[Footnote: The distinction between the personified creeds or
philosophies here offered for sale, and their various founders or
principal exponents, is but loosely kept up. Not only do most of the
creeds bear the names of their founders, but some are even credited
with their physical peculiarities and their personal experiences.]
_Zeus. Hermes. Several Dealers. Creeds_.
_Zeus_. Now get those benches straight there, and make the place fit to
be seen. Bring up the lots, one of you, and put them in line. Give them
a rub up first, though; we must have them looking their best, to
attract bidders. Hermes, you can declare the sale-room open, and a
welcome to all comers.—_For Sale! A varied assortment of Live Creeds.
Tenets of every description.—Cash on delivery; or credit allowed on
suitable security_.
_Hermes_. Here they come, swarming in. No time to lose; we must not
keep them waiting.
_Zeus_. Well, let us begin.
_Her_. What are we to put up first?
_Zeus_. The Ionic fellow, with the long hair. He seems a showy piece of
goods.
_Her_. Step up, Pythagoreanism, and show yourself.
_Zeus_. Go ahead.
_Her_. Now here is a creed of the first water. Who bids for this
handsome article? What gentleman says Superhumanity? Harmony of the
Universe! Transmigration of souls! Who bids?
_First Dealer_. He looks all right. And what can he do?
_Her_. Magic, music, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, jugglery.
Prophecy in all its branches.
_First D_. Can I ask him some questions?
_Her_. Ask away, and welcome.
_First D_. Where do you come from?
_Py_. Samos.
_First D_. Where did you get your schooling?
_Py_. From the sophists in Egypt.
_First D_. If I buy you, what will you teach me?
_Py_. Nothing. I will remind you.
_First D_. Remind me?
_Py_. But first I shall have to cleanse your soul of its filth.
_First D_. Well, suppose the cleansing process complete. How is the
reminding done?
_Py_. We shall begin with a long course of silent contemplation. Not a
word to be spoken for five years.
_First D_. You would have been just the creed for Croesus's son! But
_I_ have a tongue in my head; I have no ambition to be a statue. And
after the five years' silence?
_Py_. You will study music and geometry.
_First D_. A charming recipe! The way to be wise: learn the guitar.
_Py_. Next you will learn to count.
_First D_. I can do that already.
_Py_. Let me hear you.
_First D_. One, two, three, four,—
_Py_. There you are, you see. _Four_ (as you call it) is _ten_. Four
the perfect triangle. Four the oath of our school.
_First D_. Now by Four, most potent Four!—higher and holier mysteries
than these I never heard.
_Py_. Then you will learn of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water; their action,
their movement, their shapes.
_First D_. Have Fire and Air and Water _shapes_?
_Py_. Clearly. That cannot move which lacks shape and form You will
also find that God is a number; an intelligence; a harmony.
_First D_. You surprise me.
_Py_. More than this, you have to learn that you yourself are not the
person you appear to be.
_First D_. What, I am some one else, not the I who am speaking to you?
_Py_. You are that you now: but you have formerly inhabited another
body, and borne another name. And in course of time you will change
once more.
_First D_. Why then I shall be immortal, and take one shape after
another? But enough of this. And now what is your diet?
_Py_. Of living things I eat none. All else I eat, except beans.
_First D_. And why no beans? Do you dislike them?
_Py_. No. But they are sacred things. Their nature is a mystery.
Consider them first in their generative aspect; take a green one and
peel it, and you will see what I mean. Again, boil one and expose it to
moonlight for a proper number of nights, and you have—blood. What is
more, the Athenians use beans to vote with.
_First D_. Admirable! A very feast of reason. Now just strip, and let
me see what you are like. Bless me, here is a creed with a golden
thigh! He is no mortal, he is a God. I must have him at any price. What
do you start him at?
_Her_. Forty pounds.
_First D_. He is mine for forty pounds.
_Zeus_. Take the gentleman's name and address.
_Her_. He must come from Italy, I should think; Croton or Tarentum, or
one of the Greek towns in those parts. But he is not the only buyer.
Some three hundred of them have clubbed together.
_Zeus_. They are welcome to him. Now up with the next.
_Her_. What about yonder grubby Pontian? [Footnote: See _Diogenes_ in
Notes.]
_Zeus_. Yes, he will do.
_Her_. You there with the wallet and cloak; come along, walk round the
room. Lot No. 2. A most sturdy and valiant creed, free-born. What
offers?
_Second D_. Hullo, Mr. Auctioneer, are you going to sell a free man?
_Her_. That was the idea.
_Second D_. Take care, he may have you up for kidnapping. This might be
matter for the Areopagus.
_Her_. Oh, he would as soon be sold as not. He feels just as free as
ever.
_Second D_. But what is one to do with such a dirty fellow? He is a
pitiable sight. One might put him to dig perhaps, or to carry water.
_Her_. That he can do and more. Set him to guard your house, and you
will find him better than any watch-dog.—They call him Dog for short.
_Second D_. Where does he come from? and what is his method?
_Her_. He can best tell you that himself.
_Second D_. I don't like his looks. He will probably snarl if I go near
him, or take a snap at me, for all I know. See how he lifts his stick,
and scowls; an awkward-looking customer!
_Her_. Don't be afraid. He is quite tame.
_Second D_. Tell me, good fellow, where do you come from?
_Dio_. Everywhere.
_Second D_. What does that mean?
_Dio_. It means that I am a citizen of the world.
_Second D_. And your model?
_Dio_. Heracles.
_Second D_. Then why no lion's-skin? You have the orthodox club.
_Dio_. My cloak is my lion's-skin. Like Heracles, I live in a state of
warfare, and my enemy is Pleasure; but unlike him I am a volunteer. My
purpose is to purify humanity.
_Second D_. A noble purpose. Now what do I understand to be your strong
subject? What is your profession?
_Dio_. The liberation of humanity, and the treatment of the passions.
In short, I am the prophet of Truth and Candour.
_Second D_. Well, prophet; and if I buy you, how shall you handle my
case?
_Dio_. I shall commence operations by stripping off your superfluities,
putting you into fustian, and leaving you closeted with Necessity. Then
I shall give you a course of hard labour. You will sleep on the ground,
drink water, and fill your belly as best you can. Have you money? Take
my advice and throw it into the sea. With wife and children and country
you will not concern yourself; there will be no more of that nonsense.
You will exchange your present home for a sepulchre, a ruin, or a tub.
What with lupines and close-written tomes, your knapsack will never be
empty; and you will vote yourself happier than any king. Nor will you
esteem it any inconvenience, if a flogging or a turn of the rack should
fall to your lot.
_Second D_. How! Am I a tortoise, a lobster, that I should be flogged
and feel it not?
_Dio_. You will take your cue from Hippolytus; _mutates mutandis_.
_Second D_. How so?
_Dio_. 'The heart may burn, the tongue knows nought thereof'.
[Footnote: Hippolytus (in Euripides's play of that name) is reproached
with having broken an oath, and thus defends himself: 'The tongue hath
sworn: the heart knew nought thereof.'] Above all, be bold, be
impudent; distribute your abuse impartially to king and commoner. They
will admire your spirit. You will talk the Cynic jargon with the true
Cynic snarl, scowling as you walk, and walking as one should who
scowls; an epitome of brutality. Away with modesty, good-nature, and
forbearance. Wipe the blush from your cheek for ever. Your
hunting-ground will be the crowded city. You will live alone in its
midst, holding communion with none, admitting neither friend nor guest;
for such would undermine your power. Scruple not to perform the deeds
of darkness in broad daylight: select your love-adventures with a view
to the public entertainment: and finally, when the fancy takes you,
swallow a raw cuttle-fish, and die. Such are the delights of Cynicism.
_Second D_. Oh, vile creed! Monstrous creed! Avaunt!
_Dio_. But look you, it is all so easy; it is within every man's reach.
No education is necessary, no nonsensical argumentation. I offer you a
short cut to Glory. You may be the merest clown—cobbler, fishmonger,
carpenter, money-changer; yet there is nothing to prevent your becoming
famous. Given brass and boldness, you have only to learn to wag your
tongue with dexterity.
_Second D_. All this is of no use to me. But I might make a sailor or a
gardener of you at a pinch; that is, if you are to be had cheap.
Three-pence is the most I can give.
_Her_. He is yours, to have and to hold. And good riddance to the
brawling foul-mouthed bully. He is a slanderer by wholesale.
_Zeus_. Now for the Cyrenaic, the crowned and purple-robed.
_Her_. Attend please, gentlemen all. A most valuable article, this, and
calls for a long purse. Look at him. A sweet thing in creeds. A creed
for a king. Has any gentleman a use for the Lap of Luxury? Who bids?
_Third D_. Come and tell me what you know. If you are a practical
creed, I will have you.
_Her_. Please not to worry him with questions, sir. He is drunk, and
cannot answer; his tongue plays him tricks, as you see.
_Third D_. And who in his senses would buy such an abandoned reprobate?
How he smells of scent! And how he slips and staggers about! Well, you
must speak for him, Hermes. What can he do? What is his line?
_Her_. Well, for any gentleman who is not strait-laced, who loves a
pretty girl, a bottle, and a jolly companion, he is the very thing. He
is also a past master in gastronomy, and a connoisseur in
voluptuousness generally. He was educated at Athens, and has served
royalty in Sicily [Footnote: See _Aristippus_ in Notes.], where he had
a very good character. Here are his principles in a nutshell: Think the
worst of things: make the most of things: get all possible pleasure out
of things.
_Third D_. You must look for wealthier purchasers. My purse is not
equal to such a festive creed.
_Her_. Zeus, this lot seems likely to remain on our hands.
_Zeus_. Put it aside, and up with another. Stay, take the pair from
Abdera and Ephesus; the creeds of Smiles and Tears. They shall make one
lot.
_Her_. Come forward, you two. Lot No. 4. A superlative pair. The
smartest brace of creeds on our catalogue.
_Fourth D_. Zeus! What a difference is here! One of them does nothing
but laugh, and the other might be at a funeral; he is all tears.—You
there! what is the joke?
_Democr_. You ask? You and your affairs are all one vast joke.
_Fourth D_. So! You laugh at us? Our business is a toy?
_Democr_. It is. There is no taking it seriously. All is vanity. Mere
interchange of atoms in an infinite void.
_Fourth D_. _Your_ vanity is infinite, if you like. Stop that laughing,
you rascal.—And you, my poor fellow, what are you crying for? I must
see what I can make of you.
_Heracl_. I am thinking, friend, upon human affairs; and well may I
weep and lament, for the doom of all is sealed. Hence my compassion and
my sorrow. For the present, I think not of it; but the future!—the
future is all bitterness. Conflagration and destruction of the world. I
weep to think that nothing abides. All things are whirled together in
confusion. Pleasure and pain, knowledge and ignorance, great and small;
up and down they go, the playthings of Time.
_Fourth D_. And what is Time?
_Heracl_. A child; and plays at draughts and blindman's-bluff.
_Fourth D_. And men?
_Heracl_. Are mortal Gods.
_Fourth D_. And Gods?
_Heracl_. Immortal men.
_Fourth D_. So! Conundrums, fellow? Nuts to crack? You are a very
oracle for obscurity.
_Heracl_. Your affairs do not interest me.
_Fourth D_. No one will be fool enough to bid for you at that rate.
_Heracl_. Young and old, him that bids and him that bids not, a murrain
seize you all!
_Fourth D_. A sad case. He will be melancholy mad before long. Neither
of these is the creed for my money.
_Her_. No one bids.
_Zeus_. Next lot.
_Her_. The Athenian there? Old Chatterbox?
_Zeus_. By all means.
_Her_. Come forward!—A good sensible creed this. Who buys Holiness?
_Fifth D_. Let me see. What are you good for?
_Soc_. I teach the art of love.
_Fifth D_. A likely bargain for me! I want a tutor for my young Adonis.
_Soc_. And could he have a better? The love I teach is of, the spirit,
not of the flesh. Under my roof, be sure, a boy will come to no harm.
_Fifth D_. Very unconvincing that. A teacher of the art of love, and
never meddle with anything but the spirit? Never use the opportunities
your office gives you?
_Soc_. Now by Dog and Plane-tree, it is as I say!
_Fifth D_. Heracles! What strange Gods are these?
_Soc_. Why, the Dog is a God, I suppose? Is not Anubis made much of in
Egypt? Is there not a Dog-star in Heaven, and a Cerberus in the lower
world?
_Fifth D_. Quite so. My mistake. Now what is your manner of life?
_Soc_. I live in a city of my own building; I make my own laws, and
have a novel constitution of my own.
_Fifth D._ I should like to hear some of your statutes.
_Soc_. You shall hear the greatest of them all. No woman shall be
restricted to one husband. Every man who likes is her husband.
_Fifth D_. What! Then the laws of adultery are clean swept away?
_Soc_. I should think they were! and a world of hair-splitting with
them.
_Fifth D_. And what do you do with the handsome boys?
_Soc_. Their kisses are the reward of merit, of noble and spirited
actions.
_Fifth D_. Unparalleled generosity!—And now, what are the main features
of your philosophy?
_Soc_. Ideas and types of things. All things that you see, the earth
and all that is upon it, the sea, the sky,—each has its counterpart in
the invisible world.
_Fifth D_. And where are they?
_Soc_. Nowhere. Were they anywhere, they were not what they are.
_Fifth D_. I see no signs of these 'types' of yours.
_Soc_. Of course not; because you are spiritually blind. _I_ see the
counterparts of all things; an invisible you, an invisible me;
everything is in duplicate.
_Fifth D_. Come, such a shrewd and lynx-eyed creed is worth a bid. Let
me see. What do you want for him?
_Her_. Five hundred.
_Fifth D_. Done with you. Only I must settle the bill another day.
_Her_. What name?
_Fifth D_. Dion; of Syracuse.
_Her_. Take him, and much good may he do you. Now I want Epicureanism.
Who offers for Epicureanism? He is a disciple of the laughing creed and
the drunken creed, whom we were offering just now. But he has one extra
accomplishment—impiety. For the rest, a dainty, lickerish creed.
_Sixth D_. What price?
_Her_. Eight pounds.
_Sixth D_. Here you are. By the way, you might let me know what he
likes to eat.
_Her_. Anything sweet. Anything with honey in it. Dried figs are his
favourite dish.
_Sixth D_. That is all right. We will get in a supply of Carian
fig-cakes.
_Zeus_. Call the next lot. Stoicism; the creed of the sorrowful
countenance, the close-cropped creed.
_Her_. Ah yes, several customers, I fancy, are on the look-out for him.
Virtue incarnate! The very quintessence of creeds! Who is for universal
monopoly?
_Seventh D_. How are we to understand that?
_Her_. Why, here is monopoly of wisdom, monopoly of beauty, monopoly of
courage, monopoly of justice. Sole king, sole orator, sole legislator,
sole millionaire.
_Seventh D_. And I suppose sole cook, sole tanner, sole carpenter, and
all that?
_Her_. Presumably.
_Seventh D_. Regard me as your purchaser, good fellow, and tell me all
about yourself. I dare say you think it rather hard to be sold for a
slave?
_Chrys_. Not at all. These things are beyond our control. And what is
beyond our control is indifferent.
_Seventh D_. I don't see how you make that out.
_Chrys_. What! Have you yet to learn that of _indifferentia_ some are
_praeposita_ and others _rejecta_?
_Seventh D_. Still I don't quite see.
_Chrys_. No; how should you? You are not familiar with our terms. You
lack the _comprehensio visi_. The earnest student of logic knows this
and more than this. He understands the nature of subject, predicate,
and contingent, and the distinctions between them.
_Seventh D_. Now in Wisdom's name, tell me, pray, what is a predicate?
what is a contingent? There is a ring about those words that takes my
fancy.
_Chrys_. With all my heart. A man lame in one foot knocks that foot
accidentally against a stone, and gets a cut. Now the man is _subject_
to lameness; which is the _predicate_. And the cut is a _contingency_.
_Seventh D_. Oh, subtle! What else can you tell me?
_Chrys_. I have verbal involutions, for the better hampering,
crippling, and muzzling of my antagonists. This is performed by the use
of the far-famed syllogism.
_Seventh D_. Syllogism! I warrant him a tough customer.
_Chrys_. Take a case. You have a child?
_Seventh D_. Well, and what if I have?
_Chrys_. A crocodile catches him as he wanders along the bank of a
river, and promises to restore him to you, if you will first guess
correctly whether he means to restore him or not. Which are you going
to say?
_Seventh D_. A difficult question. I don't know which way I should get
him back soonest. In Heaven's name, answer for me, and save the child
before he is eaten up.
_Chrys_. Ha, ha. I will teach you far other things than that.
_Seventh D_. For instance?
_Chrys_. There is the 'Reaper.' There is the 'Rightful Owner.' Better
still, there is the 'Electra' and the 'Man in the Hood.'
_Seventh D_. Who was he? and who was Electra?
_Chrys_. She was _the_ Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, to whom the
same thing was known and unknown at the same time. She knew that
Orestes was her brother: yet when he stood before her she did not know
(until he revealed himself) that her brother was Orestes. As to the Man
in the Hood, he will surprise you considerably. Answer me now: do you
know your own father?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well now, if I present to you a man in a hood, shall you know
him? eh?
_Seventh D_. Of course not.
_Chrys_. Well, but the Man in the Hood is your father. You don't know
the Man in the Hood. Therefore you don't know your own father.
_Seventh D_. Why, no. But if I take his hood off, I shall get at the
facts. Now tell me, what is the end of your philosophy? What happens
when you reach the goal of virtue?
_Chrys_. In regard to things external, health, wealth, and the like, I
am then all that Nature intended me to be. But there is much previous
toil to be undergone. You will first sharpen your eyes on minute
manuscripts, amass commentaries, and get your bellyful of outlandish
terms. Last but not least, it is forbidden to be wise without repeated
doses of hellebore.
_Seventh D_. All this is exalted and magnanimous to a degree. But what
am I to think when I find that you are also the creed of cent-per-cent,
the creed of the usurer? Has _he_ swallowed his hellebore? is _he_ made
perfect in virtue?
_Chrys_. Assuredly. On none but the wise man does usury sit well.
Consider. His is the art of putting two and two together, and usury is
the art of putting interest together. The two are evidently connected,
and one as much as the other is the prerogative of the true believer;
who, not content, like common men, with simple interest, will also take
interest _upon_ interest. For interest, as you are probably aware, is
of two kinds. There is simple interest, and there is its offspring,
compound interest. Hear Syllogism on the subject. 'If I take simple
interest, I shall also take compound. But I _shall_ take simple
interest: therefore I shall take compound.'
_Seventh D_. And the same applies to the fees you take from your
youthful pupils? None but the true believer sells virtue for a fee?
_Chrys_. Quite right. I take the fee in my pupil's interest, not
because I want it. The world is made up of diffusion and accumulation.
I accordingly practise my pupil in the former, and myself in the
latter.
_Seventh D_. But it ought to be the other way. The pupil ought to
accumulate, and you, 'sole millionaire,' ought to diffuse.
_Chrys_. Ha! you jest with me? Beware of the shaft of insoluble
syllogism.
_Seventh D_. What harm can that do?
_Chrys_. It cripples; it ties the tongue, and turns the brain. Nay, I
have but to will it, and you are stone this instant.
_Seventh D_. Stone! You are no Perseus, friend?
_Chrys_. See here. A stone is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well, and an animal is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And you are an animal?
_Seventh D_. I suppose I am.
_Chrys_. Therefore you are a body. Therefore a stone.
_Seventh D_. Mercy, in Heaven's name! Unstone me, and let me be flesh
as heretofore.
_Chrys_. That is soon done. Back with you into flesh! Thus: Is every
body animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Is a stone animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Now, you are a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And an animate body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Then being animate, you cannot be a stone.
_Seventh D_. Ah! thank you, thank you. I was beginning to feel my limbs
growing numb and solidifying like Niobe's. Oh, I must have you. What's
to pay?
_Her_. Fifty pounds.
_Seventh D_. Here it is.
_Her_. Are you sole purchaser?
_Seventh D_. Not I. All these gentlemen here are going shares.
_Her_. A fine strapping lot of fellows, and will do the 'Reaper'
credit.
_Zeus_. Don't waste time. Next lot,—the Peripatetic!
_Her_. Now, my beauty, now, Affluence! Gentlemen, if you want Wisdom
for your money, here is a creed that comprises all knowledge.
_Eighth D_. What is he like?
_Her_. He is temperate, good-natured, easy to get on with; and his
strong point is, that he is twins.
_Eighth D_. How can that be?
_Her_. Why, he is one creed outside, and another inside. So remember,
if you buy him, one of him is called Esoteric, and the other Exoteric.
_Eighth D_. And what has he to say for himself?
_Her_. He has to say that there are three kinds of good: spiritual,
corporeal, circumstantial.
_Eighth D_. _There's_ something a man can understand. How much is he?
_Her_. Eighty pounds.
_Eighth D_. Eighty pounds is a long price.
_Her_. Not at all, my dear sir, not at all. You see, there is some
money with him, to all appearance. Snap him up before it is too late.
Why, from him you will find out in no time how long a gnat lives, to
how many fathoms' depth the sunlight penetrates the sea, and what an
oyster's soul is like.
_Eighth D_. Heracles! Nothing escapes him.
_Her_. Ah, these are trifles. You should hear some of his more abstruse
speculations, concerning generation and birth and the development of
the embryo; and his distinction between man, the laughing creature, and
the ass, which is neither a laughing nor a carpentering nor a shipping
creature.
_Eighth D_. Such knowledge is as useful as it is ornamental. Eighty
pounds be it, then.
_Her_. He is yours.
_Zeus_. What have we left?
_Her_. There is Scepticism. Come along, Pyrrhias, and be put up.
Quick's the word. The attendance is dwindling; there will be small
competition. Well, who buys Lot 9?
_Ninth D_. I. Tell me first, though, what do you know?
_Sc_. Nothing.
_Ninth D_. But how's that?
_Sc_. There does not appear to me to _be_ anything.
_Ninth D_. Are not _we_ something?
_Sc_. How do I know that?
_Ninth D_. And you yourself?
_Sc_. Of that I am still more doubtful.
_Ninth D_. Well, you _are_ in a fix! And what have you got those scales
for?
_Sc_. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced,
They must be absolutely equal—not a feather-weight to choose between
them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right.
_Ninth D_. What else can you turn your hand to?
_Sc_. Anything; except catching a runaway.
_Ninth D_. And why not that?
_Sc_. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp.
_Ninth D_. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And
what is the end of your knowledge?
_Sc_. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness.
_Ninth D_. What! sight and hearing both gone?
_Sc_. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that
distinguishes man from a worm.
_Ninth D_. You are worth money!—What shall we say for him?
_Her_. Four pounds.
_Ninth D_. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine?
_Sc_. I doubt it.
_Ninth D_. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for.
_Sc_. It is a difficult case…. I reserve my decision.
_Ninth D_. Now, come along with me, like a good slave.
_Sc_. But how am I to know whether what you say is true?
_Ninth D_. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators.
_Sc_. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any?
_Ninth D_. Oh, I'll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you
with a vengeance that I am your master.
_Sc_. Reserve your decision.
_Ninth D_. Too late. It is given.
_Her_. Stop that wrangling and go with your purchaser. Gentlemen, we
hope to see you here again to-morrow, when we shall be offering some
lots suitable for plain men, artisans, and shopkeepers.