No More Learning

Why, the cloak I
thought so shabby before passes muster here as well as royal purple;
the darkness hides both alike. Cyniscus, whereabouts are you?

_Cy_. Use your ears; here I am. We might walk together. What do you
say?

_Mi_. Very good; give me your hand. --I suppose you have been admitted
to the mysteries at Eleusis? That must have been something like this,
I should think?

_Cy_. Pretty much. Look, here comes a torch-bearer; a grim, forbidding
dame. A Fury, perhaps?

_Mi_. She looks like it, certainly.

_Her_. Here they are, Tisiphone. One thousand and four.

_Ti_. It is time we had them. Rhadamanthus has been waiting.

_Rhad_. Bring them up, Tisiphone. Hermes, you call out their names as
they are wanted.

_Cy_. Rhadamanthus, as you love your father Zeus, have me up first for
examination.

_Rhad_. Why?

_Cy_. There is a certain shade whose misdeeds on earth I am anxious to
denounce. And if my evidence is to be worth anything, you must first
be satisfied of my own character and conduct.

_Rhad_. Who are you?

_Cy_. Cyniscus, your worship; a student of philosophy.

_Rhad_. Come up for judgement; I will take you first. Hermes, summon
the accusers.

_Her_. If any one has an accusation to bring against Cyniscus here
present, let him come forward.

_Cy_. No one stirs!

_Rhad_. Ah, but that is not enough, my friend. Off with your clothes;
I must have a look at your brands.

_Cy_. Brands? Where will you find them?

_Rhad_. Never yet did mortal man sin, but he carried about the secret
record thereof, branded on his soul.

_Cy_. Well, here I am stripped. Now for the 'brands. '

_Rhad_. Clean from head to heel, except three or four very faint
marks, scarcely to be made out. Ah! what does this mean? Here is place
after place that tells of the iron; all rubbed out apparently, or cut
out. How do you explain this, Cyniscus? How did you get such a clean
skin again?

_Cy_. Why, in old days, when I knew no better, I lived an evil life,
and acquired thereby a number of brands. But from the day that I began
to practise philosophy, little by little I washed out all the scars
from my soul,-thanks to the efficiency of that admirable lotion.

_Rhad_. Off with you then to the Isles of the Blest, and the excellent
company you will find there. But we must have your impeachment of the
tyrant before you go. Next shade, Hermes!

_Mi_. Mine is a very small affair, too, Rhadamanthus; I shall not keep
you long. I have been stripped all this time; so do take me next.

_Rhad_. And who may you be?

_Mi_. Micyllus the cobbler.

_Rhad_. Very well, Micyllus. As clean as clean could be; not a mark
anywhere. You may join Cyniscus. Now the Tyrant.

_Her_. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes, wanted! Where are you off to? This
way! You there, the Tyrant! Up with him, Tisiphone, neck and crop.

_Rhad_. Now, Cyniscus, your accusation and your proofs. Here is the
party.

_Cy_. There is in fact no need of an accusation. You will very soon
know the man by the marks upon him. My words however may serve to
unveil him, and to show his character in a clearer light. With the
conduct of this monster as a private citizen, I need not detain you.
Surrounded with a bodyguard, and aided by unscrupulous accomplices, he
rose against his native city, and established a lawless rule. The
persons put to death by him without trial are to be counted by
thousands, and it was the confiscation of their property that gave him
his enormous wealth. Since then, there is no conceivable iniquity
which he has not perpetrated. His hapless fellow-citizens have been
subjected to every form of cruelty and insult. Virgins have been
seduced, boys corrupted, the feelings of his subjects outraged in
every possible way. His overweening pride, his insolent bearing
towards all who had to do with him, were such as no doom of yours can
adequately requite. A man might with more security have fixed his gaze
upon the blazing sun, than upon yonder tyrant. As for the refined
cruelty of his punishments, it baffles description; and not even his
familiars were exempt. That this accusation has not been brought
without sufficient grounds, you may easily satisfy yourself, by
summoning the murderer's victims. --Nay, they need no summons; see,
they are here; they press round as though they would stifle him. Every
man there, Rhadamanthus, fell a prey to his iniquitous designs. Some
had attracted his attention by the beauty of their wives; others by
their resentment at the forcible abduction of their children; others
by their wealth; others again by their understanding, their
moderation, and their unvarying disapproval of his conduct.

_Rhad_. Villain, what have you to say to this?

_Me_. I committed the murders referred to. As for the rest, the
adulteries and corruptions and seductions, it is all a pack of lies.

_Cy_. I can bring witnesses to these points too, Rhadamanthus.

_Rhad_. Witnesses, eh?

_Cy_. Hermes, kindly summon his Lamp and Bed. They will appear in
evidence, and state what they know of his conduct.

_Her_. Lamp and Bed of Megapenthes, come into court. Good, they
respond to the summons.

_Rhad_. Now, tell us all you know about Megapenthes. Bed, you speak
first.

_Bed_. All that Cyniscus said is true. But really, Mr. Rhadamanthus, I
don't quite like to speak about it; such strange things used to happen
overhead.

_Rhad_. Why, your unwillingness to speak is the most telling evidence
of all! --Lamp, now let us have yours.

_Lamp_. What went on in the daytime I never saw, not being there. As
for his doings at night, the less said the better. I saw some very
queer things, though, monstrous queer. Many is the time I have stopped
taking oil on purpose, and tried to go out. But then he used to bring
me close up. It was enough to give any lamp a bad character.

_Rhad_. Enough of verbal evidence. Now, just divest yourself of that
purple, and we will see what you have in the way of brands. Goodness
gracious, the man's a positive network! Black and blue with them! Now,
what punishment can we give him? A bath in Pyriphlegethon? The tender
mercies of Cerberus, perhaps?

_Cy_. No, no. Allow me,--I have a novel idea; something that will just
suit him.

_Rhad_. Yes? I shall be obliged to you for a suggestion.

_Cy_. I fancy it is usual for departed spirits to take a draught of
the water of Lethe?

_Rhad_. Just so.

_Cy_. Let him be the sole exception.

_Rhad_. What is the idea in that?

_Cy_. His earthly pomp and power for ever in his mind; his fingers
ever busy on the tale of blissful items;--'tis a heavy sentence!

_Rhad_. True. Be this the tyrant's doom. Place him in fetters at
Tantalus's side,--never to forget the things of earth.

F.




THE END






THE WORKS OF LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA

Complete with exceptions specified in the preface

TRANSLATED BY

H. W. FOWLER AND F. G. FOWLER

IN FOUR VOLUMES

What work nobler than transplanting foreign thought into the barren
domestic soil? except indeed planting thought of your own, which the
fewest are privileged to do. --_Sartor Resartus_.

At each flaw, be this your first thought: the author doubtless said
something quite different, and much more to the point. And then you may
hiss _me_ off, if you will. --LUCIAN, _Nigrinus_, 9.

(LUCIAN) The last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic wit. --_Lord
Macaulay_.



VOLUME II




CONTENTS OF VOL. II

THE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR

APOLOGY FOR 'THE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR'

A SLIP OF THE TONGUE IN SALUTATION

HERMOTIMUS, OR THE RIVAL PHILOSOPHIES

HERODOTUS AND AETION

ZEUXIS AND ANTIOCHUS

HARMONIDES

THE SCYTHIAN

THE WAY TO WRITE HISTORY

THE TRUE HISTORY

THE TYRANNICIDE

THE DISINHERITED

PHALARIS, I

PHALARIS, II

ALEXANDER THE ORACLE-MONGER

OF PANTOMIME

LEXIPHANES




THE DEPENDENT SCHOLAR


The dependent scholar! The great man's licensed friend! --if friend, not
slave, is to be the word. Believe me, Timocles, amid the humiliation and
drudgery of his lot, I know not where to turn for a beginning. Many, if
not most, of his hardships are familiar to me; not, heaven knows, from
personal experience, for I have never been reduced to such extremity, and
pray that I never may be; but from the lips of numerous victims; from the
bitter outcries of those who were yet in the snare, and the complacent
recollections of others who, like escaped prisoners, found a pleasure in
detailing all that they had been through. The evidence of the latter was
particularly valuable. Mystics, as it were, of the highest grade,
Dependency had no secrets for them. Accordingly, it was with keen
interest that I listened to their stories of miraculous deliverance from
moral shipwreck. They reminded me of the mariners who, duly cropped,
gather at the doors of a temple, with their tale of stormy seas and
monster waves and promontories, castings out of cargoes, snappings of
masts, shatterings of rudders; ending with the appearance of those twin
brethren [Footnote: The Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux, who were supposed to
appear to sailors in distress. ] so indispensable to nautical story, or of
some other _deus ex machina_, who, seated at the masthead or
standing at the helm, guides the vessel to some sandy shore, there to
break up at her leisure--not before her crew (so benevolent is the God! )
have effected a safe landing. The mariner, however, is liberal in
embellishment, being prompted thereto by the exigencies of his situation;
for by his appearance as a favourite of heaven, not merely a victim of
fortune, the number of the charitable is increased. It is otherwise with
those whose narrative is of domestic storms, of billows rising mountain
high (if so I may phrase it) within four walls. They tell us of the
seductive calm that first lured them on to those waters, of the
sufferings they endured throughout the voyage, the thirst, the
sea-sickness, the briny drenchings; and how at last their luckless craft
went to pieces upon some hidden reef or at the foot of some steep crag,
leaving them to swim for it, and to land naked and utterly destitute. All
this they tell us: but I have ever suspected them of having convenient
lapses of memory, and omitting the worst part for very shame. For myself,
I shall have no such scruple. All that I have heard, or can reasonably
infer, of the evils of dependence, I shall place before you. For either,
friend, my penetration is at fault, or you have long had a hankering for
this profession.

Yes, I have seen it from the first, whenever the conversation has fallen
on this subject of salaried intellects. 'Happy men!
' some enthusiast has
cried. 'The _elite_ of Rome are their friends. They dine
sumptuously, and call for no reckoning. They are lodged splendidly, and
travel comfortably--nay, luxuriously--with cushions at their backs, and
as often as not a fine pair of creams in front of them. And, as if this
were not enough, the friendship they enjoy and the handsome treatment
they receive is made good to them with a substantial salary. They sow
not, they plough not; yet all things grow for their use. ' How I have seen
you prick up your ears at such words as these! How wide your mouth has
opened to the bait!

Now I will have a clear conscience in this matter. I will not be told
hereafter that I saw you swallowing this palpable bait, and never stirred
a finger to snatch it from you, and show you the hook while there was yet
time; that I watched you nibbling, saw the hook well in and the fish
hauled up, and then stood by shedding useless tears. A grave charge,
indeed, were I to leave it in your power to bring it; such neglect would
admit of no palliation. You shall therefore hear the whole truth. Now, in
leisurely fashion, from without, not hereafter from within, shall you
examine this weel from which no fish escapes. You shall take in hand this
hook of subtle barb. You shall try the prongs of this eel-spear against
your inflated cheek; and if you decide that they are not sharp, that they
would be easily evaded, that a wound from them would be no great matter,
that they are deficient in power and grasp--then write me among those who
have cowardice to thank for their empty bellies; and for yourself, take
heart of grace, and swoop upon your prey, and cormorant-wise, if you
will, swallow all at a gulp.

But however much the present treatise is indebted to you for its
existence, its application is not confined to you who are philosophers,
whose ambition it is to form your conduct upon serious principles; it
extends to the teachers of literature, of rhetoric, of music,--to all, in
short, whose intellectual attainments can command a maintenance and a
wage. And where the life, from beginning to end, is one and the same for
all, the philosopher (I need not say), so far from being a privileged
person, has but the additional ignominy of being levelled with the rest,
and treated by his paymaster with as scant ceremony as the rest. In
conclusion, whatever disclosures I may be led to make, the blame must
fall in the first instance on the aggressors, and in the second instance
on those who suffer the aggression. For me, unless truth and candour be
crimes, I am blameless.

As to the vulgar rabble of trainers and toadies, illiterate, mean-souled
creatures, born to obscurity, should we attempt to dissuade _them_
from such pursuits, our labour would be wasted. Nor can we fairly blame
them, for putting up any affront, rather than part with their employers.
The life suits them; they are in their element. And what other channel is
there, into which their energies could be directed? Take away this, their
sole vocation, and they are idle cumberers of the earth. They have
nothing, then, to complain of; nor are their employers unreasonable in
turning these humble vessels to the use for which they were designed.
They come into a house prepared for such treatment from the first; it is
their profession to endure and suffer wrong.

But the case of educated men, such as I have mentioned above, is another
matter; it calls for our indignation, and for our utmost endeavours to
restore them to liberty. I think it will not be amiss, if I first examine
into the provocations under which they turn to a life of dependence. By
showing how trivial, how inadequate these provocations are, I shall
forestall the main argument used by the defenders of voluntary servitude.
Most of them are content to cloak their desertion under the names of
Poverty and Necessity. It is enough, they think, to plead in extenuation,
that they sought to flee from this greatest of human ills, Poverty.
Theognis comes pat to their purpose. His

Poverty, soul-subduing Poverty,

is in continual requisition, together with other fearful utterances of
our most degenerate poets to the same effect. Now if I could see that
they really found an escape from poverty in the lives they lead, I would
not be too nice on the point of absolute freedom. But when we find them
(to use the expression of a famous orator) 'faring like men that are
sick,' what conclusion is then left to us to draw? What but this, that
here again they have been misled, the very evil which they sold their
liberty to escape remaining as it was? Poverty unending is their lot.
From the bare pittance they receive nothing can be set apart. Suppose it
paid, and paid in full: the whole sum is swallowed up to the last
farthing, before their necessities are supplied. I would advise them to
think upon better expedients; not such as are merely the protectors and
accomplices of Poverty, but such as will make an end of her altogether.
What say you, Theognis? Might this be a case for,

Steep plunge from crags into the teeming deep?

For when a pauper, a needy hireling, persuades himself that by being what
he is he has escaped poverty, one cannot avoid the conclusion that he
labours under some mistake.

Others tell a different tale. For them, mere poverty would have had no
terrors, had they been able, like other men, to earn their bread by their
labours. But, stricken as they were by age or infirmity, they turned to
this as the easiest way of making a living. Now let us consider whether
they are right. This 'easy' way may be found to involve much labour
before it yields any return; more labour perhaps than any other. To find
money ready to one's hand, without toil or trouble on one's own part,
would indeed be a dream of happiness. But the facts are otherwise. The
toils and troubles of their situation are such as no words can adequately
describe. Health, as it turns out, is nowhere more essential than in this
vocation, in which a thousand daily labours combine to grind the victim
down, and reduce him to utter exhaustion. These I shall describe in due
course, when I come to speak of their other grievances. For the present
let it suffice to have shown that this excuse for the sale of one's
liberty is as untenable as the former.

And now for the true reason, which you will never hear from their lips.
Voluptuousness and a whole pack of desires are what induce them to force
their way into great houses. The dazzling spectacle of abundant gold and
silver, the joys of high feeding and luxurious living, the immediate
prospect of wallowing in riches, with no man to say them nay,--these are
the temptations that lure them on, and make slaves of free men; not lack
of the necessaries of life, as they pretend, but lust of its
superfluities, greed of its costly refinements. And their employers, like
finished coquettes, exercise their rigours upon these hapless slaves of
love, and keep them for ever dangling in amorous attendance; but for
fruition, no! never so much as a kiss may they snatch. To grant that
would be to give the lover his release, a conclusion against which they
are jealously on their guard. But upon hopes he is abundantly fed.
Despair might else cure his ardent passion, and the lover be lover no
more. So there are smiles for him, and promises; always something shall
be done, some favour shall be granted, a handsome provision shall be made
for him,--some day. Meanwhile, old age steals upon the pair; the
superannuated lover ceases from desire, and his mistress has nothing left
to give. Life has gone by, and all they have to show for it is _hope_.

Well now, that a man for the sake of pleasure should put up with every
hardship is perhaps no great matter. Devoted to this one object, he can
think of nothing, but how to procure it. Let that pass. Though it seems
but a scurvy bargain, a bargain for a slave; to sell one's liberty for
pleasures far less pleasant than liberty itself. Still, as I say, let
that pass, provided the price is paid. But to endure unlimited pain,
merely in the hope that pleasure may come of it, this surely is carrying
folly to the height of absurdity. And men do it with their eyes open. The
hardships, they know, are certain, unmistakable, inevitable. As to the
pleasure, that vague, hypothetic pleasure, they have never had it in all
these years, and in all reasonable probability they never will. The
comrades of Odysseus forgot all else in the Lotus: but it was while they
were tasting its sweets. They esteemed lightly of Honour: but it was in
the immediate presence of Pleasure. In men so occupied, such forgetfulness
was not wholly unnatural. But to dwell a prisoner, with Famine for
company, to watch one's neighbour fattening on the Lotus, and keeping it
all to himself, and to forget Honour and Virtue in the bare prospect of a
possible mouthful,--by Heaven, it is too absurd, and calls in good truth
for Homeric scourgings.

Such, as nearly as I can describe them, are men's motives for taking
service with the rich, for handing themselves over bodily, to be used as
their employers think fit. There is one class, however, of which I ought
perhaps to make mention--those whose vanity is gratified by the mere fact
of being seen in the company of well-born and well-dressed men. For there
are those who consider this a distinguished privilege; though for my own
part I would not give a fig to enjoy and to be seen enjoying the company
of the King of Persia, if I was to get nothing by it.

And now, since we understand what it is that these men would be at, let
us mentally review their whole career;--the difficulties that beset the
applicant before he gains acceptance; his condition when he is duly
installed in his office; and the closing scene of his life's drama. You
may perhaps suppose that his situation, whatever its drawbacks, is at
least attainable without much trouble; that you have but to will it, and
the thing is done in a trice. Far from it. Much tramping about is in
store for you, much kicking of heels. You will rise early, and stand long
before your patron's closed door; you will be jostled; you will hear
occasional comments on your impudence. You will be exposed to the vile
gabble of a Syrian porter, and to the extortions of a Libyan nomenclator,
whose memory must be fee'd, if he is not to forget your name. You must
dress beyond your means, or you will be a discredit to your patron; and
select his favourite colours, or you will be out of harmony with your
surroundings. Finally, you will be indefatigable in following his steps,
or rather in preceding them, for you will be thrust forward by his
slaves, to swell his triumphal progress. And for days together you will
not be favoured with a glance.

But one day the best befalls you. You catch his eye; he beckons you to
him, and puts a random question. In that supreme moment what cold sweats,
what palpitations, what untimely tremors are yours! and what mirth is
theirs who witness your confusion! 'Who was the king of the Achaeans? ' is
the question: and your answer, as likely as not, 'A thousand sail. ' With
the charitable this passes for bashfulness; but to the impudent you are a
craven, and to the ill-natured a yokel. This first experience teaches you
that the condescensions of the great are not unattended with danger; and
as you depart you pronounce upon yourself a sentence of utter despair.
Thereafter,

many a sleepless night,
Many a day of strife shall be thy lot--

not for the sake of Helen, not for the towers of Troy, but for the
sevenpence halfpenny of your desire. At length some heaven-sent protector
gives you an introduction: the scholar is brought up for examination. For
the great man, who has but to receive your flatteries and compliments,
this is an agreeable pastime: for you, it is a life-and-death struggle;
all is hazarded on the one throw. For it will of course occur to you,
that if you are rejected at the first trial, you will never pass current
with any one else. A thousand different feelings now distract you. You
are jealous of your rivals (for we will assume that there is competition
for the post); you are dissatisfied with your own replies; you hope; you
fear; you cannot remove your eye from the countenance of your judge. Does
he pooh-pooh your efforts? You are a lost man. Was that a smile? You
rejoice, and hope rises high. It is only to be expected, that many of the
company are your enemies, and others your rivals, and each has his secret
shaft to let fly at you from his lurking-place. What a picture! The
venerable grey-beard being put through his paces. Is he any use? Some say
yes, others no. Time is taken for consideration. Your antecedents are
industriously overhauled. Some envious compatriot, some neighbour with a
trivial grievance, is asked his opinion; he has but to drop a word of
'loose morality,' and your business is done; 'the man speaks God's
truth! ' Every one else may testify to your character: their evidence
proves nothing; they are suspected; they are venal. The fact is, you must
gain every point; there must be no hitch anywhere. That is your only
chance of success.

And now, take it that you _have_ succeeded--beyond all expectation.
Your words have found favour with the great man. Those friends, by whose
judgement in such matters he sets most store, have made no attempt to
alter his decision. His wife approves his choice; the steward and the
major-domo have neither of them anything against you. No aspersions have
been cast on your character; all is propitious, every omen is in your
favour. Hail, mighty conqueror, wreathed in the Olympian garland! Babylon
is yours, Sardis falls before you. The horn of plenty is within your
grasp; pigeons shall yield you milk.

Now, if your crown is to be of anything better than leaves, there must be
some solid benefits to compensate you for the labours you have undergone.
A considerable salary will be placed at your disposal, and you will draw
upon it without ceremony, whenever you have occasion. You will be a
privileged person in every respect. As for toils, and muddy tramps, and
wakeful nights, the time for those have gone by. Your prayers have been
heard: you will take your ease, and sleep your fill. You will do the work
you were engaged to do, and not a stroke besides. This, indeed, is what
you have a right to expect. There would be no great hardship in bowing
one's neck to a yoke so light, so easy--and so superbly gilded. But alas,
Timocles, many, nay all of these requirements are unsatisfied. Your
office, now that you have got it, is attended with a thousand details
insufferable to all but slaves. Let me rehearse them to you; you shall
judge for yourself whether any man with the slightest pretence to culture
would endure such treatment.

Let me begin with your first invitation to dinner, which may reasonably
be expected to follow, as an earnest of the patronage to come. It is
brought to you by a most communicative slave, whose goodwill it must be
your first care to secure. Five shillings is the least you can slip into
his palm, if you would do the thing properly. He has scruples. 'Really,
sir--couldn't think of it; no, indeed, sir. ' But he is prevailed upon at
last, and goes off, grinning from ear to ear. You then look out your best
clothes, have your bath, make yourself as presentable as possible, and
arrive--in fear and trembling lest you should be the first, which would
wear an awkward air, just as it savours of ostentation to arrive last.
Accordingly you contrive to hit on the right moment, are received with
every attention, and shown to your place, a little above the host,
separated from him only by a couple of his intimates. And now you feel as
if you were in heaven. You are all admiration; everything you see
done throws you into ecstasies. It is all so new and strange! The waiters
stare at you, the company watch your movements. Nor is the host without
curiosity. Some of his servants have instructions to observe you
narrowly, lest your glance should fall too often on his wife or children.
The other guests' men perceive your amazement at the novel scene, and
exchange jesting asides. From the fact that you do not know what to make
of your napkin, they conclude that this is your first experience of
dining-out. You perspire with embarrassment; not unnaturally. You are
thirsty, but you dare not ask for wine, lest you should be thought a
tippler. The due connexion between the various dishes which make their
appearance is beyond you: which ought you to take first? which next?
There is nothing for it but to snatch a side glance at your neighbour, do
as he does, and learn to dine in sequence. On the whole, your feelings
are mingled, your spirit perturbed, and stricken with awe. One moment you
are envying your host his gold, his ivory, and all his magnificence; the
next, you are pitying yourself,--that miserable nonentity which calls its
existence life; and then at intervals comes the thought, 'how happy shall
I be, sharing in these splendours, enjoying them as if they were my own! '
For you conceive of your future life as one continual feast; and the
smiling attendance of gracious Ganymedes gives a charming finish to the
picture. That line of Homer keeps coming to your lips: Small blame to
Trojan or to greaved Achaean, if such happiness as this was to be the
reward of their toils and sufferings. Presently healths are drunk. The
host calls for a large beaker, and drinks to 'the Professor,' or whatever
your title is to be. You, in your innocence, do not know that you ought
to say something in reply; you receive the cup in silence, and are set
down as a boor.

Apart from this, your host's pledge has secured you the enmity of many of
his old friends, with some of whom it was already a grievance, that an
acquaintance of a few hours' standing should sit above men who have been
drinking the cup of slavery for years. Tongues are busy with you at once.
Listen to some of them. 'So! We are to give place to new-comers! It
wanted but this. The gates of Rome are open to none but these Greeks. Now
what is their claim to be set over our heads? I suppose they think they
are conferring a favour on us with their wordy stuff? ' 'How he did drink,
to be sure! ' says another. 'And did you see how he shovelled his food
down, hand over hand? Mannerless starveling! He has never so much as
dreamt of white bread before. 'Twas the same with the capon and pheasant;
much if he left us the bones to pick! ' 'My dear sirs' (cries number
three), 'I give him five days at the outside; after which you will see
him at our end of the table, making like moan with ourselves. He is a new
pair of shoes just now, and is treated with all ceremony. Wait till he
has been worn a few times, and the mud has done its work; he will be
flung under the bed, poor wretch, like the rest of us, to be a receptacle
for bugs. ' Such are some among the many comments you excite; and, for all
we know, mischief may be brewing at this moment.

Meanwhile, you are the guest of the evening, and the principal theme of
conversation. Your unwonted situation has led you on to drink more than
was advisable. For some time you have been feeling uncomfortable effects
from your host's light, eager wine. To get up before the rest would be
bad manners: to remain is perilous. The drinking is prolonged; subject
upon subject is started, spectacle after spectacle is produced; for your
host is determined that you shall see all he has to show. You suffer the
torments of the damned. You see nothing of what is going forward: some
favourite singer or musician is performing--you hear him not; and while
you force out some complimentary phrase, you are praying that an
earthquake may swallow up all, or that the news of a fire may break up
the party.

Such, my friend, is your first dinner, the best you will ever get. For my
part, give me a dinner of herbs, with liberty to eat when I will and as
much as I will. I shall spare you the recital of the nocturnal woes that
follow your excess. The next morning, you have to come to terms as to the
amount of your salary, and the times of payment. Appearing in answer to
his summons, you find two or three friends with him. He bids you be
seated, and begins to speak. 'You have now seen the sort of way in which
we live--no ostentation, no fuss; everything quite plain and ordinary.
Now you will consider everything here as your own. It would be a strange
thing, indeed, were I to entrust you with the highest responsibility of
all, the moral guidance of myself and my children'--if there are children
to be taught--'and yet hesitate to place the rest at your disposal.