No More Learning

I have been looking about for my best line of defence. Had I
better turn craven, face right-about, confess my sin, and have recourse
to the regular plea of Chance, Fate, Necessity? Shall I humbly beseech my
critics to pardon me, remembering that nothing is in a man's own choice--
we are led by some stronger power, one of the three I mentioned, probably,
and are not true agents but guiltless altogether, whatever we say or do?
Or will you tell me this might do well enough for one of the common herd,
but you cannot have _me_ sheltering myself so? _I_ must not brief Homer;
it will not serve me to plead:

No mortal man e'er yet escaped his fate;

nor again,

His thread was spun, then when his mother bare him.

On the other hand, I might avoid that plea as wanting in plausibility,
and say that I did not accept this association under the temptation of
money or any prospects of that kind, but in pure admiration of the
wisdom, strength, and magnanimity of my patron's character, which
inspired the wish to partake his activity. But I fear I should only have
brought on myself the additional imputation of flattery. It would be a
case of 'one nail drives out one nail,' and this time the one left in
would be the bigger; for flattery is the most servile, and consequently
reckoned the worst, of all vices.

Both these pleas, then, being excluded, what is left me but to confess
that I have no sound defence to make? I have indeed one anchor yet
aboard: I may whine over age and ill health, and their attendant poverty,
from which a man will purchase escape at any cost. The situation tempts
me to send an invitation to Euripides's _Medea_: will she come and
recite certain lines of hers on my behalf, kindly making the slight
changes needed? --

Too well I know how monstrous is the deed;
My poverty, but not my will, consents.

And every one knows the place in Theognis, whether I quote it or not,
where he approves of people's flinging themselves to the unplumbed deep
from sky-pointing crags, if one may be quit of poverty that way.

That about exhausts the obvious lines of defence; and none of them is
very promising. But never fear, my friend, I am not going to try any of
them. May never Argos be so hard put to it that Cyllarabis must be sown!
nor ever I be in such straits for a tolerable defence as to be driven
upon these evasions! No, I only ask you to consider the vast difference
between being a hireling in a rich man's house, where one is a slave, and
must put up with all that is described in my book--between that and
entering the public service, doing one's best as an administrator, and
taking the Emperor's pay for it. Go fully into the matter; take the two
things separately and have a good look at them; you will find that they
are two octaves apart, as the musical people say; the two lives are about
as like each other as lead is to silver, bronze to gold, an anemone to a
rose, a monkey to a man; there is pay, and there is subordination, in
each case; but the essence of the two things is utterly different. In one
we have manifest slavery; the new-comers who accept the terms are barely
distinguishable from the human chattels a man has bought or bred; but
persons who have the management of public business, and give their
services to states and nations, are not to have insinuations aimed at
them just because they are paid; that single point of resemblance is not
to level them down to the others. If that is to be the principle, we had
better do away with all such offices at once; governors of whole
provinces, prefects of cities, commanders of legions and armies, will all
fall under the same condemnation; for they are paid. But of course
everything is not to be upset to suit a single case; all who receive pay
are not to be lumped together.

It is all a mistake; I never said that all drawers of salaries lived a
degraded life; I only pitied those domestic slaves who have been caught
by compliments on their culture. My position, you see, is entirely
different; my private relations are as they were before, though in a
public capacity I am now an active part of the great Imperial machine. If
you care to inquire, you will find that my charge is not the least
important in the government of Egypt. I control the cause-list, see that
trials are properly conducted, keep a record of all proceedings and
pleas, exercise censorship over forensic oratory, and edit the Emperor's
rescripts with a view to their official and permanent preservation in the
most lucid, accurate, and genuine form. My salary comes from no private
person, but from the Emperor; and it is considerable, amounting to many
hundreds. In the future too there is before _me_ the brilliant prospect of
attaining in due course to a governorship or other distinguished
employment.

Accordingly I am now going to throw off reserve, come to grips with the
charge against me, and prove my case _a fortiori_. I tell you that nobody
does anything for nothing; you may point to people in high places--as high
as you like; the Emperor himself is paid. I am not referring to the taxes
and tribute which flow in annually from subjects; the chief item in the
Emperor's pay is panegyrics, world-wide fame, and grateful devotion; the
statues, temples, and consecrated ground which their subjects bestow upon
them, what are these but pay for the care and forethought which they apply
to public policy and improvements? To compare small things with great, if
you will begin at the top of the heap and work down through the grains of
which it is composed, you will find that we inferior ones differ from the
superior in point of size, but all are wage-earners together.

If the law I laid down had been that no one should do anything, I might
fairly have been accused of transgressing it; but as my book contains
nothing of the sort, and as goodness consists in doing good, what better
use can you make of yourself than if you join forces with your friends in
the cause of progress, come out into the open, and let men see that you
are loyal and zealous and careful of your trust, not what Homer calls a
vain cumberer of the earth?

But before all, my critics are to remember that in me they will be
criticizing not a wise man (if indeed there is such a person on earth),
but one of the common people, one who has indeed practised rhetoric and
won some little reputation therein, but has never been trained up to the
perfect virtue of the really great. Well, I may surely be forgiven for
that; if any one ever did come up to the ideal of the wise man, it has
not been my fortune to meet him. And I confess further that I should be
disappointed if I found you criticizing my present life; you knew me long
ago when I was making a handsome income out of the public profession of
rhetoric; for on that Atlantic tour of yours which included Gaul, you
found me numbered among those teachers who could command high fees. Now,
my friend, you have my defence; I am exceedingly busy, but could not be
indifferent to securing _your_ vote of acquittal; as for others, let
them all denounce me with one voice if they will; on them I shall waste
no more words than, What cares Hippoclides?




A SLIP OF THE TONGUE IN SALUTATION
[Footnote: This piece, which even in the Greek fails to convince us that
Asclepius heard the prayer with which it concludes, is still flatter in
English, because we have no words of salutation which correspond at once
in etymological meaning and in conventional usage to the Greek. The
English reader who cares to understand a piece so little worth his
attention, will obligingly bear in mind that the Greek word represented
here by Joy and Rejoice roughly answered in Lucian's time to our Good-
morning and How do you do, as well as to the epistolary My dear----;
while that represented by Hail or Health did the work of Good-night,
Good-bye, Farewell, and (in letters) Yours truly. ]


If a poor mortal has some difficulty in guarding against that spirit of
mischief which dwells aloft, he has still more in clearing himself of the
absurd consequences when that spirit trips him up. I am in both
predicaments at once; coming to make you my morning salutation, which
should have taken the orthodox form of Rejoice, I bade you, in a very
choice fit of absent-mindedness, Be healthy--a good enough wish in its
way, but a little untimely and unconnected with that early hour. I at
once went moist and red, not quite aware whether I was on my head or my
heels; some of the company took me for a lunatic, no doubt, some thought
I was in my second childhood, some that I had not quite got over my last
night's wine--though you yourself were the pink of good manners, not
showing your consciousness of the slip by any ghost of a smile. It
occurred to me to write to myself a little something in the way of
comfort, and so modify the distress my blunder gave me--prove to myself
that it was not absolutely unpardonable for an old man to transgress
etiquette so flagrantly before so many witnesses. As to apology, there
could be no occasion for that, when one's slip had resulted in so well-
omened a wish.

I began to write expecting my task to be very difficult, but found plenty
of material as I went on. I will defer it, however, till I have cleared
the way with a few necessary remarks on the three forms--Rejoice or Joy,
Prosper or Prosperity, Hail or Health. Joy is a very ancient greeting; but
it was not confined to the morning, or the first meeting. They did
use it when they first saw one another:

Joy to thee, Lord of this Tirynthian land!

But again at the moment when the wine succeeded to the meal:

Achilles, Joy! We lack not fair repast--

so says Odysseus discharging his embassy. And even at parting:

Joy be with you! And henceforth know me God,
No longer mortal man.

In fact the apostrophe was not limited to any particular season, as now
to the morning alone; indeed they used it on gloomy, nay, on the most
lamentable occasions; in Euripides, Polynices ends his life with the
words,

Joy with you! for the darkness closes on me.

Nor was it necessarily significative of friendliness; it could express
hatred and the determination to see no more of another. To wish much joy
to, was a regular form for ceasing to care about.

The modern use of the word dates back to Philippides the dispatch-runner.
Bringing the news of Marathon, he found the archons seated, in suspense
regarding the issue of the battle. 'Joy, we win! ' he said, and died upon
his message, breathing his last in the word Joy. The earliest letter
beginning with it is that in which Cleon the Athenian demagogue, writing
from Sphacteria, sends the good news of his victory and capture of
Spartans at that place. However, later than that we find Nicias writing
from Sicily and keeping to the older custom of coming to business at once
with no such introduction.

Now the admirable Plato, no bad authority on such matters, would have us
reject the salutation Joy altogether; it is a mean wish, wanting in
seriousness, according to him; his substitute is Prosperity, which stands
for a satisfactory condition both of body and soul; in a letter to
Dionysius, he reproves him for commencing a hymn to Apollo with Joy,
which he maintains is unworthy of the Pythian, and not fit even for men
of any discretion, not to mention Gods.

Pythagoras the mystic has vouchsafed us no writings of his own; but we
may infer from his disciples, Ocellus the Lucanian and Archytas, for
instance, that he headed his letters neither with Joy nor Prosperity, but
recommended beginning with Hail. At any rate all the Pythagoreans in
writing to one another (when their tone is serious, that is) started with
wishing Health, which they took to be the prime need of soul and body
alike, and to include all human blessings. The Pentagram [Footnote: See
_Pythagoras_ in Notes. ], that interlaced triple triangle which served them
as a sort of password, they called by the name Health. They argued that
Health included Joy and Prosperity, but that neither of those two was
coextensive with Health. Some of them gave to the Quaternion, [Footnote:
See _Pythagoras_ in Notes. ] which is their most solemn oath, and sums
their perfect number, the name of Beginning of Health. Philolaus might be
quoted.

But I need hardly go so far back. Epicurus assuredly rejoiced in joy--
pleasure was the chief Good in his eyes; yet in his most earnest letters
(which are not very numerous), and in those to his most intimate friends,
he starts with Hail. And in tragedy and the old comedy you will
constantly find it used quite at the beginning. You remember,

Hail to thee, joy be thine--

which puts health before rejoicing clearly enough. And says Alexis:

All hail, my lord; after long time thou comest.

Again Achaeus:

I come in sorry plight, yet wish thee health.

And Philemon:

Health first I ask, and next prosperity,
Joy thirdly, and to owe not any man.

As for the writer of the drinking-song mentioned in Plato, what says
he? --'Best is health, and second beauty, and third wealth'; joy he
never so much as names. I need hardly adduce the trite saw:

Chief of them that blessings give,
Health, with thee I mean to live.

But, if Health is chief, her gift, which is the enjoyment of health,
should rank before other Goods.

I could multiply these examples by the thousand from poets, historians,
philosophers, who give Health the place of honour; but you will not
require any such childish pedantry of me, wiping out my original offence
by another; I shall do better to add a historical anecdote or two which
occur to me as relevant.

Eumenes of Cardia, writing to Antipater, states that just before the
battle of Issus, Hephaestion came at dawn into Alexander's tent. Either
in absence of mind and confusion like mine, or else under a divine
impulse, he gave the evening salutation like me--'Hail, sire; 'tis time
we were at our posts. ' All present were confounded at the irregularity,
and Hephaestion himself was like to die of shame, when Alexander said, 'I
take the omen; it is a promise that we shall come back safe from battle. '

Antiochus Soter, about to engage the Galatians, dreamed that Alexander
stood over him and told him to give his men the password Health; and with
this word it was that he won that marvellous victory.

Ptolemy, the son of Lagus, in a letter to Seleucus, just reversed the
usual order, bidding him Hail at the beginning, and adding Rejoice at the
end instead of wishing him Health; this is recorded by Dionysodorus, the
collector of his letters.

The case of Pyrrhus the Epirot is well worth mention; as a general he was
only second to Alexander, and he experienced a thousand vicissitudes of
fortune. In all his prayers, sacrifices, and offerings, he never asked
for victory or increase of his royal dignity, for fame or excessive
wealth; his whole prayer was always in one word, Health; as long as he
had that, he thought all else would come of itself. And it was true
wisdom, in my opinion; he remembered that all other good things are
worthless, if health is wanting.

Oh, certainly (says some one); but we have assigned each form to its
proper place by this time; and if you disregard that--even though there
was no bad meaning in what you did say--you cannot fairly claim to have
made no mistake; it is as though one should put a helmet on the shins, or
greaves on the head. My dear sir (I reply), your simile would go on all
fours if there were any season at all which did not require health; but
in point of fact it is needed in the morning and at noonday and at night
--especially by busy rulers like you Romans, to whom physical condition
is so important. And again, the man who gives you Joy is only beginning
auspiciously; it is no more than a prayer; whereas he who bids you Hail
is doing you a practical service in reminding you of the means to health;
his is more than a prayer, it is a precept.

Why, in that book of instructions which you all receive from the Emperor,
is not the first recommendation to take care of your health? Quite
rightly; that is the condition precedent of efficiency. Moreover, if I
know any Latin, you yourselves, in _returning_ a salutation, constantly
use the equivalent of Health.

However, all this does not mean that I have deliberately abandoned
Rejoice and substituted Hail for it. I admit that it was quite
unintentional; I am not so foolish as to innovate like that, and exchange
the regular formulae.

No, I only thank Heaven that my stumble had such very fortunate results,
landing me in a better position than I had designed; may it not be that
Health itself, or Asclepius, inspired me to give you this promise of
health? How else should it have befallen me? In the course of a long life
I have never been guilty of such a confusion before.

Or, if I may not have recourse to the supernatural, it is no wonder that
my extreme desire to be known to you for good should so confuse me as to
work the contrary effect. Possibly, too, one might be robbed of one's
presence of mind by the crowd of military persons pushing for precedence,
or treating the salutation ceremony in their cavalier fashion.

As to yourself, I feel sure that, however others may have referred it to
stupidity, ignorance, or lunacy, you took it as the sign of a modest,
simple, unspoiled, unsophisticated soul. Absolute confidence in such
matters comes dangerously near audacity and impudence. My first wish
would be to make no such blunder; my second that, if I did, the resulting
omen should be good.

There is a story told of the first Augustus. He had given a correct legal
decision, which acquitted a maligned person of a most serious charge. The
latter expressed his gratitude in a loud voice, thus:--'I thank your
majesty for this bad and inequitable verdict. ' Augustus's attendants
raged, and were ready to tear the man to pieces. But the Emperor
restrained them; 'Never mind what he said; it is what he meant that
matters. ' That was Augustus's view. Well, take my meaning, and it was
good; or take my word, and it was auspicious.

And now that I have got to this point, I have reason to fear that I may
be suspected of having made the slip on purpose, leading up to this
apology. O God of health, only grant me that the quality of my piece may
justify the notion that I wanted no more than a peg whereon to hang an
essay!




HERMOTIMUS, OR THE RIVAL PHILOSOPHIES


_Lycinus. Hermotimus_

_Ly_. Good morning, Hermotimus; I guess by your book and the pace
you are going at that you are on your way to lecture, and a little late.
You were conning over something as you walked, your lips working and
muttering, your hand flung out this way and that as you got a speech into
order in your mind; you were doubtless inventing one of your crooked
questions, or pondering some tricky problem; never a vacant mind, even in
the streets; always on the stretch and in earnest, bent on advancing in
your studies.

_Her_. I admit the impeachment; I was running over the details of
what he said in yesterday's lecture. One must lose no chance, you know;
the Coan doctor [Footnote: Hippocrates] spoke so truly: _ars longa,
vita brevis_. And what be referred to was only physic--a simpler
matter. As to philosophy, not only will you never attain it, however long
you study, unless you are wide awake all the time, contemplating it with
intense eager gaze; the stake is so tremendous, too,--whether you shall
rot miserably with the vulgar herd, or be counted among philosophers and
reach Happiness.

_Ly_. A glorious prize, indeed! however, you cannot be far off it
now, if one may judge by the time you have given to philosophy, and the
extraordinary vigour of your long pursuit. For twenty years now, I should
say, I have watched you perpetually going to your professors, generally
bent over a book taking notes of past lectures, pale with thought and
emaciated in body. I suspect you find no release even in your dreams, you
are so wrapped up in the thing. With all this you must surely get hold of
Happiness soon, if indeed you have not found it long ago without telling
us.

_Her_. Alas, Lycinus, I am only just beginning to get an inkling of
the right way. Very far off dwells Virtue, as Hesiod says, and long and
steep and rough is the way thither, and travellers must bedew it with
sweat.

_Ly_. And you have not yet sweated and travelled enough?

_Her_. Surely not; else should I have been on the summit, with
nothing left between me and bliss; but I am only starting yet, Lycinus.

_Ly_. Ah, but Hesiod, your own authority, tells us, Well begun is
half done; so we may safely call you half-way by this time.

_Her_. Not even there yet; that would indeed have been much.

_Ly_. Where _shall_ we put you, then?

_Her_. Still on the lower slopes, just making an effort to get on;
but it is slippery and rough, and needs a helping hand.

_Ly_. Well, your master can give you that; from his station on the
summit, like Zeus in Homer with his golden cord, he can let you down his
discourse, and therewith haul and heave you up to himself and to the
Virtue which he has himself attained this long time.

_Her_. The very picture of what he is doing; if it depended on him
alone, I should have been hauled up long ago; it is my part that is still
wanting.

_Ly_. You must be of good cheer and keep a stout heart; gaze at the
end of your climb and the Happiness at the top, and remember that he is
working with you. What prospect does he hold out? when are you to be up?
does he think you will be on the top next year--by the Great Mysteries,
or the Panathenaea, say?

_Her_. Too soon, Lycinus.

_Ly_. By next Olympiad, then?

_Her_. All too short a time, even that, for habituation to Virtue
and attainment of Happiness.

_Ly_. Say two Olympiads, then, for an outside estimate. You may fairly be
found guilty of laziness, if you cannot get it done by then; the time
would allow you three return trips from the Pillars of Heracles to India,
with a margin for exploring the tribes on the way instead of sailing
straight and never stopping. How much higher and more slippery, pray, is
the peak on which your Virtue dwells than that Aornos crag which Alexander
stormed in a few days?

_Her_. There is no resemblance, Lycinus; this is not a thing, as you
conceive it, to be compassed and captured quickly, though ten thousand
Alexanders were to assault it; in that case, the sealers would have been
legion. As it is, a good number begin the climb with great confidence,
and do make progress, some very little indeed, others more; but when they
get half-way, they find endless difficulties and discomforts, lose heart,
and turn back, panting, dripping, and exhausted. But those who endure to
the end reach the top, to be blessed thenceforth with wondrous days,
looking down from their height upon the ants which are the rest of
mankind.

_Ly_. Dear me, what tiny things you make us out--not so big as the Pygmies
even, but positively grovelling on the face of the earth. I quite
understand it; your thoughts are up aloft already. And we, the common men
that walk the earth, shall mingle you with the Gods in our prayers; for
you are translated above the clouds, and gone up whither you have so long
striven.

_Her_. If but that ascent might be, Lycinus! but it is far yet.

_Ly_. But you have never told me _how_ far, in terms of time.

_Her_. No; for I know not precisely myself. My guess is that it will
not be more than twenty years; by that time I shall surely be on the
summit.

_Ly_. Mercy upon us, you take long views!

_Her_. Ay; but, as the toil, so is the reward.

_Ly_. That may be; but about these twenty years--have you your master's
promise that you will live so long? is he prophet as well as philosopher?
or is it a soothsayer or Chaldean expert that you trust? such things are
known to them, I understand. You would never, of course, if there were any
uncertainty of your life's lasting to the Virtue-point, slave and toil
night and day like this; why, just as you were close to the top, your fate
might come upon you, lay hold of you by the heel, and lug you down with
your hopes unfulfilled.

_Her_. God forbid! these are words of ill omen, Lycinus; may life be
granted me, that I may grow wise, and have if it be but one day of
Happiness!

_Ly_. For all these toils will you be content with your one day?

_Her_. Content? yes, or with the briefest moment of it.

_Ly_.
But is there indeed Happiness up there--and worth all the pains? How
can you tell? You have never been up yourself.

_Her_. I trust my master's word; and he knows well; is he not on the
topmost height?

_Ly_. Oh, do tell me what he says about it; what is Happiness like?
wealth, glory, pleasures incomparable?

_Her_. Hush, friend! all these have nought to do with the Virtuous
life.

_Ly_. Well, if these will not do, what _are_ the good things he offers to
those who carry their course right through?

_Her_. Wisdom, courage, true beauty, justice, full and firm knowledge of
all things as they are; but wealth and glory and pleasure and all bodily
things--these a man strips off and abandons before he mounts up, like
Heracles burning on Mount Oeta before deification; he too cast off
whatever of the human he had from his mother, and soared up to the Gods
with his divine part pure and unalloyed, sifted by the fire. Even so those
I speak of are purged by the philosophic fire of all that deluded men
count admirable, and reaching the summit have Happiness with never a
thought of wealth and glory and pleasure--except to smile at any who count
them more than phantoms.

_Ly_. By Heracles (and his death on Oeta), they quit themselves like
men, and have their reward, it seems. But there is one thing I should
like to know: are they allowed to come down from their elevation
sometimes, and have a taste of what they left behind them? or when they
have once got up, must they stay there, conversing with Virtue, and
smiling at wealth and glory and pleasure?

_Her_. The latter, assuredly; more than that, a man once admitted of
Virtue's company will never be subject to wrath or fear or desire any
more; no, nor can he feel pain, nor any such sensation.

_Ly_. Well, but--if one might dare to say what one thinks--but no--let me
keep a good tongue in my head--it were irreverent to pry into what wise
men do.

_Her_. Nay, nay; let me know your meaning.

_Ly_. Dear friend, I have not the courage.

_Her_. Out with it, my good fellow; we are alone.

_Ly_. Well, then--most of your account I followed and accepted--how
they grow wise and brave and just, and the rest--indeed I was quite
fascinated by it; but then you went on to say they despised wealth and
glory and pleasure; well, just there (quite between ourselves, you know)
I was pulled up; I thought of a scene t'other day with--shall I tell you
whom? Perhaps we can do without a name?

_Her_. No, no; we must have that too.

_Ly_. Your own professor himself, then,--a person to whom all
respect is due, surely, not to mention his years.

_Her_. Well?

_Ly_. You know the Heracleot, quite an old pupil of his in philosophy by
this time--red-haired--likes an argument?

_Her_. Yes; Dion, he is called.

_Ly_. Well, I suppose he had not paid up punctually; anyhow the other day
the old man haled him before the magistrate, with a halter made of his own
coat; he was shouting and fuming, and if some friends had not come up and
got the young man out of his hands, he would have bitten off his nose, he
was in such a temper.

_Her_. Ah, _he_ is a bad character, always an unconscionable time paying
his debts. There are plenty of others who owe the professor money, and he
has never treated any of them so; they pay him his interest punctually.

_Ly_. Not so fast; what in the world does it matter to him, if they do not
pay up? he is purified by philosophy, and has no further need of the cast
clothes of Oeta.

_Her_. Do you suppose his interest in such things is selfish? no, but he
has little ones; his care is to save them from indigence.

_Ly_. Whereas he ought to have brought them up to Virtue too, and let them
share his inexpensive Happiness.

_Her_. Well, I have no time to argue it, Lycinus; I must not be late for
lecture, lest in the end I find myself left behind.

_Ly_. Don't be afraid, my duteous one; to-day is a holiday; I can save you
the rest of your walk.

_Her_. What do you mean?

_Ly_. You will not find him just now, if the notice is to be trusted;
there was a tablet over the door announcing in large print, No meeting
this day. I hear he dined yesterday with the great Eucrates, who was
keeping his daughter's birthday. He talked a good deal of philosophy
over the wine, and lost his temper a little with Euthydemus the
Peripatetic; they were debating the old Peripatetic objections to the
Porch. His long vocal exertions (for it was midnight before they broke
up) gave him a bad headache, with violent perspiration. I fancy he had
also drunk a little too much, toasts being the order of the day, and
eaten more than an old man should. When he got home, he was very ill,
they said, just managed to check and lock up carefully the slices of meat
which he had conveyed to his servant at table, and then, giving orders
that he was not at home, went to sleep, and has not waked since. I
overheard Midas his man telling this to some of his pupils; there were a
number of them coming away.

_Her_. Which had the victory, though, he or Euthydemus--if Midas said
anything about that?

_Ly_. Why, at first, I gathered, it was very even between them; but you
Stoics had it in the end, and your master was much too hard for him.
Euthydemus did not even get off whole; he had a great cut on his head. He
was pretentious, insisted on proving his point, would not give in, and
proved a hard nut to crack; so your excellent professor, who had a goblet
as big as Nestor's in his hand, brought this down on him as he lay within
easy reach, and the victory was his.

_Her_. Good; so perish all who will not yield to their betters!

_Ly_. Very reasonable, Hermotimus; what was Euthydemus thinking of, to
irritate an old man who is purged of wrath and master of his passions,
when he had such a heavy goblet in his hand?

But we have time to spare--you might tell a friend like me the story of
your start in philosophy; then I might perhaps, if it is not too late,
begin now and join your school; you are my friends; you will not be
exclusive?

_Her_. If only you would, Lycinus! you will soon find out how much you are
superior to the rest of men. I do assure you, you will think them all
children, you will be so much wiser.

_Ly_. Enough for me, if after twenty years of it I am where you are now.

_Her_. Oh, I was about your age when I started on philosophy; I was forty;
and you must be about that.

_Ly_. Just that; so take and lead me on the same way; that is but right.
And first tell me--do you allow learners to criticize, if they find
difficulties in your doctrines, or must juniors abstain from that?

_Her_. Why, yes, they must; but _you_ shall have leave to ask questions
and criticize; you will learn easier that way.

_Ly_. I thank you for it, Hermotimus, by your name-God Hermes.

Now, is there only one road to philosophy--the Stoic way? they tell me
there are a great many other philosophers; is that so?

_Her_. Certainly--Peripatetics, Epicureans, Platonists, followers of
Diogenes, Antisthenes, Pythagoras, and more yet.

_Ly_. Quite so; numbers of them. Now, are their doctrines the same,
or different?

_Her_. Entirely different.

_Ly_. But the truth, I presume, is bound to be in one of them, and not in
all, as they differ?

_Her_. Certainly.

_Ly_. Then, as you love me, answer this: when you first went in pursuit of
philosophy, you found many gates wide open; what induced you to pass the
others by, and go in at the Stoic gate? Why did you assume that that was
the only true one, which would set you on the straight road to Virtue,
while the rest all opened on blind alleys? What was the test you applied
_then_? Please abolish your present self, the self which is now
instructed, or half-instructed, and better able to distinguish between
good and bad than we outsiders, and answer in your then character of a
layman, with no advantage over me as I am now.

_Her_. I cannot tell what you are driving at.

_Ly_. Oh, there is nothing recondite about it. There are a great many
philosophers--let us say Plato, Aristotle, Antisthenes, and your spiritual
fathers, Chrysippus, Zeno, and all the rest of them; what was it that
induced you, leaving the rest alone, to pick out the school you did from
among them all, and pin your philosophic faith to it? Were you favoured
like Chaerephon with a revelation from Apollo? Did he tell you the Stoics
were the best of men, and send you to their school? I dare say he
recommends different philosophers to different persons, according to
their individual needs?

_Her_. Nothing of the kind, Lycinus; I never consulted him upon it.

_Ly_. Why? was it not a _dignus vindice nodus_? or were you confident in
your own unaided discrimination?

_Her_. Why, yes; I was.

_Ly_. Then this must be my first lesson from you--how one can decide
out of hand which is the best and the true philosophy to be taken, and
the others left.

_Her_. I will tell you: I observed that it attracted most disciples, and
thence inferred that it was superior.

_Ly_. Give me figures; how many more of them than of Epicureans,
Platonists, Peripatetics? Of course you took a sort of show of hands.

_Her_. Well, no; I didn't count; I just guessed.

_Ly_. Now, now! you are not teaching, but hoaxing me; judge by guess
work and impression, indeed, on a thing of this importance! You are
hiding the truth.

_Her_. Well, that was not my only way; every one told me the Epicureans
were sensual and self-indulgent, the Peripatetics avaricious and
contentious, the Platonists conceited and vain; about the Stoics, on the
contrary, many said they had fortitude and an open mind; he who goes their
way, I heard, was the true king and millionaire and wise man, alone and
all in one.

_Ly_. And, of course, it was other people who so described them; you
would not have taken their own word for their excellences.

_Her_. Certainly not; it was others who said it.

_Ly_. Not their rivals, I suppose?

_Her_. Oh, no.

_Ly_. Laymen, then?

_Her_. Just so.

_Ly_. There you are again, cheating me with your irony; you take me for a
blockhead, who will believe that an intelligent person like Hermotimus, at
the age of forty, would accept the word of laymen about philosophy and
philosophers, and make his own selection on the strength of what they
said.

_Her_. But you see, Lycinus, I did not depend on their judgement entirely,
but on my own too. I saw the Stoics going about with dignity, decently
dressed and groomed, ever with a thoughtful air and a manly countenance,
as far from effeminacy as from the utter repulsive negligence of the
Cynics, bearing themselves, in fact, like moderate men; and every one
admits that moderation is right.

_Ly_. Did you ever see them behaving like your master, as I described him
to you just now? Lending money and clamouring for payment, losing their
tempers in philosophic debates, and making other exhibitions of
themselves? Or perhaps these are trifles, so long as the dress is
decent, the beard long, and the hair close-cropped? We are provided for
the future, then, with an infallible rule and balance, guaranteed by
Hermotimus? It is by appearance and walk and haircutting that the best
men are to be distinguished; and whosoever has not these marks, and is
not solemn and thoughtful, shall be condemned and rejected?

Nay, do not play with me like this; you want to see whether I shall catch
you at it.

_Her_. Why do you say that?

_Ly_. Because, my dear sir, this appearance test is one for statues;
_their_ decent orderly attire has it easily over the Stoics, because
Phidias or Alcamenes or Myron designed them to be graceful. However,
granting as much as you like that these are the right tests, what is a
blind man to do, if he wants to take up philosophy? how is he to find the
man whose principles are right, when he cannot see his appearance or gait?

_Her_. I am not teaching the blind, Lycinus; I have nothing to do with
them.

_Ly_. Ah, but, my good sir, there ought to have been some universal
criterion, in a matter of such great and general use. Still, if you will
have it so, let the blind be excluded from philosophy, as they cannot
see--though, by the way, they are just the people who most need
philosophy to console them for their misfortune; but now, the people who
_can_ see--give them the utmost possible acuity of vision, and what
can they detect of the spiritual qualities from this external shell?

What I mean is this: was it not from admiration of their _spirit_ that you
joined them, expecting to have your own spirit purified?

_Her_. Assuredly.

_Ly_. How could you possibly discern the true philosopher from the
false, then, by the marks you mentioned? It is not the way of such
qualities to come out like that; they are hidden and secret; they are
revealed only under long and patient observation, in talk and debate and
the conduct they inspire. You have probably heard of Momus's indictment
of Hephaestus; if not, you shall have it now. According to the myth,
Athene, Posidon, and Hephaestus had a match in inventiveness. Posidon
made a bull, Athene planned a house, Hephaestus constructed a man; when
they came before Momus, who was to judge, he examined their productions;
I need not trouble you with his criticisms of the other two; but his
objection to the man, and the fault he found with Hephaestus, was this:
he should have made a window in his chest, so that, when it was opened,
his thoughts and designs, his truth or falsehood, might have been
apparent. Momus must have been blear-eyed, to have such ideas about men;
but you have sharper eyes than Lynceus, and pierce through the chest to
what is inside; all is patent to you, not merely any man's wishes and
sentiments, but the comparative merits of any pair.

_Her_. You trifle, Lycinus. I made a pious choice, and do not repent it;
that is enough for me.

_Ly_. And will you yet make a mystery of it to your friend, and let him be
lost with the vulgar herd?

_Her_. Why, you will not accept anything I say.

_Ly_. On the contrary, my good sir, it is you who will not say anything I
can accept. Well, as you refuse me your confidence, and are so jealous of
my becoming a philosopher and your equal, I must even do my best to find
out the infallible test and learn to choose safely for myself. And you may
listen, if you like.