Such
knowledge
is as useful as it is ornamental.
Lucian
Now in Wisdom's name, tell me, pray, what is a predicate?
what is a contingent? There is a ring about those words that takes my
fancy.
_Chrys_. With all my heart. A man lame in one foot knocks that foot
accidentally against a stone, and gets a cut. Now the man is _subject_
to lameness; which is the _predicate_. And the cut is a _contingency_.
_Seventh D_. Oh, subtle! What else can you tell me?
_Chrys_. I have verbal involutions, for the better hampering,
crippling, and muzzling of my antagonists. This is performed by the
use of the far-famed syllogism.
_Seventh D_. Syllogism! I warrant him a tough customer.
_Chrys_. Take a case. You have a child?
_Seventh D_. Well, and what if I have?
_Chrys_. A crocodile catches him as he wanders along the bank of a
river, and promises to restore him to you, if you will first guess
correctly whether he means to restore him or not. Which are you going
to say?
_Seventh D_. A difficult question. I don't know which way I should get
him back soonest. In Heaven's name, answer for me, and save the child
before he is eaten up.
_Chrys_. Ha, ha. I will teach you far other things than that.
_Seventh D_. For instance?
_Chrys_. There is the 'Reaper. ' There is the 'Rightful Owner. ' Better
still, there is the 'Electra' and the 'Man in the Hood. '
_Seventh D_. Who was he? and who was Electra?
_Chrys_. She was _the_ Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, to whom the
same thing was known and unknown at the same time. She knew that
Orestes was her brother: yet when he stood before her she did not know
(until he revealed himself) that her brother was Orestes. As to the
Man in the Hood, he will surprise you considerably. Answer me now: do
you know your own father?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well now, if I present to you a man in a hood, shall you know
him? eh?
_Seventh D_. Of course not.
_Chrys_. Well, but the Man in the Hood is your father. You don't know
the Man in the Hood. Therefore you don't know your own father.
_Seventh D_. Why, no. But if I take his hood off, I shall get at the
facts. Now tell me, what is the end of your philosophy? What happens
when you reach the goal of virtue?
_Chrys_. In regard to things external, health, wealth, and the like, I
am then all that Nature intended me to be. But there is much previous
toil to be undergone. You will first sharpen your eyes on minute
manuscripts, amass commentaries, and get your bellyful of outlandish
terms. Last but not least, it is forbidden to be wise without repeated
doses of hellebore.
_Seventh D_. All this is exalted and magnanimous to a degree. But what
am I to think when I find that you are also the creed of
cent-per-cent, the creed of the usurer? Has _he_ swallowed his
hellebore? is _he_ made perfect in virtue?
_Chrys_. Assuredly. On none but the wise man does usury sit well.
Consider. His is the art of putting two and two together, and usury is
the art of putting interest together. The two are evidently connected,
and one as much as the other is the prerogative of the true believer;
who, not content, like common men, with simple interest, will also
take interest _upon_ interest. For interest, as you are probably
aware, is of two kinds. There is simple interest, and there is its
offspring, compound interest. Hear Syllogism on the subject. 'If I
take simple interest, I shall also take compound. But I _shall_
take simple interest: therefore I shall take compound. '
_Seventh D_. And the same applies to the fees you take from your
youthful pupils? None but the true believer sells virtue for a fee?
_Chrys_. Quite right. I take the fee in my pupil's interest, not
because I want it. The world is made up of diffusion and accumulation.
I accordingly practise my pupil in the former, and myself in the
latter.
_Seventh D_. But it ought to be the other way. The pupil ought to
accumulate, and you, 'sole millionaire,' ought to diffuse.
_Chrys_. Ha! you jest with me? Beware of the shaft of insoluble
syllogism.
_Seventh D_. What harm can that do?
_Chrys_. It cripples; it ties the tongue, and turns the brain. Nay, I
have but to will it, and you are stone this instant.
_Seventh D_. Stone! You are no Perseus, friend?
_Chrys_. See here. A stone is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well, and an animal is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And you are an animal?
_Seventh D_. I suppose I am.
_Chrys_. Therefore you are a body. Therefore a stone.
_Seventh D_. Mercy, in Heaven's name! Unstone me, and let me be flesh
as heretofore.
_Chrys_. That is soon done. Back with you into flesh! Thus: Is every
body animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Is a stone animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Now, you are a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And an animate body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Then being animate, you cannot be a stone.
_Seventh D_. Ah! thank you, thank you. I was beginning to feel my
limbs growing numb and solidifying like Niobe's. Oh, I must have you.
What's to pay?
_Her_. Fifty pounds.
_Seventh D_. Here it is.
_Her_. Are you sole purchaser?
_Seventh D_. Not I. All these gentlemen here are going shares.
_Her_. A fine strapping lot of fellows, and will do the 'Reaper'
credit.
_Zeus_. Don't waste time. Next lot,--the Peripatetic!
_Her_. Now, my beauty, now, Affluence! Gentlemen, if you want Wisdom
for your money, here is a creed that comprises all knowledge.
_Eighth D_. What is he like?
_Her_. He is temperate, good-natured, easy to get on with; and his
strong point is, that he is twins.
_Eighth D_. How can that be?
_Her_. Why, he is one creed outside, and another inside. So remember,
if you buy him, one of him is called Esoteric, and the other Exoteric.
_Eighth D_. And what has he to say for himself?
_Her_. He has to say that there are three kinds of good: spiritual,
corporeal, circumstantial.
_Eighth D_. _There's_ something a man can understand. How much is he?
_Her_. Eighty pounds.
_Eighth D_. Eighty pounds is a long price.
_Her_. Not at all, my dear sir, not at all. You see, there is some
money with him, to all appearance. Snap him up before it is too late.
Why, from him you will find out in no time how long a gnat lives, to
how many fathoms' depth the sunlight penetrates the sea, and what an
oyster's soul is like.
_Eighth D_. Heracles! Nothing escapes him.
_Her_. Ah, these are trifles. You should hear some of his more
abstruse speculations, concerning generation and birth and the
development of the embryo; and his distinction between man, the
laughing creature, and the ass, which is neither a laughing nor a
carpentering nor a shipping creature.
_Eighth D_.
Such knowledge is as useful as it is ornamental. Eighty
pounds be it, then.
_Her_. He is yours.
_Zeus_. What have we left?
_Her_. There is Scepticism. Come along, Pyrrhias, and be put up.
Quick's the word. The attendance is dwindling; there will be small
competition. Well, who buys Lot 9?
_Ninth D_. I. Tell me first, though, what do you know?
_Sc_. Nothing.
_Ninth D_. But how's that?
_Sc_. There does not appear to me to _be_ anything.
_Ninth D_. Are not _we_ something?
_Sc_. How do I know that?
_Ninth D_. And you yourself?
_Sc_. Of that I am still more doubtful.
_Ninth D_. Well, you _are_ in a fix! And what have you got those
scales for?
_Sc_. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced,
They must be absolutely equal--not a feather-weight to choose between
them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right.
_Ninth D_. What else can you turn your hand to?
_Sc_. Anything; except catching a runaway.
_Ninth D_. And why not that?
_Sc_. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp.
_Ninth D_. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And
what is the end of your knowledge?
_Sc_. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness.
_Ninth D_. What! sight and hearing both gone?
_Sc_. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that
distinguishes man from a worm.
_Ninth D_. You are worth money! --What shall we say for him?
_Her_. Four pounds.
_Ninth D_. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine?
_Sc_. I doubt it.
_Ninth D_. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for.
_Sc_. It is a difficult case. . . . I reserve my decision.
_Ninth D_. Now, come along with me, like a good slave.
_Sc_. But how am I to know whether what you say is true?
_Ninth D_. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators.
_Sc_. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any?
_Ninth D_. Oh, I'll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you
with a vengeance that I am your master.
_Sc_. Reserve your decision.
_Ninth D_. Too late. It is given.
_Her_. Stop that wrangling and go with your purchaser. Gentlemen, we
hope to see you here again to-morrow, when we shall be offering some
lots suitable for plain men, artisans, and shopkeepers.
F.
THE FISHER
A RESURRECTION PIECE
_Lucian or Parrhesiades. Socrates, Empedocles. Plato. Chrysippus.
Diogenes. Aristotle. Other Philosophers. Platonists. Pythagoreans.
Stoics. Peripatetics. Epicureans. Academics. Philosophy. Truth.
Temperance. Virtue. Syllogism. Exposure. Priestess of Athene_.
_Soc_. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with
clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him
no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder
to shoulder, close the ranks;
Let wallet succour wallet, staff aid staff!
We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed.
You, Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand
firm, all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his reveling. What,
Epicurus, Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages,
Be men; relume that erstwhile furious wrath!
Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you,
villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you
have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an
elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a
separate death to every one of us.
_First Phil_. Impale him, say I.
_Second Phil_. Yes, but scourge him first.
_Third Phil_. Tear out his eyes.
_Fourth Phil_. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue.
_Soc_. What say you, Empedocles?
_Emp_. Oh, fling him into a crater; that will teach him to vilify his
betters.
_Pl_. 'Twere best for him, Orpheus or Pentheus like, to
Find death, dashed all to pieces on the rock;
so each might have taken a piece home with him.
_Lu_. Forbear; spare me; I appeal to the God of suppliants.
_Soc_. Too late; no loophole is left you now. And you know your Homer:
'Twixt men and lions, covenants are null. '
_Lu_. Why, it is in Homer's name that I ask my boon. You will perhaps
pay reverence to his lines, and listen to a selection from him:
Slay not; no churl is he; a ransom take
Of bronze and gold, whereof wise hearts are fain.
_Pl_. Why, two can play at that game; _exempli gratia_,
Reviler, babble not of gold, nor nurse
Hope of escape from these our hands that hold thee.
_Lu_. Ah me, ah me! my best hopes dashed, with Homer! Let me fly to
Euripides; it may be he will protect me:
Leave him his life; the suppliant's life is sacred.
_Pl_. Does this happen to be Euripides too--
Evil men evil treated is no evil?
_Lu_. And will you slay me now for nought but words?
_Pl_. Most certainly; our author has something on that point too:
Unbridled lips
And folly's slips
Invite Fate's whips.
_Lu_. Oh, very well; as you are all set on murdering me, and escape is
impossible, do at least tell me who you are, and what harm I have done
you; it must be something irreparable, to judge by your relentless
murderous pursuit.
_Pl_. What harm you have done us, vile fellow? your own conscience and
your fine dialogues will tell you; you have called Philosophy herself
bad names, and as for us, you have subjected us to the indignity of a
public auction, and put up wise men--ay, and free men, which is more--
for sale. We have reason to be angry; we have got a short leave of
absence from Hades, and come up against you--Chrysippus here, Epicurus
and myself, Aristotle yonder, the taciturn Pythagoras, Diogenes and
all of us that your dialogues have made so free with.
_Lu_. Ah, I breathe again. Once hear the truth about my conduct to
you, and you will never put me to death. You can throw away those
stones. Or, no, keep them; you shall have a better mark for them
presently.
_Pl_. This is trifling. This day thou diest; nay, even now,
A suit of stones shalt don, thy livery due.
_Lu_. Believe me, good gentlemen, I have been at much pains on your
behalf to slay me is to slay one who should rather be selected for
commendation a kindred spirit, a well-wisher, a man after your own
heart, a promoter, if I may be bold to say it, of your pursuits. See
to it that you catch not the tone of our latter-day philosophers, and
be thankless, petulant, and hard of heart, to him that deserves better
of you.
_Pl_. Talk of a brazen front! So to abuse us is to oblige us. I
believe you are under the delusion that you are really talking to
slaves; after the insolent excesses of your tongue, do you propose to
chop gratitude with us?
_Lu_. How or when was I ever insolent to you? I have always been an
admirer of philosophy, your panegyrist, and a student of the writings
you left. All that comes from my pen is but what you give me; I
deflower you, like a bee, for the behoof of mankind; and then there is
praise and recognition; they know the flowers, whence and whose the
honey was, and the manner of my gathering; their surface feeling is
for my selective art, but deeper down it is for you and your meadow,
where you put forth such bright blooms and myriad dyes, if one knows
but how to sort and mix and match, that one be not in discord with
another. Could he that had found you such have the heart to abuse
those benefactors to whom his little fame was due? then he must be a
Thamyris or Eurytus, defying the Muses who gave his gift of song, or
challenging Apollo with the bow, forgetful from whom he had his
marksmanship.
_Pl_. All this, good sir, is quite according to the principles of
rhetoric; that is to say, it is clean contrary to the facts; your
unscrupulousness is only emphasized by this adding of insult to
injury; you confess that your arrows are from our quiver, and you use
them against us; your one aim is to abuse us. This is our reward for
showing you that meadow, letting you pluck freely, fill your bosom,
and depart. For this alone you richly deserve death.
_Lu_. There; your ears are partial; they are deaf to the right. Why, I
would never have believed that personal feeling could affect a Plato,
a Chrysippus, an Aristotle; with you, of all men, I thought there was
dry light.
what is a contingent? There is a ring about those words that takes my
fancy.
_Chrys_. With all my heart. A man lame in one foot knocks that foot
accidentally against a stone, and gets a cut. Now the man is _subject_
to lameness; which is the _predicate_. And the cut is a _contingency_.
_Seventh D_. Oh, subtle! What else can you tell me?
_Chrys_. I have verbal involutions, for the better hampering,
crippling, and muzzling of my antagonists. This is performed by the
use of the far-famed syllogism.
_Seventh D_. Syllogism! I warrant him a tough customer.
_Chrys_. Take a case. You have a child?
_Seventh D_. Well, and what if I have?
_Chrys_. A crocodile catches him as he wanders along the bank of a
river, and promises to restore him to you, if you will first guess
correctly whether he means to restore him or not. Which are you going
to say?
_Seventh D_. A difficult question. I don't know which way I should get
him back soonest. In Heaven's name, answer for me, and save the child
before he is eaten up.
_Chrys_. Ha, ha. I will teach you far other things than that.
_Seventh D_. For instance?
_Chrys_. There is the 'Reaper. ' There is the 'Rightful Owner. ' Better
still, there is the 'Electra' and the 'Man in the Hood. '
_Seventh D_. Who was he? and who was Electra?
_Chrys_. She was _the_ Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, to whom the
same thing was known and unknown at the same time. She knew that
Orestes was her brother: yet when he stood before her she did not know
(until he revealed himself) that her brother was Orestes. As to the
Man in the Hood, he will surprise you considerably. Answer me now: do
you know your own father?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well now, if I present to you a man in a hood, shall you know
him? eh?
_Seventh D_. Of course not.
_Chrys_. Well, but the Man in the Hood is your father. You don't know
the Man in the Hood. Therefore you don't know your own father.
_Seventh D_. Why, no. But if I take his hood off, I shall get at the
facts. Now tell me, what is the end of your philosophy? What happens
when you reach the goal of virtue?
_Chrys_. In regard to things external, health, wealth, and the like, I
am then all that Nature intended me to be. But there is much previous
toil to be undergone. You will first sharpen your eyes on minute
manuscripts, amass commentaries, and get your bellyful of outlandish
terms. Last but not least, it is forbidden to be wise without repeated
doses of hellebore.
_Seventh D_. All this is exalted and magnanimous to a degree. But what
am I to think when I find that you are also the creed of
cent-per-cent, the creed of the usurer? Has _he_ swallowed his
hellebore? is _he_ made perfect in virtue?
_Chrys_. Assuredly. On none but the wise man does usury sit well.
Consider. His is the art of putting two and two together, and usury is
the art of putting interest together. The two are evidently connected,
and one as much as the other is the prerogative of the true believer;
who, not content, like common men, with simple interest, will also
take interest _upon_ interest. For interest, as you are probably
aware, is of two kinds. There is simple interest, and there is its
offspring, compound interest. Hear Syllogism on the subject. 'If I
take simple interest, I shall also take compound. But I _shall_
take simple interest: therefore I shall take compound. '
_Seventh D_. And the same applies to the fees you take from your
youthful pupils? None but the true believer sells virtue for a fee?
_Chrys_. Quite right. I take the fee in my pupil's interest, not
because I want it. The world is made up of diffusion and accumulation.
I accordingly practise my pupil in the former, and myself in the
latter.
_Seventh D_. But it ought to be the other way. The pupil ought to
accumulate, and you, 'sole millionaire,' ought to diffuse.
_Chrys_. Ha! you jest with me? Beware of the shaft of insoluble
syllogism.
_Seventh D_. What harm can that do?
_Chrys_. It cripples; it ties the tongue, and turns the brain. Nay, I
have but to will it, and you are stone this instant.
_Seventh D_. Stone! You are no Perseus, friend?
_Chrys_. See here. A stone is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Well, and an animal is a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And you are an animal?
_Seventh D_. I suppose I am.
_Chrys_. Therefore you are a body. Therefore a stone.
_Seventh D_. Mercy, in Heaven's name! Unstone me, and let me be flesh
as heretofore.
_Chrys_. That is soon done. Back with you into flesh! Thus: Is every
body animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Is a stone animate?
_Seventh D_. No.
_Chrys_. Now, you are a body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. And an animate body?
_Seventh D_. Yes.
_Chrys_. Then being animate, you cannot be a stone.
_Seventh D_. Ah! thank you, thank you. I was beginning to feel my
limbs growing numb and solidifying like Niobe's. Oh, I must have you.
What's to pay?
_Her_. Fifty pounds.
_Seventh D_. Here it is.
_Her_. Are you sole purchaser?
_Seventh D_. Not I. All these gentlemen here are going shares.
_Her_. A fine strapping lot of fellows, and will do the 'Reaper'
credit.
_Zeus_. Don't waste time. Next lot,--the Peripatetic!
_Her_. Now, my beauty, now, Affluence! Gentlemen, if you want Wisdom
for your money, here is a creed that comprises all knowledge.
_Eighth D_. What is he like?
_Her_. He is temperate, good-natured, easy to get on with; and his
strong point is, that he is twins.
_Eighth D_. How can that be?
_Her_. Why, he is one creed outside, and another inside. So remember,
if you buy him, one of him is called Esoteric, and the other Exoteric.
_Eighth D_. And what has he to say for himself?
_Her_. He has to say that there are three kinds of good: spiritual,
corporeal, circumstantial.
_Eighth D_. _There's_ something a man can understand. How much is he?
_Her_. Eighty pounds.
_Eighth D_. Eighty pounds is a long price.
_Her_. Not at all, my dear sir, not at all. You see, there is some
money with him, to all appearance. Snap him up before it is too late.
Why, from him you will find out in no time how long a gnat lives, to
how many fathoms' depth the sunlight penetrates the sea, and what an
oyster's soul is like.
_Eighth D_. Heracles! Nothing escapes him.
_Her_. Ah, these are trifles. You should hear some of his more
abstruse speculations, concerning generation and birth and the
development of the embryo; and his distinction between man, the
laughing creature, and the ass, which is neither a laughing nor a
carpentering nor a shipping creature.
_Eighth D_.
Such knowledge is as useful as it is ornamental. Eighty
pounds be it, then.
_Her_. He is yours.
_Zeus_. What have we left?
_Her_. There is Scepticism. Come along, Pyrrhias, and be put up.
Quick's the word. The attendance is dwindling; there will be small
competition. Well, who buys Lot 9?
_Ninth D_. I. Tell me first, though, what do you know?
_Sc_. Nothing.
_Ninth D_. But how's that?
_Sc_. There does not appear to me to _be_ anything.
_Ninth D_. Are not _we_ something?
_Sc_. How do I know that?
_Ninth D_. And you yourself?
_Sc_. Of that I am still more doubtful.
_Ninth D_. Well, you _are_ in a fix! And what have you got those
scales for?
_Sc_. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced,
They must be absolutely equal--not a feather-weight to choose between
them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right.
_Ninth D_. What else can you turn your hand to?
_Sc_. Anything; except catching a runaway.
_Ninth D_. And why not that?
_Sc_. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp.
_Ninth D_. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And
what is the end of your knowledge?
_Sc_. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness.
_Ninth D_. What! sight and hearing both gone?
_Sc_. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that
distinguishes man from a worm.
_Ninth D_. You are worth money! --What shall we say for him?
_Her_. Four pounds.
_Ninth D_. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine?
_Sc_. I doubt it.
_Ninth D_. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for.
_Sc_. It is a difficult case. . . . I reserve my decision.
_Ninth D_. Now, come along with me, like a good slave.
_Sc_. But how am I to know whether what you say is true?
_Ninth D_. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators.
_Sc_. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any?
_Ninth D_. Oh, I'll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you
with a vengeance that I am your master.
_Sc_. Reserve your decision.
_Ninth D_. Too late. It is given.
_Her_. Stop that wrangling and go with your purchaser. Gentlemen, we
hope to see you here again to-morrow, when we shall be offering some
lots suitable for plain men, artisans, and shopkeepers.
F.
THE FISHER
A RESURRECTION PIECE
_Lucian or Parrhesiades. Socrates, Empedocles. Plato. Chrysippus.
Diogenes. Aristotle. Other Philosophers. Platonists. Pythagoreans.
Stoics. Peripatetics. Epicureans. Academics. Philosophy. Truth.
Temperance. Virtue. Syllogism. Exposure. Priestess of Athene_.
_Soc_. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with
clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him
no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder
to shoulder, close the ranks;
Let wallet succour wallet, staff aid staff!
We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed.
You, Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand
firm, all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his reveling. What,
Epicurus, Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages,
Be men; relume that erstwhile furious wrath!
Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you,
villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you
have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an
elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a
separate death to every one of us.
_First Phil_. Impale him, say I.
_Second Phil_. Yes, but scourge him first.
_Third Phil_. Tear out his eyes.
_Fourth Phil_. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue.
_Soc_. What say you, Empedocles?
_Emp_. Oh, fling him into a crater; that will teach him to vilify his
betters.
_Pl_. 'Twere best for him, Orpheus or Pentheus like, to
Find death, dashed all to pieces on the rock;
so each might have taken a piece home with him.
_Lu_. Forbear; spare me; I appeal to the God of suppliants.
_Soc_. Too late; no loophole is left you now. And you know your Homer:
'Twixt men and lions, covenants are null. '
_Lu_. Why, it is in Homer's name that I ask my boon. You will perhaps
pay reverence to his lines, and listen to a selection from him:
Slay not; no churl is he; a ransom take
Of bronze and gold, whereof wise hearts are fain.
_Pl_. Why, two can play at that game; _exempli gratia_,
Reviler, babble not of gold, nor nurse
Hope of escape from these our hands that hold thee.
_Lu_. Ah me, ah me! my best hopes dashed, with Homer! Let me fly to
Euripides; it may be he will protect me:
Leave him his life; the suppliant's life is sacred.
_Pl_. Does this happen to be Euripides too--
Evil men evil treated is no evil?
_Lu_. And will you slay me now for nought but words?
_Pl_. Most certainly; our author has something on that point too:
Unbridled lips
And folly's slips
Invite Fate's whips.
_Lu_. Oh, very well; as you are all set on murdering me, and escape is
impossible, do at least tell me who you are, and what harm I have done
you; it must be something irreparable, to judge by your relentless
murderous pursuit.
_Pl_. What harm you have done us, vile fellow? your own conscience and
your fine dialogues will tell you; you have called Philosophy herself
bad names, and as for us, you have subjected us to the indignity of a
public auction, and put up wise men--ay, and free men, which is more--
for sale. We have reason to be angry; we have got a short leave of
absence from Hades, and come up against you--Chrysippus here, Epicurus
and myself, Aristotle yonder, the taciturn Pythagoras, Diogenes and
all of us that your dialogues have made so free with.
_Lu_. Ah, I breathe again. Once hear the truth about my conduct to
you, and you will never put me to death. You can throw away those
stones. Or, no, keep them; you shall have a better mark for them
presently.
_Pl_. This is trifling. This day thou diest; nay, even now,
A suit of stones shalt don, thy livery due.
_Lu_. Believe me, good gentlemen, I have been at much pains on your
behalf to slay me is to slay one who should rather be selected for
commendation a kindred spirit, a well-wisher, a man after your own
heart, a promoter, if I may be bold to say it, of your pursuits. See
to it that you catch not the tone of our latter-day philosophers, and
be thankless, petulant, and hard of heart, to him that deserves better
of you.
_Pl_. Talk of a brazen front! So to abuse us is to oblige us. I
believe you are under the delusion that you are really talking to
slaves; after the insolent excesses of your tongue, do you propose to
chop gratitude with us?
_Lu_. How or when was I ever insolent to you? I have always been an
admirer of philosophy, your panegyrist, and a student of the writings
you left. All that comes from my pen is but what you give me; I
deflower you, like a bee, for the behoof of mankind; and then there is
praise and recognition; they know the flowers, whence and whose the
honey was, and the manner of my gathering; their surface feeling is
for my selective art, but deeper down it is for you and your meadow,
where you put forth such bright blooms and myriad dyes, if one knows
but how to sort and mix and match, that one be not in discord with
another. Could he that had found you such have the heart to abuse
those benefactors to whom his little fame was due? then he must be a
Thamyris or Eurytus, defying the Muses who gave his gift of song, or
challenging Apollo with the bow, forgetful from whom he had his
marksmanship.
_Pl_. All this, good sir, is quite according to the principles of
rhetoric; that is to say, it is clean contrary to the facts; your
unscrupulousness is only emphasized by this adding of insult to
injury; you confess that your arrows are from our quiver, and you use
them against us; your one aim is to abuse us. This is our reward for
showing you that meadow, letting you pluck freely, fill your bosom,
and depart. For this alone you richly deserve death.
_Lu_. There; your ears are partial; they are deaf to the right. Why, I
would never have believed that personal feeling could affect a Plato,
a Chrysippus, an Aristotle; with you, of all men, I thought there was
dry light.
