Works, Volume IV — Lucian
=========================
ΛΟΥΚΙΑΝΟΥ ΑΠΑΝΤΑ, ΤΟΜΟΣ Δʹ
Translation/edition: H. W. Fowler and F. G. Fowler (1905)
Language: English
Read in Plato Scroll: https://plato-scroll.com/s/lucian-4/
This file: https://plato-scroll.com/text/lucian-4.txt
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  - Greek text: https://plato-scroll.com/text/lucian-4-e.txt
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Numbers in [brackets] are the edition's reference loci (Stephanus, Bekker, book.line, page...). Superscript numerals refer to the Notes at the end.


## Herodotus and Aetion

[56.1] I devoutly wish that Herodotus’s other characteristics were imitable; not all of them, of course—that is past praying for—, but any one of them: the agreeable style, the constructive skill, the native charm of his Ionic, the sententious wealth, or any of a thousand beauties which he combined into one whole, to the despair of imitators. But there is one thing—the use he made of his writings, and the speed with which he attained the respect of all Greece; from that you, or I, or any one else, might take a hint. As soon as he had sailed from his Carian home for Greece, he concentrated his thoughts on the quickest and easiest method of winning a brilliant reputation for himself and his works. He might have gone the round, and read them successively at Athens, Corinth, Argos, and Sparta; but that would be a long toilsome business, he thought, with no end to it; so he would not do it in detail, collecting his recognition by degrees, and scraping it together little by little; his idea was, if possible, to catch all Greece together. The great Olympic Games were at hand, and Herodotus bethought him that here was the very occasion on which his heart was set. He seized the moment when the gathering was at its fullest, and every city had sent the flower of its citizens; then he appeared in the temple hall, bent not on sight-seeing, but on bidding for an Olympic victory of his own; he recited his Histories, and bewitched his hearers; nothing would do but each book must be named after one of the Muses, to whose number they corresponded.
[56.2] He was straightway known to all, better far than the Olympic winners. There was no man who had not heard his name; they had listened to him at Olympia, or they were told of him by those who had been there; he had only to appear, and fingers were pointing at him: ‘There is the great Herodotus, who wrote the Persian War in Ionic, and celebrated our victories.’ That was what he made out of his Histories; a single meeting sufficed, and he had the general unanimous acclamation of all Greece; his name was proclaimed, not by a single herald; every spectator did that for him, each in his own city.
[56.3] The royal road to fame was now discovered; it was the regular practice of many afterwards to deliver their discourses at the festival; Hippias the rhetorician was on his own ground there; but Prodicus came from Ceos, Anaximenes from Chios, Polus from Agrigentum; and a rapid fame it brought, to them and many others.
[56.4] However, I need not have cited ancient rhetoricians, historians, and chroniclers like these; in quite recent times the painter Aëtion is said to have brought his picture, Nuptials of Roxana and Alexander, to exhibit at Olympia; and Proxenides, High Steward of the Games on the occasion, was so delighted with his genius that he gave him his daughter.
[56.5] It must have been a very wonderful picture, I think I hear some one say, to make the High Steward give his daughter to a stranger. Well, I have seen it—it is now in Italy—, so I can tell you. A fair chamber, with the bridal bed in it; Roxana seated—and a great beauty she is—with downcast eyes, troubled by the presence of Alexander, who is standing. Several smiling Loves; one stands behind Roxana, pulling away the veil on her head to show her to Alexander; another obsequiously draws off her sandal, suggesting bed-time; a third has hold of Alexander’s mantle, and is dragging him with all his might towards Roxana. The King is offering her a garland, and by him as supporter and groom’s-man is Hephaestion, holding a lighted torch and leaning on a very lovely boy; this is Hymenaeus, I conjecture, for there are no letters to show. On the other side of the picture, more Loves playing among Alexander’s armour; two are carrying his spear, as porters do a heavy beam; two more grasp the handles of the shield, tugging it along with another reclining on it, playing king, I suppose; and then another has got into the breast-plate, which lies hollow part upwards; he is in ambush, and will give the royal equipage a good fright when it comes within reach.
[56.6] All this is not idle fancy, on which the painter has been lavishing needless pains; he is hinting that Alexander has also another love, in War; though he loves Roxana, he does not forget his armour. And, by the way, there was some extra nuptial virtue in the picture itself, outside the realm of fancy; for it did Aëtion’s wooing for him. He departed with a wedding of his own as a sort of pendant to that of Alexander; his groom’s-man was the King; and the price of his marriage-piece was a marriage.
[56.7] Herodotus, then (to return to him), thought that the Olympic festival would serve a second purpose very well—that of revealing to the Greeks a wonderful historian who had related their victories as he had done. As for me—and in Heaven’s name do not suppose me so beside myself as to intend any comparison between my works and his; I desire his favour too much for that—but one experience I have in common with him. On my first visit to Macedonia, my thoughts too were busy with my best policy. My darling wish was to be known to you all, and to exhibit my writings to as many Macedonians as might be; I decided that it would be too great an undertaking at such a time of year to go round in person visiting city by city; but if I seized the occasion of this your meeting, appeared before you all, and delivered my discourse, my aspirations, I thought, might be realized that way.
[56.8] And now here are you met together, the élite of every city, the true soul of Macedonia; the town which lodges you is the chief of all, little enough resembling Pisa, with its crowding, its tents and hovels and stifling heat; there is as great a difference between this audience and that promiscuous crowd, mainly intent upon mere athletics, and thinking of Herodotus only as a stop-gap; here we have orators, historians, professors, the first in each kind—that is much in itself; my arena, it seems, need not suffer from comparison with Olympia. And though, if you insist on matching me with the Polydamases, Glaucuses, and Milos of literature, you must think me a very presumptuous person, it is open to you on the other hand to put them out of your thoughts altogether; and if you strip and examine me independently, you may decide that at least I need not be whipped¹. Considering the nature of the contest, I may well be satisfied with that measure of success.

## Zeuxis and Antiochus

[57.1] I was lately walking home after lecturing, when a number of my audience (you are now my friends, gentlemen, and there can be no objection to my telling you this)—these persons, then, came to me and introduced themselves, with the air of admiring hearers. They accompanied me a considerable way, with such laudatory exclamations that I was reduced to blushing at the discrepancy between praise and thing praised. Their chief point, which they were absolutely unanimous in emphasizing, was that the substance of my work was so fresh, so crammed with novelty. I had better give you their actual phrases: ‘How new! What paradoxes, to be sure! What invention the man has! His ideas are quite unequalled for originality.’ They said a great deal of this sort about my fascinating lecture, as they called it; they could have had no motive for pretending, or addressing such flatteries to a stranger who had no independent claims on their attention.
[57.2] These commendations, to be quite frank, were very far from gratifying to me; when at length they left me to myself, my reflections took this course:—So the only attraction in my work is that it is unusual, and does not follow the beaten track; good vocabulary, orthodox composition, insight, subtlety, Attic grace, general constructive skill—these may for aught I know be completely wanting; else indeed they would hardly have left them unnoticed, and approved my method only as new and startling. Fool that I was, I did indeed guess, when they jumped up to applaud, that novelty was part of the attraction; I knew that Homer spoke truly when he said there is favour for the new song; but I did not see that novelty was to have so vast a share—the whole, indeed—of the credit; I thought it gave a sort of adventitious charm, and contributed its part to the success, but that the real object of commendation—what extracted the cheers—was those other qualities. Why, I have been absurdly self-satisfied, and come very near believing them when they called me the one and only real Greek, and such nonsense. But behold, my gold is turned to ashes; my fame, after all, is little different from that enjoyed by a conjuror.
[57.3] Now I should like to give you an illustration from painting. The great Zeuxis, after he had established his artistic supremacy, seldom or never painted such common popular subjects as Heroes, Gods, and battle-pieces; he was always intent on novelty; he would hit upon some extravagant and strange design, and then use it to show his mastery of the art. One of these daring pieces of his represented a female Centaur, nursing a pair of infant Centaur twins. There is a copy of the picture now at Athens, taken exactly from the original. The latter is said to have been put on ship-board for Italy with the rest of Sulla’s art treasures, and to have been lost with them by the sinking of the ship, off Malea, I think it was. The picture of the picture I have seen, and the best word-picture I can manage of that I am now to give you; I am no connoisseur, you must understand, but I have a vivid recollection of it as I saw it in an Athenian studio not long ago; and my warm admiration of it as a work of art may perhaps inspire me with a clear description.
[57.4] On fresh green-sward appears the mother Centaur, the whole equine part of her stretched on the ground, her hoofs extended backwards; the human part is slightly raised on the elbows; the fore feet are not extended like the others, for she is only partially on her side; one of them is bent as in the act of kneeling, with the hoof tucked in, while the other is beginning to straighten and take a hold on the ground—the action of a horse rising. Of the cubs she is holding one in her arms suckling it in the human fashion, while the other is drawing at the mare’s dug like a foal. In the upper part of the picture, as on higher ground, is a Centaur who is clearly the husband of the nursing mother; he leans over laughing, visible only down to the middle of his horse body; he holds a lion whelp aloft in his right hand, terrifying the youngsters with it in sport.
[57.5] There are no doubt qualities in the painting which evade analysis by a mere amateur, and yet involve supreme craftsmanship—such things as precision of line, perfect mastery of the palette, clever brush-work, management of shadow, perspective, proportion, and relation of the parts to the whole; but I leave all that to the professionals whose business it is to appreciate it; what strikes me especially about Zeuxis is the manifold scope which he has found for his extraordinary skill, in a single subject. You have in the husband a truly terrible savage creature; his locks toss about, he is almost covered with hair, human part as well as equine; the shoulders high to monstrosity; the look, even in his merry mood, brutal, uncivilized, wild.
[57.6] In contrast with him, the animal half of the female is lovely; a Thessalian filly, yet unbroken and unbacked, might come nearest; and the human upper half is also most beautiful, with the one exception of the ears, which are pointed as in a satyr. At the point of junction which blends the two natures, there is no sharp line of division, but the most gradual of transitions; a touch here, a trait there, and you are surprised to find the change complete. It was perfectly wonderful, again, to see the combination of wildness and infancy, of terrible and tender, in the young ones, looking up in baby curiosity at the lion-cub, while they held on to breast and dug, and cuddled close to their dam.
[57.7] Zeuxis imagined that when the picture was shown the technique of it would take visitors by storm. Well, they did acclaim him; they could hardly help that, with such a masterpiece before them; but their commendations were all in the style of those given to me the other night; it was the strangeness of the idea, the fresh unhackneyed sentiment of the picture, and so on. Zeuxis saw that they were preoccupied with the novelty of his subject, art was at a discount, and truth of rendering quite a minor matter. ‘Oh, pack it up, Miccio,’ he said to his pupil, ‘and you and the others take it home; these people are delighted with the earthy part of the work; the questions of its aim, its beauty, its artistic merit, are of no importance whatever; novelty of subject goes for much more than truth of rendering.’
[57.8] So said Zeuxis, not in the best of tempers. Antiochus Soter had a somewhat similar experience about his battle with the Galatians. If you will allow me, I propose to give you an account of that event also. These people were good fighters, and on this occasion in great force; they were drawn up in a serried phalanx, the first rank, which consisted of steel-clad warriors, being supported by men of the ordinary heavy-armed type to the depth of four-and-twenty; twenty thousand cavalry held the flanks; and there were eighty scythed, and twice that number of ordinary war chariots ready to burst forth from the centre. These dispositions filled Antiochus with apprehension, and he thought the task was too hard for him. His own preparations had been hurried, on no great scale, and inadequate to the occasion; he had brought quite a small force, mostly of skirmishers and light-armed troops; more than half his men were without defensive armour. He was disposed to negotiate and find some honourable composition.
[57.9] Theodotas of Rhodes, however, a brave and skilful officer, put him in heart again. Antiochus had sixteen elephants; Theodotas advised him to conceal these as well as he could for the present, not letting their superior height betray them; when the signal for battle was given, the shock just at hand, the enemy’s cavalry charging, and their phalanx opening to give free passage to the chariots, then would be the time for the elephants. A section of four was to meet the cavalry on each flank, and the remaining eight to engage the chariot squadron. ‘By this means,’ he concluded, ‘the horses will be frightened, and there will be a stampede into the Galatian infantry.’ His anticipations were realized, thus:
[57.10] Neither the Galatians nor their horses had ever seen an elephant, and they were so taken aback by the strange sight that, long before the beasts came to close quarters, the mere sound of their trumpeting, the sight of their gleaming tusks relieved against dark bodies, and minatory waving trunks, was enough; before they were within bow-shot, the enemy broke and ran in utter disorder; the infantry were spitted on each other’s spears, and trampled by the cavalry who came scurrying on to them. The chariots, turning in like manner upon their own friends, whirled about among them by no means harmlessly; it was a Homeric scene of ‘rumbling tumbling cars’; when once the horses shied at those formidable elephants, off went the drivers, and ‘the lordless chariots rattled on,’ their scythes maiming and carving any of their late masters whom they came within reach of; and, in that chaos, many were the victims. Next came the elephants, trampling, tossing, tearing, goring; and a very complete victory they had made of it for Antiochus.
[57.11] The carnage was great, and all the Galatians were either killed or captured, with the exception of a quite small band which got off to the mountains; Antiochus’s Macedonians sang the Paean, gathered round, and garlanded him with acclamations on the glorious victory. But the King—so the story goes—was in tears; ‘My men,’ he said, ‘we have more reason for shame; saved by those sixteen brutes! if their strangeness had not produced the panic, where should we have been?’ And on the trophy he would have nothing carved except just an elephant.
[57.12] Gentlemen, de me fabula; are my resources like those of Antiochus—quite unfit for battle on the whole, but including some elephants, some queer impositions, some jugglery, in fact? That is what all the praise I hear points at. The things I really relied upon seem to be of little account; the mere fact that my picture is of a female Centaur exercises fascination; it passes for a novelty and a marvel, as indeed it is. The rest of Zeuxis’s pains is thrown away, I suppose. But ah, no, not thrown away—; you are connoisseurs, and judge by the rules of art. I only hope the show may be worthy of the spectators.

## A Slip of the Tongue in Salutation²

[58.1] If a poor mortal has some difficulty in guarding against that spirit of mischief which dwells aloft, he has still more in clearing himself of the absurd consequences when that spirit trips him up. I am in both predicaments at once; coming to make you my morning salutation, which should have taken the orthodox form of Rejoice, I bade you, in a very choice fit of absent-mindedness, Be healthy—a good enough wish in its way, but a little untimely and unconnected with that early hour. I at once went moist and red, not quite aware whether I was on my head or my heels; some of the company took me for a lunatic, no doubt, some thought I was in my second childhood, some that I had not quite got over my last night’s wine—though you yourself were the pink of good manners, not showing your consciousness of the slip by any ghost of a smile. It occurred to me to write to myself a little something in the way of comfort, and so modify the distress my blunder gave me—prove to myself that it was not absolutely unpardonable for an old man to transgress etiquette so flagrantly before so many witnesses. As to apology, there could be no occasion for that, when one’s slip had resulted in so well-omened a wish.
[58.2] I began to write expecting my task to be very difficult, but found plenty of material as I went on. I will defer it, however, till I have cleared the way with a few necessary remarks on the three forms—Rejoice or Joy, Prosper or Prosperity, Hail or Health. Joy is a very ancient greeting; but it was not confined to the morning, or the first meeting. They did use it when they first saw one another:
Joy to thee, Lord of this Tirynthian land!
But again at the moment when the wine succeeded to the meal:
Achilles, Joy! We lack not fair repast—
so says Odysseus discharging his embassy. And even at parting:
Joy be with you! And henceforth know me God,
No longer mortal man.
In fact the apostrophe was not limited to any particular season, as now to the morning alone; indeed they used it on gloomy, nay, on the most lamentable occasions; in Euripides, Polynices ends his life with the words,
Joy with you! for the darkness closes on me.
Nor was it necessarily significative of friendliness; it could express hatred and the determination to see no more of another. To wish much joy to, was a regular form for ceasing to care about.
[58.3] The modern use of the word dates back to Philippides the dispatch-runner. Bringing the news of Marathon, he found the archons seated, in suspense regarding the issue of the battle. ‘Joy, we win!’ he said, and died upon his message, breathing his last in the word Joy. The earliest letter beginning with it is that in which Cleon the Athenian demagogue, writing from Sphacteria, sends the good news of his victory and capture of Spartans at that place. However, later than that we find Nicias writing from Sicily and keeping to the older custom of coming to business at once with no such introduction.
[58.4] Now the admirable Plato, no bad authority on such matters, would have us reject the salutation Joy altogether; it is a mean wish, wanting in seriousness, according to him; his substitute is Prosperity, which stands for a satisfactory condition both of body and soul; in a letter to Dionysius, he reproves him for commencing a hymn to Apollo with Joy, which he maintains is unworthy of the Pythian, and not fit even for men of any discretion, not to mention Gods.
[58.5] Pythagoras the mystic has vouchsafed us no writings of his own; but we may infer from his disciples, Ocellus the Lucanian and Archytas, for instance, that he headed his letters neither with Joy nor Prosperity, but recommended beginning with Hail. At any rate all the Pythagoreans in writing to one another (when their tone is serious, that is) started with wishing Health, which they took to be the prime need of soul and body alike, and to include all human blessings. The Pentagram³, that interlaced triple triangle which served them as a sort of password, they called by the name Health. They argued that Health included Joy and Prosperity, but that neither of those two was coextensive with Health. Some of them gave to the Quaternion⁴, which is their most solemn oath, and sums their perfect number, the name of Beginning of Health. Philolaus might be quoted.
[58.6] But I need hardly go so far back. Epicurus assuredly rejoiced in joy—pleasure was the chief Good in his eyes; yet in his most earnest letters (which are not very numerous), and in those to his most intimate friends, he starts with Hail. And in tragedy and the old comedy you will constantly find it used quite at the beginning. You remember,
Hail to thee, joy be thine—
which puts health before rejoicing clearly enough. And says Alexis:
All hail, my lord; after long time thou comest.
Again Achaeus:
I come in sorry plight, yet wish thee health.
And Philemon:
Health first I ask, and next prosperity,
Joy thirdly, and to owe not any man.
As for the writer of the drinking-song mentioned in Plato, what says he?—‘Best is health, and second beauty, and third wealth’; joy he never so much as names. I need hardly adduce the trite saw:
Chief of them that blessings give,
Health, with thee I mean to live.
But, if Health is chief, her gift, which is the enjoyment of health, should rank before other Goods.
[58.7] I could multiply these examples by the thousand from poets, historians, philosophers, who give Health the place of honour; but you will not require any such childish pedantry of me, wiping out my original offence by another; I shall do better to add a historical anecdote or two which occur to me as relevant.
[58.8] Eumenes of Cardia, writing to Antipater, states that just before the battle of Issus, Hephaestion came at dawn into Alexander’s tent. Either in absence of mind and confusion like mine, or else under a divine impulse, he gave the evening salutation like me—‘Hail, sire; ’tis time we were at our posts.’ All present were confounded at the irregularity, and Hephaestion himself was like to die of shame, when Alexander said, ‘I take the omen; it is a promise that we shall come back safe from battle.’
[58.9] Antiochus Soter, about to engage the Galatians, dreamed that Alexander stood over him and told him to give his men the password Health; and with this word it was that he won that marvellous victory.
[58.10] Ptolemy, the son of Lagus, in a letter to Seleucus, just reversed the usual order, bidding him Hail at the beginning, and adding Rejoice at the end instead of wishing him Health; this is recorded by Dionysodorus, the collector of his letters.
[58.11] The case of Pyrrhus the Epirot is well worth mention; as a general he was only second to Alexander, and he experienced a thousand vicissitudes of fortune. In all his prayers, sacrifices, and offerings, he never asked for victory or increase of his royal dignity, for fame or excessive wealth; his whole prayer was always in one word, Health; as long as he had that, he thought all else would come of itself. And it was true wisdom, in my opinion; he remembered that all other good things are worthless, if health is wanting.
[58.12] Oh, certainly (says some one); but we have assigned each form to its proper place by this time; and if you disregard that—even though there was no bad meaning in what you did say—you cannot fairly claim to have made no mistake; it is as though one should put a helmet on the shins, or greaves on the head. My dear sir (I reply), your simile would go on all fours if there were any season at all which did not require health; but in point of fact it is needed in the morning and at noonday and at night—especially by busy rulers like you Romans, to whom physical condition is so important. And again, the man who gives you Joy is only beginning auspiciously; it is no more than a prayer; whereas he who bids you Hail is doing you a practical service in reminding you of the means to health; his is more than a prayer, it is a precept.
[58.13] Why, in that book of instructions which you all receive from the Emperor, is not the first recommendation to take care of your health? Quite rightly; that is the condition precedent of efficiency. Moreover, if I know any Latin, you yourselves, in returning a salutation, constantly use the equivalent of Health.
[58.14] However, all this does not mean that I have deliberately abandoned Rejoice and substituted Hail for it. I admit that it was quite unintentional; I am not so foolish as to innovate like that, and exchange the regular formulae.
[58.15] No, I only thank Heaven that my stumble had such very fortunate results, landing me in a better position than I had designed; may it not be that Health itself, or Asclepius, inspired me to give you this promise of health? How else should it have befallen me? In the course of a long life I have never been guilty of such a confusion before.
[58.16] Or, if I may not have recourse to the supernatural, it is no wonder that my extreme desire to be known to you for good should so confuse me as to work the contrary effect. Possibly, too, one might be robbed of one’s presence of mind by the crowd of military persons pushing for precedence, or treating the salutation ceremony in their cavalier fashion.
[58.17] As to yourself, I feel sure that, however others may have referred it to stupidity, ignorance, or lunacy, you took it as the sign of a modest, simple, unspoiled, unsophisticated soul. Absolute confidence in such matters comes dangerously near audacity and impudence. My first wish would be to make no such blunder; my second that, if I did, the resulting omen should be good.
[58.18] There is a story told of the first Augustus. He had given a correct legal decision, which acquitted a maligned person of a most serious charge. The latter expressed his gratitude in a loud voice, thus:—‘I thank your majesty for this bad and inequitable verdict.’ Augustus’s attendants raged, and were ready to tear the man to pieces. But the Emperor restrained them; ‘Never mind what he said; it is what he meant that matters.’ That was Augustus’s view. Well, take my meaning, and it was good; or take my word, and it was auspicious.
[58.19] And now that I have got to this point, I have reason to fear that I may be suspected of having made the slip on purpose, leading up to this apology. O God of health, only grant me that the quality of my piece may justify the notion that I wanted no more than a peg whereon to hang an essay!

## Apology for ‘The Dependent Scholar’

[59.1] Dear Sabinus,
[59.1] I have been guessing how you are likely to have expressed yourself upon reading my essay about dependants. I feel pretty sure you read it all and had a laugh over it; but it is your running and general comment in words that I am trying to piece on to it. If I am any good at divination, this is the sort of thing: To think that a man can set down such a scathing indictment of the life, and then forget it all, get hold of the other end of the stick, and plunge headlong into such manifest conspicuous slavery! Take Midas, Croesus, golden Pactolus, roll them into one, multiply them, and could they induce him to relinquish the freedom which he has loved and consorted with from a child? He is nearly in the clutches of Aeacus, one foot is on the ferryman’s boat, and it is now that he lets himself be dragged submissively about by a golden collar⁵. There is some slight inconsistency between his life and his treatise; the rivers are running up-hill; topsy-turvydom prevails; our recantations are new-fashioned; the first palinodist⁶ mended words with words for Helen of Troy; but we spoil words (those words we thought so wise) with deeds.
[59.2] Such, I imagine, were your inward remarks. And I dare say you will give me some overt advice to the same effect; well, it will not be ill-timed; it will illustrate your friendship, and do you credit as a good man and a philosopher. If I render your part respectably for you, that will do, and we will pay our homage to the God of words⁷; if I fail, you will fill in the deficiency for yourself. There, the stage is ready; I am to hold my tongue, and submit to any necessary carving and cauterizing for my good, and you are to plaster me, and have your scalpel handy, and your iron red-hot. Sabinus takes the word, and thus addresses me:
[59.3] My dear friend, this treatise of yours has quite rightly been earning you a fine reputation, from its first delivery before the great audience I had described to me, to its private use by the educated who have consulted and thumbed it since. For indeed it presents the case meritoriously; there is study of detail and experience of life in abundance; your views are the reverse of vague; and above all the book is practically useful, chiefly but not exclusively to the educated whom it might save from an unforeseen slavery. However, your mind is changed; the life you described is now the better; good-bye to freedom; your motto is that contemptible line:
Give me but gain, I’ll turn from free to slave.
Let none hear the lecture from you again, then; see to it that no copy of it comes under the eyes of any one aware of your present life; ask Hermes to bring Lethe-water from below, enough to drug your former hearers; else you will remind us of the Corinthian tale, and your writing, like Bellerophon’s, be your own condemnation. I assure you I see no decent defence you can make, at least if your detractors have the humour to commend the independence of the writings while the writer is a slave and a voluntary beast of burden before their eyes.
[59.4] They will say with some plausibility: Either the book is some other good man’s work, and you a jackdaw strutting in borrowed plumes; or, if it is really yours, you are a second Salaethus; the Crotoniate legislator made most severe laws against adultery, was much looked up to on the strength of it, and was shortly after taken in adultery with his brother’s wife. You are an exact reproduction of Salaethus, they will say; or rather he was not half so bad as you, seeing that he was mastered by passion, as he pleaded in court, and moreover preferred to leap into the flames, like a brave man, when the Crotoniates were moved to compassion and gave him the alternative of exile. The difference between your precept and practice is infinitely more ridiculous; you draw a realistic word-picture of that servile life; you pour contempt on the man who runs into the trap of a rich man’s house, where a thousand degradations, half of them self-inflicted, await him; and then in extreme old age, when you are on the border between life and death, you take this miserable servitude upon you and make a sort of circus exhibition of your chains. The conspicuousness of your position will only make the more ridiculous that contrast between your book and your life.
[59.5] But I need not beat my brains for phrases of reprobation; there is one good enough in a noble tragedy:
Wisdom begins at home; no wisdom, else.
And your censors will find no lack of illustrations against you; some will compare you to the tragic actor; on the stage he is Agamemnon or Creon or great Heracles; but off it, stripped of his mask, he is just Polus or Aristodemus, a hireling liable to be hissed off, or even whipped on occasion, at the pleasure of the audience. Others will say you have had the experience of Queen Cleopatra’s monkey: the docile creature used to dance in perfect form and time, and was much admired for the regularity and decorum of its movements, adapted to the voices and instruments of a bridal chorus; alas, one day it spied a fig or almond a little way off on the ground; flutes and measures and steps were all forgotten, the mask was far off in several pieces, and there was he chewing his find.
[59.6] You, they will say, are the author (for ‘actor’ would understate the case) who has laid down the laws of noble conduct; and no sooner is the lump of figs presented than the monkey is revealed; your lips are the lips of a philosopher, and your heart is quite other; it is no injustice to say that those sentiments for which you claim admiration have ‘wetted your lips, and left your palate dry.’ You have not had to wait long for retribution; you spoke unadvisedly in scorn of human needs; and, this little while after, behold you making public renunciation of your freedom! Surely Nemesis was standing behind your back as you drank in the flattering tributes to your superiority; did she not smile in her divine fore-knowledge of the impending change, and mark how you forgot to propitiate her before you assailed the victims whom fortune’s mutability had reduced to such courses?
[59.7] Now I want you to imagine a rhetorician writing on the theme that Aeschines, after his indictment of Timarchus, was himself proved guilty by eyewitnesses of similar iniquity; would, or would not, the amusement of the audience be heightened by the fact that he had got Timarchus punished for offences excused by youth, whereas he was himself an old man at the time of his own guilt? Why, you are like the quack who offered a cough-mixture which was to cure instantaneously, and could hardly get the promise out for coughing.
[59.8] Yes, Sabinus, and there is plenty more of the same sort for an accuser like you to urge; the subject is all handles; you can take hold of it anywhere. I have been looking about for my best line of defence. Had I better turn craven, face right-about, confess my sin, and have recourse to the regular plea of Chance, Fate, Necessity? Shall I humbly beseech my critics to pardon me, remembering that nothing is in a man’s own choice—we are led by some stronger power, one of the three I mentioned, probably, and are not true agents but guiltless altogether, whatever we say or do? Or will you tell me this might do well enough for one of the common herd, but you cannot have me sheltering myself so? I must not brief Homer; it will not serve me to plead:
No mortal man e’er yet escaped his fate;
nor again,
His thread was spun, then when his mother bare him.
[59.9] On the other hand, I might avoid that plea as wanting in plausibility, and say that I did not accept this association under the temptation of money or any prospects of that kind, but in pure admiration of the wisdom, strength, and magnanimity of my patron’s character, which inspired the wish to partake his activity. But I fear I should only have brought on myself the additional imputation of flattery. It would be a case of ‘one nail drives out one nail,’ and this time the one left in would be the bigger; for flattery is the most servile, and consequently reckoned the worst, of all vices.
[59.10] Both these pleas, then, being excluded, what is left me but to confess that I have no sound defence to make? I have indeed one anchor yet aboard: I may whine over age and ill health, and their attendant poverty, from which a man will purchase escape at any cost. The situation tempts me to send an invitation to Euripides’s Medea: will she come and recite certain lines of hers on my behalf, kindly making the slight changes needed?—
Too well I know how monstrous is the deed;
My poverty, but not my will, consents.
And every one knows the place in Theognis, whether I quote it or not, where he approves of people’s flinging themselves to the unplumbed deep from sky-pointing crags, if one may be quit of poverty that way.
[59.11] That about exhausts the obvious lines of defence; and none of them is very promising. But never fear, my friend, I am not going to try any of them. May never Argos be so hard put to it that Cyllarabis must be sown! nor ever I be in such straits for a tolerable defence as to be driven upon these evasions! No, I only ask you to consider the vast difference between being a hireling in a rich man’s house, where one is a slave, and must put up with all that is described in my book—between that and entering the public service, doing one’s best as an administrator, and taking the Emperor’s pay for it. Go fully into the matter; take the two things separately and have a good look at them; you will find that they are two octaves apart, as the musical people say; the two lives are about as like each other as lead is to silver, bronze to gold, an anemone to a rose, a monkey to a man; there is pay, and there is subordination, in each case; but the essence of the two things is utterly different. In one we have manifest slavery; the new-comers who accept the terms are barely distinguishable from the human chattels a man has bought or bred; but persons who have the management of public business, and give their services to states and nations, are not to have insinuations aimed at them just because they are paid; that single point of resemblance is not to level them down to the others. If that is to be the principle, we had better do away with all such offices at once; governors of whole provinces, prefects of cities, commanders of legions and armies, will all fall under the same condemnation; for they are paid. But of course everything is not to be upset to suit a single case; all who receive pay are not to be lumped together.
[59.12] It is all a mistake; I never said that all drawers of salaries lived a degraded life; I only pitied those domestic slaves who have been caught by compliments on their culture. My position, you see, is entirely different; my private relations are as they were before, though in a public capacity I am now an active part of the great Imperial machine. If you care to inquire, you will find that my charge is not the least important in the government of Egypt. I control the cause-list, see that trials are properly conducted, keep a record of all proceedings and pleas, exercise censorship over forensic oratory, and edit the Emperor’s rescripts with a view to their official and permanent preservation in the most lucid, accurate, and genuine form. My salary comes from no private person, but from the Emperor; and it is considerable, amounting to many hundreds. In the future too there is before me the brilliant prospect of attaining in due course to a governorship or other distinguished employment.
[59.13] Accordingly I am now going to throw off reserve, come to grips with the charge against me, and prove my case a fortiori. I tell you that nobody does anything for nothing; you may point to people in high places—as high as you like; the Emperor himself is paid. I am not referring to the taxes and tribute which flow in annually from subjects; the chief item in the Emperor’s pay is panegyrics, world-wide fame, and grateful devotion; the statues, temples, and consecrated ground which their subjects bestow upon them, what are these but pay for the care and forethought which they apply to public policy and improvements? To compare small things with great, if you will begin at the top of the heap and work down through the grains of which it is composed, you will find that we inferior ones differ from the superior in point of size, but all are wage-earners together.
[59.14] If the law I laid down had been that no one should do anything, I might fairly have been accused of transgressing it; but as my book contains nothing of the sort, and as goodness consists in doing good, what better use can you make of yourself than if you join forces with your friends in the cause of progress, come out into the open, and let men see that you are loyal and zealous and careful of your trust, not what Homer calls a vain cumberer of the earth?
[59.15] But before all, my critics are to remember that in me they will be criticizing not a wise man (if indeed there is such a person on earth), but one of the common people, one who has indeed practised rhetoric and won some little reputation therein, but has never been trained up to the perfect virtue of the really great. Well, I may surely be forgiven for that; if any one ever did come up to the ideal of the wise man, it has not been my fortune to meet him. And I confess further that I should be disappointed if I found you criticizing my present life; you knew me long ago when I was making a handsome income out of the public profession of rhetoric; for on that Atlantic tour of yours which included Gaul, you found me numbered among those teachers who could command high fees. Now, my friend, you have my defence; I am exceedingly busy, but could not be indifferent to securing your vote of acquittal; as for others, let them all denounce me with one voice if they will; on them I shall waste no more words than, What cares Hippoclides?

## Harmonides

[60.1] ‘Tell me, Timotheus,’ said Harmonides the flute-player one day to his teacher, ‘tell me how I may win distinction in my art. What can I do to make myself known all over Greece? Everything but this you have taught me. I have a correct ear, thanks to you, and a smooth, even delivery, and have acquired the light touch so essential to the rendering of rapid measures; rhythmical effect, the adaptation of music to dance, the true character of the different moods—exalted Phrygian, joyous Lydian, majestic Dorian, voluptuous Ionic—all these I have mastered with your assistance. But the prime object of my musical aspirations seems out of my reach: I mean popular esteem, distinction, and notoriety; I would have all eyes turn in my direction, all tongues repeat my name: “There goes Harmonides, the great flute-player.” Now when you first came from your home in Boeotia, and performed in the Procne, and won the prize for your rendering of the Ajax Furens, composed by your namesake, there was not a man who did not know the name of Timotheus of Thebes; and in these days you have only to show yourself, and people flock together as birds do at the sight of an owl in daylight. It is for this that I sought to become a flute-player; this was to be the reward of all my toil. The skill without the glory I would not take at a gift, not though I should prove to be a Marsyas or an Olympus in disguise. What is the use of a light that is to be hidden under a bushel? Show me then, Timotheus, how I may avail myself of my powers and of my art. I shall be doubly your debtor: not for my skill alone, but for the glory that skill confers.’
[60.2] ‘Why, really,’ says Timotheus, ‘it is no such easy matter, Harmonides, to become a public character, or to gain the prestige and distinction to which you aspire; and if you propose to set about it by performing in public, you will find it a long business, and at the best will never achieve a universal reputation. Where will you find a theatre or circus large enough to admit the whole nation as your audience? But if you would attain your object and become known, take this hint. By all means perform occasionally in the theatres, but do not concern yourself with the public. Here is the royal road to fame: get together a small and select audience of connoisseurs, real experts, whose praise, whose blame are equally to be relied upon; display your skill to these; and if you can win their approval, you may rest content that in a single hour you have gained a national reputation. I argue thus. If you are known to be an admirable performer by persons who are themselves universally known and admired, what have you to do with public opinion? Public opinion must inevitably follow the opinion of the best judges. The public after all is mainly composed of untutored minds, that know not good from bad themselves; but when they hear a man praised by the great authorities, they take it for granted that he is not undeserving of praise, and praise him accordingly. It is the same at the games: most of the spectators know enough to clap or hiss, but the judging is done by some five or six persons.’
[60.2] Harmonides had no time to put this policy into practice. The story goes that in his first public competition he worked so energetically at his flute, that he breathed his last into it, and expired then and there, before he could be crowned. His first Dionysiac performance was also his last.
[60.3] But Timotheus’s remarks need not be confined to Harmonides, nor to his profession: they seem applicable to all whose ambition prompts them to exhibit their talents and to aim at the approbation of the public. Accordingly, when I, like Harmonides, was debating within myself the speediest means of becoming known, I took Timotheus’s advice: ‘Who,’ I asked myself, ‘is the foremost man in all this city? Whose credit is highest with his neighbours? Who shall be my multum in parvo?’ Only one name could reasonably suggest itself—your own; which stands for the perfection of every excellence, the glass of culture and the mould of wit. To submit my works to you, to win your approbation—if such a thing might be!—were to reach the goal of my desire; for your suffrage carries the rest with it. Whom, indeed, could I substitute in your place, and hope to preserve a reputation for sanity? In a sense, no doubt, I shall be hazarding all on one cast of the die: yet with more truth I might be said to have summoned the whole population into one audience-chamber; for your single judgement must assuredly outweigh the rest, taken individually or collectively. The Spartan kings had two votes each to the ordinary man’s one: but you are a whole Privy Council and Senate in yourself. Your influence is unequalled in the Court of Literature, and, above all, yours is the casting-vote of acquittal; an encouraging thought for me, who might well be uneasy otherwise at the extent of my hardihood. Moreover, I am not wholly without a claim on your interest, as belonging to that city which has so often enjoyed peculiar benefits at your hand, in addition to those which it has shared with the nation at large; and this encourages me to hope that in the present instance, if judgement is going against me, and the votes of acquittal are in a minority, you will use your prerogative, and make all right with that casting-vote of yours.
[60.4] I may have had successes, I may have made a name, my lectures may have been well received:—all this amounts to nothing; it is visionary; it is a mere bubble. The truth must come to light now; I am put to a final test; there will be no room for doubt or hesitation after this. It rests with you, whether my literary rank shall be assured, or my pretensions—but no! with such a contest before me, I will abstain from words of evil omen.
[60.4] Ye Gods, give me approval here, and set the seal upon my reputation! I may then face the world with a light heart: he who has carried the prize at Olympia need fear no other course.

## A Word with Hesiod

[61.1] Lycinus. As to your being a first-rate poet, Hesiod, we do not doubt that, any more than we doubt your having received the gift from the Muses, together with that laurel-branch; it is sufficiently proved by the noble inspiration that breathes in every line of your works. But there is one point on which we may be excused for feeling some perplexity. You begin by telling us that your divine gifts were bestowed upon you by Heaven in order that you might sing of the glories that have been, and tell of that which is to come. Well, now, one half of your duties you have admirably performed. You have traced back the genealogy of the Gods to Chaos and Ge and Uranus and Eros; you have specified the feminine virtues; and you have given advice to the farmer, adding complete information with reference to the Pleiads, the seasons suitable for ploughing, reaping, and sailing,—and I know not what besides. But that far diviner gift, which would have been of so much more practical utility to your readers, you do not exercise at all: the soothsaying department is entirely overlooked. We find no parallel in your poems to those prophetic utterances which Calchas, and Telemus, and Polyidus, and Phineus—persons less favoured by the Muses than yourself—were wont to dispense freely to all applicants.
[61.2] Now in these circumstances, you must plead guilty to one of three charges. Either the alleged promise of the Muses to disclose the future to you was never given, and you are—excuse the expression—a liar: or it was given, and fulfilled, but you, niggard, have quietly pocketed the information, and refuse to impart it to them that have need: or, thirdly, you have composed a number of prophetic works, but have not yet given them to the world; they are reserved for some more suitable occasion. I do not presume to suggest, as a fourth possibility, that the Muses have only fulfilled half of their promise, and revoked the other,—which, observe, is recorded first in your poem.
[61.3] Now, if you will not enlighten me on this subject, who can? As the Gods are ‘givers of good,’ so you, their friends and pupils, should impart your knowledge frankly, and set our doubts at rest.
[61.4] Hesiod. My poor friend, there is one very simple answer to all your questions: I might tell you that not one of my poems is my own work; all is the Muses’, and to them I might refer you for all that has been said and left unsaid. For what came of my own knowledge, of pasturage, of milking, of driving afield, and all that belongs to the herdsman’s art, I may fairly be held responsible: but for the Goddesses,—they give whatso they will to whom they will.—
[61.5] Apart from this, however, I have the usual poet’s apology. The poet, I conceive, is not to be called to account in this minute fashion, syllable by syllable. If in the fervour of composition a word slip in unawares, search not too narrowly; remember that with us metre and euphony have much to answer for; and then there are certain amplifications—certain elegances—that insinuate themselves into a verse, one scarce knows how. Sir, you would rob us of our highest prerogative, our freedom, our unfettered movement. Blind to the flowers of poetry, you are intent upon its thorns, upon those little flaws that give a handle to malicious criticism. But there! you are not the only offender, nor I the only victim: in the trivial defects of Homer, my fellow craftsman, many a carping spirit has found material for similar hair-splitting disquisitions.
[61.6] —Come, now, I will meet my accuser on fair ground, face to face. Read, fellow, in my Works and Days: mark the inspired prophecies there set forth: the doom foretold to the negligent, the success promised to him that labours aright and in due season.
One basket shall suffice to store thy grain,
And men shall not regard thee.
Could there be a more timely warning, balanced as it is by the prospect of abundance held out to him that follows the true method of agriculture?
[61.7] Lycinus. Admirable; and spoken like a true herdsman. There is no doubting the divine afflatus after that: left to yourself, you cannot so much as defend your own poems. At the same time, this is not quite the sort of thing we expect of Hesiod and the Muses combined. You see, in this particular branch of prophecy, you are quite outclassed by the farmers: they are perfectly qualified to inform us that if the rain comes there will be a heavy crop, and that a drought, on the other hand, will inevitably be followed by scarcity; that midsummer is not a good time to begin ploughing if you wish your seed to do anything, and that you will find no grain in the ear if you reap it when it is green. Nor do we want a prophet to tell us that the sower must be followed by a labourer armed with a spade, to cover up the seed; otherwise, the birds will come and consume his prospective harvest.
[61.8] Call these useful suggestions, if you like: but they are very far from my idea of prophecy. I expect a prophet to penetrate into secrets wholly hidden from our eyes: the prophet informs Minos that he will find his son drowned in a jar of honey; he explains to the Achaeans the cause of Apollo’s resentment; he specifies the precise year in which Troy will be captured. That is prophecy. But if the term is to be so extended, then I shall be glad to have my own claims recognized without loss of time. I undertake, without the assistance of Castalian waters, laurel-branches, or Delphian tripods, to foretell and prognosticate: That if a man walk out on a cold morning with nothing on, he will take a severe chill; and particularly if it happens to be raining or hailing at the time. And I further prophesy: That his chill will be accompanied by the usual fever; together with other circumstances which it would be superfluous to mention.
[61.9] No, Hesiod: your defence will not do; nor will your prophecies. But I dare say there is something in what you said at first—that you knew not what you wrote, by reason of the divine afflatus versifying within you. And that afflatus was no such great matter, either: afflatuses should not promise more than they mean to perform.

## The Scythian

[62.1] Anacharsis was not the first Scythian who was induced by the love of Greek culture to leave his native country and visit Athens: he had been preceded by Toxaris, a man of high ability and noble sentiments, and an eager student of manners and customs; but of low origin, not like Anacharsis a member of the royal family or of the aristocracy of his country, but what they call ‘an eight-hoof man,’ a term which implies the possession of a waggon and two oxen. Toxaris never returned to Scythia, but died at Athens, where he presently came to be ranked among the Heroes; and sacrifice is still paid to ‘the Foreign Physician,’ as he was styled after his deification. Some account of the significance of this name, the origin of his worship, and his connexion with the sons of Asclepius, will not, I think, be out of place: for it will be seen from this that the Scythians, in conferring immortality on mortals, and sending them to keep company with Zamolxis, do not stand alone; since the Athenians permit themselves to make Gods of Scythians upon Greek soil.
[62.2] At the time of the great plague, the wife of Architeles the Areopagite had a vision: the Scythian Toxaris stood over her and commanded her to tell the Athenians that the plague would cease if they would sprinkle their back-streets with wine. The Athenians attended to his instructions, and after several sprinklings had been performed, the plague troubled them no more; whether it was that the perfume of the wine neutralized certain noxious vapours, or that the hero, being a medical hero, had some other motive for his advice. However that may be, he continues to this day to draw a fee for his professional services, in the shape of a white horse, which is sacrificed on his tomb. This tomb was pointed out by Dimaenete as the place from which he issued with his instructions about the wine; and beneath it Toxaris was found buried, his identity being established not merely by the inscription, of which only a part remained legible, but also by the figure engraved on the monument, which was that of a Scythian, with a bow, ready strung, in his left hand, and in the right what appeared to be a book. You may still make out more than half the figure, with the bow and book complete: but the upper portion of the stone, including the face, has suffered from the ravages of time. It is situated not far from the Dipylus, on your left as you leave the Dipylus for the Academy. The mound is of no great size, and the pillar lies prostrate: yet it never lacks a garland, and there are statements to the effect that fever-patients have been known to be cured by the hero; which indeed is not surprising, considering that he once healed an entire city.
[62.3] However, my reason for mentioning Toxaris was this. He was still alive, when Anacharsis landed at Piraeus and made his way up to Athens, in no small perturbation of spirit; a foreigner and a barbarian, everything was strange to him, and many things caused him uneasiness; he knew not what to do with himself; he saw that every one was laughing at his attire; he could find no one to speak his native tongue;—in short he was heartily sick of his travels, and made up his mind that he would just see Athens, and then retreat to his ship without loss of time, get on board, and so back to the Bosphorus; once there he had no great journey to perform before he would be home again. In this frame of mind he had already reached the Ceramicus, when his good genius appeared to him in the guise of Toxaris. The attention of the latter was immediately arrested by the dress of his native country, nor was it likely that he would have any difficulty in recognizing Anacharsis, who was of noble birth and of the highest rank in Scythia. Anacharsis, on the other hand, could not be expected to see a compatriot in Toxaris, who was dressed in the Greek fashion, without sword or belt, wore no beard, and from his fluent speech might have been an Athenian born; so completely had time transformed him.
[62.4] ‘You are surely Anacharsis, the son of Daucetas?’ he said, addressing him in the Scythian language. Anacharsis wept tears of joy; he not only heard his mother-tongue, but heard it from one who had known him in Scythia. ‘How comes it, sir, that you know me?’ he asked. ‘I too am of that country; my name is Toxaris; but it is probably not known to you, for I am a man of no family.’
[62.4] ‘Are you that Toxaris,’ exclaimed the other, ‘of whom I heard that for love of Greece he had left wife and children in Scythia, and gone to Athens, and was there dwelling in high honour?’
[62.4] ‘What, is my name still remembered among you?—Yes, I am Toxaris.’ ‘Then,’ said Anacharsis, ‘you see before you a disciple, who has caught your enthusiasm for Greece; it was with no other object than this that I set out on my travels. The hardships I have endured in the countries through which I passed on my way hither are infinite; and I had already decided, when I met you, that before the sun set I would return to my ship; so much was I disturbed at the strange and outlandish sights that I have seen. And now, Toxaris, I adjure you by Scimetar and Zamolxis, our country’s Gods,—take me by the hand, be my guide, and make me acquainted with all that is best in Athens and in the rest of Greece; their great men, their wise laws, their customs, their assemblies, their constitution, their everyday life. You and I have both travelled far to see these things: you will not suffer me to depart without seeing them?’
[62.5] ‘What! come to the very door, and then turn back? This is not the language of enthusiasm. However, there is no fear of that—you will not go back, Athens will not let you off so easily. She is not so much at a loss for charms wherewith to detain the stranger: she will take such a hold on you, that you will forget your own wife and children—if you have any. Now I will put you into the readiest way of seeing Athens, ay, and Greece, and the glories of Greece. There is a certain philosopher living here; he is an Athenian, but has travelled a great deal in Asia and Egypt, and held intercourse with the most eminent men. For the rest, he is none of your moneyed men: indeed, he is quite poor; be prepared for an old man, dressed as plainly as could be. Yet his virtue and wisdom are held in such esteem, that he was employed by them to draw up a constitution, and his ordinances form their rule of life. Make this man your friend, study him, and rest assured that in knowing him you know Greece; for he is an epitome of all that is excellent in the Greek character. I can do you no greater service than to introduce you to him.’
[62.5] ‘Let us lose no time, then, Toxaris. Take me to him.
[62.6] But perhaps that is not so easily done? He may slight your intercessions on my behalf?’
[62.6] ‘You know not what you say. Nothing gives him greater pleasure than to have an opportunity of showing his hospitality to strangers. Only follow me, and you shall see how courteous and benevolent he is, and how devout a worshipper of the God of Hospitality. But stay: how fortunate! here he comes towards us. See, he is wrapped in thought, and mutters to himself.—Solon!’ he cried;
[62.7] ‘I bring you the best of gifts—a stranger who craves your friendship. He is a Scythian of noble family; but has left all and come here to enjoy the society of Greeks, and to view the wonders of their country. I have hit upon a simple expedient which will enable him to do both, to see all that is to be seen, and to form the most desirable acquaintances: in other words, I have brought him to Solon, who, if I know anything of his character, will not refuse to take him under his protection, and to make him a Greek among Greeks.—It is as I told you, Anacharsis: having seen Solon, you have seen all; behold Athens; behold Greece. You are a stranger no longer: all men know you, all men are your friends; this it is to possess the friendship of the venerable Solon. Conversing with him, you will forget Scythia and all that is in it. Your toils are rewarded, your desire is fulfilled. In him you have the mainspring of Greek civilization, in him the ideals of Athenian philosophers are realized. Happy man—if you know your happiness—to be the friend and intimate of Solon!’
[62.8] It would take too long to describe the pleasure of Solon at Toxaris’s ‘gift,’ his words on the occasion, and his subsequent intercourse with Anacharsis—how he gave him the most valuable instruction, procured him the friendship of all Athens, showed him the sights of Greece, and took every trouble to make his stay in the country a pleasant one; and how Anacharsis for his part regarded the sage with such reverence, that he was never willingly absent from his side. Suffice it to say, that the promise of Toxaris was fulfilled: thanks to Solon’s good offices, Anacharsis speedily became familiar with Greece and with Greek society, in which he was treated with the consideration due to one who came thus strongly recommended; for here too Solon was a lawgiver: those whom he esteemed were loved and admired by all. Finally, if we may believe the statement of Theoxenus, Anacharsis was presented with the freedom of the city, and initiated into the mysteries; nor does it seem likely that he would ever have returned to Scythia, had not Solon died.
[62.9] And now perhaps I had better put the moral to my tale, if it is not to wander about in a headless condition. What are Anacharsis and Toxaris doing here to-day in Macedonia, bringing Solon with them too, poor old gentleman, all the way from Athens? It is time for me to explain. The fact is, my situation is pretty much that of Anacharsis. I crave your indulgence, in venturing to compare myself with royalty. Anacharsis, after all, was a barbarian; and I should hope that we Syrians are as good as Scythians. And I am not comparing myself with Anacharsis the king, but Anacharsis the barbarian. When first I set foot in your city, I was filled with amazement at its size, its beauty, its population, its resources and splendour generally. For a time I was dumb with admiration; the sight was too much for me. I felt like the island lad Telemachus, in the palace of Menelaus; and well I might, as I viewed this city in all her pride;
A garden she, whose flowers are ev’ry blessing.
[62.10] Thus affected, I had to bethink me what course I should adopt. For as to lecturing here, my mind had long been made up about that; what other audience could I have in view, that I should pass by this great city in silence? To make a clean breast of it, then, I set about inquiring who were your great men; for it was my design to approach them, and secure their patronage and support in facing the public. Unlike Anacharsis, who had but one informant, and a barbarian at that, I had many; and all told me the same tale, in almost the same words. ‘Sir,’ they said, ‘we have many excellent and able men in this city—nowhere will you find more: but two there are who stand pre-eminent; who in birth and in prestige are without a rival, and in learning and eloquence might be matched with the Ten Orators of Athens. They are regarded by the public with feelings of absolute devotion: their will is law; for they will nothing but the highest interests of the city. Their courtesy, their hospitality towards strangers, their unassuming benevolence, their modesty in the midst of greatness, their gentleness, their affability,—all these you will presently experience, and will have something to say on the subject yourself.
[62.11] But—wonder of wonders!—these two are of one house, father and son. For the father, conceive to yourself a Solon, a Pericles, an Aristides: as to the son, his manly comeliness and noble stature will attract you at the first glance; and if he do but say two words, your ears will be taken captive by the charm that sits upon his tongue. When he speaks in public, the city listens like one man, open-mouthed; ’tis Athens listening to Alcibiades; yet the Athenians presently repented of their infatuation for the son of Clinias, but here love grows to reverence; the welfare of this city, the happiness of her citizens, are all bound up in one man. Once let the father and son admit you to their friendship, and the city is yours; they have but to raise a finger, to put your success beyond a doubt.’—Such, by Heaven (if Heaven must be invoked for the purpose), such was the unvarying report I heard; and I now know from experience that it fell far short of the truth.
Then up, nor waste thy days
In indolent delays,
as the Cean poet cries; I must strain every nerve, work body and soul, to gain these friends. That once achieved, fair weather and calm seas are before me, and my haven is near at hand.

## Hermotimus, or the Rival Philosophies

[63.1] Lycinus. Good morning, Hermotimus; I guess by your book and the pace you are going at that you are on your way to lecture, and a little late. You were conning over something as you walked, your lips working and muttering, your hand flung out this way and that as you got a speech into order in your mind; you were doubtless inventing one of your crooked questions, or pondering some tricky problem; never a vacant mind, even in the streets; always on the stretch and in earnest, bent on advancing in your studies.
[63.1] Hermotimus. I admit the impeachment; I was running over the details of what he said in yesterday’s lecture. One must lose no chance, you know; the Coan doctor⁸ spoke so truly: ars longa, vita brevis. And what he referred to was only physic—a simpler matter. As to philosophy, not only will you never attain it, however long you study, unless you are wide awake all the time, contemplating it with intense eager gaze; the stake is so tremendous, too,—whether you shall rot miserably with the vulgar herd, or be counted among philosophers and reach Happiness.
[63.2] Lycinus. A glorious prize, indeed! however, you cannot be far off it now, if one may judge by the time you have given to philosophy, and the extraordinary vigour of your long pursuit. For twenty years now, I should say, I have watched you perpetually going to your professors, generally bent over a book taking notes of past lectures, pale with thought and emaciated in body. I suspect you find no release even in your dreams, you are so wrapped up in the thing. With all this you must surely get hold of Happiness soon, if indeed you have not found it long ago without telling us.
[63.2] Hermotimus. Alas, Lycinus, I am only just beginning to get an inkling of the right way. Very far off dwells Virtue, as Hesiod says, and long and steep and rough is the way thither, and travellers must bedew it with sweat.
[63.2] Lycinus. And you have not yet sweated and travelled enough?
[63.2] Hermotimus. Surely not; else should I have been on the summit, with nothing left between me and bliss; but I am only starting yet, Lycinus.
[63.3] Lycinus. Ah, but Hesiod, your own authority, tells us, Well begun is half done; so we may safely call you half-way by this time.
[63.3] Hermotimus. Not even there yet; that would indeed have been much.
[63.3] Lycinus. Where shall we put you, then?
[63.3] Hermotimus. Still on the lower slopes, just making an effort to get on; but it is slippery and rough, and needs a helping hand.
[63.3] Lycinus. Well, your master can give you that; from his station on the summit, like Zeus in Homer with his golden cord, he can let you down his discourse, and therewith haul and heave you up to himself and to the Virtue which he has himself attained this long time.
[63.3] Hermotimus. The very picture of what he is doing; if it depended on him alone, I should have been hauled up long ago; it is my part that is still wanting.
[63.4] Lycinus. You must be of good cheer and keep a stout heart; gaze at the end of your climb and the Happiness at the top, and remember that he is working with you. What prospect does he hold out? when are you to be up? does he think you will be on the top next year—by the Great Mysteries, or the Panathenaea, say?
[63.4] Hermotimus. Too soon, Lycinus.
[63.4] Lycinus. By next Olympiad, then?
[63.4] Hermotimus. All too short a time, even that, for habituation to Virtue and attainment of Happiness.
[63.4] Lycinus. Say two Olympiads, then, for an outside estimate. You may fairly be found guilty of laziness, if you cannot get it done by then; the time would allow you three return trips from the Pillars of Heracles to India, with a margin for exploring the tribes on the way instead of sailing straight and never stopping. How much higher and more slippery, pray, is the peak on which your Virtue dwells than that Aornos crag which Alexander stormed in a few days?
[63.5] Hermotimus. There is no resemblance, Lycinus; this is not a thing, as you conceive it, to be compassed and captured quickly, though ten thousand Alexanders were to assault it; in that case, the scalers would have been legion. As it is, a good number begin the climb with great confidence, and do make progress, some very little indeed, others more; but when they get half-way, they find endless difficulties and discomforts, lose heart, and turn back, panting, dripping, and exhausted. But those who endure to the end reach the top, to be blessed thenceforth with wondrous days, looking down from their height upon the ants which are the rest of mankind.
[63.5] Lycinus. Dear me, what tiny things you make us out—not so big as the Pygmies even, but positively grovelling on the face of the earth. I quite understand it; your thoughts are up aloft already. And we, the common men that walk the earth, shall mingle you with the Gods in our prayers; for you are translated above the clouds, and gone up whither you have so long striven.
[63.5] Hermotimus. If but that ascent might be, Lycinus! but it is far yet.
[63.6] Lycinus. But you have never told me how far, in terms of time.
[63.6] Hermotimus. No; for I know not precisely myself. My guess is that it will not be more than twenty years; by that time I shall surely be on the summit.
[63.6] Lycinus. Mercy upon us, you take long views!
[63.6] Hermotimus. Ay; but, as the toil, so is the reward.
[63.6] Lycinus. That may be; but about these twenty years—have you your master’s promise that you will live so long? is he prophet as well as philosopher? or is it a soothsayer or Chaldean expert that you trust? such things are known to them, I understand. You would never, of course, if there were any uncertainty of your life’s lasting to the Virtue-point, slave and toil night and day like this; why, just as you were close to the top, your fate might come upon you, lay hold of you by the heel, and lug you down with your hopes unfulfilled.
[63.6] Hermotimus. God forbid! these are words of ill omen, Lycinus; may life be granted me, that I may grow wise, and have if it be but one day of Happiness!
[63.6] Lycinus. For all these toils will you be content with your one day?
[63.6] Hermotimus. Content? yes, or with the briefest moment of it.
[63.7] Lycinus. But is there indeed Happiness up there—and worth all the pains? How can you tell? You have never been up yourself.
[63.7] Hermotimus. I trust my master’s word; and he knows well; is he not on the topmost height?
[63.7] Lycinus. Oh, do tell me what he says about it; what is Happiness like? wealth, glory, pleasures incomparable?
[63.7] Hermotimus. Hush, friend! all these have nought to do with the Virtuous life.
[63.7] Lycinus. Well, if these will not do, what are the good things he offers to those who carry their course right through?
[63.7] Hermotimus. Wisdom, courage, true beauty, justice, full and firm knowledge of all things as they are; but wealth and glory and pleasure and all bodily things—these a man strips off and abandons before he mounts up, like Heracles burning on Mount Oeta before deification; he too cast off whatever of the human he had from his mother, and soared up to the Gods with his divine part pure and unalloyed, sifted by the fire. Even so those I speak of are purged by the philosophic fire of all that deluded men count admirable, and reaching the summit have Happiness with never a thought of wealth and glory and pleasure—except to smile at any who count them more than phantoms.
[63.8] Lycinus. By Heracles (and his death on Oeta), they quit themselves like men, and have their reward, it seems. But there is one thing I should like to know: are they allowed to come down from their elevation sometimes, and have a taste of what they left behind them? or when they have once got up, must they stay there, conversing with Virtue, and smiling at wealth and glory and pleasure?
[63.8] Hermotimus. The latter, assuredly; more than that, a man once admitted of Virtue’s company will never be subject to wrath or fear or desire any more; no, nor can he feel pain, nor any such sensation.
[63.8] Lycinus. Well, but—if one might dare to say what one thinks—but no—let me keep a good tongue in my head—it were irreverent to pry into what wise men do.
[63.8] Hermotimus. Nay, nay; let me know your meaning.
[63.8] Lycinus. Dear friend, I have not the courage.
[63.8] Hermotimus. Out with it, my good fellow; we are alone.
[63.9] Lycinus. Well, then—most of your account I followed and accepted—how they grow wise and brave and just, and the rest—indeed I was quite fascinated by it; but then you went on to say they despised wealth and glory and pleasure; well, just there (quite between ourselves, you know) I was pulled up; I thought of a scene t’other day with—shall I tell you whom? Perhaps we can do without a name?
[63.9] Hermotimus. No, no; we must have that too.
[63.9] Lycinus. Your own professor himself, then,—a person to whom all respect is due, surely, not to mention his years.
[63.9] Hermotimus. Well?
[63.9] Lycinus. You know the Heracleot, quite an old pupil of his in philosophy by this time—red-haired—likes an argument?
[63.9] Hermotimus. Yes; Dion, he is called.
[63.9] Lycinus. Well, I suppose he had not paid up punctually; anyhow the other day the old man haled him before the magistrate, with a halter made of his own coat; he was shouting and fuming, and if some friends had not come up and got the young man out of his hands, he would have bitten off his nose, he was in such a temper.
[63.10] Hermotimus. Ah, he is a bad character, always an unconscionable time paying his debts. There are plenty of others who owe the professor money, and he has never treated any of them so; they pay him his interest punctually.
[63.10] Lycinus. Not so fast; what in the world does it matter to him, if they do not pay up? he is purified by philosophy, and has no further need of the cast clothes of Oeta.
[63.10] Hermotimus. Do you suppose his interest in such things is selfish? no, but he has little ones; his care is to save them from indigence.
[63.10] Lycinus. Whereas he ought to have brought them up to Virtue too, and let them share his inexpensive Happiness.
[63.11] Hermotimus. Well, I have no time to argue it, Lycinus; I must not be late for lecture, lest in the end I find myself left behind.
[63.11] Lycinus. Don’t be afraid, my duteous one; to-day is a holiday; I can save you the rest of your walk.
[63.11] Hermotimus. What do you mean?
[63.11] Lycinus. You will not find him just now, if the notice is to be trusted; there was a tablet over the door announcing in large print, No meeting this day. I hear he dined yesterday with the great Eucrates, who was keeping his daughter’s birthday. He talked a good deal of philosophy over the wine, and lost his temper a little with Euthydemus the Peripatetic; they were debating the old Peripatetic objections to the Porch. His long vocal exertions (for it was midnight before they broke up) gave him a bad headache, with violent perspiration. I fancy he had also drunk a little too much, toasts being the order of the day, and eaten more than an old man should. When he got home, he was very ill, they said, just managed to check and lock up carefully the slices of meat which he had conveyed to his servant at table, and then, giving orders that he was not at home, went to sleep, and has not waked since. I overheard Midas his man telling this to some of his pupils; there were a number of them coming away.
[63.12] Hermotimus. Which had the victory, though, he or Euthydemus—if Midas said anything about that?
[63.12] Lycinus. Why, at first, I gathered, it was very even between them; but you Stoics had it in the end, and your master was much too hard for him. Euthydemus did not even get off whole; he had a great cut on his head. He was pretentious, insisted on proving his point, would not give in, and proved a hard nut to crack; so your excellent professor, who had a goblet as big as Nestor’s in his hand, brought this down on him as he lay within easy reach, and the victory was his.
[63.12] Hermotimus. Good; so perish all who will not yield to their betters!
[63.12] Lycinus. Very reasonable, Hermotimus; what was Euthydemus thinking of, to irritate an old man who is purged of wrath and master of his passions, when he had such a heavy goblet in his hand?
[63.13] But we have time to spare—you might tell a friend like me the story of your start in philosophy; then I might perhaps, if it is not too late, begin now and join your school; you are my friends; you will not be exclusive?
[63.13] Hermotimus. If only you would, Lycinus! you will soon find out how much you are superior to the rest of men. I do assure you, you will think them all children, you will be so much wiser.
[63.13] Lycinus. Enough for me, if after twenty years of it I am where you are now.
[63.13] Hermotimus. Oh, I was about your age when I started on philosophy; I was forty; and you must be about that.
[63.13] Lycinus. Just that; so take and lead me on the same way; that is but right. And first tell me—do you allow learners to criticize, if they find difficulties in your doctrines, or must juniors abstain from that?
[63.13] Hermotimus. Why, yes, they must; but you shall have leave to ask questions and criticize; you will learn easier that way.
[63.13] Lycinus. I thank you for it, Hermotimus, by your name-God Hermes.
[63.14] Now, is there only one road to philosophy—the Stoic way? they tell me there are a great many other philosophers; is that so?
[63.14] Hermotimus. Certainly—Peripatetics, Epicureans, Platonists, followers of Diogenes, Antisthenes, Pythagoras, and more yet.
[63.14] Lycinus. Quite so; numbers of them. Now, are their doctrines the same, or different?
[63.14] Hermotimus. Entirely different.
[63.14] Lycinus. But the truth, I presume, is bound to be in one of them, and not in all, as they differ?
[63.14] Hermotimus. Certainly.
[63.15] Lycinus. Then, as you love me, answer this: when you first went in pursuit of philosophy, you found many gates wide open; what induced you to pass the others by, and go in at the Stoic gate? Why did you assume that that was the only true one, which would set you on the straight road to Virtue, while the rest all opened on blind alleys? What was the test you applied then? Please abolish your present self, the self which is now instructed, or half-instructed, and better able to distinguish between good and bad than we outsiders, and answer in your then character of a layman, with no advantage over me as I am now.
[63.15] Hermotimus. I cannot tell what you are driving at.
[63.15] Lycinus. Oh, there is nothing recondite about it. There are a great many philosophers—let us say Plato, Aristotle, Antisthenes, and your spiritual fathers, Chrysippus, Zeno, and all the rest of them; what was it that induced you, leaving the rest alone, to pick out the school you did from among them all, and pin your philosophic faith to it? Were you favoured like Chaerephon with a revelation from Apollo? Did he tell you the Stoics were the best of men, and send you to their school? I dare say he recommends different philosophers to different persons, according to their individual needs?
[63.15] Hermotimus. Nothing of the kind, Lycinus; I never consulted him upon it.
[63.15] Lycinus. Why? was it not a dignus vindice nodus? or were you confident in your own unaided discrimination?
[63.15] Hermotimus. Why, yes; I was.
[63.16] Lycinus. Then this must be my first lesson from you—how one can decide out of hand which is the best and the true philosophy to be taken, and the others left.
[63.16] Hermotimus. I will tell you: I observed that it attracted most disciples, and thence inferred that it was superior.
[63.16] Lycinus. Give me figures; how many more of them than of Epicureans, Platonists, Peripatetics? Of course you took a sort of show of hands.
[63.16] Hermotimus. Well, no; I didn’t count; I just guessed.
[63.16] Lycinus. Now, now! you are not teaching, but hoaxing me; judge by guess work and impression, indeed, on a thing of this importance! You are hiding the truth.
[63.16] Hermotimus. Well, that was not my only way; every one told me the Epicureans were sensual and self-indulgent, the Peripatetics avaricious and contentious, the Platonists conceited and vain; about the Stoics, on the contrary, many said they had fortitude and an open mind; he who goes their way, I heard, was the true king and millionaire and wise man, alone and all in one.
[63.17] Lycinus. And, of course, it was other people who so described them; you would not have taken their own word for their excellences.
[63.17] Hermotimus. Certainly not; it was others who said it.
[63.17] Lycinus. Not their rivals, I suppose?
[63.17] Hermotimus. Oh, no.
[63.17] Lycinus. Laymen, then?
[63.17] Hermotimus. Just so.
[63.17] Lycinus. There you are again, cheating me with your irony; you take me for a blockhead, who will believe that an intelligent person like Hermotimus, at the age of forty, would accept the word of laymen about philosophy and philosophers, and make his own selection on the strength of what they said.
[63.18] Hermotimus. But you see, Lycinus, I did not depend on their judgement entirely, but on my own too. I saw the Stoics going about with dignity, decently dressed and groomed, ever with a thoughtful air and a manly countenance, as far from effeminacy as from the utter repulsive negligence of the Cynics, bearing themselves, in fact, like moderate men; and every one admits that moderation is right.
[63.18] Lycinus. Did you ever see them behaving like your master, as I described him to you just now? Lending money and clamouring for payment, losing their tempers in philosophic debates, and making other exhibitions of themselves? Or perhaps these are trifles, so long as the dress is decent, the beard long, and the hair close-cropped? We are provided for the future, then, with an infallible rule and balance, guaranteed by Hermotimus? It is by appearance and walk and haircutting that the best men are to be distinguished; and whosoever has not these marks, and is not solemn and thoughtful, shall be condemned and rejected?
[63.19] Nay, do not play with me like this; you want to see whether I shall catch you at it.
[63.19] Hermotimus. Why do you say that?
[63.19] Lycinus. Because, my dear sir, this appearance test is one for statues; their decent orderly attire has it easily over the Stoics, because Phidias or Alcamenes or Myron designed them to be graceful. However, granting as much as you like that these are the right tests, what is a blind man to do, if he wants to take up philosophy? how is he to find the man whose principles are right, when he cannot see his appearance or gait?
[63.19] Hermotimus. I am not teaching the blind, Lycinus; I have nothing to do with them.
[63.19] Lycinus. Ah, but, my good sir, there ought to have been some universal criterion, in a matter of such great and general use. Still, if you will have it so, let the blind be excluded from philosophy, as they cannot see—though, by the way, they are just the people who most need philosophy to console them for their misfortune; but now, the people who can see—give them the utmost possible acuity of vision, and what can they detect of the spiritual qualities from this external shell?
[63.20] What I mean is this: was it not from admiration of their spirit that you joined them, expecting to have your own spirit purified?
[63.20] Hermotimus. Assuredly.
[63.20] Lycinus. How could you possibly discern the true philosopher from the false, then, by the marks you mentioned? It is not the way of such qualities to come out like that; they are hidden and secret; they are revealed only under long and patient observation, in talk and debate and the conduct they inspire. You have probably heard of Momus’s indictment of Hephaestus; if not, you shall have it now. According to the myth, Athene, Posidon, and Hephaestus had a match in inventiveness. Posidon made a bull, Athene planned a house, Hephaestus constructed a man; when they came before Momus, who was to judge, he examined their productions; I need not trouble you with his criticisms of the other two; but his objection to the man, and the fault he found with Hephaestus, was this: he should have made a window in his chest, so that, when it was opened, his thoughts and designs, his truth or falsehood, might have been apparent. Momus must have been blear-eyed, to have such ideas about men; but you have sharper eyes than Lynceus, and pierce through the chest to what is inside; all is patent to you, not merely any man’s wishes and sentiments, but the comparative merits of any pair.
[63.21] Hermotimus. You trifle, Lycinus. I made a pious choice, and do not repent it; that is enough for me.
[63.21] Lycinus. And will you yet make a mystery of it to your friend, and let him be lost with the vulgar herd?
[63.21] Hermotimus. Why, you will not accept anything I say.
[63.21] Lycinus. On the contrary, my good sir, it is you who will not say anything I can accept. Well, as you refuse me your confidence, and are so jealous of my becoming a philosopher and your equal, I must even do my best to find out the infallible test and learn to choose safely for myself. And you may listen, if you like.
[63.21] Hermotimus. That I will, Lycinus; you will very likely hit on some good idea.
[63.21] Lycinus. Then attend, and do not mock me, if my inquiry is quite unscientific; it is all I can do, as you, who know better, will not give me any clearer light.
[63.22] I conceive Virtue, then, under the figure of a State whose citizens are happy—as your professor, who is one of them, phrases it,—absolutely wise, all of them brave, just, and self-controlled, hardly distinguishable, in fact, from Gods. All sorts of things that go on here, such as robbery, assault, unfair gain, you will never find attempted there, I believe; their relations are all peace and unity; and this is quite natural, seeing that none of the things which elsewhere occasion strife and rivalry, and prompt men to plot against their neighbours, so much as come in their way at all. Gold, pleasures, distinctions, they never regard as objects of dispute; they have banished them long ago as undesirable elements. Their life is serene and blissful, in the enjoyment of legality, equality, liberty, and all other good things.
[63.23] Hermotimus. Well, Lycinus? Must not all men yearn to belong to a State like that, and never count the toil of getting there, nor lose heart over the time it takes? Enough that one day they will arrive, and be naturalized, and given the franchise.
[63.23] Lycinus. In good truth, Hermotimus, we should devote all our efforts to this, and neglect everything else; we need pay little heed to any claims of our earthly country; we should steel our hearts against the clingings and cryings of children or parents, if we have them; it is well if we can induce them to go with us; but, if they will not or cannot, shake them off and march straight for the city of bliss, leaving your coat in their hands, if they lay hold of it to keep you back, in your hurry to get there; what matter for a coat? You will be admitted there without one.
[63.24] I remember hearing a description of it all once before from an old man, who urged me to go there with him. He would show me the way, enroll me when I got there, introduce me to his own circles, and promise me a share in the universal Happiness. But I was stiff-necked, in my youthful folly (it was some fifteen years ago); else might I have been in the outskirts, nay, haply at the very gates, by now. Among the noteworthy things he told me, I seem to remember these: all the citizens are aliens and foreigners, not a native among them; they include numbers of barbarians, slaves, cripples, dwarfs, and poor; in fact any one is admitted; for their law does not associate the franchise with income, with shape, size, or beauty, with old or brilliant ancestry; these things are not considered at all; any one who would be a citizen needs only understanding, zeal for the right, energy, perseverance, fortitude and resolution in facing all the trials of the road; whoever proves his possession of these by persisting till he reaches the city is ipso facto a full citizen, regardless of his antecedents. Such distinctions as superior and inferior, noble and common, bond and free, simply do not exist there, even in name.
[63.25] Hermotimus. There, now; you see I am not wasting my pains on trifles; I yearn to be counted among the citizens of that fair and happy State.
[63.25] Lycinus. Why, your yearning is mine too; there is nothing I would sooner pray for. If the city had been near at hand and plain for all to see, be assured I would never have doubted, nor needed prompting; I would have gone thither and had my franchise long ago; but as you tell me—you and your bard Hesiod—that it is set exceeding far off, one must find out the way to it, and the best guide. You agree?
[63.25] Hermotimus. Of course that is the only thing to do.
[63.25] Lycinus. Now, so far as promises and professions go, there is no lack of guides; there are numbers of them waiting about, all representing themselves as from there. But instead of one single road there seem to be many different and inconsistent ones. North and South, East and West, they go; one leads through meadows and vegetation and shade, and is well watered and pleasant, with never a stumbling-block or inequality; another is rough and rocky, threatening heat and drought and toil. Yet all these are supposed to lead to the one city, though they take such different directions.
[63.26] That is where my difficulty lies; whichever of them I try, there is sure to be a most respectable person stationed just at the entrance, with a welcoming hand and an exhortation to go his way; each of them says he is the only one who knows the straight road; his rivals are all mistaken, have never been themselves, nor learnt the way from competent guides. I go to his neighbour, and he gives the same assurances about his way, abusing the other respectable persons; and so the next, and the next, and the next. This multiplicity and dissimilarity of the roads gives me searchings of heart, and still more the assertiveness and self-satisfaction of the guides; I really cannot tell which turning or whose directions are most likely to bring me to the city.
[63.27] Hermotimus. Oh, but I can solve that puzzle for you; you cannot go wrong, if you trust those who have been already.
[63.27] Lycinus. Which do you mean? those who have been by which road, and under whose guidance? It is the old puzzle in a new form; you have only substituted men for measures.
[63.27] Hermotimus. How do you mean?
[63.27] Lycinus. Why, the man who has taken Plato’s road and travelled with him will recommend that road; so with Epicurus and the rest; and you will recommend your own. How else, Hermotimus? it must be so.
[63.27] Hermotimus. Well, of course.
[63.27] Lycinus. So you have not solved my puzzle; I know just as little as before which traveller to trust; I find that each of them, as well as his guide, has tried one only, which he now recommends and will have to be the only one leading to the city. Whether he tells the truth I have no means of knowing; that he has attained some end, and seen some city, I may perhaps allow; but whether he saw the right one, or whether, Corinth being the real goal, he got to Babylon and thought he had seen Corinth—that is still undecided; for surely every one who has seen a city has not seen Corinth, unless Corinth is the only city there is. But my greatest difficulty of all is the absolute certainty that the true road is one; for Corinth is one, and the other roads lead anywhere but to Corinth, though there may be people deluded enough to suppose that the North road and the South road lead equally to Corinth.
[63.27] Hermotimus. But that is absurd, Lycinus; they go opposite ways, you see.
[63.28] Lycinus. Then, my dear good man, this choice of roads and guides is quite a serious matter; we can by no means just follow our noses; we shall be discovering that we are well on the way to Babylon or Bactria instead of to Corinth. Nor is it advisable to toss up, either, on the chance that we may hit upon the right way if we start upon any one at a venture. That is no impossibility; it may have come off once and again in a cycle; but I cannot think we ought to gamble recklessly with such high stakes, nor commit our hopes to a frail craft, like the wise men who went to sea in a bowl; we should have no fair complaint against Fortune, if her arrow or dart did not precisely hit the centre; the odds are ten thousand to one against her; just so the archer in Homer—Teucer, I suppose it was—when he meant to hit the dove, only cut the string, which held it; of course it is infinitely more likely that the point of the arrow will find its billet in one of the numberless other places, than just in that particular central one. And as to the perils of blundering into one of the wrong roads instead of the right one, misled by a belief in the discretion of Fortune, here is an illustration:—it is no easy matter to turn back and get safe into port when you have once cast loose your moorings and committed yourself to the breeze; you are at the mercy of the sea, frightened, sick and sorry with your tossing about, most likely. Your mistake was at the beginning: before leaving, you should have gone up to some high point, and observed whether the wind was in the right quarter, and of the right strength for a crossing to Corinth, not neglecting, by the way, to secure the very best pilot obtainable, and a seaworthy craft equal to so high a sea.
[63.29] Hermotimus. Much better so, Lycinus. However, I know that, if you go the whole round, you will find no better guides or more expert pilots than the Stoics; if you mean ever to get to Corinth, you will follow them, in the tracks of Chrysippus and Zeno. It is the only way to do it.
[63.29] Lycinus. Ah, many can play at the game of assertion. Plato’s fellow traveller, Epicurus’s follower, and all the rest, will tell me just what you do, that I shall never get to Corinth except with whichever of them it is. So I must either believe them all, or disbelieve impartially. The latter is much the safest, until we have found out the truth.
[63.30] Put a case, now: just as I am, as uncertain as ever which of the whole number has the truth, I choose your school; I rely on you, who are my friend, but who still know only the Stoic doctrine, and have not travelled any way but that. Now some God brings Plato, Pythagoras, Aristotle, and the rest to life again; they gather round and cross-examine me, or actually sue me in court for constructive defamation; Good Lycinus, they say, what possessed or who induced you to exalt Chrysippus and Zeno at our expense? we are far older established; they are mere creatures of yesterday; yet you never gave us a hearing, nor inquired into our statements at all. Well, what am I to plead? will it avail me to say I trusted my friend Hermotimus? I feel sure they will say, We know not this Hermotimus, who he is, nor he us; you had no right to condemn us all, and give judgement by default against us, on the authority of a man who knew only one of the philosophic roads, and even that, perhaps, imperfectly. These are not the instructions issued to juries, Lycinus; they are not to hear one party, and refuse the other permission to say what he deems advisable; they are to hear both sides alike, with a view to the better sifting of truth from falsehood by comparison of the arguments; if they fail in these duties, the law allows an appeal to another court. That is what we may expect them to say.
[63.31] Then one of them might proceed to question me like this: Suppose, Lycinus, that an Ethiopian who had never been abroad in his life, nor seen other men like us, were to state categorically in an Ethiopian assembly that there did not exist on earth any white or yellow men—nothing but blacks—, would his statement be accepted? or would some Ethiopian elder remark, How do you know, my confident friend? you have never been in foreign parts, nor had any experience of other nations. Shall I tell him the old man’s question was justified? what do you advise, my counsel?
[63.31] Hermotimus. Say that, certainly; I consider the old man’s rebuke quite reasonable.
[63.31] Lycinus. So do I. But I am not so sure you will approve what comes next; as for me, I have as little doubt of that as of the other.
[63.31] Hermotimus. What is it?
[63.32] Lycinus. The next step will be the application; my questioner will say, Now Lycinus, let us suppose an analogue, in a person acquainted only with the Stoic doctrine, like your friend Hermotimus; he has never travelled in Plato’s country, or to Epicurus, or any other land; now, if he were to state that there was no such beauty or truth in those many countries as there is in the Porch and its teaching, would you not be justified in considering it bold of him to give you his opinion about them all, whereas he knew only one, having never set foot outside the bounds of Ethiopia? What reply do you advise to that?
[63.32] Hermotimus. The perfectly true one, of course, that it is indeed the Stoic doctrine that we study fully, being minded to sink or swim with that, but still we do know what the others say also; our teacher rehearses the articles of their beliefs to us incidentally, and demolishes them with his comments.
[63.33] Lycinus. Do you suppose the Platonists, Pythagoreans, Epicureans, and other schools, will let that pass? or will they laugh out loud and say, What remarkable methods your friend has, Lycinus! he accepts our adversaries’ character of us, and gathers our doctrines from the description of people who do not know, or deliberately misrepresent them. If he were to see an athlete getting his muscles in trim by kicking high, or hitting out at empty space as though he were getting a real blow home, would he (in the capacity of umpire) at once proclaim him victor, because he could not help winning? No; he would reflect that these displays are easy and safe, when there is no defence to be reckoned with, and that the real decision must wait till he has beaten and mastered his opponent, and the latter ‘has had enough’. Well then, do not let Hermotimus suppose from his teachers’ sparrings with our shadows (for we are not there) that they have the victory, or that our doctrines are so easily upset; tell him the business is too like the sand houses which children, having built them weak, have no difficulty in overturning, or, to change the figure, like people practising archery; they make a straw target, hang it to a post, plant it a little way off, and then let fly at it; if they hit and get through the straw, they burst into a shout, as if it were a great triumph to have driven through the dry stuff. That is not the way the Persians take, or those Scythian tribes which use the bow. Generally, when they shoot, in the first place they are themselves mounted and in motion, and secondly, they like the mark to be moving too; it is not to be stationary, waiting for the arrival of the arrow, but passing at full speed; they can usually kill beasts, and their marksmen hit birds. If it ever happens that they want to test the actual impact on a target, they set up one of stout wood, or a shield of raw hide; piercing that, they reckon that their shafts will go through armour too. So, Lycinus, tell Hermotimus from us that his teachers pierce straw targets, and then say they have disposed of armed men; or paint up figures of us, spar at them, and, after a not surprising success, think they have beaten us. But we shall severally quote against them Achilles’s words against Hector:
They dare not face the nodding of my plume.
[63.34] So say all of them, one after the other.
[63.34] I suspect that Plato, with his intimate knowledge of Sicily, will add an anecdote from there. Gelo of Syracuse had disagreeable breath, but did not find it out himself for a long time, no one venturing to mention such a circumstance to a tyrant. At last a foreign woman who had a connexion with him dared to tell him; whereupon he went to his wife and scolded her for never having, with all her opportunities of knowing, warned him of it; she put in the defence that, as she had never been familiar or at close quarters with any other man, she had supposed all men were like that. So Hermotimus (Plato will say) after his exclusive association with Stoics, cannot be expected to know the savour of other people’s mouths.
[63.34] Chrysippus, on the other hand, might say as much or more if I were to put him out of court and betake myself to Platonism, in reliance upon some one who had conversed with Plato alone. And in a word, as long as it is uncertain which is the true philosophic school, I choose none; choice of one is insult to the rest.
[63.35] Hermotimus. For Heaven’s sake, Lycinus, let us leave Plato, Aristotle, Epicurus, and the rest of them alone; to argue with them is not for me. Why not just hold a private inquiry, you and I, whether philosophy is what I say it is? As for the Ethiopians and Gelo’s wife, what a long way you have brought them on none of their business!
[63.35] Lycinus. Away with them, then, if you find their company superfluous. And now do you proceed; my expectations are high.
[63.35] Hermotimus. Well, it seems to me perfectly possible, Lycinus, after studying the Stoic doctrines alone, to get at the truth from them, without going through a course of all the others too. Look at it this way: if any one tells you simply, Twice two is four, need you go round all the mathematicians to find out whether there is one who makes it five, or seven; or would you know at once that the man was right?
[63.35] Lycinus. Certainly I should.
[63.35] Hermotimus. Then why should you think it impossible for a man who finds, without going further, that the Stoics make true statements, to believe them and dispense with further witness? He knows that four can never be five, though ten thousand Platos or Pythagorases said it was.
[63.36] Lycinus. Not to the point. You compare accepted with disputed facts, whereas they are completely different. Tell me, did you ever meet a man who said twice two was seven or eleven?
[63.36] Hermotimus. Not I; any one who did not make four of it must be mad.
[63.36] Lycinus. But on the other hand—try to tell the truth, I adjure you—, did you ever meet a Stoic and an Epicurean who did not differ about principles or ends?
[63.36] Hermotimus. No.
[63.36] Lycinus. You are an honest man; now ask yourself whether you are trapping a friend with false logic. We are trying to find out with whom philosophic truth lies; and you beg the question and make a present of that same truth to the Stoics; for you say (what is quite unproved) that they are the people who make twice two four; the Epicureans or Platonists would say that they bring out that result, whereas you get five or seven. Does it not amount to that, when your school reckon goodness the only end, and the Epicureans pleasure? or again when you say everything is material, and Plato recognizes an immaterial element also in all that exists? As I said, you lay hold of the thing in dispute, as though it were the admitted property of the Stoics, and put it into their hands, though the others claim it and maintain that it is theirs; why, it is the very point at issue. If it is once established that Stoics have the monopoly of making four out of twice two, it is time for the rest to hold their tongues; but as long as they refuse to yield that point, we must hear all alike, or be prepared for people’s calling us partial judges.
[63.37] Hermotimus. It seems to me, Lycinus, you do not understand what I mean.
[63.37] Lycinus. Very well, put it plainer, if it is something different from that.
[63.37] Hermotimus. You will see in a minute. Let us suppose two people have gone into the temple of Asclepius or Dionysus, and subsequently one of the sacred cups is missing. Both of them will have to be searched, to see which has it about him.
[63.37] Lycinus. Clearly.

Hermotimus. Of course one of them has it.

Lycinus. Necessarily, if it is missing.
[63.37] Hermotimus. Then, if you find it on the first, you will not strip the other; it is clear he has not got it.

Lycinus. Quite.
[63.37] Hermotimus. And if we fail to find it on the first, the other certainly has it; it is unnecessary to search him that way either.
[63.37] Lycinus. Yes, he has it.
[63.37] Hermotimus. So with us; if we find the cup in the possession of the Stoics, we shall not care to go on and search the others; we have what we were looking for; why trouble further?
[63.38] Lycinus. There is no why, if you really find it, and can be certain it is the missing article, the sacred object being unmistakable. But there are some differences in this case, friend, the temple-visitors are not two, so that if one has not got the booty the other has, but many; and the identity of the missing object is also uncertain; it may be cup, or bowl, or garland; every priest gives a different description of it; they do not agree even about the material; bronze, say these, silver, say those—anything from gold to tin. So there is nothing for it but to strip the visitors, if you want to find it; even if you discover a gold cup on the first man, you must go on to the others.
[63.38] Hermotimus. What for?
[63.38] Lycinus. Because it is not certain that the thing was a cup. And even if that is generally admitted, they do not all agree that it was gold; and if it is well known that a gold cup is missing, and you find a gold cup on your first man, even so you are not quit of searching the others; it is not clear that this is the sacred cup; do you suppose there is only one gold cup in the world?
[63.38] Hermotimus. No, indeed.
[63.38] Lycinus. So you will have to go the round, and then collect all your finds together and decide which of them is most likely to be divine property.
[63.39] For the source of all the difficulty is this: every one who is stripped has something or other on him, one a bowl, one a cup, one a garland, which again may be bronze, gold, or silver; but whether the one he has is the sacred one, is not yet clear. It is absolutely impossible to know which man to accuse of sacrilege; even if all the objects were similar, it would be uncertain who had robbed the God; for such things may be private property too. Our perplexity, of course, is simply due to the fact that the missing cup—assume it to be a cup—has no inscription; if either the God’s or the donor’s name had been on it, we should not have had all this trouble; when we found the inscribed one, we should have stopped stripping and inconveniencing other visitors. I suppose, Hermotimus, you have often been at athletic meetings?
[63.39] Hermotimus. You suppose right; and in many places too.
[63.39] Lycinus. Did you ever have a seat close by the judges?
[63.39] Hermotimus. Dear me, yes; last Olympia, I was on the left of the stewards; Euandridas of Elis had got me a place in the Elean enclosure; I particularly wanted to have a near view of how things are done there.
[63.39] Lycinus. So you know how they arrange ties for the wrestling or the pancratium?
[63.39] Hermotimus. Yes.
[63.39] Lycinus. Then you will describe it better than I, as you have seen it so close.
[63.40] Hermotimus. In old days, when Heracles presided, bay leaves——
[63.40] Lycinus. No old days, thank you; tell me what you saw with your own eyes.
[63.40] Hermotimus. A consecrated silver urn is produced, and into it are thrown little lots about the size of a bean, with letters on them. Two are marked alpha⁹, two beta, two more gamma, and so on, if the competitors run to more than that—two lots always to each letter. A competitor comes up, makes a prayer to Zeus, dips his hand into the urn, and pulls out one lot; then another does the same; there is a policeman to each drawer, who holds his hand so that he cannot see what letter he has drawn. When all have drawn, the chief police officer, I think it is, or one of the stewards themselves—I cannot quite remember this detail—, goes round and examines the lots while they stand in a circle, and puts together the two alphas for the wrestling or pancratium, and so for the two betas, and the rest. That is the procedure when the number of competitors is even, as eight, four, or twelve. If it is five, seven, nine, or other odd number, an odd letter is marked on one lot, which is put in with the others, not having a duplicate. Whoever draws this is a bye, and waits till the rest have finished their ties; no duplicate turns up for him, you see; and it is a considerable advantage to an athlete, to know that he will come fresh against tired competitors.
[63.41] Lycinus. Stop there; that is just what I wanted. There are nine of them, we will say, and they have all drawn, and the lots are in their hands. You go round—for I promote you from spectator to steward—examining the letters; and I suppose you will not know who is the bye till you have been to them all and paired them.
[63.41] Hermotimus. How do you mean?
[63.41] Lycinus. It is impossible for you to hit straight upon the letter which indicates the bye; at least, you may hit upon the letter, but you will not know about the bye; it was not announced beforehand that kappa or mu or iota had the appointment in its gift; when you find alpha, you look for the holder of the other alpha, whom finding, you pair the two. Again finding beta, you inquire into the whereabouts of the second beta which matches it; and so all through, till there is no one left but the holder of the single unpaired letter.
[63.42] Hermotimus. But suppose you come upon it first or second, what will you do then?
[63.42] Lycinus. Never mind me; I want to know what you will do, Mr. Steward. Will you say at once, Here is the bye? or will you have to go round to all, and see whether there is a duplicate to be found, it being impossible to know the bye till you have seen all the lots?
[63.42] Hermotimus. Why, Lycinus, I shall know quite easily; nine being the number, if I find the epsilon first or second, I know the holder of it for the bye.
[63.42] Lycinus. But how?
[63.42] Hermotimus. How? Why, two of them must have alpha, two beta, and of the next two pairs one has certainly drawn gammas and the other deltas, so that four letters have been used up over eight competitors. Obviously, then, the next letter, which is epsilon, is the only one that can be odd, and the drawer of it is the bye.
[63.42] Lycinus. Shall I extol your intelligence, or would you rather I explained to you my own poor idea, which differs?
[63.42] Hermotimus. The latter, of course, though I cannot conceive how you can reasonably differ.
[63.43] Lycinus. You have gone on the assumption that the letters are taken in alphabetical order, until at a particular one the number of competitors runs short; and I grant you it may be done so at Olympia. But suppose we were to pick out five letters at random, say chi, sigma, zeta, kappa, theta, and duplicate the other four on the lots for eight competitors, but put a single zeta on the ninth, which we meant to indicate the bye—what then would you do if you came on the zeta first? How can you tell that its holder is the bye till you have been all round and found no counterpart to it? for you could not tell by the alphabetical order, as at Olympia.
[63.43] Hermotimus. A difficult question.
[63.44] Lycinus. Look at the same thing another way. Suppose we put no letters at all on the lots, but, instead of them, signs and marks such as the Egyptians use for letters, men with dogs’ or lions’ heads. Or no, those are rather too strange; let us avoid hybrids, and put down simple forms, as well as our draughtsmanship will allow—men on two lots, horses on two, a pair of cocks, a pair of dogs, and let a lion be the mark of the ninth. Now, if you hit upon the lion at the first try, how can you tell that this is the bye-maker, until you have gone all round and seen whether any one else has a lion to match?
[63.44] Hermotimus. Your question is too much for me.
[63.44] Lycinus. No wonder; there is no plausible answer.
[63.45] Consequently, if we mean to find either the man who has the sacred cup, or the bye, or our best guide to the famous city of Corinth, we must absolutely go to and examine them all, trying them carefully, stripping and comparing them; the truth will be hard enough to find, even so. If I am to take any one’s advice upon the right philosophy to choose, I insist upon his knowing what they all say; every one else I disqualify; I will not trust him while there is one philosophy he is unacquainted with; that one may possibly be the best of all. If some one were to produce a handsome man, and state that he was the handsomest of mankind, we should not accept that, unless we knew he had seen all men; very likely his man is handsome, but whether the handsomest, he has no means of knowing without seeing all. Now we are looking not simply for beauty, but for the greatest beauty, and if we miss that, we shall account ourselves no further than we were; we shall not be content with chancing upon some sort of beauty; we are in search of a definite thing, the supreme beauty, which must necessarily be one.
[63.46] Hermotimus. True.
[63.46] Lycinus. Well then, can you name me a man who has tried every road in philosophy? one who, knowing the doctrine of Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, Chrysippus, Epicurus, and the rest, has ended by selecting one out of all these roads, because he has proved it genuine, and had found it by experience to be the only one that led straight to Happiness? If we can meet with such a man, we are at the end of our troubles.
[63.46] Hermotimus. Alas, that is no easy matter.
[63.47] Lycinus. What shall we do, then? I do not think we ought to despair, in the momentary absence of such a guide. Perhaps the best and safest plan of all is to set to work oneself, go through every system, and carefully examine the various doctrines.
[63.47] Hermotimus. That is what seems to be indicated. I am afraid, though, there is an obstacle in what you said just now: it is not easy, when you have committed yourself with a spread of canvas to the wind, to get home again. How can a man try all the roads, when, as you said, he will be unable to escape from the first of them?
[63.47] Lycinus. My notion is to copy Theseus, get dame Ariadne to give us a skein, and go into one labyrinth after another, with the certainty of getting out by winding it up.
[63.47] Hermotimus. Who is to be our Ariadne? Where shall we find the skein?
[63.47] Lycinus. Never despair; I fancy I have found something to hold on to and escape.
[63.47] Hermotimus. And what is that?
[63.47] Lycinus. It is not original; I borrow it from one of the wise men: ‘Be sober and doubt all things,’ says he. If we do not believe everything we are told, but behave like jurymen who suspend judgement till they have heard the other side, we may have no difficulty in getting out of the labyrinths.
[63.47] Hermotimus. A good plan; let us try it.
[63.48] Lycinus. Very well, which shall we start with? However, that will make no difference; we may begin with whomsoever we fancy, Pythagoras, say; how long shall we allow for learning the whole of Pythagoreanism? and do not omit the five years of silence; including those, I suppose thirty altogether will do; or, if you do not like that, still we cannot put it lower than twenty.
[63.48] Hermotimus. Put it at that.
[63.48] Lycinus. Plato will come next with as many more, and then Aristotle cannot do with less.

Hermotimus. No.
[63.48] Lycinus. As to Chrysippus, I need not ask you; you have told me already that forty is barely enough.
[63.48] Hermotimus. That is so.
[63.48] Lycinus. And we have still Epicurus and the others. I am not taking high figures, either, as you will see if you reflect upon the number of octogenarian Stoics, Epicureans, and Platonists who confess that they have not yet completely mastered their own systems. Or, if they did not confess it, at any rate Chrysippus, Aristotle, and Plato would for them; still more Socrates, who is as good as they; he used to proclaim to all comers that, so far from knowing all, he knew nothing whatever, except the one fact of his own ignorance. Well, let us add up. Twenty years we gave Pythagoras, the same to Plato, and so to the others. What will the total come to, if we assume only ten schools?
[63.48] Hermotimus. Over two hundred years.
[63.48] Lycinus. Shall we deduct a quarter of that, and say a hundred and fifty will do? or can we halve it?
[63.49] Hermotimus. You must decide about that; but I see that, at the best, it will be but few who will get through the course, though they begin philosophy and life together.
[63.49] Lycinus. In that case, what are we to do? Must we withdraw our previous admission, that no one can choose the best out of many without trying all? We thought selection without experiment a method of inquiry savouring more of divination than of judgement, did we not?
[63.49] Hermotimus. Yes.
[63.49] Lycinus. Without such longevity, then, it is absolutely impossible for us to complete the series—experiment, selection, philosophy, Happiness. Yet anything short of that is a mere game of blindman’s-buff; whatever we knock against and get hold of we shall be taking for the thing we want, because the truth is hidden from us. Even if a mere piece of luck brings us straight to it, we shall have no grounded conviction of our success; there are so many similar objects, all claiming to be the real thing.
[63.50] Hermotimus. Ah, Lycinus, your arguments seem to me more or less logical, but—but—to be frank with you—I hate to hear you going through them and wasting your acuteness. I suspect it was in an evil hour that I came out to-day and met you; my hopes were almost in my grasp; and now here are you plunging me into a slough of despond with your demonstrations; truth is undiscoverable, if the search needs so many years.
[63.50] Lycinus. My dear friend, it would be much fairer to blame your parents, Menecrates and whatever your mother’s name may have been—or indeed to go still further back to human nature. Why did not they make you a Tithonus for years and durability? instead of which, they limited you like other men to a century at the outside. As for me, I have only been helping you to deduce results.
[63.51] Hermotimus. No, no; it is just your way; you want to crow over me; you detest philosophy—I cannot tell why—and poke fun at philosophers.
[63.51] Lycinus. Hermotimus, I cannot show what truth is, so well as wise people like you and your professor; but one thing I do know about it, and that is that it is not pleasant to the ear; falsehood is far more esteemed; it is prettier, and therefore pleasanter; while Truth, conscious of its purity, blurts out downright remarks, and offends people. Here is a case of it: even you are offended with me for having discovered (with your assistance) how this matter really stands, and shown that our common object is hard of attainment. Suppose you had been in love with a statue and hoped to win it, under the impression that it was human, and I had realized that it was only bronze or marble, and given you a friendly warning that your passion was hopeless—you might just as well have thought I was your enemy then, because I would not leave you a prey to extravagant and impracticable delusions.
[63.52] Hermotimus. Well, well; are we to give up philosophy, then, and idle our lives away like the common herd?
[63.52] Lycinus. What have I said to justify that? My point is not that we are to give up philosophy, but this: whereas we are to pursue philosophy, and whereas there are many roads, each professing to lead to philosophy and Virtue, and whereas it is uncertain which of these is the true road, therefore the selection shall be made with care. Now we resolved that it was impossible out of many offers to choose the best, unless a man should try all in turn; and then the process of trial was found to be long. What do you propose?—It is the old question again. To follow and join philosophic forces with whomsoever you first fall in with, and let him thank Fortune for his proselyte?
[63.52] Hermotimus. What is the good of answering your questions?
[63.53] You say no one can judge for himself, unless he can devote the life of a phoenix to going round experimenting; and on the other hand you refuse to trust either previous experience or the multitude of favourable testimony.
[63.53] Lycinus. Where is your multitude, with knowledge and experience of all? Never mind the multitude; one man who answers the description will do for me. But if you mean the people who do not know, their mere numbers will never persuade me, as long as they pronounce upon all from knowledge of, at the most, one.
[63.53] Hermotimus. Are you the only man who has found the truth, and are all the people who go in for philosophy fools?
[63.53] Lycinus. You wrong me, Hermotimus, when you imply that I put myself above other people, or rank myself at all with those who know; you forget what I said; I never claimed to know the truth better than others, only confessed that I was as ignorant of it as every one else.
[63.54] Hermotimus. Well, but, Lycinus, it may be all very well to insist on going the round, testing the various statements, and eschewing any other method of choice; but it is ridiculous to spend so many years on each experiment, as though there were no such thing as judging from samples. That device seems to me quite simple, and economical of time. There is a story that some sculptor, Phidias, I think, seeing a single claw, calculated from it the size of the lion, if it were modelled proportionally. So, if some one were to let you see a man’s hand, keeping the rest of his body concealed, you would know at once that what was behind was a man, without seeing his whole body. Well, it is easy to find out in a few hours the essential points of the various doctrines, and, for selecting the best, these will suffice, without any of your scrupulous exacting investigation.
[63.55] Lycinus. Upon my word, how confident you are in your faculty of divining the whole from the parts! and yet I remember being told just the opposite—that knowledge of the whole includes that of the parts, but not vice versa. Well, but tell me; when Phidias saw the claw, would he ever have known it for a lion’s, if he had never seen a lion? Could you have said the hand was a man’s, if you had never known or seen a man? Why are you dumb? Let me make the only possible answer for you—that you could not; I am afraid Phidias has modelled his lion all for nothing; for it proves to be neither here nor there. What resemblance is there? What enabled you and Phidias to recognize the parts was just your knowledge of the wholes—the lion and the man. But in philosophy—the Stoic, for instance—how will the part reveal the other parts to you, or how can you conclude that they are beautiful? You do not know the whole to which the parts belong.
[63.56] Then you say it is easy to hear in a few hours the essentials of all philosophy—meaning, I suppose, their principles and ends, their accounts of God and the soul, their views on the material and the immaterial, their respective identification of pleasure or goodness with the desirable and the Happy; well, it is easy—it is quite a trifle—to deliver an opinion after such a hearing; but really to know where the truth lies will be work, I suspect, not for a few hours, but for a good many days. If not, what can have induced them to enlarge on these rudiments to the tune of a hundred or a thousand volumes apiece? I imagine they only wanted to establish the truth of those few points which you thought so easy and intelligible. If you refuse to spend your time on a conscientious selection, after personal examination of each and all, in sum and in detail, it seems to me you will still want your soothsayer to choose the best for you. It would be a fine short cut, with no meanderings or wastings of time, if you sent for him, listened to the summaries, and killed a victim at the end of each; by indicating in its liver which is the philosophy for you, the God would save you a pack of troubles.
[63.57] Or, if you like, I can suggest a still simpler way; you need not shed all this blood in sacrifice to any God, nor employ an expensive priest; put into an urn a set of tablets, each marked with a philosopher’s name, and tell a boy (he must be quite young, and his parents both be living) to go to the urn and pick out whichever tablet his hand first touches; and live a philosopher ever after, of the school which then comes out triumphant.
[63.58] Hermotimus. This is buffoonery, Lycinus; I should not have expected it of you. Now tell me, did you ever buy wine? in person, I mean.
[63.58] Lycinus. Many a time.

Hermotimus. Well, did you go to every wine vault in town, one after another, tasting and comparing?
[63.58] Lycinus. Certainly not.
[63.58] Hermotimus. No; as soon as you find good sound stuff, you have only to get it sent home.

Lycinus. To be sure.
[63.58] Hermotimus. And from that little taste you could have answered for the quality of the whole?

Lycinus. Yes.
[63.58] Hermotimus. Now suppose you had gone to all the wine-merchants and said: I want to buy a pint of wine; I must ask you, gentlemen, to let me drink the whole of the cask which each of you has on tap; after that exhaustive sampling, I shall know which of you keeps the best wine, and is the man for my money. If you had talked like that, they might have laughed at you, and, if you persisted in worrying them, have tried how you liked water.
[63.58] Lycinus. Yes; it would be no more than my deserts.
[63.58] Hermotimus. Apply this to philosophy. What need to drink the whole cask, when you can judge the quality of the whole from one little taste?
[63.59] Lycinus. What an adept at evasion you are, Hermotimus! How you slip through one’s fingers! However, it is all the better this time; you fancied yourself out, but you have flopped into the net again.
[63.59] Hermotimus. What do you mean?
[63.59] Lycinus. You take a thing whose nature is self-evident and universally admitted, like wine, and argue from it to perfectly unlike things, whose nature is obscure and generally debated. In fact I cannot tell what analogy you find between philosophy and wine; there is just one, indeed: philosophers and wine-merchants both sell their wares, mostly resorting to adulteration, fraud, and false measures, in the process. But let us look into your real meaning. You say all the wine in a cask is of the same quality—which is perfectly reasonable; further, that any one who draws and tastes quite a small quantity will know at once the quality of the whole—of which the same may be said; I should never have thought of objecting. But mark what comes now: do philosophy and its professors (your own, for instance) give you every day the same remarks on the same subjects, or do they vary them? They vary them a great deal, friend; you would never have stuck to your master through your twenty years’ wandering—quite a philosophic Odyssey—if he had always said the same thing; one hearing would have been enough.
[63.60] Hermotimus. So it would.
[63.60] Lycinus. How could you have known the whole of his doctrines from the first taste, then? They were not homogeneous, like the wine; novelty to-day, and novelty to-morrow on the top of it. Consequently, dear friend, short of drinking the whole cask, you might soak to no purpose; Providence seems to me to have hidden the philosophic Good right at the bottom, underneath the lees. So you will have to drain it dry, or you will never get to that nectar for which I know you have so long thirsted. According to your idea, it has such virtue that, could you once taste it and swallow the very least drop, you would straightway have perfect wisdom; so they say the Delphian prophetess is inspired by one draught of the sacred spring with answers for those who consult the oracle. But it seems not to be so; you have drunk more than half the cask; yet you told me you were only beginning yet.
[63.61] Now see whether this is not a better analogy. You shall keep your merchant, and your cask; but the contents of the latter are not to be wine, but assorted seeds. On the top is wheat, next beans, then barley, below that lentils, then peas—and other kinds yet. You go to buy seeds, and he takes some wheat out of that layer, and puts it in your hand as a sample; now, could you tell by looking at that whether the peas were sound, the lentils tender, and the beans full?
[63.61] Hermotimus. Impossible.
[63.61] Lycinus. No more can you tell the quality of a philosophy from the first statements of its professor; it is not uniform, like the wine to which you compared it, claiming that it must resemble the sample glass; it is heterogeneous, and it had better not be cursorily tested. If you buy bad wine, the loss is limited to a few pence; but to rot with the common herd (in your own words) is not so light a loss. Moreover, your man who wants to drink up the cask as a preliminary to buying a pint will injure the merchant, with his dubious sampling; but philosophy knows no such danger; you may drink your fill, but this cask grows no emptier, and its owner suffers no loss. It is cut and come again here; we have the converse of the Danaids’ cask; that would not hold what was put into it; it ran straight through; but here, the more you take away, the more remains.
[63.62] And I have another similar remark to make about these specimen drops of philosophy. Do not fancy I am libelling it, if I say it is like hemlock, aconite, or other deadly poison. Those too, though they have death in them, will not kill if a man scrapes off the tiniest particle with the edge of his nail and tastes it; if they are not taken in the right quantity, the right manner, and the right vehicle, the taker will not die; you were wrong in claiming that the least possible quantity is enough to base a generalization on.
[63.63] Hermotimus. Oh, have it your own way, Lycinus. Well then, we have got to live a hundred years, and go through all this trouble? There is no other road to philosophy?
[63.63] Lycinus. No, none; and we need not complain; as you very truly said, ars longa, vita brevis. But I do not know what has come over you; you now make a grievance of it, if you cannot before set of sun develop into a Chrysippus, a Plato, a Pythagoras.
[63.63] Hermotimus. You trap me, and drive me into a corner, Lycinus; yet I never provoked you; it is all envy, I know, because I have made some progress in my studies, whereas you have neglected yourself, when you were old enough to know better.
[63.63] Lycinus. Seest, then, thy true course? never mind me, but leave me as a lunatic to my follies, and you go on your way and accomplish what you have intended all this time.
[63.63] Hermotimus. But you are so masterful, you will not let me make a choice, till I have proved all.
[63.63] Lycinus. Why, I confess, you will never get me to budge from that. But when you call me masterful, it seems to me you blame the blameless, as the poet says; for I am myself being dragged along by reason, until you bring up some other reason to release me from durance. And here is reason about to talk more masterfully still, you will see; but I suppose you will exonerate it, and blame me.
[63.63] Hermotimus. What can it be? I am surprised to hear it still has anything in reserve.
[63.64] Lycinus. It says that seeing and going through all philosophies will not suffice, if you want to choose the best of them; the most important qualification is still missing.
[63.64] Hermotimus. Indeed? Which?
[63.64] Lycinus. Why (bear with me), a critical investigating faculty, mental acumen, intellectual precision and independence equal to the occasion; without this, the completest inspection will be useless. Reason insists that the owner of it must further be allowed ample time; he will collect the rival candidates together, and make his choice with long, lingering, repeated deliberation; he will give no heed to the candidate’s age, appearance, or repute for wisdom, but perform his functions like the Areopagites, who judge in the darkness of night, so that they must regard not the pleaders, but the pleadings. Then and not till then will you be able to make a sound choice and live a philosopher.
[63.64] Hermotimus. Live? an after life, then. No mortal span will meet your demands; let me see: go the whole round, examine each with care, on that examination form a judgement, on that judgement make a choice, on that choice be a philosopher; so and no otherwise you say the truth may be found.
[63.65] Lycinus. I hardly dare tell you—even that is not exhaustive; I am afraid, after all, the solid basis we thought we had found was imaginary. You know how fishermen often let down their nets, feel a weight, and pull them up expecting a great haul; when they have got them up with much toil, behold, a stone, or an old pot full of sand. I fear our catch is one of those.
[63.65] Hermotimus. I don’t know what this particular net may be; your nets are all round me, anyhow.
[63.65] Lycinus. Well, try and get through; providentially, you are as good a swimmer as can be. Now, this is it: granted that we go all round experimenting, and get it done at last, too, I do not believe we shall have solved the elementary question, whether any of them has the much-desired; perhaps they are all wrong together.
[63.65] Hermotimus. Oh, come now! not one of them right either?
[63.65] Lycinus. I cannot tell. Do you think it impossible they may all be deluded, and the truth be something which none of them has yet found?
[63.66] Hermotimus. How can it possibly be?
[63.66] Lycinus. This way: take a correct number, twenty; suppose, I mean, a man has twenty beans in his closed hand, and asks ten different persons to guess the number; they guess seven, five, thirty, ten, fifteen—various numbers, in short. It is possible, I suppose, that one may be right?
[63.66] Hermotimus. Yes.
[63.66] Lycinus. It is not impossible, however, that they may all guess different incorrect numbers, and not one of them suggest twenty beans. What say you?
[63.66] Hermotimus. It is not impossible.
[63.66] Lycinus. In the same way, all philosophers are investigating the nature of Happiness; they get different answers, one Pleasure, another Goodness, and so through the list. It is probable that Happiness is one of these; but it is also not improbable that it is something else altogether. We seem to have reversed the proper procedure, and hurried on to the end before we had found the beginning. I suppose we ought first to have ascertained that the truth has actually been discovered, and that some philosopher or other has it, and only then to have gone on to the next question, which of them is to be believed.
[63.66] Hermotimus. So that, even if we go all through all philosophy, we shall have no certainty of finding the truth even then; that is what you say.
[63.66] Lycinus. Please, please do not ask me; once more, apply to reason itself. Its answer will perhaps be that there can be no certainty yet—as long as we cannot be sure that it is one or other of the things they say it is.
[63.67] Hermotimus. Then, according to you, we shall never finish our quest nor be philosophers, but have to give it up and live the life of laymen. What you say amounts to that: philosophy is impossible and inaccessible to a mere mortal; for you expect the aspirant first to choose the best philosophy; and you considered that the only guarantee of such choice’s being correct was to go through all philosophy before choosing the truest. Then in reckoning the number of years required by each you spurned all limits, extended the thing to several generations, and made out the quest of truth too long for the individual life; and now you crown all by proving success doubtful even apart from all that; you say it is uncertain whether the philosophers have ever found truth at all.
[63.67] Lycinus. Could you state on oath that they have?
[63.67] Hermotimus. Not on oath, no.
[63.67] Lycinus. And yet there is much that I have intentionally spared you, though it merits careful examination too.
[63.68] Hermotimus. For instance?
[63.68] Lycinus. Is it not said that, among the professed Stoics, Platonists, and Epicureans, some do know their respective doctrines, and some do not (without prejudice to their general respectability)?
[63.68] Hermotimus. That is true.
[63.68] Lycinus. Well, don’t you think it will be a troublesome business to distinguish the first, and know them from the ignorant professors?
[63.68] Hermotimus. Very.
[63.68] Lycinus. So, if you are to recognize the best of the Stoics, you will have to go to most, if not all, of them, make trial, and appoint the best your teacher, first going through a course of training to provide you with the appropriate critical faculty; otherwise you might mistakenly prefer the wrong one. Now reflect on the additional time this will mean; I purposely left it out of account, because I was afraid you might be angry; all the same, it is the most important and necessary thing of all in questions like this—so uncertain and dubious, I mean. For the discovery of truth, your one and only sure or well-founded hope is the possession of this power: you must be able to judge and sift truth from falsehood; you must have the assayer’s sense for sound and true or forged coin; if you could have come to your examination of doctrines equipped with a technical skill like that, I should have nothing to say; but without it there is nothing to prevent their severally leading you by the nose; you will follow a dangled bunch of carrots like a donkey; or, better still, you will be water spilt on a table, trained whichever way one chooses with a finger-tip; or again, a reed growing on a river’s bank, bending to every breath, however gentle the breeze that shakes it in its passage.
[63.69] If you could find a teacher, now, who understood demonstration and controversial method, and would impart his knowledge to you, you would be quit of your troubles; the best and the true would straightway be revealed to you, at the bidding of this art of demonstration, while falsehood would stand convicted; you would make your choice with confidence; judgement would be followed by philosophy; you would reach your long-desired Happiness, and live in its company, which sums up all good things.
[63.69] Hermotimus. Thank you, Lycinus; that is a much better hearing; there is more than a glimpse of hope in that. We must surely look for a man of that sort, to give us discernment, judgement, and, above all, the power of demonstration; then all will be easy and clear, and not too long. I am grateful to you already for thinking of this short and excellent plan.
[63.69] Lycinus. Ah, no, I cannot fairly claim gratitude yet. I have not discovered or revealed anything that will bring you nearer your hope; on the contrary, we are further off than ever; it is a case of much cry and little wool.
[63.69] Hermotimus. Bird of ill omen, pessimist, explain yourself.
[63.70] Lycinus. Why, my friend, even if we find some one who claims to know this art of demonstration, and is willing to impart it, we shall surely not take his word for it straight off; we shall look about for another man to resolve us whether the first is telling the truth. Finding number two, we shall still be uncertain whether our guarantor really knows the difference between a good judge and a bad, and shall need a number three to guarantee number two; for how can we possibly know ourselves how to select the best judge? You see how far this must go; the thing is unending; its nature does not allow us to draw the line and put a stop to it; for you will observe that all the demonstrations that can possibly be thought of are themselves unfounded and open to dispute; most of them struggle to establish their certainty by appealing to facts as questionable as themselves; and the rest produce certain truisms with which they compare, quite illegitimately, the most speculative theories, and then say they have demonstrated the latter: our eyes tell us there are altars to the Gods; therefore there must be Gods; that is the sort of thing.
[63.71] Hermotimus. How unkindly you treat me, Lycinus, turning my treasure into ashes; I suppose all these years are to have been lost labour.
[63.71] Lycinus. At least your chagrin will be considerably lessened by the thought that you are not alone in your disappointment; practically all who pursue philosophy do no more than disquiet themselves in vain. Who could conceivably go through all the stages I have rehearsed? you admit the impossibility yourself. As to your present mood, it is that of the man who cries and curses his luck because he cannot climb the sky, or plunge into the depths of the sea at Sicily and come up at Cyprus, or soar on wings and fly within the day from Greece to India; what is responsible for his discontent is his basing of hopes on a dream-vision or his own wild fancy, without ever asking whether his aspirations were realizable or consistent with humanity. You too, my friend, have been having a long and marvellous dream; and now reason has stuck a pin into you and startled you out of your sleep; your eyes are only half open yet, you are reluctant to shake off a sleep which has shown you such fair visions, and so you scold. It is just the condition of the day-dreamer; he is rolling in gold, digging up treasure, sitting on his throne, or somehow at the summit of bliss; for dame How-I-wish is a lavish facile Goddess, that will never turn a deaf ear to her votary, though he have a mind to fly, or change statures with Colossus, or strike a gold-reef; well, in the middle of all this, in comes his servant with some every-day question, wanting to know where he is to get bread, or what he shall say to the landlord, tired of waiting for his rent; and then he flies into a temper, as though the intrusive questioner had robbed him of all his bliss, and is ready to bite the poor fellow’s nose off.
[63.72] As you love me, do not treat me like that. I see you digging up treasure, spreading your wings, nursing extravagant ideas, indulging impossible hopes; and I love you too well to leave you to the company of a life-long dream—a pleasant one, if you will, but yet a dream; I beseech you to get up and take to some every-day business, such as may direct the rest of your life’s course by common sense. Your acts and your thoughts up to now have been no more than Centaurs, Chimeras, Gorgons, or what else is figured by dreams and poets and painters, chartered libertines all, who reck not of what has been or may be. Yet the common folk believe them, bewitched by tale and picture just because they are strange and monstrous.
[63.73] I fancy you hearing from some teller of tales how there is a certain lady of perfect beauty, beyond the Graces themselves or the Heavenly Aphrodite, and then, without ever an inquiry whether his tale is true, and such a person to be found on earth, falling straight in love with her, like Medea in the story enamoured of a dream-Jason. And what most drew you on to love, you and the others who worship the same phantom, was, if I am not mistaken, the consistent way in which the inventor of the lady added to his picture, when once he had got your ear. That was the only thing you all looked to, with that he turned you about as he would, having got his first hold upon you, averring that he was leading you the straight way to your beloved. After the first step, you see, all was easy; none of you ever looked round when he came to the entrance, and inquired whether it was the right one, or whether he had accidentally taken the wrong; no, you all followed in your predecessors’ footsteps, like sheep after the bell-wether, whereas the right thing was to decide at the entrance whether you should go in.
[63.74] Perhaps an illustration will make my meaning clearer: when one of those audacious poets affirms that there was once a three-headed and six-handed man, if you accept that quietly without questioning its possibility, he will proceed to fill in the picture consistently—six eyes and ears, three voices talking at once, three mouths eating, and thirty fingers instead of our poor ten all told; if he has to fight, three of his hands will have a buckler, wicker targe, or shield apiece, while of the other three one swings an axe, another hurls a spear, and the third wields a sword. It is too late to carp at these details, when they come; they are consistent with the beginning; it was about that that the question ought to have been raised whether it was to be accepted and passed as true. Once grant that, and the rest comes flooding in, irresistible, hardly now susceptible of doubt, because it is consistent and accordant with your initial admissions. That is just your case; your love-yearning would not allow you to look into the facts at each entrance, and so you are dragged on by consistency; it never occurs to you that a thing may be self-consistent and yet false; if a man says twice five is seven, and you take his word for it without checking the sum, he will naturally deduce that four times five is fourteen, and so on ad libitum. This is the way that weird geometry proceeds: it sets before beginners certain strange assumptions, and insists on their granting the existence of inconceivable things, such as points having no parts, lines without breadth, and so on, builds on these rotten foundations a superstructure equally rotten, and pretends to go on to a demonstration which is true, though it starts from premisses which are false.
[63.75] Just so you, when you have granted the principles of any school, believe in the deductions from them, and take their consistency, false as it is, for a guarantee of truth. Then with some of you, hope travels through, and you die before you have seen the truth and detected your deceivers, while the rest, disillusioned too late, will not turn back for shame: what, confess at their years that they have been abused with toys all this time? so they hold on desperately, putting the best face upon it and making all the converts they can, to have the consolation of good company in their deception; they are well aware that to speak out is to sacrifice the respect and superiority and honour they are accustomed to; so they will not do it if it may be helped, knowing the height from which they will fall to the common level. Just a few are found with the courage to say they were deluded, and warn other aspirants. Meeting such a one, call him a good man, a true and an honest; nay, call him philosopher, if you will; to my mind, the name is his or no one’s; the rest either have no knowledge of the truth, though they think they have, or else have knowledge and hide it, shamefaced cowards clinging to reputation.
[63.76] But now for goodness’ sake let us drop all this, cover it up with an amnesty, and let it be as if it had not been said; let us assume that the Stoic philosophy, and no other, is correct; then we can examine whether it is practicable and possible, or its disciples wasting their pains; it makes wonderful promises, I am told, about the Happiness in store for those who reach the summit; for none but they shall enter into full possession of the true Good. The next point you must help me with—whether you have ever met such a Stoic, such a pattern of Stoicism, as to be unconscious of pain, untempted by pleasure, free from wrath, superior to envy, contemptuous of wealth, and, in one word, Happy; such should the example and model of the Virtuous life be; for any one who falls short in the slightest degree, even though he is better than other men at all points, is not complete, and in that case not yet Happy.
[63.77] Hermotimus. I never saw such a man.
[63.77] Lycinus. I am glad you do not palter with the truth. But what are your hopes in pursuing philosophy, then? You see that neither your own teacher, nor his, nor his again, and so on to the tenth generation, has been absolutely wise and so attained Happiness. It will not serve you to say that it is enough to get near Happiness; that is no good; a person on the doorstep is just as much outside and in the air as another a long way off, though with the difference that the former is tantalized by a nearer view. So it is to get into the neighbourhood of Happiness—I will grant you so much—that you toil like this, wearing yourself away, letting this great portion of your life slip from you, while you are sunk in dullness and wakeful weariness; and you are to go on with it for twenty more years at the least, you tell me, to take your place when you are eighty—always assuming some one to assure you that length of days—in the ranks of the not yet Happy. Or perhaps you reckon on being the exception; you are to crown your pursuit by attaining what many a good man before you, swifter far, has pursued and never overtaken.
[63.78] Well, overtake it, if that is your plan, grasp it and have it whole, this something, mysterious to me, of which the possession is sufficient reward for such toils; this something which I wonder how long you will have the enjoyment of, old man that you will be, past all pleasure, with one foot in the grave; ah, but perhaps, like a brave soul, you are getting ready for another life, that you may spend it the better when you come to it, having learned how to live: as though one should take so long preparing and elaborating a superlative dinner that he fainted with hunger and exhaustion!
[63.79] However, there is another thing I do not think you have observed: Virtue is manifested, of course, in action, in doing what is just and wise and manly; but you—and when I say you, I mean the most advanced philosophers—you do not seek these things and ensue them, but spend the greater part of your life conning over miserable sentences and demonstrations and problems; it is the man who does best at these that you hail a glorious victor. And I believe that is why you admire this experienced old professor of yours: he nonplusses his associates, knows how to put crafty questions and inveigle you into pitfalls; so you pay no attention to the fruit—which consists in action—, but are extremely busy with the husks, and smother each other with the leaves in your debates; come now, Hermotimus, what else are you about from morning to night?
[63.79] Hermotimus. Nothing; that is what it comes to.
[63.79] Lycinus. Is it wronging you to say that you hunt the shadow or the snake’s dead slough, and neglect the solid body or the creeping thing itself? You are no better than a man pouring water into a mortar and braying it with an iron pestle; he thinks he is doing a necessary useful job, whereas, let him bray till all’s blue (excuse the slang), the water is as much water as ever it was.
[63.80] And here let me ask you whether, putting aside his discourse, you would choose to resemble your master, and be as passionate, as sordid, as quarrelsome, ay, and as addicted to pleasure (though that trait of his is not generally known). Why no answer, Hermotimus? Shall I tell you a plea for philosophy which I lately heard? It was from the mouth of an old, old man, who has quite a company of young disciples. He was angrily demanding his fees from one of these; they were long overdue, he said; the day stated in the agreement was the first of the month, and it was now the fifteenth.
[63.81] The youth’s uncle was there, a rustic person without any notion of your refinements; and by way of stilling the storm, Come, come, sir, says he, you need not make such a fuss because we have bought words of you and not yet settled the bill. As to what you have sold us, you have got it still; your stock of learning is none the less; and in what I really sent the boy to you for, you have not improved him a bit; he has carried off and seduced neighbour Echecrates’s daughter, and there would have been an action for assault, only Echecrates is a poor man; but the prank cost me a couple of hundred. And the other day he struck his mother; she had tried to stop him when he was smuggling wine out of the house, for one of his club-dinners, I suppose. As to temper and conceit and impudence and brass and lying, he was not half so bad twelve months ago as he is now. That is where I should have liked him to profit by your teaching; and we could have done without his knowing the stuff he reels off at table every day: ‘a crocodile¹⁰ seized hold of a baby,’ says he, ‘and promised to give it back if its father could answer’—the Lord knows what; or how, ‘day¹¹ being, night cannot be’; and sometimes his worship twists round what we say somehow or other, till there we are with horns¹² on our heads! We just laugh at it—most of all when he stuffs up his ears and repeats to himself what he calls temperaments and conditions and conceptions and impressions, and a lot more like that. And he tells us God is not in heaven, but goes about in everything, wood and stone and animals—the meanest of them, too; and if his mother asks him why he talks such stuff, he laughs at her and says if once he gets the ‘stuff’ pat off, there will be nothing to prevent him from being the only rich man, the only king, and counting every one else slaves and offscourings.
[63.82] When he had finished, mark the reverend philosopher’s answer. You should consider, he said, that if he had never come to me, he would have behaved far worse—very possibly have come to the gallows. As it is, philosophy and the respect he has for it have been a check upon him, so that you find he keeps within bounds and is not quite unbearable; the philosophic system and name tutor him with their presence, and the thought of disgracing them shames him. I should be quite justified in taking your money, if not for any positive improvement I have effected, yet for the abstentions due to his respect for philosophy; the very nurses will tell you as much: children should go to school, because, even if they are not old enough to learn, they will at least be out of mischief there. My conscience is quite easy about him; if you like to select any of your friends who is acquainted with Stoicism and bring him here to-morrow, you shall see how the boy can question and answer, how much he has learnt, how many books he has read on axioms, syllogisms, conceptions, duty, and all sorts of subjects. As for his hitting his mother or seducing girls, what have I to do with that? am I his keeper?
[63.83] A dignified defence of philosophy for an old man! Perhaps you will say too that it is a good enough reason for pursuing it, if it will keep us from worse employments. Were our original expectations from philosophy at all of a different nature, by the way? did they contemplate anything beyond a more decent behaviour than the average? Why this obstinate silence?
[63.83] Hermotimus. Oh, why but that I could cry like a baby? It cuts me to the heart, it is all so true; it is too much for me, when I think of my wretched, wasted years—paying all that money for my own labour, too! I am sober again after a debauch, I see what the object of my maudlin affection is like, and what it has brought upon me.
[63.84] Lycinus. No need for tears, dear fellow; that is a very sensible fable of Aesop’s. A man sat on the shore and counted the waves breaking; missing count, he was excessively annoyed. But the fox came up and said to him: ‘Why vex yourself, good sir, over the past ones? you should let them go, and begin counting afresh.’ So you, since this is your mind, had better reconcile yourself now to living like an ordinary man; you will give up your extravagant haughty hopes and put yourself on a level with the commonalty; if you are sensible, you will not be ashamed to unlearn in your old age, and change your course for a better.
[63.85] Now I beg you not to fancy that I have said all this as an anti-Stoic, moved by any special dislike of your school; my arguments hold against all schools. I should have said just the same if you had chosen Plato or Aristotle, and condemned the others unheard. But, as Stoicism was your choice, the argument has seemed to be aimed at that, though it had no such special application.
[63.86] Hermotimus. You are quite right. And now I will be off to metamorphose myself. When we next meet, there will be no long, shaggy beard, no artificial composure; I shall be natural, as a gentleman should. I may go as far as a fashionable coat, by way of publishing my renunciation of nonsense. I only wish there were an emetic that would purge out every doctrine they have instilled into me; I assure you, if I could reverse Chrysippus’s plan with the hellebore, and drink forgetfulness, not of the world but of Stoicism, I would not think twice about it. Well, Lycinus, I owe you a debt indeed; I was being swept along in a rough turbid torrent, unresisting, drifting with the stream; when lo, you stood there and fished me out, a true deus ex machina. I have good enough reason, I think, to shave my head like the people who get clear off from a wreck; for I am to make votive offerings to-day for the dispersion of that thick cloud which was over my eyes. Henceforth, if I meet a philosopher on my walks (and it will not be with my will), I shall turn aside and avoid him as I would a mad dog.

## A Literary Prometheus

[64.1] 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;
[64.2] 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.
[64.3] 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.
[64.4] 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.
[64.5] 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.
[64.6] 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.
[64.7] 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.

## The Ship: or, The Wishes

[65.1] Lycinus. Said I not well? More easily shall a corpse lie mouldering in the sun, and the vulture mark it not, than any strange sight escape Timolaus, no matter though he must run all the way to Corinth at a stretch for it.—Indefatigable sightseer!
[65.1] Timolaus. Well, Lycinus, what do you expect? One has nothing to do, and just then one hears that a great monster of an Egyptian corn-ship has put in to Piraeus. What is more, I believe you and Samippus came down on precisely the same errand.
[65.1] Lycinus. So we did, so we did, and Adimantus with us; only he has got lost somewhere in the crowd of spectators. We came all together to the ship; and going on board you were in front, Samippus, if I remember, and Adimantus next, and I was behind, hanging on to him for dear life; he gave me a hand all up the gangway, because I had never taken my shoes off, and he had; but I saw no more of him after that, either on board or when we came ashore.
[65.2] Samippus. You see when it was we lost him, Lycinus? It must have been when that nice-looking boy came up from the hold, you know, with the beautiful clean linen, and his hair parted in the middle and done up in a knot behind. If I know anything of Adimantus, he no sooner saw that charming sight, than he said good-bye to the Egyptian ship-wright who was showing us round; and now stands urging his tearful suit. You know his way; tears come natural to him in these affairs of the heart.
[65.2] Lycinus. Well, but, Samippus, this boy was nothing great, that he should make such a conquest; Adimantus has the beauties of Athens at his beck; nice gentlemanly boys, with good Greek on their tongues, and the mark of the gymnasium on every muscle; a man may languish under their rigours with some credit. As for this fellow, to say nothing of his dark skin, and protruding lips, and spindle shanks, his words came tumbling out in a heap, one on the top of another; it was Greek, of course, but the voice, the accent were Egyptian born. And then his hair: no freeman ever had his hair tied up in a knot behind like that.
[65.3] Timolaus. Oh, but that is a sign of noble birth in Egypt, Lycinus. All gentlemen’s sons wear their hair done up till they reach manhood. It was the other way with our ancestors: the topknot, and the golden grasshopper to keep it together, were the proper thing for old men in their time.
[65.3] Samippus. Very much to the point, Timolaus; you allude to the remarks in Thucydides’s preface, about our old luxurious habits, as preserved in the Asiatic colonies.
[65.3] Lycinus. Of course!
[65.4] I remember now where it was we lost Adimantus. It was when we were standing all that time looking up at the mast, counting the layers of hides, and watching that marvellous fellow going up the shrouds, and running along the yards, perfectly comfortable, with just a hand on the yard-tackling.
[65.4] Samippus. So it was. Well, now what are we to do? Shall we wait for him here, or do you think I had better go back on board?
[65.4] Timolaus. No, no, let us walk on; he has probably gone tearing off home, not being able to find us. Anyhow, he knows the way; he will never get lost for want of us to take care of him.
[65.4] Lycinus. It is rather a shame, perhaps, to go off and leave one’s friend to shift for himself. However, I agree, if Samippus does.
[65.4] Samippus. Certainly I do. We may find the gymnasium open still.
[65.5] —I say, though, what a size that ship was! 180 feet long, the man said, and something over a quarter of that in width; and from deck to keel, the maximum depth, through the hold, 44 feet. And then the height of the mast, with its huge yard; and what a forestay it takes to hold it! And the lofty stern with its gradual curve, and its gilded beak, balanced at the other end by the long rising sweep of the prow, and the figures of her name-goddess, Isis, on either side. As to the other ornamental details, the paintings and the scarlet topsail, I was more struck by the anchors, and the capstans and windlasses, and the stern cabins. The crew was like a small army.
[65.6] And they were saying she carried as much corn as would feed every soul in Attica for a year. And all depends for its safety on one little old atomy of a man, who controls that great rudder with a mere broomstick of a tiller! He was pointed out to me; Heron was his name, I think; a woolly-pated fellow, half-bald.
[65.6] Timolaus. He is a wonderful hand at it, so the crew say; a very Proteus in sea-cunning.
[65.7] Did they tell you how he brought them here, and all their adventures? how they were saved by a star?
[65.7] Lycinus. No; you can tell us about that now.
[65.7] Timolaus. I had it from the master, a nice intelligent fellow to talk to. They set sail with a moderate wind from Pharus, and sighted Acamas on the seventh day. Then a west wind got up, and they were carried as far east as Sidon. On their way thence they came in for a heavy gale, and the tenth day brought them through the Straits to the Chelidon Isles; and there they very nearly went to the bottom.
[65.8] I have sailed past the Chelidons myself, and I know the sort of seas you get there, especially if the wind is SW. by S.; it is just there, of course, that the division takes place between the Lycian and Pamphylian waters; and the surge caused by the numerous currents gets broken at the headland, whose rocks have been sharpened by the action of the water till they are like razors; the result is a stupendous crash of waters, the waves often rising to the very top of the crags.
[65.9] This was the kind of thing they found themselves in for, according to the master,—and on a pitch dark night! However, the Gods were moved by their distress, and showed them a fire that enabled them to identify the Lycian coast; and a bright star—either Castor or Pollux—appeared at the masthead, and guided the ship into the open sea on their left; just in time, for she was making straight for the cliff. Having once lost their proper course, they sailed on through the Aegean, bearing up against the Etesian winds, until they came to anchor in Piraeus yesterday, being the seventieth day of the voyage; you see how far they had been carried out of their way; whereas if they had taken Crete on their right, they would have doubled Malea, and been at Rome by this time.
[65.9] Lycinus. A pretty pilot this Heron, and no mistake, to get so far out in his reckoning;
[65.10] a man after Nereus’s heart!—But look! that is surely Adimantus?
[65.10] Timolaus. Adimantus it is. Let us hail him. Adimantus!... Son of Strombichus!... of the deme of Myrrhinus! He must be offended with us, or else he is deaf; it is certainly he.
[65.10] Lycinus. I can make him out quite clearly now; his cloak, his walk, his cropped head. Let us mend our pace, and catch him up.—
[65.11] We shall have to pull you by the cloak, and compel you to turn round, Adimantus; you will take no notice of our shouts. You seem like one rapt in contemplation; you are pondering on matters of no light import?
[65.11] Adimantus. Oh, it is nothing serious. An idle fancy, that came to me as I walked, and engrossed my attention, so that I never heard you.
[65.11] Lycinus. And the fancy? Tell us without reserve, unless it is a very delicate matter. And even if it is, you know, we have all been through the Mysteries; we can keep a secret.
[65.11] Adimantus. No, I had rather not tell you; you would think it so childish.
[65.11] Lycinus. Can it be a love affair? Speak on; those mysteries too are not unknown to us; we have been initiated in full torchlight.
[65.12] Adimantus. Oh dear, no; nothing of that kind.—No; I was making myself an imaginary present of a fortune—that ‘vain, deluding joy,’ as it has been called; I had just reached the pinnacle of luxury and affluence when you arrived.
[65.12] Lycinus. Then all I have to say is, ‘Halves!’ Come, out with your wealth! We are Adimantus’s friends: let us share his superfluities.
[65.12] Adimantus. Well, I lost sight of you at once on the ship—the moment I had got you safely up, Lycinus. I was measuring the thickness of the anchor, and you disappeared somewhere.
[65.13] However, I went on and saw everything, and then I asked one of the sailors how much the vessel brought in to her owner in an average year. Three thousand pounds, he said, was the lowest reckoning. So afterwards, on the way back, I was thinking: Suppose some God took it into his head to make me a present of that ship; what a glorious life I should have of it, and my friends too! Sometimes I could make the trip myself, at other times I could send my men. On the strength of that three thousand, I had already built myself a house, nicely situated just above the Poecile—I would have nothing more to say to my ancestral abode on the banks of the Ilissus,—and was in treaty for my wardrobe and slaves and chariots and stable. And now behold me on board, the envy of every passenger, and the terror of my crew, who regarded me as next thing to a king; I was getting matters shipshape, and taking a last look at the port in the distance, when up comes Lycinus, capsizes the vessel, just as she is scudding before a wishing wind, and sends all my wealth to the bottom.
[65.14] Lycinus. Well, you are a man of spirit: lay hands on me, and away with me to the governor, for the buccaneer that I am. A flagrant case of piracy; on the high roads, too, between Athens and Piraeus. Stay, though; perhaps we can compound the matter. What do you say to five ships, larger and finer ones than your Egyptian; above all, warranted not to sink?—each to bring you, shall we say, five cargoes of corn per annum? Though I foresee that you will be the most unbearable of shipowners when you have got them. The possession of this one made you deaf to our salutations; give you five more—three-masters all of them, and imperishable—and the result is obvious: you will not know your friends when you see them. And so, good voyage to your worship; we will establish ourselves at Piraeus, and question all who land from Egypt or Italy, as to whether they came across Adimantus’s great ship, the Isis, anywhere.
[65.15] Adimantus. There now; that was why I refused to tell you about it at first; I knew you would make a jest and a laughing-stock of my Wish. So now I shall stop here till you have got on ahead, and then I shall go another voyage on my ship. I like talking to my sailors much better than being jeered at by you.
[65.15] Lycinus. That will never do. We shall hang about, and go on board too.
[65.15] Adimantus. I shall go on first, and haul up the gangway.
[65.15] Lycinus. Then we shall swim across and board you. You seem to think there will be no difficulty about your acquiring these great ships without building them or paying for them; why should not we obtain from the Gods the privilege of swimming for an indefinite distance without getting tired? You made no objection to our company the other day, you know, when we all went across together to Aegina, to see the rites of Hecate, in that tiny little boat, at sixpence a head; and now you are furious at the idea of our going on board with you; you go on ahead, and haul up the gangway. You forget yourself, my Shipowner; you wax fat and kick; you withhold from Nemesis her due. See what comes of houses in fashionable quarters, and great retinues. Well, please remember to bring us back some of those exquisite smoked fish from the Nile, or some myrrh from Canopus, or an ibis from Memphis;—I suppose you would scarcely have room for a pyramid?
[65.16] Timolaus. That is enough, Lycinus. Spare his blushes. You have quite swamped his ship; she is laughter-logged, and can weather it no longer. Now, we have still some distance before us; let us break it up into four parts, and each have so many furlongs, in which he may demand of the Gods what he will. This will lighten our journey, and amuse us into the bargain; we shall revel in a delightful waking dream of unlimited prosperity; for each of us will have full control of his own Wish, and it will be understood that the Gods must grant everything, however impracticable. Above all, it will give us an idea who would make the best use of the supposed wealth; we shall see what kind of a man it would have made of him.
[65.17] Samippus. A good idea. I am your man; I undertake to wish when my turn comes. We need not ask Adimantus whether he agrees; he has one foot on board already. We must have Lycinus’s sanction, however.
[65.17] Lycinus. Why, let us to our wealth, if so it must be. Where all is prosperity, I would not be thought to cast an evil eye.
[65.17] Adimantus. Who begins?
[65.17] Lycinus. You; and then Samippus, and then Timolaus. I shall only want the last hundred yards or so before the Gate for mine, and a quick hundred, too.
[65.18] Adimantus. Well, I stick to my ship still; only I shall wish some more things, as it is allowed. May the God of Luck say Yes to all! I will have the ship, and everything in her; the cargo, the merchants, the women, the sailors, and anything else that is particularly nice to have.
[65.18] Samippus. You forget one thing you have on board—
[65.18] Adimantus. Oh, the boy with the hair; yes, him too. And instead of the present cargo of wheat, I will have the same bulk of coined gold, all sovereigns.
[65.19] Lycinus. Hullo! The ship will sink. Wheat and gold to the same bulk are not of the same weight.
[65.19] Adimantus. Now, don’t make envious remarks. When your turn comes, you can have the whole of Parnes turned into a mass of gold if you like, and I shall say nothing.
[65.19] Lycinus. Oh, I was only thinking of your safety. I don’t want all hands to go down with the golden cargo. It would not matter so much about us, but the poor boy would be drowned; he can’t swim.
[65.19] Timolaus. Oh, that will be all right. The dolphins will pick him up and get him to shore. Shall a paltry musician be rescued by them for a song’s sake, a lifeless Melicertes be carried on their backs to the Isthmus, and Adimantus’s latest purchase find never an amorous dolphin at his need?
[65.19] Adimantus. Timolaus, you are just as bad as Lycinus, with your superfluous sneers. You ought to know better; it was all your idea.
[65.20] Timolaus. You should make it more plausible. Find a treasure under your bed; that would save unloading the gold, and getting it up to town.
[65.20] Adimantus. Oh yes! It shall be dug up from under the Hermes in our court; a thousand bushels of coined gold. Well; my first thought has been for a handsome house,—‘the homestead first and chiefest,’ says Hesiod; and my purchases in the neighbourhood are now complete; there remains my property at Delphi, and the sea-front at Eleusis; and a little something at the Isthmus (I might want to stop there for the games); and the plain of Sicyon; and in short every scrap of land in the country where there is nice shade, or a good stream, or fine fruit; I reserve them all. We will eat off gold plate; and our cups shall weigh 100 lb. apiece; I will have none of the flimsy ware that appears on Echecrates’s table.
[65.21] Lycinus. I dare say! And how is your cupbearer going to hand you a thing of that weight, when he has filled it? And how will you like taking it from him? It would tax the muscles of a Sisyphus, let alone a cupbearer’s.
[65.21] Adimantus. Oh, don’t keep on picking holes in my Wish. I shall have tables and couches of solid gold, if I like; and servants too, if you say another word.
[65.21] Lycinus. Well, take care, or you will be like Midas, with nothing but gold to eat and drink; and die of a right royal hunger, a martyr to superabundance.
[65.21] Adimantus. Your turn will come presently, Lycinus, and then you can be as realistic as you like.
[65.22] To proceed: I must have purple raiment, and every luxury, and sleep as late as I like; with friends to come and pay court to me, and every one bowing down to the ground; and they will all have to wait about at my doors from early morning—the great Cleaenetus and Democritus among them; oh yes, and when they come and try to get in before every one else, seven great foreign giants of porters shall slam the door in their faces, just as theirs do now. And as soon as I feel inclined, I shall peep out like the rising sun, and some of that set I shall simply ignore; but if there is some poor man there, like me before I got the treasure, I shall have a kind word for him: ‘You must come and have dinner with me, after your bath; you know my hour.’ The great men will all choke with envy when they see my chariots and horses, and my handsome slaves—two thousand choice ones, of all ages.
[65.23] Well, so the dinner service is to be of gold,—no silver for me, it is much too cheap—and I shall have smoked fish from Spain; wine from Italy; oil from Spain again; our own honey, but it must be clarified without heat; delicacies from all quarters; wild boars; hares; all sorts of birds, pheasants, Indian peacocks, Numidian capons; and special cooks for everything, artists in sauce and seasoning. And when I call for a beaker or goblet to pledge any one, he shall take it home with him.
[65.24] As to the people who now pass for rich, they, I need not say, will be paupers to me. Dionicus will give up displaying his silver plate and cup in processions, when he sees that my slaves eat off nothing but silver. I should set apart something for the public service, too; a monthly distribution of £4 a head to citizens, and half that to foreigners; and the most beautiful theatres and baths you can imagine; and the sea should be brought along a great canal up to the Double Gates, and there would be a harbour close by, so that my ship could be seen lying at anchor from the Ceramicus.
[65.25] And of you who are my friends, Samippus should have twenty bushels of coined gold paid out to him by my steward; Timolaus, five quarts; and Lycinus one quart, strict measure, because he talks too much, and sneers at my Wish. That is how I would live; revelling in every luxury without stint, superlatively rich. I have done. Hermes bring it all to pass!
[65.26] Lycinus. Have you realized on what a slender thread all this wealth depends? Once let that break, and all is gone; your treasure is but dust and ashes.
[65.26] Adimantus. How so?
[65.26] Lycinus. Why, it is not clear how long this life of affluence is to last. Who knows? You may be sitting one day at your solid gold table, just putting out your hand for a slice of that peacock or capon, when, at that very moment, off flies animula vagula, and Adimantus after her, leaving his all a prey to crows and vultures. Need I enumerate instances? There have been rich men who have died before they knew what it was to be rich; others have lived to be robbed of their possessions by some malign spirit who waits upon wealth. The cases of Croesus and Polycrates are familiar to you. Their riches were greater far than yours; yet at one stroke they lost all.
[65.27] But leaving them out of the case, do you consider that you have good security for the continuance of your health? Look at the number of rich men whose lives are made miserable by their infirmities: some are crippled, others are blind, others have internal diseases. Say what you will, I am sure that for double your wealth you would not consent to be a weakling like rich Phanomachus; not to mention the artful designs, the robberies, the envy, and the unpopularity that are inseparable from wealth. See what troubles your treasure will land you in!
[65.27] Adimantus. You are always against me, Lycinus. I shall cancel your quart now, for this last piece of spite.
[65.27] Lycinus. That is so like a rich man, to draw back and break his promise; a good beginning! Now, Samippus, it is your turn to wish.
[65.28] Samippus. Well, I am a landsman; I come from Mantinea, you know, in Arcadia; so I shall not ask for a ship; I could make no show with that in my country. Nor will I insult the generosity of the Gods by asking for so much gold down. I understand there is no boon so great, but their power and Timolaus’s law can compass it; we are to wish away without ceremony, he says,—they will refuse us nothing. Well then, I wish to be a king. But I will not succeed to a hereditary throne, like Alexander of Macedon, Ptolemy, Mithridates and the rest of them. No, I will begin as a brigand, in a troop of thirty or so, brisk companions ready at need. Then little by little we shall grow to be 300; then 1,000, and presently 10,000; and at last we shall total 50,000 heavy-armed, and 5,000 horse.
[65.29] I shall be elected their chieftain by general consent, having shown myself to be the best qualified for the command and conduct of their affairs. Already, you see, I have the advantage of ordinary kings: I am elected to the command on my own merits; I am no hereditary monarch, reaping the fruits of my predecessor’s labours. That would be like Adimantus, with his treasure; but there is much more satisfaction in knowing that your power is the work of your own hands.
[65.29] Lycinus. Now really, this is a Wish, and no mistake; the very acme of blessedness; to be commander of that vast company, chosen on your own merits by 50,000 men! A genius, a master of strategy and king-craft has been quietly growing up in Mantinea, and we not a whit the wiser! But I interrupt. Proceed, O King, at the head of your troops; dispose your forces, infantry and cavalry. Whither, I wonder, goes this mighty host, issuing from Arcadia? Who are to be the first victims?
[65.30] Samippus. I’ll tell you; or you can come with us, if you like. I will put you in command of the cavalry.
[65.30] Lycinus. Why, as to that, your Majesty, I am much beholden to you for the honour; accept my most oriental prostrations; and manuflexions. But, with all respect to your diadem, and the perpendicularity of your tiara, you would do well to take one of these stout fellows instead. I am sadly deficient in horsemanship; indeed, I was never on a horse in my life. I am afraid that when the trumpet sounded to advance, I might fall off, and be trampled, in the general confusion, under some of those numerous hoofs. Or again, my spirited charger might get the bit between his teeth, and carry me right into the midst of the enemy. If I am to remain in possession of saddle and bridle, I shall have to be tied on.
[65.31] Adimantus. All right, Samippus, I will command the cavalry; Lycinus can have the right wing. I have the first claim on you, after all those bushels of sovereigns.
[65.31] Samippus. Let us see what my troopers think of you for a leader. All in favour of Adimantus, hold up their hands.
[65.31] Adimantus. All hands go up, look.
[65.31] Samippus. You command the cavalry, then, and Lycinus the right wing. Timolaus will have the left wing. I am in the centre, like the Persian monarchs when they take the field in person.
[65.32] Well; after due observance paid to Zeus, king of kings, we advance along the hill-road to Corinth. Greece being now subjugated (for no resistance will be offered to our enormous host, we shall merely walk over), we get our troops on to the galleys, and the horses on to the transports (arrangements having been made at Cenchreae for the requisite number of vessels, with adequate provision and so on), cross the Aegean, and land in Ionia. Here we sacrifice to Artemis, and finding the various cities unfortified, take easy possession of them, put in governors, and march on in the direction of Syria. On the way we pass through Caria, Lycia, Pamphylia, Pisidia, the mountains and sea-board of Cilicia, and so at last reach the Euphrates.
[65.33] Lycinus. If your Majesty has no objection, I will stay behind and be Pacha of Greece. I am a poor-spirited fellow; to go all that way from home is not to my liking at all. You evidently meditate an attack upon the Parthians and Armenians, warlike folk, and unerring shots. Let some one else have the right wing, and let me play Antipater here at home. Some arrow, from the walls of Susa or Bactra, might find a chink in my armour, and let daylight through me; and there would be a melancholy end of my strategic career.
[65.33] Samippus. Oh coward, to desert your post! The penalty for that is decapitation.—We are now at the Euphrates, and have thrown our bridge across. All is secured in our rear by the subordinates whom I have placed in charge of the various districts; officers have also been dispatched for the reduction of Phoenicia and Palestine, and, subsequently, of Egypt. Now, Lycinus, you cross first, with the right wing; I next, and Timolaus after me. Last comes Adimantus with the cavalry.
[65.34] We have now crossed Mesopotamia, and no enemy has yet shown himself; town after town has voluntarily given itself up; we reach Babylon; we enter its gates without warning, and the city is ours. The Persian king meanwhile is at Ctesiphon. He hears of our approach and withdraws to Seleucia, where he proceeds to muster his full strength of cavalry, bowmen, and slingers. Our scouts report that the force already collected numbers something like a million, including two hundred thousand mounted bowmen; and the Armenian, Caspian, and Bactrian contingents are still to come; only the neighbouring districts, the suburbs, as it were, of the empire, have contributed as yet. With such ease does the Persian monarch raise a million of men! It is now time for us to think what we are to do next.
[65.35] Adimantus. Well, I say that you should all march for Ctesiphon, leaving me to secure Babylon with the cavalry.
[65.35] Samippus. Are you going to show the white feather too, Adimantus, now that the danger is near?—Timolaus, what is your advice?
[65.35] Timolaus. We must march upon the enemy in full force, before they have had time to strengthen their hands with the reinforcements that are pouring in from all quarters; let us engage them whilst they are still making their several ways to Seleucia.
[65.35] Samippus. There is something in that. What do you recommend, Lycinus?
[65.35] Lycinus. Well, we have all been on our legs till we are tired out; there was the early walk down, and we must be a good three miles now on the way home; and the sun is extremely powerful—it is just about noon: how would it be to sit down for a bit on that ruined column under the olive trees, till we are sufficiently restored to complete the journey?
[65.35] Samippus. O sancta simplicitas! Did you think that you were at Athens all this time? You are in the plain before Babylon, in a great camp,—engaged in a council of war.
[65.35] Lycinus. Why, so I am. I forgot; we are drunk, of course; it is against rules to talk sense.
[65.36] Samippus. Well, now, please, to the attack. Bear yourselves gallantly in this hour of danger: be not less than Greeks. See, the enemy are upon us. Our watchword is ‘Lord of Battles.’ The moment the trumpet sounds, raise the war-cry, clash spear upon shield, and lose no time in coming to close quarters, out of danger of their arrows; otherwise the bowmen will give us a warm reception. No sooner do we get to work than Timolaus with his left wing routs their right; in the centre the conflict is even; for I have the native Persian troops against me, and the king is in their midst. The whole strength of their cavalry bears down upon our right wing; play the man, therefore, Lycinus; and encourage your troops to receive the charge.
[65.36] Lycinus. Just my luck!
[65.37] Every single trooper of them is making straight for me, as if I were the only foeman worthy of their steel. If they go on like this, I think I shall have to turn tail and make for the gymnasium, and leave you to fight it out.
[65.37] Samippus. Nonsense; you have almost beaten them already. Now, observe, the king challenges me to single combat; honour forbids that I should draw back; I accordingly engage him.
[65.37] Lycinus. To be sure; and are promptly wounded. No king should omit to receive a wound, when empire is at stake.
[65.37] Samippus. Well, yes; I do get just a scratch; it is well out of sight, however, so the scar will be no disfigurement. On the other hand, observe the fury of my charge: I send my spear through horse and rider at one stroke; cut off the royal head; remove the diadem therefrom, and am saluted as king with universal prostrations.
[65.38] That applies only to the barbarians; from you who are Greeks I shall have merely the usual title of commander-in-chief. You may imagine the rest: the Samippopolises I shall found, the cities I shall storm and destroy for slighting my supremacy. The wealthy Cydias will come in for the largest share of my attention; I have not forgotten his gradual encroachments on my property, in the days when we were neighbours.
[65.39] Lycinus. Stop there, Samippus; after such a victory, it is high time you retired to Babylon, to keep festival. Three-quarters of a mile is your allowance of dominion, as I reckon it. Timolaus now selects his wish.
[65.39] Samippus. Well, tell me what you think of mine?
[65.39] Lycinus. It seems to me, most sapient monarch, to involve considerably more trouble and annoyance than that of Adimantus. While he lives luxuriously, and hands about gold cups—hundred-pounders—to his guests, you are sustaining wounds in single combat. From morning till night, all is worry and anxiety with you. You have not only the public enemies to fear: there are the numberless conspiracies, the envy and hatred of your courtiers; you have flatterers enough, but not one friend; their seeming goodwill is the work of fear or ambition. As to enjoyment, you can never dream of such a thing. You have to content yourself with glory and gold embroidery and purple; with the victor’s garland, and the king’s bodyguard; beyond these there is nothing but intolerable toil and continual discomfort. You are either negotiating with ambassadors, or judging cases, or issuing mandates to your subjects. Here a tribe revolts: there an enemy invades. All is fear and suspicion. The world may think you happy; but you know better.
[65.40] And surely it is a very humiliating circumstance that you should be apt to fall ill, just like ordinary people? Fevers seem not to understand that you are a king; nor does Death stand in any awe of your bodyguard; when the fancy takes him, he comes, and carries you off lamenting; what cares he for the diadem? Fallen from your high estate, dragged from your kingly throne, you go the same road as the rest of us; there is no ‘benefit of royalty’ among the timid flock of shades. You leave behind you upon earth some massive tomb, some stately column, some pyramid of noble outline; but it will be too late then for vanity to enjoy these things; and the statues and temples, the offerings of obsequious cities, nay, your great name itself, all will presently decay, and vanish, and be of no further account. Take it at the best; let all endure for ages: what will it profit your senseless clay? And it is for this that you are to live uneasy days, ever scheming, fearing, toiling!—
[65.41] Timolaus, the wish is with you. We shall expect better things from your judgement and experience.
[65.41] Timolaus. See if you can find anything questionable or reprehensible in what I propose. As to treasure-heaps and bushels of coin, I will have none of them; nor monarchy, with the wars and terrors it involves. You rightly censured such things, precarious as they are, exposed to endless machinations, and bringing with them more vexation than pleasure.
[65.42] No; my wish is that Hermes should appear and present me with certain rings, possessed of certain powers. One should ensure its wearer continual health and strength, invulnerability, insensibility to pain. Another, like that of Gyges, should make me invisible. A third should give me the strength to pick up with ease a weight that ten thousand men could barely move. Then I must be able to fly to any height above the earth; a ring for that. Again, I shall want to be able to put people to sleep upon occasion; and at my approach all doors must immediately fly open, all bolts yield, all bars withdraw. One ring may secure these points.
[65.43] There remains yet one, the most precious of them all; for with it on my finger I am the desire of every woman and boy, ay, of whole nations; not one escapes me; I am in all hearts, on all tongues. Women will hang themselves for the vehemence of their passion, boys will go mad. Happy will those few be reckoned on whom I cast a glance; and those whom I scorn will pine away for grief. Hyacinth, Hylas, Phaon, will sink into insignificance beside me.
[65.44] And all this I hold on no brief tenure; the limitations of human life are not for me. I shall live a thousand years, ever renewing my youth, and casting off the slough of old age every time I get to seventeen.—With these rings I shall lack nothing. All that is another’s is mine: for can I not open his doors, put his guards to sleep, and walk in unperceived? Instead of sending to India or to the Hyperboreans for their curiosities, their treasures, their wines or their delicacies, I can fly thither myself, and take my fill of all. The phoenix of India, the griffin, that winged monster, are sights unknown to others: I shall see them. I alone shall know the sources of the Nile, the lands that are uninhabited, the Antipodes, if such there be, dwelling on the other side of the earth. Nay, I may learn the nature of the stars, the moon, the sun itself; for fire cannot harm me. And think of the joy of announcing the Olympian victor’s name in Babylon, on the day of the contest! or of having one’s breakfast in Syria, and one’s dinner in Italy! Had I an enemy, I could be even with him, thanks to my invisibility, by cracking his skull with a rock; my friends, on the other hand, I might subsidize with showers of gold as they lay asleep. Have we some overweening tyrant, who insults us with his wealth? I carry him off a couple of miles or so, and drop him over the nearest precipice. I could enjoy the company of my beloved without let or hindrance, going secretly in after I had put every one else in the house to sleep. What a thing it would be to hover overhead, out of range, and watch contending armies! If I liked, I could take the part of the vanquished, send their conquerors to sleep, rally the fugitives and give them the victory. In short, the affairs of humanity would be my diversion; all things would be in my power; mankind would account me a God. Here is the perfection of happiness, secure and indestructible, backed as it is by health and longevity.
[65.45] What faults have you to find, Lycinus?
[65.45] Lycinus. None; it is not safe to thwart a man who has wings, and the strength of ten thousand. I have only one question to ask. Did you ever, among all the nations you passed in your flight, meet with a similar case of mental aberration? a man of mature years riding about on a finger-ring, moving whole mountains with a touch; bald and snub-nosed, yet the desire of all eyes? Ah, there was another point. What is to prevent one single ring from doing all the work? Why go about with your left hand loaded,—a ring to every finger? nay, they overflow; the right hand must be forced into the service. And you have left out the most important ring of all, the one to stop your drivelling at this absurd rate. Perhaps you consider that a stiffish dose of hellebore would serve the turn?
[65.46] Timolaus. Now, positively, Lycinus, you must have a try yourself. You find fault with everybody else; this time we should like to hear your version of a really unexceptionable wish.
[65.46] Lycinus. What do I want with a wish? Here we are at the gates. What with the valiant Samippus’s single combat at Babylon, and your breakfasts in Syria and dinners in Italy, you have used up my ground between you; and you are heartily welcome. I have no fancy for a short-lived visionary wealth, with the humiliating sequel of barley-bread and no butter. That will be your fate presently. Your bliss and your wealth will take wings; you will wake from your charming dreams of treasure and diadems, to find that your domestic arrangements are of quite another kind, like the actors who take the king’s part in tragedies;—their late majesties King Agamemnon and King Creon usually return to very short commons on leaving the theatre. Some depression, some discontent at your existing arrangements, is to be expected on the occasion. You will be the worst off, Timolaus. Your flying-machine will come to grief, like that of Icarus; you will descend from the skies, and foot it on the ground; and all those rings will slip off and be lost. As for me, I am content with the exquisite amusement afforded me by your various wishes; I would not exchange it for all the treasure in the world, Babylon included. And you call yourselves philosophers!

## Dialogues of the Dead


### I. Diogenes. Pollux

[66.1.1] Diogenes. 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 unconsidered trifles he can snap up in the way of pauper doles¹³ or lustral eggs¹⁴.
[66.1.2] Pollux. I will tell him, Diogenes. But give me some idea of his appearance.
[66.1.2] Diogenes. 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.
[66.1.2] Pollux. Ah, I cannot mistake him now.
[66.1.2] Diogenes. May I give you another message to those same philosophers?
[66.1.2] Pollux. Oh, I don’t mind; go on.
[66.1.2] Diogenes. Charge them generally to give up playing the fool, quarrelling over metaphysics, tricking each other with horn and crocodile puzzles,¹⁵ and teaching people to waste wit on such absurdities.
[66.1.2] Pollux. Oh, but if I say anything against their wisdom, they will call me an ignorant blockhead.
[66.1.2] Diogenes. Then tell them from me to go to the devil.

Pollux. Very well; rely upon me.
[66.1.3] Diogenes. 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?
[66.1.3] Pollux. They shall have their message too.
[66.1.3] Diogenes. 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.
[66.1.3] Pollux. That is to the handsome and strong; yes, I can manage that.
[66.1.4] Diogenes. 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?
[66.1.4] Pollux. No, no, Diogenes; leave Sparta alone; that is going too far; your other commissions I will execute.
[66.1.4] Diogenes. Oh, well, let them off, if you care about it; but tell all the others what I said.

### II. Before Pluto: Croesus, Midas, and Sardanapalus v. Menippus

[66.2.1] Croesus. 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.
[66.2.1] Pluto. Why, what harm does he do to your ghostly community?
[66.2.1] Croesus. 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.
[66.2.1] Pluto. Menippus, what’s this I hear?
[66.2.1] Menippus. 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.
[66.2.1] Pluto. Yes, but you mustn’t. They have had terrible losses; they feel it deeply.
[66.2.1] Menippus. Pluto! you are not going to lend your countenance to these whimpering fools?
[66.2.1] Pluto. It isn’t that: but I won’t have you quarrelling.
[66.2.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.2.2] Croesus. Presumption!
[66.2.2] Menippus. 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!
[66.2.2] Croesus. Lost! Ah God! My treasure-heaps——
[66.2.2] Midas. My gold——
[66.2.2] Sardanapalus. My little comforts——
[66.2.2] Menippus. That’s right: stick to it! You do the whining, and I’ll chime in with a string of GNOTHI-SAUTONS, best of accompaniments.

### III. Menippus. Amphilochus. Trophonius

[66.3.1] Menippus. 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.
[66.3.1] Amphilochus. How can we help it, if they are fools enough to have such fancies about the dead?
[66.3.1] Menippus. 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.
[66.3.1] Trophonius. 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.
[66.3.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.3.2] Trophonius. He is half God, and half man.
[66.3.2] Menippus. So what is neither man (as you imply) nor God, is both at once? Well, at present what has become of your diviner half?
[66.3.2] Trophonius. He gives oracles in Boeotia.
[66.3.2] Menippus. What you may mean is quite beyond me; the one thing I know for certain is that you are dead—the whole of you.

### IV. Hermes. Charon

[66.4.1] Hermes. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will prevent any unpleasantness later on.
[66.4.1] Charon. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight.
[66.4.1] Hermes. One anchor, to your order, five shillings.

Charon. That is a lot of money.
[66.4.1] Hermes. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap, fourpence.

Charon. Five and four; put that down.
[66.4.1] Hermes. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; tenpence.

Charon. Down with it.
[66.4.1] Hermes. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the lot.

Charon. They were worth the money.
[66.4.1] Hermes. That’s all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay it?
[66.4.1] Charon. 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.
[66.4.2] Hermes. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid?
[66.4.2] Charon. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just now, as you see, owing to the peace.
[66.4.2] Hermes. 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.
[66.4.2] Charon. Ah; money is in great request.
[66.4.2] Hermes. Yes; you can’t blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment.

### V. Pluto. Hermes

[66.5.1] Pluto. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?
[66.5.1] Hermes. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?
[66.5.1] Pluto. 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.
[66.5.1] Hermes. It would seem so strange, wouldn’t it?
[66.5.1] Pluto. 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.
[66.5.2] Hermes. 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.
[66.5.2] Pluto. 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.
[66.5.2] Hermes. Say no more, Pluto; I will fetch you them one after another; seven of them, is it?
[66.5.2] Pluto. Down with them; and he shall change from an old man to a blooming youth, and attend their funerals.

### VI. Terpsion. Pluto

[66.6.1] Terpsion. Now is this fair, Pluto,—that I should die at the age of thirty, and that old Thucritus go on living past ninety?
[66.6.1] Pluto. 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.
[66.6.1] Terpsion. 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.
[66.6.1] Pluto. 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.
[66.6.2] Terpsion. 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.
[66.6.3] Pluto. 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.
[66.6.4] Terpsion. 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.
[66.6.5] Pluto. 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!
[66.6.5] Terpsion. Now I think of it, it would be a satisfaction if Charoeades were to die before him.
[66.6.5] Pluto. Charoeades! My dear Terpsion, Phido, Melanthus,—every one of them will be here before Thucritus,—all victims of this same anxiety!
[66.6.5] Terpsion. That is as it should be. Hold on, Thucritus!

### VII. Zenophantus. Callidemides

[66.7.1] Zenophantus. 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.
[66.7.1] Callidemides. Yes, I was. Now there was an element of surprise about my fate. I suppose you know that old Ptoeodorus?
[66.7.1] Zenophantus. The rich man with no children, to whom you gave most of your company?
[66.7.1] Callidemides. 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.
[66.7.1] Zenophantus. And what happened? this is interesting.
[66.7.2] Callidemides. 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.
[66.7.2] Zenophantus. Well, it was such a humorous exit. And how did the old man behave?
[66.7.2] Callidemides. He was dreadfully distressed for the moment; then he saw, I suppose, and laughed as much as you over the butler’s trick.
[66.7.2] Zenophantus. 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.

### VIII. Cnemon. Damnippus

[66.8.1] Cnemon. Why, ’tis the proverb fulfilled! The fawn hath taken the lion.

Damnippus. What’s the matter, Cnemon?
[66.8.1] Cnemon. 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.
[66.8.1] Damnippus. How was that?
[66.8.1] Cnemon. 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.
[66.8.1] Damnippus. Yes; and Hermolaus?
[66.8.1] Cnemon. 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.
[66.8.1] Damnippus. And your anglership into the bargain. The pit that you digged for other....
[66.8.1] Cnemon. That’s about the truth of the matter, confound it.

### IX. Simylus. Polystratus

[66.9.1] Simylus. So here you are at last, Polystratus; you must be something very like a centenarian.
[66.9.1] Polystratus. Ninety-eight.
[66.9.1] Simylus. And what sort of a life have you had of it, these thirty years? you were about seventy when I died.
[66.9.1] Polystratus. Delightful, though you may find it hard to believe.
[66.9.1] Simylus. It is surprising that you could have any joy of your life—old, weak, and childless, moreover.
[66.9.2] Polystratus. 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.
[66.9.2] Simylus. This is a change, to be sure; you were very economical in my day.
[66.9.2] Polystratus. 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.
[66.9.2] Simylus. Why, you must have seized the crown after my death.

Polystratus. Oh no, it was only that I inspired a number of tender passions.
[66.9.2] Simylus. Tender passions, indeed! what, you, an old man with hardly a tooth left in your head!
[66.9.2] Polystratus. 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.
[66.9.2] Simylus. 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.
[66.9.2] Polystratus. No, no; I was as you see me, and I was the object of all desire.

Simylus. Oh, I give it up.
[66.9.3] Polystratus. Why, I should have thought you knew the violent passion for old men who have plenty of money and no children.
[66.9.3] Simylus. Ah, now I comprehend your beauty, old fellow; it was the Golden Aphrodite bestowed it.
[66.9.3] Polystratus. 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!
[66.9.4] Simylus. And how did you dispose of your fortune in the end?
[66.9.4] Polystratus. 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.
[66.9.4] Simylus. Who was the heir by this one? one of your relations, I suppose.
[66.9.4] Polystratus. Not likely; it was a handsome young Phrygian I had lately bought.
[66.9.4] Simylus. Age?

Polystratus. About twenty.
[66.9.4] Simylus. Ah, I can guess his office.
[66.9.4] Polystratus. 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.
[66.9.4] Simylus. 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.

### X. Charon. Hermes. Various Shades

[66.10.1] Charon. 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.
[66.10.1] Hermes. Then how are we to make a trip of it?
[66.10.1] Charon. 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.
[66.10.2] Hermes. Very good. Well, Number One, who are you?
[66.10.2] Menippus. Menippus. Here are my wallet and staff; overboard with them. I had the sense not to bring my cloak.
[66.10.2] Hermes. 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.—
[66.10.3] Here is a handsome person; who is he?
[66.10.3] Charmoleos. Charmoleos of Megara; the irresistible, whose kiss was worth a thousand pounds.
[66.10.3] Hermes. 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.—
[66.10.4] And who is the stunning gentleman in the purple and the diadem?

Lampichus. I am Lampichus, tyrant of Gela.
[66.10.4] Hermes. And what is all this splendour doing here, Lampichus?
[66.10.4] Lampichus. How! would you have a tyrant come hither stripped?
[66.10.4] Hermes. A tyrant! That would be too much to expect. But with a shade we must insist. Off with these things.
[66.10.4] Lampichus. There, then: away goes my wealth.

Hermes. Pomp must go too, and pride; we shall be overfreighted else.
[66.10.4] Lampichus. At least let me keep my diadem and robes.

Hermes. No, no; off they come!
[66.10.4] Lampichus. Well? That is all, as you see for yourself.
[66.10.4] Hermes. There is something more yet: cruelty, folly, insolence, hatred.

Lampichus. There then: I am bare.
[66.10.5] Hermes. Pass on.—And who may you be, my bulky friend?
[66.10.5] Damasias. Damasias the athlete.
[66.10.5] Hermes. To be sure; many is the time I have seen you in the gymnasium.
[66.10.5] Damasias. You have. Well, I have peeled; let me pass.
[66.10.5] Hermes. 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.
[66.10.5] Damasias. There; no mistake about it this time; I am as light as any shade among them.
[66.10.6] Hermes. 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.
[66.10.6] Crato. Well, if I must, I must; there’s no help for it.
[66.10.7] Hermes. Hullo! in full armour? What does this mean? and why this trophy?
[66.10.7] General. I am a great conqueror; a valiant warrior; my country’s pride.
[66.10.7] Hermes. The trophy may stop behind; we are at peace; there is no demand for arms.—
[66.10.8] 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.
[66.10.8] Menippus. That’s a philosopher, Hermes; and an impudent quack into the bargain. Have him out of that cloak; you will find something to amuse you underneath it.
[66.10.8] Hermes. 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.
[66.10.8] Philosopher. I resign them all, since such is your bidding.
[66.10.9] Menippus. Have his beard off too, Hermes; only look what a ponderous bush of a thing! There’s a good five pounds’ weight there.
[66.10.9] Hermes. Yes; the beard must go.

Philosopher. And who shall shave me?
[66.10.9] Hermes. Menippus here shall take it off with the carpenter’s axe; the gangway will serve for a block.

Menippus. Oh, can’t I have a saw, Hermes? It would be much better fun.
[66.10.9] Hermes. The axe must serve.—Shrewdly chopped!—Why, you look more like a man and less like a goat already.

Menippus. A little off the eyebrows?
[66.10.9] Hermes. 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.
[66.10.9] Menippus. He has still got the biggest thumper of all under his arm.

Hermes. What’s that?

Menippus. Flattery; many is the good turn that has done him.
[66.10.9] Philosopher. 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.
[66.10.9] Hermes. Don’t you, Menippus! you stick to them; useful commodities, these, on shipboard; light and handy.—
[66.10.10] You rhetorician there, with your verbosities and your barbarisms, your antitheses and balances and periods, off with the whole pack of them.
[66.10.10] Rhetorician. Away they go.
[66.10.10] Hermes. 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!—
[66.10.11] What are you all whining about, you fools? You philosopher, late of the beard,—you’re as bad as any of them.
[66.10.11] Philosopher. Ah, Hermes: I had thought that the soul was immortal.
[66.10.11] Menippus. He lies: that is not the cause of his distress.
[66.10.11] Hermes. What is it, then?
[66.10.11] Menippus. 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.
[66.10.11] Philosopher. And pray are you content to be dead?
[66.10.11] Menippus. It may be presumed so, as I sought death of my own accord.—
[66.10.12] By the way, I surely heard a noise, as if people were shouting on the earth?
[66.10.12] Hermes. 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 a 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 a tear for you, Menippus; your remains are left in peace. Privileged person!
[66.10.13] Menippus. 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.
[66.10.13] Hermes. 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.
[66.10.13] Menippus. 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!

### XI. Crates. Diogenes

[66.11.1] Crates. 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?¹⁶
[66.11.1] Diogenes. What was the point of it?
[66.11.1] Crates. 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.
[66.11.2] Diogenes. And how did it end? I am quite curious.
[66.11.2] Crates. 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.
[66.11.3] Diogenes. 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.
[66.11.3] Crates. 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.
[66.11.3] Diogenes. You allude to——
[66.11.3] Crates. Wisdom, independence, truth, frankness, freedom.
[66.11.3] Diogenes. To be sure; now I think of it, I did inherit all this from Antisthenes, and left it to you with some addition.
[66.11.4] Crates. 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.
[66.11.4] Diogenes. 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.
[66.11.4] Crates. 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.

### XII. Alexander. Hannibal. Minos. Scipio

[66.12.1] Alexander. Libyan, I claim precedence of you. I am the better man.
[66.12.1] Hannibal. Pardon me.
[66.12.1] Alexander. Then let Minos decide.
[66.12.1] Minos. Who are you both?
[66.12.1] Alexander. This is Hannibal, the Carthaginian: I am Alexander, the son of Philip.
[66.12.1] Minos. Bless me, a distinguished pair! And what is the quarrel about?
[66.12.1] Alexander. 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.
[66.12.1] Minos. Well, you shall each have your say in turn: the Libyan first.
[66.12.2] Hannibal. 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.
[66.12.3] 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.
[66.12.3] Minos. Not bad, for a Libyan.—Well, Alexander, what do you say to that?
[66.12.4] Alexander. 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, Ionia, 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.
[66.12.5] 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.
[66.12.6] 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.
[66.12.7] Scipio. First, Minos, let me speak.
[66.12.7] Minos. And who are you, friend? and where do you come from?
[66.12.7] Scipio. I am Scipio, the Roman general, who destroyed Carthage, and gained great victories over the Libyans.
[66.12.7] Minos. Well, and what have you to say?
[66.12.7] Scipio. 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!
[66.12.7] Minos. 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.

### XIII. Diogenes. Alexander

[66.13.1] Diogenes. Dear me, Alexander, you dead like the rest of us?
[66.13.1] Alexander. As you see, sir; is there anything extraordinary in a mortal’s dying?
[66.13.1] Diogenes. So Ammon lied when he said you were his son; you were Philip’s after all.
[66.13.1] Alexander. Apparently; if I had been Ammon’s, I should not have died.
[66.13.1] Diogenes. 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.
[66.13.1] Alexander. Yes, I was told all that myself; however, I know now that my mother’s and the Ammon stories were all moonshine.
[66.13.1] Diogenes. Their lies were of some practical value to you, though; your divinity brought a good many people to their knees.
[66.13.2] But now, whom did you leave your great empire to?
[66.13.2] Alexander. 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?
[66.13.2] Diogenes. 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!
[66.13.3] If I may ask, where did your Macedonians bury you?
[66.13.3] Alexander. 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.
[66.13.3] Diogenes. 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 reascend who has once sailed the lake and penetrated our entrance; Aeacus is watchful, and Cerberus an awkward customer.
[66.13.4] 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?
[66.13.5] Alexander. 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.
[66.13.6] Diogenes. 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.

### XIV. Philip. Alexander

[66.14.1] Philip. You cannot deny that you are my son this time, Alexander; you would not have died if you had been Ammon’s.
[66.14.1] Alexander. 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.
[66.14.1] Philip. What, to suffer yourself to be fooled by lying priests?
[66.14.1] Alexander. 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.
[66.14.2] Philip. 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?
[66.14.3] Alexander. 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.
[66.14.3] Philip. 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.
[66.14.4] 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.
[66.14.5] Alexander. 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?
[66.14.5] Philip. 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.
[66.14.6] Alexander. 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.
[66.14.6] Philip. 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?

### XV. Antilochus. Achilles

[66.15.1] Antilochus. 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.
[66.15.2] Achilles. 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.
[66.15.3] Antilochus. 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.
[66.15.4] Achilles. 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.
[66.15.4] Antilochus. 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.

### XVI. Diogenes. Heracles

[66.16.1] Diogenes. 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!
[66.16.1] Heracles. Thou didst well. Heracles is with the Gods in Heaven,
And hath white-ankled Hebe there to wife.
I am his phantom.
[66.16.1] Diogenes. His phantom! What then, can one half of any one be a God, and the other half mortal?
[66.16.1] Heracles. Even so. The God still lives. ’Tis I, his counterpart, am dead.
[66.16.2] Diogenes. I see. You’re a dummy; he palms you off upon Pluto, instead of coming himself. And here are you, enjoying his mortality!
[66.16.2] Heracles. ’Tis somewhat as thou hast said.
[66.16.2] Diogenes. Well, but where were Aeacus’s keen eyes, that he let a counterfeit Heracles pass under his very nose, and never knew the difference?
[66.16.2] Heracles. I was made very like to him.
[66.16.2] Diogenes. 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!
[66.16.3] Heracles. Prating knave, no more of thy gibes; else thou shalt presently learn how great a God calls me phantom.
[66.16.3] Diogenes. 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?
[66.16.3] Heracles. 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.
[66.16.4] Diogenes. Ah, now I see! Alcmena had twins, you mean,—Heracles the son of Zeus, and Heracles the son of Amphitryon? You were really half-brothers all the time?
[66.16.4] Heracles. Fool! not so. We twain were one Heracles.
[66.16.4] Diogenes. 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?
[66.16.4] Heracles. 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?
[66.16.5] Diogenes. 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.
[66.16.5] Heracles. Three?
[66.16.5] Diogenes. 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?
[66.16.5] Heracles. Impudent quibbler! And who art thou?
[66.16.5] Diogenes. 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.

### XVII. Menippus. Tantalus

[66.17.1] Menippus. What are you crying out about, Tantalus? standing at the edge and whining like that!
[66.17.1] Tantalus. Ah, Menippus, I thirst, I perish!
[66.17.1] Menippus. What, not enterprise enough to bend down to it, or scoop up some in your palm?
[66.17.1] Tantalus. 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.
[66.17.1] Menippus. 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?
[66.17.1] Tantalus. Therein lies my punishment—soul thirsts as if it were body.
[66.17.2] Menippus. 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?
[66.17.2] Tantalus. 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.
[66.17.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.17.2] Tantalus. I would as lief drink hellebore as anything, if I could but drink.
[66.17.2] Menippus. 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.

### XVIII. Menippus. Hermes

[66.18.1] Menippus. Where are all the beauties, Hermes? Show me round; I am a new-comer.
[66.18.1] Hermes. 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.
[66.18.1] Menippus. I can only see bones, and bare skulls; most of them are exactly alike.
[66.18.1] Hermes. Those bones, of which you seem to think so lightly, have been the theme of admiring poets.
[66.18.1] Menippus. Well, but show me Helen; I shall never be able to make her out by myself.
[66.18.1] Hermes. This skull is Helen.
[66.18.2] Menippus. And for this a thousand ships carried warriors from every part of Greece; Greeks and barbarians were slain, and cities made desolate.
[66.18.2] Hermes. 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.
[66.18.2] Menippus. Strange, that the Greeks could not realize what it was for which they laboured; how short-lived, how soon to fade.
[66.18.2] Hermes. I have no time for moralizing. Choose your spot, where you will, and lie down. I must go to fetch new dead.

### XIX. Aeacus. Protesilaus. Menelaus. Paris

[66.19.1] Aeacus. Now then, Protesilaus, what do you mean by assaulting and throttling Helen?
[66.19.1] Protesilaus. Why, it was all her fault that I died, leaving my house half built, and my bride a widow.
[66.19.1] Aeacus. You should blame Menelaus, for taking you all to Troy after such a light-o’-love.
[66.19.1] Protesilaus. That is true; he shall answer it.
[66.19.1] Menelaus. 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.
[66.19.1] Protesilaus. Ah, now I have it. Here, you—you Paris! you shall not escape my clutches.
[66.19.1] Paris. 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.
[66.19.2] Protesilaus. There is reason in that. Oh, would that I had Love himself here in these hands!
[66.19.2] Aeacus. 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.
[66.19.2] Protesilaus. 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.
[66.19.2] Aeacus. Exactly so; then why blame our good friends here?

### XX. Menippus. Aeacus. Various Shades

[66.20.1] Menippus. In Pluto’s name, Aeacus, show me all the sights of Hades.
[66.20.1] Aeacus. 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.
[66.20.1] Menippus. 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.
[66.20.1] Aeacus. This is Agamemnon; this is Achilles; near him, Idomeneus; next comes Odysseus; then Ajax, Diomede, and all the great Greeks.
[66.20.2] Menippus. 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?
[66.20.2] Aeacus. That is Cyrus; and here is Croesus; beyond him Sardanapalus, and beyond him again Midas. And yonder is Xerxes.
[66.20.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.20.2] Aeacus. And crack his skull, poor dear! Certainly not.
[66.20.2] Menippus. Then I must content myself with spitting in his ladyship’s face.
[66.20.3] Aeacus. Would you like to see the philosophers?
[66.20.3] Menippus. I should like it of all things.

Aeacus. First comes Pythagoras.
[66.20.3] Menippus. Good-day, Euphorbus, alias Apollo, alias what you will.
[66.20.3] Pythagoras. Good-day, Menippus.
[66.20.3] Menippus. What, no golden thigh nowadays?
[66.20.3] Pythagoras. Why, no. I wonder if there is anything to eat in that wallet of yours?
[66.20.3] Menippus. Beans, friend; you don’t like beans.
[66.20.3] Pythagoras. Try me. My principles have changed with my quarters. I find that down here our parents’ heads are in no way connected with beans.
[66.20.4] Aeacus. 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.
[66.20.4] Menippus. 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.
[66.20.4] Aeacus. That is Empedocles. He was half-roasted when he got here from Etna.
[66.20.4] Menippus. Tell me, my brazen-slippered friend, what induced you to jump into the crater?

Empedocles. I did it in a fit of melancholy.
[66.20.4] Menippus. 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?
[66.20.4] Aeacus. He is generally talking nonsense with Nestor and Palamedes.
[66.20.4] Menippus. But I should like to see him, if he is anywhere about.

Aeacus. You see the bald one?
[66.20.4] Menippus. They are all bald; that is a distinction without a difference.

Aeacus. The snub-nosed one.

Menippus. There again: they are all snub-nosed.
[66.20.5] Socrates. Do you want me, Menippus?
[66.20.5] Menippus. The very man I am looking for.

Socrates. How goes it in Athens?
[66.20.5] Menippus. 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.
[66.20.5] Socrates. I have seen many such.
[66.20.5] Menippus. For that matter, I suppose you saw Aristippus arrive, reeking with scent; and Plato, the polished flatterer from Sicilian courts?
[66.20.5] Socrates. And what do they think about me in Athens?
[66.20.5] Menippus. 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.
[66.20.5] Socrates. I told them that myself: but they would have it that that was my irony.
[66.20.6] Menippus. And who are your friends?
[66.20.6] Socrates. Charmides; Phaedrus; the son of Clinias.
[66.20.6] Menippus. Ha, ha! still at your old trade; still an admirer of beauty.
[66.20.6] Socrates. How could I be better occupied? Will you join us?
[66.20.6] Menippus. No, thank you; I am off, to take up my quarters by Croesus and Sardanapalus. I expect huge entertainment from their outcries.
[66.20.6] Aeacus. I must be off, too; or some one may escape. You shall see the rest another day, Menippus.
[66.20.6] Menippus. I need not detain you. I have seen enough.

### XXI. Menippus. Cerberus

[66.21.1] Menippus. 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.
[66.21.1] Cerberus. 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.
[66.21.2] Menippus. So he was one of the theorists, was he? His indifference was a sham?
[66.21.2] Cerberus. 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.
[66.21.2] Menippus. What did you think of my performance?
[66.21.2] Cerberus. 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.

### XXII. Charon. Menippus. Hermes

[66.22.1] Charon. Your fare, you rascal.

Menippus. Bawl away, Charon, if it gives you any pleasure.
[66.22.1] Charon. I brought you across: give me my fare.

Menippus. I can’t, if I haven’t got it.
[66.22.1] Charon. And who is so poor that he has not got a penny?
[66.22.1] Menippus. I for one; I don’t know who else.
[66.22.1] Charon. Pay: or, by Pluto, I’ll strangle you.
[66.22.1] Menippus. And I’ll crack your skull with this stick.
[66.22.1] Charon. So you are to come all that way for nothing?
[66.22.1] Menippus. Let Hermes pay for me: he put me on board.
[66.22.2] Hermes. I dare say! A fine time I shall have of it, if I am to pay for the shades.
[66.22.2] Charon. I’m not going to let you off.
[66.22.2] Menippus. 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?
[66.22.2] Charon. You knew you ought to bring it?
[66.22.2] Menippus. I knew that: but I hadn’t got it. What would you have? I ought not to have died, I suppose?
[66.22.2] Charon. So you are to have the distinction of being the only passenger that ever crossed gratis?
[66.22.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.22.2] Charon. That’s neither here nor there. I must have my penny; it’s only right.
[66.22.3] Menippus. Well, you had better take me back again to life.
[66.22.3] Charon. Yes, and get a thrashing from Aeacus for my pains! I like that.
[66.22.3] Menippus. Well, don’t bother me.

Charon. Let me see what you have got in that wallet.
[66.22.3] Menippus. Beans: have some?—and a Hecate’s supper.
[66.22.3] Charon. 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.
[66.22.3] Hermes. Ah, Charon, you little know your passenger! Independence, every inch of him: he cares for no one. ’Tis Menippus.
[66.22.3] Charon. Wait till I catch you——
[66.22.3] Menippus. Precisely; I’ll wait—till you catch me again.

### XXIII. Protesilaus. Pluto. Persephone

[66.23.1] Protesilaus. Lord, King, our Zeus! and thou, daughter of Demeter! Grant a lover’s boon!
[66.23.1] Pluto. What do you want? who are you?
[66.23.1] Protesilaus. 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.
[66.23.1] Pluto. Ah, friend, that is the love that all these dead men love, and none shall ever win.
[66.23.1] Protesilaus. 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.
[66.23.2] Pluto. Did you miss your dose of Lethe, man?
[66.23.2] Protesilaus. Nay, lord; but this prevailed against it.
[66.23.2] Pluto. Oh, well, wait a little; she will come to you one day; it is so simple; no need for you to be going up.
[66.23.2] Protesilaus. My heart is sick with hope deferred; thou too, O Pluto, hast loved; thou knowest what love is.
[66.23.2] Pluto. What good will it do you to come to life for a day, and then renew your pains?
[66.23.2] Protesilaus. I think to win her to come with me, and bring two dead for one.
[66.23.2] Pluto. It may not be; it never has been.
[66.23.3] Protesilaus. 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.
[66.23.3] Pluto. 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.
[66.23.3] Persephone. 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.
[66.23.3] Pluto. Well, I cannot refuse a lady. Hermes, take him up and turn him into a bridegroom. But mind, you sir, a strictly temporary one.

### XXIV. Diogenes. Mausolus

[66.24.1] Diogenes. Why so proud, Carian? How are you better than the rest of us?
[66.24.1] Mausolus. 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?
[66.24.2] Diogenes. Kingship—beauty—heavy tomb; is that it?
[66.24.2] Mausolus. It is as you say.
[66.24.2] Diogenes. 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.
[66.24.3] Mausolus. Then all is to go for nothing? Mausolus and Diogenes are to rank as equals?
[66.24.3] Diogenes. 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.

### XXV. Nireus. Thersites. Menippus

[66.25.1] Nireus. Here we are; Menippus shall award the palm of beauty. Menippus, am I not better-looking than he?
[66.25.1] Menippus. Well, who are you? I must know that first, mustn’t I?
[66.25.1] Nireus. Nireus and Thersites.
[66.25.1] Menippus. Which is which? I cannot tell that yet.
[66.25.1] Thersites. 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.
[66.25.1] Nireus. I, of course, I, the son of Aglaia and Charopus,
Comeliest of all that came ’neath Trojan walls.
[66.25.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.25.2] Nireus. Ask Homer what I was, when I sailed with the Achaeans.
[66.25.2] Menippus. Dreams, dreams. I am looking at what you are; what you were is ancient history.
[66.25.2] Nireus. Am I not handsomer here, Menippus?
[66.25.2] Menippus. You are not handsome at all, nor any one else either. Hades is a democracy; one man is as good as another here.
[66.25.2] Thersites. And a very tolerable arrangement too, if you ask me.

### XXVI. Menippus. Chiron

[66.26.1] Menippus. I have heard that you were a god, Chiron, and that you died of your own choice?
[66.26.1] Chiron. You were rightly informed. I am dead, as you see, and might have been immortal.
[66.26.1] Menippus. And what should possess you, to be in love with Death? He has no charm for most people.
[66.26.1] Chiron. You are a sensible fellow; I will tell you. There was no further satisfaction to be had from immortality.
[66.26.1] Menippus. Was it not a pleasure merely to live and see the light?
[66.26.1] Chiron. 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.
[66.26.1] Menippus. Very true, Chiron. And how have you got on since you made Hades your home?
[66.26.2] Chiron. 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.
[66.26.2] Menippus. Take care, Chiron! You may be caught in the snare of your own reasonings.
[66.26.2] Chiron. How should that be?
[66.26.2] Menippus. 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.
[66.26.2] Chiron. Then what is to be done, Menippus?
[66.26.2] Menippus. Take things as you find them, I suppose, like a sensible fellow, and make the best of everything.

### XXVII. Diogenes. Antisthenes. Crates

[66.27.1] Diogenes. 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.
[66.27.1] Antisthenes. 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.
[66.27.1] Crates. Very well; and meanwhile, let me give you my experiences on the way down.
[66.27.1] Diogenes. Yes, go on, Crates; I dare say you saw some entertaining sights.
[66.27.2] Crates. 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.
[66.27.3] 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.
[66.27.4] Antisthenes. How could it possibly be done simultaneously?
[66.27.4] Crates. 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.
[66.27.5] 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!
[66.27.6] Antisthenes. 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.
[66.27.7] Diogenes. 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.
[66.27.8] 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?
[66.27.9] 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.
[66.27.9] Pauper. Not so.

Diogenes. A provincial governor, then?
[66.27.9] Pauper. No, nor that.
[66.27.9] Diogenes. I see; you were wealthy, and do not like leaving your boundless luxury to die.
[66.27.9] 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.
[66.27.9] Diogenes. And you still wished to live?
[66.27.9] Pauper. Ay, sweet is the light, and dread is death; would that one might escape it!
[66.27.9] Diogenes. 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.

### XXVIII. Menippus. Tiresias

[66.28.1] Menippus. 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?
[66.28.1] Tiresias. 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.
[66.28.2] Menippus. 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?
[66.28.2] Tiresias. What do you mean by that question, Menippus?
[66.28.2] Menippus. Oh, nothing; but I should like to know, if it is no trouble to you.
[66.28.2] Tiresias. I was not barren: but I did not have a child, exactly.
[66.28.2] Menippus. No; but you might have had. That’s all I wanted to know.

Tiresias. Certainly.
[66.28.2] Menippus. And your feminine characteristics gradually vanished, and you developed a beard, and became a man? Or did the change take place in a moment?
[66.28.2] Tiresias. Whither does your question tend? One would think you doubted the fact.
[66.28.2] Menippus. 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?
[66.28.3] Tiresias. At that rate, I suppose you are equally incredulous when you hear of women being turned into birds or trees or beasts,—Aëdon for instance, or Daphne, or Callisto?
[66.28.3] Menippus. 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?
[66.28.3] Tiresias. 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.
[66.28.3] Menippus. Ah, you love a lie still, Tiresias. But there, ’tis your trade. You prophets! There is no truth in you.

### XXIX. Agamemnon. Ajax

[66.29.1] Agamemnon. 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.
[66.29.1] Ajax. Had I not good reason? My madness lies at the door of my solitary rival for the arms.
[66.29.1] Agamemnon. Did you expect to be unopposed, and carry it over us all without a contest?
[66.29.1] Ajax. 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.
[66.29.2] Agamemnon. 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.
[66.29.2] Ajax. No, no; the guilt was in claiming them—alone, I mean.
[66.29.2] Agamemnon. 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.
[66.29.2] Ajax. Who inspired that verdict¹⁷? 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.

### XXX. Minos. Sostratus

[66.30.1] Minos. 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.
[66.30.1] Sostratus. A word with you, Minos. See if there is not some justice in my plea.
[66.30.1] Minos. What, more pleadings? Have you not been convicted of villany and murder without end?
[66.30.1] Sostratus. I have. Yet consider whether my sentence is just.
[66.30.1] Minos. Is it just that you should have your deserts? If so, the sentence is just.
[66.30.1] Sostratus. Well, answer my questions; I will not detain you long.
[66.30.1] Minos. Say on, but be brief; I have other cases waiting for me.
[66.30.2] Sostratus. The deeds of my life—were they in my own choice, or were they decreed by Fate?
[66.30.2] Minos. Decreed, of course.
[66.30.2] Sostratus. Then all of us, whether we passed for honest men or rogues, were the instruments of Fate in all that we did?
[66.30.2] Minos. Certainly; Clotho prescribes the conduct of every man at his birth.
[66.30.2] Sostratus. 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?
[66.30.2] Minos. 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.
[66.30.2] Sostratus. 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?
[66.30.2] Minos. The sender; the bringer is but his minister.
[66.30.3] Sostratus. 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?
[66.30.3] Minos. 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.

## Dialogues of the Sea-Gods


### I. Doris. Galatea

[67.1.1] Doris. A handsome lover, Galatea, this Sicilian shepherd who they say is so mad for you!
[67.1.1] Galatea. Don’t be sarcastic, Doris; he is Posidon’s son, after all.
[67.1.1] Doris. 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?
[67.1.1] Galatea. 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.
[67.1.1] Doris. Why, my dear, from your raptures about him one would think it was you that were in love, not he.
[67.1.2] Galatea. 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.
[67.1.2] Doris. 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.
[67.1.3] 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?
[67.1.3] Galatea. 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.
[67.1.4] Doris. 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.
[67.1.5] 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?
[67.1.5] Galatea. Well, Doris, only show us your own; no doubt he is much handsomer, and sings and plays far better.
[67.1.5] Doris. 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.

### II. Cyclops. Posidon

[67.2.1] Cyclops. 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.
[67.2.1] Posidon. Who has dared to do this?
[67.2.1] Cyclops. He called himself ‘Noman’ at first: but when he had got safely out of range, he said his name was Odysseus.
[67.2.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.2.2] Cyclops. 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.
[67.2.3] Posidon. 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.
[67.2.3] Cyclops. 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.
[67.2.4] Posidon. Ah! and they slipped out under the sheep? But you should have set the other Cyclopes on to him.
[67.2.4] Cyclops. 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.
[67.2.4] Posidon. 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.

### III. Posidon. Alpheus

[67.3.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.3.1] Alpheus. Do not press me, Posidon; a love affair; and many is the time you have been in love yourself.
[67.3.1] Posidon. Woman, nymph, or Nereid?
[67.3.1] Alpheus. All wrong; she is a fountain.
[67.3.1] Posidon. A fountain? and where does she flow?
[67.3.1] Alpheus. She is an islander—in Sicily. Her name is Arethusa.
[67.3.2] Posidon. 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.
[67.3.2] Alpheus. You know my fountain, Posidon, and no mistake. It is to her that I go.
[67.3.2] Posidon. Go, then; and may the course of love run smooth! But pray where did you meet her? Arcadia and Syracuse, you know!
[67.3.2] Alpheus. I am in a hurry; you are detaining me, with these superfluous questions.
[67.3.2] Posidon. Ah, so I am. Be off to your beloved, rise from the sea, mingle your channels and be one water.

### IV. Menelaus. Proteus

[67.4.1] Menelaus. 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.
[67.4.1] Proteus. Don’t let it; because I can.
[67.4.1] Menelaus. 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?
[67.4.2] Proteus. 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.
[67.4.2] Menelaus. That would be rash.
[67.4.2] Proteus. I suppose you have never seen such a thing as a polypus, nor observed the proceedings of that fish?
[67.4.2] Menelaus. I have seen them; as to their proceedings, I shall be glad of your information.
[67.4.3] Proteus. 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.
[67.4.3] Menelaus. So I have heard. But yours is quite another matter, Proteus.
[67.4.3] Proteus. I don’t know what evidence would satisfy you, if you reject that of your own eyes.
[67.4.3] Menelaus. I have seen it done, but it is an extraordinary business; fire and water, one and the same person!

### V. Panope. Galene

[67.5.1] Panope. Galene, did you see what Eris did yesterday at the Thessalian banquet, because she had not had an invitation?
[67.5.1] Galene. 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?
[67.5.1] Panope. 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.
[67.5.2] 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.’
[67.5.2] Galene. Yes, and the Goddesses, Panope?
[67.5.2] Panope. They are going to Ida to-day, I believe; we shall soon have news of the result.
[67.5.2] Galene. 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.

### VI. Triton. Posidon. Amymone

[67.6.1] Triton. Posidon, there is such a pretty girl coming to Lerna for water every day; I don’t know that I ever saw a prettier.
[67.6.1] Posidon. What is she, a lady? or a mere water-carrier?
[67.6.1] Triton. 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.
[67.6.2] Posidon. And does she come all that way by herself, from Argos to Lerna?
[67.6.2] Triton. Yes; and Argos, you know, is a thirsty place; she is always having to get water.
[67.6.2] Posidon. Triton, this is most exciting. We must go and see her.
[67.6.2] Triton. Very well. It is just her time now; I reckon she will be about half-way to Lerna.
[67.6.2] Posidon. 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.
[67.6.2] Triton. Here is a racer for you.
[67.6.2] Posidon. 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—
[67.6.2] Triton. Here she comes.
[67.6.3] Posidon. A charming child; the dawn of loveliness. We must carry her off.
[67.6.3] Amymone. Villain! where are you taking me to? You are a kidnapper. I know who sent you—my uncle Aegyptus. I shall call my father.
[67.6.3] Triton. Hush, Amymone; it is Posidon.
[67.6.3] Amymone. Posidon? What do you mean? Unhand me, villain! would you drag me into the sea? Help, help, I shall sink and be drowned.
[67.6.3] Posidon. 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.

### VII. South Wind. West Wind

[67.7.1] South Wind. 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?
[67.7.1] West Wind. 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.
[67.7.1] South Wind. And is he still in love, now that she is a cow?
[67.7.1] West Wind. 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.
[67.7.2] South Wind. The heifer a God?
[67.7.2] West Wind. 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.
[67.7.2] South Wind. So we must regard ourselves as her servants at once?
[67.7.2] West Wind. 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.
[67.7.2] South Wind. 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.
[67.7.2] West Wind. We had better not meddle; he knows his own business best.

### VIII. Posidon. Dolphins

[67.8.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.8.1] Dolphins. You need not be surprised to find us doing a good turn to a man, Posidon; we were men before we were fishes.
[67.8.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.8.2] Dolphins. 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.
[67.8.2] Posidon. I am glad to find you a patron of the arts. This was handsome pay for a song.

### IX. Posidon. Amphitrite and other Nereids

[67.9.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.9.1] Amphitrite. 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.
[67.9.1] Posidon. 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.
[67.9.2] Amphitrite. Rescue a wicked creature like her?
[67.9.2] Posidon. Well, we do not want to disoblige Dionysus.
[67.9.2] Nereid. I wonder what made the poor child fall off the ram; her brother Phrixus held on all right.
[67.9.2] Posidon. 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.
[67.9.2] Nereid. Surely her mother Nephele should have broken her fall.
[67.9.2] Posidon. I dare say; but Fate is a great deal too strong for Nephele.

### X. Iris. Posidon

[67.10.1] Iris. 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.
[67.10.1] Posidon. Very good. And when I have got it up, and anchored it, what is he going to do with it?
[67.10.1] Iris. Leto is to lie in there; her time is near.
[67.10.1] Posidon. And is there no room in Heaven? Or is Earth too small to hold her children?
[67.10.1] Iris. 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.
[67.10.2] Posidon. 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.

### XI. The Xanthus. The Sea

[67.11.1] Xanthus. O Sea, take me to you; see how horribly I have been treated; cool my wounds for me.
[67.11.1] Sea. What is this, Xanthus? who has burned you?
[67.11.1] Xanthus. Hephaestus. Oh, I am burned to cinders! oh, oh, oh, I boil!
[67.11.1] Sea. What made him use his fire upon you?
[67.11.1] Xanthus. 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.
[67.11.2] 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.
[67.11.2] 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!
[67.11.2] Xanthus. Was I not to take compassion on the Phrygians? they are my neighbours.
[67.11.2] Sea. And was Hephaestus not to take compassion on Achilles? He is the son of Thetis.

### XII. Doris. Thetis

[67.12.1] Doris. Crying, dear?
[67.12.1] Thetis. 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.
[67.12.1] Doris. Oh, sister, but why? What was it all about? Did you hear?
[67.12.1] Thetis. 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.
[67.12.2] Doris. And what did she do then?
[67.12.2] Thetis. 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.
[67.12.2] Doris. You make me cry, too. And is it all over?
[67.12.2] Thetis. No; the chest has carried them safely so far; it is by Seriphus.
[67.12.2] Doris. 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.
[67.12.2] Thetis. The very thing. She shall not die; nor the child, sweet treasure!

### XIV. Triton. Iphianassa. Doris. Nereids

[67.14.1] Triton. Well, ladies: so the monster you sent against the daughter of Cepheus has got killed himself, and never done Andromeda any harm at all!
[67.14.1] 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?
[67.14.1] Triton. 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.
[67.14.1] Iphianassa. I know; why, I suppose he is a fine handsome young fellow by now?
[67.14.1] Triton. It was he who killed your monster.
[67.14.1] Iphianassa. But why? This was not the way to show his gratitude.
[67.14.2] Triton. I’ll tell you all about it. The king had sent him on this expedition against the Gorgons, and when he got to Libya—
[67.14.2] Iphianassa. How did he get there? all by himself? he must have had some one to help him?—it is a dangerous journey otherwise.
[67.14.2] Triton. 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.
[67.14.2] Iphianassa. How could he see them? The Gorgons are a forbidden sight. Whoever looks at them will never look at any one else again.
[67.14.2] Triton. 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.
[67.14.3] 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.
[67.14.3] Iphianassa. 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.
[67.14.3] Doris. Still, she is Andromeda’s mother; and we should have had our revenge on her through the daughter.
[67.14.4] Iphianassa. 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.

### XV. West Wind. South Wind

[67.15.1] West Wind. Such a splendid pageant I never saw on the waves, since the day I first blew. You were not there, Notus?
[67.15.1] South Wind. Pageant, Zephyr? what pageant? and whose?
[67.15.1] West Wind. You missed a most ravishing spectacle; such another chance you are not likely to have.
[67.15.1] South Wind. 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.
[67.15.1] West Wind. Well, you know Agenor the Sidonian?

South Wind. Europa’s father? what of him?
[67.15.1] West Wind. Europa it is that I am going to tell you about.
[67.15.1] South Wind. You need not tell me that Zeus has been in love with her this long while; that is stale news.
[67.15.1] West Wind. We can pass the love, then, and get on to the sequel.
[67.15.2] 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.
[67.15.3] South Wind. A lovely sight indeed, Zephyr, in every sense—Zeus swimming with his darling on his back.
[67.15.3] West Wind. 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.
[67.15.4] 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.
[67.15.4] South Wind. Ah me, what sights of bliss! and I was looking at griffins, and elephants, and blackamoors!

## Dialogues of the Gods


### I. Prometheus. Zeus

[68.1.1] Prometheus. Release me, Zeus; I have suffered enough.
[68.1.1] 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.
[68.1.1] Prometheus. 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?
[68.1.1] Zeus. ’Tis not a tithe of your deserts.
[68.1.1] Prometheus. Consider, I do not ask you to release me for nothing. I offer you information which is invaluable.
[68.1.2] Zeus. Promethean wiles!
[68.1.2] Prometheus. Wiles? to what end? you can find the Caucasus another time; and there are chains to be had, if you catch me cheating.
[68.1.2] Zeus. Tell me first the nature of your ‘invaluable’ offer.
[68.1.2] Prometheus. If I tell you your present errand right, will that convince you that I can prophesy too?
[68.1.2] Zeus. Of course it will.

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

Zeus. Right so far. And the sequel? I trust you now.
[68.1.2] Prometheus. 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—
[68.1.2] Zeus. I shall lose my kingdom, you would say?

Prometheus. Avert it, Fate! I say only, that union portends this issue.
[68.1.2] Zeus. Thetis, farewell! and for this Hephaestus shall set you free.

### II. Eros. Zeus

[68.2.1] 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.
[68.2.1] 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?
[68.2.1] Eros. Well, and what such mighty harm has the old man ever done you, that you should talk of chains?
[68.2.1] 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.
[68.2.2] Eros. Well, of course. They are but mortals; the sight of Zeus is too much for them.
[68.2.2] Zeus. Then why are Branchus and Hyacinth so fond of Apollo?
[68.2.2] 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.
[68.2.2] Zeus. Pooh! I’ll win no hearts on such terms.
[68.2.2] Eros. Oh, in that case, don’t fall in love. Nothing could be simpler.
[68.2.2] 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.

### III. Zeus. Hermes

[68.3.1] Zeus. Hermes, you know Inachus’s beautiful daughter?
[68.3.1] Hermes. I do. Io, you mean?
[68.3.1] Zeus. Yes; she is not a girl now, but a heifer.
[68.3.1] Hermes. Magic at work! how did that come about?
[68.3.1] 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.
[68.3.1] Hermes. Well, what am I to do?
[68.3.1] 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.

### VI. Hera. Zeus

[68.6.1] Hera. Zeus! What is your opinion of this man Ixion?
[68.6.1] 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.
[68.6.1] Hera. He is unworthy! He is a villain! Discard him!
[68.6.1] Zeus. Eh? What has he been after? I must know about this.
[68.6.1] Hera. Certainly you must; though I scarce know how to tell you. The wretch!
[68.6.1] 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?
[68.6.2] 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 grovelling 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.
[68.6.3] 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.
[68.6.3] 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.
[68.6.4] 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,—
[68.6.4] Hera. Zeus! What are you going to say?
[68.6.4] 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.
[68.6.4] Hera. Never! The presumptuous villain!
[68.6.4] Zeus. Yes, I know. But what harm can it do to you, if Ixion makes a conquest of a cloud?
[68.6.5] Hera. But he will think that I am the cloud; he will be working his wicked will upon me for all he can tell.
[68.6.5] Zeus. Now you are talking nonsense. The cloud is not Hera, and Hera is not the cloud. Ixion will be deceived; that is all.
[68.6.5] 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.
[68.6.5] 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.

### VII. Hephaestus. Apollo

[68.7.1] Hephaestus. 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.
[68.7.1] Apollo. That baby a treasure? well, in mischief, Iapetus is young beside it.
[68.7.1] Hephaestus. Why, what harm can it do, only just born?
[68.7.1] Apollo. 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.
[68.7.2] Hephaestus. Never! that infant? he has hardly found his legs yet; he is not out of his baby-linen.
[68.7.2] Apollo. Ah, you will find out, Hephaestus, if he gets within reach of you.
[68.7.2] Hephaestus. He has been.
[68.7.2] Apollo. Well? all your tools safe? none missing?
[68.7.2] Hephaestus. Of course not.

Apollo. I advise you to make sure.
[68.7.2] Hephaestus. Zeus! where are my pincers?
[68.7.2] Apollo. Ah, you will find them among the baby-linen.
[68.7.2] Hephaestus. So light-fingered? one would swear he had practised petty larceny in the womb.
[68.7.3] Apollo. 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.
[68.7.3] Hephaestus. The child has some spirit in him, by your account.
[68.7.3] Apollo. Spirit, yes—and some music, moreover, young as he is.
[68.7.3] Hephaestus. How can you tell that?
[68.7.4] Apollo. 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.
[68.7.4] Hephaestus. Ah, I gave him that, for a toy.
[68.7.4] Apollo. And by way of payment he stole—
[68.7.4] Hephaestus. Well thought on; I must go and get them; you may be right about the baby-linen.

### VIII. Hephaestus. Zeus

[68.8.1] Hephaestus. 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.
[68.8.1] Zeus. Ah; that’s right, Hephaestus. Just split my head in half, will you?

Hephaestus. You think I am mad, perhaps?—Seriously, now, what can I do for you?
[68.8.1] 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.
[68.8.1] Hephaestus. 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.
[68.8.1] Hephaestus. 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.
[68.8.1] Zeus. Impossible! She is determined to remain a maid for ever. Not that I have any objection, personally.
[68.8.1] Hephaestus. That is all I want. You can leave the rest to me. I’ll carry her off this moment.
[68.8.1] Zeus. Well, if you think it so easy. But I am sure it is a hopeless case.

### XI. Aphrodite. Selene

[68.11.1] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.11.1] Selene. Ah, Aphrodite, ask that son of yours; it is he must answer for it all.
[68.11.1] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.11.2] But tell me, is Endymion handsome? That is always a comfort in our humiliation.
[68.11.2] Selene. 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.

### XII. Aphrodite. Eros

[68.12.1] Aphrodite. 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!
[68.12.2] 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?
[68.12.2] Aphrodite. Masterful boy! always the last word! But you will remember this some day.

### XIII. Zeus. Asclepius. Heracles

[68.13.1] 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.
[68.13.1] Heracles. Is this druggist fellow to have a place above me, Zeus?
[68.13.1] Asclepius. Of course I am; I am your better.
[68.13.1] Heracles. 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?
[68.13.1] Asclepius. You twit me with my fiery end; you seem to have forgotten that you too were burnt to death, on Oeta.
[68.13.1] Heracles. 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.
[68.13.2] Asclepius. 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.
[68.13.2] Heracles. 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.
[68.13.2] 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.

### XIV. Hermes. Apollo

[68.14.1] Hermes. Why so sad, Apollo?

Apollo. Alas, Hermes,—my love!
[68.14.1] Hermes. Oh; that’s bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of Daphne?
[68.14.1] Apollo. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.
[68.14.1] Hermes. Hyacinth? he is not dead?

Apollo. Dead.
[68.14.1] Hermes. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!
[68.14.1] Apollo. It was the work of my own hand.
[68.14.1] Hermes. You must have been mad!

Apollo. Not mad; it was an accident.
[68.14.1] Hermes. Oh? and how did it happen?
[68.14.2] Apollo. 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?
[68.14.2] Hermes. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.

### XV. Hermes. Apollo

[68.15.1] Hermes. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!
[68.15.1] Apollo. 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!
[68.15.1] Hermes. 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.
[68.15.1] Apollo. 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.
[68.15.1] Hermes. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.
[68.15.2] Apollo. 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.
[68.15.3] Hermes. 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.
[68.15.3] Apollo. Do you think Hephaestus sees?
[68.15.3] Hermes. 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.
[68.15.3] Apollo. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that act.

### XVI. Hera. Leto

[68.16.1] Hera. I must congratulate you, madam, on the children with whom you have presented Zeus.
[68.16.1] Leto. Ah, madam; we cannot all be the proud mothers of Hephaestuses.
[68.16.1] 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.
[68.16.2] 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.
[68.16.2] 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.
[68.16.2] 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.

### XVIII. Hera. Zeus

[68.18.1] 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.
[68.18.1] 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.
[68.18.2] 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!
[68.18.2] 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.

### XIX. Aphrodite. Eros

[68.19.1] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.19.1] 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.
[68.19.1] Aphrodite. I should have thought Ares was more terrible still; but you disarmed and conquered him.
[68.19.1] 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.
[68.19.2] Aphrodite. 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?
[68.19.2] Eros. Ah, mother, they make me bashful; they are so grand, always studying and composing; I love to stand there listening to their music.
[68.19.2] Aphrodite. Let them pass too, because they are grand. And why do you never take a shot at Artemis?
[68.19.2] 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.
[68.19.2] Aphrodite. Where, child?
[68.19.2] 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—
[68.19.2] Aphrodite. I know, child, you have hit him often enough.

### XX. The Judgement of Paris. Zeus. Hermes. Hera. Athene. Aphrodite. Paris

[68.20.1] 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.
[68.20.2] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.2] Hera. Oh, we are under no alarm, thank you,—though your admirer Ares should be appointed. But Paris will do; whoever Paris is.
[68.20.2] 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.
[68.20.3] Hermes. 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.
[68.20.3] Aphrodite. 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?
[68.20.3] Hermes. Not exactly a bachelor.
[68.20.3] Aphrodite. What do you mean?
[68.20.3] Hermes. 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?
[68.20.3] Aphrodite. I just wanted to know.
[68.20.4] Athene. Now, Hermes, that is not fair. No whispering with Aphrodite.
[68.20.4] Hermes. It was nothing, Athene; nothing about you. She only asked me whether Paris was a bachelor.
[68.20.4] Athene. What business is that of hers?

Hermes. None that I know of. She meant nothing by the question; she just wanted to know.
[68.20.4] Athene. Well, and is he?

Hermes. Why, no.
[68.20.4] Athene. And does he care for military glory? has he ambition? Or is he a mere neatherd?
[68.20.4] Hermes. 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.
[68.20.4] Aphrodite. There, you see; I don’t complain; I say nothing when you whisper with her. Aphrodite is not so particular as some people.
[68.20.4] Hermes. 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.—
[68.20.5] 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.
[68.20.5] Hera. Where is he? I don’t see him.
[68.20.5] Hermes. 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.
[68.20.5] Hermes. 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?
[68.20.5] Hera. I see him now; if he it is.
[68.20.5] Hermes. 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.
[68.20.5] 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.
[68.20.5] Aphrodite. Your sneers are thrown away on me, Hera.
[68.20.6] Hermes. 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.
[68.20.7] Let us accost him.—Good-morrow, herdsman!
[68.20.7] Paris. 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.
[68.20.7] Hermes. ‘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.’
[68.20.7] Paris. 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.
[68.20.8] 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.
[68.20.8] Hermes. So it is, Paris. At the same time—Zeus’s orders! There is no way out of it.
[68.20.9] Paris. Well, please point out to them, Hermes, that the losers must not be angry with me; the fault will be in my eyes only.
[68.20.9] Hermes. That is quite understood. And now to work.
[68.20.9] Paris. 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?
[68.20.9] Hermes. That is for you to decide, in virtue of your office. You have only to give your orders; it is as you think best.
[68.20.9] Paris. As I think best? Then I will be thorough.
[68.20.9] Hermes. Get ready, ladies. Now, Mr. Umpire.—I will look the other way.
[68.20.10] 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.
[68.20.10] Paris. Aphrodite, will you also prepare?
[68.20.10] Athene. 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.
[68.20.10] Paris. They are right about the girdle, madam; it must go.
[68.20.10] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.10] Athene. Oh, here is my helmet.
[68.20.10] Aphrodite. And here is my girdle.
[68.20.10] Hera. Now then.
[68.20.11] Paris. 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.
[68.20.11] Aphrodite. Yes, that will be best.
[68.20.11] Paris. Withdraw then, you and Athene; and let Hera remain.
[68.20.11] 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.
[68.20.11] Paris. I will take no presents. Withdraw. I shall judge as I think right.
[68.20.12] Approach, Athene.
[68.20.12] Athene. 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.
[68.20.12] Paris. 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.
[68.20.13] Aphrodite. 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?
[68.20.13] Paris. No, ma’am; but I should like to hear all about her now.
[68.20.14] Aphrodite. Well, she is the daughter of Leda, the beautiful woman, you know, whom Zeus visited in the disguise of a swan.
[68.20.14] Paris. And what is she like?
[68.20.14] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.14] Paris. What, when she is married already?
[68.20.14] Aphrodite. Tut, child, you are a simpleton: I understand these things.
[68.20.14] Paris. I should like to understand them too.
[68.20.15] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.15] Paris. But that is what I cannot believe,—that she will forsake her husband to cross the seas with a stranger, a barbarian.
[68.20.15] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.15] Paris. 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?
[68.20.16] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.16] Paris. But perhaps after the award you will forget all about me?
[68.20.16] Aphrodite. Shall I swear?
[68.20.16] Paris. No; but promise once more.
[68.20.16] Aphrodite. 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.
[68.20.16] Paris. And bring Love, and Desire, and the Graces?
[68.20.16] Aphrodite. Assuredly; and Passion and Hymen as well.
[68.20.16] Paris. Take the apple: it is yours.

### XXI. Ares. Hermes

[68.21.1] Ares. 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.
[68.21.2] Hermes. Mind what you say, Ares; it is not safe to talk like that; we might get paid out for chattering.
[68.21.2] Ares. 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.
[68.21.2] Hermes. Oh, do be quiet; such things are too risky for you to say or me to listen to.

### XXIV. Hermes. Maia

[68.24.1] Hermes. Mother, I am the most miserable god in Heaven.
[68.24.1] Maia. Don’t say such things, child.
[68.24.1] Hermes. 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.
[68.24.2] 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 Alcmena 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!
[68.24.2] Maia. 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.

### XXV. Zeus. Helius

[68.25.1] Zeus. What have you been about, you villanous 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!
[68.25.1] Helius. 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?
[68.25.1] 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.
[68.25.2] Helius. 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.
[68.25.3] 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.

### XXVI. Apollo. Hermes

[68.26.1] Apollo. Hermes, have you any idea which of those two is Castor, and which is Pollux? I never can make out.
[68.26.1] Hermes. It was Castor yesterday, and Pollux to-day.
[68.26.1] Apollo. How do you tell? They are exactly alike.
[68.26.1] Hermes. 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.
[68.26.1] Apollo. 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?
[68.26.2] Hermes. 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.
[68.26.2] Apollo. 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?
[68.26.2] Hermes. 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.
[68.26.2] Apollo. A most humane profession.

## Dialogues of the Hetaerae


### I. Glycera. Thais

[69.1.1] Glycera. Thais, that Acarnanian soldier, who used to be so fond of Abrotonum, and then fell in love with me—he was decorated, and wore a military cloak—do you know the man I mean? I suppose you have forgotten him?
[69.1.1] Thais. Oh no, dear, I know; why, he shared our table last harvest festival. Well? you look as if you had something to tell me about him.
[69.1.1] Glycera. That wicked Gorgona (such a friend of mine, to be sure!)—she has stolen him away from me.
[69.1.1] Thais. What! he has given you up, and taken her in your place?
[69.1.1] Glycera. Yes, dear; isn’t it horrid of her?
[69.1.1] Thais. Well, Glycera darling, it is wicked, of course; but it is not very surprising; it is what all we poor girls do. You mustn’t be too much vexed; I shouldn’t blame her, if I were you; Abrotonum never blamed you about him, you know; and you were friends, too.
[69.1.2] But I cannot think what he finds in her; where are his eyes? has he never found out how thin her hair is? what a lot of forehead she shows! and her lips! all livid; they might be a dead woman’s; and that scraggy neck, veined all over; and what an amount of nose! I grant you she is tall and straight; and she has quite a nice smile.
[69.1.2] Glycera. Oh, Thais, you don’t think it was her looks caught him. Don’t you know? her mother Chrysarium is a witch; she knows Thessalian charms, and can draw down the moon; they do say she flies o’ nights. It was she bewitched him with drugs in his drink, and now they are making their harvest out of him.
[69.1.2] Thais. Ah well, dear, you will get a harvest out of some one else; never mind him.

### II. Myrtium. Pamphilus. Doris

[69.2.1] Myrtium. Well, Pamphilus? So I hear you are to marry Phido the shipmaster’s daughter,—if you have not done so already! And this is the end of your vows and tears! All is over and forgotten! And I so near my time! Yes, that is all I have to thank my lover for; that, and the prospect of having a child to bring up; and you know what that means to us poor girls. I mean to keep the child, especially if it is a boy: it will be some comfort to me to call him after you; and perhaps some day you will be sorry, when he comes to reproach you for betraying his poor mother. I can’t say much for the lady’s looks. I saw her only the other day, with her mother, at the Thesmophoria; little did I know then that she was to rob me of my Pamphilus! Hadn’t you better see what she is like first? Take a good look at her eyes; and try not to mind the colour, and the cast (she has such a squint!). Or no: there is no need for you to see her: you have seen Phido; you know what a face he has.
[69.2.2] Pamphilus. How much more nonsense are you going to talk about shipowners and marriages? What do I know about brides, ugly or pretty? If you mean Phido of Alopece, I never knew he had a grown-up daughter at all. Why, now I think of it, he is not even on speaking terms with my father. They were at law not long ago—something about a shipping contract. He owed my father a talent, I think it was, and refused to pay; so he was had up before the Admiralty Court, and my father never got paid in full, after all, so he said. Do you suppose if I wanted to marry I should pass over Demeas’s daughter in favour of Phido’s? Demeas was general last year, and she is my cousin on the mother’s side. Who has been telling you all this? Is it just a cobweb spun in that jealous little brain of yours?
[69.2.3] Myrtium. Pamphilus! You mean to say you are not going to be married?
[69.2.3] Pamphilus. Are you mad, or what is the matter with you? We did not have much to drink yesterday.
[69.2.3] Myrtium. Ask Doris; it is all her fault. I sent her out to buy some wool, and to offer up prayer to Artemis for me. And she said that she met Lesbia, and Lesbia —— Doris, tell him what Lesbia said, unless you invented it all yourself.
[69.2.3] Doris. May I die, miss, if I said a word more than the truth! Just by the town-hall Lesbia met me, and ‘Doris,’ says she, smiling, ‘your young gentleman is to marry Phido’s daughter. And if you don’t believe me,’ says she, ‘look up their street, and you will see everything crowned with garlands, and a fine bustle going on; flutes playing, and people singing the wedding-song.’
[69.2.3] Pamphilus. Well; and you did?
[69.2.3] Doris. That I did, sir; and it was all as Lesbia had said.
[69.2.4] Pamphilus. Ah, now I see! You have told your mistress nothing but the truth; and there was some ground for what Lesbia told you. However, it is a false alarm. The wedding is not at our house. I remember now. When I went back home yesterday, after leaving you, ‘Pamphilus,’ said my mother, ‘here is neighbour Aristaenetus’s son, Charmides, who is no older than you, just going to marry and settle down: when are you going to turn over a new leaf?’ And then I dropped off to sleep. I went out early this morning, so that I saw nothing of all that Doris has seen. If you doubt my word, Doris can go again; and look more carefully this time, Doris; mark the house, not the street only, and you will find that the garlands are next door.
[69.2.4] Myrtium. I breathe again! Pamphilus, if it had been true, I should have killed myself!
[69.2.4] Pamphilus. True, indeed! Am I mad, that I should forget Myrtium, so soon to become the mother of my child?

### III. Philinna. Her Mother

[69.3.1] Mother. You must be mad, Philinna; what was the matter with you at the dinner last night? Diphilus was in tears this morning when he came and told me how he had been treated. You were tipsy, he said, and made an exhibition of yourself, dancing when he asked you not to; then you kissed his friend Lamprias, and when Diphilus did not like that, you left him and went and put your arms round Lamprias; and he choking with rage all the time. And afterwards you would not go near him, but let him cry by himself, and kept singing and teasing him.
[69.3.2] Philinna. Ah, mother, he never told you how he behaved; if you knew how rude he was, you would not take his part. He neglected me and made up to Thais, Lamprias’s girl, before Lamprias came. I was angry, and let him see what I thought of him, and then he took hold of Thais’s ear, bent her neck back and gave her—oh, such a kiss! I thought it would never end. So I began to cry; but he only laughed, and kept whispering to her—about me, of course; Thais was looking at me and smiling. However, when they heard Lamprias coming, and had had enough of each other at last, I did take my place by him all the same, not to give him an excuse for a fuss afterwards. It was Thais got up and danced first, showing her ankles ever so much, as if no one else had pretty ones. And when she stopped, Lamprias never said a word, but Diphilus praised her to the skies—such perfect time! such varied steps! foot and music always right; and what a lovely ankle! and so on, and so on; it might have been the Sosandra of Calamis he was complimenting, and not Thais; what she is really like, you know well enough. And how she insulted me, too! ‘If some one is not ashamed of her spindle-shanks,’ she said, ‘she will get up and dance now.’ Well, that is all, mammy; of course I did get up and dance. What was I to do? take it quietly and make her words seem true and let her be queen?
[69.3.3] Mother. You are too touchy, my lass; you should have taken no notice. But go on.
[69.3.3] Philinna. Well, the others applauded, but Diphilus lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, till I was tired and gave up.
[69.3.3] Mother. But what about kissing Lamprias? is that true? and going across and embracing him? Well, why don’t you speak? Those are things I cannot forgive.
[69.3.3] Philinna. I wanted to pay him out.
[69.3.3] Mother. And then not sitting near him! singing while he was in tears! Think how poor we are, girl; you forget how much we have had from him, and what last winter would have been if Aphrodite had not sent him to us.
[69.3.3] Philinna. I dare say! and I am to let him outrage my feelings just for that?
[69.3.3] Mother. Oh, be as angry as you like, but no tit for tat. You ought to know that if a lover’s feelings are outraged his love ends, and he finds out his folly. You have always been too hard on the lad; pull too tight, and the rope breaks, you know.

### IV. Melitta. Bacchis

[69.4.1] Melitta. Bacchis, don’t you know any of those old women—there are any number of them about, ‘Thessalians,’ they call them—they have incantations, you know, and they can make a man in love with you, no matter how much he hated you before? Do go and bring me one, there’s a dear! I’d give the clothes off my back, jewellery and all, to see Charinus here again, and to have him hate Simiche as he hates me at this moment.
[69.4.1] Bacchis. Melitta! You mean to tell me that Charinus has gone off after Simiche, and that after making his people so angry because he wouldn’t marry the heiress, all for your sake? She was to have brought him five talents, so they said. I have not forgotten what you told me about that.
[69.4.1] Melitta. Oh, that is all over now; I have not had a glimpse of him for the last five days. No; he and Simiche are with his friend Pammenes enjoying themselves.
[69.4.1] Bacchis. Poor darling! But it can’t have been a trifle that drove him away: what was it all about?
[69.4.2] Melitta. I don’t know exactly. All I can say is, that he came back the other day from Piraeus (his father had sent him there to collect some money), and wouldn’t even look at me! I ran to meet him, expecting him to take me in his arms, instead of which he pushed me away! ‘Go to Hermotimus the ship-owner,’ he said; ‘go and read what is written on the column in the Ceramicus; you will find your name there, and his.’ ‘Hermotimus? column? what do you mean?’ said I. But he would tell me nothing more; he went to bed without any dinner, and never gave me so much as a look. I tried everything: I lavished all my endearments on him, and did all I could to make him look at me. Nothing would soften him: all he said was, ‘If you keep on bothering, I shall go away this minute, I don’t care what time it is.’
[69.4.3] Bacchis. But you did know Hermotimus, I suppose?
[69.4.3] Melitta. My dear, if I ever so much as heard of a Hermotimus who was a ship-owner, may I be more wretched than I am now!—Next morning, at cock-crow, Charinus got up, and went off. I remembered his saying something about my name being written up in the Ceramicus, so I sent Acis to have a look; and all she found was just this, chalked up close by the Dipylus, on the right as you come in: Melitta loves Hermotimus; and again a little lower down: Hermotimus the ship-owner loves Melitta.
[69.4.3] Bacchis. Ah, mischievous boys! I see what it is! Some one must have written it up to tease Charinus, knowing how jealous he is. And he took it all in at once! I must speak to him if I see him anywhere. He is a mere child, quite unsophisticated.
[69.4.3] Melitta. If you see him, yes: but you are not likely to. He has shut himself up with Simiche; his people have been asking for him, they think he is here still. No, Bacchis, I want one of those old women; she would put all to rights.
[69.4.4] Bacchis. Well, love, I know a capital witch; she comes from Syria, such a brisk, vigorous old thing! Once when Phanias had quarrelled with me in the same way, all about nothing, she brought us together again, after four whole months; I had quite given him up, but her spells drew him back.
[69.4.4] Melitta. What was her fee? do you remember?
[69.4.4] Bacchis. Oh, she was most reasonable: one drachma, and a loaf of bread. Then you have to provide salt, of course, and sulphur, and a torch, and seven pennies. And besides this, you must mix her a bowl of wine, which she has to drink all by herself; and then there must be something belonging to the man, his coat, or his shoes, or a lock of hair, or something.
[69.4.4] Melitta. I have got his shoes.
[69.4.5] Bacchis. She hangs them up on a peg, and fumigates them with the sulphur, throwing a little salt into the fire, and muttering both your names. Then she brings out her magic wheel, and spins it, and rattles off an incantation,—such horrid, outlandish words! Well, she had scarcely finished, when, sure enough, in came Phanias; Phoebis (that was the girl he was with) had begged and implored him not to go, and his friends declared it was a shame; but the spell was too strong for them. Oh yes, and she taught me a splendid charm against Phoebis. I was to mark her footsteps, and rub out the last of them, putting my right foot into her left footprint, and my left into her right; and then I was to say: My foot on thy foot; I trample thee down! I did it exactly as she told me.
[69.4.5] Melitta. Oh, Bacchis, dear, do be quick and fetch the witch. Acis, you see to the bread and sulphur and things.

### VII. Musarium. Her Mother

[69.7.1] Mother. Well, child, if we get another gallant like Chaereas, we must make some offerings; the earthly Aphrodite shall have a white kid, the heavenly one in the Gardens a heifer, and our lady of windfalls a garland. How well off we shall be, positively rolling in wealth! You see how much this boy brings in; not an obol, not a dress, not a pair of shoes, not a box of ointment, has he ever given you; it is all professions and promises and distant prospects; always, if my father should——, and I should inherit, everything would be yours. And according to you, he swears you shall be his wife.
[69.7.1] Musarium. Oh yes, mother, he swore it, by the two Goddesses¹⁸ and Polias.
[69.7.1] Mother. And you believe it, no doubt. So much so that the other day, when he had a subscription to pay and nothing to pay with, you gave him your ring without asking me, and the price of it went in drink. Another time it was the pair of Ionian necklaces that Praxias the Chian captain got made in Ephesus and brought you; two darics apiece they weighed; a club-dinner with the men of his year it was that time. As for shirts and linen, those are trifles not worth mention. A mighty catch he has been, to be sure!
[69.7.2] Musarium. He is so handsome with his smooth chin; and he loves me, and cries as he tells me so; and he is the son of Laches the Areopagite and Dinomache; and we shall be his real wife and mother-in-law, you know; we have great expectations, if only the old man would go to bye-bye.
[69.7.2] Mother. So when we want shoes, and the shoemaker expects to be paid, we are to tell him we have no money, ‘but take a few expectations.’ And the baker the same. And on rent-day we shall ask the man to wait till Laches of Collytus is dead; he shall have it after the wedding. Well, I should be ashamed to be the only pretty girl that could not show an earring or a chain or a bit of lace.
[69.7.3] Musarium. Oh well, mother, are the rest of them happier or better-looking than I am?
[69.7.3] Mother. No; but they have more sense; they know their business better than to pin their faith to the idle words of a boy with a mouthful of lover’s oaths. But you go in for constancy and true love, and will have nothing to say to anybody but your Chaereas. There was that farmer from Acharnae the other day; his chin was smooth too; and he brought the two minae he had just got for his father’s wine; but oh dear me no! you send him away with a sneer; none but your Adonis for you.
[69.7.3] Musarium. Mother, you could not expect me to desert Chaereas and let that nasty working-man (faugh!) come near me. Poor Chaereas! he is a pet and a duck.
[69.7.3] Mother. Well, the Acharnian did smell rather of the farm. But there was Antiphon—son to Menecrates—and a whole mina; why not him? he is handsome, and a gentleman, and no older than Chaereas.
[69.7.4] Musarium. Ah, but Chaereas vowed he would cut both our throats if he caught me with him.
[69.7.4] Mother. The first time such a thing was ever threatened, I suppose. So you will go without your lovers for this, and be as good a girl as if you were a priestess of Demeter instead of what you are. And if that were all!—but to-day is harvest festival; and where is his present?
[69.7.4] Musarium. Mammy dear, he has none to give.
[69.7.4] Mother. They don’t all find it so hard to get round their fathers; why can’t he get a slave to wheedle him? why not tell his mother he will go off for a soldier if she doesn’t let him have some money? instead of which he haunts and tyrannizes over us, neither giving himself nor letting us take from those who would. Do you expect to be eighteen all your life, Musarium? or that Chaereas will be of the same mind when he has his fortune, and his mother finds a marriage that will bring him another? You don’t suppose he will remember tears and kisses and vows, with five talents of dowry to distract him?
[69.7.4] Musarium. Oh yes, he will. They have done everything to make him marry now; and he wouldn’t! that shows.
[69.7.4] Mother. I only hope it shows true. I shall remind you of all this when the time comes.

### VIII. Ampelis. Chrysis

[69.8.1] Ampelis. Well, but, Chrysis, I don’t call a man in love at all, if he doesn’t get jealous, and storm, and slap one, and clip one’s hair, and tear one’s clothes to pieces.
[69.8.1] Chrysis. Is that the only way to tell?
[69.8.1] Ampelis. To tell a serious passion, yes. The kisses and tears and vows, the constant attendance,—all that only shows that he’s beginning to be in love; it’s still coming on. But the real flame is jealousy, pure and simple. So if Gorgias is jealous, and slaps you, as you say, you may hope for the best; pray that he may always go on as he has begun!
[69.8.1] Chrysis. Go on slapping me?
[69.8.1] Ampelis. No, no; but getting angry if you ever look at any one else. If he were not in love with you, why should he mind your having another lover?
[69.8.1] Chrysis. Oh, but I haven’t! It’s all a mistake! He took it into his head that old Moneybags had been paying me attentions, because I just happened to mention his name once.
[69.8.2] Ampelis. Well, that’s very nice, too. You want him to think that there are rich men after you. It will make him all the more angry, and all the more liberal; he’ll be afraid of being cut out by his rivals.
[69.8.2] Chrysis. But Gorgias never gives me anything. He only storms and slaps.
[69.8.2] Ampelis. Oh, you wait. Nothing tames them like jealousy.
[69.8.2] Chrysis. Ampelis, I believe you want me to be slapped!
[69.8.2] Ampelis. Nonsense! All I mean is this: if you want to make a man wildly in love with you, let him see that you can do without him. When he thinks that he has you all to himself, he is apt to cool down. You see I’ve had twenty years’ experience: whereas you, I suppose, are about eighteen, perhaps not that. Come now; I’ll tell you what happened to me, not so many years ago. Demophantus was my admirer in those days; the usurer, you know, at the back of the Poecile. He had never given me more than five drachmae at a time, and he wanted to have everything his own way. The fact was, my dear, his love was only skin-deep. There were no sighs or tears with him; no knocking me up at unearthly hours; he would spend an evening with me now and then—very occasionally—and that was all.
[69.8.3] But one day when he called, I was ‘not at home’; I had Callides the painter with me (he had given me ten drachmae). Well, at the time Demophantus said some very rude things, and walked off. However, the days went by, and I never sent to him; and at last (finding that Callides had been with me again) even Demophantus began to catch fire, and to get into a passion about it; so one day he stood outside, and waited till he found the door open: my dear, I don’t know what he didn’t do! cried, beat me, vowed he would murder me, tore my clothes dreadfully! And it all ended with his giving me a talent; after which I saw no one else for eight months on end. His wife told everybody that I had bewitched him with some drug. ’Twas easy to see what the drug had been: jealousy. Now you should try the same drug upon Gorgias. The boy will have money, if anything happens to his father.

### IX. Dorcas. Pannychis. Philostratus. Polemon

[69.9.1] Dorcas. Oh, miss, we are lost, lost! Here is Polemon back from the wars a rich man, they say. I saw him myself in a mantle with a purple border and a clasp, and a whole train of men at his back. His friends when they caught sight of him crowded round to get their greetings in. I made out in the train his man who went abroad with him. So I said How d’ye do, and then asked, ‘Do tell me, Parmenon, how you got on; have you made anything to repay you for all your fighting?’
[69.9.1] Pannychis. Ah, you should not have begun with that. Thanks to all the Gods you were not killed (you ought to have said), and most of all to Zeus who guards the stranger and Athene who rules the battle! My mistress was always trying to find out how you were doing and where you were. And if you had added that she was always weeping and talking of Polemon, that would have been still better.
[69.9.2] Dorcas. Oh, I said all that right at the beginning; but I never thought of telling you that; I wanted to get on to the news. This was how I began to Parmenon: ‘Did you and your master’s ears burn, Parmenon?’ I said; ‘mistress was always talking of him and crying; and when any one came back from the last battle and reported that many had been killed, she would tear her hair and beat her breast, and grieve so every time!’
[69.9.2] Pannychis. Ah, that was right, Dorcas.
[69.9.2] Dorcas. And then after a little while I went on to the other questions. And he said, ‘Oh, yes, we have come back great men.’
[69.9.2] Pannychis. What, straight off like that? never a word of how Polemon had talked or thought of me, or prayed he might find me alive?
[69.9.2] Dorcas. Yes, he said a good deal of that. But his real news was enormous riches—gold, raiment, slaves, ivory. As for the money, they didn’t count it, but measured it by the bushel, and it took some time that way. On Parmenon’s own finger was a huge queer-shaped ring with one of those three-coloured stones, the outer part red. I left him when he wanted to give me the history of how they crossed the Halys and killed somebody called Tiridates, and how Polemon distinguished himself in the battle with the Pisidians. I ran off to tell you, and give you time to think. Suppose Polemon were to come—and you may be sure he will, as soon as he has got rid of his company—and find when he asked after you that Philostratus was here; what would he do?
[69.9.3] Pannychis. Oh, Dorcas, we must find some way out of it. It would be shabby to send Philostratus about his business so soon after having that talent from him; and he is a merchant, and if he keeps all his promises——. And on the other hand, it is a pity not to be at home to Polemon now he is come back such a great man; besides, he is so jealous; when he was poor, there was no getting on with him for it; and what will he be like now?
[69.9.3] Dorcas. Here he comes.
[69.9.3] Pannychis. Oh, Dorcas, what am I to do? I shall faint; how I tremble!
[69.9.3] Dorcas. Why, here is Philostratus too.
[69.9.3] Pannychis. Oh, what will become of me? oh that the earth would swallow me up!
[69.9.4] Philostratus. Well, my dear, where is that wine?

Pannychis. (Now he has gone and done it!) Ah, Polemon, so you are back at last; are you well?
[69.9.4] Polemon. Who is this person coming to you? What, no answer? Oh, mighty fine, Pannychis! Here have I come on the wings of love—the whole way from Thermopylae in five days; and all for a woman like this! But I deserve it; I ought to be grateful; I shall not be plundered any more, that is something.
[69.9.4] Philostratus. And who may you be, good sir?
[69.9.4] Polemon. Polemon, deme Stiria, tribe Pandionis; will that do for you? late colonel, now general of division, and Pannychis’s lover, so long as he supposed a mere man was good enough for her.
[69.9.4] Philostratus. At present, however, sir free-lance, Pannychis is mine. She has had one talent, and will have another as soon as my cargoes are disposed of. Come along, Pannychis; the colonel can keep his colonelling for the Odrysians.
[69.9.4] Dorcas. She is a free woman; it is for her to say whether she will come along or not.

Pannychis. What shall I do, Dorcas?
[69.9.4] Dorcas. Better go in; Polemon is too angry to talk to now, and a little jealousy will only whet his appetite.
[69.9.4] Pannychis. Well, if you think so, let us go in.
[69.9.5] Polemon. I give you both fair warning that you drink your last drink to-day; I ought to know by this time how to part soul from body. Parmenon, the Thracians. Full armour, battle array, this alley blocked. Pikemen in the centre, slingers and archers on the flanks, and the remainder in the rear.
[69.9.5] Philostratus. You take us for babies, Mr. Mercenary, to judge from your appeal to our imaginations. Now I wonder whether you ever shed as much blood as runs in a cock’s veins, or ever looked on war; to stretch a point in your favour, I dare say you may have been corporal in charge of a bit of wall somewhere.
[69.9.5] Polemon. You will know ere long, when you look upon our serried ranks of glittering steel.
[69.9.5] Philostratus. Oh, pack up your traps and come, by all means. I and my Tibius—I have only one man, you see—will scatter you so wide with a few stones and bricks that you shall never find one another again.

### XI. Tryphaena. Charmides

[69.11.1] Tryphaena. Well, to be sure! Get a girl to keep company with you, and then turn your back on her! Nothing but tears and groans! The wine was not good enough, I suppose, and you didn’t want a tête-à-tête dinner. Oh yes, I saw you were crying at dinner too. And now it is one continued wail like a baby’s. What is it all about, Charmides? Do tell me; let me get that much out of my evening with you.
[69.11.1] Charmides. Love is killing me, Tryphaena; I can stand it no longer.
[69.11.1] Tryphaena. It is not love for me, that is clear. You would not be so cold to me, and push me away when I want to put my arms round you. It really is not fair to keep me off like this! Never mind, tell me who it is; perhaps I may help you to her; I know one ought to make oneself useful.
[69.11.1] Charmides. Oh, you two know each other quite well; she is quite a celebrity.
[69.11.2] Tryphaena. Name, name, Charmides!

Charmides. Well then—Philematium.
[69.11.2] Tryphaena. Which? there are two of them; one in Piraeus, who has only just come there; Damyllus the governor’s son is in love with her; is it that one? or the other, the one they call The Trap?
[69.11.2] Charmides. Yes, that is she; she has caught me and got me tight, poor mouse.
[69.11.2] Tryphaena. And the tears were all for her?

Charmides. Even so.
[69.11.2] Tryphaena. Is this recent? or how long has it been going on?
[69.11.2] Charmides. Oh, it is nothing new. I saw her first at the Dionysia; that makes seven months.
[69.11.2] Tryphaena. Had you a full view of her, or did you just see her face and as much as a woman of forty-five likes to show?
[69.11.2] Charmides. Oh, come! I have her word for it she will be two-and-twenty next birthday.
[69.11.3] Tryphaena. Well, which are you going to trust—her word, or your own eyes? Just take a careful look at her temples some day; that is the only place where her own hair shows; all the rest is a thick wig; but at the temples, when the dye fades a little, you can easily detect the grey. But that is nothing; insist on seeing more than her face.
[69.11.3] Charmides. Oh, but I am not favoured so far as that.
[69.11.3] Tryphaena. No, I should think not. She knows what the effect would be; why, she is all over—oh, talk of leopard-skins! And it was she made you cry like that, was it? I dare say, now, she was very cruel and scornful?
[69.11.3] Charmides. Yes, she was, dear; and such a lot of money as she has from me! Just now she wants a thousand drachmas; well, I am dependent on my father, and he is very close, and I could not very well get it; so she is at home to Moschion, and will not see me. That is why you are here; I thought it might vex her.
[69.11.3] Tryphaena. Well, I’m sure I never never would have come if I had been told what it was for—just to vex somebody else, and that somebody old coffin-ripe Philematium! I shall go away; for that matter the third cock-crow is past.
[69.11.4] Charmides. No, no, not so fast, Tryphaena. If it is all true—the wig, the dye, and the leopard-skin—I shall hate the sight of her.
[69.11.4] Tryphaena. If your mother has ever seen her at the bath, ask her. As to the age, you had better ask your grandfather about that, if he is alive.
[69.11.4] Charmides. Well, as that is what she is like, come up close to me. Give me your arms—and your lips—and let us be friends. Philematium be hanged!

### XII. Joessa. Pythias. Lysias

[69.12.1] Joessa. Cross boy! But I deserve it all! I ought to have treated you as any other girl would do,—bothered you for money, and been engaged when you called, and made you cheat your father or rob your mother to get presents for me; instead of which, I have always let you in from the very first time, and it has never cost you a penny, Lysias. Think of all the lovers I have sent away: Ethocles, now a Chairman of Committees, and Pasion the ship-owner, and young Melissus, who had just come into all his father’s money. I would not have a word to say to one of them; I kept myself for you, hard-hearted Phaon that you are! I was fool enough to believe all your vows, and have been living like a Penelope for your sake; mother is furious about it, and is always talking at me to her friends. And now that you feel sure of me, and know how I dote on you, what is the consequence? You flirt with Lycaena under my very eyes, just to vex me; you sit next to me at dinner, and pay compliments to Magidium, a mere music-girl, and hurt my feelings, and make me cry. And that wine-party the other day, with Thraso and Diphilus, when Cymbalium the flute-girl was there, and Pyrallis: you know how I hate that girl: as for Cymbalium, whom you kissed no less than five times, I didn’t mind so much about that,—it must have been sufficient punishment in itself:—but the way in which you were always making signs to Pyrallis to notice your cup, and whispering to the boy, when you gave it back to him, that he was not to fill it for any one but Pyrallis! and that piece of apple that you bit off and shot across right into her lap, when you saw that Diphilus was occupied with Thraso,—you never even tried to conceal it from me! and she kissed it, and hid it away beneath her girdle.
[69.12.2] What is the meaning of it all? What have I ever done to you? Did I ever displease you? ever look at any other man? Do I not live for you alone? A brave thing, is it not, Lysias, to vex a poor weak woman who loves you to distraction! There is a Nemesis who watches such deeds. You will be sorry some day, perhaps, when you hear of my hanging myself, or jumping head first into a well; for die I will, one way or another, rather than live to be an eyesore to you. There will be an achievement for you to boast of! You need not look at me like that, nor gnash your teeth: if you have anything to say against me, here is Pythias; let her judge between us. Oh, you are going away without a word?—You see what I have to put up with, Pythias!
[69.12.2] Pythias. Monster! He cares nothing for her tears. He must be made of stone instead of flesh and blood. But the truth is, my dear, you have spoilt him, by letting him see how fond you are of him. It is a great mistake to make so much of them; they get uppish. Don’t cry, dear: take my advice, and shut him out once or twice; it will be his turn to dote on you then.
[69.12.2] Joessa. Shut him out? Don’t breathe a word of such a thing! I only wish he would wait till I turned him out!
[69.12.2] Pythias. Why, here he is back again.
[69.12.2] Joessa. Pythias! What have you done? If he should have overheard that about shutting him out!
[69.12.3] Lysias. I am coming back on your account, Pythias, not on hers; I will never look at her again, after what she has done: but I don’t want you to think badly of me; it shall not be said that Lysias was hard-hearted.
[69.12.3] Pythias. Exactly what I was saying.
[69.12.3] Lysias. But what would you have me do? This girl, who is so tearful now, has been disloyal to me, and received another lover; I actually found them together!
[69.12.3] Pythias. Well, after all——. But when did you make this discovery?
[69.12.3] Lysias. It must have been something like five days ago; yes, it was, because it was on the second, and to-day is the seventh. My father had found out about this precious Joessa, and how long it had been going on, and he locked me in, and gave the porter orders not to open to me. Well, I wasn’t going to be kept away from her, so I told Dromo to slip along the courtyard to the lowest part of the wall, and then let me mount on his back; I knew I could easily get over that way. To make a long story short, I got out, and came here. It was midnight, and I found the door carefully barred. Instead of knocking, I quietly lifted the door off its hinges (it was not the first time I had done so) and passed noiselessly in. Every one was asleep. I groped my way along the wall, and stopped at the bedside.
[69.12.4] Joessa. Good Heavens! What is coming? I am in torment!
[69.12.4] Lysias. I perceived from the breathing that there was more than one person there, and thought at first that Lyde must be sleeping with her. Pythias, I was mistaken! My hands passed over a smooth, beardless man’s face; the fellow was close-cropped, and reeked of scent like any woman. I had not brought my sword with me, or you may be sure I should have known what to do with it.—What are you both laughing at? Is it so amusing, Pythias?
[69.12.4] Joessa. Oh, Lysias! is that all? Why, it was Pythias who was sleeping with me!
[69.12.4] Pythias. Joessa, don’t tell him!
[69.12.4] Joessa. Why not? Lysias, dear, it was Pythias; I had asked her to come and sleep with me; I was so lonely without you.
[69.12.5] Lysias. Pythias? Then her hair has grown pretty fast in five days.
[69.12.5] Joessa. She has been ill, and her hair was falling off, and she had to have it cropped. And now she has got false hair. Pythias, show him that it is so. Behold your rival, Lysias! this is the young gentleman of whom you were jealous.
[69.12.5] Lysias. And what lover would not have been jealous? I had the evidence of my hands, remember.
[69.12.5] Joessa. Well, you know better now. Suppose I were to return you evil for evil? What should you say to that? It is my turn to be angry with you now.
[69.12.5] Lysias. No, you mustn’t be angry. We will have some wine, and Pythias must join us; the truce cannot be ratified without her.
[69.12.5] Joessa. Of course not. A pretty scrape you have led me into, Pythias, you nice young man!
[69.12.5] Pythias. The nice young man has led you out of it again too, so you must forgive him. I say, Lysias, you need not tell any one—about my hair, you know.

### XIII. Leontichus. Chenidas. Hymnis

[69.13.1] Leontichus. And then that battle with the Galatians; tell her about that, Chenidas—how I rode out in front on the grey, and the Galatians (brave fellows, those Galatians, too)—but they ran away directly they saw me; not a man stood his ground. That time, you know, I used my lance for a javelin, and sent it through their captain and his horse as well; and then, as some of them were left—the phalanx was broken up, you see, but a certain number had rallied—well, I pulled out my trusty blade, rode at them as hard as I could go, knocked over half a dozen of the front rank with the mere rush of my horse, brought down my sword on one of the officers, and clove his head in two halves, helmet and all. The rest of you came up shortly, you remember, when they were already running.
[69.13.2] Chenidas. Oh, but that duel of yours with the satrap in Paphlagonia! that was a fine display, too.
[69.13.2] Leontichus. Well remembered; yes, that was not so bad, either. A great big fellow that satrap was, supposed to be a champion fighter too—thought nothing of Greek science. Out he came, and challenged all comers to single combat. There was consternation among our officers, from the lowest to the general himself—though he was a pretty good man. Aristaechmus the Aetolian he was—very strong on the javelin; I was only a colonel then. However, I was not afraid. I shook off the friends who clung to me—they were anxious about me when they saw the barbarian resplendent in his gilded armour, towering high with his terrible plume and brandishing his lance—
[69.13.2] Chenidas. Yes, I was afraid that time; you remember how I clung to you and besought you not to sacrifice yourself; life would not have been worth living, if you had fallen.
[69.13.3] Leontichus. I ventured it, though. Out I went, as well armed as the Paphlagonian, all gold like him. What a shout there was on both sides! the barbarians recognized me too; they knew my buckler and medals and plume. Who was it they all compared me to, Chenidas?
[69.13.3] Chenidas. Why, who should it be? Achilles, of course; the son of Peleus and Thetis, of course. Your helmet was so magnificent, your purple so rich, your buckler so dazzling.
[69.13.3] Leontichus. We met. The barbarian drew first blood—just a scratch with his lance a little above the knee; but my great spear drove through his shield and right into the breast-bone. Then I ran up, just sliced his head off with my sword, and came back carrying his arms, the head spiked on my spear dripping gore upon me.
[69.13.4] Hymnis. How horrid, Leontichus! what disgusting frightful tales you tell about yourself! What girl would look at a man who likes such nastiness—let alone drink or sleep with him? I am going away.
[69.13.4] Leontichus. Pooh! I double your pay.

Hymnis. No, nothing shall induce me to sleep with a murderer.
[69.13.4] Leontichus. Don’t be afraid, my dear. All that was in Paphlagonia. I am a man of peace now.
[69.13.4] Hymnis. No, you are unclean; the blood of the barbarian’s head on the spear has dripped over you! I embrace and kiss a man like that? the Graces forbid! he is no better than the executioner.
[69.13.4] Leontichus. I am certain you would be in love with me if you had seen me in my armour.
[69.13.4] Hymnis. I tell you it makes me sick and frightened even to hear of such things; I see the shades and ghosts of the slain; that poor officer with his head cloven! what would it be if I saw the thing done, and the blood, and the bodies lying there? I am sure I should die; I never saw a chicken killed, even.
[69.13.4] Leontichus. Such a coward, girl? so poor of heart? I thought you would like to hear it.
[69.13.4] Hymnis. Well, try the Lemnian women, or the daughters of Danaus, if you want to please with that sort of tale. I shall run home to my mother, while there is some daylight left. Come along, Grammis. Good-bye, mightiest of colonels, and murderer of however many it is!
[69.13.5] Leontichus. Stay, girl, stay.—Why, she is gone!
[69.13.5] Chenidas. Well, Leontichus, you frightened the simple little thing with your nodding plumes and your incredible exploits. I saw her getting pale as far back as the officer story; her face was all puckered up and quivering when you split his head.
[69.13.5] Leontichus. I thought it would make me more attractive. Well, but it was your fault too; you started the duel.
[69.13.5] Chenidas. Well, I had to chime in when I saw what you were bragging for. But you laid it on so thick. Pass the cutting off the wretched Paphlagonian’s head, what did you want to spike it on a spear for, and let the blood run down on you?
[69.13.6] Leontichus. That was a bit too strong, I admit; the rest was rather well put together. Well, go and persuade her to come back.
[69.13.6] Chenidas. Shall I tell her you lied to make her think you a fine fellow?
[69.13.6] Leontichus. Oh, plague upon it!
[69.13.6] Chenidas. It’s the only way. Choose—a mighty champion, and loathed, or a confessed liar, and—Hymnis?
[69.13.6] Leontichus. Bad is the best; but I say Hymnis. Go to her, then, Chenidas, and say I lied—in parts.

### XIV. Dorion. Myrtale

[69.14.1] Dorion. So, Myrtale! You ruin me first, and then close your doors on me! It was another tale when I brought you all those presents: I was your love, then; your lord, your life. But you have squeezed me dry now, and have got hold of that Bithynian merchant; so I am left to whimper on the wrong side of the door, while he, the favoured lover, enjoys your embraces, and is to become a father soon, so you tell him.
[69.14.1] Myrtale. Come, Dorion, that is too much! Ruined you, indeed! A lot you ever gave me! Let us go through the list of your presents, from the very beginning.
[69.14.2] Dorion. Very well; let us. First, a pair of shoes from Sicyon, two drachmae. Remember two drachmae.
[69.14.2] Myrtale. Ah, but you were here for two nights.
[69.14.2] Dorion. A box of Phoenician ointment, when I came back from Syria; the box of alabaster. The same price, as I’m a seaman!
[69.14.2] Myrtale. Well, and when you sailed again, didn’t I give you that waistcoat, that you might have something to wear when you were rowing? It was Epiurus the boatswain’s, that waistcoat; he left it here one night by mistake.
[69.14.2] Dorion. Epiurus recognized it, and took it away from me in Samos, only the other day; and a rare tussle we had before he got it. Then there were those onions I brought you from Cyprus, and five haddocks and four perch, the time we came back from the Bosphorus. Oh, and a whole basket of ship’s bread—eight loaves of it; and a jar of figs from Caria. Another time it was a pair of slippers from Patara, gilded ones, you ungrateful girl! Ah, and I was forgetting that great cheese from Gythium.
[69.14.2] Myrtale. Say five drachmae the lot.
[69.14.3] Dorion. It was all that my pay would run to, Myrtale; I was but a common seaman in those days. I have risen to be mate now, my haughty miss. And didn’t I put down a solid drachma for you at the feet of Aphrodite’s statue, when it was her feast the other day? Then I gave your mother two drachmae to buy shoes with; and Lyde there,—many is the copper I have slipped into her hand, by twos and threes. Put all that together, and it makes a seaman’s fortune.
[69.14.3] Myrtale. Onions and haddocks.
[69.14.3] Dorion. Yes; ’twas all I had; if I were rich, I should not be a sailor. I have never brought my own mother so much as a head of garlic. I should like to know what sort of presents the Bithynian makes you?
[69.14.3] Myrtale. Look at this dress: he bought it me; and this necklace, the thick one.
[69.14.3] Dorion. Pooh, you have had that for years.
[69.14.3] Myrtale. No, the one you knew was much lighter, and it had no emeralds. My earrings were a present of his too, and so was that rug; and he gave me two minae the other day, besides paying our rent. Rather different from Patara slippers, and Gythium cheeses and stuff!
[69.14.4] Dorion. And how do you like him for a lover? you say nothing about that. He is fifty years old if he is a day; his hair is all gone in front, and he has the complexion of a lobster. Did you ever notice his teeth? And so accomplished too! it is a treat to hear him when he sings and tries to make himself agreeable; what is it they tell me about an ass that would learn the lyre? Well, I wish you joy of him; you deserve no better luck; and may the child be like his father! As for me, I’ll find some Delphis or Cymbalium that’s more in my line; your neighbour, perhaps, the flute-girl; anyhow, I shall get some one. We can’t all afford necklaces and rugs and two minae presents.
[69.14.4] Myrtale. How I envy the lucky girl who gets you, Dorion! What onions she will have from Cyprus! what cheeses next time you come from Gythium!

### XV. Cochlis. Parthenis

[69.15.1] Cochlis. Crying, Parthenis! what is it? how do your pipes come to be broken?
[69.15.1] Parthenis. Oh! oh! I have been beaten by Crocale’s lover—that tall Aetolian soldier; he found me playing at Crocale’s, hired by his rival Gorgus. He broke in while they were at dinner, smashed my pipes, upset the table, and emptied out the wine-bowl. Gorgus (the country fellow, you know) he pulled out of the dining-room by the hair of his head, and the two of them, Dinomachus (I think they call him) and a fellow soldier, stood over thumping him. Oh, Cochlis, I doubt whether he will live; there was a great rush of blood from his nostrils, and his face is all swollen and livid.
[69.15.2] Cochlis. Is the man mad? or was it just a drunken freak?
[69.15.2] Parthenis. All jealousy, my dear—love run wild. Crocale had asked two talents, I believe, if Dinomachus wanted her all to himself. He refused; so she shut the door in his face, I was told, and would not let him in at all. Instead of him she took Gorgus of Oenoë, a well-to-do farmer and a nice man; they were drinking together, and she had got me in to play the pipes. Well, the wine was going, I was striking up one of those Lydian tunes, the farmer standing up to dance, Crocale clapping, and all as merry as could be. Suddenly there was a noise and a shout, crash went the front door, and a moment after in burst eight great strong men, that brute among them. Everything was upside down directly, Gorgus on the ground, as I told you, being thumped and kicked. Crocale got away somehow and took refuge with Thespias next door. Dinomachus boxed my ears, and ‘Go to blazes!’ he said, throwing me the broken pipes. I am running to tell master about it now. And the farmer is going to find some of his friends in town and get the brute summonsed in the police-court.
[69.15.3] Cochlis. Yes, bruises and the courts—that is all we get out of the military. They tell you they are generals and colonels, and then when it comes to paying, ‘Oh, wait for settling day,’ they say; ‘then I shall get my pay, and put everything right.’ I wish they were all dead, they and their bragging. But I never have anything to do with them; it is the best way. Give me a fisherman or a sailor or farmer no better than myself, with few compliments and plenty of money. These plume-tossing word-warriors! they are nothing but noise, Parthenis.

## The Purist Purized

[70.1] Lycinus. Are you the man whose scent is so keen for a blunder, and who is himself blunder-proof?
[70.1] Purist. I think I may say so.

Lycinus. I suppose one must be blunder-proof, to detect the man who is not so?
[70.1] Purist. Assuredly.

Lycinus. Do I understand that you are proof?

Purist. How could I call myself educated, if I made blunders at my age?
[70.1] Lycinus. Well, shall you be able to detect a culprit, and convict him if he denies it?

Purist. Of course I shall.
[70.1] Lycinus. Catch me out, then; I will make one just now.

Purist. Say on.

Lycinus. Why, the deed is done, and you have missed it.

Purist. You are joking, of course?
[70.1] Lycinus. No, upon my honour. The blunder is made, and you none the wiser. Well, try again; but you are not infallible on these sort of things.
[70.1] Purist. Well?

Lycinus. Again, the blunder made, and you unconscious.

Purist. How can that be, before you have opened your lips?
[70.1] Lycinus. Oh yes, I opened them, and to a blunder; but you never see them. I quite doubt you seeing this one even.
[70.2] Purist. Well, there is something very queer about it if I do not know a solecism when I hear it.
[70.2] Lycinus. One begins to doubt, when a man has missed three.

Purist. Three? What do you mean?

Lycinus. A complete triolet of them.
[70.2] Purist. You are certainly joking.

Lycinus. And you are as certainly a poor detective.
[70.2] Purist. If you were to say something, one might have a chance.
[70.2] Lycinus. Four chances you have had, and no result. It would have been a fine feather in your hat to have got them all.
[70.2] Purist. Nothing fine about it; it is no more than I undertook.

Lycinus. Why, there you are again!
[70.2] Purist. Again?

Lycinus. ‘Feather in your hat’!

Purist. I don’t know what you mean.
[70.2] Lycinus. Precisely; you do not know. And now suppose you go first; you do not like following, that is what it is; you understand, if you chose.
[70.3] Purist. Oh, I am willing enough; only you have not made any solecisms in the usual sense.
[70.3] Lycinus. How about that last? Now watch me well, as you did not get me that time.
[70.3] Purist. I cannot say I did.
[70.3] Lycinus. Now for a rabbit, then; there, that’s him! Has he got by? There he is, that’s him, I tell you. Hims enough to fill a warren, if you don’t wake up.
[70.3] Purist. Oh, I am wide awake.
[70.3] Lycinus. Well, they are gone.
[70.3] Purist. Never!
[70.3] Lycinus. The fact is, your too much learning renders you unconscious to solecisms; whatever case I take, it is always the same.
[70.4] Purist. What you mean by that I am sure I don’t know; but I have often caught people out in blunders.
[70.4] Lycinus. Well, you will catch me about the time that you are a sucking child again. By the way, a babe laying in his cradle would hardly jar on your notions of grammar, if you have not yet got me.
[70.4] Purist. Well, I am convinced.
[70.4] Lycinus. Now, if we cannot detect blunders like these, we are not likely to know much about our own; you see, you have just missed another. Very well now, never again call yourself competent either to detect blunders or to avoid them.
[70.5] This is my blunt way, you see. Socrates of Mopsus, with whom I was acquainted in Egypt, used to put his corrections more delicately, so as not to humiliate the offender. Here are some specimens: What time do you set out on your travels?—What time? Oh, I see, you thought I started to-day.
[70.5] The patrimonial income supplies me well enough.—Patrimonial? But your father is not dead?

So-and-so is a tribes-man of mine.—Oh, you are a savage, are you?
[70.5] The fellow is a boozy.—Oh, Boozy was his mother’s name, was it?

Worser luck I never knew.—Well, you need not make it worserer.
[70.5] I always said he had a good ’eart.—Yes, quite an artist.

So glad to see you, old cock!—Come, allow me humanity.
[70.5] Contemptuous fellow! I would not go near him.—If he were contemptible, it would not matter, I suppose.

He is the most unique of friends.—Good; one likes degrees in uniqueness.
[70.5] How aggravating!—Indeed? what does it aggravate?

So I ascended up.—Ingenious man, doubling your speed like that.
[70.5] I had to do it; I was in an engagement.—Like Xenophon’s hoplites.

I got round him.—Comprehensive person.
[70.5] They went to law, but were compounded.—You don’t say they didn’t get apart again?
[70.6] He would apply the same delicate treatment to people unsound in their Attic.
[70.6] ‘That’s the truth of it,’ said some one, ‘between you and I.’

‘Ah no, you will have to admit that you and me are wrong there.’
[70.6] Another person giving a circumstantial account of a local legend said: ‘So when she mingled with Heracles—’ ‘Without Heracles’s mingling with her?’
[70.6] He asked a man who told him that he must have a close crop, what his particular felony had been.
[70.6] ‘There I quarrel,’ said his opponent in an argument. ‘It takes two to make a quarrel.’
[70.6] When some one described his sick servant as undergoing torture, he asked, ‘What for? what do they suppose they are going to get out of him?’
[70.6] Some one was said to be going ahead in his studies. ‘Let me see,’ he said; ‘it is Plato, I think, who calls that making progress.’
[70.6] ‘Will we have a fine day?’ ‘If God shall.’
[70.7] ‘Archaist, curse not thy friend!’ he retorted, to a man who called him curst instead of crusty.

A man once used the phrase, ‘I was trying to save his face.’ ‘But is he in any danger of losing it?’ asked Socrates.
[70.7] ‘Chided,’ said one man, ‘chode,’ another. He disclaimed all acquaintance with either form.

A person who volunteered ‘but and if’ was commended for his generosity.

Some one tried him with ‘y-pleased’; ‘no, no,’ said he; ‘that is too much of a good thing.’
[70.7] ‘I expect him momently,’ some one announced. ‘A good phrase,’ he said; ‘so is “minutely”; we have excellent authority for “daily.”’

‘Look you!’ said a man, meaning ‘look.’ ‘Yes, what am I to look you at?’
[70.7] He took up a man who said, ‘Yes, I can grapple with that,’ meaning that he understood, with ‘Oh, you are going to throw me, are you? how?’
[70.7] ‘How shrill those fives are!’ said some one. ‘Oh, come now,’ said Socrates; ‘seditions and strives, but not drums and fives.’
[70.7] ‘That man is heavily weighed,’ one man observed. ‘You are quite right; there is no such word as weighted.’ ‘He has thrived on it,’ some one assured him. ‘The people among whom he has thrived cannot be very particular.’
[70.7] People were very fond of calling it at-one-ment. ‘Yes, all right,’ he would say; ‘I know what it means.’
[70.7] Mention being made of a black-hen, he supposed that would be the female of the grey-cock.

Some one said he had been eating sparrowgrass. ‘You’ll be trying groundsel next,’ was his comment.
[70.8] But enough of Socrates. Shall we have another match on the old lines? I will give you nothing but first-rate ones. Have your eyes open. You will surely be able to do it now, after hearing such a list of them.
[70.8] Purist. I am by no means so sure of that. Proceed, however.
[70.8] Lycinus. Not sure? well, but here you have the door broad open.
[70.8] Purist. Say on.

Lycinus. I have said.
[70.8] Purist. Nothing that I observed.
[70.8] Lycinus. What, not observed ‘broad open’?

Purist. No.
[70.8] Lycinus. Well, what is to happen, if you cannot follow now? Every man can crow on his own hay-cock, and I thought this was yours. Did you get that hay-cock? You don’t seem to attend; look at the mutual help Socrates and I have just given you.
[70.8] Purist. I am attending; but you are so sly with them.
[70.9] Lycinus. Monstrous sly, is it not, to say ‘mutual’ instead of ‘joint’? Well, that is settled up; but for your general ignorance, I defy any God short of Apollo to cure it. He gives council to all who ask it; but on you that council is thrown away.
[70.9] Purist. Yes, I declare, so it was!

Lycinus. Perhaps one at a time are too few?

Purist. I think that must be it.

Lycinus. How did ‘one are’ get past you?

Purist. Ah, I didn’t see it, again.

Lycinus. By the way, do you know of any one who is on the look in for a wife?
[70.9] Purist. What are you talking about?

Lycinus. Show me the man who is on the look in, and I will show you a solecist.

Purist. But what have I to do with solecists on the look in for wives?
[70.9] Lycinus. Ah, if you knew that, you would be the man you pretend to be. So much for that. Now, if a man came to you and said that he had left his wife’s home, would you stand that?
[70.9] Purist. Of course I should, if he had provocation.

Lycinus. And if you caught him committing a solecism, would you stand it?

Purist. Certainly not.
[70.9] Lycinus. Quite right too. We should never permit solecisms in a friend, but teach him better. Now, what are your feelings when you hear a man deprecating his own merits, and depreciating his friend’s excessive gratitude?
[70.9] Purist. Feelings? only that he shows a very proper feeling.

Lycinus. Then, as you cannot feel the difference between ‘deprecate’ and ‘depreciate,’ shall we conclude that you are an ignoramus?

Purist. Outrageous insolence!
[70.9] Lycinus. Outrageous? I shall be, ere much, if I go on talking to you.—Now I should have said that ‘ere much’ was a blunder, but it does not strike you so.
[70.10] Purist. Oh, stop, for goodness’ sake! Look here, try this way; I want to get my profit out of it too.

Lycinus. Well?

Purist. Suppose you were to go through all the blunders you say I have missed, and tell me what is the right thing for each.
[70.10] Lycinus. Good gracious, no; it would take us till midnight. No; you can look those out for yourself. Meanwhile, we had better take fresh ones, as we have only a quarter of an hour (by the way, never pronounce the ‘h’ in hour; that sounds dreadful). Then as to that outrage which you say I have committed upon you; if I were to speak of an outrage committed against you, that would be another thing.
[70.10] Purist. Would it?
[70.10] Lycinus. Yes; an outrage upon you must be committed upon you personally, in the shape of blows, interference with your liberty, or the like. An outrage against you is upon something that belongs to you; he who does an outrage upon your wife, child, friend, or slave, does it against you. This distinction, however, does not apply to inanimate things. An ‘outrage against’ is a legitimate phrase with them, as when Plato talks in the Symposium of an outrage against a proverb.
[70.10] Purist. Ah, I see now.

Lycinus. Do you also see that the exchange of one for the other is a solecism?

Purist. Yes, I shall know that for the future.

Lycinus. And if a person were to use ‘interchange’ there instead of ‘exchange,’ what would you take him to mean?

Purist. Just the same.
[70.10] Lycinus. Why, how can they be equivalent? Exchange is merely the substitution of one expression for another, the improper for the proper; whereas interchange involves a false statement¹⁹.
[70.10] Purist. I see now; exchange is the use of a loose instead of a precise expression, while interchange is the use of both expressions, each in the other’s place.
[70.10] Lycinus. These subtleties are not unpleasing. Similarly, when we are concerned with a person, it is in our own interest; but when we are concerned for him, it is in his. It is true the phrases are sometimes confused, but there are those who observe the distinction; and it is as well to be on the safe side.

Purist. Quite true.
[70.11] Lycinus. Now, can you tell me the difference between ‘setting’ and ‘sitting,’ or between ‘be seated’ and ‘sit’?
[70.11] Purist. No; but I have heard you say that ‘sit yourself’ is a barbarism.
[70.11] Lycinus. Yes, quite so; but now I tell you that ‘be seated’ is not the same as ‘sit.’
[70.11] Purist. Why, what may the difference be?
[70.11] Lycinus. When a man is on his legs, you can only tell him to be seated; but if he is seated already, you can tell him to sit still. Sit where thou art; we find us seats elsewhere. It means ‘remain sitting,’ you see. Here again we have to say that it is a mistake to reverse the expressions. And as to ‘set’ and ‘sit,’ surely it is the whole difference between transitive and intransitive?
[70.12] Purist. That is clear enough; go on; this is the way to teach.
[70.12] Lycinus. Or the only way you can learn? Well, do you know what a historian is?²⁰
[70.12] Purist. Oh, yes, I quite see, after your lucid explanation.
[70.12] Lycinus. Now I daresay you think servility and servitude are the same; but I am aware of a considerable difference between them.
[70.12] Purist. Namely—?

Lycinus. The first depends on yourself, the other on some one else.
[70.12] Purist. Quite right.
[70.12] Lycinus. Oh, you will pick up all sorts of information, if you give up thinking you know more than you do.
[70.12] Purist. I give it up from this moment.

Lycinus. Then we will break off for the present, and take the rest another time.

## Notes

[1] Cf. Remarks addressed to an Illiterate Book-fancier, 9.
[2] This piece, which even in the Greek fails to convince us that Asclepius heard the prayer with which it concludes, is still flatter in English, because we have no words of salutation which correspond at once in etymological meaning and in conventional usage to the Greek. The English reader who cares to understand a piece so little worth his attention, will obligingly bear in mind that the Greek word represented here by Joy and Rejoice roughly answered in Lucian’s time to our Good-morning and How do you do, as well as to the epistolary My dear——; while that represented by Hail or Health did the work of Good-night, Good-bye, Farewell, and (in letters) Yours truly.
[3] See Pythagoras in Notes.
[4] See Pythagoras in Notes.
[5] Omitting as a scholium, with Dindorf and Fritzsche, the words: οἷά ἐστι τῶν τρυφώντων πλουσίων τὰ σφιγγία καὶ τὰ κουράλλια.
[6] See Stesichorus in Notes.
[7] i.e., Hermes.
[8] Hippocrates.
[9] The Greek alphabet runs: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta, eta, theta, iota, kappa, lambda, mu, nu, xi, omicron, pi, rho, sigma, tau, upsilon, phi, chi, psi, omega.
[10] See Puzzles in Notes.
[11] See Puzzles in Notes.
[12] See Puzzles in Notes.
[13] 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.
[14] ‘Eggs were often used as purificatory offerings and set out in front of the house purified.’ Id.
[15] See Puzzles in Notes.
[16] 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.
[17] 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.’
[18] Demeter and Persephone.
[19] The words here represented by ‘exchange’ and ‘interchange’ are the Greek verbs from which are derived the grammarian’s names for the (not very clearly distinguished) figures of speech, Hypallage and Enallage. We take it, however, that ‘exchange’ and ‘interchange’ give the distinction fairly in the present context, the former indicating a single, the latter a mutual substitution between two terms. For if one of the two differs from the other in being more comprehensive, as ‘outrage against’ is more comprehensive than ‘outrage upon,’ it is then true that the substitution of the more for the less comprehensive has no worse effect than making the statement lack precision, while the double substitution produces a false statement.
Let it be supposed that A kicks B’s dog. Four descriptions are conceivable:—
(1) It is an outrage upon the dog.
(2) It is an outrage against B.
(3) It is an outrage against the dog.
(4) It is an outrage upon B.
The first two can both be stated; each is true, and each is precise. (3) can also be stated; ‘exchange’ has taken place; the more comprehensive term has been substituted; the statement is true, but not precise. But if (3) and (4) are both stated, ‘interchange’ has taken place; the less comprehensive has been substituted for the more, as well as vice versa; and (4) is not only not precise, it is false.
[20] The explanation of this point appears to have dropped out of the MSS.—Translators.