Chapter XXX: Minos. Sostratus (2)

The buried and unburied, both are Death's.
He ranks alike the beggar and the king;
Thersites sits by fair-haired Thetis' son.
Naked and withered roam the fleeting shades
Together through the fields of asphodel.

_Her_. Bless me, what a deluge of Homer! And now I think of it, I must show you Achilles's tomb. There it is on the Trojan shore, at Sigeum. And across the water is Rhoeteum, where Ajax lies buried.

_Ch_. Rather small tombs, considering. Now show me the great cities, those that we hear talked about in Hades; Nineveh, Babylon, Mycenae, Cleonae, and Troy itself. I shipped numbers across from there, I remember. For ten years running I had no time to haul my boat up and clean it.

_Her_. Why, as to Nineveh, it is gone, friend, long ago, and has left no trace behind it; there is no saying whereabouts it may have been. But there is Babylon, with its fine battlements and its enormous wall. Before long it will be as hard to find as Nineveh. As to Mycenae and Cleonae, I am ashamed to show them to you, let alone Troy. You will throttle Homer, for certain, when you get back, for puffing them so. They were prosperous cities, too, in their day; but they have gone the way of all flesh. Cities, my friend, die, just like men; stranger still, so do rivers! Inachus is gone from Argos—not a puddle left.

_Ch_. Oh, Homer, Homer! You and your 'holy Troy,' and your 'city of broad streets,' and your 'strong-walled Cleonae'!—By the way, what is that battle going on over there? What are they murdering one another about?

_Her_. It is between the Argives and the Lacedaemonians. The general who lies there half-dead, writing an inscription on the trophy with his own blood, is Othryades.

_Ch_. And what were they fighting for?

_Her_. For the field of battle, neither more nor less.

_Ch_. The fools! Not to know that though each one of them should win to himself a whole Peloponnesus, he will get but a bare foot of ground from Aeacus! As to yonder plain, one nation will till it after another, and many a time will that trophy be turned up by the plough.

_Her_. Even so. And now let us get down, and put these mountains to rights again. After which, I must be off on my errand, and you back to your ferry. You will see me there before long, with the day's contingent of shades.

_Ch_. I am much obliged to you, Hermes; the service shall be perpetuated in my records. Thanks to you, my outing has been a success. Dear, dear, what a world it is!—And never a word of Charon!

F.

OF SACRIFICE

Methinks that man must lie sore stricken under the hand of sorrow, who has not a smile left for the folly of his superstitious brethren, when he sees them at work on sacrifice and festival and worship of the gods, hears the subject of their prayers, and marks the nature of their creed. Nor, I fancy, will a smile be all. He will first have a question to ask himself: Is he to call them devout worshippers or very outcasts, who think so meanly of God as to suppose that he can require anything at the hand of man, can take pleasure in their flattery, or be wounded by their neglect? Thus the afflictions of the Calydonians, that long tale of misery and violence, ending with the death of Meleager—all is attributed to the resentment of Artemis, at Oeneus's neglect in not inviting her to a feast. She must have taken the disappointment very much to heart. I fancy I see her, poor Goddess, left all alone in Heaven, after the rest have set out for Calydon, brooding darkly over the fine spread at which she will not be present. Those Ethiopians, too; privileged, thrice-happy mortals! Zeus, one supposes, is not unmindful of the handsome manner in which they entertained him and all his family for twelve days running. With the Gods, clearly, nothing goes for nothing. Each blessing has its price. Health is to be had, say, for a calf; wealth, for a couple of yoke of oxen; a kingdom, for a hecatomb. A safe conduct from Troy to Pylos has fetched as much as nine bulls, and a passage from Aulis to Troy has been quoted at a princess. For six yoke of oxen and a robe, Athene sold Hecuba a reprieve for Troy; and it is to be presumed that a cock, a garland, a handful of frankincense, will each buy something.

Chryses, that experienced divine and eminent theologian, seems to have realized this principle. Returning from his fruitless visit to Agamemnon, he approaches Apollo with the air of a creditor, and demands repayment of his loan. His attitude is one of remonstrance, almost, 'Good Apollo,' he cries, 'here have I been garlanding your temple, where never garland hung before, and burning unlimited thigh-pieces of bulls and goats upon your altars: yet when I suffer wrong, you take no heed; you count my benefactions as nothing worth.' The God is quite put out of countenance: he seizes his bow, settles down in the harbour and smites the Achaeans with shafts of pestilence, them and their mules and their dogs.

And now that I have mentioned Apollo, I cannot refrain from an allusion to certain other passages in his life, which are recorded by the sages. With his unfortunate love affairs—the sad end of Hyacinth, and the cruelty of Daphne—we are not concerned. But when that vote of censure was passed on him for the slaughter of the Cyclopes, he was dismissed from Heaven, and condemned to share the fortunes of men upon earth. It was then that he served Admetus in Thessaly, and Laomedon in Phrygia; and in the latter service he was not alone. He and Posidon together, since better might not be, made bricks and built the walls of Troy; and did not even get their full wages;—the Phrygian, it is said, remained their debtor for no less a sum than five-and-twenty shillings Trojan, and odd pence. These, and yet holier mysteries than these, are the high themes of our poets. They tell of Hephaestus and of Prometheus; of Cronus and Rhea, and well-nigh all the family of Zeus. And as they never commence their poems without bespeaking the assistance of the Muses, we must conclude that it is under that divine inspiration that they sing, how Cronus unmanned his father Uranus, and was king in his room; and how, like Argive Thyestes, he swallowed his own children; and how thereafter Rhea saved Zeus by the fraud of the stone, and the child was exposed in Crete, and suckled by a goat, as Telephus was by a hind, and Cyrus the Great by a bitch; and how he dethroned his father, and threw him into prison, and was king; and of his many wives, and how finally (like a Persian or an Assyrian) he married his own sister Hera; and of his love adventures, and how he peopled the Heaven with gods, ay, and with demi-gods, the rogue! for he wooed the daughters of earth, appearing to them now in a shower of gold, now in the form of a bull or a swan or an eagle; a very Proteus for versatility. Once, and only once, he conceived within his own brain, and gave birth to Athene. For Dionysus, they say, he tore from the womb of Semele before the fire had yet consumed her, and hid the child within his thigh, till the time of travail was come.

Similarly, we find Hera conceiving without external assistance, and giving birth to Hephaestus; no child of fortune he, but a base mechanic, living all his life at the forge, soot-begrimed as any stoker. He is not even sound of limb; he has been lame ever since Zeus threw him down from Heaven. Fortunately for us the Lemnians broke his fall, or there would have been an end of him, as surely as there was of Astyanax when he was flung from the battlements. But Hephaestus is nothing to Prometheus. Who knows not the sorrows of that officious philanthropist? How he too fell a victim to the wrath of Zeus, and was carried into Scythia, and nailed up on Caucasus, with an eagle to keep him company and make daily havoc of his liver? However, _there_ was a reckoning settled, at any rate. But Rhea, now! We cannot, I think, pass over her conduct unnoticed. It is surely most discreditable;—a lady of her venerable years, the mother of such a family, still feeling the pangs of love and jealousy, and carrying her beloved Attis about with her in the lion-drawn car,—and he so ill qualified to play the lover's part! After that, we can but wink, if we find Aphrodite making a slip, or Selene time after time pulling up in mid-career to pay a visit to Endymion.

But enough of scandal. Borne on the wings of poesy, let us take flight for Heaven itself, as Homer and Hesiod have done before us, and see how all is disposed up there. The vault is of brass on the under side, as we know from Homer. But climb over the edge, and take a peep up. You are now actually in Heaven. Observe the increase of light; here is a purer Sun, and brighter stars; daylight is everywhere, and the floor is of gold. We arrive first at the abode of the Seasons; they are the fortresses of Heaven. Then we have Iris and Hermes, the servants and messengers of Zeus; and next Hephaestus's smithy, which is stocked with all manner of cunning contrivances. Last come the dwellings of the Gods, and the palace of Zeus. All are the work of Hephaestus; and noble work it is.

Hard by the throne of Zeus

(I suppose we must adapt our language to our altitude)

sit all the gods.

Their eyes are turned downwards; intently they search every corner of the earth; is there nowhere a fire to be seen, or the steam of burnt- offerings

... in eddying clouds upborne?

If a sacrifice is going forward, all mouths are open to feast upon the smoke; like flies they settle on the altar to drink up the trickling streams of blood. If they are dining at home, nectar and ambrosia is the bill of fare. In ancient days, mortals have eaten and drunk at their table. Such were Ixion and Tantalus; but they forgot their manners, and talked too much. They are paying the penalty for it to this day; and since then mortals have been excluded from Heaven.

The life of the Gods being such as I have described, our religious ordinances are in admirable harmony with the divine requirements. Our first care has been to supply each God with his sacred grove, his holy hill, and his own peculiar bird or plant. The next step was to assign them their various sacred cities. Apollo has the freedom of Delphi and Delos, Athene that of Athens (there is no disputing _her_ nationality); Hera is an Argive, Rhea a Mygdonian, Aphrodite a Paphian. As for Zeus, he is a Cretan born and bred—and buried, as any native of that island will show you. It was a mistake of ours to suppose that Zeus was dispensing the thunder and the rain and the rest of it;—he has been lying snugly underground in Crete all this time. As it would never have done to leave the Gods without a hearth and home, temples were now erected, and the services of Phidias, Polyclitus, and Praxiteles were called in to create images in their likeness. Chance glimpses of their originals (but where obtained I know not) enabled these artists to do justice to the beard of Zeus, the perpetual youth of Apollo, the down on Hermes's cheek, Posidon's sea-green hair, and Athene's flashing eyes; with the result that on entering the temple of Zeus men believe that they see before them, not Indian ivory, nor gold from a Thracian mine, but the veritable son of Cronus and Rhea, translated to earth by the hand of Phidias, with instructions to keep watch over the deserted plains of Pisa, and content with his lot, if, once in four years, a spectator of the games can snatch a moment to pay him sacrifice.

And now the altars stand ready; proclamation has been made, and lustration duly performed. The victims are accordingly brought forward—an ox from the plough, a ram or a goat, according as the worshipper is a farmer, a shepherd, or a goatherd; sometimes it is only frankincense or a honey cake; nay, a poor man may conciliate the God by merely kissing his hand. But it is with the priests that we are concerned. They first make sure that the victim is without blemish, and worthy of the sacrificial knife; then they crown him with garlands and lead him to the altar, where he is slaughtered before the God's eyes, to the broken accompaniment of his own sanctimonious bellowings, most musical, most melancholy. The delight of the Gods at such a spectacle, who can doubt?

According to the proclamation, no man shall approach the holy ground with _unclean hands_. Yet there stands the priest himself, wallowing in gore; handling his knife like a very Cyclops, drawing out entrails and heart, sprinkling the altar with blood,—in short, omitting no detail of his holy office. Finally, he kindles fire, and sets the victim bodily thereon, sheep or goat, unfleeced, unflayed. A godly steam, and fit for godly nostrils, rises heavenwards, and drifts to each quarter of the sky. The Scythian, by the way, will have nothing to do with paltry cattle: he offers _men_ to Artemis; and the offering is appreciated.

But all this, and all that Assyria, Phrygia, and Lydia can show, amounts to nothing much. If you would see the Gods in their glory, fit denizens of Heaven, you must go to Egypt. There you will find that Zeus has sprouted ram's horns, our old friend Hermes has the muzzle of a dog, and Pan is perfect goat; ibis, crocodile, ape,—each is a God in disguise.

And wouldst thou know the truth that lurks herein?

If so, you will find no lack of sages and scribes and shaven priests to inform you (after expulsion of the _profanum vulgus_) how, when the Giants and their other enemies rose against them, the Gods fled to Egypt to hide themselves, and there took the form of goat and ram, of bird and reptile, which forms they preserve to this day. Of all this they have documentary evidence, dating from thousands of years back, stored up in their temples. Their sacrifices differ from others only in this respect, that they go into mourning for the victim, slaying him first, and beating their breasts for grief afterwards, and (in some parts) burying him as soon as he is killed. When their great god Apis dies, off comes every man's hair, however much he values himself on it; though he had the purple lock of Nisus, it would make no difference: he must show a sad crown on the occasion, if he die for it. It is as the result of an election that each succeeding Apis leaves his pasture for the temple; his superior beauty and majestic bearing prove that he is something more than bull.

On such absurdities as these, such vulgar credulity, remonstrance would be thrown away; a Heraclitus would best meet the case, or a Democritus; for the ignorance of these men is as laughable as their folly is deplorable.

F.

SALE OF CREEDS

[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.

F.

THE FISHER

A RESURRECTION PIECE

_Lucian or Parrhesiades. Socrates, Empedocles. Plato. Chrysippus. Diogenes. Aristotle. Other Philosophers. Platonists. Pythagoreans. Stoics. Peripatetics. Epicureans. Academics. Philosophy. Truth. Temperance. Virtue. Syllogism. Exposure. Priestess of Athene_.

_Soc_. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder to shoulder, close the ranks;

Let wallet succour wallet, staff aid staff!

We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed. You, Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand firm, all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his reveling. What, Epicurus, Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages,

Be men; relume that erstwhile furious wrath!

Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you, villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a separate death to every one of us.

_First Phil_. Impale him, say I.

_Second Phil_. Yes, but scourge him first.

_Third Phil_. Tear out his eyes.

_Fourth Phil_. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue.

_Soc_. What say you, Empedocles?

_Emp_. Oh, fling him into a crater; that will teach him to vilify his betters.

_Pl_. 'Twere best for him, Orpheus or Pentheus like, to

Find death, dashed all to pieces on the rock;

so each might have taken a piece home with him.

_Lu_. Forbear; spare me; I appeal to the God of suppliants.

_Soc_. Too late; no loophole is left you now. And you know your Homer:

'Twixt men and lions, covenants are null.'

_Lu_. Why, it is in Homer's name that I ask my boon. You will perhaps pay reverence to his lines, and listen to a selection from him:

Slay not; no churl is he; a ransom take
Of bronze and gold, whereof wise hearts are fain.

_Pl_. Why, two can play at that game; _exempli gratia_,

Reviler, babble not of gold, nor nurse
Hope of escape from these our hands that hold thee.

_Lu_. Ah me, ah me! my best hopes dashed, with Homer! Let me fly to Euripides; it may be he will protect me:

Leave him his life; the suppliant's life is sacred.

_Pl_. Does this happen to be Euripides too—

Evil men evil treated is no evil?

_Lu_. And will you slay me now for nought but words?

_Pl_. Most certainly; our author has something on that point too:

Unbridled lips
And folly's slips
Invite Fate's whips.

_Lu_. Oh, very well; as you are all set on murdering me, and escape is impossible, do at least tell me who you are, and what harm I have done you; it must be something irreparable, to judge by your relentless murderous pursuit.

_Pl_. What harm you have done us, vile fellow? your own conscience and your fine dialogues will tell you; you have called Philosophy herself bad names, and as for us, you have subjected us to the indignity of a public auction, and put up wise men—ay, and free men, which is more—for sale. We have reason to be angry; we have got a short leave of absence from Hades, and come up against you—Chrysippus here, Epicurus and myself, Aristotle yonder, the taciturn Pythagoras, Diogenes and all of us that your dialogues have made so free with.

_Lu_. Ah, I breathe again. Once hear the truth about my conduct to you, and you will never put me to death. You can throw away those stones. Or, no, keep them; you shall have a better mark for them presently.

_Pl_. This is trifling. This day thou diest; nay, even now,

A suit of stones shalt don, thy livery due.

_Lu_. Believe me, good gentlemen, I have been at much pains on your behalf; to slay me is to slay one who should rather be selected for commendation a kindred spirit, a well-wisher, a man after your own heart, a promoter, if I may be bold to say it, of your pursuits. See to it that you catch not the tone of our latter-day philosophers, and be thankless, petulant, and hard of heart, to him that deserves better of you.

_Pl_. Talk of a brazen front! So to abuse us is to oblige us. I believe you are under the delusion that you are really talking to slaves; after the insolent excesses of your tongue, do you propose to chop gratitude with us?

_Lu_. How or when was I ever insolent to you? I have always been an admirer of philosophy, your panegyrist, and a student of the writings you left. All that comes from my pen is but what you give me; I deflower you, like a bee, for the behoof of mankind; and then there is praise and recognition; they know the flowers, whence and whose the honey was, and the manner of my gathering; their surface feeling is for my selective art, but deeper down it is for you and your meadow, where you put forth such bright blooms and myriad dyes, if one knows but how to sort and mix and match, that one be not in discord with another. Could he that had found you such have the heart to abuse those benefactors to whom his little fame was due? then he must be a Thamyris or Eurytus, defying the Muses who gave his gift of song, or challenging Apollo with the bow, forgetful from whom he had his marksmanship.

_Pl_. All this, good sir, is quite according to the principles of rhetoric; that is to say, it is clean contrary to the facts; your unscrupulousness is only emphasized by this adding of insult to injury; you confess that your arrows are from our quiver, and you use them against us; your one aim is to abuse us. This is our reward for showing you that meadow, letting you pluck freely, fill your bosom, and depart. For this alone you richly deserve death.

_Lu_. There; your ears are partial; they are deaf to the right. Why, I would never have believed that personal feeling could affect a Plato, a Chrysippus, an Aristotle; with you, of all men, I thought there was dry light. But, dear sirs, do not condemn me unheard; give me trial first. Was not the principle of your establishing—that the law of the stronger was not the law of the State, and that differences should be settled in court after due hearing of both sides? Appoint a judge, then; be you my accusers, by your own mouths or by your chosen representative; and let me defend my own case; then if I be convicted of wrong, and that be the court's decision, I shall get my deserts, and you will have no violence upon your consciences. But if examination shows me spotless and irreproachable, the court will acquit me, and then turn you your wrath upon the deceivers who have excited you against me.

_Pl_. Ah, every cock to his own dunghill! You think you will hoodwink the jury and get off. I hear you are a lawyer, an advocate, an old hand at a speech. Have you any judge to suggest who will be proof against such an experienced corrupter as you?

_Lu_. Oh, be reassured. The official I think of proposing is no suspicious, dubious character likely to sell a verdict. What say you to forming the court yourselves, with Philosophy for your President?

_Pl_. Who is to prosecute, if we are the jury?

_Lu_. Oh, you can do both; I am not in the least afraid; so much stronger is my case; the defence wins, hands down.

_Pl_. Pythagoras, Socrates, what do you think? perhaps the man's appeal to law is not unreasonable.

_Soc_. No; come along, form the court, fetch Philosophy, and see what he has to say for himself. To condemn unheard is a sadly crude proceeding, not for us; leave that to the hasty people with whom might is right. We shall give occasion to the enemy to blaspheme if we stone a man without a hearing, professed lovers of justice as we are. We shall have to keep quiet about Anytus and Meletus, my accusers, and the jury on that occasion, if we cannot spare an hour to hear this fellow before he suffers.

_Pl_. Very true, Socrates. We will go and fetch Philosophy. The decision shall be hers, and we will accept it, whatever it is.

_Lu_. Why, now, my masters, you are in a better and more law-abiding mood. However, keep those stones, as I said; you will need them in court. But where is Philosophy to be found? I do not know where she lives, myself. I once spent a long time wandering about in search of her house, wishing to make her acquaintance. Several times I met some long-bearded people in threadbare cloaks who professed to be fresh from her presence; I took their word for it, and asked them the way; but they knew considerably less about it than I, and either declined to answer, by way of concealing their ignorance, or else pointed to one door after another. I have never been able to find the right one to this day.

Many a time, upon some inward prompting or external offer of guidance, I have come to a door with the confident hope that this time I really was right; there was such a crowd flowing in and out, all of solemn persons decently habited and thoughtful-faced; I would insinuate myself into the press and go in too. What I found would be a woman who was not really natural, however skillfully she played at beauty unadorned; I could see at once that the apparent _neglige_ of her hair was studied for effect, and the folds of her dress not so careless as they looked. One could tell that nature was a scheme of decoration with her, and artlessness an artistic device. The white lead and the rouge did not absolutely defy detection, and her talk betrayed her real vocation; she liked her lovers to appreciate her beauty, had a ready hand for presents, made room by her side for the rich, and hardly vouchsafed her poorer lovers a distant glance. Now and then, when her dress came a little open by accident, I saw that she had on a massive gold necklace heavier than a penal collar. That was enough for me; I would retrace my steps, sincerely pitying the unfortunates whom she led by the—beard, and their Ixion embracings of a phantom.