No More Learning

Da. My noble philosopher, if that is how the tragedians have
convinced you, you have only two alternatives: you must suppose
that divinity is temporarily lodged either in the actor--a Polus,
an Aristodemus, a Satyrus--, or else in the actual masks, buskins,
long tunics, cloaks, gloves, stomachers, padding, and ornamental
paraphernalia in general of tragedy--a manifest absurdity; for when
Euripides can speak his own sentiments unfettered by dramatic
necessity, observe the freedom of his remarks:

Dost see this aether stretching infinite,
And girdling earth with close yet soft embrace?
That reckon thou thy Zeus, that name thy God.

And again,

Zeus, whatever Zeus may be (for, save by hearsay,
I know not)--;

and there is more of the same sort.

Ti. Well, but all men--ay, all nations--have acknowledged and,
feted Gods; was it all delusion?

Da. Thank you; a timely reminder; national observances show better
than anything else how vague religious theory is. Confusion is
endless, and beliefs as many as believers. Scythia makes offerings
to a scimetar, Thrace to the Samian runaway Zamolxis, Phrygia to a
Month-God, Ethiopia to a Day-Goddess, Cyllene to Phales, Assyria to
a dove, Persia to fire, Egypt to water. In Egypt, though, besides
the universal worship of water, Memphis has a private cult of the
ox, Pelusium of the onion, other cities of the ibis or the
crocodile, others again of baboon, cat, or monkey. Nay, the very
villages have their specialities: one deifies the right shoulder,
and another across the river the left; one a half skull, another an
earthenware bowl or platter. Come, my fine fellow, is it not all
ridiculous?

Mo_. What did I tell you, Gods? All this was sure to come out
and be carefully overhauled.

_Zeus_. You did, Momus, and your strictures were justified; if
once we come safe out of this present peril, I will try to
introduce reforms.

_Ti. Infidel! where do you find the source of oracles and
prophecies, if not in the Gods and their Providence?

Da. About oracles, friend, the less said the better; I shall ask
you to choose your instances, you see. Will Apollo's answer to the
Lydian suit you? That was as symmetrical as a double-edged knife;
or say, it faced both ways, like those Hermae which are made
double, alike whether you look at front or back. Consider; will
Croesus's passage of the Halys destroy his own realm, or Cyrus's?
Tet the wretched Sardian paid a long price for his ambidextrous
hexameter.

Mo_. The man is realizing just my worst apprehensions. Where is
our handsome musician now? Ah, there you are; go down and plead
your own cause against him.

_Zeus_. Hush, Momus; you are murdering our feelings; it is no
time for recrimination.

_Ti. Have a care, Damis; this is sacrilege, no less; what you say
amounts to razing the temples and upsetting the altars.

Da. Oh, not_ all _the altars; what harm do they do, so long as
incense and perfume is the worst of it? As for Artemis's altar at
Tauri, though, and her hideous feasts, I should like it overturned
from base to cornice.

Zeus_. Whence comes this resistless plague among us? There is
none of us he spares; he is as free with his tongue as a tub
orator,

And grips by turns the innocent and guilty.

_Mo_. The innocent? You will not find many of those among us,
Zeus. He will soon come to laying hands upon some of the great and
eminent, I dare say.

_Ti. Do you close your ears even to Zeus's thunder, atheist?

Da. I clearly cannot shut out the thunder; whether it is Zeus's
thunder, you know better than I perhaps; you may have interviewed
the Gods. Travellers from Crete tell another story: there is a tomb
there with an inscribed pillar, stating that Zeus is long dead, and
not going to thunder any more.

Mo_. I could have told you that was coming long ago. What, Zeus?
pale? and your teeth chattering? What is the matter? You should
cheer up, and treat such manikins with lofty contempt.

_Zeus_. Contempt? See what a number of them there is--how set
against us they are already--and he has them fast by the ears.

_Mo_. Well, but you have only to choose, and you can let down
your golden cord, and then every man of them

With earth and sky and all thou canst draw up.

_Ti. Blasphemer, have you ever been a voyage?

Da. Many.

Ti. Well, then, the wind struck the canvas and filled the sails,
and it or the oars gave you way, but there was a person responsible
for steering and for the safety of the ship?

Da. Certainly.

Ti. Now that ship would not have sailed, without a steersman; and
do you suppose that this great universe drifts unsteered and
uncontrolled?

Zeus_. Good, this time, Timocles; a cogent illustration, that.

_Da. But, you pattern of piety, the earthly navigator makes his
plans, takes his measures, gives his orders, with a single eye to
efficiency; there is nothing useless or purposeless on board;
everything is to make navigation easy or possible; but as for the
navigator for whom you claim the management of this vast ship, he
and his crew show no reason or appropriateness in any of their
arrangements; the forestays, as likely as not, are made fast to the
stern, and both sheets to the bows; the anchor will be gold, the
beak lead, decoration below the water-line, and unsightliness
above.

As for the men, you will find some lazy awkward coward in second or
third command, or a fine swimmer, active as a cat aloft, and a
handy man generally, chosen out of all the rest to--pump. It is
just the same with the passengers: here is a gaolbird accommodated
with a seat next the captain and treated with reverence, there a
debauchee or parricide or temple-robber in honourable possession of
the best place, while crowds of respectable people are packed
together in a corner and hustled by their real inferiors. Consider
what sort of a voyage Socrates and Aristides and Phocion had of it,
on short rations, not venturing, for the filth, to stretch out
their legs on the bare deck; and on the other hand what a
comfortable, luxurious, contemptuous life it was for Callias or
Midias or Sardanapalus.

That is how things go on board your ship, sir wiseacre; and who
shall count the wrecks? If there had been a captain supervising and
directing, in the first place he would have known the difference
between good and bad passengers, and in the second he would have
given them their deserts; the better would have had the better
accommodation above by his side, and the worse gone below; with
some of the better he would have shared his meals and his counsels.
So too for the crew: the keen sailor would have been made look-out
man or captain of the watch, or given some sort of precedence, and
the lazy shirker have tasted the rope's end half a dozen times a
day. The metaphorical ship, your worship, is likely to be capsized
by its captain's incompetence.

Mo_. He is sweeping on to victory, with wind and tide.

_Zeus_. Too probable, Momus. And Timocles never gets hold of
an effective idea; he can only ladle out trite commonplaces
higgledy-piggledy--no sooner heard than refuted.

_Ti. Well, well; my ship leaves you unconvinced; I must drop my
sheet-anchor, then; that at least is unbreakable.

Zeus_. I wonder what it is.

_Ti. See whether this is a sound syllogism; can you upset it? --If
there are altars, there are Gods: there_ are _altars; therefore,
there are Gods. Now then.

Da. Ha, ha, ha! I will answer as soon as I can get done with
laughing.

Ti. Will you never stop? At least tell me what the joke is.

Da. Why, you don't see that your anchor (sheet-anchor, too) hangs
by a mere thread. You defend on connexion between the existence of
Gods and the existence of altars, and fancy yourself safe at
anchor! As you admit that this was your sheet-anchor, there is
nothing further to detain us.

Ti. You retire; you confess yourself beaten, then?

Da. Yes; we have seen you take sanctuary at the altars under
persecution. At those altars I am ready (the sheet-anchor be my
witness) to swear peace and cease from strife.

Ti. Tou are playing with me, are you, you vile body-snatcher, you
loathsome well-whipped scum! As if we didn't know who your father
was, how your mother was a harlot! You strangled your own brother,
you live in fornication, you debauch the young, you unabashed
lecher! Don't be in such a hurry; here is something for you to take
with you; this broken pot will serve me to cut your foul throat.

Zeus_. Damis makes off with a laugh, and the other after him,
calling him names, mad at his insolence. He will get him on the
head with that pottery, I know. And now, what are we to do?

_Herm_. Why, the man in the comedy was not far out:

Put a good face on 't, and thou hast no harm.

It is no such terrible disaster, if a few people go away infected.
There are plenty who take the other view--a majority of Greeks, the
body and dregs of the people, and the barbarians to a man.

_Zeus_. Ah, Hermes, but there is a great deal in Darius's
remark about Zopyrus--I would rather have had one ally like Damis
than be the lord of a thousand Babylons.




THE COCK

_Micyllus_. _A Cock_


_Mi_. Detested bird! May Zeus crunch your every bone! Shrill,
envious brute: to wake me from delightful dreams of wealth and
magic blessedness with those piercing, deafening notes! Am I not
even in sleep to find a refuge from Poverty, Poverty more vile than
your vile self? Why, it cannot be midnight yet: all is hushed;
numbness--sure messenger of approaching dawn--has not yet performed
its morning office upon my limbs: and this wakeful brute (one would
think he was guarding the golden fleece) starts crowing before
night has fairly begun. But he shall pay for it. --Yes; only wait
till daylight comes, and my stick shall avenge me; I am not going
to flounder about after you in the dark.

_Cock_. Why, master, I meant to give you a pleasant surprise:
I borrowed what I could from the night, that you might be up early
and break the back of your work; think, if you get a shoe done
before sunrise, you are so much the nearer to earning your day's
bread. However, if you prefer to sleep, I have done; I will be mute
as any fish. Only you may find your rich dreams followed by a
hungry awakening.

_Mi_. God of portents! Heracles preserve us from the evil to
come! My cock has spoken with a human voice.

_Cock_. And what if he has? Is that so very portentous?

_Mi_. I should think it was. All Gods avert the omen!

_Cock_. Micyllus, I am afraid your education has been sadly
neglected. If you had read your Homer, you would know that
Achilles's horse Xanthus declined to have anything more to do with
neighing, and stood on the field of battle spouting whole
hexameters; _he_ was not content with plain prose like me; he
even took to prophecy, and foretold to Achilles what should befall
him. Nor was this considered anything out of the way; Achilles saw
nothing portentous about it, nor did he invoke Heracles on the
occasion. What a fuss you would have made, if the keel of the Argo
had addressed a remark to you, or the leaves of the Dodonaean oak
had opened their mouths and prophesied; or if you had seen ox-
hides crawling about, and heard the half-cooked flesh of the beasts
bellowing on the spit! As for me, considering my connexion with
Hermes--most loquacious, most argumentative of Gods--and my
familiar intercourse with mankind, it was only to be expected that
I should pick up your language pretty quickly. Nay, there is a
still better reason for my conversational powers, which I don't
mind telling you, if you will promise to keep quiet about it.

_Mi_. Am I dreaming still, or is this bird really talking to
me? --In Hermes' name then, good creature, out with your better
reason; I will be mum, never fear; it shall go no further. Why, who
would believe the story, when I told him that I had it from a cock?

_Cock_. Listen. You will doubtless be surprised to learn that
not so long ago the cock who stands before you was a man.

_Mi_. Why, to be sure, I have heard something like this before
about a cock. It was the story of a young man called Alectryon
[Footnote: Alectryon is the Greek word for a cock. ]; he was a
friend of Ares,--used to join in his revels and junketings, and
give him a hand in his love affairs. Whenever Ares went to pay a
sly visit to Aphrodite, he used to take Alectryon with him, and as
he was particularly afraid that the Sun would see him, and tell
Hephaestus, he would always leave Alectryon at the door, so that he
might give him warning when the Sun was up. But one day Alectryon
fell asleep, and unwittingly betrayed his trust; the consequence
was that the Sun got a peep at the lovers, while Ares was having a
comfortable nap, relying on Alectryon to tell him if any one came.
Hephaestus heard of it, and caught them in that cage of his, which
he had long had waiting for them. When Ares was released, he was so
angry with Alectryon that he turned him into a cock, armour and
all, as is shown by his crest; and that is what makes you cocks in
such a hurry to crow at dawn, to let us know that the Sun is coming
up presently; it is your way of apologizing to Ares, though crowing
will not mend matters now.

_Cock_. Yes, there is that story too: but that is nothing to
do with mine; I only became a cock quite lately.

_Mi_. But what I want to know is, how did it happen?

_Cock_. Did you ever hear of Pythagoras of Samos, son of
Mnesarchus?

_Mi_. What, that sophist quack, who forbade the eating of
meat, and would have banished beans from our tables (no beans,
indeed! my favourite food! ), and who wanted people to go for five
years without speaking?

_Cock_. And who, I may add, was Euphorbus before he was
Pythagoras.

_Mi_. He was a knave and a humbug, that Pythagoras, by all
accounts.

_Cock_. That Pythagoras, my worthy friend, is now before you
in person: spare his feelings, especially as you know nothing about
his real character.

_Mi_. Portent upon portent! a cock philosopher! But proceed,
son of Mnesarchus: how came you to change from man to bird, from
Samos to Tanagra? [Footnote: See Notes. ] 'Tis an unconvincing
story; I find a difficulty in swallowing it. I have noticed two
things about you already, which do not look much like Pythagoras.

_Cock_. Yes?

_Mi_. For one thing, you are garrulous; I might say noisy.
Now, if I am not mistaken, Pythagoras advocated a course of five
years' silence at a stretch. As for the other, it is rank heresy.
You will remember that yesterday, not having anything else to give
you, I brought you some beans: and you,--you gobbled them up
without thinking twice about it! Either you lied when you told me
you were Pythagoras, or else you have sinned against your own laws:
in eating those beans, you have as good as bolted your own father's
head.

_Cock_. Ah, you don't understand, Micyllus. There is a reason
for these things: different diets suit different creatures. I
was a philosopher in those days: accordingly I abstained from
beans. Now, on the contrary, I propose to eat beans; they are an
unexceptionable diet for birds. And now if you like I will tell you
how from being Pythagoras I have come to be--what you see me; and
all about the other lives I have lived, and what were the good
points of each.

_Mi_. Tell on; there is nothing I should like better. Indeed,
if I were given my choice between hearing your story, and having my
late dream of riches over again, I don't know which I should decide
on. 'Twas a sweet vision, of joys above all price: yet not above
the tale of my cock's adventures.

_Cock_. What, still puzzling over the import of a dream? Still
busy with vain phantoms, chasing a visionary happiness through your
head, that 'fleeting' joy, as the poet calls it?

_Mi_. Ah, cock, cock, I shall never forget it. That dream has
left its honeyed spell on my eyelids; 'tis all I can do to open
them; they would fain close once more in sleep. As a feather
tickles the ear, so did that vision tickle my imagination.

_Cock_. Bless me, you seem to be very hard hit. Dreams are
winged, so they say, and their flight circumscribed by sleep: this
one seems to have broken bounds, and taken up its abode in wakeful
eyes, transferring thither its honeyed spell, its lifelike
presence. Tell me this dream of your desire.

_Mi_. With all my heart; it is a joy to remember it, and to
speak of it. But what about your transformations?

_Cock_. They must wait till you have done dreaming, and wiped
the honey from your eyelids. So you begin: I want to see which
gates the dream came through, the ivory or the horn.

_Mi_. Through neither.

_Cock_. Well, but these are the only two that Homer mentions.

_Mi_. Homer may go hang: what does a babbling poet know about
dreams? Pauper dreams may come through those gates, for all I know;
that was the kind that Homer saw, and not over clearly at that, as
he was blind. But _my_ beauty came through golden gates, golden
himself and clothed in gold and bringing gold.

_Cock_. Enough of gold, most gentle Midas; for to a Midas-
prayer it is that I trace your vision; you must have dreamt whole
minefuls.

_Mi_. Gold upon gold was there; picture if you can that
glorious lightning-flash! What is it that Pindar says about gold?
Can you help me to it? He says water is best, and then very
properly proceeds to sing the praises of gold; it comes at the
beginning of the book, and a beautiful ode it is.

_Cock_. What about this?

Chiefest of all good we hold
Water: even so doth gold,
Like a fire that flameth through the night,
Shine mid lordly wealth most lordly bright.

_Mi_. The very words; I could fancy that Pindar had seen my
vision. And now, my philosophic cock, I will proceed to details.
That I did not dine at home last night, you are already aware; the
wealthy Eucrates had met me in the morning, and told me to come to
dinner after my bath at his usual hour.

_Cock_. Too well do I know it, after starving all day long. It
was quite late before you came home--half-seas over--and gave me
those five beans; rather short commons for a cock who has been an
athlete in his day, and contended at Olympia, not without
distinction.

_Mi_. Well, so when I got back, and had given you the beans, I
went to sleep, and

Through the ambrosial night a dream divine--

ah, divine indeed! --

_Cock_. Wait: let us have Eucrates first. What sort of a
dinner was it? Tell me all about it. Seize the opportunity: dine
once more in waking dream; chew the cud of prandial reminiscence.

_Mi_. I thought all that would bore you; however, if you are
curious, all right. I had never dined at a great house in my life
before, when yesterday, in a lucky hour for me, I fell in with
Eucrates. After saluting him respectfully as usual, I was making
off--not to bring discredit on him by walking at his side in my
shabby clothes--when he spoke to me: 'Micyllus,' he said, 'it is my
daughter's birthday to-day, and I have invited a number of friends
to celebrate it. One of them, I hear, is indisposed, and will not
be able to come; you can take his place, always provided that I do
not hear from him, for at present I do not know whether to expect
him or not. ' I made my bow, and departed, praying that ague,
pleurisy, and gout might light upon the invalid whose appetite I
had the honour to represent. I thought bath-time would never come;
I could not keep my eyes off the dial: where was the shadow now?
could I go yet? At last it really was time: I scraped the dirt off,
and made myself smart, turning my cloak inside out, so that the
clean side might be uppermost. Among the numerous guests assembled
at the door, whom should I see but the very man whose understudy I
was to be, the invalid, in a litter! He was evidently in a sad way;
groaning and coughing and spitting in the most alarmingly emphatic
manner; ghostly pale, puffy, and not much less, I reckoned, than
sixty years old. He was a philosopher, so they said,--one of those
who fill boys' heads with nonsensical ideas. Certainly his beard
was well adapted to the part he played; it cried aloud for the
barber. Archibius the doctor asked him what induced him to venture
out in that state of health. 'Oh,' says he, 'a man must not shirk
his duties, least of all a philosopher; no matter if a thousand
ailments stand in his way. Eucrates would have taken it as a
slight. ' 'You're out there,' I cried; 'Eucrates would be only too
glad if you would cough out your soul at home instead of doing it
at his table. ' He made as if he had not heard my jest; he was above
such things. Presently in came Eucrates from his bath, and seeing
Thesmopolis (the philosopher), 'Ah, Professor,' says he, 'I am glad
to see you here; not that it would have made any difference, even
if you had stayed at home; I should have had everything sent over
to you. ' And with that he took the philosopher's hand, and with the
help of the slaves, conducted him in. I thought it was time for me
to be going about my business: however, Eucrates turned round to
me, and seeing how glum I looked, 'Micyllus,' says he, after a good
deal of humming and ha'ing, 'you must join us; we shall find room
for you; I can send my boy to dine with his mother and the women. '
It had very nearly turned out a wild-goose chase, but not quite: I
walked in, feeling rather ashamed of myself for having done the boy
out of his dinner. We were now to take our places. Thesmopolis was
first hoisted into his, with some difficulty, by five stalwart
youths, who propped him up on every side with cushions to keep him
in his place and enable him to hold out to the end. As no one else
was disposed to have him for a neighbour, that privilege was
assigned to me without ceremony. And then dinner was brought in:
such dainties, Pythagoras, such variety! and everything served on
gold or silver. Golden cups, smart servants, musicians, jesters,--
altogether, it was delightful. Thesmopolis, though, annoyed me a
good deal: he kept on worrying about virtue, and explaining how two
negatives make one positive, and how when it is day it is not night
[Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes. ]; among other things, he
would have it that I had horns [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in
Notes. ]. I wanted none of his philosophy, but on he went, quite
spoiling my pleasure; it was impossible to listen to the music and
singing. So that is what the dinner was like.

_Cock_. Not much of a one, especially with that old fool for
your neighbour.

_Mi_. And now for the dream, which was about no other than
Eucrates. How it came about I don't know, but Eucrates was
childless, and was on his death-bed; he sent for me and made his
will, leaving everything to me, and soon after died. I now came
into the property, and ladled out gold and silver by the bucketful
from springs that never dried; furniture and plate, clothes and
servants, all were mine. I drove abroad, the admiration of all eyes
and the envy of all hearts, lolling in my carriage behind a pair of
creams, with a crowd of attendants on horseback and on foot in
front of me, and a larger crowd behind. Dressed in Eucrates's
splendid clothes, my fingers loaded with a score or so of rings, I
ordered a magnificent feast to be prepared for the entertainment of
my friends. The next moment they were there,--it happens so in
dreams; dinner was brought in, the wine splashed in the cups. I was
pledging each of my friends in turn in beakers of gold, and the
biscuits were just being brought in, when that unlucky crow of
yours spoilt all: over went the tables, and away flew my visionary
wealth to all the quarters of Heaven. Had I not some reason to be
annoyed with you? I could have gone on with that dream for three
nights on end.

_Cock_. Is the love of gold so absorbing a passion? Gold the
only thing you can find to admire? The possession of gold the sole
happiness?

_Mi_. I am not the only one, Pythagoras. Why, you yourself
(when you were Euphorbus) used to go to battle with your hair
adorned with gold and silver, though iron would have been more to
the point than gold under the circumstances; however, you thought
differently, and fought with a golden circlet about your brow;
which I suppose is why Homer compares your hair to that of the
Graces

in gold and silver clasped.

No doubt its charm would be greatly enhanced by the glitter of the
interwoven gold. After all, though, you, my golden-haired friend,
were but the son of Panthus; one can understand your respect for
gold. But the father of Gods and men, the son of Cronus and Rhea
himself, could find no surer way to the heart of his Argive
enchantress [Footnote: Danae. ]--or to those of her gaolers--than
this same metal; you know the story, how he turned himself into
gold, and came showering down through the roof into the presence of
his beloved? Need I say more? Need I point out the useful purposes
that gold serves? the beauty and wisdom and strength, the honour
and glory it confers on its possessors, at a moment's notice
turning obscurity and infamy into world-wide fame? You know my
neighbour and fellow craftsman, Simon, who supped with me not long
since? 'Twas at the Saturnalia, the day I made that pease-pudding,
with the two slices of sausage in it?

_Cock_. I know: the little snub-nosed fellow, who went off
with our pudding-basin under his arm,--the only one we had; I saw
him with these eyes.

_Mi_. So it was he who stole that basin! and he swore by all
his Gods that he knew nothing of it! But you should have called
out, and told me how we were being plundered.

_Cock_. I did crow; it was all I could do just then. But what
were you going to say about Simon?

_Mi_. He had a cousin, Drimylus, who was tremendously rich.
During his lifetime, Drimylus never gave him a penny; and no
wonder, for he never laid a finger on his money himself. But the
other day he died, and Simon has come in for everything. No more
dirty rags for him now, no more trencher-licking: he drives abroad
clothed in purple and scarlet; slaves and horses are his, golden
cups and ivory-footed tables, and men prostrate themselves before
him. As for me, he will not so much as look at me: it was only the
other day that I met him, and said, 'Good day, Simon': he flew into
a rage: 'Tell that beggar,' he said, 'not to cut down my name; it
is Simonides, not Simon. ' And that is not all,--the women are in
love with him too, and Simon is coy and cold: some he receives
graciously, but the neglected ones declare they will hang
themselves. See what gold can do! It is like Aphrodite's girdle,
transforming the unsightly and making them lovely to behold. What
say the poets?

Happy the hand that grasps thee, Gold!

and again,

Gold hath dominion over mortal men.

But what are you laughing at?

_Cock_. Ah, Micyllus, I see that you are no wiser than your
neighbours; you have the usual mistaken notions about the rich,
whose life, I assure you, is far more miserable than your own. I
ought to know: I have tried everything, and been poor man and rich
man times out of number. You will find out all about it before
long.

_Mi_. Ah, to be sure, it is your turn now. Tell me how you
came to be changed into a cock, and what each of your lives was
like.

_Cock_. Very well; and I may remark, by way of preface, that
of all the lives I have ever known none was happier than yours.

_Mi_. Than mine? Exasperating fowl! All I say is, may you have
one like it! Now then: begin from Euphorbus, and tell me how you
came to be Pythagoras, and so on, down to the cock. I'll warrant
you have not been through all those different lives without seeing
some strange sights, and having your adventures.

_Cock_. How my spirit first proceeded from Apollo, and took
flight to earth, and entered into a human form, and what was the
nature of the crime thus expiated,--all this would take too long to
tell; nor is it fitting either for me to speak of such matters or
for you to hear of them. I pass to the time when I became
Euphorbus,--

_Mi_. Wait a minute: have I ever been changed in this way?

_Cock_. You have.

_Mi_. Then who was I, do you know? I am curious about that.

_Cock_. Why, you were an Indian ant, of the gold-digging
species.

_Mi_. What could induce me, misguided insect that I was, to
leave that life without so much as a grain of gold-dust to supply
my needs in this one? And what am I going to be next? I suppose you
can tell me. If it is anything good, I'll hang myself this moment
from the very perch on which you stand.

_Cock_. That I can on no account divulge. To resume. When I
was Euphorbus, I fought at Troy, and was slain by Menelaus. Some
time then elapsed before I entered into the body of Pythagoras.
During this interval, I remained without a habitation, waiting till
Mnesarchus had prepared one for me.

_Mi_. What, without meat or drink?

_Cock_. Oh yes; these are mere bodily requirements.

_Mi_. Well, first I will have about the Trojan war. Did it all
happen as Homer describes?

_Cock_. Homer! What should he know of the matter? He was a
camel in Bactria all the time. I may tell you that things were not
on such a tremendous scale in those days as is commonly supposed:
Ajax was not so very tall, nor Helen so very beautiful. I saw her:
she had a fair complexion, to be sure, and her neck was long enough
to suggest her swan parentage [Footnote: See _Helen_ in Notes. ]:
but then she was such an age--as old as Hecuba, almost. You see,
Theseus had carried her off first, and she had lived with him at
Aphidnae: now Theseus was a contemporary of Heracles, and the
former capture of Troy, by Heracles, had taken place in the
generation before mine; my father, who told me all this, remembered
seeing Heracles when he was himself a boy.

_Mi_. Well, and Achilles: was he so much better than other
people, or is that all stuff and nonsense?

_Cock_. Ah, I never came across Achilles; I am not very strong
on the Greeks; I was on the other side, of course. There is one
thing, though: I made pretty short work of his friend Patroclus--
ran him clean through with my spear.