No More Learning

All
prizes were plaited wreaths of peacock feathers.

Just after the Games were over, news came that the Damned had broken
their fetters, overpowered their guard, and were on the point of invading
the island, the ringleaders being Phalaris of Agrigentum, Busiris the
Egyptian, Diomedes the Thracian, Sciron, and Pityocamptes. Rhadamanthus
at once drew up the Heroes on the beach, giving the command to Theseus,
Achilles, and Ajax Telamonius, now in his right senses. The battle was
fought, and won by the Heroes, thanks especially to Achilles. Socrates,
who was in the right wing, distinguished himself still more than in his
lifetime at Delium, standing firm and showing no sign of trepidation as
the enemy came on; he was afterwards given as a reward of valour a large
and beautiful park in the outskirts, to which he invited his friends for
conversation, naming it the Post-mortem Academy.

The defeated party were seized, re-fettered, and sent back for severer
torments. Homer added to his poems a description of this battle, and at
my departure handed me the MS. to bring back to the living world; but it
was unfortunately lost with our other property. It began with the line:

Tell now, my Muse, how fought the mighty Dead.

According to their custom after successful war, they boiled beans, held
the feast of victory, and kept high holiday. From this Pythagoras alone
held aloof, fasting and sitting far off, in sign of his abhorrence of
bean-eating.

We were in the middle of our seventh month, when an incident happened.
Scintharus's son, Cinyras, a fine figure of a man, had fallen in love
with Helen some time before, and it was obvious that she was very much
taken with the young fellow; there used to be nods and becks and takings
of wine between them at table, and they would go off by themselves for
strolls in the wood. At last love and despair inspired Cinyras with the
idea of an elopement. Helen consented, and they were to fly to one of the
neighbouring islands, Cork or Cheese Island. They had taken three of the
boldest of my crew into their confidence; Cinyras said not a word to his
father, knowing that he would put a stop to it. The plan was carried out;
under cover of night, and in my absence--I had fallen asleep at table--,
they got Helen away unobserved and rowed off as hard as they could.

About midnight Menelaus woke up, and finding his wife's place empty
raised an alarm, and got his brother to go with him to King Rhadamanthus.
Just before dawn the look-outs announced that they could make out the
boat, far out at sea. So Rhadamanthus sent fifty of the Heroes on board a
boat hollowed out of an asphodel trunk, with orders to give chase.
Pulling their best, they overtook the fugitives at noon, as they were
entering the milky sea near the Isle of Cheese; so nearly was the escape
effected. The boat was towed back with a chain of roses. Helen shed
tears, and so felt her situation as to draw a veil over her face. As to
Cinyras and his associates, Rhadamanthus interrogated them to find
whether they had more accomplices, and, being assured to the contrary,
had them whipped with mallow twigs, bound, and dismissed to the place of
the wicked.

It was further determined that we should be expelled prematurely from the
island; we were allowed only one day's grace. This drew from me loud
laments and tears for the bliss that I was now to exchange for renewed
wanderings. They consoled me for their sentence, however, by telling me
that it would not be many years before I should return to them, and
assigning me my chair and my place at table--a distinguished one--in
anticipation. I then went to Rhadamanthus, and was urgent with him to
reveal the future to me, and give me directions for our voyage. He told
me that I should come to my native land after many wanderings and perils,
but as to the time of my return he would give me no certainty. He
pointed, however, to the neighbouring islands, of which five were
visible, besides one more distant, and informed me that the wicked
inhabited these, the near ones, that is, 'from which you see the great
flames rising; the sixth yonder is the City of Dreams; and beyond that
again, but not visible at this distance, is Calypso's isle. When you have
passed these, you will come to the great continent which is opposite your
own; there you will have many adventures, traverse divers tribes, sojourn
among inhospitable men, and at last reach your own continent. ' That was
all he would say.

But he pulled up a mallow root and handed it to me, bidding me invoke it
at times of greatest danger. When I arrived in this world, he charged me
to abstain from stirring fire with a knife, from lupines, and from the
society of boys over eighteen; these things if I kept in mind, I might
look for return to the island. That day I made ready for our voyage, and
when the banquet hour came, I shared it. On the morrow I went to the poet
Homer and besought him to write me a couplet for inscription; when he had
done it, I carved it on a beryl pillar which I had set up close to the
harbour; it ran thus:

This island, ere he took his homeward way,
The blissful Gods gave Lucian to survey.

I stayed out that day too, and next morning started, the Heroes attending
to see me off. Odysseus took the opportunity to come unobserved by
Penelope and give me a letter for Calypso in the isle Ogygia.
Rhadamanthus sent on board with me the ferryman Nauplius, who, in case we
were driven on to the islands, might secure us from seizure by
guaranteeing that our destination was different. As soon as our progress
brought us out of the scented air, it was succeeded by a horrible smell
as of bitumen, brimstone, and pitch all burning together; mingled with
this were the disgusting and intolerable fumes of roasting human flesh;
the air was dark and thick, distilling a pitchy dew upon us; we could
also hear the crack of whips and the yelling of many voices.

We only touched at one island, on which we also landed. It was completely
surrounded by precipitous cliffs, arid, stony, rugged, treeless,
unwatered. We contrived to clamber up the rocks, and advanced along a
track beset with thorns and snags--a hideous scene. When we reached the
prison and the place of punishment, what first drew our wonder was the
character of the whole. The very ground stood thick with a crop of knife-
blades and pointed stakes; and it was ringed round with rivers, one of
slime, a second of blood, and the innermost of flame. This last was very
broad and quite impassable; the flame flowed like water, swelled like the
sea, and teemed with fish, some resembling firebrands, and others, the
small ones, live coals; these were called lamplets.

One narrow way led across all three; its gate was kept by Timon of
Athens. Nauplius secured us admission, however, and then we saw the
chastisement of many kings, and many common men; some were known to us;
indeed there hung Cinyras, swinging in eddies of smoke. Our guides
described the life and guilt of each culprit; the severest torments were
reserved for those who in life had been liars and written false history;
the class was numerous, and included Ctesias of Cnidus, and Herodotus.
The fact was an encouragement to me, knowing that I had never told a lie.

I soon found the sight more than I could bear, and returning to the ship
bade farewell to Nauplius and resumed the voyage. Very soon we seemed
quite close to the Isle of Dreams, though there was a certain dimness and
vagueness about its outline; but it had something dreamlike in its very
nature; for as we approached it receded, and seemed to get further and
further off. At last we reached it and sailed into Slumber, the port,
close to the ivory gates where stands the temple of the Cock. It was
evening when we landed, and upon proceeding to the city we saw many
strange dreams. But I intend first to describe the city, as it has not
been done before; Homer indeed mentions it, but gives no detailed
description.

The whole place is embowered in wood, of which the trees are poppy and
mandragora, all thronged with bats; this is the only winged thing that
exists there. A river, called the Somnambule, flows close by, and there
are two springs at the gates, one called Wakenot, and the other
Nightlong. The rampart is lofty and of many colours, in the rainbow
style. The gates are not two, as Homer says, but four, of which two look
on to the plain Stupor; one of them is of iron, the other of pottery, and
we were told that these are used by the grim, the murderous, and the
cruel. The other pair face the sea and port, and are of horn--it was by
this that we had entered--and of ivory. On the right as you enter the
city stands the temple of Night, which deity divides with the Cock their
chief allegiance; the temple of the latter is close to the port. On the
left is the palace of Sleep. He is the governor, with two lieutenants,
Nightmare, son of Whimsy, and Flittergold, son of Fantasy. A well in the
middle of the market-place goes by the name of Heavyhead; beside which
are the temples of Deceit and Truth. In the market also is the shrine in
which oracles are given, the priest and prophet, by special appointment
from Sleep, being Antiphon the dream-interpreter.

The dreams themselves differed widely in character and appearance. Some
were well-grown, smooth-skinned, shapely, handsome fellows, others rough,
short, and ugly; some apparently made of gold, others of common cheap
stuff. Among them some were found with wings, and other strange
variations; others again were like the mummers in a pageant, tricked out
as kings or Gods or what not. Many of them we felt that we had seen in
our world, and sure enough these came up and claimed us as old
acquaintance; they took us under their charge, found us lodgings,
entertained us with lavish kindness, and, not content with the
magnificence of this present reception, promised us royalties and
provinces. Some of them also took us to see our friends, doing the return
trip all in the day.

For thirty days and nights we abode there--a very feast of sleep. Then on
a sudden came a mighty clap of thunder: we woke; jumped up; provisioned;
put off. In three days we were at the Isle of Ogygia, where we landed.
Before delivering the letter, I opened and read it; here are the
contents: _ODYSSEUS TO CALYPSO, GREETING. Know that in the faraway days
when I built my raft and sailed away from you, I suffered shipwreck; I
was hard put to it, but Leucothea brought me safe to the land of the
Phaeacians; they gave me passage home, and there I found a great company
suing for my wife's hand and living riotously upon our goods. All them I
slew, and in after years was slain by Telegonus, the son that Circe bare
me. And now I am in the Island of the Blest, ruing the day when I left
the life I had with you, and the everlasting life you proffered. I watch
for opportunity, and meditate escape and return_. Some words were
added, commending us to her hospitality.

A little way from the sea I found the cave just as it is in Homer, and
herself therein at her spinning. She took and read the letter, wept for a
space, and then offered us entertainment; royally she feasted us, putting
questions the while about Odysseus and Penelope; what were her looks? and
was she as discreet as Odysseus had been used to vaunt her? To which we
made such answers as we thought she would like.

Leaving her, we went on board, and spent the night at anchor just off
shore; in the morning we started with a stiff breeze, which grew to a
gale lasting two days; on the third day we fell in with the Pumpkin-
pirates. These are savages of the neighbouring islands who prey upon
passing ships. They use large boats made of pumpkins ninety feet long.
The pumpkin is dried and hollowed out by removal of the pulp, and the
boat is completed by the addition of cane masts and pumpkin-leaf sails.
Two boatfuls of them engaged us, and we had many casualties from their
pumpkin-seed missiles. The fight was long and well matched; but about
noon we saw a squadron of Nut-tars coming up in rear of the enemy. It
turned out that the two parties were at war; for as soon as our
assailants observed the others, they left us alone and turned to engage
them.

Meanwhile we hoisted sail and made the best of our way off, leaving them
to fight it out. It was clear that the Nut-tars must win, as they had
both superior numbers--there were five sail of them--and stronger
vessels. These were made of nutshells, halved and emptied, measuring
ninety feet from stem to stern. As soon as they were hull down, we
attended to our wounded; and from that time we made a practice of keeping
on our armour, to be in instant readiness for an attack--no vain
precaution either.

Before sunset, for instance, there assailed us from a bare island some
twenty men mounted on large dolphins--pirates again. Their dolphins
carried them quite well, curvetting and neighing. When they got near,
they divided, and subjected us to a cross fire of dry cuttlefish and
crabs' eyes. But our arrows and javelins were too much for them, and
they fled back to the island, few of them unwounded.

At midnight, in calm weather, we found ourselves colliding with an
enormous halcyon's nest; it was full seven miles round. The halcyon was
brooding, not much smaller herself than the nest. She got up, and very
nearly capsized us with the fanning of her wings; however, she went off
with a melancholy cry. When it was getting light, we got on to the nest,
and found on examination that it was composed like a vast raft of large
trees. There were five hundred eggs, larger in girth than a tun of Chian.
We could make out the chicks inside and hear them croaking; we hewed open
one egg with hatchets, and dug out an unfledged chick bulkier than twenty
vultures.

Sailing on, we had left the nest some five and twenty miles behind, when
a miracle happened. The wooden goose of our stern-post suddenly clapped
its wings and started cackling; Scintharus, who was bald, recovered his
hair; most striking of all, the ship's mast came to life, putting forth
branches sideways, and fruit at the top; this fruit was figs, and a bunch
of black grapes, not yet ripe. These sights naturally disturbed us, and
we fell to praying the Gods to avert any disaster they might portend.

We had proceeded something less than fifty miles when we saw a great
forest, thick with pines and cypresses. This we took for the mainland;
but it was in fact deep sea, set with trees; they had no roots, but yet
remained in their places, floating upright, as it were. When we came near
and realized the state of the case, we could not tell what to do; it was
impossible to sail between the trees, which were so close as to touch one
another, and we did not like the thought of turning back. I climbed the
tallest tree to get a good view, and found that the wood was five or six
miles across, and was succeeded by open water. So we determined to hoist
the ship on to the top of the foliage, which was very dense, and get her
across to the other sea, if possible. It proved to be so. We attached a
strong cable, got up on the tree-tops, and hauled her after us with some
difficulty; then we laid her on the branches, hoisted sail, and floating
thus were propelled by the wind. A line of Antimachus came into my head:

And as they voyaged thus the woodland through--

Well, we made our way over and reached the water, into which we let her
down in the same way. We then sailed through clear transparent sea, till
we found ourselves on the edge of a great gorge which divided water from
water, like the land fissures which are often produced by earthquakes. We
got the sails down and brought her to just in time to escape making the
plunge. We could bend over and see an awful mysterious gulf perhaps a
hundred miles deep, the water standing wall against wall. A glance round
showed us not far off to the right a water bridge which spanned the
chasm, and gave a moving surface crossing from one sea to the other. We
got out the sweeps, pulled her to the bridge, and with great exertions
effected that astonishing passage.

There followed a sail through smooth water, and then a small island, easy
of approach, and inhabited; its occupants were the Ox-heads, savage men
with horns, after the fashion of our poets' Minotaur. We landed and went
in search of water and provisions, of which we were now in want. The
water we found easily, but nothing else; we heard, however, not far off,
a numerous lowing; supposing it to indicate a herd of cows, we went a
little way towards it, and came upon these men. They gave chase as soon
as they saw us, and seized three of my comrades, the rest of us getting
off to sea. We then armed--for we would not leave our friends unavenged--
and in full force fell on the Ox-heads as they were dividing our
slaughtered men's flesh. Our combined shout put them to flight, and in
the pursuit we killed about fifty, took two alive, and returned with our
captives. We had found nothing to eat; the general opinion was for
slaughtering the prisoners; but I refused to accede to this, and kept
them in bonds till an embassy came from the Ox-heads to ransom them; so
we understood the motions they made, and their tearful supplicatory
lowings. The ransom consisted of a quantity of cheese, dried fish,
onions, and four deer; these were three-footed, the two forefeet being
joined into one. In exchange for all this we restored the prisoners, and
after one day's further stay departed.

By this time we were beginning to observe fish, birds on the wing, and
other signs of land not far off; and we shortly saw men, practising a
mode of navigation new to us; for they were boat and crew in one. The
method was this: they float on their backs, erect a sail, and then,
holding the sheets with their hands, catch the wind. These were succeeded
by others who sat on corks, to which were harnessed pairs of dolphins,
driven with reins. They neither attacked nor avoided us, but drove along
in all confidence and peace, admiring the shape of our craft and
examining it all round.

That evening we touched at an island of no great size. It was occupied by
what we took for women, talking Greek. They came and greeted us with
kisses, were attired like courtesans, all young and fair, and with long
robes sweeping the ground. Cabbalusa was the name of the island, and
Hydramardia the city's. These women paired off with us and led the way to
their separate homes. I myself tarried a little, under the influence of
some presentiment, and looking more closely observed quantities of human
bones and skulls lying about. I did not care to raise an alarm, gather my
men, and resort to arms; instead, I drew out my mallow, and prayed
earnestly to it for escape from our perilous position. Shortly after, as
my hostess was serving me, I saw that in place of human feet she had
ass's hoofs; whereupon I drew my sword, seized, bound, and closely
questioned her. Reluctantly enough she had to confess; they were sea-
women called Ass-shanks, and their food was travellers. 'When we have
made them drunk,' she said, 'and gone to rest with them, we overpower
them in their sleep. ' After this confession I left her there bound, went
up on to the roof, and shouted for my comrades. When they appeared, I
repeated it all to them, showed them the bones, and brought them in to
see my prisoner; she at once vanished, turning to water; however, I
thrust my sword into this experimentally, upon which the water became
blood.

Then we marched hurriedly down to our ship and sailed away. With the
first glimmering of dawn we made out a mainland, which we took for the
continent that faces our own. We reverently saluted it, made prayer, and
held counsel upon our best course. Some were for merely landing and
turning back at once, others for leaving the ship, and going into the
interior to make trial of the inhabitants. But while we were
deliberating, a great storm arose, which dashed us, a complete wreck, on
the shore. We managed to swim to land, each snatching up his arms and
anything else he could.

Such are the adventures that befell me up to our arrival at that other
continent: our sea-voyage; our cruise among the islands and in the air;
then our experiences in and after the whale; with the Heroes; with the
dreams; and finally with the Ox-heads and the Ass-shanks. Our fortunes on
the continent will be the subject of the following books.




THE TYRANNICIDE

_A man forces his way into the stronghold of a tyrant, with the
intention of killing him. Not finding the tyrant himself, he kills his
son, and leaves the sword sticking in his body. The tyrant, coming, and
finding his son dead, slays himself with the same sword. --The assailant
now claims that the killing of the son entitles him to the reward of
tyrannicide. _


Two tyrants--a father advanced in years, a son in the prime of life,
waiting only to step into his nefarious heritage--have fallen by my hand
on a single day: I come before this court, claiming but one reward for my
twofold service. My case is unique. With one blow I have rid you of two
monsters: with my sword I slew the son; grief for the son slew the
father. The misdeeds of the tyrant are sufficiently punished: he has
lived to see his son perish untimely; and--wondrous sequel! --the tyrant's
own hand has freed us from tyranny. I slew the son, and used his death to
slay another: in his life he shared the iniquities of his father; in his
death, so far as in him lay, he was a parricide. Mine is the hand that
freed you, mine the sword that accomplished all: as to the order and
manner of procedure, there, indeed, I have deviated from the common
practice of tyrannicides: I slew the son, who had strength to resist me,
and left my sword to deal with the aged father. In acting thus, I had
thought to increase your obligation to me; a twofold deliverance--I had
supposed--would entitle me to a twofold reward; for I have freed you not
from tyranny alone, but from the fear of tyranny, and by removing the
heir of iniquity have made your salvation sure. And now it seems that my
services are to go for nothing; I, the preserver of the constitution, am
to forgo the recompense prescribed by its laws. It is surely from no
patriotic motive, as he asserts, that my adversary disputes my claim;
rather it is from grief at the loss of the tyrants, and a desire to
avenge their death.

Bear with me, gentlemen, for a little, while I dwell in some detail upon
those evils of tyranny with which you are only too familiar; I shall thus
enable you to realize the extent of my services, and to enjoy the
contemplation of sufferings from which you have escaped. Ours was not the
common experience: we had not _one_ tyranny, _one_ servitude to
endure, we were not subjected to the caprice of a single master. Other
cities have had their tyrant: it was reserved for us to have two tyrants
at once, to groan beneath a double oppression. That of the old man was
light by comparison, his anger mildness, his resentment long-suffering;
age had blunted his passions, checked their headlong impetus, and curbed
the lust of pleasure. His crimes, so it is said, were involuntary;
resulting from no tyrannical disposition in himself, but from the
instigations of his son. For in him paternal affection had too clearly
become a mania; his son was all in all to him; he did his bidding,
committed every crime at his pleasure, dealt out punishment at his
command, was subservient to him in all things; the minister of a tyrant's
caprice, and that tyrant his son. The young man left him in possession of
the name and semblance of rule; so much he conceded to his years: but in
all essentials _he_ was the real tyrant. By him the power of the
tyrant was upheld; by him and by him alone the fruits of tyranny were
gathered. He it was who maintained the garrison, intimidated the victims
of oppression, and butchered those who meditated resistance; who laid
violent hands on boys and maidens, and trampled on the sanctity of
marriage. Murder, banishment, confiscation, torture, brutality; all
bespeak the wantonness of youth. The father followed his son's lead, and
had no word of blame for the crimes in which he participated. Our
situation became unbearable: for when the promptings of passion draw
support from the authority of rule, then iniquity knows no further
bounds.

We knew moreover (and here was the bitterest thought of all) that our
servitude must endure--ay, endure for ever; that our city was doomed to
pass in unending succession from master to master, to be the heritage of
the oppressor. To others it is no small consolation that they may count
the days, and say in their hearts: 'The end will be soon; he will die,
and we shall be free. ' We had no such hope: there stood the heir of
tyranny before our eyes. There were others--men of spirit--who cherished
like designs with myself; yet all lacked resolution to strike the blow;
freedom was despaired of; to contend against a succession of tyrants
seemed a hopeless task.

Yet I was not deterred. I had reckoned the difficulties of my
undertaking, and shrank not back, but faced the danger. Alone, I issued
forth to cope with tyranny in all its might. Alone, did I say? nay, not
alone; I had my sword for company, my ally and partner in tyrannicide. I
saw what the end was like to be: and, seeing it, resolved to purchase
your freedom with my blood. I grappled with the outer watch, with
difficulty routed the guards, slew all I met, broke down all resistance,
--and so to the fountain-head, the well-spring of tyranny, the source of
all our calamities; within his stronghold I found him, and there slew him
with many wounds, fighting valiantly for his life.

From that moment, my end was gained: tyranny was destroyed; we were free
men. There remained the aged father, alone, unarmed, desolate; his guards
scattered, his strong protector slain; no adversary this for a brave man.
And now I debated within myself: 'My work is done, my aim achieved, all
is as I would have it. And how shall this remnant of tyranny be punished?
He is unworthy of the hand that shed that other blood: the glory of a
noble enterprise shall not be so denied. No, let some other executioner
be found. It were too much happiness for him to die, and never know the
worst; let him see all, for his punishment, and let the sword be ready to
his hand; to that sword I leave the rest. ' In this design I withdrew; and
the sword--as I had foreseen--did its office, slew the tyrant, and put
the finishing touch to my work. And now I come to you, bringing democracy
with me, and call upon all men to take heart, and hear the glad tidings
of liberty. Enjoy the work of my hands!
You see the citadel cleared of
the oppressors; you are under no man's orders; the law holds its course;
honours are awarded, judgements given, pleadings heard. And all springs
from one bold stroke, from the slaying of that son whom his father might
not survive. I claim from you the recompense that is my due; and that in
no paltry, grasping spirit; it was not for a wage's sake that I sought to
serve my country; but I would have my deed confirmed by your award; I
would not be disparaged by slanderous tongues, as one who attempted and
failed, and was deemed unworthy of honour.

My adversary tells me that I am unreasonable in asking for reward and
distinction. I did not slay the tyrant; I have not fulfilled the
requirements of the statute; there is a flaw in my claim. --And what more
does he want of me? Say: did I flinch? did I not ascend into the citadel?
did I not slay? are we not free men? have we a master? do we hear a
tyrant's threats? did any of the evil-doers escape me? --No; all is peace;
the laws are in force; freedom is assured; democracy is established; our
wives, our daughters are unmolested, our sons are safe; the city keeps
festival in the general joy. And who is the cause of it all? who has
wrought the change? Has any man a prior claim? Then I withdraw; be his
the honour and the reward. But if not--if mine was the deed, mine the
risk, mine the courage to ascend and smite and punish, dealing vengeance
on the father through the son--then why depreciate my services? why seek
to deprive me of a people's gratitude?

'But you did not kill the _tyrant_; the law assigns the reward to
him who kills the tyrant. ' And pray what is the difference between
killing him and causing his death? I see none. The law-giver had but one
end in view,--freedom, equality, deliverance from oppression. This was
the signal service that he deemed worthy of recompense; and this service
you cannot deny that I have rendered. In slaying one whom the tyrant
could not survive, I myself wrought the tyrant's death. His was the hand:
the deed was mine. Let us not chop logic as to the manner and
circumstances of his death, but rather ask: has he ceased to exist, and
am I the cause? Your scruples might go further, and object to some future
deliverer of his country, that he struck not with the sword, but with a
stick or a stone or the like. Had I blockaded the tyrant, and brought
about his death by starvation, you would still, I suppose, have objected
that it was not the work of my own hand? Again there would have been a
flaw in my claim? The increased bitterness of such a death would have
counted for nothing with you? Confine your attention to this one
question: does any of our oppressors survive? is there any ground for
anxiety, any vestige of our past misery? If not, if all is peace, then
none but an envious detractor would attempt to deprive me of the reward
of my labours by inquiring into the means employed.

Moreover, it is laid down in our laws (unless after all these years of
servitude my memory plays me false) that blood-guiltiness is of two
kinds. A man may slay another with his own hand, or, without slaying him,
he may put death unavoidably in his way; in the latter case the penalty
is the same as in the former; and rightly, it being the intention of the
law that the cause should rank with the act itself; the manner in which
death is brought about is not the question. You would not acquit a man
who in this sense had slain another; you would punish him as a murderer:
how then can you refuse to reward as a benefactor the man who, by parity
of reasoning, has shown himself to be the liberator of his country?

Nor again can it be objected that all I did was to strike the blow, and
that the resulting benefits were accidental, and formed no part of my
design. What had I to fear, when once the stronger of our oppressors was
slain? And why did I leave my sword in the wound, if not because I
foresaw the very thing that would happen? Are you prepared to deny that
the death so occasioned was that of a tyrant both in name and in fact,
or that his death was an event for which the state would gladly pay an
abundant reward? I think not. If then the tyrant is slain, how can you
withhold the reward from him who occasioned his death? What
scrupulousness is this--to concern yourself with the manner of his end,
while you are enjoying the freedom that results from it? Democracy is
restored: what more can you demand from him who restored it? You refer us
to the terms of the law: well, the law looks only at the end; of the
means it says nothing; it has no concern with them. Has not the reward of
tyrannicide been paid before now to him who merely expelled a tyrant? And
rightly so: for he too has made free men of slaves. But I have done more:
banishment may be followed by restitution: but here the family of tyrants
is utterly annihilated and destroyed; the evil thing is exterminated,
root and branch.

I implore you, gentlemen, to review my conduct from beginning to end, and
see whether there has been any such omission on my part as to make my act
appear less than tyrannicide in the eye of the law. The high patriotic
resolve which prompts a man to face danger for the common good, and to
purchase the salvation of his country at the price of his own life; this
is the first requirement. Have I been wanting here? Have I lacked
courage? Have I shrunk back at the prospect of the dangers through which
I must pass? My enemy cannot say it of me. Now at this stage let us
pause. Consider only the intention, the design, apart from its success;
and suppose that I come before you to claim the reward of patriotism
merely on the ground of my resolve. I have failed, and another, following
in my footsteps, has slain the tyrant. Say, is it unreasonable in such a
case to allow my claim? 'Gentlemen,' I might say, 'the will, the
intention, was mine; I made the attempt, I did what I could; my resolve
entitles me of itself to your reward. ' What would my enemy say to that?

But in fact my case stands far otherwise. I mounted into the stronghold,
I faced danger, I had innumerable difficulties to contend with, before I
slew the son. Think not that it was a light or easy matter, to make my
way past the watch, and single-handed to overcome one body of guards
after another and put them to flight: herein is perhaps the greatest
difficulty with which the tyrannicide has to contend. It is no such great
matter to bring the tyrant to bay, and dispatch him. Once overcome the
guards that surround him, and success is ensured; little remains to be
done. I could not make my way to the tyrants till I had mastered every
one of their satellites and bodyguards: each of those preliminary
victories had to be won. Once more I pause, and consider my situation. I
have got the better of the guards; I am master of the garrison; I present
you the tyrant stripped, unarmed, defenceless. May I claim some credit
for this, or do you still require his blood? Well, if blood you must
have, that too is not wanting; my hands are not unstained; the glorious
deed is accomplished; the youthful tyrant, the terror of all men, his
father's sole security and protection, the equivalent of many bodyguards,
is slain in the prime of his strength. Have I not earned my reward? Am I
to have no credit for all that is done? What if I had killed one of his
guards, some underling, some favourite domestic? Would it not have been
thought a great thing, to go up and dispatch the tyrant's friend within
his own walls, in the midst of his armed attendants? But who _was_
my victim? The tyrant's son, himself a more grievous tyrant than his
father, more cruel in his punishments, more violent in his excesses; a
pitiless master; one, above all, whose succession to the supreme power
promised a long continuance of our miseries. Shall I concede that this is
the sum of my achievements? Shall we put it, that the tyrant has escaped,
and lives? Still I claim my recompense. What say you, gentlemen? do you
withhold it? The son, perhaps, caused you no uneasiness; he was no
despot, no grievous oppressor?

And now for the final stroke. All that my adversary demands of me, I have
performed; and that in the most effectual manner. I slew the tyrant when
I slew his son; slew him not with a single blow--he could have asked no
easier expiation of his guilt than that--but with prolonged torment. I
showed him his beloved lying in the dust, in pitiable case, weltering in
blood. And what if he were a villain? he was still his son, still the old
man's likeness in the pride of youth. These are the wounds that fathers
feel; this the tyrannicide's sword of justice; this the death, the
vengeance, that befits cruelty and oppression. The tyrant who dies in a
moment, and knows not his loss, and sees not such sights as these, dies
unpunished. I knew--we all knew--his affection for his son; knew that not
for one day would he survive his loss. Other fathers may be devoted to
their sons: his devotion was something more than theirs. How should it be
otherwise? In him, and in him alone, the father saw the zealous guardian
of his lawless rule, the champion of his old age, the sole prop of
tyranny. If grief did not kill him on the spot, despair, I knew, must do
so; there could be no further joy in life for him when his protector was
slain. Nature, grief, despair, foreboding, terror,--these were my allies;
with these I hemmed him in, and drove him to his last desperate resolve.
Know that your oppressor died childless, heartbroken, weeping, groaning
in spirit; the time of his mourning was short, but it was a father
mourning for his son; he died by his own hand, bitterest, most awful of
deaths; that death comes lightly, by comparison, which is dealt by
another.

Where is my sword?

Does any one else know anything of this sword? Does any one claim it? Who
took it up into the citadel? The tyrant used this sword. Who had it
before him? Who put it in his way? --Sword, fellow labourer, partner of my
enterprise,--we have faced danger and shed blood to no purpose. We are
slighted. Men say that we have not earned our reward.

Suppose that I had advanced a claim solely on my sword's behalf: suppose
that I had said to you: 'Gentlemen, the tyrant had resolved to slay
himself, but was without a weapon at the moment, when this sword of mine
supplied his need, and thereby played its part in our deliverance. '
Should you not have considered that the owner of a weapon so public-
spirited was entitled to honour and reward? Should you not have
recompensed him, and inscribed his name among those of your benefactors;
consecrated his sword, and worshipped it as a God?

Now consider how the tyrant may be supposed to have acted and spoken as
his end approached. --His son lies mortally wounded at my hand; the wounds
are many, and are exposed to view, that so the father's heart may be torn
asunder at the very first sight of him. He cries out piteously to his
father, not for help--he knows the old man's feebleness--, but for
sympathy in his sufferings. I meanwhile am making my way home: I have
written in the last line of my tragedy, and now I leave the stage clear
for the actor; there is the body, the sword, all that is necessary to
complete the scene. The father enters. He beholds his son, his only son,
gasping, blood-stained, weltering in gore; he sees the wounds--mortal
wound upon wound--and exclaims: 'Son, we are slain, we are destroyed, we
are stricken in the midst of our power. Where is the assassin? For what
fate does he reserve me, who am dead already in thy death, O my son?
Because I am old he fears me not, he withholds his vengeance, and would
prolong my torment. ' Then he looks for a sword; he has always gone
unarmed himself, trusting all to his son. The sword is not wanting; it
has been waiting for him all this time; I left it ready for the deed that
was to follow. He draws it from the wound and speaks: 'Sword, that but a
moment past hast slain me, complete thy work: comfort the stricken
father, aid his aged hand; dispatch, slay, make an end of the tyrant and
his grief. Would that I had met thee first, that my blood had been shed
before his! I could but have died a tyrant's death, and should have left
an avenger behind me. And now I die childless: I have not so much as a
murderer at my need. ' Even as he speaks, with trembling hand he plunges
the sword into his breast: he is in haste to die; but that feeble hand
lacks strength to do its dread office.

Is he punished? Are these wounds? Is this death? A tyrant's death? Is
there reward for this?

The closing scene you have all witnessed: the son--no mean antagonist--
prostrate in death; the father fallen upon him; blood mingling with
blood, the drink-offering of Victory and Freedom; and in the midst my
sword, that wrought all; judge by its presence there, whether the weapon
was unworthy of its master, whether it did him faithful service. Had all
been done by my hand, it had been little; the strangeness of the deed is
its glory. The tyranny was overthrown by me, and no other; but many
actors had their part to play in the drama. The first part was mine; the
second was the son's; the third the tyrant's; and my sword was never
absent from the stage.




THE DISINHERITED

_A disinherited son adopts the medical profession. His father going
mad, and being given up by the other physicians, he treats him
successfully, and is then reinstated in his rights. Subsequently his
step-mother also goes mad; he is bidden to cure her, and, declaring his
inability to do so, is once more disinherited. _


There is neither novelty nor strangeness, gentlemen of the jury, in my
father's present proceedings. It is not the first time his passions have
taken this direction; it has become an instinctive habit with him to pay
a visit to this familiar court. Still, my unfortunate position has this
much of novelty about it: the charge I have to meet is not personal, but
professional; I am to be punished for the inability of Medicine to do my
father's bidding. A curious demand, surely, that healing should be done
to order, and depend not on the limits of one's art, but on the wishes of
one's father. For my part, I should be only too glad to find drugs in the
pharmacopoeia which could relieve not only disordered wits, but
disordered tempers; then I might be serviceable to my father. As it is,
he is completely cured of madness, but is worse-tempered than ever. The
bitterest part of it is, he is sane enough in all other relations, and
mad only where his healer is concerned. You see what my medical fee
amounts to; I am again disinherited, cut off from my family once more, as
though the sole purpose of my brief reinstatement had been the
accentuation of my disgrace by repetition.

When a thing is within the limits of possibility, I require no bidding; I
came before I was summoned, to see what I could do in this case. But when
there is absolutely no hope, I will not meddle. With this particular
patient, such caution is especially incumbent upon me; how my father
would treat me, if I tried and failed, I can judge by his disinheriting
me when I refused to try. Gentlemen, I am sorry for my stepmother's
illness--for she was an excellent woman; I am sorry for my father's
distress thereat; I am most sorry of all that I should seem rebellious,
and be unable to give the required service; but the disease is incurable,
and my art is not omnipotent. I do not see the justice of disinheriting
one who, when he cannot do a thing, refuses to undertake it.

The present case throws a clear light upon the reasons for my first
disinheriting. The allegations of those days I consider to have been
disposed of by my subsequent life; and the present charges I shall do my
best to clear away with a short account of my proceedings. Wilful and
disobedient son that I am, a disgrace to my father, unworthy of my
family, I thought proper to say very little indeed in answer to his long
and vehement denunciations. Banished from my home, I reflected that I
should find my most convincing plea, my best acquittal, in the life I
then led, in practically illustrating the difference between my father's
picture and the reality, in devotion to the worthiest pursuits and
association with the most reputable company. But I had also a
presentiment of what actually happened; it occurred to me even then that
a perfectly sane father does not rage causelessly at his son, nor trump
up false accusations against him. Persons were not wanting who detected
incipient madness; it was the warning and precursor of a stroke which
would fall before long--this unreasoning dislike, this harsh conduct,
this fluent abuse, this malignant prosecution, all this violence,
passion, and general ill temper. Yes, gentlemen, I saw that the time
might come when Medicine would serve me well.

I went abroad, attended lectures by the most famous foreign physicians,
and by hard work and perseverance mastered my craft. Upon my return, I
found that my father's madness had developed, and that he had been given
up by the local doctors, who are not distinguished for insight, and are
much to seek in accurate diagnosis. I did no more than a son's duty when
I forgot and forgave the disinheritance, and visited him without waiting
to be called in; I had in fact nothing to complain of that was properly
his act; his errors were not his, but, as I have implied, those of his
illness. I came unsummoned, then. But I did not treat him at once; that
is not our custom, nor what our art enjoins upon us. What we are taught
to do is first of all to ascertain whether the disease is curable or
incurable--has it passed beyond our control? After that, if it is
susceptible of treatment, we treat it, and do our very best to relieve
the sufferer. But if we realize that the complaint has got the entire
mastery, we have nothing to do with it at all. That is the tradition that
has come down to us from the fathers of our art, who direct us not to
attempt hopeless cases. Well, I found that there was yet hope for my
father; the complaint had not gone too far; I watched him for a long
time; formed my conclusions with scrupulous care; then, I commenced
operations and exhibited my drugs without hesitation--though many of his
friends were suspicious of my prescription, impugned the treatment, and
took notes to be used against me.

My step-mother was present, distressed and doubtful--the result not of
any dislike to me, but of pure anxiety, based on her full knowledge of
his sad condition; no one but her, who had lived with and nursed him,
knew the worst. However, I never faltered; the symptoms would not lie to
me, nor my art fail me; when the right moment came, I applied the
treatment, in spite of the timidity of some of my friends, who were
afraid of the scandal that might result from a failure; it would be said
that the medicine was my vengeful retort to the disinheritance. To make a
long story short, it was at once apparent that he had taken no harm; he
was in his senses again, and aware of all that went on. The company were
amazed; my step-mother thanked me, and every one could see that she was
delighted both at my triumph and at her husband's recovery. He himself--
to give credit where it is due--did not take time to consider, nor to ask
advice, but, as soon as he heard the story, undid what he had done, made
me his son again, hailed me as his preserver and benefactor, confessed
that I had now given my proofs, and withdrew his previous charges. All
this was delightful to the better, who were many, among his friends, but
distasteful to the persons who enjoy a quarrel more than a
reconciliation. I observed at the time that all were not equally pleased;
there were changes of colour, uneasy glances, signs of mortification, in
one quarter at least, which told of envy and hatred. With us, who had
recovered each other, all was naturally affection and rejoicing.

Quite a short time after, my step-mother's disorder commenced--a very
terrible and unaccountable one, gentlemen of the jury. I observed it from
its very beginning; it was no slight superficial case, this; it was a
long-established but hitherto latent mental disease, which now burst out
and forced its way into notice. There are many signs by which we know
that madness is incurable--among them a strange one which I noticed in
this case. Ordinary society has a soothing, alleviating effect; the
patient forgets to be mad; but if he sees a doctor, or even hears one
mentioned, he at once displays acute irritation--an infallible sign that
he is far gone, incurable in fact. I was distressed to notice this
symptom; my step-mother was a worthy person who deserved a better fate,
and I was all compassion for her.

But my father in his simplicity, knowing neither when nor how the trouble
began, and quite unable to gauge its gravity, bade me cure her by the
drugs that had cured him. His idea was that madness was to be nothing
else but mad; the disease was the same, its effects the same, and it must
admit of the same treatment. When I told him, as was perfectly true, that
his wife was incurable, and confessed that the case was beyond me, he
thought it an outrage, said I was refusing because I chose to, and
treating the poor woman shamefully--in short, visited upon me the
limitations of my art. Such ebullitions are common enough in distress; we
all lose our tempers then with the people who tell us the truth. I must
nevertheless defend myself and my profession, as well as I can, against
his strictures.

I will begin with some remarks upon the law under which I am to be
disinherited; my father will please to observe that it is not quite so
much now as before a matter for his absolute discretion. You will find,
sir, that the author of the law has not conferred the right of disherison
upon any father against any son upon any pretext. It is true he has armed
fathers with this weapon; but he has also protected sons against its
illegitimate use. That is the meaning of his insisting that the procedure
shall not be irresponsible and uncontrolled, but come under the legal
cognizance of inspectors whose decision will be uninfluenced by passion
or misrepresentation. He knew how often irritation is unreasonable, and
what can be effected by a lying tale, a trusted slave, or a spiteful
woman. He would not have the deed done without form of law; sons were not
to be condemned unheard and out of hand; they are to have the ear of the
court for so long by the clock, and there is to be adequate inquiry into
the facts.

My father's competence, then, being confined to preferring his
complaints, and the decision whether they are reasonable or not resting
with you, I shall be within my rights in requesting you to defer
consideration of the grievance on which he bases the present suit, until
you have determined whether a second disinheritance is admissible in the
abstract. He has cast me off, has exercised his legal rights, enforced
his parental powers to the full, and then restored me to my position as
his son. Now it is iniquitous, I maintain, that fathers should have these
unlimited penal powers, that disgrace should be multiplied, apprehension
made perpetual, the law now chastize, now relent, now resume its
severity, and justice be the shuttlecock of our fathers' caprices. It is
quite proper for the law to humour, encourage, give effect to, _one_
punitive impulse on the part of him who has begotten us; but if, after
shooting his bolt, insisting on his right, indulging his wrath, he
discovers our merits and takes us back, then he should be held to his
decision, and not allowed to oscillate, waver, do and undo any more.
Originally, he had no means of knowing whether his offspring would turn
out well or ill; that is why parents who have decided to bring up
children before they knew their nature are permitted to reject such as
are found unworthy of their family.

But when a man has taken his son back, not upon compulsion, but of his
own motion and after inquiry, how can further chopping and changing be
justified? What further occasion for the law?