No More Learning

Go to her, then, Chenidas, and
say I lied--in parts.

H.


XIV

_Dorion. Myrtale_

_Do. _ So, Myrtale! You ruin me first, and then close your doors on me!
It was another tale when I brought you all those presents: I was your
love, then; your lord, your life. But you have squeezed me dry now, and
have got hold of that Bithynian merchant; so I am left to whimper on
the wrong side of the door, while he, the favoured lover, enjoys your
embraces, and is to become a father soon, so you tell him.

_Myr. _ Come, Dorion, that is too much! Ruined you, indeed! A lot you
ever gave me! Let us go through the list of your presents, from the
very beginning.

_Do. _ Very well; let us. First, a pair of shoes from Sicyon, two
drachmae. Remember two drachmae.

_Myr. _ Ah, but you were here for two nights.

_Do. _ A box of Phoenician ointment, when I came back from Syria; the
box of alabaster. The same price, as I'm a seaman!

_Myr. _ Well, and when you sailed again, didn't I give you that
waistcoat, that you might have something to wear when you were rowing?
It was Epiurus the boatswain's, that waistcoat; he left it here one
night by mistake.

_Do. _ Epiurus recognized it, and took it away from me in Samos, only
the other day; and a rare tussle we had before he got it. Then there
were those onions I brought you from Cyprus, and five haddocks and
four perch, the time we came back from the Bosphorus. Oh, and a whole
basket of ship's bread--eight loaves of it; and a jar of figs from
Caria. Another time it was a pair of slippers from Patara, gilded ones,
you ungrateful girl! Ah, and I was forgetting that great cheese from
Gythium.

_Myr. _ Say five drachmae the lot.

_Do. _ It was all that my pay would run to, Myrtale; I was but a common
seaman in those days. I have risen to be mate now, my haughty miss. And
didn't I put down a solid drachma for you at the feet of Aphrodite's
statue, when it was her feast the other day? Then I gave your mother
two drachmae to buy shoes with; and Lyde there,--many is the copper I
have slipped into her hand, by twos and threes. Put all that together,
and it makes a seaman's fortune.

_Myr. _ Onions and haddocks.

_Do. _ Yes; 'twas all I had; if I were rich, I should not be a sailor. I
have never brought my own mother so much as a head of garlic. I should
like to know what sort of presents the Bithynian makes you?

_Myr. _ Look at this dress: he bought it me; and this necklace, the
thick one.

_Do. _ Pooh, you have had that for years.

_Myr. _ No, the one you knew was much lighter, and it had no emeralds.
My earrings were a present of his too, and so was that rug; and he gave
me two minae the other day, besides paying our rent. Rather different
from Patara slippers, and Gythium cheeses and stuff!

_Do. _ And how do you like him for a lover? you say nothing about that.
He is fifty years old if he is a day; his hair is all gone in front,
and he has the complexion of a lobster. Did you ever notice his teeth?
And so accomplished too! it is a treat to hear him when he sings and
tries to make himself agreeable; what is it they tell me about an ass
that would learn the lyre? Well, I wish you joy of him; you deserve
no better luck; and may the child be like his father! As for me, I'll
find some Delphis or Cymbalium that's more in my line; your neighbour,
perhaps, the flute-girl; anyhow, I shall get some one. We can't all
afford necklaces and rugs and two minae presents.

_Myr. _ How I envy the lucky girl who gets you, Dorion! What onions she
will have from Cyprus! what cheeses next time you come from Gythium!

F.


XV

_Cochlis. Parthenis_

_Co. _ Crying, Parthenis! what is it? how do your pipes come to be
broken?

_Par. _ Oh! oh! I have been beaten by Crocale's lover--that tall
Aetolian soldier; he found me playing at Crocale's, hired by his rival
Gorgus. He broke in while they were at dinner, smashed my pipes, upset
the table, and emptied out the wine-bowl. Gorgus (the country fellow,
you know) he pulled out of the dining-room by the hair of his head,
and the two of them, Dinomachus (I think they call him) and a fellow
soldier, stood over thumping him. Oh, Cochlis, I doubt whether he will
live; there was a great rush of blood from his nostrils, and his face
is all swollen and livid.

_Co. _ Is the man mad? or was it just a drunken freak?

_Par. _ All jealousy, my dear--love run wild. Crocale had asked two
talents, I believe, if Dinomachus wanted her all to himself. He
refused; so she shut the door in his face, I was told, and would
not let him in at all. Instead of him she took Gorgus of Oenoë, a
well-to-do farmer and a nice man; they were drinking together, and
she had got me in to play the pipes. Well, the wine was going, I was
striking up one of those Lydian tunes, the farmer standing up to dance,
Crocale clapping, and all as merry as could be. Suddenly there was
a noise and a shout, crash went the front door, and a moment after
in burst eight great strong men, that brute among them. Everything
was upside down directly, Gorgus on the ground, as I told you, being
thumped and kicked. Crocale got away somehow and took refuge with
Thespias next door. Dinomachus boxed my ears, and 'Go to blazes! ' he
said, throwing me the broken pipes. I am running to tell master about
it now. And the farmer is going to find some of his friends in town and
get the brute summonsed in the police-court.

_Co. _ Yes, bruises and the courts--that is all we get out of the
military. They tell you they are generals and colonels, and then when
it comes to paying, 'Oh, wait for settling day,' they say; 'then I
shall get my pay, and put everything right. ' I wish they were all
dead, they and their bragging. But I never have anything to do with
them; it is the best way. Give me a fisherman or a sailor or farmer no
better than myself, with few compliments and plenty of money. These
plume-tossing word-warriors! they are nothing but noise, Parthenis.

H.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Demeter and Persephone.




THE DEATH OF PEREGRINE


LUCIAN to CRONIUS. Greeting.

Poor dear Peregrine--or Proteus, as he loved to call himself,--has
quite come up to his namesake in Homer. We have seen him under many
shapes: countless have been his transformations for glory's sake;
and now--'tis his last appearance--we see him in the shape of fire.
So vast was his ambition. Yes, Cronius; all that is left of the best
of men is a handful of ashes. It's just like Empedocles; only with a
difference. That philosopher would fain have sneaked into his crater
unobserved: not so our high-souled friend. He bides his time till all
Greece is mustered in full force--constructs a pyre of the largest
dimensions--and jumps on top in the eyes of all the world, having
briefly addressed the nation a few days before on the subject of his
daring enterprise! I fancy I see you chuckling away at the old dotard;
or rather I hear you blurting out the inevitable comments--'Mere
imbecility'--'Mere clap-trap'-'Mere . . . ' everything else that we
are accustomed to attribute to these gentry. But then you are far
enough off to be comparatively safe: now _I_ made my remarks before
a vast audience, in the very moment of cremation (and before it for
that matter), exciting thereby the indignation of all the old fool's
admirers, though there were a few who joined in the laugh against him.
I can tell you, I was within an ace of being torn limb from limb by
the Cynics, like Actaeon among the dogs, or his cousin Pentheus among
the Maenads. --But I must sketch you the whole drama in detail. As to
our author, I say nothing: you know the man, you know the sublime
utterances that marked his earthly course, out-voicing Sophocles and
Aeschylus.

Well, the first thing I did when I got to Elis was to take a turn in
the gymnasium, listening the while to the discordant yells of some
Cynic or other;--the usual platitudes, you know;--ringing commendations
of Virtue--indiscriminate slaughter of characters--finally, a
peroration on the subject of Proteus. I must try and give you the exact
words, as far as I can remember them; you will recognize the true Cynic
yell, I'll be bound; you have heard it before.

'Proteus,' he cried, 'Proteus vain-glorious? Who dares name the word?
Earth! Sun! Seas! Rivers! God of our fathers, Heracles! Was it for this
that he suffered bondage in Syria? that he forgave his country a debt
of a million odd? that he was cast out of Rome,--he whose brilliance
exceeds the Sun, fit rival of the Lord of Olympus? 'Tis his good will
to depart from life by fire, and they call it vain-glory! What other
end had Heracles? 'Twas the thunderbolt, methinks, that slew Asclepius,
Dionysus[5]? 'Twas in the crater that Empedocles sought death? '

Theagenes (our friend with the lungs) had got thus far, when I asked
one of the bystanders what all this meant about 'fire,' and what
Heracles and Empedocles had got to do with Proteus? --'Proteus,' he
replied, 'will shortly cremate himself, at the Olympic games. '--'But
how,' I asked, 'and why? ' He did his best to explain, but the Cynic
went on bawling, and it was quite out of the question to attend to
anything else. I waited on to the end. It was one torrent of wild
panegyric on Proteus. The sage of Sinope, Antisthenes his master,--nay,
Socrates himself--none of them were so much as to be compared with him.
Zeus was invited to contend for the pre-eminence. Subsequently however
it seemed advisable to leave the two on some sort of equality. 'The
world,' he cried in conclusion, 'has seen but two works of surpassing
excellence, the Olympian Zeus, and--Proteus. The one we owe to the
creative genius of Phidias; the other is Nature's handiwork. And now,
this godlike statue departs from among mankind; borne upon wings of
fire, he seeks the heavens, and leaves us desolate. ' He had worked
himself up into a state of perspiration over all this; and when it was
over he was very absurd, and cried, and tore his hair,--taking care
not to pull too hard; and was finally taken away by some compassionate
Cynics, sobbing violently all the time.

Well, after him, up jumped somebody else, before the crowd had time
to disperse; pouring his libation upon the glowing embers of the
previous sacrifice. He commenced operations with a loud guffaw--there
was no doubting its sincerity--after which he addressed us as follows.
'Theagenes (Heaven forgive him! ) concluded his vile rant with the
tears of Heraclitus: I, on the other hand, propose to begin with the
laughs of Democritus. ' Another hearty guffaw, in which most of us were
fain to join. 'One simply can't help it,' he remarked, pulling himself
together, 'when one hears such sad stuff talked, and sees old men
practically standing on their heads for the public amusement,--and all
to keep their grubby little reputations alive! Now, if you want to know
all about this "statue" which proposes to cremate itself, I'm your man.
I have marked his career from the first, and followed his intellectual
development; and I learnt a good deal from his fellow citizens, and
others whose authority was unquestionable.

'To begin then, this piece of perfect workmanship, straight from
Nature's mould, this type of true proportion, had barely come of age,
when he was caught in adultery; in Armenia this was; he received a
brisk drubbing for his pains, and finally made a jump of it from the
roof, and so got off. His next exploit was the corruption of a handsome
boy. This would have brought him before the Governor, by rights; but
the parents were poor, and he bought them off to the tune of a hundred
and twenty pounds. But perhaps it is hardly worth while mentioning
trifles of this kind. Our clay, you see, is yet unwrought: the "perfect
workmanship" is still to come. That business about his father makes
rather good hearing: only you know all about that;--how the old fellow
would hang on, though he was past sixty already, till Proteus could
stand it no longer, and put a noose about his neck. Well, this began to
be talked about; so he passed sentence of banishment on himself, and
wandered about from place to place.

'It was now that he came across the priests and scribes of the
Christians, in Palestine, and picked up their queer creed. I can
tell you, he pretty soon convinced them of his superiority; prophet,
elder, ruler of the Synagogue--he was everything at once; expounded
their books, commented on them, wrote books himself. They took him
for a God, accepted his laws, and declared him their president. The
Christians, you know, worship a _man_ to this day,--the distinguished
personage who introduced their novel rites, and was crucified on that
account. Well, the end of it was that Proteus was arrested and thrown
into prison. This was the very thing to lend an air to his favourite
arts of clap-trap and wonder-working; he was now a made man. The
Christians took it all very seriously: he was no sooner in prison,
than they began trying every means to get him out again,--but without
success. Everything else that could be done for him they most devoutly
did. They thought of nothing else. Orphans and ancient widows might
be seen hanging about the prison from break of day. Their officials
bribed the gaolers to let them sleep inside with him. Elegant dinners
were conveyed in; their sacred writings were read; and our old friend
Peregrine (as he was still called in those days) became for them "the
modern Socrates. " In some of the Asiatic cities, too, the Christian
communities put themselves to the expense of sending deputations, with
offers of sympathy, assistance, and legal advice. The activity of
these people, in dealing with any matter that affects their community,
is something extraordinary; they spare no trouble, no expense.
Peregrine, all this time, was making quite an income on the strength of
his bondage; money came pouring in. You see, these misguided creatures
start with the general conviction that they are immortal for all time,
which explains the contempt of death and voluntary self-devotion which
are so common among them; and then it was impressed on them by their
original lawgiver that they are all brothers, from the moment that they
are converted, and deny the gods of Greece, and worship the crucified
sage, and live after his laws. All this they take quite on trust, with
the result that they despise all worldly goods alike, regarding them
merely as common property. Now an adroit, unscrupulous fellow, who
has seen the world, has only to get among these simple souls, and his
fortune is pretty soon made; he plays with them.

'To return, however, to Peregrine. The governor of Syria perceived
his mental warp: "he must make a name, though he die for it:" now
philosophy was the governor's hobby; he discharged him--wouldn't
hear of his being punished--and Peregrine returned to Armenia. He
found it too hot to hold him. He was threatened from all quarters
with prosecutions for parricide. Then again, the greater part of his
property had disappeared in his absence: nothing was left but the
land, which might be worth a matter of four thousand pounds. The whole
estate, as the old man left it, would come perhaps to eight thousand.
Theagenes was talking nonsense when he said a million odd. Why, the
whole city, with its five nearest neighbours thrown in, men, cattle,
and goods of every description, would never fetch that sum. --Meanwhile,
indictments and accusations were brewing: an attack might be looked
for at any moment: as for the common people, they were in a state of
furious indignation and grief at the foul butchery of a harmless old
man; for so he was described. In these trying circumstances, observe
the ingenuity and resource of the sagacious Proteus. He makes his
appearance in the assembly: his hair (even in these early days) is
long, his cloak is shabby; at his side is slung the philosopher's
wallet, his hand grasps the philosopher's staff; truly a tragic figure,
every inch of him. Thus equipped, he presents himself before the
public, with the announcement that the property left him by his father
of blessed memory is entirely at their disposal! Being a needy folk,
with a keen eye to charity, they received the information with ready
applause: "Here is true philosophy; true patriotism; the spirit of
Diogenes and Crates is here! " As for his enemies, they were dumb; and
if any one did venture an allusion to parricide, he was promptly stoned.

'Proteus now set out again on his wanderings.
The Christians were meat
and drink to him; under their protection he lacked nothing, and this
luxurious state of things went on for some time. At last he got into
trouble even with them; I suppose they caught him partaking of some of
their forbidden meats. They would have nothing more to do with him, and
he thought the best way out of his difficulties would be, to change his
mind about that property, and try and get it back. He accordingly sent
in a petition to the emperor, suing for its restitution. But as the
people of Parium sent up a deputation to remonstrate, nothing came of
it all; he was told that as he had been under no compulsion in making
his dispositions, he must abide by them.

'Pilgrimage number three, to Egypt, to see Agathobulus. Here he went
through a most interesting course of discipline: shaved half his head
bare; anointed his face with mud; grossly exposed himself before a
large concourse of spectators, as a practical illustration of "Stoic
indifference"; received castigation with a birch rod; administered the
same; and mystified the public with a number of still more extravagant
follies. Thus prepared, he took ship to Italy, and was scarcely on dry
land again when he began abusing everybody, especially the Emperor, on
whose indulgence and good nature he knew that he could safely rely.
The Emperor, as you may suppose, was not greatly concerned at his
invectives; and it was his theory that no one in the garb of philosophy
should be called to account for his words, least of all a specialist in
scandal. Proteus's reputation throve upon neglect. The crack-brained
philosopher became the cynosure of unsophisticated eyes; and he grew
at last to be so unbearable that the city prefect judiciously expelled
him: "we do not require philosophers of your school," he explained.
Even this made for his notoriety: he was in every one's mouth as the
philosopher who was banished for being too outspoken, and saying what
he thought. He took rank with Musonius, Dion, Epictetus, and others who
have been in the same predicament.

'Finally, Proteus arrives in Greece; and what does he do there? He
makes himself offensive in Elis; he instigates Greece to revolt against
Rome; he finds a man of enlarged views and established character[6],
a public benefactor in general, and in particular the originator of
the water-supply to Olympia, which saved that great assembly from
perishing of thirst--and he has nothing but hard words for him; "Greece
is demoralized," he cries; "the spectators of the games should have
done without water, ay, and died if need be,"--and so many of them
would have done, from the violence of the epidemics then raging in
consequence of the drought. And all the time Proteus was drinking of
that very water! At this there was a general rush to stone him, which
pretty nearly succeeded; it was all our magnanimous friend could do,
for the time being, to find salvation at the altar of Zeus. He spent
the four following years in composing a speech, which he delivered in
public at the next Olympic games; it consisted of encomiums on the
donor of the water-supply and explanations of his flight on the former
occasion. But by this time people had lost all curiosity about him;
his prestige was quite gone; everything fell flat, and he could devise
no more novelties for the amazement of chance-comers, nor elicit the
admiration and applause for which he had always so passionately longed.
Hence this last bold venture of the funeral-pyre. So long ago as the
last Olympic Games he published his intention of cremating himself at
the next. That is what all this mystification is about, this digging
of pits we hear of, and collecting of firewood; these glowing accounts
of fortitude hereafter to be shown. Now, in the first place, it seems
to me that a man has no business to run away from life: he ought to
wait till his time comes. But if nothing else will serve, if positively
he must away,--still there is no need of pyres and such-like solemn
paraphernalia: there are plenty of ways of dying without this; let him
choose one of them, and have done with it. Or if a fiery end is so
attractively Heraclean, what was to prevent his quietly selecting some
well-wooded mountain top, and doing his cremation all by himself, with
Theagenes or somebody to play Philoctetes to his Heracles? But no; he
must roast in full concourse, at Olympia, as it might be on a stage;
and, so help me Heracles, he is not far out, if justice is to be done
on all parricides and unbelievers. Nay, if we look at it that way, this
is but dilatory work: he might have been packed into Phalaris's bull
years ago, and he would have had no more than his deserts,--a mouthful
of flame and sudden death is too good for him. For by all I can learn
burning is the quickest of deaths; a man has but to open his mouth, and
all is over.

'But I suppose what runs in his mind is the imposing spectacle of a
man being burnt alive in the holy place, in which ordinary mortality
may not so much as be buried. There was another man, once on a time,
who wanted to be famous. I dare say you have heard of him. When he
found there was no other way, he set fire to the temple of Artemis at
Ephesus. Proteus's design reminds me of that. The passion for fame must
wholly possess him, body and soul. He says, of course, that it is all
for the benefit of the human race,--to teach them to scorn death, and
to show fortitude in trying circumstances. Now I should just like to
ask you a question; it is no use asking him. How would you like it, if
the criminal classes were to profit by his lesson in fortitude, and
learn to scorn death, and burning, and so on? You would not like it at
all. Then how is Proteus going to draw the line? How is he going to
improve the honest men, without hardening and encouraging the rogues?
Suppose it even to be practicable that none should be present at the
spectacle but such as will make a good use of it. Again I ask: do you
want your sons to conceive an ambition of this sort? Of course not.
However, I need not have raised that point: not a soul, even among his
own disciples, will be caught by his enthusiasm. That is where I think
Theagenes is so much to blame: in all else he is a zealous adherent:
yet when his master sets out "to be with Heracles,"--he stops behind,
he won't go! though it is but a single header into the flames, and in a
moment endless felicity is his. It is not zeal, to have the same kind
of stick and coat and scrip as another man; any one can do that; it is
both safe and easy. Zeal must appear in the end, in the consummation:
let him get together his pyre of fig-tree faggots, as green as may
be, and gasp out his last amid the smoke! For as to merely being
burnt, Heracles and Asclepius have no monopoly there: temple-robbers
and murderers may be seen experiencing the same fate in the ordinary
course of law. Smoke is the only death, if you want to have it all to
yourselves.

'Besides, if Heracles really ever did anything so stupendous at all,
he was driven to it by frenzy; he was being consumed alive by the
Centaur's blood,--so the play tells us. But what point is there in
Proteus's throwing himself into the fire? Ah, of course: he wants to
set an example of fortitude, like the Brahmins, to whom Theagenes
thought it necessary to compare him. Well, I suppose there may be
fools and empty-headed enthusiasts in India as elsewhere? Anyhow, he
might stick to his models. The Brahmins never jump straight into the
fire: Onesicritus, Alexander's pilot, saw Calanus burn himself, and
according to him, when the pyre has been got ready, they stand quietly
roasting in front of it, and when they do get on top, there they sit,
smouldering away in a dignified manner, never budging an inch. I see
nothing so great in Proteus's just jumping in and being swallowed by
the flames. As likely as not he would jump out when he was half done;
only, as I understand, he is taking care to have the pyre in a good
deep hole.

'Some say that he is beginning to think better of it; that he reports
certain dreams, to the effect that Zeus will not suffer the holy place
to be profaned. Let him be easy on that score. I dare swear that not a
God of them will have any objection to a rogue's dying a rogue's death.
To be sure, he won't easily get out of it now. His Cynic friends egg
him on and thrust him pyre-wards; they keep his ambition aglow; there
shall be no flinching, if _they_ can help it! If Proteus would take a
couple of them with him in the fatal leap, it would be the first good
action he has ever performed.

'Not even "Proteus" will serve now, they were saying: he has changed
his name to Phoenix; that Indian bird being credited with bringing a
prolonged existence to an end upon a pyre. He tells strange tales too,
and quotes oracles--guaranteed old--to the effect that he is to be a
guardian spirit of the night. Evidently he has conceived a fancy for an
altar, and looks to have his statue set up, all of gold. And upon my
word it is as likely as not that among the simple vulgar will be found
some to declare that Proteus has cured them of the ague, and that in
the darkness they have met with the "guardian spirit of the night. "
And as the ancient Proteus, the son of Zeus, the great original, had
the gift of prophecy, I suppose these precious disciples of the modern
one will be for getting up an oracle and a shrine upon the scene of
cremation. Mark my words: we shall find we have got Protean priests
of the scourge; priests of the branding-iron; priests of some strange
thing or other; or--who knows? --nocturnal rites in his honour, with a
torchlight procession about the pyre. I heard but now, from a friend,
of Theagenes's producing a prophecy of the Sibyl on this subject: he
quoted the very words:

What time the noblest of the Cynic host
Within the Thunderer's court shall light a fire,
And leap into its midst, and thence ascend
To great Olympus--then shall all mankind,
Who eat the furrow's fruit, give honour due
To the Night-wanderer. His seat shall be
Hard by Hephaestus and lord Heracles.

That's the oracle that Theagenes says he heard from the Sibyl. Now I'll
give him one of Bacis's on the same subject. Bacis speaks very much to
the point as follows:

What time the Cynic many-named shall leap,
Stirred in his heart with mad desire for fame,
Into hot fire--then shall the Fox-dogs all,
His followers, go hence as went the Wolf.
And him that shuns Hephaestus' fiery might
Th' Achaeans all shall straightway slay with stones;
Lest, cool in courage, he essay warm words,
Stuffing with gold of usury his scrip;
For in fair Patrae he hath thrice five talents.

What say you, friends? Can Bacis turn an oracle too, as well as the
Sibyl? Apparently it is time for the esteemed followers of Proteus to
select their spots for "evaporation," as they call burning. '

A universal shout from the audience greeted this conclusion: 'Away with
them to the fire! 'tis all they are good for. ' The orator descended,
beaming.

But Nestor marked the uproar--

The shouts no sooner reached Theagenes's ears, than he was back on the
platform, bawling out all manner of scandal against the last speaker
(I don't know what this capital fellow was called). However, I left
Theagenes there, bursting with indignation, and went off to see the
games, as I heard the stewards were already on the course. So much for
Elis.

On our arrival at Olympia, we found the vestibule full of people,
all talking about Proteus. Some were inveighing against him, others
commended his purpose; and most of them had come to blows about it
when, just after the Heralds' contest, in came Proteus himself, with
a multitudinous escort, and gave us a speech, all about himself;--the
life he had lived, the risks he had run, the trials he had undergone
in the cause of philosophy. He had a great deal to say, but I heard
very little of it; there was such a crowd. Presently I began to think
I should be squeezed to death in the crush (I saw this actually happen
to several people), so off I went, having had enough of this sophist
in love with death, and his anticipatory epitaph. Thus much I heard,
however. Upon a golden life he desired to set a golden crown. He had
lived like Heracles: like Heracles he must die, and mingle with the
upper air. ''Tis my aim,' he continued, 'to benefit mankind; to teach
them how contemptible a thing is death. To this end, the world shall
be my Philoctetes. ' The simpler souls among his audience wept, crying
'Live, Proteus; live for Greece! ' Others were of sterner stuff, and
expressed hearty approval of his determination. This discomposed the
old man considerably. His idea had been that they would never let him
go near the pyre; that they would all cling about him and insist on his
continuing a compulsory existence. He had the complexion of a corpse
before: but this wholly unexpected blow of approbation made him turn
several degrees paler: he trembled--and broke off.

Conceive my amusement! Pity it was impossible to feel for such morbid
vanity: among all who have ever been afflicted with this scourge,
Proteus stands pre-eminent. However, he had a fine following, and
drank his fill of notoriety, as he gazed on the host of his admirers;
poor man! he forgot that criminals on the way to the cross, or in the
executioner's hands, have a greater escort by far.

And now the games were over. They were the best I had ever seen,
though this makes my fourth visit to Olympia. In the general rush
of departure, I got left behind, finding it impossible to procure a
conveyance.

After repeated postponements, Proteus had finally announced a late hour
of the night for his exhibition. Accordingly, at about midnight I got
up (I had found lodgings with a friend), and set out for Harpine; for
here was the pyre, just two miles and a half from Olympia, going East
along the racecourse. We found on arrival that the pyre had been placed
in a hole, about six feet deep. To ensure speedy ignition, it had been
composed chiefly of pine-torches, with brushwood stuffed in between.

As soon as the moon had risen--for her presence too was required at the
glorious spectacle--Proteus advanced, in his usual costume, accompanied
by the chiefs of the Cynics; conspicuous among them came the pride of
Patrae, torch in hand; nobly qualified for the part he was to play.
Proteus too had his torch. They drew near to the pyre, and kindled it
at several points; as it contained nothing but torches and brushwood,
a fine blaze was the result. Then Proteus--are you attending,
Cronius? --Proteus threw aside his scrip, and cloak, and club--his club
of Heracles--and stood before us in scrupulously unclean linen. He
demanded frankincense, to throw upon the fire; being supplied he first
threw it on, then, turning to the South (another tragic touch, this
of the South), he exclaimed: 'Gods of my mother, Gods of my father,
receive me with favour. ' And with these words he leapt into the pyre.
There was nothing more to be seen, however; the towering mass of flames
enveloped him completely.

Again, sweet sir, you smile over the conclusion of my tragedy. As for
me, I saw nothing much in his appealing to his mother's Gods, but when
he included his _father's_ in the invocation, I laughed outright; it
reminded me of the parricide story. The Cynics stood dry-eyed about the
pyre, gazing upon the flames in silent manifestation of their grief.
At last, when I was half dead with suppressed laughter, I addressed
them. 'Intelligent sirs,' I said, 'let us go away. No pleasure is to be
derived from seeing an old man roasted, and there is a horrible smell
of burning. Are you waiting for some painter to come along and take a
sketch of you, to match the pictures of Socrates in prison, with his
companions at his side? ' They were very angry and abusive at first, and
some took to their sticks: but when I threatened to pick a few of them
up and throw them on to the fire to keep their master company, they
quieted down and peace was restored.

Curious reflections were running in my mind, Cronius, as I made my way
back. 'How strange a thing is this same ambition! ' I said to myself;
''tis the one irresistible passion; irresistible to the noblest of
mankind, as we account them,--how much more to such as Proteus, whose
wild, foolish life may well end upon the pyre! ' At this point I met
a number of people coming out to assist at the spectacle, thinking
to find Proteus still alive; for among the various rumours of the
preceding day, one had been, that before entering the fire he was
to greet the rising sun, which to be sure is said to be the Brahmin
practice. Most of them turned back when I told them that all was
over; all but those enthusiasts who could not rest without seeing the
identical spot, and snatching some relic from the flames. After this,
you may be sure, my work was cut out for me: I had to tell them all
about it, and to undergo a minute cross-examination from everybody.
If it was some one I liked the look of, I confined myself to plain
prose, as in the present narrative: but for the benefit of the curious
simple, I put in a few dramatic touches on my own account. No sooner
had Proteus thrown himself upon the kindled pyre, than there was a
tremendous earthquake, I informed them; the ground rumbled beneath us;
and a vulture flew out from the midst of the flames, and away into the
sky, exclaiming in human accents

'I rise from Earth, I seek Olympus. '

They listened with amazement and shuddering reverence. 'Did the vulture
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.