No More Learning

Who would not despise the city whose guards are such
miserable creatures? Who would not suppose, seeing these pallid,
hairy manikins scattered on the ground, that it had none to fight
for it, and so had turned out its gaol-birds to fill the ranks?
That is how the spongers differ from the rhetoricians and
philosophers in war.

Then in peace time, sponging seems to me as much better than
philosophy as peace itself than war. Be kind enough to glance first
at the scenes of peace.

_Tyc_. I do not quite know what they are; but let us glance at
them, by all means.

_Si_. Well, you will let me describe as civil scenes the
market, the courts, the wrestling-schools and gymnasia, the hunting
field and the dining-room?

_Tyc_. Certainly.

_Si_. To market and courts the sponger gives a wide berth they
are the haunts of chicanery; there is no satisfaction to be got out
of them. But at wrestling-school and gymnasium he is in his
element; he is their chief glory. Show me a philosopher or orator
who is in the same class with him when he strips in the wrestling-
school; look at them in the gymnasium; they shame instead of
adorning it. And in a lonely place none of them would face the
onset of a wild beast; the sponger will, though, and find no
difficulty in disposing of it; his table familiarity with it has
bred contempt. A stag or a wild boar may put up its bristles; he
will not mind; the boar may whet its tusks against him; he only
returns the compliment. As for hares, he is more deadly to them
than a greyhound. And then in the dining-room, where is his match,
to jest or to eat? Who will contribute most to entertainment, he
with his song and his joke, or a person who has not a laugh in him,
sits in a threadbare cloak, and keeps his eyes on the ground as if
he was at a funeral and not a dinner? If you ask me, I think a
philosopher has about as much business in a dining-room as a bull
in a china-shop.

But enough of this. What impression does one get of the sponger's
actual life, when one compares it with the other? First it will be
found that he is indifferent to reputation, and does not care a jot
what people think about him, whereas all rhetoricians and
philosophers without exception are the slaves of vanity,
reputation, and what is worse, of money. No one could be more
careless of the pebbles on the shore than the sponger is of money;
he would as soon touch fire as gold. But the rhetoricians and, as
if that were not bad enough, the professed philosophers, are
beneath contempt in this respect. No need to illustrate in the case
of the rhetoricians; but of the philosophers whose repute stands
highest at present, one was lately convicted of taking a bribe for
his verdict in a law-suit, and another expects a salary for giving
a prince his company, and counts it no shame to go into exile in
his old age, and hire himself out for pay like some Indian or
Scythian captive. The very name his conduct has earned him calls no
blush to his cheek.

But their susceptibilities are by no means limited to these; pain,
temper, jealousy, and all sorts of desires, must be added; all of
which the sponger is beyond the reach of; he does not yield to
temper because on the one hand he has fortitude, and on the other
hand he has no one to irritate him. Or if he is by any chance moved
to wrath, there is nothing disagreeable or sullen about it; it
entertains and amuses merely. As to pain, he has less of that to
endure than anybody, one of his profession's recommendations and
privileges being just that immunity. He has neither money, house,
slave, wife, nor children--those hostages to Fortune. He desires
neither fame, wealth, nor beauty.

_Tyc_. He will feel pain if the supplies run short, I presume.

_Si_. Ah, but you see, he is not a sponger if that happens. A
courageous man is not courageous if he has no courage, a sensible
one not sensible if he has no sense. He could not be a sponger
under those conditions. We are discussing the sponger, not the non-
sponger. If the courageous is so in virtue of his courage, the
sensible sensible in virtue of his sense, then the sponger is a
sponger in virtue of sponging. Take that away, and we shall be
dealing with something else, and not with a sponger at all.

_Tyc_. So his supplies will never run short?

_Si_. Manifestly. So he is as free from that sort of pain as
from others.

Then all philosophers and rhetoricians are timorous creatures
together. You may generally see them carrying sticks on their
walks; well, of course they would not go armed if they were not
afraid. And they bar their doors elaborately, for fear of night
attacks. Now our man just latches his room door, so that the wind
may not blow it open; if there is a noise in the night, it is all
the same to him as if there were none; he will travel a lonely road
and wear no sword; he does not know what fear is. But I am always
seeing philosophers, though there is nothing to be afraid of,
carrying bows and arrows; as for their sticks, they take them to
bath or breakfast with them.

Again, no one can accuse a sponger of adultery, violence, rape, or
in fact of any crime whatsoever. One guilty of such offences will
not be sponging, but ruining himself. If he is caught in adultery,
his style thenceforth is taken from his offence. Just as a piece of
cowardice brings a man not repute, but disrepute, so, I take it,
the sponger who commits an offence loses his previous title and
gets in exchange that proper to the offence. Of such offences on
the part of rhetoricians and philosophers, on the other hand, we
have not only abundant examples in our own time, but records
against the ancients in their own writings. There is an Apology of
Socrates, of Aeschines, of Hyperides, of Demosthenes, and indeed of
most of their kind. There is no sponger's apology extant, and you
will never hear of anybody's bringing a suit against one.

Now I suppose you will tell me that the sponger's life may be
better than theirs, but his death is worse. Not a bit of it; it is
a far happier one. We know very well that all or most philosophers
have had the wretched fate they deserved, some by poison after
condemnation for heinous crimes, some by burning alive, some by
strangury, some in exile. No one can adduce a sponger's death to
match these; he eats and drinks, and dies a blissful death. If you
are told that any died a violent one, be sure it was nothing worse
than indigestion.

_Tyc_. I must say, you have done well for your kind against
the philosophers. And now look at it from the patron's point of
view; does he get his money's worth? It strikes me the rich man
does the kindness, confers the favour, finds the food, and it is
all a little discreditable to the man who takes them.

_Si_. Now, really, Tychiades, that is rather silly of you. Can
you not see that a rich man, if he had the gold of Gyges, is yet
poor as long as he dines alone, and no better than a tramp if he
goes abroad unattended? A soldier without his arms, a dress without
its purple, a horse without its trappings, are poor things; and a
rich man without his sponger is a mean, cheap spectacle. The
sponger gives lustre to the patron, never the patron to the other.

Moreover, none of the reproach that you imagine attaches to
sponging; you refer, of course, to the difference in their degrees;
but then it is an advantage to the rich man to keep the other;
apart from his ornamental use, he is a most valuable bodyguard. In
battle no one will be over ready to undertake the rich man with
such a comrade at his side; and you can hardly, having him, die by
poison. Who would dare attempt such a thing, with him tasting your
food and drink? So he brings you not only credit, but insurance.
His affection is such that he will run all risks; he would never
leave his patron to face the dangers of the table alone; no, he
would rather eat and die with him.

_Tyc_. You have stated your case without missing a point,
Simon. Do not tell me you were unprepared again; you have been
trained in a good school, man. But one thing more I should like to
know. There is a nasty sound about the word sponger, don't you
think?

_Si_. See whether I have a satisfactory answer to that. Oblige
me by giving what you consider the right answers to my questions.
Sponging is an old word; what does it really mean?

_Tyc_. Getting your dinner at some one else's expense.

_Si_. Dining out, in fact?

_Tyc_. Yes.

_Si_. And we may call a sponger an out-diner?

_Tyc_. The gravamen's in that; he should dine at home.

_Si_. A few more answers, please. Of these pairs, which do you
consider the best? Which would you take, if you had the choice? -To
sail, or to out-sail?

_Tyc_. The latter.

_Si_. To run or out-run?

_Tyc_. The latter.

_Si_. Ride or out-ride, shoot or out-shoot?

_Tyc_. Still the same.

_Si_. So I presume an out-diner is better than a diner?

_Tyc_. Indisputable. Henceforward I shall come to you morning
and afternoon like a schoolboy for lessons. And I am sure you ought
to do your very best for me, as your first pupil. The first child
is always the mother's joy, you know. [Footnote: It has been
necessary, in Section 60, to tamper a little with the Greek in
order to get the point, such as it is; but it has not been
seriously misrepresented. ]




ANACHARSIS, A DISCUSSION OF PHYSICAL TRAINING

_Anacharsis. Solon_


_An_. Why do your young men behave like this, Solon? Some of
them grappling and tripping each other, some throttling,
struggling, intertwining in the clay like so many pigs wallowing.
And yet their first proceeding after they have stripped-I noticed
that-is to oil and scrape each other quite amicably; but then I do
not know what comes over them--they put down their heads and begin
to push, and crash their foreheads together like a pair of rival
rams. There, look! that one has lifted the other right off his
legs, and dropped him on the ground; now he has fallen on top, and
will not let him get his head up, but presses it down into the
clay; and to finish him off he twines his legs tight round his
belly, thrusts his elbow hard against his throat, and throttles the
wretched victim, who meanwhile is patting his shoulder; that will
be a form of supplication; he is asking not to be quite choked to
death. Regardless of their fresh oil, they get all filthy, smother
themselves in mud and sweat till they might as well not have been
anointed, and present, to me at least, the most ludicrous
resemblance to eels slipping through a man's hands.

Then here in the open court are others doing just the same, except
that, instead of the clay, they have for floor a depression filled
with deep sand, with which they sprinkle one another, scraping up
the dust on purpose, like fowls; I suppose they want their
interfacings to be tighter; the sand is to neutralize the
slipperiness of the oil, and by drying it up to give a firmer grip.

And here are others, sanded too, but on their legs, going at each
other with blows and kicks. We shall surely see this poor fellow
spit out his teeth in a minute; his mouth is all full of blood and
sand; he has had a blow on the jaw from the other's fist, you see.
Why does not the official there separate them and put an end to it?
I guess that he is an official from his purple; but no, he
encourages them, and commends the one who gave that blow.

Wherever you look, every one busy-rising on his toes, jumping up
and kicking the air, or something.

Now I want to know what is the good of it all. To me it looks more
like madness than anything else. It will not be very easy to
convince me that people who behave like this are not wrong in their
heads.

_So_. It is quite natural it should strike you that way, being
so novel, and so utterly contrary to Scythian customs. Similarly
you have no doubt many methods and habits that would seem
extraordinary enough to us Greeks, v if we were spectators of them
as you now are of ours. But be reassured, my dear sir; these
proceedings are not madness; it is no spirit of violence that sets
them hitting each other, wallowing in clay, and sprinkling dust.
The thing has its use, and its delight too, resulting in admirable
physical condition. If you make some stay, as I imagine you will,
in Greece, you are bound to be either a clay-bob or a dust-bob
before long; you will be so taken with the pleasure and profit of
the pursuit.

_An_. Hands off, please. No, I wish you all joy of your
pleasures and your profits; but if any of you treats me like that,
he will find out that we do not wear scimetars for ornament.

But would you mind giving a name to all this? What are we to say
they are doing?

_So_. The place is called a gymnasium, and is dedicated to the
Lycean Apollo. You see his statue there; the one leaning on the
pillar, with a bow in the left hand. The right arm bent over the
head indicates that the God is resting after some great exertion.

Of the exercises here, that in the clay is called wrestling; the
youths in the dust are also called wrestlers, and those who strike
each other standing are engaged in what we call the pancratium. But
we have other gymnasiums for boxing, quoit-throwing, and high-
jumping; and in all these we hold contests, the winner in which is
honoured above all his contemporaries, and receives prizes.

_An_. Ah, and what are the prizes, now?

_So_. At Olympia a wreath of wild olive, at the Isthmus one of
pine, at Nemea of parsley, at Pytho some of the God's sacred
apples, and at our Panathenaea oil pressed from the temple olives.
What are you laughing at, Anacharsis? Are the prizes too small?

_An_. Oh dear no; your prize-list is most imposing; the givers
may well plume themselves on their munificence, and the competitors
be monstrous keen on winning. Who would not go through this amount
of preparatory toil, and take his chance of a choking or a
dislocation, for apples or parsley? It is obviously impossible for
any one who has a fancy to a supply of apples, or a wreath of
parsley or pine, to get them without a mud plaster on his face, or
a kick in the stomach from his competitor. O So. My dear sir, it is
not the things' intrinsic value that we look at. They are the
symbols of victory, labels of the winners; it is the fame attaching
to them that is worth any price to their holders; that is why the
man whose quest of honour leads through toil is content to take his
kicks. No toil, no honour; he who covets that must start with
enduring hardship; when he has done that, he may begin to look for
the pleasure and profit his labours are to bring.

_An_. Which pleasure and profit consists in their being seen
in their wreaths by every one, and congratulated on their victory
by those who before commiserated their pain; their happiness lies
in their exchange of apples and parsley for toil.

_So_. Ah, you certainly do not understand our ways yet. You
will revise your opinions before long, when you go to the great
festivals and see the crowds gathering to look on, the stands
filling up, the competitors receiving their ovations, and the
victor being idolized.

_An_. Why, Solon, that is just where the humiliation comes in;
they are treated like this not in something like privacy, but with
all these spectators to watch the affronts they endure--who, I am
to believe, count them happy when they see them dripping with blood
or being throttled; for such are the happy concomitants of victory.
In my country, if a man strikes a citizen, knocks him down, or
tears his clothes, our elders punish him severely, even though
there were only one or two witnesses, not like your vast Olympic or
Isthmian gatherings. However, though I cannot help pitying the
competitors, I am still more astonished at the spectators; you tell
me the chief people from all over Greece attend; how can they leave
their serious concerns and waste time on such things? How they can
like it passes my comprehension--to look on at people being struck
and knocked about, dashed to the ground and pounded by one another.

_So_. If the Olympia, Isthmia, or Panathenaea were only on
now, those object-lessons might have been enough to convince you
that our keenness is not thrown away. I cannot make you apprehend
the delights of them by description; you should be there sitting in
the middle of the spectators, looking at the men's courage and
physical beauty, their marvellous condition, effective skill and
invincible strength, their enterprise, their emulation, their
unconquerable spirit, and their unwearied pursuit of victory. Oh, I
know very well, you would never have been tired of talking about
your favourites, backing them with voice and hand.

_An_. I dare say, and with laugh and flout too. All the fine
things in your list, your courages and conditions, your beauties
and enterprises, I see you wasting in no high cause; your country
is not in danger, your land not being ravaged, your friends or
relations not being haled away. The more ridiculous that such
patterns of perfection as you make them out should endure the
misery all for nothing, and spoil their beauty and their fine
figures with sand and black eyes, just for the triumphant
possession of an apple or a sprig of wild olive. Oh, how I love to
think of those prizes! By the way, do all who enter get them?

_So_. No, indeed. There is only one winner.

_An_. And do you mean to say such a number can be found to
toil for a remote uncertainty of success, knowing that the winner
cannot be more than one, and the failures must be many, with their
bruises, or their wounds very likely, for sole reward?

_So_. Dear me; you have no idea yet of what is a good political
constitution, or you would never depreciate the best of our
customs. If you ever take the trouble to inquire how a State may
best be organized, and its citizens best developed, you will find
yourself commending these practices and the earnestness with which
we cultivate them; then you will realize what good effects are
inseparable from those toils which seem for the moment to tax our
energies to no purpose.

_An_. Well, Solon, why did I come all the way from Scythia,
why did I make the long stormy passage of the Euxine, but to learn
the laws of Greece, observe your customs, and work out the best
constitution? That was why I chose you of all Athenians for my
friend and host; I had heard of you; I had been told you were a
legislator, you had devised the most admirable customs, introduced
institutions of great excellence, and in fact built up what you
call a constitution. Before all things, then, teach me; make me
your pupil.
Nothing would please me more than to sit by your side
without bit or sup for as long as you could hold out, and listen
open-mouthed to what you have to say of constitution and laws.

_So_. The whole thing can hardly be so shortly disposed of,
friend. You must take the different departments, one by one, and
find out our views upon the Gods, then upon parents, upon marriage,
and so for the rest. But I will let you know at once what we think
about the young, and how we treat them when higher things begin to
dawn upon their intelligence, when their frames begin to set and to
be capable of endurance. Then you will grasp our purpose in
imposing these exercises upon them and insisting on physical
effort; our view is not bounded by the contests, and directed to
their carrying off prizes there--of course only a small proportion
of them ever reach that point; no; the indirect benefit that we
secure for their city and themselves is of more importance. There
is another contest in which all good citizens get prizes, and its
wreaths are not of pine or wild olive or parsley, but of complete
human happiness, including individual freedom and political
independence, wealth and repute, enjoyment of our ancient ritual,
security of our dear ones, and all the choicest boons a man might
ask of Heaven. It is of these materials that the wreath I tell you
of is woven; and they are provided by that contest for which this
training and these toils are the preparation.

_An_. You strange man! you had all these grand prizes up your
sleeve, and you told me a tale of apples and parsley and tufts of
wild olive and pine.

_So_. Ah, you will not think those such trifles either, when
you take my meaning. They are manifestations of the same spirit,
all small parts of that greater contest, and of the wreath of
happiness I told you of. But it is true that instead of beginning
at the beginning I was carried away to the meetings at the Isthmus
and Olympia and Nemea. However, we have plenty of time, and you
profess curiosity; it is a simple matter to go back to the
beginning, to that many-prized contest which I tell you is the real
end of all.

_An_. That will be better; we are more likely to prosper on
the high road; perhaps I shall even be cured of my inclination to
laugh at any one I see priding himself on his olive or parsley
wreath. But I propose that we go into the shade over there and sit
down on the benches, not to be interrupted by these rounds of
cheering. And indeed I must confess I have had enough of this sun;
how it scorches one's bare head! I did not want to look like a
foreigner, so I left my hat at home. But the year is at its
hottest; the dog-star, as you call it, is burning everything up,
and not leaving a drop of moisture in the air; and the noonday sun
right overhead gives an absolutely intolerable heat. I cannot make
out how you at your age, so far from dripping like me, never turn a
hair; instead of looking about for some hospitable shade, you take
your sunning quite kindly.

_So_. Ah, Anacharsis, these useless toils, these perpetual
clay-baths, these miseries in the sand and the open air, are
prophylactics against the sun's rays; _we_ need no hats to
ward off his shafts. But come along.

And you are not to regard me as an authority whose statements are
to be accepted as matter of faith; wherever you think I have not
made out my case, you are to contradict me at once and get the
thing straight. So we shall stand to win; either you, after
relieving your mind of all objections that strike you, will reach a
firm conviction, or, failing that, I shall have found out my
mistake. And in the latter case, Athens will owe you a debt that
she cannot be too quick to acknowledge; for your instructions and
corrections of my ideas will redound to her advantage. I shall keep
nothing back; I shall produce it all in public, stand up in the
assembly and say: _Men of Athens, I drew up for you such laws as
I thought would most advantage you; but this stranger_--and at
that word I point to you, Anacharsis--_this stranger from Scythia
has been wise enough to show me my mistake and teach me better
ways. Let his name be inscribed as your benefactor's; set him up in
bronze beside your name-Gods, or by Athene on the citadel_. And
be assured that Athens will not be ashamed to learn what is for her
good from a barbarian and an alien.

_An_. Ah, now I have a specimen of that Attic irony which I
have so often heard of. I am an unsettled wanderer who lives on his
cart and goes from land to land, who has never dwelt in a city, nor
even seen one till now; how should I lay down a constitution, or
give lessons to a people that is one with the soil it lives on
[Footnote: See _Athenians_ in Notes. ], and for all these ages
has enjoyed the blessings of perfect order in this ancient city?
How, above all, instruct that Solon whose native gift all men say
it is to know how a state may best be governed, and what laws will
bring it happiness? Nevertheless, you shall be my legislator too; I
will contradict you, where I think you wrong, for my own better
instruction. And here we are, safely covered from the sun's
pursuit, and this cool stone invites us to take our ease. Start now
and give me your reasons. Why seize upon the rising generation so
young, and subject them to such toils? How do you develop perfect
virtue out of clay and training? What is the exact contribution to
it of dust and summersaults? That and that only is my first
curiosity. All the rest you shall give me by degrees as occasion
rises later. But, Solon, one thing you must bear in mind: you are
talking to a barbarian. What I mean is, you must be simple, and
brief; I am afraid I shall forget the beginning, if a very abundant
flow follows.

_So_. Why, you had better work the sluice yourself, whenever
the word-stream is either turbid or diverging into a wrong
channel. As for mere continuance, you can cut that up by questions.
However, so long as what I have to say is not irrelevant, I do not
know that length matters. There is an ancient procedure in the
Areopagus, our murder court. When the members have ascended the
hill, and taken their seats to decide a case of murder or
deliberate maiming or arson, each side is allowed to address the
court in turn, prosecution and defence being conducted either by
the principals or by counsel. As long as they speak to the matter
in hand, the court listens silently and patiently. But if either
prefaces his speech with an appeal to its benevolence, or attempts
to stir its compassion or indignation by irrelevant considerations
--and the legal profession have numberless ways of playing upon
juries--, the usher at once comes up and silences him. The court is
not to be trifled with or have its food disguised with condiments,
but to be shown the bare facts. Now, Anacharsis, I hereby create
you a temporary Areopagite; you shall hear me according to that
court's practice, and silence me if you find me cajoling you; but
as long as I keep to the point, I may speak at large. For there is
no sun here to make length a burden to you; we have plenty of shade
and plenty of time.

_An_. That sounds reasonable. And I take it very kindly that
you should have given me this incidental view of the proceedings on
the Areopagus; they are very remarkable, quite a pattern of the way
a judicial decision should be arrived at. Let your speech be
regulated accordingly, and the Areopagite of your appointment shall
listen as his office requires.

_So_. Well, I must start with a brief preliminary statement of
our views upon city and citizens. A city in our conception is not
the buildings--walls, temples, docks, and so forth; these are no
more than the local habitation that provides the members of the
community with shelter and safety; it is in the citizens that we
find the root of the matter; they it is that replenish and organize
and achieve and guard, corresponding in the city to the soul in
man. Holding this view, we are not indifferent, as you see, to our
city's body; that we adorn with all the beauty we can impart to it;
it is provided with internal buildings, and fenced as securely as
may be with external walls. But our first, our engrossing
preoccupation is to make our citizens noble of spirit and strong of
body. So they will in peace time make the most of themselves and
their political unity, while in war they will bring their city
through safe with its freedom and well-being unimpaired. Their
early breeding we leave to their mothers, nurses, and tutors, who
are to rear them in the elements of a liberal education. But as
soon as they attain to a knowledge of good and evil, when reverence
and shame and fear and ambition spring up in them, when their
bodies begin to set and strengthen and be equal to toil, then we
take them over, and appoint them both a course of mental
instruction and discipline, and one of bodily endurance. We are not
satisfied with mere spontaneous development either for body or
soul; we think that the addition of systematic teaching will
improve the gifted and reform the inferior. We conform our practice
to that of the farmer, who shelters and fences his plants while
they are yet small and tender, to protect them from the winds, but,
as soon as the shoot has gathered substance, prunes it and lets the
winds beat upon it and knock it about, and makes it thereby the
more fruitful.

We first kindle their minds with music and arithmetic, teach them
to write and to read with expression. Then, as they get on, we
versify, for the better impressing their memories, the sayings of
wise men, the deeds of old time, or moral tales. And as they hear
of worship won and works that live in song, they yearn ever more,
and are fired to emulation, that they too may be sung and marvelled
at by them that come after, and have their Hesiod and their Homer.
And when they attain their civil rights, and it is time for them to
take their share in governing--but all this, it may be, is
irrelevant. My subject was not how we train their souls, but why we
think fit to subject them to the toils we do. I will silence myself
without waiting for the usher, or for you, my Areopagite, who have
been too considerate, methinks, in letting me maunder on out of
bounds all this way.

_An_. Another point of Areopagite procedure, please, Solon.
When a speaker passes over essential matters in silence, has the
court no penalty for him?

_So_. Why? I do not take you.

_An_. Why, you propose to pass by the question of the soul,
which is the noblest and the most attractive to me, and discuss the
less essential matters of gymnasiums and physical exercise.

_So_. You see, my dear sir, I have my eye on our original
conditions; I do not want to divert the word-stream; it might
confuse your memory with its irregular flow. However, I will do
what I can in the way of a mere summary for this branch of the
subject; as for a detailed examination of it, that must be
deferred.

Well, we regulate their sentiments partly by teaching them the laws
of the land, which are inscribed in large letters and exposed at
the public expense for all to read, enjoining certain acts and
forbidding others, and partly by making them attend good men, who
teach them to speak with propriety, act with justice, content
themselves with political equality, eschew evil, ensue good, and
abstain from violence; sophist and philosopher are the names by
which these teachers are known. Moreover, we pay for their
admission to the theatre, where the contemplation of ancient heroes
and villains in tragedy or comedy has its educational effect of
warning or encouragement. To the comic writers we further give the
licence of mockery and invective against any of their fellow
citizens whose conduct they find discreditable; such exposure may
act both directly upon the culprits, and upon others by way of
example.

_An_. Ah, I have seen the tragedians and comedians you speak
of, at least if the former are men in heavy stilted shoes, and
clothes all picked out with gold bands; they have absurd head-
pieces with vast open mouths, from inside which comes an enormous
voice, while they take great strides which it seems to me must be
dangerous in those shoes. I think there was a festival to Dionysus
going on at the time. Then the comedians are shorter, go on their
own feet, are more human, and smaller-voiced; but their head-pieces
are still more ridiculous, so much so that the audience was
laughing at them like one man. But to the others, the tall ones,
every one listened with a dismal face; I suppose they were sorry
for them, having to drag about those great clogs.

_So_. Oh no, it was not for the actors that they were sorry.
The poet was probably setting forth some sad tale of long ago, with
fine speeches that appealed to the audience's feelings and drew
tears from them. I dare say you observed also some flute-players,
with other persons who stood in a circle and sang in chorus. These
too are things that have their uses. Well, our youths' souls are
made susceptible and developed by these and similar influences.

Then their bodily training, to which your curiosity was especially
directed, is as follows. When their first pithless tenderness is
past, we strip them and aim at hardening them to the temperature of
the various seasons, till heat does not incommode nor frost
paralyse them. Then we anoint them with oil by way of softening
them into suppleness. It would be absurd that leather, dead stuff
as it is, should be made tougher and more lasting by being softened
with oil, and the living body get no advantage from the same
process. Accordingly we devise elaborate gymnastic exercises,
appoint instructors of each variety, and teach one boxing, another
the pancratium. They are to be habituated to endurance, to meet
blows half way, and never shrink from a wound. This method works
two admirable effects in them: makes them spirited and heedless of
bodily danger, and at the same time strong and enduring. Those whom
you saw lowering their heads and wrestling learn to fall safely and
pick themselves up lightly, to shove and grapple and twist, to
endure throttling, and to heave an adversary off his legs.
_Their_ acquirements are not unserviceable either; the one
great thing they gain is beyond dispute; their bodies are hardened
and strengthened by this rough treatment. Add another advantage of
some importance: it is all so much practice against the day of
battle. Obviously a man thus trained, when he meets a real enemy,
will grapple and throw him the quicker, or if he falls will know
better how to get up again. All through we are reckoning with that
real test in arms; we expect much better results from our material
if we supple and exercise their bodies before the armour goes on,
so increasing their strength and efficiency, making them light and
wiry in themselves (though the enemy will rather be impressed with
their weight).

You see how it will act. Something may surely be expected from
those in arms who even without them would be considered awkward
customers; they show no inert pasty masses of flesh, no cadaverous
skinniness, they are not shade-blighted women; they do not quiver
and run with sweat at the least exertion, and pant under their
helmets as soon as a midday sun like this adds to the burden. What
would be the use of creatures who should be overpowered by thirst
and dust, unnerved at sight of blood, and as good as dead before
they came within bow-shot or spear-thrust of the enemy? But our
fellows are ruddy and sunburnt and steady-eyed, there is spirit
and fire and virility in their looks, they are in prime condition,
neither shrunken and withered nor running to corpulence, but well
and truly proportioned; the waste superfluity of their tissues they
have sweated out; the stuff that gives strength and activity,
purged from all inferior admixture, remains part of their
substance. The winnowing fan has its counterpart in our gymnastics,
which blow away chaff and husks, and sift and collect the clean
grain.

The inevitable result is sound health and great capacity of
enduring fatigue. A man like this does not sweat for a trifle, and
seldom shows signs of distress. Returning to my winnowing simile--
if you were to set fire on the one hand to pure wheat grain, and on
the other to its chaff and straw, the latter would surely blaze up
much the quicker; the grain would burn only gradually, without a
blaze and not all at once; it would smoulder slowly and take much
longer to consume. Well, disease or fatigue being similarly applied
to this sort of body will not easily find weak spots, nor get the
mastery of it lightly. Its interior is in good order, its exterior
strongly fortified against such assaults, so that it gives neither
admission nor entertainment to the destroying agencies of sun or
frost. To any place that begins to weaken under toil comes an
accession from the abundant internal heat collected and stored up
against the day of need; it fills the vacancy, restores the vital
force, and lengthens endurance to the utmost. Past exertion means
not dissipation but increase of force, which can be fanned into
fresh life.

Further, we accustom them to running, both of the long distance and
of the sprinting kind. And they have to run not on hard ground with
a good footing, but in deep sand on which you can neither tread
firmly nor get a good push off, the foot sinking in. Then, to fit
them to leap a trench or other obstacle, we make them practise with
leaden dumb-bells in their hands. And again there are distance
matches with the javelin. Yes, and you saw in the gymnasium a
bronze disk like a small buckler, but without handle or straps; you
tried it as it lay there, and found it heavy and, owing to its
smooth surface, hard to handle. Well, that they hurl upwards and
forwards, trying who can get furthest and outdo his competitors--an
exercise that strengthens the shoulders and braces the fingers and
toes.

As to the clay and dust that first moved your laughter, I will tell
you now why they are provided. In the first place, that a fall may
be not on a hard surface, but soft and safe. Secondly, greater
slipperiness is secured by sweat and clay combined (you compared
them to eels, you remember); now this is neither useless nor
absurd, but contributes appreciably to strength and activity. An
adversary in that condition must be gripped tightly enough to
baffle his attempts at escape. To lift up a man who is all over
clay, sweat, and oil, and who is doing his very best to get away
and slip through your fingers, is no light task, I assure you. And
I repeat that all these things have their military uses too: you
may want to take up a wounded friend and convey him out of danger;
you may want to heave an enemy over your head and make off with
him. So we give them still harder tasks in training, that they may
be abundantly equal to the less.

The function we assign to dust is just the reverse, to prevent one
who is gripped from getting loose. After learning in the clay to
retain their hold on the elusive, they are accustomed in turn to
escape themselves even from a firm grasp. Also, we believe the dust
forms a plaster that keeps in excessive sweat, prevents waste of
power, and obviates the ill effects of the wind playing upon a body
when its pores are all relaxed and open. Besides which, it cleanses
the skin and makes it glossy. I should like to put side by side one
of the white creatures who live sheltered lives and, after washing
off his dust and clay, any of the Lyceum frequenters you should
select, and then ask you which you would rather resemble. I know
you would make your choice at the first glance, without waiting to
see what they could do; you would rather be solid and well-knit
than delicate and soft and white for want of the blood that had
hidden itself away out of sight.

Such are the exercises we prescribe to our young men, Anacharsis;
we look to find them good guardians of their country and bulwarks
of our freedom; thus we defeat our enemies if they invade us, and
so far overawe our immediate neighbours that they mostly
acknowledge our supremacy and pay us tribute. During peace also we
find our account in their being free from vulgar ambitions and from
the insolence generated by idleness; they have these things to fill
their lives and occupy their leisure. I told you of a prize that
all may win and of a supreme political happiness; these are
attained when we find our youth in the highest condition alike for
peace and war, intent upon all that is noblest.

_An_. I see, Solon; when an enemy invades, you anoint yourselves
with oil, dust yourselves over, and go forth sparring at them; then
they of course cower before you and run away, afraid of getting a
handful of your sand in their open mouths, or of your dancing round
to get behind them, twining your legs tight round their bellies,
and throttling them with your elbows rammed well in under their
chin-pieces. It is true they will try the effect of arrows and
javelins; but you are so sunburnt and full-blooded, the missiles
will hurt you no more than if you were statues; you are not chaff
and husks; you will not be readily disposed of by the blows you
get; much time and attention will be required before you at last,
cut to pieces with deep wounds, have a few drops of blood extracted
from you. Have I misunderstood your figure, or is this a fair
deduction from it?

But perhaps you will take the equipment of your tragedians and
comedians, and when you get your marching orders put on those wide-
mouthed headpieces, to scare the foe with their appalling terrors;
of course, and you can put the stilted things on your feet; they
will be light for running away (if that should be advisable), or,
if you are in pursuit, the strides they lend themselves to will
make your enemy's escape impossible. Seriously now, are not these
refinements of yours all child's play--something for your idle,
slack youngsters to do? If you really want to be free and happy,
you must have other exercises than these; your training must be a
genuine martial one; no toy contests with friends, but real ones
with enemies; danger must be an element in your character-
development. Never mind dust and oil; teach them to use bow and
javelin; and none of your light darts diverted by a puff of wind;
let it be a ponderous spear that whistles as it flies; to which add
stones, a handful each, the axe, the shield, the breastplate, and
the helmet.

On your present system, I cannot help thinking you should be very
grateful to some God for not having allowed you to perish under the
attack of any half-armed band. Why, if I were to draw this little
dagger at my girdle and run amuck at your collective youth, I could
take the gymnasium without more ado; they would all run away and
not dare face the cold steel; they would skip round the statues,
hide behind pillars, and whimper and quake till I laughed again. We
should have no more of the ruddy frames they now display; they
would be another colour then, all white with terror. That is the
temper that deep peace has infused into you; you could not endure
the sight of a single plume on an enemy's crest.

_So_. Ah, Anacharsis, the Thracians who invaded us with
Eumolpus told another tale; so did your women who assailed Athens
with Hippolyta; so every one who has met us in the field. My dear
sir, it does not follow from our exercising our youths without arms
that we expose them in the same condition to the real thing; the
independent bodily development once complete, training in arms
follows; and to this they come much the fitter for their previous
work.

_An_. Where is your military gymnasium, then? I have been all
over Athens, and seen no sign of it.

_So_. But if you stay longer you will find that every man has
arms enough, for use at the proper time; you will see our plumes
and horse-trappings, our horses and horsemen; these last amounting
to a quarter of our citizens. But to carry arms and be girded with
scimetars we consider unnecessary in peace time; indeed there is a
fine for going armed in town without due cause, or producing
weapons in public. _You_ of course may be pardoned for living
in arms. The want of walls gives conspiracy its chance; you have
many enemies; you never know when somebody may come upon you in
your sleep, pull you out of your cart, and dispatch you. And then,
in the mutual distrust inseparable from an independence that
recognizes no law or constitution, the sword must be always at hand
to repel violence.

_An_. Oho, you think the wearing of arms, except on occasion,
unnecessary; you are careful of your weapons, avoid wear and tear
for them, and put them away for use when the time comes; but the
bodies of your youth you keep at work even when no danger presses;
you knock them about and dissolve them in sweat; instead of
husbanding their strength for the day of need, you expend it idly
on clay and dust. How is that?

_So_. I fancy you conceive of force as something similar to
wine or water or liquid of some sort. You are afraid of its
dribbling away in exercise as those might from an earthenware jar,
and by its disappearance leaving the body, which is supposed to
have no internal reserves, empty and dry. That is not the case; the
greater the drain upon it in the course of exercise, the greater
the supply; did you ever hear a story about the Hydra? cut off one
of its heads, and two immediately sprang up in its place. No, it is
the unexercised and fibreless, in whom no adequate store of
material has ever been laid up, that will peak and pine under toil.
There is a similar difference between a fire and a lamp; the same
breath that kindles the former and soon excites it to greater heat
will put out the latter, which is but ill provided to resist the
blast; it has a precarious tenure, you see.

_An_. Ah, I cannot get hold of all that, Solon; it is too
subtle for me--wants exact thought and keen intelligence. But I
wish you would tell me--at the Olympic, Isthmian, Pythian, and
other Games, attended, you tell me, by crowds to see your youth
contend, why do you have no martial events? Instead, you put them
in a conspicuous place and exhibit them kicking and cuffing one
another, and when they win give them apples or wild olive. Now your
reason for that would be worth hearing.

_So_. Well, we think it will increase their keenness for
exercise to see the champions at it honoured and proclaimed by name
among the assembled Greeks. It is the thought of having to strip
before such a crowd that makes them take pains with their
condition; they do not want to be a shameful spectacle, so each
does his best to deserve success. And the prizes, as I said before,
are not small things--to be applauded by the spectators, to be the
mark of all eyes and fingers as the best of one's contemporaries.
Accordingly, numbers of spectators, not too old for training,
depart with a passion thus engendered for toilsome excellence. Ah,
Anacharsis, if the love of fair fame were to be wiped out of our
lives, what good would remain? Who would care to do a glorious
deed? But as things are you may form your conclusions from what you
see. These who are so keen for victory when they have no weapons
and only a sprig of wild olive or an apple to contend for, how
would they behave in martial array, with country and wives and
children and altars at stake?

I wonder what your feelings would be if you saw our quail and cock
fights, and the excitement they raise. You would laugh, no doubt,
especially when you were told that they are enjoined by law, and
that all of military age must attend and watch how the birds spar
till they are utterly exhausted. And yet it is not a thing to laugh
at either; a spirit of contempt for danger is thus instilled into
men's souls; shall they yield to cocks in nobility and courage?
shall they let wounds or weariness or discomfort incapacitate them
before there is need?