No More Learning

The fellow had no conception of the blessings conferred by that book upon
its readers, of the peace, tranquillity, and independence of mind it
produces, of the protection it gives against terrors, phantoms, and
marvels, vain hopes and inordinate desires, of the judgement and candour
that it fosters, or of its true purging of the spirit, not with torches
and squills and such rubbish, but with right reason, truth, and
frankness.

Perhaps the greatest example of our rogue's audacity is what I now come
to. Having easy access to Palace and Court by Rutilianus's influence, he
sent an oracle just at the crisis of the German war, when M. Aurelius was
on the point of engaging the Marcomanni and Quadi. The oracle required
that two lions should be flung alive into the Danube, with quantities of
sacred herbs and magnificent sacrifices. I had better give the words:

To rolling Ister, swoln with Heaven's rain,
Of Cybelean thralls, those mountain beasts,
Fling ye a pair; therewith all flowers and herbs
Of savour sweet that Indian air doth breed.
Hence victory, and fame, and lovely peace.

These directions were precisely followed; the lions swam across to the
enemy's bank, where they were clubbed to death by the barbarians, who
took them for dogs or a new kind of wolves; and our forces immediately
after met with a severe defeat, losing some twenty thousand men in one
engagement. This was followed by the Aquileian incident, in the course of
which that city was nearly lost. In view of these results, Alexander
warmed up that stale Delphian defence of the Croesus oracle: the God had
foretold a victory, forsooth, but had not stated whether Romans or
barbarians should have it.

The constant increase in the number of visitors, the inadequacy of
accommodation in the city, and the difficulty of finding provisions for
consultants, led to his introducing what he called _night oracles_.
He received the packets, slept upon them, in his own phrase, and gave
answers which the God was supposed to send him in dreams. These were
generally not lucid, but ambiguous and confused, especially when he came
to packets sealed with exceptional care. He did not risk tampering with
these, but wrote down any words that came into his head, the results
obtained corresponding well enough to his conception of the oracular.
There were regular interpreters in attendance, who made considerable sums
out of the recipients by expounding and unriddling these oracles. This
office contributed to his revenue, the interpreters paying him L250 each.

Sometimes he stirred the wonder of the silly by answers to persons who
had neither brought nor sent questions, and in fact did not exist. Here
is a specimen:

Who is't, thou askst, that with Calligenia
All secretly defiles thy nuptial bed?
The slave Protogenes, whom most thou trustest.
Him thou enjoyedst: he thy wife enjoys--
The fit return for that thine outrage done.
And know that baleful drugs for thee are brewed,
Lest thou or see or hear their evil deeds.
Close by the wall, at thy bed's head, make search.
Thy maid Calypso to their plot is privy.

The names and circumstantial details might stagger a Democritus, till a
moment's thought showed him the despicable trick.

He often gave answers in Syriac or Celtic to barbarians who questioned
him in their own tongue, though he had difficulty in finding compatriots
of theirs in the city. In these cases there was a long interval between
application and response, during which the packet might be securely
opened at leisure, and somebody found capable of translating the
question. The following is an answer given to a Scythian:

Morphi ebargulis for night
Chnenchicrank shall leave the light.

Another oracle to some one who neither came nor existed was in prose.
'Return the way thou earnest,' it ran; 'for he that sent thee hath this
day been slain by his neighbour Diocles, with aid of the robbers Magnus,
Celer, and Bubalus, who are taken and in chains. '

I must give you one or two of the answers that fell to my share. I asked
whether Alexander was bald, and having sealed it publicly with great
care, got a night oracle in reply:

Sabardalachu malach Attis was not he.

Another time I did up the same question--What was Homer's birthplace? --in
two packets given in under different names. My servant misled him by
saying, when asked what he came for, a cure for lung trouble; so the
answer to one packet was:

Cytmide and foam of steed the liniment give.

As for the other packet, he got the information that the sender was
inquiring whether the land or the sea route to Italy was preferable. So
he answered, without much reference to Homer:

Fare not by sea; land-travel meets thy need.

I laid a good many traps of this kind for him; here is another. I asked
only one question, but wrote outside the packet in the usual form, So-
and-so's eight Queries, giving a fictitious name and sending the eight
shillings. Satisfied with the payment of the money and the inscription on
the packet, he gave me eight answers to my one question. This was, When
will Alexander's imposture be detected? The answers concerned nothing in
heaven or earth, but were all silly and meaningless together. He
afterwards found out about this, and also that I had tried to dissuade
Rutilianus both from the marriage and from putting any confidence in the
oracle; so he naturally conceived a violent dislike for me. When
Rutilianus once put a question to him about me, the answer was:

Night-haunts and foul debauch are all his joy.

It is true his dislike was quite justified. On a certain occasion I was
passing through Abonutichus, with a spearman and a pikeman whom my friend
the governor of Cappadocia had lent me as an escort on my way to the sea.
Ascertaining that I was the Lucian he knew of, he sent me a very polite
and hospitable invitation. I found him with a numerous company; by good
luck I had brought my escort. He gave me his hand to kiss according to
his usual custom. I took hold of it as if to kiss, but instead bestowed
on it a sound bite that must have come near disabling it. The company,
who were already offended at my calling him Alexander instead of Prophet,
were inclined to throttle and beat me for sacrilege. But he endured the
pain like a man, checked their violence, and assured them that he would
easily tame me, and illustrate Glycon's greatness in converting his
bitterest foes to friends. He then dismissed them all, and argued the
matter with me: he was perfectly aware of my advice to Rutilianus; why
had I treated him so, when I might have been preferred by him to great
influence in that quarter? By this time I had realized my dangerous
position, and was only too glad to welcome these advances; I presently
went my way in all friendship with him. The rapid change wrought in me
greatly impressed the observers.

When I intended to sail, he sent me many parting gifts, and offered to
find us (Xenophon and me, that is; I had sent my father and family on to
Amastris) a ship and crew--which offer I accepted in all confidence. When
the passage was half over, I observed the master in tears arguing with
his men, which made me very uneasy. It turned out that Alexander's orders
were to seize and fling us overboard; in that case his war with me would
have been lightly won. But the crew were prevailed upon by the master's
tears to do us no harm. 'I am sixty years old, as you can see,' he said
to me; 'I have lived an honest blameless life so far, and I should not
like at my time of life, with a wife and children too, to stain my hands
with blood. ' And with that preface he informed us what we were there for,
and what Alexander had told him to do.

He landed us at Aegiali, of Homeric fame, and thence sailed home. Some
Bosphoran envoys happened to be passing, on their way to Bithynia with
the annual tribute from their king Eupator. They listened kindly to my
account of our dangerous situation, I was taken on board, and reached
Amastris safely after my narrow escape. From that time it was war between
Alexander and me, and I left no stone unturned to get my revenge. Even
before his plot I had hated him, revolted by his abominable practices,
and I now busied myself with the attempt to expose him; I found plenty of
allies, especially in the circle of Timocrates the Heracleot philosopher.
But Avitus, the then governor of Bithynia and Pontus, restrained me, I
may almost say with prayers and entreaties. He could not possibly spoil
his relations with Rutilianus, he said, by punishing the man, even if he
could get clear evidence against him. Thus arrested in my course, I did
not persist in what must have been, considering the disposition of the
judge, a fruitless prosecution.

Among instances of Alexander's presumption, a high place must be given to
his petition to the Emperor: the name of Abonutichus was to be changed to
Ionopolis; and a new coin was to be struck, with a representation on the
obverse of Glycon, and, on the reverse, Alexander bearing the garlands
proper to his paternal grandfather Asclepius, and the famous scimetar of
his maternal ancestor Perseus.

He had stated in an oracle that he was destined to live to a hundred and
fifty, and then die by a thunderbolt; he had in fact, before he reached
seventy, an end very sad for a son of Podalirius, his leg mortifying from
foot to groin and being eaten of worms; it then proved that he was bald,
as he was forced by pain to let the doctors make cooling applications to
his head, which they could not do without removing his wig.

So ended Alexander's heroics; such was the catastrophe of his tragedy;
one would like to find a special providence in it, though doubtless
chance must have the credit. The funeral celebration was to be worthy of
his life, taking the form of a contest--for possession of the oracle. The
most prominent of the impostors his accomplices referred it to
Rutilianus's arbitration which of them should be selected to succeed to
the prophetic office and wear the hierophantic oracular garland. Among
these was numbered the grey-haired physician Paetus, dishonouring equally
his grey hairs and his profession. But Steward-of-the-Games Rutilianus
sent them about their business ungarlanded, and continued the defunct in
possession of his holy office.

My object, dear friend, in making this small selection from a great mass
of material has been twofold. First, I was willing to oblige a friend and
comrade who is for me the pattern of wisdom, sincerity, good humour,
justice, tranquillity, and geniality. But secondly I was still more
concerned (a preference which you will be very far from resenting)
to strike a blow for Epicurus, that great man whose holiness and divinity
of nature were not shams, who alone had and imparted true insight into the
good, and who brought deliverance to all that consorted with him. Yet I
think casual readers too may find my essay not unserviceable, since it is
not only destructive, but, for men of sense, constructive also.




OF PANTOMIME
[Footnote: 'Pantomime' has been chosen as the most natural translation of
_orchaesis_, which in this dialogue has reference for the most part to the
ballet-dancer (_pantomimus_) of imperial times. On the other hand,
Lycinus, in order to establish the antiquity and the universality of an
art that for all practical purposes dates only from the Augustan era, and
(despite the Greek artists) is Roman in origin, avails himself of the
wider meaning of _orchaesis_ to give us the historic and prehistoric
associations of _dance_ in Greece and elsewhere; and in such passages it
seemed advisable to sacrifice consistency, and to translate _orchaesis_
dance. ]


_Lycinus. Crato_

_Ly_. Here are heavy charges, Crato; I suppose you have been getting
up this subject for some time. You are not content with attacking the
whole pantomimic art, practical and theoretic; we too, the pleased
spectators thereof, come in for our share: we have been lavishing our
admiration, it seems, on effeminate triflers. And now let me show you how
completely you have been mistaken; you will find that the art you have
been maligning is the greatest boon of our existence. There is some
excuse for your strictures: how should you know any better, confirmed
ascetic that you are, believing that virtue consists in being
uncomfortable?

_Cr_. Now, my dear sir, can any one who calls himself a man, and an
educated man, and in some sort a student of philosophy,--can such a one
leave those higher pursuits, leave communing with the sages of old, to
sit still and listen to the sound of a flute, and watch the antics of an
effeminate creature got up in soft raiment to sing lascivious songs and
mimic the passions of prehistoric strumpets, of Rhodopes and Phaedras and
Parthenopes, to the accompaniment of twanging string and shrilling pipe
and clattering heel? It is too absurd: these are not amusements for a
gentleman; not amusements for Lycinus. When I first heard of your
spending your time in this way, I was divided betwixt shame and
indignation, to think that you could so far forget Plato and Chrysippus
and Aristotle, as to sit thus having your ears tickled with a feather. If
you want amusements, are there not a thousand things _worth_ seeing
and hearing? Can you not hear classical music performed at the great
festivals? Are there not lofty tragedy and brilliant comedy,--things that
have been deemed worthy of state recognition? My friend, you have a long
reckoning to settle with men of learning, if you would not be repudiated
altogether, and expelled from the congregation of the wise. I think your
best course will be a point-blank denial: declare flatly that you never
did anything of the kind. Anyhow, you must watch your conduct for the
future: we do not want to find that our Lycinus has changed his sex, and
become a Bacchante or a Lydian damsel. That would be as much to our
discredit as to yours: for ours should be Odysseus's part,--to tear you
from the lotus, and bring you back to your accustomed pursuits; to save
you from the clutches of these stage Sirens before it is too late. The
Sirens, after all, did but plot against men's ears; it needed but a
little wax, and a man might sail past them uninjured: but yours is a
captivity of ear and eye, of body and soul.

_Ly_. Goodness gracious! All the Cynic in you is loose, and snarls
at me. At the same time, I think your Lotus-and-Siren simile is rather
off the point: you see, the people who ate the Lotus and listened to the
Sirens paid for the gratification of ear and palate with their lives:
whereas I not only have a great deal more enjoyment than they had, but am
all the better for it. I have experienced no oblivion of my domestic
affairs, nor blindness to my own interests; in fact--if I may venture to
say so--you will find my penetration and practical wisdom considerably
increased by my theatrical experiences. Homer has it exactly: the
spectator

Returns a gladder and a wiser man.

_Cr_. Dear, dear! Yours is a sad case, Lycinus. You are not even ashamed;
you seem quite pleased with yourself. That is the worst of it: there seems
no hope of your recovery, while you can actually commend the mire in which
you wallow.

_Ly_. Now, Crato,--you talk of pantomimes and theatres,--have you seen
these performances yourself, that you are so hard on them? or do you
decide that they are 'foul mire' without personal experience? If you have
seen them, you are just as bad as I am; and if not, are you justified in
censuring them? does it not savour of over-confidence, to condemn what
you know nothing about?

_Cr_. Truly that would be the climax: that I should show my long beard and
white hairs amid that throng of women and lunatics; and clap and yell in
unseemly rapture over the vile contortions of an abandoned buffoon.

_Ly_. I can make allowance for you. But wait till I have prevailed on you
to give it a fair trial, to accept the judgement of your own eyes: after
that you will never be happy till you have secured the best seat in the
theatre, where you may hear every syllable, mark every gesture.

_Cr_. While this beard is yet unplucked, these limbs unshaven, God forbid
that I should ever find happiness in such things. As it is, my poor
friend, I see that _you_ are wholly possessed.

_Ly_. Now suppose you were to abstain from further abuse, and hear what I
have to say of the merits of Pantomime; of the manner in which it combines
profit with amusement; instructing, informing, perfecting the intelligence
of the beholder; training his eyes to lovely sights, filling his ears with
noble sounds, revealing a beauty in which body and soul alike have their
share. For that music and dancing are employed to produce these results is
no disparagement of the art; it is rather a recommendation.

_Cr_. I have not much time for listening to a madman's discourse in praise
of his own madness. However--if you must deluge me with nonsense--I am
prepared to do you that friendly office. My ears are at your service: they
need no wax to render them deaf to foolishness. Henceforth I will be
silent: speak on;--no one is listening.

_Ly. _ Thank you, Crato; just what I wanted. As to 'foolishness,' that
remains to be seen. Now, to begin with, you seem to be quite ignorant of
the antiquity of the pantomimic art. It is not a new thing; it does not
date from to-day or yesterday; not, that is to say, from our grandfathers'
times, nor from _their_ grandfathers' times. The best antiquarians, let me
tell you, trace dancing back to the creation of the universe; it is coeval
with that Eros who was the beginning of all things. In the dance of the
heavenly bodies, in the complex involutions whereby the planets are
brought into harmonious intercourse with the fixed stars, you have an
example of that art in its infancy, which, by gradual development, by
continual improvements and additions, seems at length to have reached its
climax in the subtle harmonious versatility of modern Pantomime.

The first step, we learn, was taken by Rhea, who was so pleased with the
art that she introduced it among the Corybantes in Phrygia and the
Curetes in Crete. She was richly rewarded: for by their dancing they
saved her child Zeus, who owes it to them (nor can he with decency deny
it) that he escaped the paternal teeth. The dancing was performed in full
armour; sword clashed against shield, and inspired heels beat martial
time upon the ground. The art was presently taken up by the leading men
in Crete, who by dint of practice became admirable dancers; and this
applies not only to private persons, but to men of the first eminence,
and of royal blood. Thus Homer, when he calls Meriones a dancer, is not
disparaging him, but paying him a compliment: his dancing fame, it seems,
had spread not only throughout the Greek world, but even into the camp of
his enemies, the Trojans, who would observe, no doubt, on the field of
battle that agility and grace of movement which he had acquired as a
dancer. The passage runs as follows:

Meriones, great dancer though thou be,
My spear had stopped thy dancings,--

it did not, however, do so; his practice in that art enabling him,
apparently, to evade without difficulty any spears that might be hurled
at him.

I could mention a number of other heroes who went through a similar
course of training, and made a serious study of dancing: but I will
confine myself to the case of Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, and a
most eminent dancer. He it was who invented that beautiful dance called
after him the Pyrrhic; a circumstance which may be supposed to have
afforded more gratification to his father than his comeliness, or his
prowess in other respects. Thus Troy, impregnable till then, falls a
victim to the dancer's skill, and is levelled with the dust.

The Lacedaemonians, who are reputed the bravest of the Greeks, ever since
they learnt from Castor and Pollux the Caryatic (a form of dance which is
taught in the Lacedaemonian town of Caryae), will do nothing without the
accompaniment of the Muses: on the field of battle their feet keep time
to the flute's measured notes, and those notes are the signal for their
onset. Music and rhythm ever led them on to victory. To this day you may
see their young men dividing their attention between dance and drill;
when wrestling and boxing are over, their exercise concludes with the
dance. A flute-player sits in their midst, beating time with his foot,
while they file past and perform their various movements in rhythmic
sequence, the military evolutions being followed by dances, such as
Dionysus and Aphrodite love. Hence the song they sing is an invitation to
Aphrodite and the Loves to join in their dance and revel; while the other
(I should have said that they have two songs) contains instructions to
the dancers: 'Forward, lads: foot it lightly: reel it bravely' (i. e.
dance actively). It is the same with the chain dance, which is performed
by men and girls together, dancing alternately, so as to suggest the
alternating beads of a necklace. A youth leads off the dance: his active
steps are such as will hereafter be of use to him on the field of battle:
a maiden follows, with the modest movements that befit her sex; manly
vigour, maidenly reserve,--these are the beads of the necklace.
Similarly, their Gymnopaedia is but another form of dance.

You have read your Homer; so that I need say nothing of the Shield of
Achilles, with its choral dance, modelled on that which Daedalus designed
for Ariadne; nor of the two dancers ('tumblers,' he calls them) there
represented as leading the dance; nor again of the 'whirling dance of
youth,' so beautifully wrought thereon by Hephaestus. As to the
Phaeacians, living as they did in the lap of luxury, nothing is more
natural than that _they_ should have rejoiced in the dance. Odysseus, we
find, is particularly struck with this: he gazes with admiration on the
'twinkling of their feet. ' In Thessaly, again, dancing was such a
prominent feature, that their rulers and generals were called 'Dancers-in-
chief,' as may be seen from the inscriptions on the statues of their great
men: 'Elected Prime Dancer,' we read; and again: 'This statue was erected
at the public expense to commemorate Ilation's well-danced victory. '

I need hardly observe that among the ancient mysteries not one is to be
found that does not include dancing. Orpheus and Musaeus, the best
dancers of their time, were the founders of these rites; and their
ordinances show the value they attached to rhythm and dance as elements
in religion. To illustrate this point would be to make the ceremonial
known to the uninitiated: but so much is matter of common knowledge, that
persons who divulge the mysteries are popularly spoken of as 'dancing
them out. ' In Delos, not even sacrifice could be offered without dance
and musical accompaniment. Choirs of boys gathered and performed their
dance to the sound of flute and lyre, and the best of them were chosen to
act characters; the songs written for these occasions were known as
chorales; and the ancient lyric poetry abounded in such compositions.

But I need not confine myself to the Greeks. The Indians, when they rise
to offer their morning salutation to the Sun, do not consider it enough
to kiss their hands after the Greek fashion; turning to the East, they
silently greet the God with movements that are designed to represent his
own course through the heavens; and with this substitute for our prayers
and sacrifices and choral celebrations they seek his favour at the
beginning of every day and at its close. The Ethiopians go further, and
dance even while they fight; the shaft an Ethiopian draws from that
arrow-crown that serves him in place of a quiver will never be discharged
before he has intimidated his enemy with the threatening gestures of the
war-dance.

Having dealt with India and Ethiopia, let us now consider the neighbouring
country of Egypt. If I am not mistaken, the Egyptian Proteus of ancient
legend is no other than a dancer, whose mimetic skill enables him to adapt
himself to every character: in the activity of his movements, he is liquid
as water, rapid as fire; he is the raging lion, the savage panther, the
trembling bough; he is what he will. The legend takes these data, and
gives them a supernatural turn,--for mimicry substituting metamorphosis.
Our modern pantomimes have the same gift, and Proteus himself sometimes
appears as the subject of their rapid transformations. And it may be
conjectured that in that versatile lady Empusa we have but another artist
of the same kind, mythologically treated.

Our attention is next claimed by the Roman dance of the Salii, a
priesthood drawn from the noblest families; the dance is performed in
honour of Mars, the most warlike of the Gods, and is of a particularly
solemn and sacred character. According to a Bithynian legend, which
agrees well with this Italian institution, Priapus, a war-like divinity
(probably one of the Titans, or of the Idaean Dactyls, whose profession
it was to teach the use of arms), was entrusted by Hera with the care of
her son Ares, who even in childhood was remarkable for his courage and
ferocity. Priapus would not put weapons into his hands till he had turned
him out a perfect dancer; and he was rewarded by Hera with a tenth part
of all Ares's spoils. As to the rites of Dionysus, you know, without my
telling you, that they consisted in dancing from beginning to end. Of the
three main types of dance, the cordax, the sicinnis, and the emmelia,
each was the invention and bore the name of one of the Satyrs, his
followers. Assisted by this art, and accompanied by these revellers, he
conquered Tyrrhenians, Indians, Lydians, dancing those warlike tribes
into submission.

Then beware, my enlightened friend, of the guilt of sacrilege. Will you
attack the holy mystic art in which so many Gods delight; by which their
worshippers do them honour; which affords so much pleasure, so much
useful instruction? To return once more to the poets: when I think of
your affection for Homer and Hesiod, I am amazed to find you disputing
the preeminence they assign to the dance. Homer, in enumerating all that
is sweetest and best, mentions sleep, love, song, and dance; but of these
dance alone is 'faultless. ' He testifies, moreover, to the 'sweetness' of
song: now our art includes 'sweet song' as well as the 'faultless dance'
which you take upon you to censure. Again, in another passage we read:

To one the God hath given warlike deeds:
But to another dance and lovely song.

And lovely indeed is the song that accompanies the dance; it is the Gods'
best gift. Homer seems to divide all things under the two heads of war
and peace; and among the things of peace he singles out these two as the
best counterpart to the things of war. Hesiod, not speaking from hearsay,
but coming fresh from the sight of the Muses' morning dance, has this
high tribute to them in the beginning of his poem:

Their dainty feet round the dark waters dance,

about the altar of Zeus. --My dear sir, your onslaught upon the dance is
little short of blasphemy.

Socrates--that wisest of men, if we may accept the judgement of the
Pythian oracle--not only approved of dancing, but made a careful study of
it; and, in his zeal for grace and elegance, for harmonious movement and
carriage of the body, thought it no shame, reverend sage that he was, to
rank this among the most important branches of learning. And well might
he have an enthusiasm for dancing, who scrupled not to study the humblest
arts; who frequented the schools of the flute-girls, and could stoop to
learn wisdom from the mouth of an Aspasia. Yet in his days the art was in
its infancy, its beauties undeveloped. Had Socrates seen the artists who
have made modern Pantomime what it is, he would assuredly have given it
his exclusive attention, and assigned it the first place in the education
of youth.

I think you forget, when you advocate the claims of tragedy and comedy,
that each of them has its own peculiar form of dance; tragedy its
emmelia, comedy its cordax, supplemented occasionally by the sicinnis.
You began by asserting the superiority of tragedy, of comedy, and of the
periodic performances on flute and lyre, which you pronounce to be
respectable, because they are included in public competitions. Let us
take each of these and compare its merits with those of dancing. The
flute and the lyre, to be sure, we might leave out of the discussion, as
these have their part to play in the dance.

In forming our estimate of tragedy, let us first consider its externals--
the hideous, appalling spectacle that the actor presents. His high boots
raise him up out of all proportion; his head is hidden under an enormous
mask; his huge mouth gapes upon the audience as if he would swallow them;
to say nothing of the chest-pads and stomach-pads with which he contrives
to give himself an artificial corpulence, lest his deficiency in this
respect should emphasize his disproportionate height.
And in the middle
of it all is the actor, shouting away, now high, now low,--_chanting_ his
iambics as often as not; could anything be more revolting than this sing-
song recitation of tragic woes? The actor is a mouthpiece: that is his
sole responsibility;--the poet has seen to the rest, ages since. From an
Andromache or a Hecuba, one can endure recitative: but when Heracles
himself comes upon the stage, and so far forgets himself, and the respect
due to the lion-skin and club that he carries, as to deliver a solo, no
reasonable person can deny that such a performance is in execrable taste.
Then again, your objection to dancing--that men act women's parts--is
equally applicable to tragedy and comedy, in which indeed there are more
women than men.

By comedy, the absurdity of the masks--of a Davus, for instance, or a
Tibius, or a cook--is actually claimed as one of its attractions. On the
other hand, I need not tell you how decent, how seemly, is the dancer's
attire; any one who is not blind can see that for himself. His very mask
is elegant, and well adapted to his part; there is no gaping here; the
lips are closed, for the dancer has plenty of other voices at his
service. In old days, dancer and singer were one: but the violent
exercise caused shortness of breath; the song suffered for it, and it was
found advisable to have the singing done independently.

As to the subjects treated, they are the same for both, Pantomime
differing from tragedy only in the infinite variety of its plots, and in
the superior ingenuity and learning displayed in them. Dancing may not be
included in our public competitions; but the reason is that the stewards
regard it as a matter too high and solemn to be subjected to criticism. I
forbear to add that in one Italian city--the greatest of the Chalcidian
name--a special lustre has been added to the public games by the
introduction of a dancing competition.

And now, before I proceed further, I wish to offer an explanation of
themany omissions I have made, which might otherwise be attributed to
ignorance. I am well aware that the subject has already been dealt with
by a number of writers, who have chiefly occupied themselves with a
description of the various forms of dance, and a catalogue of their
names, their characters, and their inventors; and this they regard as a
proof of erudition. Such work I leave to the ambition of dullards and
pedants, as foreign to my own purpose. I would have you observe, and bear
in mind, that I do not propose to make a complete history of the art of
dancing; nor is it my object to enumerate the names of dances, except so
far as I have already done, in handling a few of the principal types: on
the contrary, I am chiefly concerned with pointing out the profit and
pleasure to be derived from modern Pantomime, which did not begin to take
its present admirable form in ancient days, but only in the time of
Augustus, or thereabouts. In those earlier times we have but the
beginnings of the art; the tree is taking root; the flower and the fruit
have reached their perfection only in our own day, and it is with these
that I have to do. The tongs-dance, the crane-dance, and others I pass
over because they are alien to my subject; similarly, if I have said
nothing of the Phrygian dance,--that riotous convivial fling, which was
performed by energetic yokels to the piping of a flute-girl, and which
still prevails in country districts,--I have omitted it not from
ignorance, but because it has no connexion with the Pantomime of to-day.
I have the authority of Plato, in his _Laws_, for approving some
forms of dance and rejecting others; he there examines the dance from the
two points of view of pleasure and utility, banishes those forms that are
unseemly, and selects others for his recommendation.

Of dancing then, in the strict sense of the word, I have said enough. To
enlarge further upon its history would be pedantic. And now I come to the
pantomime. What must be his qualifications? what his previous training?
what his studies? what his subsidiary accomplishments? You will find that
his is no easy profession, nor lightly to be undertaken; requiring as it
does the highest standard of culture in all its branches, and involving a
knowledge not of music only, but of rhythm and metre, and above all of
your beloved philosophy, both natural and moral, the subtleties of
dialectic alone being rejected as serving no useful purpose. Rhetoric,
too, in so far as that art is concerned with the exposition of human
character and human passions, claims a share of its attention. Nor can it
dispense with the painter's and the sculptor's arts; in its close
observance of the harmonious proportions that these teach, it is the
equal of an Apelles or a Phidias. But above all Mnemosyne, and her
daughter Polyhymnia, must be propitiated by an art that would remember
all things. Like Calchas in Homer, the pantomime must know all 'that is,
that was, that shall be'; nothing must escape his ever ready memory.
Faithfully to represent his subject, adequately to express his own
conceptions, to make plain all that might be obscure;--these are the
first essentials for the pantomime, to whom no higher compliment could be
paid than Thucydides's tribute to Pericles, who, he says, 'could not only
conceive a wise policy, but render it intelligible to his hearers'; the
intelligibility, in the present case, depending on clearness of
gesticulation.

For his materials, he must draw continually, as I have said, upon his
unfailing memory of ancient story; and memory must be backed by taste and
judgement. He must know the history of the world, from the time when it
first emerged from Chaos down to the days of Egyptian Cleopatra. These
limitations we will concede to the pantomime's wide field of knowledge;
but within them he must be familiar with every detail:--the mutilation of
Uranus, the origin of Aphrodite, the battle of Titans, the birth of Zeus,
Rhea's deception, her substitution of a stone for her child, the binding
of Cronus, the partition of the world between the three brothers. Again,
the revolt of the Giants, Prometheus's theft of fire, his creation of
mankind, and the punishment that followed; the might of Eros and of
Anteros, the wanderings of the island Delos, the travail of Leto, the
Python's destruction, the evil design of Tityus, the flight of eagles,
whereby the earth's centre was discovered. He must know of Deucalion, in
whose days the whole world suffered shipwreck, of that single chest
wherein were preserved the remnants of the human race, of the new
generation born of stones; of the rending of Iacchus, the guile of Hera,
the fiery death of Semele, the double birth of Dionysus; of Athene and
Hephaestus and Erichthonius, of the strife for the possession of Athens,
of Halirrhothius and that first trial on the Areopagus, and all the
legendary lore of Attica. Above all, the wanderings of Demeter, the
finding of Persephone, the hospitality of Celeus; Triptolemus's plough,
Icarius's vineyard, and the sad end of Erigone; the tale of Boreas and
Orithyia, of Theseus, and of Aegeus; of Medea in Greece, and of her
flight thereafter into Persia, and of Erechtheus's daughters and
Pandion's, and all that they did and suffered in Thrace. Acamas, and
Phyllis, and that first rape of Helen, and the expedition of Castor and
Pollux against Athens, and the fate of Hippolytus, and the return of the
Heraclids,--all these may fairly be included in the Athenian mythology,
from the vast bulk of which I select only these few examples.

Then in Megara we have Nisus, his daughter Scylla, and his purple lock;
the invasion of Minos, and his ingratitude towards his benefactress. Then
we come to Cithaeron, and the story of the Thebans, and of the race of
Labdacus; the settlement of Cadmus on the spot where the cow rested, the
dragon's teeth from which the Thebans sprang up, the transformation of
Cadmus into a serpent, the building of the walls of Thebes to the sound
of Amphion's lyre, the subsequent madness of the builder, the boast of
Niobe his wife, her silent grief; Pentheus, Actaeon, Oedipus, Heracles;
his labours and slaughter of his children.

Corinth, again, abounds in legends: of Glauce and of Creon; in earlier
days, of Bellerophon and Stheneboea, and of the strife between Posidon
and the Sun; and, later, of the frenzy of Athamas, of Nephele's children
and their flight through the air on the ram's back, and of the
deification of Ino and Melicertes. Next comes the story of Pelops's line,
of all that befell in Mycenae, and before Mycenae was; of Inachus and Io
and Argus her guardian; of Atreus and Thyestes and Aerope, of the golden
ram and the marriage of Pelopeia, the murder of Agamemnon and the
punishment of Clytemnestra; and before their days, the expedition of the
Seven against Thebes, the reception of the fugitives Tydeus and Polynices
by their father-in-law Adrastus; the oracle that foretold their fate, the
unburied slain, the death of Antigone, and that of Menoeceus.

Nor is any story more essential to the pantomime's purpose than that of
Hypsipyle and Archemorus in Nemea; and, in older days, the imprisonment
of Danae, the begetting of Perseus, his enterprise against the Gorgons;
and connected therewith is the Ethiopian narrative of Cassiopea, and
Cepheus, and Andromeda, all of whom the belief of later generations has
placed among the stars. To these must be added the ancient legend of
Aegyptus and Danaus, and of that guilty wedding-night.

Lacedaemon, too, supplies him with many similar subjects: Hyacinth, and
his rival lovers, Zephyr and Apollo, and the quoit that slew him, the
flower that sprang up from his blood, and the inscription of woe thereon;
the raising of Tyndareus from the dead, and the consequent wrath of
Zeusagainst Asclepius; again, the reception of Paris by Menelaus, and the
rape of Helen, the sequel to his award of the golden apple. For the
Spartan mythology must be held to include that of Troy, in all its
abundance and variety. Of all who fell at Troy, not one but supplies a
subject for the stage; and all--from the rape of Helen to the return of
the Greeks--must ever be borne in mind: the wanderings of Aeneas, the
love of Dido; and side by side with this the story of Orestes, and his
daring deeds in Scythia. And there are earlier episodes which will not be
out of place; they are all connected with the tale of Troy: such are the
seclusion of Achilles in Scyrus, the madness of Odysseus, the solitude of
Philoctetes, with the whole story of Odysseus's wanderings, of Circe and
Telegonus, of Aeolus, controller of the winds, down to the vengeance
wreaked upon the suitors of Penelope; and, earlier, Odysseus's plot
against Palamedes, the resentment of Nauplius, the frenzy of the one
Ajax, the destruction of the other on the rocks.

Elis, too, affords many subjects for the intending pantomime: Oenomaus,
Myrtilus, Cronus, Zeus, and that first Olympian contest. Arcadia, no less
rich in legendary lore, gives him the flight of Daphne, the
transformation of Callisto into a bear, the drunken riot of the Centaurs,
the birth of Pan, the love of Alpheus, and his submarine wanderings.

Extending our view, we find that Crete, too, may be laid under
contribution: Europa's bull, Pasiphae's, the Labyrinth, Ariadne, Phaedra,
Androgeos; Daedalus and Icarus; Glaucus, and the prophecy of Polyides;
and Talos, the island's brazen sentinel.

It is the same with Aetolia: there you will find Althaea, Meleager,
Atalanta, and the fatal brand; the strife of Achelous with Heracles, the
birth of the Sirens, the origin of the Echinades, those islands on which
Alcmaeon dwelt after his frenzy was past; and, following these, the story
of Nessus, and of Deianira's jealousy, which brought Heracles to the pyre
upon Oeta. Thrace, too, has much that is indispensable to the pantomime:
of the head of murdered Orpheus, that sang while it floated down the
stream upon his lyre; of Haemus and of Rhodope; and of the chastisement
of Lycurgus.

Thessalian story, richer still, tells of Pelias and Jason; of Alcestis;
and of the Argo with her talking keel and her crew of fifty youths; of
what befell them in Lemnos; of Aeetes, Medea's dream, the rending of
Absyrtus, the eventful flight from Colchis; and, in later days, of
Protesilaus and Laodamia.

Cross once more to Asia, and Samos awaits you, with the fall of
Polycrates, and his daughter's flight into Persia; and the ancient story
of Tantalus's folly, and of the feast that he gave the Gods; of butchered
Pelops, and his ivory shoulder.

In Italy, we have the Eridanus, Phaethon, and his poplar-sisters, who
wept tears of amber for his loss.

The pantomime must be familiar, too, with the story of the Hesperides,
and the dragon that guarded the golden fruit; with burdened Atlas, and
Geryon, and the driving of the oxen from Erythea; and every tale of
metamorphosis, of women turned into trees or birds or beasts, or (like
Caeneus and Tiresias) into men. From Phoenicia he must learn of Myrrha
and Adonis, who divides Assyria betwixt grief and joy; and in more modern
times of all that Antipater [Footnote: Not Antipater, but Antiochus, is
meant. ] and Seleucus suffered for the love of Stratonice.

The Egyptian mythology is another matter: it cannot be omitted, but on
account of its mysterious character it calls for a more symbolical
exposition;--the legend of Epaphus, for instance, and that of Osiris, and
the conversion of the Gods into animals; and, in particular, their love
adventures, including those of Zeus himself, with his various
transformations.

Hades still remains to be added, with all its tragic tale of guilt and
the punishment of guilt, and the loyal friendship that brought Theseus
thither with Pirithous. In a word, all that Homer and Hesiod and our best
poets, especially the tragedians, have sung,--all must be known to the
pantomime. From the vast, nay infinite, mass of mythology, I have made
this trifling selection of the more prominent legends; leaving the rest
for poets to celebrate, for pantomimes to exhibit, and for your
imagination to supply from the hints already given; and all this the
artist must have stored up in his memory, ready to be produced when
occasion demands.

Since it is his profession to imitate, and to show forth his subject by
means of gesticulation, he, like the orators, must acquire lucidity;
every scene must be intelligible without the aid of an interpreter; to
borrow the expression of the Pythian oracle,

Dumb though he be, and speechless, he is heard

by the spectator. According to the story, this was precisely the
experience of the Cynic Demetrius. He had inveighed against Pantomime in
just your own terms. The pantomime, he said, was a mere appendage to
flute and pipe and beating feet; he added nothing to the action; his
gesticulations were aimless nonsense; there was no meaning in them;
people were hoodwinked by the silken robes and handsome mask, by the
fluting and piping and the fine voices, which served to set off what in
itself was nothing. The leading pantomime of the day--this was in Nero's
reign--was apparently a man of no mean intelligence; unsurpassed, in
fact, in wideness of range and in grace of execution. Nothing, I think,
could be more reasonable than the request he made of Demetrius, which
was, to reserve his decision till he had witnessed his performance, which
he undertook to go through without the assistance of flute or song. He
was as good as his word. The time-beaters, the flutes, even the chorus,
were ordered to preserve a strict silence; and the pantomime, left to his
own resources, represented the loves of Ares and Aphrodite, the tell-tale
Sun, the craft of Hephaestus, his capture of the two lovers in the net,
the surrounding Gods, each in his turn, the blushes of Aphrodite, the
embarrassment of Ares, his entreaties,--in fact the whole story.
Demetrius was ravished at the spectacle; nor could there be higher praise
than that with which he rewarded the performer. 'Man,' he shrieked at the
top of his voice, 'this is not seeing, but hearing and seeing, both:'tis
as if your hands were tongues! '

And before we leave Nero's times, I must tell you of the high tribute
paid to the art by a foreigner of the royal family of Pontus, who was
visiting the Emperor on business, and had been among the spectators of
this same pantomime. So convincing were the artist's gestures, as to
render the subject intelligible even to one who (being half a Greek)
could not follow the vocal accompaniment. When he was about to return to
his country, Nero, in taking leave of him, bade him choose what present
he would have, assuring him that his request should not be refused. 'Give
me,' said the Pontian, 'your great pantomime; no gift could delight me
more. ' 'And of what use can he be to you in Pontus? ' asked the Emperor.
'I have foreign neighbours, who do not speak our language; and it is not
easy to procure interpreters. Your pantomime could discharge that office
perfectly, as often as required, by means of his gesticulations. ' So
profoundly had he been impressed with the extraordinary clearness of
pantomimic representation.

The pantomime is above all things an actor: that is his first aim, in the
pursuit of which (as I have observed) he resembles the orator, and
especially the composer of 'declamations,' whose success, as the
pantomime knows, depends like his own upon verisimilitude, upon the
adaptation of language to character: prince or tyrannicide, pauper or
farmer, each must be shown with the peculiarities that belong to him. I
must give you the comment of another foreigner on this subject. Seeing
five masks laid ready--that being the number of parts in the piece--and
only one pantomime, he asked who were going to play the other parts. He
was informed that the whole piece would be performed by a single actor.
'Your humble servant, sir,' cries our foreigner to the artist; 'I observe
that you have but one body: it had escaped me, that you possessed several
souls. '

The term 'pantomime,' which was introduced by the Italian Greeks, is an
apt one, and scarcely exaggerates the artist's versatility. 'Oh boy,'
cries the poet, in a beautiful passage,

As that sea-beast, whose hue
With each new rock doth suffer change,
So let thy mind free range
Through ev'ry land, shaping herself anew.

Most necessary advice, this, for the pantomime, whose task it is to
identify himself with his subject, and make himself part and parcel of
the scene that he enacts. It is his profession to show forth human
character and passion in all their variety; to depict love and anger,
frenzy and grief, each in its due measure. Wondrous art! --on the same
day, he is mad Athamas and shrinking Ino; he is Atreus, and again he is
Thyestes, and next Aegisthus or Aerope; all one man's work.

Other entertainments of eye or ear are but manifestations of a single
art: 'tis flute or lyre or song; 'tis moving tragedy or laughable comedy.
The pantomime is all-embracing in the variety of his equipment: flute and
pipe, beating foot and clashing cymbal, melodious recitative, choral
harmony. Other arts call out only one half of a man's powers--the bodily
or the mental: the pantomime combines the two. His performance is as much
an intellectual as a physical exercise: there is meaning in his
movements; every gesture has its significance; and therein lies his chief
excellence. The enlightened Lesbonax of Mytilene called pantomimes
'manual philosophers,' and used to frequent the theatre, in the
conviction that he came out of it a better man than he went in. And
Timocrates, his teacher, after accidentally witnessing a pantomimic
performance, exclaimed: 'How much have I lost by my scrupulous devotion
to philosophy! ' I know not what truth there may be in Plato's analysis of
the soul into the three elements of spirit, appetite, and reason: but
each of the three is admirably illustrated by the pantomime; he shows us
the angry man, he shows us the lover, and he shows us every passion under
the control of reason; this last--like touch among the senses--is all-
pervading. Again, in his care for beauty and grace of movement, have we
not an illustration of the Aristotelian principle, which makes beauty a
third part of Good? Nay, I once heard some one hazard a remark, to the
effect that the philosophy of Pantomime went still further, and that in
the _silence_ of the characters a Pythagorean doctrine was shadowed
forth.

All professions hold out some object, either of utility or of pleasure:
Pantomime is the only one that secures both these objects; now the
utility that is combined with pleasure is doubled in value. Who would
choose to look on at a couple of young fellows spilling their blood in a
boxing-match, or wrestling in the dust, when he may see the same subject
represented by the pantomime, with the additional advantages of safety
and elegance, and with far greater pleasure to the spectator? The
vigorous movements of the pantomime--turn and twist, bend and spring--
afford at once a gratifying spectacle to the beholder and a wholesome
training to the performer; I maintain that no gymnastic exercise is its
equal for beauty and for the uniform development of the physical powers,
--of agility, suppleness, and elasticity, as of solid strength.

Consider then the universality of this art: it sharpens the wits, it
exercises the body, it delights the spectator, it instructs him in the
history of bygone days, while eye and ear are held beneath the spell of
flute and cymbal and of graceful dance. Would you revel in sweet song?
Nowhere can you procure that enjoyment in greater variety and perfection.
Would you listen to the clear melody of flute and pipe? Again the
pantomime supplies you. I say nothing of the excellent moral influence of
public opinion, as exercised in the theatre, where you will find the
evil-doer greeted with execration, and his victim with sympathetic tears.
The pantomime's most admirable quality I have yet to mention,--his
combination of strength and suppleness of limb; it is as if brawny
Heracles and soft Aphrodite were presented to us in one and the same
person.

I now propose to sketch out the mental and physical qualifications
necessary for a first-rate pantomime. Most of the former, indeed, I have
already mentioned: he must have memory, sensibility, shrewdness, rapidity
of conception, tact, and judgement; further, he must be a critic of
poetry and song, capable of discerning good music and rejecting bad. For
his body, I think I may take the Canon of Polyclitus as my model. He must
be perfectly proportioned: neither immoderately tall nor dwarfishly
short; not too fleshy (a most unpromising quality in one of his
profession) nor cadaverously thin. Let me quote you certain comments of
the people of Antioch, who have a happy knack in expressing their views
on such subjects. They are a most intelligent people, and devoted to
Pantomime; each individual is all eyes and ears for the performance; not
a word, not a gesture escapes them. Well, when a small man came on in the
character of Hector, they cried out with one voice: 'Here is Astyanax;
and where is Hector? ' On another occasion, an exceedingly tall man was
taking the part of Capaneus scaling the walls of Thebes; 'Step over'
suggested the audience; 'you need no ladder. ' The well-meant activity of
a fat and heavy dancer was met with earnest entreaties to 'spare the
platform'; while a thin performer was recommended to 'take care of his
health. ' I mention these criticisms, not on account of their humorous
character, but as an illustration of the profound interest that whole
cities have sometimes taken in Pantomime, and of their ability to discern
its merits and demerits.

Another essential for the pantomime is ease of movement. His frame must
be at once supple and well-knit, to meet the opposite requirements of
agility and firmness. That he is no stranger to the science of the
boxing--and the wrestling-ring, that he has his share of the athletic
accomplishments of Hermes and Pollux and Heracles, you may convince
yourself by observing his renderings of those subjects. The eyes,
according to Herodotus, are more credible witnesses than the ears; though
the pantomime, by the way, appeals to both kinds of evidence.

Such is the potency of his art, that the amorous spectator is cured of
his infirmity by perceiving the evil effects of passion, and he who
enters the theatre under a load of sorrow departs from it with a serene
countenance, as though he had drunk of that draught of forgetfulness

That lulls all pain and wrath.

How natural is his treatment of his subjects, how intelligible to every
one of his audience, may be judged from the emotion of the house whenever
anything is represented that calls for sorrow or compassion. The Bacchic
form of Pantomime, which is particularly popular in Ionia and Pontus, in
spite of its being confined to satyric subjects has taken such possession
of those peoples, that, when the Pantomime season comes round in each
city, they leave all else and sit for whole days watching Titans and
Corybantes, Satyrs and neat-herds. Men of the highest rank and position
are not ashamed to take part in these performances: indeed, they pride
themselves more on their pantomimic skill than on birth and ancestry and
public services.

Now that we know what are the qualities that a good pantomime ought to
possess, let us next consider the faults to which he is liable.
Deficiencies of person I have already handled; and the following I think
is a fair statement of their mental imperfections. Pantomimes cannot all
be artists; there are plenty of ignorant performers, who bungle their
work terribly. Some cannot adapt themselves to their music; they are
literally 'out of tune'; rhythm says one thing, their feet another.
Others are free from this fault, but jumble up their chronology. I
remember the case of a man who was giving the birth of Zeus, and Cronus
eating his own children: seduced by the similarity of subject, he ran off
into the tale of Atreus and Thyestes. In another case, Semele was just
being struck by the lightning, when she was transformed into Creusa, who
was not even born at that time. Still, it seems to me that we have no
right to visit the sins of the artist upon the art: let us recognize him
for the blunderer that he is, and do justice to the accuracy and skill of
competent performers.

The fact is, the pantomime must be completely armed at every point. His
work must be one harmonious whole, perfect in balance and proportion,
self-consistent, proof against the most minute criticism; there must be
no flaws, everything must be of the best; brilliant conception, profound
learning, above all human sympathy. When every one of the spectators
identifies himself with the scene enacted, when each sees in the
pantomime as in a mirror the reflection of his own conduct and feelings,
then, and not till then, is his success complete. But let him reach that
point, and the enthusiasm of the spectators becomes uncontrollable, every
man pouring out his whole soul in admiration of the portraiture that
reveals him to himself. Such a spectacle is no less than a fulfilment of
the oracular injunction KNOW THYSELF; men depart from it with increased
knowledge; they have learnt something that is to be sought after,
something that should be eschewed.

But in Pantomime, as in rhetoric, there can be (to use a popular phrase)
too much of a good thing; a man may exceed the proper bounds of
imitation; what should be great may become monstrous, softness may be
exaggerated into effeminacy, and the courage of a man into the ferocity
of a beast. I remember seeing this exemplified in the case of an actor of
repute. In most respects a capable, nay, an admirable performer, some
strange fatality ran him a-ground upon this reef of over-enthusiasm. He
was acting the madness of Ajax, just after he has been worsted by
Odysseus; and so lost control of himself, that one might have been
excused for thinking his madness was something more than feigned. He tore
the clothes from the back of one of the iron-shod time-beaters, snatched
a flute from the player's hands, and brought it down in such trenchant
sort upon the head of Odysseus, who was standing by enjoying his triumph,
that, had not his cap held good, and borne the weight of the blow, poor
Odysseus must have fallen a victim to histrionic frenzy. The whole house
ran mad for company, leaping, yelling, tearing their clothes. For the
illiterate riffraff, who knew not good from bad, and had no idea of
decency, regarded it as a supreme piece of acting; and the more
intelligent part of the audience, realizing how things stood, concealed
their disgust, and instead of reproaching the actor's folly by silence,
smothered it under their plaudits; they saw only too clearly that it was
not Ajax but the pantomime who was mad. Nor was our spirited friend
content till he had distinguished himself yet further: descending from
the stage, he seated himself in the senatorial benches between two
consulars, who trembled lest he should take one of them for a ram and
apply the lash. The spectators were divided between wonder and amusement;
and some there were who suspected that his ultra-realism had culminated
in reality. However, it seems that when he came to his senses again he
bitterly repented of this exploit, and was quite ill from grief,
regarding his conduct as that of a veritable madman, as is clear from his
own words. For when his partisans begged him to repeat the performance,
he recommended another actor for the part of Ajax, saying that 'it was
enough for him to have been mad once. ' His mortification was increased by
the success of his rival, who, though a similar part had been written for
him, played it with admirable judgement and discretion, and was
complimented on his observance of decorum, and of the proper bounds of
his art.

I hope, my dear Crato, that this cursory description of the Pantomime may
mitigate your wrath against its devoted admirer. If you can bring
yourself to bear me company to the theatre, you will be captivated; you
will run Pantomime-mad. I shall have no occasion to exclaim, with Circe,

Strange, that my drugs have wrought no change in thee!

The change will come; but will not involve an ass's head, nor a pig's
heart, but only an improved understanding. In your delight at the potion,
you will drain it off, and leave not a drop for any one else. Homer says,
of the golden wand of Hermes, that with it he

charms the eyes of men,
When so he will, and rouses them that sleep.

So it is with Pantomime. It charms the eyes-to wakefulness; and quickens
the mental faculties at every turn.

_Cr_. Enough, Lycinus: behold your convert! My eyes and ears are
opened. When next you go to the theatre, remember to take a seat for me
next your own. I too would issue from those doors a wiser man.




LEXIPHANES


_Lycinus. Lexiphanes. Sopolis_

_Ly_. What, our exquisite with his essay?

_Lex_. Ah, Lycinus, 'tis but a fledgeling of mine; 'tis all
incondite.

_Ly_. O ho, conduits--that is your subject, is it?

_Lex_. You mistake me; I said nothing of conduits; you are behind the
times; incondite--'tis the word we use now when a thing lacks the
finishing touches. But you are the deaf adder that stoppeth her ears.

_Ly_. I beg your pardon, my dear fellow; but conduit, incondite, you
know. Well now, what is the idea of your piece?

_Lex_. A symposium, a modest challenge to the son of Ariston.

_Ly_. There are a good many sons of Aristons; but, from the symposium, I
presume you mean Plato.

_Lex_. You take me; what I said could fit no other.

_Ly_. Well, come, read me a little of it; do not send me away thirsty; I
see there is nectar in store.

_Lex_. Ironist, avaunt! And now open your ears to my charming; adder me no
adders.

_Ly_. Go ahead; I am no Adam, nor Eve either.

_Lex_. Have an eye to my conduct of the discourse, whether it be fair in
commencement, fair in speech, fair in diction, fair in nomenclature.

_Ly_. Oh, we know what to expect from Lexiphanes. But come, begin.

_Lex_.