No More Learning

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.
Something, however, must be settled. I know your moderate, independent
spirit. I quite realize that you come to us from no mercenary motive,
that you are influenced only by the regard and uniform respect which will
be assured to you in this house. Still, as I say, something must be
settled. Now, my dear sir, tell me yourself, what you think right;
remembering that there is something to be expected at the great
festivals; for you will not find me remiss in that respect, though I say
nothing definite at present; and these occasions, as you know, come
pretty frequently in the course of the year. This consideration will no
doubt influence you in settling the amount of your salary; and apart from
that, it sits well on men of culture like yourself, to be above the
thought of money. ' Your hopes are blasted at the words, and your proud
spirit is tamed. The dream of the millionaire and landed proprietor fades
away, as you gradually catch his parsimonious drift. Yet you smirk
appreciation of the promise. You are to 'consider everything as your
own'; there, surely, is something solid? 'Tis a draught (did you but know
it)

That wets the lips, but leaves the palate dry.
After an interval of embarrassment, you leave the matter to his decision.
He declines the responsibility, and calls for the intervention of one of
the company: let him name a sum, at once worthy of your acceptance, and
not burdensome to his purse, which has so many more urgent calls upon it.
'Sir,' says this officious old gentleman, who has been a toady from his
youth, 'Sir, you are the luckiest man in Rome. Deny it if you can! You
have gained a privilege which many a man has longed for, and is not like
to obtain at Fortune's hands. You have been admitted to enjoy the company
and share the hearth and home of the first citizen of our empire. Used
aright, such a privilege will be more to you than the wealth of a Croesus
or a Midas. Knowing as I do how many there are--persons of high standing
--who would be glad to pay money down, merely for the honour and glory of
the acquaintanceship, of being seen in his company, and ranking as his
friends and intimates,--knowing this, I am at a loss for words in which
to express my sense of your good fortune. You are not only to enjoy this
happiness, but to be paid for enjoying it! Under the circumstances, I
think we shall satisfy your most extravagant expectations, if we say'--
and he names a sum which in itself is of the smallest, quite apart from
all reference to your brilliant hopes. However, there is nothing for it
but to submit with a good grace. It is too late now for escape; you are
in the toils. So you open your mouth for the bit, and are very manageable
from the first.
You give your rider no occasion to keep a tight rein, or
to use the spur; and at last by imperceptible degrees you are quite
broken in to him.

The outside world from that time watches you with envy. You dwell within
his courts; you have free access; you are become a person of consequence.
Yet it is now incomprehensible to you how they can suppose you to be
happy. At the same time, you are not without a certain exultation: you
cheat yourself from day to day with the thought that there are better
things to come. Quite the contrary turns out to be the case. Your
prospects, like the proverbial sacrifice of Mandrobulus, dwindle and
contract from day to day. Gradually you get some faint glimmerings of the
truth. It begins to dawn upon you at last, that those golden hopes were
neither more nor less than gilded bubbles: the vexations, on the other
hand, are realities; solid, abiding, uncompromising realities. 'And what
are these vexations? ' you will perhaps exclaim; 'I see nothing so
vexatious about the matter; I know not what are the hardships and the
drudgery alluded to. ' Then listen. And do not confine yourself to the
article of drudgery, but keep a sharp look-out for ignominy, for
degradation, for everything, in short, that is unworthy of a free man.

Let me remind you then, to begin with, that you are no longer free-born,
no longer a man of family. Birth, freedom, ancestry, all these you will
leave on the other side of the door, when you enter upon the fulfilment
of your servile contract; for Freedom will never bear you company in that
ignoble station. You are a slave, wince as you may at the word; and, be
assured, a slave of many masters; a downward-looking drudge, from morning
till night

serving for sorry wage.

Then again, you are a backward pupil: Servitude was not the nurse of your
childhood; you are getting on in years when she takes you in hand;
accordingly, you will do her little credit, and give little satisfaction
to your lord. Recollections of Freedom will exercise their demoralizing
influence upon you, causing you to jib at times, and you will make
villanous work of your new profession. Or will your aspirations after
Freedom be satisfied, perhaps, with the thought, that you are no son of a
Pyrrhias or a Zopyrion, no Bithynian, to be knocked down under the hammer
of a bawling auctioneer? My dear sir, when pay-day comes round each
month, and you mingle in the herd of Pyrrhiases and Zopyrions, and hold
out your hand for the wage that is due to you, what is that but a sale?
No need of an auctioneer, for the man who can cry his own wares, and
hawks his liberty about from day to day. Wretch! (one is prompted to
exclaim, and particularly when the culprit is a professed philosopher)
Wretch! Were you captured and sold by a pirate or a brigand, you would
bewail your lot, and think that Fortune had dealt hardly with you. Were a
man to lay violent hands on you, and claim a master's rights in you, loud
and bitter would be your outcry: 'By heaven and earth, 'tis monstrous! I
appeal to the laws! ' And now, at an age at which a born slave may begin
to look towards Freedom, _now_ for a few pence do you sell yourself,
your virtue and wisdom, in one parcel? And could Plato's noble words,
could all that Chrysippus and Aristotle have said, of the blessings of
freedom and the curse of slavery, raise no compunction in you? Do you
count it no shame to be pitted against toadies and vulgar parasites? no
shame to sit at the noisy banquets of a promiscuous, and for the most
part a disreputable company, a Greek among Romans, wearing the foreign
garb of philosophy, and stammering their tongue with a foreign accent?
How fulsome are your flatteries on these occasions! how indecent your
tipplings! And next morning the bell rings, and up you must get, losing
the best of your sleep, to trudge up and down with yesterday's mud still
on your shoes. Were lupines and wild herbs so scarce with you? had the
springs ceased to give their wonted supply, that you were brought to such
a pass? No, the cause of your captivity is too clear. Not water, not
lupines were the object of your desire, but dainty viands and fragrant
wines; and your sin has found you out: you are hooked like a pike by your
greedy jaws. We have not far to look for the reward of gluttony. Like a
monkey with a collar about its neck, you are kept to make amusement for
the company; fancying yourself supremely happy, because you are unstinted
in the matter of dried figs. As to freedom and generosity, they are fled,
with the memories of Greece, and have left no trace behind them. And
would that that were all, the disgrace of falling from freedom to
servitude! Would that your employments were not those of a very menial!
Consider: are your duties any lighter than those of a Dromo or a Tibius?
As to the studies in which your employer professed an interest when he
engaged you, they are nothing to him. Shall an ass affect the lyre?
Remove from these men's minds the gold and the silver, with the cares
that these involve, and what remains? Pride, luxury, sensuality,
insolence, wantonness, ignorance. Consuming must be their desire, doubt
it not, for the wisdom of Homer, the eloquence of Demosthenes, the
sublimity of Plato!

No, your employer has no need of your services in this direction. On the
other hand, you have a long beard and a venerable countenance; the
Grecian cloak hangs admirably upon your shoulders, and you are known to
be a professor of rhetoric, or literature, or philosophy; it will not be
amiss, he thinks, to have such pursuits represented in the numerous
retinue that marches before him. It will give him an air of Grecian
culture, of liberal curiosity in fact. Friend, friend! your stock-in-
trade would seem to be not words of wisdom, but a cloak and a beard. If
you would do your duty, therefore, be always well in evidence; begin your
unfailing attendance from the early hours of the morning, and never quit
his side. Now and again he places a hand upon your shoulder, and mutters
some nonsense for the benefit of the passers-by, who are to understand
that though he walk abroad the Muses are not forgotten, that in all his
comings and goings he can find elegant employment for his mind.
Breathless and perspiring, you trot, a pitiable spectacle, at the
litter's side; or if he walks--you know what Rome is--, up hill and down
dale after him you tramp. While he is paying a call on a friend, you are
left outside, where, for lack of a seat, you are fain to take out your
book and read standing.

Night finds you hungry and thirsty. You snatch an apology for a bath; and
it is midnight or near it before you get to dinner. You are no longer an
honoured guest; no longer do you engage the attention of the company. You
have retired to make room for some newer capture. Thrust into the most
obscure corner, you sit watching the progress of dinner, gnawing in
canine sort any bones that come down to you and regaling yourself with
hungry zest on such tough mallow-leaves--the wrappers of daintier fare--
as may escape the vigilance of those who sit above you. No slight is
wanting. You have not so much as an egg to call your own; for there is no
reason why you should expect to be treated in the same way as a stranger;
that would be absurd. The birds that fall to your lot are not like other
birds. Your neighbour gets some plump, luscious affair; you, a poor half-
chicken, or lean pigeon, an insult, a positive outrage in poultry. As
often as not, an extra guest appears unexpectedly, and the waiter solves
the difficulty by removing your share (with the whispered consolation
that you are 'one of the family'), and placing it before the new-comer.
When the joint, be it pork or venison, is brought in to be carved, let us
hope that you stand well with the carver, or you will receive a
Promethean helping of 'bones wrapped up in fat. ' And the way in which a
dish is whisked past you, after remaining with your neighbour till he can
eat no more! --what free man would endure it, though he were as innocent
of gall as any stag? And I have said nothing yet of the wine. While the
other guests are drinking of some rare old vintage, you have vile thick
stuff, whose colour you must industriously conceal with the help of a
gold or silver cup, lest it should betray the estimation in which the
drinker is held. It would be something if you could get enough even of
this. Alas! you may call and call: the waiter is

as one that marketh not.

Many are your grievances; nay, all is one huge grievance. And the climax
is reached, when you find yourself eclipsed by some minion, some dancing-
master, some vile Alexandrian patterer of Ionic lays. How should you hope
to rank with the minister of Love's pleasures, with the stealthy conveyer
of billets-doux? You cower shamefaced in your corner, and bewail your
hard lot, as well you may; cursing your luck that you have never a
smattering of such graceful accomplishments yourself. I believe you wish
that _you_ could turn love-songs, or sing other men's with a good
grace; perceiving as you do what a thing it is to be in request. Nay, you
could find it in you to play the wizard's, the fortune-teller's part; to
deal in thrones and in millions of money. For these, too, you observe,
make their way in the world, and are high in favour. Gladly would you
enter on any one of these vocations, rather than be a useless castaway.
Alas, even these are beyond you; you lack plausibility. It remains for
you to give place to others; to endure neglect, and keep your complaints
to yourself.

Nay, more. Should some slave whisper that you alone withheld your praise,
when his mistress's favourite danced or played, the neglect may cost you
dear. Then let your dry throat be as busy as any thirsty frog's. See to
it, that your voice is heard leading the chorus of applause; and time
after time, when all else are silent, throw in some studied servile
compliment. The situation is not without humour. Hungry as you are, ay,
and thirsty into the bargain, you must anoint yourself with oil of
gladness, and crown your head with garlands. It reminds one of the
offerings made by recent mourners at a tomb. The tomb gets the ointment
and the garlands, while the mourners drink and enjoy the feast.

If your patron is of a jealous disposition, and has a young wife or
handsome children, and you are not wholly without personal attractions,
then beware! you are on dangerous ground. Many are the ears of a king,
and many the eyes, that see not the truth only, but ever something over
and above the truth, lest they should seem to fail of their office.
Imagine yourself, therefore, at a Persian banquet. Keep your eyes
downwards, lest a eunuch should catch them resting on one of the
concubines. For see, there stands another with his bow ever on the
stretch: one glance at the forbidden object as you raise your cup, and
his arrow is through your jaw before you can put it down.

And now dinner is over; you retire, and snatch a little sleep. But at
cock-crow you are aroused. 'Wretch! Worm that I am! ' you exclaim. 'To
sacrifice the pursuits, the society of former days, the placid life
wherein sleep was measured by inclination, and my comings and goings were
unfettered, and all to precipitate myself bodily into this hideous gulf!
And why? What, in God's name, is my glorious recompense? Was there no
other way? Could I not have provided for myself better than this, and
preserved liberty and free-will into the bargain? Alas! the lion is fast
bound in the net. I am haled hither and thither. Pitiable is my lot,
where no honour is to be won, no favour to be hoped for. Untaught,
unpractised in the arts of flattery, I am pitted against professionals. I
am no choice spirit, no jolly companion; to raise a laugh is beyond me.
My presence (well do I know it) is a vexation to my patron, and then most
when he is in his most gracious mood. He finds me sullen; and how to
attune myself to him I know not. If I wear a grim face, I am a sour
fellow, scarcely to be endured. If I assume my most cheerful expression,
my smiles arouse his contempt and disgust. As well attempt to act a comic
part in the mask of tragedy! And what is the end of it all? My present
life has been another's: do I look to have a new life which shall be my
own? '

Your soliloquy is interrupted by the bell. The old routine awaits you:
you must trudge, and you must stand; and first anoint your limbs, if you
would hold out to the end. Dinner will be the same as ever, and go on as
late as ever. The change from all your former habits, the wakeful night,
the violent exercise, the exhaustion, are slowly undermining your health
at this moment, and preparing you for consumption or colic, for asthma or
the delights of gout. However, you hold out in spite of all, though many
a time your right place would be in bed. But that would never do: that
looks like shamming, like shirking your work. The result is that you grow
as pallid as a man at the point of death.

So much for your city life. And now for an excursion into the country.
I will content myself with a single detail. As likely as not it is a wet
day. Your turn for the carriage (as might be expected) comes last. You
wait and wait, till at last its return is out of the question, and you
are squeezed into some vehicle with the cook, or with my lady's _friseur_,
without even a proper allowance of straw. I shall make no scruple of
relating to you an experience of Thesmopolis the Stoic, which I had from
his own mouth; a most amusing incident, and just the sort of thing one
might expect to find happening again. He was in the service of a certain
wealthy and luxurious lady of quality, whom on one occasion he had to
accompany on a journey from Rome. The fun began at once. The philosopher
received as his travelling companion a beardless exquisite of the
pitch-plastering persuasion, by whom, you may be certain, my lady set
great store; his name, she informed the philosopher, was 'Robinetta. ' Is
not this a promising start? --the grave and reverend Thesmopolis, with his
hoary beard (you know what a long, venerable affair it is), side by side
with this rouged and painted ogler, whose drooping neck and plucked
throat suggested the vulture rather than the robin! 'Twas all that
Thesmopolis could do to persuade him not to wear his hair-net; and as it
was he had a sad journey of it, with the fellow singing and whistling all
the time--I daresay he would have danced there and then, if Thesmopolis
had not prevented him. But there was more to come, as you will see.
'Thesmopolis,' cries my lady, calling him to her, 'I have a great favour
to ask of you; now please don't say no, and don't wait to be asked twice,
there's a good creature. ' Of course, he said he would do anything she
wished. 'I only ask you, because I know you are to be trusted; you are so
good-natured and affectionate! I want you to take my little dog Myrrhina
in with you, and see that she wants for nothing. Poor little lady! she is
soon to become a mother. These hateful, inattentive servants take no
notice of _me_ when we are travelling, much less of her. You will be doing
me a great kindness, I assure you, in taking charge of her; I am so fond
of the sweet little pet! ' She prayed and almost wept; and Thesmopolis
promised. Imagine the ludicrous picture. The little beast peeping out from
beneath the philosophic cloak; within licking distance of that beard,
which perhaps still held traces of the thick soup of yesterday; yapping
away with its shrill pipe of a voice, as Maltese terriers will; and no
doubt taking other liberties, which Thesmopolis did not think worth
mentioning. That night at dinner, the exquisite, his fellow traveller,
after cracking a passable joke here and there at the expense of the other
guests, came to Thesmopolis. 'Of him,' he remarked, 'I have only this to
say, that our Stoic has turned Cynic. ' According to what I heard, the
little animal actually littered in his mantle!

Such are the caprices, nay, the insults, let me rather say, with which
the patron gradually breaks the spirit of his dependants. I know myself
of an orator, a very free speaker, who was actually ordered to stand up
and deliver a speech at table; and a masterly speech it was, trenchant
and terse. He received the congratulations of the company on being timed
by a _wine_--instead of a _water_-clock; and this affront, it is said, he
was content to put up, for the consideration of 8 pounds. But what of
that? Wait till you get a patron who has poetical or historical
tendencies, and spouts passages of his own works all through dinner: you
must praise, you must flatter, you must devise original compliments for
him,--or die in the attempt. Then there are the beaux, the Adonises and
Hyacinths, as you must be careful to call them, undeterred by the
eighteen inches or so of nose that some of them carry on their faces. Do
your praises halt? 'Tis envy, 'tis treason! Away with you, Philoxenus
that you are, to Syracusan quarries! --Let them be orators, let them be
philosophers, if they will: what matter for a solecism here and there?
Find Attic elegance, find honey of Hymettus in every word; and pronounce
it law henceforth, to speak as they speak.

If we had only men to deal with, it would be something: but there are the
women too. For among the objects of feminine ambition is this, of having
a scholar or two in their pay, to dance attendance at the litter's side;
it adds one more to the list of their adornments, if they can get the
reputation of culture and philosophy, of turning a song which will bear
comparison with Sappho's. So they too keep their philosopher, their
orator, or their _litterateur_; and give him audience--when, think
you? Why, at the toilet, by all that is ridiculous, among the rouge-pots
and hair-brushes; or else at the dinner-table. They have no leisure at
other times. As it is, the philosopher is often interrupted by the
entrance of a maid with a billet-doux. Virtue has then to bide her time;
for the audience will not be resumed till the gallant has his answer.

At rare intervals, at the Saturnalia or the Feast of Minerva, you will be
presented with a sorry cloak, or a worn-out tunic; and a world of
ceremony will go to the presentation. The first who gets wind of the
great man's intention flies to you with the news of what is in store
for you; and the bringer of glad tidings does not go away empty-handed. The
next morning a dozen of them arrive, conveying the present, each with his
tale of how he spoke up for you, or the hints he threw out, or how he was
entrusted with the choice, and chose the best. Not a man of them but
departs with your money in his pocket, grumbling that it is no more.

As to that salary, it will be paid to you sixpence at a time, and there
will be black looks when you ask for it. Still, you must get it somehow.
Ply your patron therefore with flatteries and entreaties, and pay due
observance to his steward, and let it be the kind of observance that
stewards like best; nor must you forget your kind introducer. You do get
something at last; but it all goes to pay the tailor, the doctor, or the
shoemaker, and you are left the proud possessor of nothing at all.

Meanwhile, jealousy is rife, and some slander is perhaps working its
stealthy way to ears which are predisposed to hear anything to your
discredit. For your employer perceives that by this time incessant
fatigues have worn you out; you are crippled, you are good for nothing
more, and gout is coming on. All the profit that was to be had of you, he
has effectually sucked out. Your prime has gone by, your bodily vigour is
exhausted, you are a tattered remnant. He begins to look about for a
convenient dunghill whereon to deposit you, and for an able-bodied
substitute to do your work. You have attempted the honour of one of his
minions: you have been trying to corrupt his wife's maid, venerable
sinner that you are! --any accusation will serve. You are gagged and
turned out neck and crop into the darkness. Away you go, helpless and
destitute, with gout for the cheering companion of your old age. Whatever
you once knew, you have unlearnt in all these years: on the other hand,
you have developed a paunch like a balloon; a monster insatiable,
inexorable, which has acquired a habit of asking for more, and likes not
at all the unlearning process. It is not to be supposed that any one else
will give you employment, at your age; you are like an old horse, whose
very hide has deteriorated in value. Not to mention that the worst
interpretation will be put upon your late dismissal; you will be credited
with adultery, or poisoning, or something of that kind. Your accuser, you
see, is convincing even in silence; whereas you--you are a loose-
principled, unscrupulous _Greek_. That is the character we Greeks
bear; and it serves us right; I see excellent grounds for the opinion
they have of us. Greek after Greek who enters their service sets up (in
default of any other practical knowledge) for wizard or poisoner, and
deals in love-charms and evil spells; and these are they who talk of
culture, who wear grey beards and philosophic cloaks! When these, who are
accounted the best of us, stand thus exposed, when men observe their
interested servility, their gross flatteries at table and elsewhere, it
is not to be wondered at that we have all fallen under suspicion. Those
whom they have cast off, they hate, and seek to make an end of them
altogether; arguing, naturally enough, that men who know their secrets,
and have seen them in all their nakedness, may divulge many a foible
which will not bear the light; and the thought is torment to them. The
fact is, that these great men are for all the world like handsomely bound
books.