having sent me to that country for my education. I took it into my
head to sail up the Nile to Coptus, and thence pay a visit to the
statue of Memnon, and hear the curious sound that proceeds from it
at sunrise. In this respect, I was more fortunate than most people,
who hear nothing but an indistinct voice: Memnon actually opened
his lips, and delivered me an oracle in seven hexameters; it is
foreign to my present purpose, or I would quote you the very lines.
Well now, one of my fellow passengers on the way up was a scribe of
Memphis, an extraordinarily able man, versed in all the lore of the
Egyptians. He was said to have passed twenty-three years of his
life underground in the tombs, studying occult sciences under the
instruction of Isis herself.’ ‘You must mean the divine Pancrates,
my teacher,’ exclaimed Arignotus; ‘tall, clean-shaven, snub-nosed,
protruding lips, rather thin in the legs; dresses entirely in
linen, has a thoughtful expression, and speaks Greek with a slight
accent?’ ‘Yes, it was Pancrates himself. I knew nothing about him
at first, but whenever we anchored I used to see him doing the most
marvellous things,—for instance, he would actually ride on the
crocodiles’ backs, and swim about among the brutes, and they would
fawn upon him and wag their tails; and then I realized that he was
no common man. I made some advances, and by imperceptible degrees
came to be on quite a friendly footing with him, and was admitted
to a share in his mysterious arts. The end of it was, that he
prevailed on me to leave all my servants behind at Memphis, and
accompany him alone; assuring me that we should not want for
attendance. This plan we accordingly followed from that time
onwards. Whenever we came to an inn, he used to take up the bar of
the door, or a broom, or perhaps a pestle, dress it up in clothes,
and utter a certain incantation; whereupon the thing would begin to
walk about, so that every one took it for a man. It would go off
and draw water, buy and cook provisions, and make itself generally
useful. When we had no further occasion for its services, there was
another incantation, after which the broom was a broom once more,
or the pestle a pestle. I could never get him to teach me this
incantation, though it was not for want of trying; open as he was
about everything else, he guarded this one secret jealously. At
last one day I hid in a dark corner, and overheard the magic
syllables; they were three in number. The Egyptian gave the pestle
its instructions, and then went off to the market. Well, next day
he was again busy in the market: so I took the pestle, dressed it,
pronounced the three syllables exactly as he had done, and ordered
it to become a water-carrier. It brought me the pitcher full; and
then I said: _Stop: be water-carrier no longer, but pestle as
heretofore._ But the thing would take no notice of me: it went
on drawing water the whole time, until at last the house was full
of it. This was awkward: if Pancrates came back, he would be angry,
I thought (and so indeed it turned out). I took an axe, and cut the
pestle in two. The result was that both halves took pitchers and
fetched water; I had two water-carriers instead of one. This was
still going on, when Pancrates appeared. He saw how things stood,
and turned the water-carriers back into wood; and then he withdrew
himself from me, and went away, whither I knew not.’
‘And you can actually make a man out of a pestle to this day?’
asked Dinomachus. ‘Yes, I can do _that_, but that is only
half the process: I cannot turn it back again into its original
form; if once it became a water-carrier, its activity would swamp
the house.’
‘Oh, stop!’ I cried: ‘if the thought that you are old men is not
enough to deter you from talking this trash, at least remember who
is present: if you do not want to fill these boys’ heads with
ghosts and hobgoblins, postpone your grotesque horrors for a more
suitable occasion. Have some mercy on the lads: do not accustom
them to listen to a tangle of superstitious stuff that will cling
to them for the rest of their lives, and make them start at their
own shadows.’
‘Ah, talking of superstition, now,’ says Eucrates, ‘that reminds
me: what do you make of oracles, for instance, and omens? of
inspired utterances, of voices from the shrine, of the priestess’s
prophetic lines? You will deny all that too, of course? If I were
to tell you of a certain magic ring in my possession, the seal of
which is a portrait of the Pythian Apollo, and actually
_speaks_ to me, I suppose you would decline to believe it, you
would think I was bragging? But I must tell you all of what I heard
in the temple of Amphilochus at Mallus, when that hero appeared to
me in person and gave me counsel, and of what I saw with my own
eyes on that occasion; and again of all I saw at Pergamum and heard
at Patara. It was on my way home from Egypt that the oracle of
Mallus was mentioned to me as a particularly intelligible and
veracious one: I was told that any question, duly written down on a
tablet and handed to the priest, would receive a plain, definite
answer. I thought it would be a good thing to take the oracle on my
way home, and consult the God as to my future.’
I saw what was coming: this was but the prologue to a whole tragedy
of the oracular. It was clear enough that I was not wanted, and as
I did not feel called upon to pose as the sole champion of the
cause of Truth among so many, I took my leave there and then, while
Eucrates was still upon the high seas between Egypt and Mallus. ‘I
must go and find Leontichus,’ I explained; ‘I have to see him about
something. Meanwhile, you gentlemen, to whom human affairs are not
sufficient occupation, may solicit the insertion of divine fingers
into your mythologic pie.’ And with that I went out. Relieved of my
presence, I doubt not that they fell to with a will on their
banquet of mendacity.
That is what I got by going to Eucrates’s; and, upon my word,
Philocles, my overloaded stomach needs an emetic as much as if I
had been drinking new wine. I would pay something for the drug that
should work oblivion in me: I fear the effects of haunting
reminiscence; monsters, demons, Hecates, seem to pass before my
eyes.
_Phi_. I am not much better off. They tell us it is not only
the mad dog that inflicts hydrophobia: his human victim’s bite is
as deadly as his own, and communicates the evil as surely. You, it
seems, have been bitten with many bites by the liar Eucrates, and
have passed it on to me; no otherwise can I explain the demoniacal
poison that runs in my veins.
_Tyc_. What matter, friend? Truth and good sense: these are
the drugs for our ailment; let us employ them, and that empty
thing, a lie, need have no terrors for us. F.
DIONYSUS, AN INTRODUCTORY LECTURE
When Dionysus invaded India—for I may tell you a Bacchic legend,
may I not?—it is recorded that the natives so underrated him that
his approach only amused them at first; or rather, his rashness
filled them with compassion; he would so soon be trampled to death
by their elephants, if he took the field against them. Their scouts
had doubtless given them amazing details about his army: the rank
and file were frantic mad women crowned with ivy, clad in fawn-
skins, with little pikes that had no steel about them, but were
ivy-wreathed like themselves, and toy bucklers that tinkled at a
touch; they took the tambourines for shields, you see; and then
there were a few bumpkins among them, stark naked, who danced
wildly, and had tails, and horns like a new-born kid’s.
Their general, who rode on a car drawn by panthers, was quite
beardless, with not even a vestige of fluff on his face, had horns,
was crowned with grape-clusters, his hair tied with a fillet, his
cloak purple, and his shoes of gold. Of his lieutenants, one was
short, thick-set, paunchy, and flat-nosed, with great upright ears;
he trembled perpetually, leant upon a narthex-wand, rode mostly
upon an ass, wore saffron to his superior’s purple, and was a very
suitable general of division for him. The other was a half-human
hybrid, with hairy legs, horns, and flowing beard, passionate and
quick-tempered; with a reed-pipe in his left hand, and waving a
crooked staff in his right, he skipped round and round the host, a
terror to the women, who let their dishevelled tresses fly abroad
as he came, with cries of Evoe—the name of their lord, guessed the
scouts. Their flocks had suffered, they added, the young had been
seized alive and torn piecemeal by the women; they ate raw flesh,
it seemed.
All this was food for laughter, as well it might be, to the Indians
and their king: Take the field? array their hosts against him? no,
indeed; at worst they might match their women with his, if he still
came on; for themselves such a victory would be a disgrace; a set
of mad women, a general in a snood, a little old drunkard, a half-
soldier, and a few naked dancers; why should they murder such a
droll crew? However, when they heard how the God was wasting their
land with fire, giving cities and citizens to the flames, burning
their forests, and making one great conflagration of all India—for
fire is the Bacchic instrument, Dionysus’s very birthright—, then
they lost no more time, but armed; they girthed, bitted, and
castled their elephants, and out they marched; not that they had
ceased to scorn; but now they were angry too, and in a hurry to
crush this beardless warrior with all his host.
When the two armies came to sight of one another, the Indians drew
up their elephants in front and advanced their phalanx; on the
other side, Dionysus held the centre, Silenus led his right, and
Pan his left wing; his colonels and captains were the satyrs, and
the word for the day _evoe._ Straightway tambourines clattered,
cymbals sounded to battle, a satyr blew the war-note on his horn,
Silenus’s ass sent forth a martial bray, and the maenads leapt
shrill-voiced on the foe, girt with serpents and baring now the
steel of their thyrsus-heads. In a moment Indians and elephants
turned and fled disordered, before even a missile could carry
across; and the end was that they were smitten and led captive by
the objects of their laughter; they had learnt the lesson that it
is not safe to take the first report, and scorn an enemy of whom
nothing is known.
But you wonder what all this is about—suspect me, possibly, of
being only too fresh from the company of Bacchus. Perhaps the
explanation, involving a comparison of myself with Gods, will only
more convince you of my exalted or my drunken mood; it is, that
ordinary people are affected by literary novelties (my own
productions, for instance) much as the Indians were by that
experience. They have an idea that literary satyr-dances,
absurdities, pure farce, are to be expected from me, and, however
they reach their conception of me, they incline to one of two
attitudes. Some of them avoid my readings altogether, seeing no
reason for climbing down from their elephants and paying attention
to revelling women and skipping satyrs; others come with their
preconceived idea, and when they find that the thyrsus-head has a
steel point under it, they are too much startled by the surprise to
venture approval. I confidently promise them, however, that if they
will attend the rite repeatedly now as in days of yore, if my old
boon-companions will call to mind the revels that once we shared,
not be too shy of satyrs and Silenuses, and drink deep of the bowl
I bring, the frenzy shall take hold upon them too, till their
_evoes_ vie with mine.
Well, they are free to listen or not; let them take their choice.
Meanwhile, we are still in India, and I should like to give you
another fact from that country, again a link between Dionysus and
our business. In the territory of the Machlaeans, who occupy the
left bank of the Indus right down to the sea, there is a grove, of
no great size, but enclosed both round about and overhead, light
being almost excluded by the profusion of ivy and vine. In it are
three springs of fair pellucid water, called, one of them the
satyrs’ well, the second Pan’s, and the other that of Silenus. The
Indians enter this grove once a year at the festival of Dionysus,
and taste the wells, not promiscuously, however, but according to
age; the satyrs’ well is for the young, Pan’s for the middle-aged,
and Silenus’s for those at my time of life.
What effect their draught produces on the children, what doings the
men are spurred to, Pan-ridden, must not detain us; but the
behaviour of the old under their water intoxication has its
interest. As soon as one of them has drunk, and Silenus has
possessed him, he falls dumb for a space like one in vinous
lethargy; then on a sudden his voice is strong, his articulation
clear, his intonation musical; from dead silence issues a stream of
talk; the gag would scarce restrain him from incessant chatter;
tale upon tale he reels you off. Yet all is sense and order withal;
his words are as many, and find their place as well, as those
‘winter snowflakes’ of Homer’s orator. You may talk of his swan-
song if you will, mindful of his years; but you must add that his
chirping is quick and lively as the grasshopper’s, till evening
comes; then the fit is past; he falls silent, and is his common
self again. But the greatest wonder I have yet to tell: if he leave
unfinished the tale he was upon, and the setting sun cut him short,
then at his next year’s draught he will resume it where the
inspiration of this year deserted him.
Gentlemen, I have been pointing Momus-like at my own foibles; I
need not trouble you with the application; you can make out the
resemblance for yourselves. But if you find me babbling, you know
now what has loosed my tongue; and if there is shrewdness in any of
my words, then to Silenus be the thanks.
HERACLES, AN INTRODUCTORY LECTURE
Our Heracles is known among the Gauls under the local name of
Ogmius; and the appearance he presents in their pictures is truly
grotesque. They make him out as old as old can be: the few hairs he
has left (he is quite bald in front) are dead white, and his skin
is wrinkled and tanned as black as any old salt’s. You would take
him for some infernal deity, for Charon or Iapetus,—any one rather
than Heracles. Such as he is, however, he has all the proper
attributes of that God: the lion’s-skin hangs over his shoulders,
his right hand grasps the club, his left the strung bow, and a
quiver is slung at his side; nothing is wanting to the Heraclean
equipment.
Now I thought at first that this was just a cut at the Greek Gods;
that in taking these liberties with the personal appearance of
Heracles, the Gauls were merely exacting pictorial vengeance for
his invasion of their territory; for in his search after the herds
of Geryon he had overrun and plundered most of the peoples of the
West. However, I have yet to mention the most remarkable feature in
the portrait. This ancient Heracles drags after him a vast crowd of
men, all of whom are fastened by the ears with thin chains composed
of gold and amber, and looking more like beautiful necklaces than
anything else. From this flimsy bondage they make no attempt to
escape, though escape must be easy. There is not the slightest show
of resistance: instead of planting their heels in the ground and
dragging back, they follow with joyful alacrity, singing their
captor’s praises the while; and from the eagerness with which they
hurry after him to prevent the chains from tightening, one would
say that release is the last thing they desire. Nor will I conceal
from you what struck me as the most curious circumstance of all.
Heracles’s right hand is occupied with the club, and his left with
the bow: how is he to hold the ends of the chains? The painter
solves the difficulty by boring a hole in the tip of the God’s
tongue, and making that the means of attachment; his head is turned
round, and he regards his followers with a smiling countenance.
For a long time I stood staring at this in amazement: I knew not
what to make of it, and was beginning to feel somewhat nettled,
when I was addressed in admirable Greek by a Gaul who stood at my
side, and who besides possessing a scholarly acquaintance with the
Gallic mythology, proved to be not unfamiliar with our own. ‘Sir,’
he said, ‘I see this picture puzzles you: let me solve the riddle.
We Gauls connect eloquence not with Hermes, as you do, but with the
mightier Heracles. Nor need it surprise you to see him represented
as an old man. It is the prerogative of eloquence, that it reaches
perfection in old age; at least if we may believe your poets, who
tell us that
Youth is the sport of every random gust,
whereas old age
Hath that to say that passes youthful wit.
Thus we find that from Nestor’s lips honey is distilled; and that
the words of the Trojan counsellors are compared to the lily,
which, if I have not forgotten my Greek, is the name of a flower.
Hence, if you will consider the relation that exists between tongue
and ear, you will find nothing more natural than the way in which
our Heracles, who is Eloquence personified, draws men along with
their ears tied to his tongue. Nor is any slight intended by the
hole bored through that member: I recollect a passage in one of
your comic poets in which we are told that
There is a hole in every glib tongue’s tip.
Indeed, we refer the achievements of the original Heracles, from
first to last, to his wisdom and persuasive eloquence. His shafts,
as I take it, are no other than his words; swift, keen-pointed,
true-aimed to do deadly execution on the soul.’ And in conclusion
he reminded me of our own phrase, ‘winged words.’
Now while I was debating within myself the advisability of
appearing before you, and of submitting myself for a second time to
the verdict of this enormous jury, old as I am, and long unused to
lecturing, the thought of this Heracles portrait came to my relief.
I had been afraid that some of you would consider it a piece of
youthful audacity inexcusable in one of my years. ‘Thy force,’ some
Homeric youth might remark with crushing effect, ‘is spent; dull
age hath borne thee down’; and he might add, in playful allusion to
my gouty toes,
Slow are thy steeds, and weakness waits upon thee.
But the thought of having that venerable hero to keep me in
countenance emboldens me to risk everything: I am no older than he.
Good-bye, then, to bodily perfections, to strength and speed and
beauty; Love, when he sees my grey beard, is welcome to fly past,
as the poet of Teos [Footnote: Anacreon.] has it, with rush of
gilded wings; ’tis all one to Hippoclides. Old age is Wisdom’s
youth, the day of her glorious flower: let her draw whom she can by
the ears; let her shoot her bolts freely; no fear now lest the
supply run short. There is the old man’s comfort, on the strength
of which he ventures to drag down his boat, which has long lain
high and dry, provision her as best he may, and once more put out
to sea.
Never did I stand in more need of a generous breeze, to fill my
sails and speed me on my way: may the Gods dispose you to
contribute thereto; so shall I not be found wanting, and of me, as
of Odysseus, it shall be said
How stout a thigh lurked ‘neath the old man’s rags!
SWANS AND AMBER
You have no doubt a proper faith in the amber legend—how it is the
tears shed by poplars on the Eridanus for Phaethon, the said
poplars being his sisters, who were changed to trees in the course
of their mourning, and continue to distil their lacrimal amber.
That was what the poets taught me, and I looked forward, if ever
fortune should bring me to the Eridanus, to standing under a
poplar, catching a few tears in a fold of my dress, and having a
supply of the commodity.
Sure enough, I found myself there not long ago upon another errand,
and had occasion to go up the Eridanus; but, though I was all eyes,
I saw neither poplars nor amber, and the natives had not so much as
heard of Phaethon. I started my inquiries by asking when we should
come to the amber poplars; the boatmen only laughed, and requested
explanations. I told them the story: Phaethon was a son of Helius,
and when he grew up came to his father and asked if he might drive
his car, and be the day-maker just that once. His father consented,
but he was thrown out and killed, and his mourning sisters ‘in this
land of yours,’ I said, ‘where he fell on the Eridanus, turned into
poplars, and still weep amber for him.’
‘What liar took you in like that, sir?’ they said; ‘we never saw a
coachman spilt; and where are the poplars? why, do you suppose, if
it was true, we would row or tow up stream for sixpences? we should
only have to collect poplar-tears to be rich men.’ This truth
impressed me a good deal; I said no more, and was painfully
conscious of my childishness in trusting the poets; they deal in
such extravagant fictions, they come to scorn sober fact. Here was
one hope gone; I had set my heart upon it, and was as much
chagrined as if I had dropped the amber out of my hands; I had had
all my plans ready for the various uses to which it was to be put.
However, there was one thing I still thought I really should find
there, and that was flocks of swans singing on the banks. We were
still on the way up, and I applied to the boatmen again: ‘About
what time do the swans take post for their famous musical
entertainment?—Apollo’s fellow craftsmen, you know, who were
changed here from men to birds, and still sing in memory of their
ancient art.’
But they only jeered at me: ‘Are you going to lie all day about our
country and our river, pray? We are always on the water; we have
worked all our lives on the Eridanus; well, we do see a swan now
and again in the marshes; and a harsh feeble croak their note is;
crows or jackdaws are sirens to them; as for sweet singing such as
you tell of, not a ghost of it. We cannot make out where you folk
get all these tales about us.’
Such disappointments are the natural consequence of trusting
picturesque reporters. Well now, I am afraid the newcomers among
you, who hear me for the first time, may have been expecting swans
and amber from me, and may presently depart laughing at the people
who encouraged them to look for such literary treasures. But I
solemnly aver that no one has ever heard or ever shall hear me
making any such claims. Other persons in plenty you may find who
are Eridanuses, rich not in amber, but in very gold, and more
melodious far than the poets’ swans. But you see how plain and
unromantic is my material; song is not in me. Any one who expects
great things from me will be like a man looking at an object in
water. Its image is magnified by an optical effect; he takes the
reality to correspond to the appearance, and when he fishes it up
is disgusted to find it so small. So I pour out the water, exhibit
my wares, and warn you not to hope for a large haul; if you do, you
have only yourselves to blame. H.
THE FLY, AN APPRECIATION
The fly is not the smallest of winged things, on a level with
gnats, midges, and still tinier creatures; it is as much larger
than they as smaller than the bee. It has not feathers of the usual
sort, is not fledged all over like some, nor provided with quill-
feathers like other birds, but resembles locusts, grasshoppers, and
bees in being gauze-winged, this sort of wing being as much more
delicate than the ordinary as Indian fabrics are lighter and softer
than Greek. Moreover, close inspection of them when spread out and
moving in the sun will show them to be peacock-hued.
Its flight is accompanied neither by the incessant wing-beat of the
bat, the jump of the locust, nor the buzz of the wasp, but carries
it easily in any direction. It has the further merit of a music
neither sullen as with the gnat kind, deep as with the bee, nor
grim and threatening as with the wasp; it is as much more tuneful
than they as the flute is sweeter than trumpet or cymbals.
As for the rest of its person, the head is very slenderly attached
by the neck, easily turned, and not all of one piece with the body
as in the locust; the eyes are projecting and horny; the chest
strong, with the legs springing freely from it instead of lying
close like a wasp’s. The belly also is well fortified, and looks
like a breastplate, with its broad bands and scales. Its weapons
are not in the tail as with wasp and bee, but in its mouth and
proboscis; with the latter, in which it is like the elephant, it
forages, takes hold of things, and by means of a sucker at its tip
attaches itself firmly to them. This proboscis is also supplied
with a projecting tooth, with which the fly makes a puncture, and
so drinks blood. It does drink milk, but also likes blood, which it
gets without hurting its prey much. Of its six legs, four only are
for walking, and the front pair serves for hands; you may see it
standing on four legs and holding up a morsel in these hands, which
it consumes in very human fashion.
It does not come into being in its ultimate shape, but starts as a
worm in the dead body of man or animal; then it gradually develops
legs, puts forth wings and becomes a flying instead of a creeping
thing, which generates in turn and produces a little worm, one day
to be a fly. Living with man, sharing his food and his table, it
tastes everything except his oil, to drink which is death to it. In
any case it soon perishes, having but a short span of life allotted
to it, but while it lives it loves the light, and is active only
under its influence; at night it rests, neither flying nor buzzing,
but retiring and keeping quiet.
I am able to record its considerable wisdom, shown in evading the
plots of its enemy the spider. It is always on the look-out for his
ambushes, and in the most circumspect way dodges about, that it may
not be caught, netted, and entangled in his meshes. Its valour and
spirit require no mention of mine; Homer, mightiest-voiced of
poets, seeking a compliment for the greatest of heroes, likens his
spirit not to a lion’s, a panther’s, a boar’s, but to the courage
of the fly, to its unshrinking and persistent assault; mark, it is
not mere audacity, but courage, that he attributes to it. Though
you drive it off, he says, it will not leave you; it will have its
bite. He is so earnest an admirer of the fly that he alludes to it
not once nor twice, but constantly; a mention of it is felt to be a
poetic ornament. Now it is its multitudinous descent upon the milk
that he celebrates; now he is in want of an illustration for Athene
as she wards off a spear from the vitals of Menelaus; so he makes
her a mother caring for her sleeping child, and in comes the fly
again. Moreover he gives them that pretty epithet, ‘thick-
clust’ring’; and ‘nations’ is his dignified word for a swarm of
them.