neglected. If you had read your Homer, you would know that
Achilles’s horse Xanthus declined to have anything more to do with
neighing, and stood on the field of battle spouting whole
hexameters; _he_ was not content with plain prose like me; he
even took to prophecy, and foretold to Achilles what should befall
him. Nor was this considered anything out of the way; Achilles saw
nothing portentous about it, nor did he invoke Heracles on the
occasion. What a fuss you would have made, if the keel of the Argo
had addressed a remark to you, or the leaves of the Dodonaean oak
had opened their mouths and prophesied; or if you had seen ox-
hides crawling about, and heard the half-cooked flesh of the beasts
bellowing on the spit! As for me, considering my connexion with
Hermes—most loquacious, most argumentative of Gods—and my
familiar intercourse with mankind, it was only to be expected that
I should pick up your language pretty quickly. Nay, there is a
still better reason for my conversational powers, which I don’t
mind telling you, if you will promise to keep quiet about it.
_Mi_. Am I dreaming still, or is this bird really talking to
me?—In Hermes’ name then, good creature, out with your better
reason; I will be mum, never fear; it shall go no further. Why, who
would believe the story, when I told him that I had it from a cock?
_Cock_. Listen. You will doubtless be surprised to learn that
not so long ago the cock who stands before you was a man.
_Mi_. Why, to be sure, I have heard something like this before
about a cock. It was the story of a young man called Alectryon
[Footnote: Alectryon is the Greek word for a cock.]; he was a
friend of Ares,—used to join in his revels and junketings, and
give him a hand in his love affairs. Whenever Ares went to pay a
sly visit to Aphrodite, he used to take Alectryon with him, and as
he was particularly afraid that the Sun would see him, and tell
Hephaestus, he would always leave Alectryon at the door, so that he
might give him warning when the Sun was up. But one day Alectryon
fell asleep, and unwittingly betrayed his trust; the consequence
was that the Sun got a peep at the lovers, while Ares was having a
comfortable nap, relying on Alectryon to tell him if any one came.
Hephaestus heard of it, and caught them in that cage of his, which
he had long had waiting for them. When Ares was released, he was so
angry with Alectryon that he turned him into a cock, armour and
all, as is shown by his crest; and that is what makes you cocks in
such a hurry to crow at dawn, to let us know that the Sun is coming
up presently; it is your way of apologizing to Ares, though crowing
will not mend matters now.
_Cock_. Yes, there is that story too: but that is nothing to
do with mine; I only became a cock quite lately.
_Mi_. But what I want to know is, how did it happen?
_Cock_. Did you ever hear of Pythagoras of Samos, son of
Mnesarchus?
_Mi_. What, that sophist quack, who forbade the eating of
meat, and would have banished beans from our tables (no beans,
indeed! my favourite food!), and who wanted people to go for five
years without speaking?
_Cock_. And who, I may add, was Euphorbus before he was
Pythagoras.
_Mi_. He was a knave and a humbug, that Pythagoras, by all
accounts.
_Cock_. That Pythagoras, my worthy friend, is now before you
in person: spare his feelings, especially as you know nothing about
his real character.
_Mi_. Portent upon portent! a cock philosopher! But proceed,
son of Mnesarchus: how came you to change from man to bird, from
Samos to Tanagra? [Footnote: See Notes.] ’Tis an unconvincing
story; I find a difficulty in swallowing it. I have noticed two
things about you already, which do not look much like Pythagoras.
_Cock_. Yes?
_Mi_. For one thing, you are garrulous; I might say noisy.
Now, if I am not mistaken, Pythagoras advocated a course of five
years’ silence at a stretch. As for the other, it is rank heresy.
You will remember that yesterday, not having anything else to give
you, I brought you some beans: and you,—you gobbled them up
without thinking twice about it! Either you lied when you told me
you were Pythagoras, or else you have sinned against your own laws:
in eating those beans, you have as good as bolted your own father’s
head.
_Cock_. Ah, you don’t understand, Micyllus. There is a reason
for these things: different diets suit different creatures. I
was a philosopher in those days: accordingly I abstained from
beans. Now, on the contrary, I propose to eat beans; they are an
unexceptionable diet for birds. And now if you like I will tell you
how from being Pythagoras I have come to be—what you see me; and
all about the other lives I have lived, and what were the good
points of each.
_Mi_. Tell on; there is nothing I should like better. Indeed,
if I were given my choice between hearing your story, and having my
late dream of riches over again, I don’t know which I should decide
on. ’Twas a sweet vision, of joys above all price: yet not above
the tale of my cock’s adventures.
_Cock_. What, still puzzling over the import of a dream? Still
busy with vain phantoms, chasing a visionary happiness through your
head, that ‘fleeting’ joy, as the poet calls it?
_Mi_. Ah, cock, cock, I shall never forget it. That dream has
left its honeyed spell on my eyelids; ’tis all I can do to open
them; they would fain close once more in sleep. As a feather
tickles the ear, so did that vision tickle my imagination.
_Cock_. Bless me, you seem to be very hard hit. Dreams are
winged, so they say, and their flight circumscribed by sleep: this
one seems to have broken bounds, and taken up its abode in wakeful
eyes, transferring thither its honeyed spell, its lifelike
presence. Tell me this dream of your desire.
_Mi_. With all my heart; it is a joy to remember it, and to
speak of it. But what about your transformations?
_Cock_. They must wait till you have done dreaming, and wiped
the honey from your eyelids. So you begin: I want to see which
gates the dream came through, the ivory or the horn.
_Mi_. Through neither.
_Cock_. Well, but these are the only two that Homer mentions.
_Mi_. Homer may go hang: what does a babbling poet know about
dreams? Pauper dreams may come through those gates, for all I know;
that was the kind that Homer saw, and not over clearly at that, as
he was blind. But _my_ beauty came through golden gates, golden
himself and clothed in gold and bringing gold.
_Cock_. Enough of gold, most gentle Midas; for to a Midas-
prayer it is that I trace your vision; you must have dreamt whole
minefuls.
_Mi_. Gold upon gold was there; picture if you can that
glorious lightning-flash! What is it that Pindar says about gold?
Can you help me to it? He says water is best, and then very
properly proceeds to sing the praises of gold; it comes at the
beginning of the book, and a beautiful ode it is.
_Cock_. What about this?
Chiefest of all good we hold
Water: even so doth gold,
Like a fire that flameth through the night,
Shine mid lordly wealth most lordly bright.
_Mi_. The very words; I could fancy that Pindar had seen my
vision. And now, my philosophic cock, I will proceed to details.
That I did not dine at home last night, you are already aware; the
wealthy Eucrates had met me in the morning, and told me to come to
dinner after my bath at his usual hour.
_Cock_. Too well do I know it, after starving all day long. It
was quite late before you came home—half-seas over—and gave me
those five beans; rather short commons for a cock who has been an
athlete in his day, and contended at Olympia, not without
distinction.
_Mi_. Well, so when I got back, and had given you the beans, I
went to sleep, and
Through the ambrosial night a dream divine—
ah, divine indeed!—
_Cock_. Wait: let us have Eucrates first. What sort of a
dinner was it? Tell me all about it. Seize the opportunity: dine
once more in waking dream; chew the cud of prandial reminiscence.
_Mi_. I thought all that would bore you; however, if you are
curious, all right. I had never dined at a great house in my life
before, when yesterday, in a lucky hour for me, I fell in with
Eucrates. After saluting him respectfully as usual, I was making
off—not to bring discredit on him by walking at his side in my
shabby clothes—when he spoke to me: ‘Micyllus,’ he said, ‘it is my
daughter’s birthday to-day, and I have invited a number of friends
to celebrate it. One of them, I hear, is indisposed, and will not
be able to come; you can take his place, always provided that I do
not hear from him, for at present I do not know whether to expect
him or not.’ I made my bow, and departed, praying that ague,
pleurisy, and gout might light upon the invalid whose appetite I
had the honour to represent. I thought bath-time would never come;
I could not keep my eyes off the dial: where was the shadow now?
could I go yet? At last it really was time: I scraped the dirt off,
and made myself smart, turning my cloak inside out, so that the
clean side might be uppermost. Among the numerous guests assembled
at the door, whom should I see but the very man whose understudy I
was to be, the invalid, in a litter! He was evidently in a sad way;
groaning and coughing and spitting in the most alarmingly emphatic
manner; ghostly pale, puffy, and not much less, I reckoned, than
sixty years old. He was a philosopher, so they said,—one of those
who fill boys’ heads with nonsensical ideas. Certainly his beard
was well adapted to the part he played; it cried aloud for the
barber. Archibius the doctor asked him what induced him to venture
out in that state of health. ‘Oh,’ says he, ‘a man must not shirk
his duties, least of all a philosopher; no matter if a thousand
ailments stand in his way. Eucrates would have taken it as a
slight.’ ‘You’re out there,’ I cried; ‘Eucrates would be only too
glad if you would cough out your soul at home instead of doing it
at his table.’ He made as if he had not heard my jest; he was above
such things. Presently in came Eucrates from his bath, and seeing
Thesmopolis (the philosopher), ‘Ah, Professor,’ says he, ‘I am glad
to see you here; not that it would have made any difference, even
if you had stayed at home; I should have had everything sent over
to you.’ And with that he took the philosopher’s hand, and with the
help of the slaves, conducted him in. I thought it was time for me
to be going about my business: however, Eucrates turned round to
me, and seeing how glum I looked, ‘Micyllus,’ says he, after a good
deal of humming and ha’ing, ‘you must join us; we shall find room
for you; I can send my boy to dine with his mother and the women.’
It had very nearly turned out a wild-goose chase, but not quite: I
walked in, feeling rather ashamed of myself for having done the boy
out of his dinner. We were now to take our places. Thesmopolis was
first hoisted into his, with some difficulty, by five stalwart
youths, who propped him up on every side with cushions to keep him
in his place and enable him to hold out to the end. As no one else
was disposed to have him for a neighbour, that privilege was
assigned to me without ceremony. And then dinner was brought in:
such dainties, Pythagoras, such variety! and everything served on
gold or silver. Golden cups, smart servants, musicians, jesters,—
altogether, it was delightful. Thesmopolis, though, annoyed me a
good deal: he kept on worrying about virtue, and explaining how two
negatives make one positive, and how when it is day it is not night
[Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes.]; among other things, he
would have it that I had horns [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in
Notes.]. I wanted none of his philosophy, but on he went, quite
spoiling my pleasure; it was impossible to listen to the music and
singing. So that is what the dinner was like.
_Cock_. Not much of a one, especially with that old fool for
your neighbour.
_Mi_. And now for the dream, which was about no other than
Eucrates. How it came about I don’t know, but Eucrates was
childless, and was on his death-bed; he sent for me and made his
will, leaving everything to me, and soon after died. I now came
into the property, and ladled out gold and silver by the bucketful
from springs that never dried; furniture and plate, clothes and
servants, all were mine. I drove abroad, the admiration of all eyes
and the envy of all hearts, lolling in my carriage behind a pair of
creams, with a crowd of attendants on horseback and on foot in
front of me, and a larger crowd behind. Dressed in Eucrates’s
splendid clothes, my fingers loaded with a score or so of rings, I
ordered a magnificent feast to be prepared for the entertainment of
my friends. The next moment they were there,—it happens so in
dreams; dinner was brought in, the wine splashed in the cups. I was
pledging each of my friends in turn in beakers of gold, and the
biscuits were just being brought in, when that unlucky crow of
yours spoilt all: over went the tables, and away flew my visionary
wealth to all the quarters of Heaven. Had I not some reason to be
annoyed with you? I could have gone on with that dream for three
nights on end.
_Cock_. Is the love of gold so absorbing a passion? Gold the
only thing you can find to admire? The possession of gold the sole
happiness?
_Mi_. I am not the only one, Pythagoras. Why, you yourself
(when you were Euphorbus) used to go to battle with your hair
adorned with gold and silver, though iron would have been more to
the point than gold under the circumstances; however, you thought
differently, and fought with a golden circlet about your brow;
which I suppose is why Homer compares your hair to that of the
Graces
in gold and silver clasped.
No doubt its charm would be greatly enhanced by the glitter of the
interwoven gold. After all, though, you, my golden-haired friend,
were but the son of Panthus; one can understand your respect for
gold. But the father of Gods and men, the son of Cronus and Rhea
himself, could find no surer way to the heart of his Argive
enchantress [Footnote: Danae.]—or to those of her gaolers—than
this same metal; you know the story, how he turned himself into
gold, and came showering down through the roof into the presence of
his beloved? Need I say more? Need I point out the useful purposes
that gold serves? the beauty and wisdom and strength, the honour
and glory it confers on its possessors, at a moment’s notice
turning obscurity and infamy into world-wide fame? You know my
neighbour and fellow craftsman, Simon, who supped with me not long
since? ’Twas at the Saturnalia, the day I made that pease-pudding,
with the two slices of sausage in it?
_Cock_. I know: the little snub-nosed fellow, who went off
with our pudding-basin under his arm,—the only one we had; I saw
him with these eyes.
_Mi_. So it was he who stole that basin! and he swore by all
his Gods that he knew nothing of it! But you should have called
out, and told me how we were being plundered.
_Cock_. I did crow; it was all I could do just then. But what
were you going to say about Simon?
_Mi_. He had a cousin, Drimylus, who was tremendously rich.
During his lifetime, Drimylus never gave him a penny; and no
wonder, for he never laid a finger on his money himself. But the
other day he died, and Simon has come in for everything. No more
dirty rags for him now, no more trencher-licking: he drives abroad
clothed in purple and scarlet; slaves and horses are his, golden
cups and ivory-footed tables, and men prostrate themselves before
him. As for me, he will not so much as look at me: it was only the
other day that I met him, and said, ‘Good day, Simon’: he flew into
a rage: ‘Tell that beggar,’ he said, ‘not to cut down my name; it
is Simonides, not Simon.’ And that is not all,—the women are in
love with him too, and Simon is coy and cold: some he receives
graciously, but the neglected ones declare they will hang
themselves. See what gold can do! It is like Aphrodite’s girdle,
transforming the unsightly and making them lovely to behold. What
say the poets?
Happy the hand that grasps thee, Gold!
and again,
Gold hath dominion over mortal men.
But what are you laughing at?
_Cock_. Ah, Micyllus, I see that you are no wiser than your
neighbours; you have the usual mistaken notions about the rich,
whose life, I assure you, is far more miserable than your own. I
ought to know: I have tried everything, and been poor man and rich
man times out of number. You will find out all about it before
long.
_Mi_. Ah, to be sure, it is your turn now. Tell me how you
came to be changed into a cock, and what each of your lives was
like.
_Cock_. Very well; and I may remark, by way of preface, that
of all the lives I have ever known none was happier than yours.
_Mi_. Than mine? Exasperating fowl! All I say is, may you have
one like it! Now then: begin from Euphorbus, and tell me how you
came to be Pythagoras, and so on, down to the cock. I’ll warrant
you have not been through all those different lives without seeing
some strange sights, and having your adventures.
_Cock_. How my spirit first proceeded from Apollo, and took
flight to earth, and entered into a human form, and what was the
nature of the crime thus expiated,—all this would take too long to
tell; nor is it fitting either for me to speak of such matters or
for you to hear of them. I pass to the time when I became
Euphorbus,—
_Mi_. Wait a minute: have I ever been changed in this way?
_Cock_. You have.
_Mi_. Then who was I, do you know? I am curious about that.
_Cock_. Why, you were an Indian ant, of the gold-digging
species.
_Mi_. What could induce me, misguided insect that I was, to
leave that life without so much as a grain of gold-dust to supply
my needs in this one? And what am I going to be next? I suppose you
can tell me. If it is anything good, I’ll hang myself this moment
from the very perch on which you stand.
_Cock_. That I can on no account divulge. To resume. When I
was Euphorbus, I fought at Troy, and was slain by Menelaus. Some
time then elapsed before I entered into the body of Pythagoras.
During this interval, I remained without a habitation, waiting till
Mnesarchus had prepared one for me.
_Mi_. What, without meat or drink?
_Cock_. Oh yes; these are mere bodily requirements.
_Mi_. Well, first I will have about the Trojan war. Did it all
happen as Homer describes?
_Cock_. Homer! What should he know of the matter? He was a
camel in Bactria all the time. I may tell you that things were not
on such a tremendous scale in those days as is commonly supposed:
Ajax was not so very tall, nor Helen so very beautiful. I saw her:
she had a fair complexion, to be sure, and her neck was long enough
to suggest her swan parentage [Footnote: See _Helen_ in Notes.]:
but then she was such an age—as old as Hecuba, almost. You see,
Theseus had carried her off first, and she had lived with him at
Aphidnae: now Theseus was a contemporary of Heracles, and the
former capture of Troy, by Heracles, had taken place in the
generation before mine; my father, who told me all this, remembered
seeing Heracles when he was himself a boy.
_Mi_. Well, and Achilles: was he so much better than other
people, or is that all stuff and nonsense?
_Cock_. Ah, I never came across Achilles; I am not very strong
on the Greeks; I was on the other side, of course. There is one
thing, though: I made pretty short work of his friend Patroclus—
ran him clean through with my spear.
_Mi_. After which Menelaus settled you with still greater
facility. Well, that will do for Troy. And when you were
Pythagoras?
_Cock_. When I was Pythagoras, I was—not to deceive you—a
sophist; that is the long and short of it. At the same time, I was
not uncultured, not unversed in polite learning. I travelled in
Egypt, cultivated the acquaintance of the priests, and learnt
wisdom from their mouths; I penetrated into their temples and
mastered the sacred books of Orus and Isis; finally, I took ship to
Italy, where I made such an impression on the Greeks that they
reckoned me among the Gods.
_Mi_. I have heard all about that; and also how you were
supposed to have risen from the dead, and how you had a golden
thigh, and favoured the public with a sight of it on occasion. But
what put it into your head to make that law about meat and beans?
_Cock_. Ah, don’t ask me that, Micyllus.
_Mi_. But why not?
_Cock_. I am ashamed to answer you.
_Mi_. Come, out with it! I am your friend and fellow lodger;
we will drop the ‘master’ now.
_Cock_. There was neither common sense nor philosophy in that
law. The fact is, I saw that if I did just the same as other
people, I should draw very few admirers; my prestige, I considered,
would be in proportion to my originality. Hence these innovations,
the motive of which I wrapped up in mystery; each man was left to
make his own conjecture, that all might be equally impressed by my
oracular obscurity. There now! you are laughing at me; it is your
turn this time.
_Mi_. I am laughing much more at the folk of Cortona and
Metapontum and Tarentum, and the rest of those mute disciples who
worshipped the ground you trod on. And in what form was your spirit
next clothed, after it had put off Pythagoras?
_Cock_. In that of Aspasia, the Milesian courtesan.
_Mi_. Dear, dear! And your versatility has even changed sexes?
My gallant cock has positively laid eggs in his time? Pythagoras
has carded and spun? Pythagoras the mistress—and the mother—of a
Pericles? My Pythagoras no better than he should be?
_Cock_. I do not stand alone. I had the example of Tiresias
and of Caeneus; your gibes touch them as well as me.
_Mi_. And did you like being a man best, or receiving the
addresses of Pericles?
_Cock_. Ha! the question that Tiresias paid so dearly for
answering!
_Mi_. Never mind, then,—Euripides has settled the point; he
says he would
rather bear the shock of battle thrice
Than once the pangs of labour.
_Cock_. Ah, just a word in your ear: those pangs will shortly
be your own; more than once, in the course of a lengthy career, you
will be a woman.
_Mi_. Strangulation on the bird! Does he think we all hail
from Miletus or Samos? Yes, I said Samos; Pythagoras has had his
admirers, by all accounts, as well as Aspasia. However;—what was
your sex next time?
_Cock_. I was the Cynic Crates.
_Mi_. Castor and Pollux! What a change was there!
_Cock_. Then it was a king; then a pauper, and presently a
satrap, and after that came horse, jackdaw, frog, and I know not
how many more; there is no reckoning them up in detail. Latterly, I
have been a cock several times. I liked the life; many is the king,
many the pauper and millionaire, with whom I took service in that
capacity before I came to you. In your lamentations about poverty,
and your admiration of the rich, I find an unfailing source of
entertainment; little do you know what those rich have to put up
with! If you had any idea of their anxieties, you would laugh to
think how you had been deceived as to the blessedness of wealth.
_Mi_. Well, Pythagoras,—or is there any other name you
prefer? I shall throw you out, perhaps, if I keep on calling you
different things?
_Cock_. Euphorbus or Pythagoras, Aspasia or Crates, it is all
the same to me; one is as much my name as another. Or stay: not to
be wanting in respect to a bird whose humble exterior contains so
many souls, you had better use the evidence of your own eyes and
call me Cock.
_Mi_. Then, cock, as you have tried wellnigh every kind of
life, you can next give me a clear description of the lives of rich
and poor respectively; we will see if there was any truth in your
assertion, that I was better off than the rich.
_Cock_. Well now, look at it this way. To begin with, you are
very little troubled with military matters. Suppose there is talk
of an invasion: _you_ are under no uneasiness about the destruction
of your crops, or the cutting-up of your gardens, or the ruin of
your vines; at the first sound of the trumpet (if you even hear
it), all you have to think of is, how to convey your own person out
of harm’s way. Well, the rich have got to provide for that too, and
they have the mortification into the bargain of looking on while
their lands are being ravaged. Is a war-tax to be levied? It all
falls on them. When you take the field, theirs are the posts of
honour—and danger: whereas you, with no worse encumbrance than
your wicker shield, are in the best of trim for taking care of
yourself; and when the time comes for the general to offer up a
sacrifice of thanksgiving for his victory, your presence may be
relied on at the festive scene.