all, and no man better than his neighbour; that is
hugely to my liking. And from what I can learn there is no collecting
of debts in this country, and no taxes; better still, no shivering in
winter, no sickness, no hard knocks from one's betters. All is peace.
The tables are turned: the laugh is with us poor men; it is the rich
that make moan, and are ill at ease.

_Clo_. To be sure, I noticed that you were laughing, some time ago.
What was it in particular that excited your mirth?

_Mi_. I'll tell you, best of Goddesses. Being next door to a tyrant up
there, I was all eyes for what went on in his house; and he seemed to
me neither more nor less than a God. I saw the embroidered purple, the
host of courtiers, the gold, the jewelled goblets, the couches with
their feet of silver: and I thought, this is happiness. As for the
sweet savour that arose when his dinner was getting ready, it was too
much for me; such blessedness seemed more than human. And then his
proud looks and stately walk and high carriage, striking admiration
into all beholders! It seemed almost as if he must be handsomer than
other men, and a good eighteen inches taller. But when he was dead, he
made a queer figure, with all his finery gone; though I laughed more at
myself than at him: there had I been worshipping mere scum on no better
authority than the smell of roast meat, and reckoning happiness by the
blood of Lacedaemonian sea-snails! There was Gniphon the usurer, too,
bitterly reproaching himself for having died without ever knowing the
taste of wealth, leaving all his money to his nearest relation and
heir-at-law, the spendthrift Rhodochares, when he might have had the
enjoyment of it himself. When I saw him, I laughed as if I should never
stop: to think of him as he used to be, pale, wizened, with a face full
of care, his fingers the only rich part of him, for they had the
talents to count,—scraping the money together bit by bit, and all to be
squandered in no time by that favourite of Fortune, Rhodochares!—But
what are we waiting for now? There will be time enough on the voyage to
enjoy their woebegone faces, and have our laugh out.

_Clo_. Come on board, and then the ferryman can haul up the anchor.

_Cha_. Now, now! What are you doing here? The boat is full. You wait
till to-morrow. We can bring you across in the morning.

_Mi_. What right have you to leave me behind,—a shade of twenty-four
hours' standing? I tell you what it is, I shall have you up before
Rhadamanthus. A plague on it, she's moving! And here I shall be left
all by myself. Stay, though: why not swim across in their wake? No
matter if I get tired; a dead man will scarcely be drowned. Not to
mention that I have not a penny to pay my fare.

_Clo_. Micyllus! Stop! You must not come across that way; Heaven
forbid!

_Mi_. Ha, ha! I shall get there first, and I shouldn't wonder.

_Clo_. This will never do. We must get to him, and pick him up….
Hermes, give him a hand up.

_Cha_. And where is he to sit now he is here? We are full up, as you
may see.

_Her_. What do you say to the tyrant's shoulders?

_Clo_. A good idea that.

_Cha_. Up with you then; and make the rascal's back ache. And now, good
luck to our voyage!

_Cy_. Charon, I may as well tell you the plain truth at once. The penny
for my fare is not forthcoming; I have nothing but my wallet, look, and
this stick. But if you want a hand at baling, here I am; or I could
take an oar; only give me a good stout one, and you shall have no fault
to find with me.

_Cha_. To it, then; and I'll ask no other payment of you.

_Cy_. Shall I tip them a stave?

_Cha_. To be sure, if you have a sea-song about you.

_Cy_. I have several. Look here though, an opposition is starting: a
song of lamentation. It will throw me out.

_Sh_. Oh, my lands, my lands!—Ah, my money, my money!—Farewell, my fine
palace!—The thousands that fellow will have to squander!—Ah, my
helpless children!—To think of the vines I planted last year! Who, ah
who, will pluck the grapes?—-

_Her_. Why, Micyllus, have _you_ never an Oh or an Ah? It is quite
improper that any shade should cross the stream, and make no moan.

_Mi_. Get along with you. What have I to do with Ohs and Ahs? I'm
enjoying the trip!

_Her_. Still, just a groan or two. It's expected.

_Mi_. Well, if I must, here goes.—Farewell, leather, farewell! Ah,
Soles, old Soles!—Oh, ancient Boots!—Woe's me! Never again shall I sit
empty from morn till night; never again walk up and down, of a winter's
day, naked, unshod, with chattering teeth! My knife, my awl, will be
another's: whose, ah! whose?

_Her_. Yes, that will do. We are nearly there.

_Cha_. Wait a bit! Fares first, please. Your fare, Micyllus; every one
else has paid; one penny.

_Mi_. You don't expect to get a penny out of the poor cobbler? You're
joking, Charon; or else this is what they call a 'castle in the air.' I
know not whether your penny is square or round.

_Cha_. A fine paying trip this, I must say! However,—all ashore! I must
fetch the horses, cows, dogs, and other livestock. Their turn comes
now.

_Clo_. You can take charge of them for the rest of the way, Hermes. I
am crossing again to see after the Chinamen, Indopatres and
Heramithres. They have been fighting about boundaries, and have killed
one another by this time.

_Her_. Come, shades, let us get on;—follow me, I mean, in single file.

_Mi_. Bless me, how dark it is! Where is handsome Megillus _now_? There
would be no telling Simmiche from Phryne. All complexions are alike
here, no question of beauty, greater or less. Why, the cloak I thought
so shabby before passes muster here as well as royal purple; the
darkness hides both alike. Cyniscus, whereabouts are you?

_Cy_. Use your ears; here I am. We might walk together. What do you
say?

_Mi_. Very good; give me your hand.—I suppose you have been admitted to
the mysteries at Eleusis? That must have been something like this, I
should think?

_Cy_. Pretty much. Look, here comes a torch-bearer; a grim, forbidding
dame. A Fury, perhaps?

_Mi_. She looks like it, certainly.

_Her_. Here they are, Tisiphone. One thousand and four.

_Ti_. It is time we had them. Rhadamanthus has been waiting.

_Rhad_. Bring them up, Tisiphone. Hermes, you call out their names as
they are wanted.

_Cy_. Rhadamanthus, as you love your father Zeus, have me up first for
examination.

_Rhad_. Why?

_Cy_. There is a certain shade whose misdeeds on earth I am anxious to
denounce. And if my evidence is to be worth anything, you must first be
satisfied of my own character and conduct.

_Rhad_. Who are you?

_Cy_. Cyniscus, your worship; a student of philosophy.

_Rhad_. Come up for judgement; I will take you first. Hermes, summon
the accusers.

_Her_. If any one has an accusation to bring against Cyniscus here
present, let him come forward.

_Cy_. No one stirs!

_Rhad_. Ah, but that is not enough, my friend. Off with your clothes; I
must have a look at your brands.

_Cy_. Brands? Where will you find them?

_Rhad_. Never yet did mortal man sin, but he carried about the secret
record thereof, branded on his soul.

_Cy_. Well, here I am stripped. Now for the 'brands.'

_Rhad_. Clean from head to heel, except three or four very faint marks,
scarcely to be made out. Ah! what does this mean? Here is place after
place that tells of the iron; all rubbed out apparently, or cut out.
How do you explain this, Cyniscus? How did you get such a clean skin
again?

_Cy_. Why, in old days, when I knew no better, I lived an evil life,
and acquired thereby a number of brands. But from the day that I began
to practise philosophy, little by little I washed out all the scars
from my soul,—thanks to the efficiency of that admirable lotion.

_Rhad_. Off with you then to the Isles of the Blest, and the excellent
company you will find there. But we must have your impeachment of the
tyrant before you go. Next shade, Hermes!

_Mi_. Mine is a very small affair, too, Rhadamanthus; I shall not keep
you long. I have been stripped all this time; so do take me next.

_Rhad_. And who may you be?

_Mi_. Micyllus the cobbler.

_Rhad_. Very well, Micyllus. As clean as clean could be; not a mark
anywhere. You may join Cyniscus. Now the Tyrant.

_Her_. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes, wanted! Where are you off to? This
way! You there, the Tyrant! Up with him, Tisiphone, neck and crop.

_Rhad_. Now, Cyniscus, your accusation and your proofs. Here is the
party.

_Cy_. There is in fact no need of an accusation. You will very soon
know the man by the marks upon him. My words however may serve to
unveil him, and to show his character in a clearer light. With the
conduct of this monster as a private citizen, I need not detain you.
Surrounded with a bodyguard, and aided by unscrupulous accomplices, he
rose against his native city, and established a lawless rule. The
persons put to death by him without trial are to be counted by
thousands, and it was the confiscation of their property that gave him
his enormous wealth. Since then, there is no conceivable iniquity which
he has not perpetrated. His hapless fellow-citizens have been subjected
to every form of cruelty and insult. Virgins have been seduced, boys
corrupted, the feelings of his subjects outraged in every possible way.
His overweening pride, his insolent bearing towards all who had to do
with him, were such as no doom of yours can adequately requite. A man
might with more security have fixed his gaze upon the blazing sun, than
upon yonder tyrant. As for the refined cruelty of his punishments, it
baffles description; and not even his familiars were exempt. That this
accusation has not been brought without sufficient grounds, you may
easily satisfy yourself, by summoning the murderer's victims.—Nay, they
need no summons; see, they are here; they press round as though they
would stifle him. Every man there, Rhadamanthus, fell a prey to his
iniquitous designs. Some had attracted his attention by the beauty of
their wives; others by their resentment at the forcible abduction of
their children; others by their wealth; others again by their
understanding, their moderation, and their unvarying disapproval of his
conduct.

_Rhad_. Villain, what have you to say to this?

_Me_. I committed the murders referred to. As for the rest, the
adulteries and corruptions and seductions, it is all a pack of lies.

_Cy_. I can bring witnesses to these points too, Rhadamanthus.

_Rhad_. Witnesses, eh?

_Cy_. Hermes, kindly summon his Lamp and Bed. They will appear in
evidence, and state what they know of his conduct.

_Her_. Lamp and Bed of Megapenthes, come into court. Good, they respond
to the summons.

_Rhad_. Now, tell us all you know about Megapenthes. Bed, you speak
first.

_Bed_. All that Cyniscus said is true. But really, Mr. Rhadamanthus, I
don't quite like to speak about it; such strange things used to happen
overhead.

_Rhad_. Why, your unwillingness to speak is the most telling evidence
of all!—Lamp, now let us have yours.

_Lamp_. What went on in the daytime I never saw, not being there. As
for his doings at night, the less said the better. I saw some very
queer things, though, monstrous queer. Many is the time I have stopped
taking oil on purpose, and tried to go out. But then he used to bring
me close up. It was enough to give any lamp a bad character.

_Rhad_. Enough of verbal evidence. Now, just divest yourself of that
purple, and we will see what you have in the way of brands. Goodness
gracious, the man's a positive network! Black and blue with them! Now,
what punishment can we give him? A bath in Pyriphlegethon? The tender
mercies of Cerberus, perhaps?

_Cy_. No, no. Allow me,—I have a novel idea; something that will just
suit him.

_Rhad_. Yes? I shall be obliged to you for a suggestion.

_Cy_. I fancy it is usual for departed spirits to take a draught of the
water of Lethe?

_Rhad_. Just so.

_Cy_. Let him be the sole exception.

_Rhad_. What is the idea in that?

_Cy_. His earthly pomp and power for ever in his mind; his fingers ever
busy on the tale of blissful items;—'tis a heavy sentence!

_Rhad_. True. Be this the tyrant's doom. Place him in fetters at
Tantalus's side,—never to forget the things of earth.

F.

THE END




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