fly East or West?' they wanted to know. I answered whichever came
uppermost.
On getting back to Olympia, I stopped to listen to an old man who was
giving an account of these proceedings; a credible witness, if ever
there was one, to judge by his long beard and dignified appearance in
general. He told us, among other things, that only a short time before,
just after the cremation, Proteus had appeared to him in white raiment;
and that he had now left him walking with serene countenance in the
Colonnade of Echoes, crowned with olive; and on the top of all this he
brought in the vulture, solemnly swore that he had seen it himself
flying away from the pyre,--my own vulture, which I had but just let
fly, as a satire on crass stupidity!
Only think what work we shall have with him hereafter! Significant
bees will settle on the spot; grasshoppers beyond calculation will
chirrup; crows will perch there, as over Hesiod's grave,--and all the
rest of it. As for statues, several, I know, are to be put up at once,
by Elis and other places, to which, I understand, he had sent letters.
These letters, they say, were dispatched to almost all cities of any
importance: they contain certain exhortations and schemes of reform, as
it were a legacy. Certain of his followers were specially appointed by
him for this service: _Couriers to the Grave_ and _Grand Deputies of
the Shades_ were to be their titles.
Such was the end of this misguided man; one who, to give his character
in a word, never to his last day suffered his gaze to rest on Truth;
whose words, whose actions had but one aim,--notoriety and vulgar
applause. 'Twas the love of applause that drove him to the pyre, where
applause could no longer reach his ears, nor gratify his vanity.
One anecdote, and I have done; it will keep you in amusement for some
time to come. I told you long ago, on my return from Syria, how I had
come on the same ship with him from Troas, and what airs he put on
during the voyage, and about the handsome youth whom he converted to
Cynicism, by way of having an Alcibiades all of his own, and how he
woke up one night in mid-ocean to find a storm breaking on us, and a
heavy sea rolling, and how the superb philosopher, for whom Death had
no terrors, was found wailing among the women. All that you know. But
a short time before his death, about a week or so, he had a little
too much for dinner, I suppose, and was taken ill in the night, and
had a sharp attack of fever. Alexander was the physician called in
to attend him, and it was from him I got the story. He said he found
Proteus rolling on the ground, unable to endure the fever, and making
passionate demands for water. Alexander said no to this: and he told
him that if he really wanted to die, here was death, unbidden, at his
very door; he had only to attend the summons; there was no need of a
pyre. 'No, no,' says Proteus; 'any one may die that way; there's no
distinction in it.'
So much for Alexander. I myself, not so long ago, saw Proteus with some
irritant rubbed on his eyes to purge them of rheum. Evidently we are
to infer that there is no admission for blear eyes in the kingdom of
Aeacus. 'Twas as if a man on the way to be crucified were to concern
himself about a sprained finger. Think if Democritus had seen all this!
How would he have taken it? The laughing philosopher might have done
justice to Proteus. I doubt, indeed, whether he ever had such a good
excuse for his mirth.
Be that as it may, you, my friend, shall have your laugh; especially
when you hear Proteus's name mentioned with admiration.
F.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The allusion to Dionysus is unexplained. The Greek requires a fiery
_death_, not the fiery _birth_, for which see _Dionysus_ and _Semele_
in Notes.
[6] See _Herodes Atticus_ in Notes.
THE RUNAWAYS
_Apollo. Zeus. Philosophy. Heracles. Hermes. Three Masters.
An Innkeeper. Orpheus. Innkeeper's Wife. Three Runaway
Slaves._
_Apol._ Father, is this true, about a man's publicly throwing himself
upon a pyre, at the Olympian Games? He was quite an old man, it seems,
and rather a good hand at anything in the sensational line. Selene told
us about it: she says she actually saw him burning.
_Zeus._ Quite true, my boy; only too true!
_Apol._ Oh? the old gentleman deserved a better fate?
_Zeus._ Why, as to that, I dare say he did. But I was alluding to the
smell, which incommoded me extremely; the odour of roast man, I need
hardly tell you, is far from pleasant. I made the best of my way to
Arabia at once, or, upon my word, those awful fumes would have been the
death of me. Even in that fragrant land of frankincense and spices I
could scarcely get the villanous stench out of my nostrils; the mere
recollection of it makes me feel queer.
_Apol._ But what was his object, father? Was there anything to be got
by jumping on to a pyre, and being converted to cinders?
_Zeus._ Ah, if you come to that, you must call Empedocles to account
first: _he_ jumped into a crater, in Sicily.
_Apol._ Poor fellow! he must have been in a sad way. But what was the
inducement in the present case?
_Zeus._ I'll quote you his own words. He made a speech, explaining his
motives to the public. As far as I remember, he said--but who comes
here in such haste? There must be something wrong: she is crying; some
one has been ill-treating her. Why, it is Philosophy, in a sad way,
calling out to me. Why are you crying, child? and what brings you here,
away from the world? More misdeeds of the ignorant herd? a repetition
of the Socrates and Anytus affair? is that it?
_Phi._ No, father, nothing of that kind. The common people
have been most polite and respectful; they are my most devout
admirers,--worshippers, I might almost say; not that they understand
much of what I tell them. No; it was those--I don't know what to call
them--but the people who pretend to be on such friendly terms with me,
and are always using my name;--the wretches!
_Zeus._ Oh, it's the philosophers who have been misbehaving themselves?
_Phi._ No, no, father; they have been just as badly treated as I have.
_Zeus._ Then if it is neither the philosophers nor the common people,
who is it that you complain of?
_Phi._ There are some people who are between the two: they are not
philosophers, and yet they are not like the rest of mankind. They are
got up to look like philosophers; they have the dress, the walk, the
expression; they call me mistress, write philosopher after their names,
and declare themselves my disciples and followers: but they are evil
men, made up of folly and impudence and wickedness; a disgrace to my
name. It was their misconduct that drove me away.
_Zeus._ Poor child! it is too bad of them. And what have they been
doing to you exactly?
_Phi._ Judge for yourself whether the provocation was a slight one.
When formerly you looked down upon the world, and saw that it was
filled with iniquity and transgression, and was become the troubled
abode of sin and folly, you had compassion on the frailty of ignorant
mankind, and sent me down to them: you bade me see to it, that
wickedness and violence and brutality should cease from among them; I
was to lift their eyes upwards to the truth, and cause them to live
together in unity. Remember your words on that occasion: 'Behold, my
daughter, the misdeeds of mankind; behold how ignorance has wrought
upon them. I feel compassion for them, and have chosen you from among
all the Gods to heal their ills; for who else should heal them?'
_Zeus._ I said that, and more. Yes? and how did they receive you at
your first descent? and what is the trouble now?
_Phi._ My first flight was not directed towards Greece. I thought it
best to begin with the hardest part of my task, which I took to be
the instruction of the barbarians. With the Greeks I anticipated no
difficulty; I had supposed that they would accept my yoke without
hesitation. First, then, I went to the Indians, the mightiest nation
upon earth. I had little trouble in persuading them to descend
from their elephants and follow me. The Brahmins, who dwell between
Oxydracae and the country of the Nechrei, are mine to a man: they live
according to my laws, and are respected by all their neighbours; and
the manner of their death is truly wonderful.
_Zeus._ Ah, to be sure: the Gymnosophists. I have heard a great deal of
them. Among other things, they ascend gigantic pyres, and sit quietly
burning to death without moving a muscle. However, that is no such
great matter: I saw it done at Olympia only the other day. You would be
there, no doubt,--when that old man burnt himself?
_Phi._ No, father: I was afraid to go near Olympia, on account of
those hateful men I was telling you of; I saw that numbers of them
were going there, to make their barking clamour heard in the temple,
and to abuse all comers. Accordingly I know nothing of this cremation.
But to continue: after I had left the Brahmins, I went straight to
Ethiopia, and thence to Egypt, where I associated with the priests and
prophets, and taught them of the Gods. Then to Babylon, to instruct
the Chaldaeans and Mages. Next came Scythia, and after Scythia,
Thrace; here Eumolpus and Orpheus were my companions. I sent them on
into Greece before me; Eumolpus, whom I had thoroughly instructed in
theology, was to institute the sacred mysteries, Orpheus to win men by
the power of music. I followed close behind them. On my first arrival,
the Greeks received me without enthusiasm: they did not, however,
wholly reject my advances; by slow degrees I gained over seven men to
be my companions and disciples, and Samos, Ephesus, and Abdera,[7] each
added one to the little company. And then there sprang up--I scarce
know how--the tribe of sophists: men who had but little of my spirit,
yet were not wholly alien to me; a motley Centaur breed, in whom vanity
and wisdom meeting were moulded into one incongruous whole. They
clung not entirely to ignorance, but theirs was not the steady eye
that could meet the gaze of Philosophy; and if at moments my semblance
flashed phantom-like across their dulled vision, they held that in that
dim shadow they had seen all that was to be seen. It was this pride
that nourished the vain, unprofitable science that they mistook for
invincible wisdom; the science of quaint conceits, ingenious paradoxes,
and labyrinthine dilemmas. My followers would have restrained them, and
exposed their errors: but they grew angry, and conspired against them,
and in the end brought them under the power of the law, which condemned
them to drink of hemlock. Doubtless I should have done well to renounce
humanity there and then, and take my flight: but Antisthenes and
Diogenes, and after them Crates, and our friend Menippus, prevailed
upon me to tarry yet a little longer. Would that I had never yielded! I
should have been spared much pain in the sequel.
_Zeus._ But, my dear, you are merely giving way to your feelings,
instead of telling me what your wrongs were.
_Phi._ Then hear them, father. There is a vile race upon the earth,
composed for the most part of serfs and menials, creatures whose
occupations have never suffered them to become acquainted with
philosophy; whose earliest years have been spent in the drudgery
of the fields, in learning those base arts for which they are most
fitted--the fuller's trade, the joiner's, the cobbler's--or in carding
wool, that housewives may have ease in their spinning, and the thread
be fit for warp and woof. Thus employed, they knew not in their youth
so much as the name of Philosophy. But they had no sooner reached
manhood, than they perceived the respect paid to my followers; how
men submitted to their blunt speech, valued their advice, deferred to
their judgement, and cowered beneath their censure; all this they saw,
and held that here was a life for a king. The learning, indeed, that
befits a philosopher would have taken them long to acquire, if it was
not utterly out of their reach. On the other hand, their own miserly
handicrafts barely rewarded their toil with a sufficiency. To some,
too, servitude was in itself an oppression: they knew it, in fact,
for the intolerable thing it is. But they bethought them that there
was still one chance left; their sheet-anchor, as sailors say. They
took refuge with my lady Folly, called in the assistance of Boldness,
Ignorance, and Impudence, ever their untiring coadjutors, and provided
themselves with a stock of bran-new invectives; these they have ever
ready on their tongues; 'tis their sole equipment; noble provision, is
it not, for a philosopher? Nothing could be more plausible than the
philosophic disguise they now assume, reminding one of the fabled ass
of Cyme, in Aesop, who clothed himself in a lion's skin, and, stoutly
braying, sought to play the lion's part; the beast, I doubt not, had
his adherents. The externals of philosophy, as you know, are easily
aped: it is a simple matter to assume the cloak and wallet, walk with
a stick, and bawl, and bark, and bray, against all comers. They know
that they are safe; their cloth protects them. Liberty is thus within
their grasp: no need to ask their master's leave; should he attempt
to reclaim them, their sticks are at his service. No more short
commons for them now, no more of crusts whose dryness is mitigated
only by herbs or salt fish: they have choice of meats, drink the best
of wines, and take money where they will, _shearing the sheep_, as
they call it when they levy contributions, in the certainty that many
will give, from respect to their garb or fear of their tongues. They
foresee, of course, that they will be on the same footing as genuine
philosophers; so long as their exterior is conformable, no one is
likely to make critical distinctions. They take care not to risk
exposure: at the first hint of a rational argument, they shout their
opponent down, withdraw into the stronghold of personal abuse, and
flourish their ever-ready cudgels. Question their practice, and you
will hear much of their principles: offer to examine those principles,
and you are referred to their conduct. The city swarms with these
vermin, particularly with those who profess the tenets of Diogenes,
Antisthenes, and Crates. Followers of the Dog, they care little to
excel in the canine virtues; they are neither trusty guardians nor
affectionate, faithful servants: but for noise and greed and thievery
and wantonness, for cringing, fawning cupboard-love,--there, indeed,
they are perfect. Before long you will see every trade at a standstill,
the workmen all at large: for every man of them knows that, whilst he
is bent over his work from morning to night, toiling and drudging for
a starvation wage, idle impostors are living in the midst of plenty,
commanding charity where they will, with no word of thanks to the
giver, and a curse on him that withholds the gift. Surely (he will say
to himself) the golden age is returned, and the heavens shall rain
honey into my mouth.
And would that that were all! But they have other ways of bringing
discredit upon us, besides the baseness of their origin. When beauty
comes within the reach of these grave and reverend gentlemen, they are
guilty of excesses that I will not pollute my lips with mentioning.
They have been known, like Trojan Paris, to seduce the wives of their
own hosts, and to quote the authority of Plato for leaving these fair
converts at the disposal of all their acquaintance; they little knew
the true meaning of that inspired philosopher's community of women. I
will not tire you with a description of their drunken orgies; observe,
however, that these are the men who preach against drunkenness and
adultery and avarice and lewdness. Could any contrast be greater
than that presented by their words and their deeds? They speak their
detestation of flattery: a Gnathonides and a Struthias are less fulsome
than they. They bid men tell the truth: yet their own tongues cannot
move but to utter lies. To hear them, you would say they were at war
with pleasure, and Epicurus their bitterest foe: yet nothing do they do
but for pleasure's sake. Querulous, irritable, passionate as cradled
babes, they are a derision to the beholder; the veriest trifle serves
to move their ire, to bring the purple to their cheeks, ungoverned fury
to their eyes, foam--call it rather venom--to their lips. Preserve me
from their turbid rantings! _Gold I ask not, nor silver; be one penny
all my wealth, to purchase beans withal. And for my drink, a river, a
spring, shall furnish me._ But presently it turns out that what they
want is not pence, nor shillings, but whole fortunes. He must be a
thriving merchant, whose cargoes will bring him in such profits as
these men suck out of philosophy. They are sufficiently provided at
last, and then off goes the hated uniform: lands and houses are bought,
and soft raiment, and comely pages. Inquire of them now for Crates's
wallet, Antisthenes's cloak, Diogenes's tub: they know nothing of the
matter. When men see these things, they spit in the face of philosophy;
they think that all philosophers are the same, and blame me their
teacher. It is long since I have won over any to my side. I toil like
Penelope at the loom, and one moment undoes all that I have done.
Ignorance and Wickedness watch my unavailing labours, and smile.
_Zeus._ Really, Philosophy has been shamefully treated. We must take
some measures with these rascals. Let us think what is to be done. The
single stroke of the thunderbolt is too quick a death.
_Apol._ Father, I have a suggestion to make. By their neglect of the
Muses, these vile quacks have incurred my own resentment as well as
Philosophy's. They are not worthy to die by your hand. Instead, I would
advise your sending Hermes to them, with full authority to punish them
at his discretion. With his forensic experience, he will be at no
loss to distinguish between the true philosopher and the false. The
former will receive merited praise: on the latter he will inflict such
chastisement as the circumstances demand.
_Zeus._ A sensible proposal. Heracles, you can go too; take Philosophy
with you, and lose no time. Think: this will make your thirteenth
Labour, and a creditable one too, the extermination of these reptiles.
_Hera._ Rather than meddle with them, I would give the Augean stables a
second clean-out. However, let us be starting, Philosophy.
_Phi._ If I must, I must.
_Her._ Yes, come along, and we will polish off a few to-day.--Which
way, Philosophy? You know where they are to be found. Somewhere in
Greece, of course?
_Phi._ Oh no; the few that there are in Greece are genuine
philosophers. Attic poverty is not at all to the liking of the
impostors; we must look for them in places where gold and silver mines
abound.
_Her._ Straight to Thrace, then?
_Hera._ Yes, Thrace, and I will show you the way. I know every inch of
Thrace; I have been there so often. Look here, this is our route.
_Her._ Yes?
_Hera._ You see those two magnificent mountains (the big one is Haemus,
and the other Rhodope), and the fertile plain that spreads between
them, running to the very foot of either? Those three grand, rugged
crests that stand out so proudly yonder form as it were a triple
citadel to the city that lies beneath; you can see it now, look.
_Her._ Superb! A queen among cities; her splendours reach us even here.
And what is the great river that flows so close beneath the walls?
_Hera._ The Hebrus, and the city was built by Philip. Well, we have
left the clouds behind us now; let us try our fortune on _terra firma_.
_Her._ Very good; and what comes next? How do we hunt our vermin down?
_Hera._ Ah, that is where you come in, Mr. Crier: oblige us by crying
them without loss of time.
_Her._ There is only one objection to that: I do not know what they are
called. What names am I to say, Philosophy? and how shall I describe
them?
_Phi._ I am not sure of their names, as I have never come into contact
with them. To judge from their grasping propensities, however, you
can hardly go wrong with Cteso, Ctesippus, Ctesicles, Euctemon,
Polyctetus[8].
_Her._ To be sure. But who are these men? They seem to be looking for
something too. Why, they are coming up to speak to us.
_Innkeeper and Masters._ Excuse us, madam, and gentlemen, but have
you come across a company of three rascals conducting a woman--a very
masculine-looking female, with hair cut short in the Spartan fashion?
_Phi._ Ha! the very people we are looking for!
_Masters._ Indeed, madam? But these are three runaway slaves. The woman
was kidnapped by them, and we want to get her back.
_Her._ _Our_ business with them I will tell you afterwards. For the
present, let us make a joint proclamation.
Disappeared. A Paphlagonian slave, formerly of Sinope. Any person
giving information as to his whereabouts will be rewarded; the amount
of the reward to be fixed by the informant. Description. Name: begins
with CTE. Complexion: sallow. Hair: close-cropped, with long beard.
Dress: a coarse cloak with wallet. Temper: bad. Education: none. Voice:
harsh. Manner: offensive.
_First Master._ Why, what is all this about? His name used to be
Cantharus when he was with me. He had long hair, and no beard, and was
apprenticed to my trade; I am a fuller, and he was in my shop, dressing
cloth.
_Phi._ Yes, it is the same; but he has dressed to some purpose this
time, and has become a philosopher.
_First Master._ Cantharus a philosopher! I like that. And where do I
come in?
_Second and Third Masters._ Oh well, we shall get them all now. This
lady knows all about them, it seems.
_Phi._ Heracles, who is this comely person with a lyre?
_Hera._ It is Orpheus. I was on the Argo with him. He was the best of
boatswains; it was quite a pleasure to row to his singing. Welcome, my
musical friend: you have not forgotten Heracles, I hope?
_Or._ And welcome to all of you, Philosophy, Heracles, Hermes. I should
like my reward, please: I can lay my finger on your man.
_Her._ Then show us the way. It is useless, of course, to offer gold to
the gifted son of Calliope?
_Or._ Oh, quite.--I will show you the house, but not the man. His
tongue might avenge him; scurrility is his strong point.
_Her._ Lead on.
_Or._ It is this house close by. And now I shall leave you; I have no
wish to set eyes on him.
_Her._ Hush! Was that a woman's voice, reciting Homer?
_Phi._ It was. Let us listen.
_Innkeeper's Wife._ More than the gates of Hell I hate that man
Who, loving gold, cloaketh his love with lies.
_Her._ At that rate, madam, you will have to quarrel with Cantharus:
He with his kindly host hath dealt amiss.
_Innkeeper._ That's me. I took him in, and he ran away with my wife.
_Innk. Wife._ Wine-witted knave, deer-hearted and dog-eyed,
Thersites, babbler loose, that nought availest
In council, nought in arms; most valiant daw,
That with thine aimless chatter chidest kings,--
_First Master._ My rascal to a T.
_Innk. Wife._ The dog in thee--for thou art dog and goat
And lion--doth a blasting fury breathe.
_Innkeeper._ Wife, wife! the dogs have been too many for you; ay, and
for your virtue, so men say.
_Her._ Hope for the best; some little Cerberus or Geryon shall call you
father, and Heracles have employment again.--Ah, no need to knock: here
they come.
_First Master._ Ha, Cantharus, have I got you? What, nothing to say for
yourself? Let us see what you have in that wallet; beans, no doubt, or
a crust of bread.
_Her._ Bread, indeed! Gold, a purseful of it!
_Hera._ That need not surprise you. In Greece, you see, he was a
Cynic, but here he is all for golden Chrysippus. Next you will see him
dangling, Cleanthes-like[9], by his beard, and serve the dirty fellow
right.
_Second Master._ Ha, you rascal there, am I mistaken, or are you my
lost Lecythio? Lecythio it is. What a figure! Lecythio a philosopher!
I'll believe anything after this.
_Her._ Does none of you know anything about this other?
_Third Master._ Oh yes, he is mine; but he may go hang for me.
_Her._ And why is that?
_Third Master._ Ah, he's a sadly leaky vessel, is Rosolio, as we used
to call him.
_Her._ Gracious Heracles! did you hear that? Rosolio with wallet and
stick!--Friend, here is your wife again.
_Innkeeper._ Thank you for nothing. I'll have no woman brought to bed
of an old book in my house.
_Her._ How am I to understand that?