PROFESSOR OF CLASSICAL PHILOLOGY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MELBOURNE
Volume I.
OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1913
2HENRY FROWDE, M.A.
PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
LONDON, EDINBURGH, NEW YORK, TORONTO
MELBOURNE AND BOMBAY
PREFACE
3
The essays here rendered into English have not been selected
as the very best pieces in Plutarch’s Moralia, but, first, as typical
examples of his writing in that kind, and, second, as covering
between them a tolerably large field of interesting matter. The
Moralia offer us perhaps the best of all extant material for
judging the civilization of the middle classes of society just
before and after the year 100 of our era. From them and from
Pliny’s Letters we are able to form a fairly complete picture of
a large part of that sounder social element which lay between
the froth and the dregs.
In the Introduction some remarks are offered concerning
Plutarch’s literary style. Here it will suffice to say that the
English version does not seek to be either more formal or more
vivacious, either more imposing or more humorous, than the
original. An attempt has been made to preserve the tone as
faithfully as the substance. In making Plutarch write as he
does in the following pages the translator hopes that il ne luy
a au moins rien presté qui le desmente ou qui le desdie. It is fair
to add that no modern version of the Moralia has been consulted
for the purposes of this rendering. In the Introduction, however,
one cannot fail to owe much suggestion to Gréard and
Volkmann.
In the spelling of Greek proper names every modern scholar
must follow his own best judgement. It does not follow that,
because it is necessary to say ‘Plato’ and usual to say ‘Parmenio’,
it is equally judicious to say ‘Chilo’. Nor can any
safe rule be laid down for a choice between ‘Pisistratus’ and
‘Peisistratus’. Perhaps the most advisable course is to safeguard,
as far as possible, the pronunciation of those who are
unfamiliar with Greek, and the spelling ‘Pheidias’ may do
something towards correcting the common English tendency to
pronounce the first syllable as it is pronounced in ‘fiddle’.
Notes upon the proper names will be found after the text by
readers who may require them.
4The text generally adopted is that of Bernardakis in the
Teubner series, but recourse has been had throughout to
Wyttenbach, and in a number of places which are commonly
acknowledged to be corrupt the translator has ventured on
a modest emendation of his own. These places are marked
in the translation by an asterisk in the margin, and the readings
adopted will be found at the end of the book in an appendix
on the Greek text. Critics would have saved themselves much
trouble if they had observed that, though hiatus is regularly
avoided in the genuine writings of Plutarch, no hiatus is created
by a word ending in iota or upsilon, vowels which carry a semi-vowel
glide in themselves.
The orthodox order, Greek and Latin titles, and sectional
references of the pieces here chosen are as follows. The English
titles belong to the present version.
On Bringing up a Boy (περὶ παίδων ἀγωγῆς: De liberis
educandis), 1-14 C.
On the Student at Lectures (περὶ τοῦ ἀκούειν: De recta
ratione audiendi), 37 C-48 D
On Fawner and Friend (πῶς ἄν τις διακρίνειε τὸν κόλακα τοῦ
φίλου: Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur), 48 E-74 E.
Advice to Married Couples (γαμικὰ παραγγέλματα: Coniugalia
praecepta), 138 B-146.
Dinner-Party of the Seven Sages (τῶν ἑπτὰ σοφῶν συμπόσιον:
Septem sapientum convivium), 146 B-164 D.
On Garrulousness (περί ἀδολεσχίας: De garrulitate), 502 B-515.
Concerning Busybodies (περὶ πολυπραγμοσύνης: De curiositate),
515 B-523 B.
On Moral Ignorance in High Places (πρὸς ἡγεμόνα ἀπαίδευ
τον: Ad principem ineruditum), 779 D-782 F.
On Old Men in Public Life (εἰ πρεσβυτέρῳ πολιτευτέον: An
seni respublica gerenda sit), 783 B-797 F.
INTRODUCTION
5
The age in which Plutarch was educated and in which he
wrote his Ethica is, from the literary point of view, closely
similar to the so-called ‘Augustan’ age of English writing. Of
all the periods of English style and thought, he would probably
have found himself most at home in that of Pope, Addison, and
Steele, or in its continuation with Goldsmith and Johnson.
He flourished at a time when intellectual interests were remarkably
keen, if not very profound; when literature, if for the
most part it ventured on no high imaginative flights, did at
least aim at some practical bearing upon the conduct of life;
when men found entertainment, and probably some measure
of moral or social help, in the readable essay or the friendly
epistle; when facts, merely as such, were accepted as interesting
if interestingly set forth; and when Philosophy, if she deigned
to keep her feet upon the ground and to speak as one of the
mortals, met with a due welcome from either sex. An eighteenth-century
Plutarch might conceivably have written the moral
papers of Johnson without Johnson’s ponderousness, or have
contributed to the Spectator papers more full than Addison’s
of those ‘ideas’ in which Matthew Arnold found that writer
so deficient. He might have written, though in a prose form,
the Essay on Man, being meanwhile as willing as Pope to owe
the bulk of his matter to other minds, but not so willing as
Pope to play the expositor without first playing the earnest and
critical student. Plutarch did not, so far as we are aware, try
his hand at verse. To judge by his comments upon poetic
duty and by his quotations—which are regularly taken from the
best writers of a classical age already far remote—his conception
6of the poetic office was too exalted to permit of his dabbling
in that domain. Had he done so, and had he followed the
fashion of his times, he would perhaps have come nearer to our
‘Augustans’ even than in his prose. In poetry it was the age
of description, reflection, satire, and moralizing, in the highest
degree sensible, studiously informed with ‘wit’—in the broader
Queen Anne sense of that word—and characterized by extreme
deftness of pointed and quotable phrase, but in no sense creative,
imaginative, or inspired. Its ideal contents consisted of ‘what
oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed’. The attitudes
of both prose-writer and poet belonged to the intellectual and
aesthetic spirit of the period, and so far as that spirit finds an
individual embodiment in the Greek half of the Roman Empire,
it finds him in Plutarch of Chaeronea.
It would be difficult to suggest with any precision the place
which Plutarch might have filled in Victorian literature. A distinguished
and popular ‘man of letters’ and an educator of
public opinion he assuredly would have been. Given a width
of reading, a persistent self-culture, and a careful but unpedantic
style, corresponding to those which he practised in his own
generation, he might have made—as he did then—an admirable
biographer and essayist. He might have been a contributor
of substantial papers to the quarterlies and other higher reviews.
He might, and probably would, have been an eminent lecturer;
possibly, with a broad practical Christianity substituted for his
broad practical Platonism, a preacher not only eminent but also
in the best sense popular. He would certainly have made
a brilliant expositor of whatever he undertook to expound. He
was no Plato or Aristotle; he would have been no Carlyle or
Herbert Spencer; but he might have been much that Macaulay
was outside of politics.
As to the date of Plutarch’s birth there can be no certainty.
Approximately it may be put down as A. D. 48. It is accepted
7that his death did not occur before the year 120; it may have
taken place somewhat, though not much, later. Born in the days
of Claudius, he lived through the reigns of Nero, Galba, Otho,
Vitellius, Vespasian, Titus, Domitian, Nerva, and Trajan, and
saw at least the first three years of the rule of Hadrian. He
must have been nearly fifty before the last tyrant of the early
Empire fell, but the remainder of his life was spent under the
most beneficent régime, and amid the greatest peace and prosperity,
ever experienced in the ancient world. The pax Romana
was at its profoundest, the sense of security at its fullest; the
fact of general well-being was everywhere most palpable. There
was at the same time, or in consequence, a vigorous revival of
intellectual life. At no period of antiquity would it have been
possible for a man of studious habits and of mild and genial
disposition to enjoy a leisure so undisturbed or a society so
free from those forms of preoccupation which preclude an
engrossing interest in things purely of the mind. For the orator
who is fired by the natural heat of democratic politics, for the
patriotic poet from whom thrilling verse must be wrung by the
wrongs, the decline, or the yet unrealized aspirations of his
country, there was indeed no stimulation or scope. But for
the cultivation of the humanities, for the indulgence of a taste
for art and belles-lettres, for the satisfaction of intellectual
curiosity, for the search after interesting knowledge—physical,
mathematical, antiquarian, historical, philological—and for the
thoughtful observation of men and manners, the time was
almost ideal. In the absence of anxious and absorbing problems
of the present there was leisure for a contemplative and critical
survey of the past, and for making acquaintance with ‘the best
that had been thought and said’ by it. Since the immediate
human environment was no longer distracted and distracting
with the clamorous urgencies of external or internal strife and
danger, it was possible to look abroad over a wider field, to
8contemplate the more spacious world of man and his work,
of Nature and her facts, beauties, and marvels. It was therefore
the age of the encyclopaedist, the traveller, the commentator,
the describer, the collector—collector of curiosities, of objects
of art, of books, of stories from history, of apophthegms, of
pointed and interesting quotations. The prevailing aim was
mental and social culture. This was the one object of education,
however much its professors might dissent from each other
according to the degrees of philistinism in their respective
temperaments.
The aim of contemporary education—generally realized with
more definiteness than educational aims are wont to be in
modern times—was to turn the pupil into a gentleman, to equip
him for the art of living and conducting himself as such. There
could, of course, hardly fail to be those who regarded this
kalokagathia too much from the exterior point of view, while
others fixed their attention more decidedly, and often perhaps
too exclusively, upon the inward and spiritual grace. There
were also considerable differences between the Greek and Roman
conceptions of a gentleman. But in the main this end was
universally avowed—to turn the raw material of the boy into
a man both capable and clubbable, whether from a public or
a private standpoint. The things to be sought were the right
accomplishments, the right morals, and the right manners.
The accomplishments included, beyond all else, literary information
and culture, argumentative dexterity, and a capacity for
speech. The right morals were based mainly upon reasoned
self-command. The right manners were chiefly those of
urbanity, dignity, and that care of the person, the voice, the
dress, and the deportment upon which all ages have insisted
according to their several lights or tastes. It might be that
the teaching ‘philosopher’, whose concern was with the
soundness of the morals, had his quarrel with the teaching
9‘sophist’, whose business was with the rhetoric and its excellence
for exhibition purposes or for the gaining of various forms of
influence. The philosopher might think the sophist superficial,
showy, and often actually pernicious, while the sophist might
look upon the philosopher as visionary, pedantic, and often
a positive clog upon practical efficiency. Nevertheless no
typically cultured person of the day would have questioned
that, in order to be complete—or, as Coleridge calls it,
‘orbicular’—education must include its due measure of both
forms of teaching.
After his years of infancy the boy, under the supervision of his
paedagogus—ideally a slave of superior character, but too often
a person who was merely useless for harder work—passed into
a school, where he was first taught his letters and then proceeded
to the reading, learning, and recital of classical poetry, to the
study of music, and to some acquaintance with elementary
arithmetic and geometry. Next, taken in hand by the rhetorical
teacher in a higher school, he was made to write and deliver
descriptions and essays, mostly on trite and unreal themes of
a historical or pseudo-historical nature, to develop his powers
of invention on either side of a chosen topic, and to cultivate
a fastidious diction, pointed phrase, and the elocutionary
arts and graces. From artificial harangues and the ‘speaking
of a piece’ he advanced to the imaginary pleading of forensic
cases, in which the law was often as fictitious as the facts.
When, upon reaching the age for assuming the toga virilis, he
was emancipated from the custody of the paedagogus and the
discipline of the school, his formal education commonly ceased.
If he proceeded further, as many did, to what may be considered
as the equivalent of a university course, he might elect to study
philosophy, to study ‘sophistic’, or to dally with both in such
measure as seemed likely to set off the abilities or consolidate the
culture of a gentleman. Even in the more mature years of life
10the intellectually-disposed grandee had a habit of maintaining
near his person a salaried philosopher as a kind of domestic
monitor, and audiences of wealth and fashion readily gathered
in Rome and elsewhere to listen to lectures on philosophy by
professors who properly understood the art of clear and pleasant
exposition. For the most part the typical Roman, less genuinely
impassioned than the Greek for thought pure and simple,
looked upon any ‘specializing’ in philosophy as likely to lead
either to too cloistered a virtue or to the acquisition of eccentric,
if not dangerous, views. A certain modicum of philosophical
knowledge might be an adornment to life, and a certain modicum
of philosophical training might impart a steadiness to character,
but the study must not be pursued to the point at which the
student himself stood in danger of becoming a ‘philosopher’.
With the Greeks philosophical specializing was commonly
subject to no such reprehension, partly because of the inborn
Hellenic ardour for study and esteem of learning, partly because
in this domain, even more than in the rhetorical, the Greeks were
the accepted teachers throughout the Roman sphere.
This, or nearly this, was the attitude of the educational world
in the first decades of the second century, and it was in this
world that Plutarch of Chaeronea became a figure of special
eminence and distinction. For in whatever light the modern
reader may regard Plutarch as a man of letters, to his own times
he was first and foremost an educator. It is from this point of
view that we must consider both his Parallel Lives and his
Moral Essays, if we are to perceive in them that unity of character
and purpose which he intended all his work to possess.
Plutarch, then, was born about A. D. 48 in the very heart
of Greece, at the comparatively small town of Chaeronea,
famous as the scene of the decisive victory of the Macedonians
over the southern Greeks, and also of that in which the forces
of Mithridates were routed by Sulla. His family must have
11been of high local standing, and the fact that his father—a man
of cultivated tastes and refined manners—was the owner of the
‘finest kind of horses’ is enough to show, to those who appreciate
the significance of the word hippotrophia, that he must
have been possessed of considerable means. The same conclusion
may be drawn both from what Plutarch himself incidentally
reveals concerning his brothers, Lamprias and Timon, as well
as other members of the family circle, and also from what is
known of his own life and upbringing. That as a boy he passed
through the orthodox curriculum, is obvious from his wide
acquaintance with literature and his intelligent, if not particularly
profound, references to both music and mathematics.
When of an age to receive an education in philosophy, he was
placed, or placed himself, chiefly under the distinguished
Ammonius, an Alexandrian philosopher of a broad semi-Platonist,
semi-Peripatetic school, who had become established
in a prominent intellectual and public position at Athens.
It was the accepted rule for the student to attend, but not
necessarily to confine himself to, the lectures of a selected
teacher. Often he lived in that teacher’s house, or at least, in
intimate connexion therewith. If the philosopher was strictly
conscientious he felt it his duty to watch over the developing
character of his pupil, to visit him with any deserved reproof,[1]
to serve as his father confessor, to answer his questions, and to
meet his moral and intellectual difficulties. The familiar phrase
‘guide, philosopher, and friend’ perhaps describes the relations
with unusual exactness. We find both Plutarch and his brother
in the company of Ammonius at Delphi when Nero, in the
year 66, graced that city with his imperial and artistic presence.
His formal education completed, we discover little of the
12younger manhood of Plutarch, except that he must have been
in high local estimation, partly, perhaps, from the position of
his family, but doubtless no less on account of his own conspicuous
gifts. Had this not been the case, he would hardly
have been appointed as one of a delegation of two sent on a
mission to the Roman proconsul of the province. At what age
he was first entrusted with civic functions as aedile, or with
a Delphic priesthood (then merely a ceremonial office open to
any layman), or with other public positions, we cannot say.
We can only be sure that to his learning he added a recognizable
capacity for public business. However many hours he may
have devoted to study and to the compilation of those
ample commonplace-books which evidently served him in such
good stead, he prided himself on carrying his philosophic attainments
into the local Chamber or on to the local platform.
In his judgement this procedure was not only a vindication of
philosophy and a method of keeping the faculties energetic;
it was also a patriotic duty.
As has been already said, this was an age of travel. Facilities
of transport were plentiful; the seas and main roads were secure
from pirate or enemy; journeys were at least as expeditious as
at any modern time until the employment of steam. We know
of visits made by Plutarch to Alexandria, various parts of Greece,
Rome, and the north of Italy. Rome he must have visited at
least twice, and in this metropolis and ‘epitome of the world’
he made acquaintance with a large circle of men of distinction,
transacted public business (presumably on behalf of his native
town, of which he may have been sent as representative),
delivered lectures,[2] and apparently acted as a sort of consulting
physician to morally perturbed members of Roman society.
He must have spoken always in Greek, for he confesses that—like
most other Greek writers—he had given almost no attention
13to Latin; nor is any such avowal needed from a person who,
even after looking into the language, believed sine patris to be
the Latin for ‘without a father’. Greek, however, was then
as much the universal language of the cultured as, until recently,
French was the universal accomplishment of fashion, diplomacy,
and the traveller.
The Rome with which Plutarch was immediately acquainted
was the Rome of Vespasian and of the earlier half of Domitian’s
reign. Had his sojourn in the capital taken place some fifteen
or twenty years later, it is in the highest degree probable that
he would have been further known to us through an acquaintance
with Pliny or some other Roman writer of that date. That
a Greek, and especially one who had a difficulty in reading Latin,
should make no mention of contemporary Latin authors—that
in his heart he should rather despise them—is only characteristic
of the Hellenic attitude of the time. But that the amiable
Pliny, who has an appreciative word to say of almost every one
within his social horizon, including comparatively obscure
philosophers like Euphrates, should say nothing of so eminent
a figure as Plutarch, amounts to evidence that the two had never
met. A man who could make close friends of consulars like
Sosius Senecio and Mestrius Florus, and who enjoyed an
intimacy with Paccius and Fundanus, could not have failed to
win the notice of the Horace Walpole of his day. Quintilian,
Silius, Statius, Martial, Pliny, Suetonius, and Juvenal were all
writing when Plutarch was already the coryphaeus of Greek
culture, and if not one of them mentions his name, it is because
he was living in remote Chaeronea and forgathering only with
his chosen circle of philosophers, men of letters, artists, or
musicians in that town or in Athens, Corinth, and other Greek
centres near at hand.
To Chaeronea Plutarch must have retired by middle life.
There he married Timoxena, a lady of position, but of quiet
14tastes, had issue four sons and a daughter, identified himself
with the civic and religious concerns of his town, delivered
lectures, imparted instruction on the lines of a modified or
latitudinarian Platonic philosophy, industriously read the books
in his moderate but useful library, made copious extracts therefrom,
wrote his Lives and those occasional papers known as his
Ethica or Moral Essays, and enjoyed the discussion of many
a knotty question—often perhaps of little or no importance
beyond the fact of its forming a problem—in the agreeable
society of his relatives or his cultivated friends and guests.
At such gatherings he was the leader, doubtless dominating the
conversation—though in his more courteous way—somewhat as
Johnson dominated the coterie described by Boswell. Often, we
gather, he varied this quiet course of life by means of excursions
to other Greek cities—Athens, Sparta, Aedepsus—where he
most probably delivered an occasional lecture, and where, as
we are certain, he thoroughly enjoyed himself in table-talk.[3]
That he gave philosophical education, though apparently not
of a systematic and pedagogic kind, to persons of both sexes
is known from his own references to the practice. Whether
15he did so for money or not, we cannot tell. The later Platonists
by no means felt bound to adopt the attitude of Socrates and
Plato towards the taking of fees. The world had changed, and
the res angusta was often more powerful than a principle which
had ceased to appear entirely rational. But there is every reason
to suppose that Plutarch was a man of independent means;
we know further that a genial frugality was the rule of his
household, and that he entertained a becoming contempt for
the obsequious or the advertiser. The day of the endowed
professor, whether of philosophy or sophistic, was still to dawn
for Greece under Marcus Aurelius, and it never dawned at all
for so small a town as Chaeronea. We may take it therefore
that, whether with or without fee or present, Plutarch was able
to choose his own pupils—in all likelihood the sons and daughters
of his friends—and that, in dealing with them or with a wider
audience, he maintained the fullest dignity and independence,
and practised all the amiable candour which he explicitly
recommends.
For any lack of originality, of speculative audacity, of profundity
(or the obscurity which is so often mistaken for that
virtue), Plutarch fully compensates. To his generation he served
as a milch-cow of practical philosophy on its ethical side. He
browsed on literature and thought, secreted the most valuable
constituents, and yielded the cream to his hearers or readers.
So far as he belonged to a philosophic school, it was that of the
Old Academy. In other words, he would have labelled himself
a Platonist. It is probable that he was as much attracted by the
superb literary style of Plato, the nature of the man, and the
nobility of his conceptions, as by anything capable of crystallization
into a philosophy. These qualities attracted even the
dilettante, while in the more specially philosophic world time
had done much to refract the real Plato, to extract dogma from
him, and to create a large Aberglaube about his writings. Be
16that as it may, there is much in Plato that Plutarch does not
accept, and there is much outside of Plato to which he gives a
welcome. Towards Stoics and Epicureans—whose doctrines, like
those of the Christians, would logically withhold men from public
activity—he is distinctly, though never virulently, hostile, and
when his pen ranges itself against particular schools, it is against
these.[4] It is easier, in fact, to say to what sect Plutarch did not
belong than to associate him definitively with any other. Nevertheless
it is as a Platonist that he would have classed himself,
and it is especially by the later Neo-Platonists that he was quoted
as a divinely gifted writer who lent literary charm and potency
to wisdom. So broad, however, was his teaching, and in many
respects so adaptable even to Christianity, that early writers of
the Church had no scruple in borrowing liberally from him.[5]
Into whatever shape he may have systematized his views, and
however popular his treatment of them, Plutarch ranked with
the philosophers. If he was opposed to Stoicism and Epicureanism,
he was, like other philosophers, no less opposed to
sophistic. To him the representatives of that art were apt to
seem shallow and showy.[6]
He held, with the Socratics in general, that the basis of right
action is knowledge, and he had no belief in empiricism. Not
17that he rejected either established moral views or established
religion. He was no sceptic, still less an atheist. As Friedländer
has well argued, there was no ancient cult of atheism. Plutarch,
indeed, is remarkably receptive in the matter of deities. The
Egyptian worship of Isis and Osiris, which had made great
progress throughout the Roman Empire, appeared to him
equally tenable with the worship practised by his own ancestors.
In the polytheism in which he acquiesced, such divinities were
only other forms of those known in Hellas, and he found no
difficulty in reconciling and combining the two sets of notions
and cults. He was deeply tinged with Orientalism, though his
culture and his natural good taste made him despise corybantic
demonstrations and what Friedländer has called ‘dirty mortifications’.
He held the Eranian belief in daemonic agencies, which
acted upon mankind from the one side as the gods did from the
other. If he appears to rise to the conception of ‘God’ in the
singular, the word is rather to be taken as denoting the sum of
divine wisdom and beneficent dispensation. Like all the best
minds of his own and many a previous generation, he found
moral difficulties in accepting the characters ascribed to the
deities in the best literature of earlier Greece, and therefore,
while approving of the established education in poetry, he
necessarily felt some qualms as to the possible effects. Poetry
served in the schools ‘as introduction to philosophy, history,
geography, and astronomy’, and it had much to do with the
formation of religious and ethical notions. Homer, Pindar,
Sophocles, and Menander were ‘learned and wise’, and boys
were brought to regard them as inspired. Hence Plutarch’s
treatise on Poets as Moral Teachers of the Young. The point
of view in that essay is not, indeed, entirely rational. It was
not so easy for Plutarch as it is for us to realize that moral and
religious ideas in Greek literature had passed through an
evolution corresponding to the development of intellect and
society. Instead of frankly recognizing the limitations of Homer
18or the inconsistencies of the dramatists in this respect, he puts
a highly ingenious constraint upon the connexion between any
dubious sentiment and its context. It is only when he fails in
such a tour de force that he consents to censure the poet. In this
procedure he was by no means the first. The battle of the
‘takers of objection’ (προβληματικοί) and the ‘solvers of
difficulties’ (λυτικοί) was centuries old. That Plutarch should
range himself as far as possible with the solvers is a circumstance
which would naturally follow both from his love of literature
and from his constitutionally reverential temperament.
As has been often observed, the purpose running through the
Parallel Lives and the Moral Essays is one and the same. The
philosophy of Plutarch was ethical. For logic and dialectic he
shows no liking. His object was to relate philosophy to life,
to bring home a philosophy which could be lived. By philosophy
he meant the best conduct of life, based on an understanding
of the nature of virtue—τὸ καλόν, the right, the honourable,
the becoming. From philosophy we are to learn not only what
is due to ourselves, but what is due to the gods, to the laws,
to parents, children, friends, enemies, fellow-citizens, and
strangers. The Essays, like those of Seneca or Bacon, deal with
separable components or manifestations of right and wrong
character, with duties and circumstances: the Lives meanwhile
afford us concrete examples or object lessons from history.[7]
Yet life, even that of a philosopher, is not made up entirely of
preaching and exhortation, least of all when the philosopher is
at the same time a man of the world and a man of letters.
Plutarch felt a lively interest in all such posers as were mooted
in the talk of the table or of the loungers’ club. He therefore
includes among his occasional papers—whether written by
19request or under the fashionable fiction of a request—a number
of treatises on physical, antiquarian, literary, and artistic topics
which can hardly be said to bear with any immediateness upon
the ethical perfection of the reader. As a change, therefore,
from the treatment of Superstition or Inquisitiveness or The
Restraint of Anger, of Rules for Married Couples and Rules of
Health and rules for The Student at Lecture, he may in a spare
moment discuss such matters as The Face in the Moon or questions
in Roman custom.
The majority of the pieces in the present selection speak for
themselves. With the one exception to be mentioned immediately,
they all bear the impress of the man. There is the same
moral broadmindedness and sobriety, the same shrewd sense of
le bonhomme Plutarque, the same faculty for popularizing[8]
without descending to vapidity, the same knack of relieving the
sermon by means of anecdote, quotation, or interesting item of
information at the point where the discourse threatens to become
tedious. It is true that the German critic, in his indefatigable
search for the unecht, has impugned the authorship of the
Dinner-Party of the Seven Sages[9] on grounds unintelligible to
those who do not expect a dinner-table conversation to be
a systematic treatise, and who are satisfied to believe that a
mixture of serious talk, banter, and narrative, and a frequent
transition of subject, are precisely the things for which one
would look on such an occasion. Every feature of the style
is Plutarchan, and, if Plutarch did not write the piece, we can
only feel unmixed regret that he did not, and unmixed surprise
that its real author should sacrifice the credit of his performance.
With the article on The Bringing-up of a Boy the case is different.
Wyttenbach has sufficiently pointed out its frequent feebleness
20of argument, its turbid arrangement, the exceeding triteness
of its ideas, and its unaccountable omissions. To us moderns
it is of great interest for the light which it throws on the education
of the period, and for its incidental revelations of the conditions
of domestic life and the domestic affections. Otherwise
it is a puerile performance and savours of nothing but the
student essay. If it be argued that it is one of Plutarch’s juvenile
works, the answer is that it is unlike him to be disingenuous;
and disingenuous he must be, if in his early youth he pretends
to have ‘often impressed upon parents’ this or that. Antiquity
produced far too many amateur essays in imitation of great
authors—imitations actually ascribed to those authors by a
recognized fiction of the schools—for us to do an injustice to
Plutarch when an easier solution lies so close to our hands.
Perhaps, again, the piece on Fawner and Friend[10] suffers from an
occasional longueur, but there are few writers who do not at
some less felicitous moment perpetrate paragraphs less vivacious
than their average.
As a stylist Plutarch is apt to be underrated. He is, it is true,
no laborious atticist, and makes no point of writing like a purist
in the classic manner of a Plato or a Lysias. But this does not
mean that he is in the least negligent in either word or sentence.
On the contrary, his words are selected with extreme care, and
his sentences—where the text is sound, as for the most part
it is—are rounded off and interlinked as watchfully as any
natural writing need require. It is true that his vocabulary
is large and his expression full, but, when his words are properly
weighed and their metaphorical and other differentiations duly
perceived, no understanding reader will call him verbose.[11] He
displays an immense command of language, but no word plays
21an idle part, and if (like Cicero, whom in many respects he
resembles) he is fond of joining what are erroneously called
synonyms, it needs but little appreciation of verbal values to
realize that the added words invariably carry some amplification,
some more precise definition, or some emphasis helpful to
a full grasp upon the sense. It is true also that his sentences
are apt to appear—like the sentences of Ruskin’s earlier days—somewhat
lengthy; nevertheless they commonly atone by
lucidity of construction for any demand they may make upon
sustained attention.[12] In a modern English dress they must
necessarily be broken up, but a practised reader of Plutarch
finds no more difficulty with them in the original than he would
find with a passage of Demosthenes or Plato. To one who
becomes familiar with them they are at least as agreeable as the
staccato brevities of Seneca. What chiefly exacts some effort
from the reader of Plutarchan Greek is the fact that its words
are extraordinarily charged with metaphor and allusion.[13] His
choice of one word rather than another is always nicely calculated.
This truth once recognized, a reader cannot fail to admire both
the consistency with which the writer maintains his similitude
while he is upon it, and also the copious resources of vocabulary
upon which he draws for the purpose. Meanwhile, despite any
length of sentence and fullness of praise, Plutarch neither
irritates with tricks and mannerisms nor wearies with pedantry
and ponderousness. A pedant he could not be. He is no writer
of Johnsonese. To him the best words are those which best
suit their context, and he has no objection whatever to a dash
of the colloquial or a touch of the homely or naïve. It is one
22of his characteristic merits that he knows when to take the
higher and when the lower road of diction. He also knows when
he is in danger of stylistic monotony. Plutarch was a teacher,
but, like all truly intelligent members of that profession, he
recognized that the most uninspiring attitude to adopt is the
severely and unremittingly pedagogic. ‘The knack of style,’
it has been said, ‘is to write like a human being,’ and Plutarch,
a professor of humanity without a chair, is always and entirely
human. That his pen must have moved with extraordinary
facility is evident from the number of his publications. Apart
from his Lives (of which not all are extant), his Moralia include
over eighty pieces, long or short, and it is certain that many
others had disappeared[14] before the present collection became
available in its eleventh-century MS.
It is not here implied that he is never culpable, never over-loaded.
There are times, though rare ones, at which we feel
that his memory or his notebook has been unduly exploited.
We feel that he might have spared us an illustration which does
not illustrate or a similitude which is deficient in similarity.
To a certain extent he is a Euphuist, and though Guevara
perhaps owed nothing directly to him (as he did to Seneca[15]),
it is manifest that Plutarch sometimes strains a point in order
to achieve an over-ingenious comparison. The contagion of the
thing, like that of Euphuism in the Elizabethan age, was in
the air, and Plutarch assuredly does not err more often or more
heinously with one generation than Shakespeare did with another.
Wide reading and natural fecundity easily slip into sins which
narrow resources and slow invention are impotent to commit.
There are numerous signs that the pendulum of classical interest
is swinging in the direction of the literature of the early Empire.
23The exclusive toujours perdrix of the Attic and Ciceronian
periods has apparently begun to jade the palate, and writers
like Seneca and Plutarch are coming into their own once more.
There was a time when these authors were perhaps better
known than any others. That they were worthy of prime
consideration is manifest from the immense influence which they
exercised upon the ardent and inquiring spirits of the sixteenth
and following centuries, in England no less than on the Continent.
Authors who could make such an appeal to Montaigne, to the
Elizabethan dramatists, to Bacon, or to Jeremy Taylor,[16] are
surely not to be despised because they belong stylistically to
a ‘silver’ age, or because their strength lies mostly in the fact
that they are a mine of ideas, wise saws, and pointed moral
instances. Seneca, as being a writer of Latin, was naturally the
earlier and more widely read,[17] but from the publication of the
editio princeps of Plutarch by Aldus in 1509 our author sprang into
peculiar estimation among the recovered spirits of antiquity.
It was, however, due to Amyot that both his Lives and his
Essays became accessible to those who had little or no Greek.
The Essays were rendered into idiomatic French by that admirable
translator in the year 1572,[18] and Montaigne was by no
means the only reader among nous autres ignorans who made
the Plutarch of Amyot his breviary, and who ‘drew his water
incessantly’ from him. It was not the literary etiquette of the
Elizabethan age to acknowledge all the obligations one might
owe even to a contemporary, much less to the ancients, and
the stores of Plutarch might be rifled without much fear of
detection, and certainly with no fear of reproach. When Lyly,
24in Euphues and his Ephoebus,[19] takes it in hand to bring up a child
in the way he should go, he is in a large measure simply translating,
expanding, and emphasizing the pseudo-Plutarch on the
Bringing-up of a Boy and interspersing the discourse with
pickings from other essays, particularly that on Garrulousness.[20]
Montaigne, of course, with his bland unreserve, credits Plutarch
via Amyot with a multitude of observations, while Bacon,
when following the new vogue of the essay, sometimes refers
us to ‘Plutarke’, and at least on one occasion informs us
that ‘Mountaigny saith’ a thing which on reference to the
said ‘Mountaigny’ we find to be Plutarchan.
Though it is no part of the present Introduction to examine
in detail the influence of the philosopher of Chaeronea upon
modern writers, or to make an inventory of his contributions to
English literature, it is at least worth asking whether an author
whom genius once delighted to exploit, and from whom so
many good things have filtered down to us through various
channels, may not be well worth reading at first hand. To Professor
Mahaffy[21] Plutarch ‘is a pure and elevating writer, full
of precious information, and breathing a lofty moral tone’,
and to Professor Gilbert Murray[22] he is ‘one of the most
tactful and charming of writers, and one of the most lovable
characters in antiquity’. Said Emerson[23]: ‘Plutarch will be
perpetually rediscovered from time to time as long as books last.’
26In the following imaginary ‘Dinner-Party of the Seven Sages’
the supposed narrator is a certain Diocles of Corinth, a professional
diviner and expiator of omens connected with the court of Periander,
who was despot of Corinth from 625B. C.to 585B. C.The dramatic
date is towards the close of that period. It must not be assumed
that Plutarch is pretending to be historical, and anachronisms must
be disregarded.
The Seven Sages are here Thales, Bias, Pittacus, Solon, Chilon,
Cleobulus, Anacharsis (see Notes on Persons and Places). The
list varies with different writers, but Thales, Bias, Pittacus, and
Solon are invariably, and Chilon is regularly, included in the
canon. Periander is himself sometimes made one of the number, and
a certain Myson also appears.
The qualities which constituted a ‘sage’ in this connexion were
those of keen practical sense and insight, and a power of crystallizing
the results into pithy maxims. He was not a ‘philosopher’ in
the later sense of that word.
DINNER-PARTY OF THE SEVEN SAGES
27
We |146 B| may be sure, Nicarchus, that in process of time facts
will become so obscured as to be altogether beyond ascertainment,
seeing that in the present instance, where they are so
fresh and recent, the world accepts accounts of them which are
pure concoctions. In the first place, the party at dinner did
not consist—as you have been told—merely of seven, but of
|C|
more than twice that number. I was myself included, both as
being professionally intimate with Periander and as the host
of Thales, who had taken up his quarters with me by Periander’s
directions. In the second place, whoever related the conversation
to you, reported it incorrectly. Presumably he was not
one of the company. Inasmuch, therefore, as I have plenty of
spare time and my years do not warrant me in putting off the
narrative with any confidence, I will—since you are all so
eager—tell you the whole story from the beginning.
Periander |D| had prepared his entertainment, not in the city,
but in the banquet-hall at Lechaeum, close to the temple of
Aphrodite, the festival being in her honour. For after having
refused to sacrifice to Aphrodite since the love-affair which led
to his mother’s suicide, he was now for the first time, thanks to
certain dreams on the part of Melissa, induced to pay honour
and court to that goddess.
Inasmuch as it was summer-time and the road all the way
to the sea was crowded with people and vehicles, and therefore
full of dust and a confusion of traffic, each of the invited guests
was supplied with a carriage and pair handsomely caparisoned.
Thales, however, on seeing the carriage at the door, simply
28|E| smiled and sent it away. Accordingly we turned off the road
and proceeded to walk quietly through the fields, a third member
of our party being Niloxenus of Naucratis, a man of high
character who had formed a close acquaintance with Solon and
Thales in Egypt. His presence was due to his having been sent
on another mission to Bias. Of its purpose he was himself
unaware, although he suspected that the sealed document of
which he was the bearer contained a second problem for solution.
He had been instructed, in case Bias could do nothing, to show
the missive to the wisest of the Greeks. ‘It is a godsend to me,’
|F| said Niloxenus, ‘to find you all here, and, as you perceive’—showing
us the paper—‘I am bringing the letter to the dinner.’
At this Thales remarked with a laugh, ‘In case of trouble, once
more to Priene![24] For Bias will solve the difficulty, as he did
the first, without assistance.’ ‘What do you mean,’ said I,
‘by “the first”?’ ‘The king,’ replied Thales, ‘sent him an
animal for sacrifice, and bade him pick out and send back the
worst and best portion of the meat. Thereupon our friend,
with excellent judgement, took out and sent the tongue; and
he is manifestly held in high repute and admiration in consequence.’
|147| ‘That is not the only reason,’ said Niloxenus,
‘Bias does not object—as you do—to be, and to be called, a
friend of kings. In your own case the king not only admires
you on general grounds, but he was hugely delighted with your
method of measuring the pyramid. Without any fuss or the
need of any instrument, you stood your stick at the end of the
shadow thrown by the pyramid, and the fall of the sunlight
making two triangles, you showed that the pyramid stood in the
same ratio to the stick as the one shadow to the other.[25] But, as
29I observed, you were charged with being a king-hater, and |B|
certain outrageous expressions of yours concerning despots were
reported to him. For example, when asked by the Ionian
Molpagoras what was the strangest sight you had seen, you
answered, “An aged despot.” Again, at a drinking-party,
when the talk fell upon animals, you stated that among wild
animals the worst was the despot, and among tame animals
the sycophant. However much a king may claim to differ from
a despot, he does not welcome language of that kind.’ ‘Nay,’
said Thales, ‘the former remark belongs to Pittacus, who once
made it in a playful attack on Myrsilus. My own observation |C|
was that I should regard as a strange sight, not an aged despot,
but an aged navigator. None the less, my feelings at the altered
version are those of the young fellow who, after throwing at
the dog and hitting his step-mother, remarked, “Not so bad,
after all.” Yes, I regarded Solon as very wise in refusing to
act the despot. Our Pittacus also, if he had kept clear of monarchy,
would not have said that “it is hard to be good”. As for
Periander, his despotism may be regarded as an inherited disease,
from which he is making a creditable recovery, inasmuch as up
to the present he keeps wholesome company, cultivates the
society of sensible men, and will have nothing to say to that
“cutting down of the tall poppies” suggested by my fellow-countryman |D|
Thrasybulus. A despot who desires to rule over
slaves rather than men is no better than a farmer who is ready
to reap a harvest of darnel and cammock in preference to wheat
and barley. Among the many undesirable features of despotic
rule, the one desirable element is the honour and glory, in a case
where the subjects are good but the ruler is better, and where
they are great but he is regarded as greater. If he is satisfied with
safety without honour, his right course would be to rule over a
herd of sheep, horses, or oxen, not over human beings. However, |E|
your visitor here has launched us upon an inopportune topic. We
30are walking to a dinner, and he should have remembered to moot
questions suited to the occasion. For you will doubtless admit
that there is a certain preparation necessary for the guest as well
as for the host. The people of Sybaris, I understand, send their
invitations to the women a year in advance, so that they may have
plenty of time to prepare their dress and their jewelry before
coming to dinner. In my own opinion one who is to play the
diner in the proper way requires still more time for real and true
preparation, inasmuch as it is harder to arrive at the appropriate
adornment of character than at the useless and superfluous
adornment of the person. When a man of sense comes to
|F| dinner, he does not bring himself to be filled like a vessel, but
to contribute something either serious or sportive. He is to
listen or talk about such matters as the occasion asks of the
company, if they are to find pleasure in each other’s society.
An inferior dish may be put aside, and if a wine is poor, one may
take refuge with the Nymphs.[26] But when your table-companion
is an ill-bred bore who gives you a headache, he utterly ruins
the enjoyment of any wine or dish or musical entertainment.
|148| Nor have you the resource of an emetic for that kind of annoyance,
but in some cases the mutual antipathy lasts all your life,
an insulting or angry incident at your wine having resulted in
a kind of nausea. Chilon was therefore quite right when, on
receiving his invitation yesterday, he only accepted after
ascertaining the full list of the guests. As he remarked, when
people cannot help going to sea or on a campaign, and a shipmate
or tentmate proves disagreeable, they are obliged to put
up with him; but no sensible man will form one of an indiscriminate
wine-party. The mummy which the Egyptians
regularly bring in and exhibit at their parties, bidding you
|B| remember that you will very soon be like it, may be an unwelcome
and unseasonable boon-companion; yet the custom
31is not without its point. Even if it may not incite you to drink
and enjoy yourself, it does incite to mutual liking and regard.
“Life,” it urges, “is short in duration; do not make it long by
vexations.”’
After talk of this nature on the way we arrived at the house.
As we had anointed ourselves, Thales decided not to take a bath,
but proceeded to visit and inspect the race-tracks, the wrestling-grounds,
and the handsomely decorated park along the shore.
Not that he was greatly taken with anything of that kind, but
he would not appear to despise or slight Periander’s display |C|
of public spirit. The other guests, as soon as each had anointed
himself or bathed, were being led by the servants through the
cloister into the dining-room. Anacharsis, however, was seated
in the cloister, and in front of him stood a girl, who was parting
his hair with her hands. Upon her running to meet Thales
in the frankest possible manner, he kissed her and said with
a laugh, ‘That’s right: make our foreign visitor beautiful,
so that he may not frighten us by looking like a savage, when he
is really a most civilized person.’ Upon my asking him who the
child was, he replied, ‘Don’t you know the wise and far-famed |D|
Eumetis? That, by the way, is her father’s name for her,
though most people call her Cleobuline, after him.’ ‘I presume,’
said Niloxenus, ‘your compliment refers to the girl’s cleverness
in constructing riddles. Some of her puzzles have found their
way as far as Egypt.’ ‘Not at all,’ rejoined Thales. ‘Those
are merely the dice with which, on occasion, she plays a match
for fun in conversation. There is more in her than that: an
admirable spirit, a practical intellect, and an amiable character,
by which she renders her father’s rule over his fellow country-men
more gentle and popular.’ ‘Yes,’ remarked Niloxenus, ‘one |E|
can see it by looking at her simplicity and unpretentiousness.
But how is it she is attending to Anacharsis so affectionately?’
‘Because,’ was the answer, ‘he is a man of virtue and learning,
32and has given her zealous and ungrudging instruction in the
Scythian manner of dieting and purging the sick. I should say
that at the present moment, while looking after the gentleman
so amiably, she is getting some lesson and talking it over.’
As we were just approaching the dining-room, we were met
by Alexidemus of Miletus, the natural son of the despot Thrasybulus.
|F| He was coming out in a state of excitement and angrily
muttering something which conveyed no meaning to us. When
he saw Thales he collected himself a little, stopped, and said:
‘Look how we have been insulted by Periander! He would
not allow me to take ship home when I was anxious to do so,
but begged me to stay for the dinner; and, when I come to it,
he assigns me a degrading place at table, and lets Aeolians,
islanders, and goodness knows whom, take precedence of
Thrasybulus. For since I was commissioned by Thrasybulus, it
is evident that, in my person, he means to insult and humiliate
|149| him, by treating him as if he were nobody.’ ‘I see,’ said Thales,
‘what you are afraid of. In Egypt they say of the stars, according
to their increase or decrease of altitude in the regions they
traverse, that they become ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than themselves.
You are afraid that in your own case your place at table may mean
a similar loss of brightness and eminence, and you propose to
show less spirit than the Lacedaemonian, who, upon being put
by the director in the last place in a chorus, remarked, “A capital
way of making even this place one of honour.” When we take
our places,’ continued Thales, ‘we should not ask who have
seats above us, but how we are to make ourselves agreeable to
our immediate neighbours. As a means of immediately securing
a beginning of friendly feeling on their part, we should cultivate,
|B| or rather bring with us, instead of irritation, a tone of satisfaction
at being placed in such good company. The man who is annoyed
with his place at table is more annoyed with his next neighbour
than with his host, and he earns the dislike of both.’ ‘That,’
33retorted Alexidemus, ‘is mere talk. In practice I notice that
even you sages are greedy for precedence’—and therewith he
passed us and went off. Upon our expressing surprise at the
man’s peculiar behaviour, Thales said, ‘A crazy person, constitutionally
wrong-headed. When he was still a mere lad and
a quantity of valuable perfume had been presented to Thrasybulus,
he emptied it into a big wine-cooler, poured in some
neat wine, and drank it off, thereby bringing ill-odour upon |C|
Thrasybulus instead of the contrary.’
At this point an attendant came up and said, ‘Periander
requests you to take Thales here along with you and examine
an object which has just been brought to him, to see whether
it is a mere matter of accident or signifies something portentous.
He appears himself to be greatly agitated, regarding it as a
pollution, and as a smirch upon the festival.’ Whereupon he
proceeded to lead us to one of the apartments off the garden.
Here a youth, apparently a herdsman, still beardless and with
considerable handsomeness of person, opened a leather wrapper
and displayed a baby thing which he told us was the offspring
of a mare. The upper parts, as far as the neck and arms, were
human, the lower parts equine; its voice when it cried was that |D|
of a new-born child. Niloxenus, exclaiming ‘Heaven help us!’
turned away from the sight; but Thales took a prolonged look
at the young fellow, and with a smile remarked—in accordance
with his regular habit of twitting me in connexion with my
profession—‘I suppose, Diocles, you are thinking of setting your
purifications to work and giving trouble to the averting powers,
in the belief that a great and terrible thing has happened?’
‘Of course I am, Thales,’ said I, ‘for the token indicates strife
and discord, and I am afraid it may affect no less a matter
than marriage and its issue. As you see, before we have expiated
the original offence, the goddess is giving warning of a second.’
|E| To this Thales made no answer, but began to move off—laughing.
34Upon Periander coming to the door to meet us, and putting
questions as to what we had seen, Thales turned from me,
took him by the hand, and said: ‘Anything Diocles bids you
do, you will perform at your leisure. My own advice is to be
more careful as to your herdsmen.’ On hearing this speech
Periander appeared to be greatly delighted, for he burst out
laughing and hugged and kissed Thales, who observed: ‘I should
say, Diocles, that the sign has found its fulfilment already;
for you see what a serious misfortune has befallen us in the
|F| refusal of Alexidemus to be present at dinner.’
When we had actually entered the room, Thales, speaking
in a louder tone, said: ‘And where was the seat to which the
gentleman objected?’ Upon the place being pointed out, he
went round and occupied it himself, taking me with him, and
remarking: ‘Why, I would have paid something for the
|150| privilege of sharing the same table with Ardalus.’ The Ardalus
in question was a Troezenian, a flute-player and priest of the
Ardalian Muses, whose worship was established by the original
Ardalus of Troezen. Thereupon Aesop—who happened to have
arrived recently on a simultaneous mission from Croesus to
Periander and to the god at Delphi, and was present on a low
stool close to where Solon was reclining above—said, ‘A Lydian
mule, having caught sight of his reflection in a river and conceived
an admiration for the size and beauty of his body, gave
a toss of his mane and set out to run like a horse; but after
a while, reflecting that he was the son of an ass, he quickly
|B| stopped his career and dropped his pride and conceit.’ At this
Chilon, speaking in broad Laconian, observed: ‘Ye’re slow
yersel, an’ ye’re running the mule’s gait.’
At this point Melissa came in and reclined beside Periander,
whereas Eumetis sat at her dinner.
Thales, addressing me—I was on the couch above Bias—said:
‘Diocles, why don’t you inform Bias that our visitor from
35Naucratis has come to him again with royal problems to solve,
so that he may be sober and capable of looking after himself
when he receives the communication?’ Bias replied: ‘Nay,
our friend here has been trying for a long time to frighten me
with that warning. But I am aware that, besides his other
capacities, Dionysus is styled Solver[27] in right of wisdom. I feel |C|
no fear, therefore, that my being “filled with the god” will
cause me to make a less hopeful fight of it.’
While jokes of this kind were passing between these great
men over their dinner, I was noticing that the meal was unusually
frugal, and I was led to meditate on the fact that to invite and
entertain wise and good men means no additional expense, but
rather a curtailment of it, since it eliminates fancy dishes,
out-of-the-way perfumes and sweetmeats, and lavish decantings
of costly wines. Though Periander, being a despot and a person |D|
of wealth and power, indulged in such things pretty nearly
every day, on this occasion he was trying to impress the company
with a show of simplicity and modest expenditure. He put
aside and out of sight not only the display usually made in other
things, but also that used by his wife, whom he made present
herself in modest and inexpensive attire.
The tables were removed; Melissa caused garlands to be
distributed; and we poured libations. After the flute-girl had
played a short piece to accompany them, and had then withdrawn,
Ardalus, addressing Anacharsis, asked if there were any
flute-girls among the Scythians. Instantly he replied, ‘No, nor |E|
yet vines.’ When Ardalus rejoined: ‘Well, but the Scythians
have gods;’ ‘Quite true,’ said he: ‘gods who understand
human language. We are not like the Greeks, who imagine they
speak better than the Scythians, and yet believe that the gods
would rather listen to pieces of bone and wood.’ ‘Ah,’ said
36Aesop, ‘what if you knew, Sir Visitor, that the present-day
flute-makers have given up using the bones of fawns and have
taken to those of asses? They maintain that these sound better—a
fact which explains Cleobuline’s riddle upon the Phrygian
flute: |F|
With a shin that was horned
Did an ass that was dead
Deal a blow on my ear.
It is a wonderful thing that the ass, who is otherwise particularly
crass and unmusical, should supply us with a bone particularly
fine and melodious.’ ‘Now that,’ said Niloxenus, ‘is precisely
the objection which the Busirites bring against us of Naucratis;
for asses’ bones for flutes are already in use with us. With them,
on the contrary, it is profanation even to listen to a trumpet,
because it sounds like the bray of an ass. You know, I presume,
that the ass is treated contemptuously by the Egyptians because
of Typhon?’
A silence here occurred, and, as Periander perceived that
Niloxenus, though eager to enter upon the subject, was shy
|151| of doing so, he said: ‘To my mind, gentlemen, it is a commendable
practice, whether of community or ruler, to take the
business of strangers first and of citizens afterwards. On the
present occasion, therefore, I propose that for a short time we
suspend any topics of our own, as being local and familiar, and
that we treat ourselves as an Assembly and ‘grant an audience’
to those royal communications from Egypt, of which our
excellent friend Niloxenus is the bearer to Bias, and which
Bias desires that you should join him in considering.’ ‘Yes,’
said Bias: ‘for where, or with whom, could one more readily
face the risk—if it must be faced—of answering in a case like
this, especially when the king’s instructions are that, though
|B| the matter is to begin with me, it is to go the round of you all?’
Niloxenus thereupon offered him the document, but Bias bade
37him open it himself and read every word to the whole company.
The contents of the letter were to the following effect:
Amasis, King of Egypt, to Bias, wisest of the Greeks
The King of Ethiopia is engaged in matching his wits against
mine. Hitherto he has had the worst of it, but has finally concocted
a terrible poser in the shape of a command that I should ‘drink
up the sea’. If I meet it with a solution, I am to have a number
of his villages and towns. If not, I am to surrender the cities in the
neighbourhood of Elephantine. Do you, therefore, take the matter |C|
in hand and send Niloxenus back to me at once. Any return which
friends or countrymen of yours require from me will be made without
hesitation on my part.
This part of the letter having been read, Bias was not long in
answering. After a few moments of meditation and a brief
conversation with Cleobulus, who was close to him at table, he
said: ‘Do you mean to say, my friend from Naucratis, that
Amasis, though reigning over so many subjects and possessed
of so large and excellent a country, will be ready to drink up
the sea in order to win a few miserable insignificant villages?’
‘Take it that he will, Bias,’ replied Niloxenus, ‘and consider
how it can be done.’ ‘Very well then,’ said he: ‘let him tell |D|
the Ethiopian to stop the rivers that run into the ocean, while
he is himself drinking up the sea at present existing. The command
applies to the sea as it is, not as it is to be later on.’ Bias no
sooner made this speech than Niloxenus was so delighted that
he rushed to embrace and kiss him. After the rest of the company
had cheered and applauded, Chilon said with a laugh,
‘Sir Visitor from Naucratis, before the sea is all drunk up and
lost, set sail and tell Amasis not to be asking how to make away
with all that brine, but rather how to render his kingship sweet
and drinkable for his subjects. Bias is a past master at teaching |E|
such a lesson, and, if Amasis learns it, he will have no further
38occasion for his golden footpan[28] in dealing with the Egyptians.
They will all be courting and making much of him for his
goodness, even if he is declared to be of a thousand times lower
birth than he actually is.’ ‘Yes, and by the way,’ said Periander,
‘it would be a good thing if all—“man after man”, as Homer
has it—were to contribute a similar offering to His Majesty.
A bonus of the kind thrown in would not only make the returns
on his venture more valuable to him, but would also be the best
thing in the world for us.’
Chilon thereupon asserted that Solon was the right man to
|F| make a beginning on the subject, not only because he was
senior to all the rest and was in the place of honour at the table,
but because, having legislated for the Athenians, he held the
greatest and completest position as a ruler. At this Niloxenus
remarked quietly to me, ‘People believe a good deal that is
false, Diocles; and they mostly take a delight in inventing for
themselves, and in accepting with avidity from others, mischievous
stories about wise men. For instance, it was reported
|152| to us in Egypt that Chilon had cancelled his friendship and
his relations of hospitality with Solon, because Solon declared
that laws were alterable.’ At this I answered, ‘The story is
ridiculous; for in that case Chilon ought to begin by disclaiming
Lycurgus and all his laws, as having altered the whole
Lacedaemonian constitution.’
After a brief delay Solon said: ‘In my opinion a king or
despot would win most renown by furnishing his fellow-citizens
with a popular, in place of a monarchical, government.’ The
second to speak was Bias, who said: ‘By identifying his behaviour
with the laws of his country.’ Thales came next with the statement
that he considered a ruler happy ‘if he died naturally
of old age‘. Fourth Anacharsis: ‘If good sense never failed him.’
|*| Fifth Cleobulus: ‘If he trusted none of those about him.’ Sixth
39Pittacus: ‘If the ruler could get his subjects to fear, not him, but |B|
for him.’ Next Chilon said that ‘the ruler’s conceptions should
never be mortal, but always immortal‘.
After hearing these dicta, we claimed that Periander himself
should express an opinion. With anything but cheerfulness,
and pulling a serious face, he replied: ‘Well, the opinion I have
to add is that every one of the views stated practically disqualifies
a man of sense from being a ruler.’ Whereupon Aesop, as if in a
spirit of reproof, said, ‘You ought, of course, to have discussed
this subject by yourselves, and not to have delivered an attack
upon rulers under pretence of being their advisers and friends.’ |C|
‘Don’t you think,’ said Solon, taking him by the head and
smiling, ‘that one can make a ruler more moderate and a despot
more reasonable by persuading him that it is better to decline
such a position than to hold it?’ ‘And pray who,’ he replied,
‘is likely to follow you in the matter rather than the God, whose
opinion is given in the oracle delivered to yourself:
Blessèd the city that hearkens to one commander’s proclaiming.’
‘True,’ said Solon, ‘but, as a matter of fact, the Athenians,
though with a popular government, do listen to one proclaimer |D|
and ruler in the shape of the law. You have a wonderful gift
at understanding ravens and jackdaws, but your hearing of the |*|
voice of modesty is indistinct. While you think that a state
is best off when it listens, as the God says, to “one”, you believe
that the best convivial party is that in which everybody talks
on every subject.’ ‘Yes,’ said Aesop, ‘for you have not yet
legislated to the effect that “a slave shall not get tipsy” is to
stand on the same footing with those Athenian ordinances of
yours which say “a slave shall not indulge in love or in dry-rubbing
with oil”.’[29] At this Solon broke into a laugh, and
40Cleodorus the physician remarked: ‘But, in one respect,
talking when the wine is taking effect does stand on the same
footing with dry-rubbing—it is very pleasant.’ ‘Consequently,’
|E| broke in Chilon, ‘it is the more to be avoided.’ ‘Yes,’ said
Aesop again,[30] ‘Thales did appear to recommend getting old
as quickly as possible.’ Periander laughed, and said: ‘Aesop,
we have been properly punished for dropping into other
questions before bringing forward the whole of those from
Amasis, as we proposed. Pray look at the rest of the letter,
Niloxenus, and take advantage of the gentlemen being all here
together.’ ‘As for that,’ replied Niloxenus, ‘whereas the command
sent by the Ethiopian can only be called a “doleful
|F| dispatch”—as Archilochus would say—your friend Amasis has
shown a fine and more civilized taste in setting such problems.
He bade him name the oldest thing, the most beautiful, the
greatest, the wisest, the most universal, and—not stopping there—the
most beneficent, the most harmful, the most powerful, and
the easiest.’ ‘Well, and did his answers give the solution in
each case?’ ‘His replies were these,’ said Niloxenus. ‘It is
|153| for you to listen and judge; for the king is very anxious neither
to be guilty of pettifogging with the answers, nor to let any
slip on the part of the answerer escape without refutation.
I will read you the replies as given. What is the oldest thing?—Time.What the greatest?—The universe.What the wisest?—Truth.What the most beautiful?—Light.What the most
universal?—Death.What the most beneficent?—God.What the
most harmful?—Evil genius.What the strongest?—Fortune.What the easiest?—That which is pleasant.’
Well, Nicarchus, after the reading of this second passage
there was a silence. Then Thales asked Niloxenus if Amasis
was satisfied with the solutions. Upon his replying that he had
|B| accepted some, but was dissatisfied with others, Thales said,
41‘And yet not one of them is unassailable. There are great
blunders and signs of ignorance all through. For instance,
how can Time be the oldest thing, seeing that, while some of it
is past and some present, some of it is future? Time which is
to come after us must be regarded as younger than the events
and persons of the present. Again, to call Truth wisdom
appears to me as bad as making out that the light is the eye.
Next, if he considered Light beautiful—as indeed it is—how
came he to ignore the sun? As for the rest, the answer concerning
gods and evil spirits is bold and dangerous, while in that |C|
concerning Fortune the logic is exceedingly bad. Fortune
would not be so readily upset if it was the strongest and most
powerful thing in existence. Nor yet again is Death the most
universal thing, for in the case of the living it has no existence.
However, to avoid seeming merely to criticize the work of others,
let us express views of our own and compare them with his.
I am ready to be the first to be questioned point by point, if
Niloxenus so desires.’
In relating the questions and answers I will put them exactly
as they occurred. What is the oldest thing? ‘God,’ said Thales:
‘for He is without birth.’ What is greatest? ‘Space: for |D|
while the universe contains everything else, it is space that
contains the universe.’ What is most beautiful? ‘The cosmos:
for everything duly ordered is part of it.’ What is wisest?
‘Time: for it is Time that has either discovered things or will
discover them.’ What most universal? ‘Expectation: for
those who have nothing else have that.’ What most beneficent?
‘Virtue: for it makes other things beneficent by using them
rightly.’ What most harmful? ‘Vice: for most things suffer
from its presence.’ What most powerful? ‘Necessity: for it is
invincible.’ What most easy? ‘The natural; not pleasure, for
people often fail to cope with that.’
The whole company being satisfied with Thales and his |E|42acumen, Cleodorus observed: ‘It is questions and answers of
this kind, Niloxenus, that are proper for kings. On the other
hand, the barbarian who gave Amasis the sea to drink, required
the short answer made by Pittacus to Alyattes, when he wrote
the Lesbians a letter containing an arrogant command. The
reply was merely a recommendation to eat onions and hot
bread.’[31]
Here Periander joined in; ‘I may remind you, Cleodorus,
that even in old times the Greeks had a habit of posing each
|F| other with similar difficulties. We are told, for instance,
that there was a gathering at Chalcis of the most distinguished
poets among the wise men of the day, in order to celebrate
the funeral of Amphidamas—a great warrior who had given
much trouble to the Eretrians and had fallen in the fighting for
Lelantum. The verses composed by the poets were so well
matched, that it became a difficult and troublesome matter to
judge between them, and the reputation of the competitors—Homer
and Hesiod—caused the jury much diffidence and
|154| embarrassment. Thereupon they had recourse to questions of
the present kind, and Homer—as Lesches tells us—propounded
the following:
Tell me, Muse, of such things as neither before have befallen,
Nor shall hereafter befall?
To which Hesiod instantly replied:
When in eager pursuit of the prize the chariots, one ’gainst the other
Are dashed by the ringing-hoof’d steeds round the tomb where Zeus lieth buried.
This answer, it is said, won particular admiration and secured
him the tripod.’
‘But pray what is the difference,’ asked Cleodorus, ‘between
43such questions and Eumetis’s riddles? It is no doubt right |B|
enough for her to set women such puzzles by way of amusement,
constructing them as other women plait their bits of girdles or
hair-nets. But for sensible men to treat them with any seriousness
is absurd.’ Eumetis would apparently have liked to make
some retort, but she was too shy, and checked herself, her face
mantled with blushes. ‘Nay,’ said Aesop, by way of championing
her, ‘it is surely more absurd to be unable to solve them.
Take for example the one she set us just before dinner:
I saw a man glue bronze on a man; with fire did he glue it.
Can you tell me what that means?’ ‘No, and I don’t want |C|
to be told either,’ answered Cleodorus. ‘And yet,’ said Aesop,
‘no one is so familiar with the thing, or does it so well, as you.
If you deny it, cupping-glasses[32] will bear me out.’ At this
Cleodorus laughed, for he made more use of cupping-glasses
than any medical man of the day, and the estimation in which
that remedy is held is especially due to him. ‘I beg to ask,
Periander,’ said Mnesiphilus the Athenian, a close friend and
admirer of Solon, ‘that the conversation, like the wine, shall
not be limited to wealth or rank, but shall be put on a democratic
footing and made to concern all alike. In what has just been |D|
said about wealth and kingship there is nothing for us commoners.
We think, therefore, that you should take a government with
equal rights, and each of you again contribute some opinion,
beginning once more with Solon.’ It was decided that this
should be done. First came Solon. ‘Well, Mnesiphilus, you,
like every other Athenian, have heard what opinion I hold
about such a government. But if you desire to hear it again now,
it seems to me that a community is in the soundest condition,
and its popular government most securely maintained, when the
wrongdoer is accused and punished quite as much by those who |E|44have not been wronged as by the man that has.’ The second to
speak was Bias, who said that the best popular government is
‘that in which every one fears the law as he would a despot.’
Next came Thales with ‘that in which there are no citizens either
too rich or too poor.’ Anacharsis followed with ‘that in which,
while everything else is treated as equal, superiority is determined
by virtue and inferiority by vice.’ In the fifth place Cleobulus
affirmed that a democracy is most soundly conducted ‘when its
public men are more afraid of blame than of the law‘. Sixth,
Pittacus: ‘Where the bad are not permitted to hold office and the
|F| good are not permitted to decline it.’ Last of all Chilon expressed
the view that the best free government is ‘that which pays least
attention to the orators and most to the laws.’ Periander once more
summed up at the end by saying that they all appeared to him
to be praising ‘that democratic government which most
resembled an aristocratic.’
Upon the conclusion of this second discussion I begged that
they would also tell us the proper way to deal with a household;
‘for while there are few who are at the helm of a kingdom or
a commonwealth, we all play our parts in the hearth and home.’
|155| At this Aesop said with a laugh: ‘No! not if in “all” you
include Anacharsis. He has no home, but actually prides himself
on being homeless, and on using a wagon—in the same way
as they tell us the sun roams about in a chariot, occupying first
one and then another region of the sky.’ ‘Yes,’ retorted
Anacharsis, ‘and that is why, unlike any other—or more than
any other—god, he is free and independent, ruling all and ruled
by none, but always playing the king and holding the reins.
You, however, fail to realize the surpassing beauty and marvellous
|B| size of his car, otherwise you would not have tried to raise a
laugh by jocosely comparing it with ours. It seems to me,
Aesop, that to you a home means those coverings of yours made
by clay and wood and tiles. You might as well regard a “snail”
45as meaning the shell instead of the animal. It is therefore natural
that you should find cause to laugh at Solon, when he beheld
all the costly splendour in the house of Croesus and yet refused
to declare off-hand that its possessor was happy and blessed
in his home; “for”—he argued—“I am more desirous of
looking at the fine things in the man than at those in his house.”
It appears, moreover, that you have forgotten your own fox.
That animal, when she and the leopard were engaged in a dispute
as to which was the more “cunningly marked”, begged the
judge to examine her on the inside, inasmuch as she would be
found to possess more “marks of cunning” from that point
of view. But you go inspecting the productions of carpenters |C|
and stone-masons, and regarding those as the “home”, instead
of the inward and domestic constituents in the case—the
children, wife, friends, and servants. If these have good sense
and good morals, a man who shares his best means with them
possesses a good and happy home, even if it be but an ant-hill
or a bird’s-nest.’ ‘That,’ he continued, ‘is my answer to Aesop
and my contribution to Diocles. But it is only fair that each
of the others should express his own views.’
Thereupon Solon said that in his opinion the best household
was ‘that in which the resources are acquired without dishonesty, |D|
watched over without distrust, and expended without repentance‘.
According to Bias it was ‘that inside which the master behaves
for his own sake as well as he does outside for the law’s sake‘.
According to Thales, ‘that in which the master can find most time
to himself‘. According to Cleobulus, ‘where the master has more
who love than fear him.’ Pittacus would have it that the best
house is ‘that which wants no luxury and lacks no necessity‘.
Chilon’s view was that the house should be ‘as like as possible
to a state ruled by a king‘, and he went on to observe that when
some one urged Lycurgus to establish a republic at Sparta, he |E|
answered: ‘You begin by creating a republic at home.’
46This topic also having been dealt with, Eumetis left the room
in company with Melissa. Periander then pledged Chilon in
a capacious goblet, and Chilon in turn pledged Bias. At this
Ardalus got up, and, addressing Aesop, said: ‘Perhaps you
will be good enough to pass yonder cup on to us, seeing that
these gentlemen are passing theirs to each other, as if it were
a Bathycles’s goblet,[33] and are giving no one else a turn.’ ‘Nay,’
|F| replied Aesop, ‘there is to be nothing democratic about this
cup either, for Solon has been keeping it all to himself for quite
an age.’ Thereupon Pittacus, addressing Mnesiphilus, asked
why Solon, by not drinking, was testifying against the verses
in which he had written
Now do I welcome the tasks of the Cyprus-born goddess and Bacchus,
And tasks of the Muses that bring cheer to the heart of mankind.
‘Because,’ said Anacharsis, before Mnesiphilus could speak,
‘he is frightened at that cruel law of your own, Pittacus, where
the words run, If any one commit any offence when drunk, the
penalty to be double that paid by a man who was sober.’ ‘And
you,’ retorted Pittacus, ‘showed such wanton contempt of
the law that last year, when you had got intoxicated at that
|156| party at Delphi, you asked for a prize and a victor’s wreath.’
‘And why not?’ asked Anacharsis. ‘A prize was offered to
him who drank most, and, since I was the first to get tipsy,
I, of course, claimed the reward of victory. Otherwise will you
gentlemen tell me what is the end and aim of drinking a large
quantity of unmixed wine, if it is not to get intoxicated?’
Pittacus laughed, while Aesop told the following story. ‘A wolf,
having seen some shepherds eating a sheep in a tent, came close
up to them, and said: “What a to-do you would have made
47if I had been doing that!”’ At this Chilon remarked, ‘Aesop
has properly taken his revenge. A moment ago we put the
muzzle on him, and now he sees that others have taken the words
out of Mnesiphilus’ mouth. It was Mnesiphilus who was
requested to answer on behalf of Solon.’ ‘Well, in doing so,’
said Mnesiphilus, ‘I speak with knowledge. In Solon’s opinion |B|
the concern of every art and faculty of man or God is with
results rather than with agencies, the end rather than the
means. A weaver, I take it, would consider his object to be
a cloak or mantle rather than the arrangement of his shuttle-rods
or the picking-up of his straightening-stones. To a blacksmith
it is rather the welding of iron and putting an edge on an
axe than any of the processes necessary thereto, such as the
kindling of his charcoal or the preparation of lime. Still more
would a master-builder object if, instead of a ship or a house,
we declared his object to be the boring of wood or the mixing
of mortar. The Muses would utterly scout the notion that their |C|
concern is with a harp or flute, instead of with the cultivation
of character and the soothing of the emotions of their votaries
by means of melodies properly attuned. So—to come to the
point—the object of Aphrodite is not sexual intercourse, nor
that of Dionysus wine and tipsiness, but the friendly feeling,
the longing, the companionship, and the close mutual understanding
which they produce in us by those agencies. These
are what Solon calls divine “tasks”, and he means that these
are the objects which he appreciates and cultivates in his
old age. Of reciprocal affection between men and women
Aphrodite is the creator, using pleasure as the means of melting
and commingling their souls at the same time with their bodies;
while in ordinary cases, where persons are not very intimate or
particularly acquainted, Dionysus uses wine as a kind of fire
to soften and supple their dispositions, and so provides a starting-point
towards a blending in mutual friendship.
48‘But when such men meet together as Periander has invited
in your persons, there is no need, I take it, of the goblet and the
wine-ladle. The Muses set before you all, in the form of conversation,
a mixing-bowl containing no intoxicant and yet
abundance of pleasure, grave or gay. In this they stir friendly
feeling, blend it, and pour it forth, while for the most part the
|E| ladle is allowed to lie undisturbed “above the bowl”—a thing
which Hesiod forbids where the company is better qualified
for drinking than for conversation.’
‘As for pledging one another,’ he continued, ‘I gather that
with the ancients the ceremony consisted of one large goblet
going the round, each man drinking a measured “allowance”
(as Homer tells us), and then letting his neighbour take his
share, as he would do with a sacrificial portion.’
When Mnesiphilus had finished, the poet Chersias—who had
ceased to be under censure and had lately been reconciled to
|F| Periander through Chilon’s intercession—remarked, ‘Are we
also to understand that, when the gods were the guests of Zeus
and were pledging each other, he poured in their drink by
measure, as Agamemnon did for his chieftains?’ ‘And pray,
Chersias,’ said Cleodorus, ‘if Zeus has his ambrosia brought—as
you poets say he does—by doves which find the greatest
difficulty in flying over the Clashing Rocks, don’t you think
|157| that his nectar is also scarce and hard to get, and that consequently
he is sparing of it and doles it out economically?’
‘Perhaps so,’ replied Chersias. ‘Since, however, the question of
household economy has again been mooted, perhaps some one
will deal with the remainder of the question. And that, I take
it, is to discover what amount of property will be sufficient to
meet all needs.’ ‘To the wise man,’ said Cleobulus, ‘the law
has supplied the standard; but in reference to weak characters
I will repeat a story which my daughter told her brother.
The Moon, she said, asked her mother to weave a tunic to fit
49her; whereat the mother answered, “How can I possibly |B|
weave one to fit? At one time I see you as a full moon, at
another as a crescent, and at another gibbous.” Similarly, my
dear Chersias, there is no way of determining the amount of
means requisite for a weak and foolish person. His wants vary
with his appetites and experiences, his case being that of
Aesop’s dog, of whom our friend says that in winter he huddled
and curled himself up with the cold, and contemplated making
a house; but in summer it was different; he stretched himself
out when he slept, thought himself a big fellow, and decided
that it was both a laborious and an unnecessary task to build so
large a house to cover him. Don’t you observe, Chersias’—he
went on—‘that even insignificant people, though they will at
one moment draw themselves into a very modest compass, with
the idea of living a close and simple Spartan life, at another |C|
time will fancy they are going to die of want unless they have
all the money in the world—all the king’s and all the private
people’s?’
Chersias having nothing to say, Cleodorus joined in. ‘Well,
but,’ he said, ‘I perceive that there is no equal distribution in
the properties which even you sages respectively possess.’ ‘Yes,
my dear sir,’ said Cleobulus, ‘because the law, like a weaver,
allots us the amount which properly and reasonably fits each case.
In your own profession, substituting reason for law, you feed |D|
and diet and physic the sick by prescribing, not the same
quantity for everybody, but the proper quantity for each case.’
Here Ardalus interposed. ‘I suppose, then,’ he asked, ‘it is at
the bidding of some law that Epimenides—the friend of you
gentlemen and the guest of Solon—abstains from other kinds
of food and passes the day without breakfast or dinner by merely
putting in his mouth a little of that “anti-hunger essence”
which he makes up for himself?’ This remark having arrested
the attention of the party, Thales mockingly observed that
50Epimenides was a sensible man for refusing to be troubled—as
|E| Pittacus was—with grinding and cooking his own food.
‘You must know,’ he said, ‘that when I was at Eresus, I heard
my hostess singing to the mill:
Grind, mill, grind;
For Pittacus is grinding,
As he kings it over great Mytilene.’
Then Solon expressed his surprise that Ardalus had not read the
law ordaining the diet in question, seeing that it was written
in the verses of Hesiod. ‘For it is he who first supplied
Epimenides with hints for that form of nourishment, by
teaching him to make trial |F|
How great and sustaining the food that in mallow and asphodel lieth.
‘Nay,’ said Periander, ‘do you imagine Hesiod conceived of
anything of the kind? Don’t you suppose that, with his habitual
praise of economy, he is merely urging us to try the most frugal
dishes as being the most agreeable? The mallow makes good
eating, and asphodel-stalk is sweet; but I am told that anti-hunger
and anti-thirst drugs—for they are drugs rather than
foods—include among their ingredients some sort of foreign
honey and cheese, and a large number of seeds which are
difficult to procure. Most certainly, therefore, Hesiod would
find that the “rudder” hung “above the smoke” and
The works of the drudging mules and the oxen’s labour would perish,
|158| if all that provision is to be made. I am surprised, Solon, if
your guest, on recently making his great purification of Delos,
failed to note how they present to the temple—as commemorative
samples of the earliest form of food—mallow and asphodel-stalk
along with other cheap and self-grown produce. The
natural reason for which Hesiod also recommends them to us
51is that they are simple and frugal.’ ‘Not only so,’ remarked
Anacharsis, ‘but both vegetables bear the highest possible
character for wholesomeness.’ ‘You are quite right,’ said
Cleodorus. ‘That Hesiod possessed medical knowledge is
manifest from the careful and well-informed manner in which
he speaks about diet, the mixing of wine, good quality in water, |B|
bathing, women, and the way to seat infants. But it seems to
me that there is more reason for Aesop to declare himself
a pupil of Hesiod than there is for Epimenides. It is to the
speech of the hawk to the nightingale that our friend owes
the first promptings to his admirably subtle wisdom in many
tongues. But for my part I should be glad to hear what Solon
has to say. We may assume that, in his long association with
Epimenides at Athens, he asked him what motive or subtle
purpose he had in adopting such a diet.’
‘What need was there to ask him that question?’ replied
Solon. ‘It was self-evident that the next best thing to the |C|
supreme and greatest good is to require the least possible food.
You allow, I suppose, that the greatest good is to require no
food at all?’ ‘Not I, by any means,’ answered Cleodorus,
‘if I am to say what I think, especially with a table in front of
us. Take away food, and you take away the table—that is to
say, the altar of the Gods of Friendship and Hospitality. As
Thales tells us that, if you do away with the earth, the whole
cosmos will fall into confusion, so the abolition of food means
the dissolution of house and home. For with it you do away
with the hearth-fire, the hearth, the wine-bowl, all entertainment
and hospitality—the most humanizing and essential
elements in our mutual relations. Or rather you do away
with the whole of life, if life is “a passing of the time on the part |D|
of a human being involving a series of actions”, most of those
actions being evoked by the need, and in the acquirement, of
food. Of immense importance, my good friend, is the question
52|*| of mere agriculture. Let agriculture perish, and the earth
that it leaves us becomes unsightly and foul, a corrupt wilderness
of barren forest and vagabond streams. The ruin of agriculture
means the ruin of all arts and crafts as well; for she takes the
lead of them, and provides them with their basis and their
|E| material. Do away with her, and they count for nothing. There
is an end also to our honouring the gods. Men will thank the
Sun but little, and the Moon still less, for mere light and warmth.
Where will you find altar or sacrifice to Zeus of the Rain,
Demeter of the Plough, or Poseidon the Fosterer of Plants?
How can Dionysus be Boon-Giver, if we need nothing that he
gives? What sacrifice or libation shall we make? What offering
of firstfruits? All this means the overthrow and confounding
of our most important interests. Though to cling to every
pleasure in every case is to be a madman, to avoid every pleasure
in every case is to be a block. By all means let the soul have
|F| other pleasures of a superior kind to enjoy; the body can find
no pleasure more right and proper than that derived from
taking food. All the world recognizes the fact, for this pleasure
people take openly, sharing with each other in the table and the
banquet, whereas their amorous pleasure is screened by night
and all the darkness possible. To share that pleasure with others
is considered as shameless and brutelike as it is not to share in
the case of the table.’
Here, as Cleodorus paused for a moment, I joined in: ‘And
is there not another point—that in discarding food we also
|159| discard sleep? If there is no sleep, there is no dreaming either,
and we lose our most important means of divination. Moreover,
life will be all alike, and there will be practically no purpose
in wearing a body round our soul. Most of its parts, and the
most important, are provided as instruments to feeding—the
tongue, teeth, stomach, and liver. None of them is without its
work, and none has other business to attend to. Consequently
53any one who has no need of food has no need of a body
either. Which means that a person has no need of himself;
for it is thanks to the body that each of us is a “self”.’ ‘Such,’
I added, ‘are our contributions on behalf of the belly. If Solon
or any one else has objections to bring, we will listen.’
‘Of course I have objections,’ replied Solon. ‘I have no |B|
wish to be thought a poorer judge than the Egyptians. After
cutting open a dead body, they take out the entrails and expose
them to the sunlight. They then throw those parts into the
river and proceed to attend to the rest of the body, which is
now regarded as purified. Yes, therein in truth lies the pollution
of our flesh. It is its Tartarus—like that in Hades—full of
“dreadful streams”, a confused medley of wind and fire and
of dead things. For while itself lives, nothing that feeds it can
be alive. We commit the wrong of murdering animate things
and of destroying plants, which can claim to have life through
the fact that they feed and grow. I say destroying, because |C|
anything that changes from what nature has made it into
something else, is destroyed; it must perish utterly in order
to become the other’s sustenance. To abstain from eating flesh,
as we are told Orpheus did in ancient times, is more a quibble
than an avoidance of crime in the matter of food. The only
way of avoiding it, and the only way of attaining to justice by
a complete purification, is to become self-sufficing and free of
external needs. If God has made it impossible for a thing to
secure its own preservation without injury to another, He has
also endowed it with the principle of injustice in the shape of its
own nature. Would it not, therefore, be a good thing, my dear
friend, if, when cutting out injustice, we could cut out the
belly, the gullet, and the liver, which impart to us no perception |D|
of anything noble and no appetite for it, but partly resemble
the utensils for cooking butcher’s meat—such as choppers and
stew-pans—and partly the apparatus for a bakery—ovens, water-tanks,
54and kneading-troughs? Indeed, in the case of most
|*| people you can see their soul shut up in their body as if in
a baker’s mill, and perpetually going round and round at the
business of getting food. Take ourselves, for example. Just
now we were neither looking at nor listening to one another,
but we all had our heads down, slaving at the business of feeding.
But now that the tables have been removed, we have—as you
perceive—become free, and with garlands on our heads we are
|E| engaged in sociable and leisurely conversation together, because
we have arrived at the state of not requiring food. Well then,
if the state in which we now find ourselves remains as a permanence
all our lives, shall we not be at perpetual leisure to enjoy
each other’s society? We shall have no fear of poverty. Nor
shall we know the meaning of wealth, since the quest for
luxuries is but the immediate consequence and concomitant of
the use of necessaries.
‘But, thinks Cleodorus, there must be food so that there may
be tables and wine-bowls and sacrifices to Demeter and the
Maid. Then let some one else demand that there shall be war
and fighting, so that we may have fortifications and arsenals and
|F| armouries, and also sacrifices in honour of slaying our hundreds,
such as they say are the law in Messenia. Another, I suppose,
is aggrieved at the prospect of the healthfulness which would
follow. A terrible thing if, because there is no illness, there is
no more use in soft bedclothes, and no more sacrificing to
Asclepius or the Averting Powers, and if medical skill, with all
its drugs and implements, must be put away into inglorious
hiding! What is the difference between these arguments and
the other? Food is, in fact, “taken” as a “remedy” for
hunger, and all who use food are said to be “taking care” of
|160| themselves and using some “diet”; and this implies that the
act is not a pleasant and agreeable performance, but one which
Nature renders compulsory. Certainly one can enumerate more
55pains than pleasures arising from feeding. Further still; whereas
the pleasure affects but a small region of the body, and lasts
but a short time, it needs no telling how full we become of
ugly and painful experiences through the worry and difficulty
of digesting.
Homer had these in view, I suppose, when he used as a proof
that the gods do not die the fact that they do not feed:
For they eat not the bread of corn, nor drink they the wine that is ruddy,
And therefore blood have they none in their veins, and are called the Immortals.
Food, he gives us to understand, is the necessary means not only |B|
for living, but for dying. From it come our diseases, feeding
themselves with the feeding of our bodies, which suffer quite as
much from repletion as from want. Very often it is an easier
business to get together our supply of victuals than to make
away with them and get quit of them again when once they are
in the body. Just suppose it were a question with the Danaids
what sort of life they would live and what they would do if
they could get rid of their menial labour at filling the cask.
When we raise the question, “Supposing it possible to cease
from heaping into this unconscionable flesh all these things from |C|
land and sea, what are we going to do?” it is because in our
ignorance of noble things we are content with the life which our
necessities impose. Well, as those who have been in slavery,
when they are emancipated, do for themselves and on their own
account what they used formerly to do in the service of their
masters, so is it with the soul. As things are, it feeds the body
with continual toil and trouble; but let it get quit of its menial
service, and it will presumably feed itself in the enjoyment of
freedom, and will live with an eye to itself and the truth, with
nothing to distract and deter it.’
This, Nicarchus, concluded the discussion as to food.
56While Solon was still speaking, Gorgos, Periander’s brother,
entered the room. It happened that, in consequence of certain
|D| oracles, he had been sent on a mission to Taenarum in charge
of a sacrificial embassy. After we had welcomed him, and
Periander had taken him to his arms and kissed him, he sat down
by his brother on the couch and gave him a private account
of some occurrence which appeared to cause Periander various
emotions as he listened to it. At one part he was manifestly
vexed, at another indignant; often he showed incredulity, and
this was followed by amazement. Finally he laughed and said
to us, ‘I should like to tell the company the news; but I have
|E| scruples about it, because I heard Thales once say that when a
thing is probable we should speak of it, but when it is impossible
we should say nothing about it.’ At this Bias interposed, ‘Yes,
but here is another wise saying of Thales, that “while we should
disbelieve our enemies even in matters believable, we should
believe our friends even when the thing is unbelievable”. By
enemies I presume he meant the wicked and foolish, and by
friends the good and wise.’ ‘Very well then,’ said Periander,
‘you must let every one hear it; or rather you must pit the
story you have brought us against those new-fangled dithyrambs
and overcrow them.’
Gorgos then told us his story.
His sacrificial ceremony had occupied three days, and on the
|F| last there was an all-night festival with dancing and frolic by
the sea-shore. The sea was covered with the light of the moon,
and, though there was no wind, but a dead calm, there appeared
in the distance a ripple coming in past the promontory, accompanied
by foam and a very appreciable noise of surge. At this
they all ran in astonishment down to the place where it was
|*| coming to land. This happened so quickly that, before they
could guess what was approaching, dolphins were seen, some
of them massed together and moving in a ring, some leading
57the way to the levellest part of the shore, and others as it were |161|
bringing up the rear. In the middle there stood out above
the sea, dim and indistinct, the shape of a body being carried.
So they came on, until, gathering together and coming to land
at the same moment, they put ashore a human being, alive and
moving; after which they themselves retired in the direction
of the promontory, leaping out of the water more than ever
and for some reason, apparently, frolicking and bounding for
joy. ‘Many of our number,’ continued Gorgos, ‘fled from the
sea in a panic, but a few found the courage to approach along
with myself, and discovered that it was Arion, the harp-player.
Not only did he utter his own name, but his dress spoke for itself, |B|
for he was actually wearing the festal robes which he adopted
when performing at the competitions. Well, we brought him
to a tent, and, inasmuch as there was nothing the matter with
him except that he was evidently tired and overstrained from
the rushing motion, we heard him tell a story which no one
would believe except us who actually saw the end of it.
‘What Arion told us was this. He had for some time made
up his mind to leave Italy, and had been made the more eager
to do so by a letter from Periander. Accordingly, when a Corinthian
merchant-vessel appeared on the scene, he at once went
on board and put to sea. They had a moderate wind for three
days, when he perceived that the sailors were forming a plot
to make away with him, and was afterwards secretly informed |C|
by the pilot that they had resolved to do the deed that night.
At this, being helpless and at a loss what to do, he acted upon
a kind of heaven-sent impulse. He decided that he would
adorn his person and—while still alive—put on his own shroud
in the shape of his festal attire. Then, in meeting his death,
he would sing a finale to life, and in that respect show no less
spirit than the swan does. Accordingly, having dressed himself
and given notice that he felt moved to perform the Pythian
58hymn on behalf of the safety of himself and the ship and crew,
|D| he took his stand on the poop by the bulwarks. After some
prelude invoking the gods of the sea, he began to sing the piece.
Just before he was half-way through, the sun began to set into
the sea and the Peloponnese to come into sight. Thereupon
the sailors no longer waited for night, but advanced to their
murderous deed. Arion, seeing their knives unsheathed and
the pilot beginning to cover his face from the sight, ran back
and hurled himself as far as possible from the vessel. Before,
however, his body had all sunk into the water, a number of
dolphins ran under him and bore him up. At first he was filled
with bewilderment, distress, and alarm; but when he found
himself riding easily, and saw many of them gathering about
|E| him in a friendly way, and taking turns at the work as if it were
a necessary duty belonging to them all; and when the long
distance at which the vessel was left behind showed how great
was their speed; he said that what he felt was not so much
fear of death or desire of life, as eagerness to be rescued, so that
he might become recognized as the object of divine favour, and
might have his reputation as a religious man assured.
At the same time, observing that the sky was full of stars,
and that the moon was rising bright and clear, while the sea
|F| on all sides was waveless and a kind of path was being cut for his
course, he was led to reflect that Justice has more eyes than one,
and that God looks abroad with all those orbs upon whatever
deeds are done by land or sea. By these reflections (he told us)
he found relief from the weariness which was by this time
beginning to weigh upon his body, and when at last, dexterously
avoiding and rounding the lofty and precipitous headland which
ran out to meet them, they swam close in by the shore and
|162| brought him safely to land like a ship into harbour, he realized
beyond doubt that he had been steered on his voyage by the
hand of God. ‘When Arion had told us this story,’ continued
59Gorgos, ‘I asked him where he thought the ship would put in.
He answered that it would certainly be at Corinth, but that
it was left far behind; for, after throwing himself off it in the
evening, he believed he had been carried over sixty miles and
a calm had fallen immediately.’ Gorgos added, however, that
after ascertaining the names of the captain and pilot, and also
the ship’s flag, he had sent out vessels and soldiers to the various
landing-places to keep a watch. Moreover, he had Arion with |B|
him in hiding, so that they might not hear of his rescue beforehand
and make their escape. ‘The event,’ he said, ‘has proved
truly miraculous; for no sooner did we arrive here than we
learned that the ship had been seized by the soldiers, and the
traders and sailors arrested.’
Thereupon Periander ordered Gorgos to get up and go out
at once and place the men in custody where no one would
approach them or tell them of Arion’s escape.
‘Well now,’ said Aesop, ‘you gentlemen make fun of my
jackdaws and crows for talking. Do dolphins behave in this
outrageous way?’ To which I replied, ‘A different matter, |C|
Aesop! A story to the same effect as this has been believed and
written among us for more than a thousand years, ever since the
times of Ino and Athamas.’
Solon here interposed: ‘Well, Diodes; let us grant that
these events are in the sphere of the divine and beyond us.
But what happened to Hesiod is on our own human plane.
You have probably heard the story.’ ‘For my part, no,’ I
answered. ‘Well, it is worth hearing. Hesiod and a Milesian—I
think it was—shared the same room as guests in a house at |D|
Locri. The Milesian having been found out in a secret intrigue
with the host’s daughter, Hesiod fell under suspicion of having
all along known of the offence and helped in concealing it.
Though in no way guilty, he fell a victim to cruel circumstance
at a critical time of anger and misrepresentation. For the girl’s
60brothers lay in wait for him at the Nemeum in Locris and killed
him, together with his servant, whose name was Troilus. Their
bodies having been pushed into the sea, that of Troilus, which
was carried out into the current of the river Daphnus, was
caught by a low wave-washed rock projecting a little above
the water. The rock still bears his name. Meanwhile the
|E| dead body of Hesiod was picked up immediately off the shore
by a shoal of dolphins, who proceeded to carry it to Rhium,
close to Molycrea. It happened that the Locrians were engaged
in the Rhian festival and fair, which is still a notable celebration
in those parts. At sight of the body being borne towards them
they were naturally amazed, and when, on running down to
the shore, they recognized the corpse—for it was still fresh—they
could think of nothing but tracking out the murder, so
high was the renown of Hesiod. Their object was soon achieved.
They discovered the murderers, threw them into the sea, and
razed their house to the ground. Meanwhile Hesiod was
buried near the Nemeum. Most strangers, however, are ignorant
of his tomb, which has been concealed because the people of
|F| Orchomenus are in quest of it, from a desire, it is said, to recover
the remains and bury them in their own country in accordance
with an oracle.
‘If, then, dolphins show such affectionate interest in the
dead, it is still more natural for them to render help to the living,
especially if they have been charmed by the flute or the singing
of tunes. For, of course, we are all aware that music is a thing
which these animals enjoy and court, swimming and gambolling
beside a ship as its oarsmen row to the tune of song and flute
in calm weather. They take a delight also in children when
|163| swimming, and they have diving matches with them. Hence
there is an unwritten law that they shall not be harmed. No
one hunts them or injures them; the only exception being that,
when they get into the nets and do mischief to the catch, they
61are punished with a beating, like naughty children. I further
remember hearing some Lesbians tell of a girl having been
rescued from the sea by a dolphin. I am not, however, sure
as to the exact details, and, since Pittacus knows them, he is
the right person to tell us about them.’
Pittacus thereupon assured us that the story had good warrant
and was mentioned by many authorities. ‘An oracle was
given to the colonizers of Lesbos that, when on the voyage they
came across the reef known as Mesogeum, they should then and |B|
there throw a bull into the water as an offering to Poseidon,
and a live virgin to Amphitrite and the Nereids. There were
seven chiefs, all of whom were kings, Echelaus—whom the
Pythian oracle had assigned as leader of the colony—making
an eighth. Echelaus was still a bachelor. When as many of the
seven as had unmarried girls cast lots, the lot fell upon the
daughter of Smintheus. Upon getting near the place, they
decked her in fine clothes and gold ornaments, and, after
offering prayer, were on the point of lowering her into the water.
Now it happened that one of the party on the ship—assuredly
a gallant young man—was in love with her. His name has been
preserved to us as Enalus. This youth, in the passion of the |C|
moment, seized by an eager but utterly hopeless desire to succour
the girl, darted forward at the right instant and, throwing
his arms about her, cast himself along with her into the sea.
Now from the first there was spread among the contingent
a rumour, lacking certainty, but nevertheless widely believed,
that they were safe and had been rescued; and at a later date,
it is said, Enalus appeared in Lesbos and told how they had
been carried by dolphins through the sea and cast ashore
without harm upon the mainland. He had other still more
miraculous experiences to tell, which held the crowd spellbound
with amazement, but for all of which he gave actual
evidence. For when an enormous wave was rushing sheer round |D|62the island and people were terrified, he alone ventured to face it.
|*| On its retiring, a number of polypi followed him to the temple
of Poseidon. From the largest of these he took a stone which
it was carrying, and offered it as a dedication. That stone we
call Enalus.
‘Speaking generally, the man who knows the difference
between impossible and unfamiliar, between unreasonable and
unexpected, will be most a man after your own heart, Chilon;
he will neither believe nor disbelieve without discrimination,
but will carefully observe your own rule of “nothing in excess”.’
Anacharsis next made the remark that, as Thales believed
|E| all the greatest and most important components of the universe
to contain soul, there was no reason to wonder if the most
splendid actions were brought to pass by the will of God.
‘For the body is the instrument of the soul, and soul is the
instrument of God. And as, though many of the motions of
the body proceed from itself, the most and the finest are produced
by the soul, so again is it with the soul. While it performs
many actions on its own motion, in other cases it is but lending
itself, as the aptest of all instruments, to the use of God, for Him
to direct and apply it as He chooses. It would,’ said he, ‘be
|F| a very strange thing if, while fire, wind, water, clouds, and
rain are God’s instruments, by which He often preserves and
nourishes and often kills and destroys, He has never on any
occasion at all used animals as His agents. On the contrary,
it is natural that, in their dependence upon the divine power,
they should lend themselves more responsively to motions from
God than does the bow to the Scythian or the lyre and flute
to the Greek.’
After this the poet Chersias mentioned, among other cases
of persons rescued in hopeless situations, that of Cypselus,
Periander’s father. When he was a newborn babe, the men who
had been sent to make away with him were turned from their
63purpose because he smiled at them. When they changed their
minds and came back to look for him, he was not to be found,
his mother having hidden him in a chest. ‘It is for this reason |164|
that Cypselus built the house at Delphi, believing that the
god had then stopped him from crying so that he might
elude the search.’
At this Pittacus, addressing Periander, observed, ‘I have to
thank Chersias, Periander, for mentioning that house; for I have
often wanted to ask you the meaning of those frogs which are
carved in such large size at the base of the palm-tree. What
reference have they to the god or to the dedication?’ Periander
having bidden him ask Chersias, who knew the reason and was
present when Cypselus consecrated the house, Chersias said with |B|
a smile, ‘No: I will give no information until these gentlemen
have told me the meaning of their Nothing in excess and Know
thyself, and of those words which have kept many people from
marrying, made many distrustful, and reduced some to positive
dumbness—the words Give a pledge, and Mischief is nigh.’
‘Why do you need us to tell you that,’ said Pittacus, ‘seeing
that you have so long admired the stories in which Aesop
practically deals with each of those maxims?’ ‘Nay,’ replied
Aesop, ‘he does need it, when he is joking at me. But when
he is in earnest, he proves that Homer was their inventor.
He says that Hector “knew himself”, inasmuch as, though |C|
he attacked the rest,
Ajax, Telamon’s son, he would not fight, but he shunned him,
and that Odysseus recommends “nothing in excess” since he
urges Diomede
Nay, prithee, Tydeus’ son; nor praise me much nor reprove me.
As for a pledge, not only is it the general opinion that he is
reprobating it as a misguided and futile thing when he says
Sorry, I trow, to take are the pledges that sorry folk offer,
64but our friend Chersias here tells us how “Mischief” was hurled
from heaven by Zeus because she was present when he was tripped
|D| up through pledging his word in connexion with the birth of
Heracles.’
Here Solon interposed. ‘Well, Homer was a very wise man,
and we should do well to take his advice:
Already the night is here; night bids, and ’tis good to obey her.
Let us therefore pour an offering to the Muses and to Poseidon
and Amphitrite, and then—with your permission—break up the
party.’
This, Nicarchus, terminated the party on that occasion.
ON OLD MEN IN PUBLIC LIFE
65
It is well known, Euphanes, that as an admirer of Pindar you |783 B|
are fond of quoting his ‘fine and forcible words’:
When struggle is afoot, excuses
Cast a deep cloud on valour.
In connexion with the struggles of public life timidity and
weakness can find plenty of excuses, but as a last and most
desperate plea they urge ‘advancing years’. This is their
pretext par excellence for blunting ambition and putting it out
of countenance. They argue that there is a fitting close to
a public, as much as to an athletic, career. For these reasons |C|
I think it well to take my own ordinary reflections upon ‘old
men in public life’ and lay them before yourself. They may
prevent either of us from deserting that long companionship
which has hitherto followed a common path, and from abandoning
that public life which may be regarded as a familiar friend
from youth up, in order to adopt another which is unfamiliar,
and with which there is no time for us to become thoroughly
intimate. I would have us abide by our original principle, and
determine that life and the worthy life shall end together. It is
not for us to convert the brief remainder into a confession that the
bulk of our time has been wastefully applied to no good purpose. |D|
It is not, indeed, true—as some one told Dionysius—that
‘despotism is a fine shroud’. In his case the combination of
absolutism with injustice was only made all the more complete
a calamity by the fact that it never ceased. It was therefore
a shrewd remark of Diogenes, when at a later date he saw
Dionysius’ son in a humble private station at Corinth. ‘Dionysius,’
said he, ‘you are far from receiving your deserts. Instead
66of living a free and fearless life here with us, you ought to have
been there, housed in the despot’s palace and made to live in it,
like your father, till old age.’ It is different with constitutional
and democratic statesmanship. When a man has learned to
show himself a profitable subject as well as a profitable ruler, he
|E| does indeed obtain at death a ‘fine shroud’, in the shape of the
good name earned by his life. For this—to quote Simonides—
Is the last thing to sink beneath the ground,
except in cases where high human interests and noble zeal are
earlier to fail and die than natural desires.
Are the active and divine elements of our being more evanescent
than the passionate and corporeal? That were an unworthy
view to hold; as unworthy as to accept the doctrine that the
|F| only thing of which we never weary is making gain. On the
contrary, we should improve upon Thucydides, and regard as
‘the only thing that never ages’ not ‘the love of honour‘, but that
public spirit and activity which even ants and bees maintain
till the end. No one has ever seen old age convert a bee into
a drone. Yet there are some who claim that public men who
have passed their prime should sit and be fed in seclusion at
home, allowing their practical abilities to rust away in idleness.
|784| Cato used to say that, to the many plagues of its own from which
old age suffers, there is no justification for deliberately adding
the disgrace of vice. There are many vices, but none can do
more than weak and cowardly inactivity to disgrace a man in
years—a man who skulks away from the public offices to look
after a houseful of women, or to supervise gleaners and reapers
in the country.
Where now
Is Oedipus? Where the famed riddles now?
It is one thing to wait till old age before commencing public
life, and to be like Epimenides, who—so they say—fell asleep
67a youth and fifty years afterwards awoke an old man. If, in |B|
such a case, one were to divest himself of that quiet habit which
has lasted all his life, and were to plunge into struggles and
worries with which he was unfamiliar, and for which he was
not trained by intercourse with public affairs or with mankind,
there would be room for remonstrance. We might say, as the
Pythian priestess said, ‘You come too late’ in your quest of office
and leadership. You are past the time for knocking at the door
of the Presidency. You are like some blundering reveller whose
surprise visit is not made till night; or like some stranger who
is in quest, not of a new district or country, but of a new life,
about which you know nothing. If Simonides says
The State is a man’s teacher,
it is true only of those who have the time to change their teacher
and learn a new lesson—a lesson slowly and laboriously acquired
by means of many a struggle and experience, and only when it |C|
can take its hold sufficiently early on a natural genius for bearing
toils and troubles with equanimity.
To resume. We find that, on the contrary, it is striplings and
youths whom sensible men do their best to keep out of public
business. Witness our laws, under which the crier in the
Assembly, when inviting speech and advice, calls upon the
platform in the first instance not an Alcibiades or a Pytheas,
but persons over fifty. Foolish audacity and lack of experience |D|
are nowhere so out of place as in a deliberator or a judge.[34] Cato,
when past eighty and on his defence, said it was hard to have to
defend himself before one set of people after having lived with
another. It is agreed on all hands that the measures of Caesar—the
conqueror of Antony—became considerably more regal and
good for the public towards the end of his life. Once, when by
stern application of custom and law he was correcting the rising
68generation, and they made an outcry, his own words were:
‘Young men, listen to an old man to whom old men listened
|E| when he was young.’ It was in old age, too, that the statesmanship
of Pericles reached its greatest influence. This was the
time when he induced the Athenians to enter upon the war,
and when he successfully opposed their ill-timed eagerness to
fight a battle against sixty thousand men-at-arms, by all but
sealing up the public armouries and the locks of the gates.
As for what Xenophon writes of Agesilaus, it is best to quote
verbatim. ‘Is there any youth with whom this old man did not
compare to advantage? Who in the prime of life was so formidable
to an enemy as Agesilaus was at the most advanced age? Of whom
was the foe so glad to be rid as of Agesilaus, though he was old
|F| when his end came? Who inspired such courage in his own side
as Agesilaus, although close upon the end of life? What young
man was more regretted by his friends than Agesilaus, though he
died when full of years?’
Well, if time was no hindrance to the great actions of men like
these, what of us, who nowadays enjoy the luxury of a public
life which admits of no despots, no fighting, no sieges, but only
of warless contests and of ambitions which are for the most part
settled by just means according to law and reason? Are we
|785| to play the coward? Must we confess that we are the inferiors,
not merely of the commanders and popular leaders of those
days, but of the poets, leaders of thought, and actors? Take
Simonides. He won choric victories in old age, as is evident
from the last lines of the epigram:
And withal to Simonides fell the glory and prize of the poet;
Fell to Leoprepes’ son, come to his eightieth year.
Take Sophocles. It is said that, when his sons charged him
with being in his dotage, he read in his defence the entrance
ode of the Oedipus at Colonus, beginning:
69To this land of the steed, O stranger,
To the goodliest homes on earth,
Thou hast come—to the white Colonus,
Fond haunt of the nightingale,
Where her clear voice trills its sorrow
In the green of the leafy dell....
a lyric which won such admiration that he left the court, as it |B|
might have been the theatre, amid the applause and cheers of
the audience. A little epigram, admitted to be by Sophocles,
contains the words:
Five years and fifty Sophocles had seen,
Ere for Herodotus he wrought a song.
Take Philemon, the comic poet, and Alexis. They were still
putting plays upon the stage, still winning crowns, when death
overtook them. Take Polus, the tragedian. Eratosthenes and
Philochorus inform us that, shortly before his end, and when |C|
he was seventy, he acted eight tragedies in four days.
Is it, I say, creditable that old men of the platform should
show a poorer spirit than old men of the stage? That they
should retire from the sacred contests—for ‘sacred’ these veritably
are—and give up the rôle of the public man in exchange
for goodness knows what other part? From king, say, to farmer
is a descent indeed. Demosthenes calls it cruel treatment of the
Paralus, to make that sacred warship carry cargoes of timber,
vine-stakes, and cattle for Meidias. But suppose a public man
abandons the Presidentship of Games, his seat on the Federal
Board, his high place in the Sacred League, and is found |D|
measuring out barley-meal and olive-cake, or shearing sheep.
It cannot but look as if he were needlessly courting the status
of ‘old worn-out horse’. As for leaving a public career to
engage in vulgar and petty trade, one might as well take
some self-respecting lady, strip off her gown, give her an
apron, and keep her in a tavern. Turn public ability to
70mere business and money-making, and its rank and character
|E| are lost.
Or if, as a last alternative, people choose to talk of ‘ease and
enjoyment’, when they mean luxurious self-indulgence; if they
recommend the public man to adopt that process of idle senile
decay, I hardly know which of two ugly comparisons will best
hit off such a life. Shall I say it is a case of sailors taking ‘Aphrodite-holiday’
and keeping it up for ever, without waiting till
their ship is berthed, but deserting it while still on the voyage?
Or is it a case of ‘Heracles-chez-Omphale’—as some sorry
humourists depict him—wearing a saffron gown and quietly
allowing Lydian handmaids to fan him and braid his hair?
Are we to treat our public man in that way? To strip off his
|F| lion’s-skin, lay him on a couch, and feast him, with lute and flute
lulling him all the while? Or should we not take warning by
the retort of Pompey the Great to Lucullus? The latter, after
his campaigns and public services, had given himself up to
baths, dinners, social entertainments in the daytime, profound
indolence, and new-fangled notions in the way of house-building.
Meanwhile he accused Pompey of a fondness for place and power
unsuited to his years. Pompey replied that for an old man
effeminacy was more unseasonable than office. When he was
|786| ill and the doctor ordered him fieldfares—the bird being then
out of season and difficult to procure—and when some one told
him that Lucullus had a large number in his preserves, he refused
to send for or receive one, exclaiming, ‘What? Pompey could
not live but for the luxury of Lucullus?’
It may be true that nature ordinarily seeks pleasure and
delight. But, with an old man, the body has become incapable
of all pleasures except a few which are essential. Not only
is it the case that
The Queen of Love turns weary from the old,
|B| as Euripides has it. Though they may retain the appetite for
71eating and drinking—generally in a dulled or toothless form—they
find a difficulty in whetting the edge or sharpening the
teeth even of that. It is in the mind that one must lay up
a stock of pleasures, though not of the mean and ignoble kind
indicated by Simonides, when he told those who reproached
him with avarice that, though age had robbed him of other
joys, he had still one left to support his declining years—the
joy of money-making. In public activity there are pleasures
of the greatest and noblest sort, such as we may believe to be
the only, or the chief, enjoyment of the gods themselves—I
mean those which result from a beneficent deed or a fine
achievement.
Nicias the painter was so taken up with his artistic work that
he was often obliged to ask his servants whether he had had his |C|
bath or his breakfast. Archimedes stuck so closely to his drawing-board
that, in order to anoint him, his attendants had to drag
him away and strip him by force. He then went on drawing
his diagrams in the ointment on his body. Carus the flutist
(an acquaintance of your own) used to say that people did not
know how much more pleasure he himself got from playing than
he gave to others; otherwise an audience would be paid to
listen instead of paying. Can we fail to perceive how great are
the pleasures derived from fine actions and public-spirited
achievements by those who put high qualities to use? Nor is
it by means of those effeminate titillations which soft and agreeable
movements exert upon the flesh. The ticklings of the flesh |D|
are spasmodic, fickle, intermittent, whereas the pleasures of
noble deeds—the creations of the true statesman’s art—will
bear the soul aloft in grandeur and pride and joy, as if, I will
not say upon the ‘golden wings’ of Euripides, but upon those
‘celestial pinions’ described by Plato.
Remember the instances of which you have so often heard.
Epaminondas, when asked what had been his most pleasurable
72experience, replied, ‘Having been victorious at Leuctra while
|E| my father and mother were still alive.’ When Sulla first reached
Rome after purging Italy of its civil wars, he could not sleep
a wink that night. As he has written in his own Notes and
Recollections, so elated was his mind with the greatness of his
joy and happiness, that it seemed to walk on air. If we admit,
with Xenophon, that ‘no hearing is so agreeable as praise‘, no
sight, recollection, or reflection is so fraught with gratification
as the contemplation of exploits of our own in the conspicuous
public arena of office and statesmanship. Not but what, when
|F| a grateful goodwill testifies to our achievements, and when
there is a rivalry of commendation productive of well-earned
popularity, our merit acquires a gloss and brilliance which adds
to our sense of pleasure.
Therefore, instead of permitting our reputation to wither
in our old age like an athlete’s crown, we must be constantly
adopting new devices and making fresh efforts to enliven the
sense of past obligation, to enhance it, and to make it permanent.
We must act like the craftsmen who were required to provide for
the security of the Delian ship. They used to replace unsound
timbers by others, and, by means of insertions and repairs, were
regarded as keeping the vessel immortal and indestructible from
|787| the oldest times. Reputation is like flame. There is no difficulty
in keeping it alive; it merely requires a little feeding with fuel.
But let either of them become extinct and cold, and it will
take some trouble to rekindle.
Lampis, the shipowner, was once asked how he made his
fortune. ‘Making the big one,’ he answered, ‘was easy enough;
but it was a long and hard business to make the little one.’
So with political power and reputation. Though not easy to
get in the first instance, anything will suffice to maintain and
increase them when once they are great. It is as with a friend,
when once he becomes such. He does not look for a large
73number of important services in order to retain his friendship; |B|
small tokens, consistently shown, will keep his constant affection.
Nor are the confidence and friendship of the people perpetually
calling for you to open your purse, to play the champion, or to
hold an office. They are retained by mere public spirit—by
being in no haste to desert or shirk the burden of care and
watchfulness.
Campaigns are not matters of everlastingly facing the enemy,
fighting, and besieging. They have also their times of sacrifice,
their occasional social gatherings, their periods of ample leisure,
when jest and nonsense are toward. And why should one look
upon public life with dread, as being laborious, wearisome, and
devoid of consolations, seeing that the theatre, processions,
awards, ‘dances of the Muses and Gladsomeness,’ and honour |C|
after honour to the gods relax the stern brow of the Bureau
or the Chamber, and yield a manifold return of inviting
entertainment?
In the next place jealousy, the greatest bane of public life, is
less severe upon old age. For, to quote Heracleitus, ‘dogs bark
at the man they do not know.’ Though jealousy may fight with
the beginner at the doors of the platform and refuse him access,
no savageness or fierceness is shown to a man of familiar and
established reputation, but he finds friendly admittance. For
this reason some have compared jealousy to smoke. In the case
of beginners, during the process of kindling, it pours forth
in clouds; when they are in full blaze, it disappears. And while |D|
people resist and dispute other forms of superiority—in merit,
birth, or public spirit—through a belief that any acknowledgement
to others means so much derogation to themselves, the
primacy which is due to time—‘seniority’ in the proper sense—is
conceded without a grudge. Respect paid to the aged has
the unique quality of doing more honour to the giver than
to the recipient.
74Moreover it is not every one who expects to attain to the
power derived from wealth, eloquence, or wisdom; whereas
no public man despairs of winning the esteem and distinction
to which age gradually leads.
Imagine a navigator, who has managed his ship safely in the
face of contrary winds and waves, and then, when the weather
|E| becomes fair and calm, wishes to lay her to. It is just as strange
when a man has fought his ship in a long battle with jealousies,
and then, after they are quietly laid, backs out of public life,
and, in abandoning his activities, abandons his partners and
associates. The more time there has been, the more friends
and fellow-workers he has made; but he is neither in a position
to lead them with him off the stage, as a poet does his chorus,
|F| nor has he the right to leave them in the lurch. A long public
life is like an old tree. To pull it up is no easy task, because
of its many roots and its entanglement with many interests,
which involve worse wrenching and disturbance when you leave
them than when you stay.
And if political conflict does leave you some remnant of
jealousy or antagonism to face when you are old, it is better
to quell it by means of your position than to turn your back
and retire without armour or weapons of defence. People are
not so ready to attack you out of jealousy when you are still
in action as they are out of contempt when you give it up.
|788| We may also appeal to the great Epaminondas and his remark
to the Thebans. It was winter at the time, and the Arcadians
were inviting them to enter the city and live in the houses.
This he refused to allow, observing: ‘At the present time they
come to look at you and admire your wrestling and military
exercises; but if they see you sitting by the fire and chewing
your beans, they will regard you as no better than themselves.’
So with an aged man. When making a speech, transacting
business, or receiving honours, he is a dignified spectacle; but
75when he lies all day on a couch or sits in the corner of a public |B|
resort talking drivel and wiping his nose, he is an object of
contempt. This is precisely what Homer teaches, if you read
him rightly. Nestor, who was campaigning at Troy, received
high respect and honour; whereas Peleus and Laertes, the
stay-at-homes, were despised, and counted for nothing.
Nay, even intellectual power begins to fail those who have
let themselves relax. Idleness gradually renders it feeble and
flaccid, in the absence of some necessary exercise of thought
to keep the logical and practical faculty perpetually alive and
in trim.
Like glossy bronze, ’tis use that makes it shine.
Bodily weakness may be a drawback to public activity in the |C|
case of those who, in spite of their years, make the platform
or the Cabinet their goal. But it is more than compensated
by the advantage of their caution and prudence. They do not
dash into public affairs with the expression of opinions prompted
by error or vanity as the case may be, and carrying the mob with
them in as excited a condition as a stormy sea; but they deal
in a mild and reasonable fashion with such matters as arise.
It is for this reason that, in times of disaster or alarm, communities
feel the need of a Board of Government consisting of
senior men. Often they have fetched back from the country |D|
an old man who neither asked nor wished it, and have compelled
him to put his hand to the helm and steer the ship of State
into safety, while they thrust aside generals and popular leaders,
despite all their ability to shout, to talk without taking breath,
and also, no doubt, to make ‘sturdy stand and doughty fight’
against the enemy. When Chares, the son of Theochares—a
man in the prime of bodily strength and condition—was
brought into the ring in opposition to Timotheus and Iphicrates
by the public speakers of Athens, with the claim that ‘this is
76the kind of general the Athenians should have’, Timotheus
|E| replied: ‘By no manner of means. No doubt that is the sort
needed to carry the general’s baggage; but the general should
be one who “sees before and after”, and whose calculations as
to policy no distractions can disturb.’ Sophocles said ‘he was
glad that old age had enabled him to escape from sexual passion—a
fierce and mad master.’ But in public life we have to escape,
not from one master—the love of women—but from many
madder still; from contentiousness, vanity, and the desire to be
first and greatest—a malady most fertile in envy, jealousy, and
|F| feud. Some of these feelings are abated or dulled, some are
altogether chilled and quenched, by old age. And though old
age may do something to diminish our zest for action, it does
more to guard us from the intemperate heat of passion, so
that we can bring a sober and steady reason to bear upon our
thoughts.
By all means, in dealing with one who begins to play the youth
when his hair is grey, let it be—as it is considered—sound
warning to say:
Misguided man, stay quiet in thy bed.
|789| Let us remonstrate with an old man when he rises from a long
privacy, as from a bed of sickness, and bestirs himself to obtain
a command or an official post. But suppose a man has lived
a life of public action and thoroughly played the part. To
prevent him from going on till ‘finis and the torch’, to call
him back and bid him change the road he has long followed, is
utterly unfeeling, and bears no resemblance to the case just
given. If an old man has his wreath on and is scenting himself
in readiness to marry, there is nothing unreasonable in trying
to dissuade him by quoting the lines addressed to Philoctetes:
But, pray, where is the bride, where the young maid,
Would welcome thee? Rare bridegroom thou, poor soul!
77Nay, they are fond of making jests of the kind at their own |B|
expense:
I’m marrying old, and for the neighbours’ good:
I know it.
But when a man has been long married, and has lived with his
wife for years without a fault to find, to tell him that he should
divorce her because he is old, and that he should live by himself or
get a wretched concubine in place of his lawful spouse, is the very
extreme of absurdity. In the same way when an aged man seeks to
enter politics—Chlidon the farmer, Lampon the ship’s captain,
or some philosopher from the Garden[35]—there is some reason in
admonishing him, and keeping him to the state of inactivity to
which he has been used. But it is urging a public man to act |C|
with injustice and ingratitude, when we take hold of a Phocion,
a Cato, or a Pericles, and say, ‘Sir Athenian—or Sir Roman—
Thine age is wither’d and thy head o’erfrosted;
therefore sue for a divorce from statesmanship, have done with
the worrying business of the platform and the Board of War,
and make haste into the country, to live with farming “for
a waiting-maid” or to occupy the rest of your days with thrift
and the keeping of accounts.’
Well, but (it may be asked) what of the soldier in the comedy
with his
Discharged! No pay! because of my white hair?
Quite true, my friend. The War-God’s servants must be in the
prime of manly vigour. Their business is with
War and war’s baleful work,
in which, though an old man’s grey hair may be hidden by his |D|
helmet,
Yet in secret his thews are aweary,
and, though the spirit be willing, the strength can no longer
respond.
78But the ministers of Zeus—the God of Council, of Assembly,
of the State—are not asked for deeds of hand and foot, but for
counsel and foresight. We ask them for advice, not such as
to evoke roars of mere noise in the Assembly, but full of sense
and shrewdness, and safe to follow. In their case the despised
white hair and wrinkles become the visible tokens of experience.
They suggest moral force, and are therefore a help to persuasion.
|E| It is the part of youth to obey; of old age to guide; and that
state is safest where
Best are the old men’s counsels,
And best the young man’s spear.
Homer’s
And first he summon’d to council the old men mighty-hearted
By the side of the ship of Nestor,
is a touch greatly admired. For the same reason the Select
Board associated with the kings at Sparta was called by the
Pythian oracle ‘elder-born’, but by Lycurgus ‘old men’
sans phrase, while the Roman Council is called Senatus down to
the present time. The law crowns a man with the circlet and
the wreath, Nature crowns him with grey hair, and both are
the venerable emblems of sovereign rank. Moreover, the words
|F|geras, ‘prerogative,’ and gerairein, ‘honour with prerogative’—derived
from geron, ‘old man’—retain a dignified sense, not
because the old man’s bath is warmed and his bed a softer one,
but because he amounts to a king in the state by virtue of his
wisdom; and wisdom is like a late-fruiting plant, it is only in old
age that nature brings out its special excellence and perfect
quality.
When the king of kings prayed to the gods
Would that among the Achaeans were ten such as he to advise me!
|790| —meaning Nestor—not one of the ‘valorous’ and ‘prowess-breathing’
Achaeans complained. They all admitted that not
79only in statesmanship, but in war also, age was of great moment,
since
More worth is one sage thought than many a hand,
and one rational and cogent judgement achieves the finest and
most important results in public affairs.
Now kingship, the most complete and comprehensive form
of public activity, is full of cares, labours, and preoccupations.
Seleucus, it was said, used to declare that if ordinary people
knew what a business it was merely to write and read so many
letters, they would not pick up the crown if they found it |B|
lying in the street. And the story goes that, when Philip was
proposing to encamp in an excellent position, but was told that
there was no fodder for the pack-animals, he exclaimed: ‘Good
Heavens! what is our life worth, when we are obliged to suit it
to the convenience of our asses?’ Ought we then to give the
same advice to a king when he has grown old? Bid him lay
aside the crown and the purple, take to a cloak and a crutched
stick, and live in the country, for fear people should think it
officious and unseasonable of him to be reigning when he is
grey?
But we have no right to talk in this way about an Agesilaus,
or a Numa, or a Darius. Neither then should we compel a Solon |C|
to leave the Council of the Areopagus, nor a Cato the Senate,
nor yet urge a Pericles to leave popular government to look after
itself. It is contrary to reason that in our youth we should
bounce upon the platform, spend upon the public all the
passionate licence of our ambition, and then, when age arrives
and brings the wisdom of experience, desert and betray our
public standing like a woman whom we have used at our
pleasure.
In Aesop, when the hedgehog wanted to pick off his ticks,
the fox would not let him. ‘These are glutted,’ said he, ‘and |D|
if you get rid of them, hungry ones will be at you in their place.’
80So with public life. If it is perpetually shedding the old men,
it will necessarily be plagued with young ones, who are thirsting
for notoriety and power but devoid of political sense. How
can they be otherwise, if they are to have no elderly statesman
to watch and learn from? A ship’s captain is not made by
treatises on navigation. He must often have stood upon the
quarter-deck and watched the struggle with wave and wind
and stormy nights, when
The sailor on the brine longs sore
For Tyndareus’ twin sons.
And can the handling of a State and the persuading of Assembly
|E| or Council be rightly left to a young man because he has read
a book or taken down a lecture on statesmanship in the Lyceum?
Though he has not taken his stand many a time beside rudder-rope
and tiller, leaned first to this side and then to that, while
generals and public leaders were pitting their knowledge and
experience against each other, and so learned his lesson in the
midst of dangers and difficulties? Beyond question, No! For
the education and training of the young, if for no other reason,
old men should play a public part. A teacher of letters or of
music himself reads or plays a passage over first by way of example
|F| to his pupils. So the authority on statesmanship must guide
a young man, not simply by talking or suggesting from outside,
but by the practical administration of public business. It is
by deeds as well as by words that he will mould him to the true
shape, filled with the breath of life. It is training of this kind—not
in the schools where you practise safe forms of wrestling
under mannerly professors, but in contests truly Olympian and
Pythian—that makes one, as Simonides puts it,
Keep pace, as with the steed the wearied colt;
|791| —Aristeides with Cleisthenes, Cimon with Aristeides, Phocion
with Chabrias, Cato with Fabius Maximus, Pompeius with
81Sulla, Polybius with Philopoemen. It was by attaching themselves
when young to older men, by using them as supports to
their own growth, by being raised to their standard of statesmanlike
achievement, that they acquired the political experience
which brought them fame and power.
When certain professors declared that the claim of Aeschines,
the Academic philosopher, to have been a pupil of Carneades
was contrary to fact, he replied, ‘O yes: I was a disciple of
Carneades at the time when age had taken all the fuss and noise |B|
out of his teaching and reduced it to practical and serviceable
shape.’ With the statesmanship of an old man, however, it is
not merely the talking, but the deeds, that lose all ostentation
and itch for notoriety. They tell us that, when the iris has
grown old and exhausted all crude exuberance of perfume, its
fragrance gains in sweetness. So with the views and suggestions
of the old. There is no crudeness in them, but always a quality
of quiet solidity. For this reason, as I have said, we must have
elderly men in public life. Plato speaks of mixing water with
neat wine as the bringing of a ‘frenzied god’ to sanity by the |C|
‘chastening of another who is sober’. So when young spirits
in the Assembly are a-boil with the intoxication of glory and
ambition, we need the old men’s caution to qualify them and
to eliminate their mad excess of fire.
There is another consideration. It is an error to suppose that
statesmanship is like a voyage or a campaign—carried on for
an ulterior object and discontinued when that is attained.
Statesmanship is not a public burden, to be borne only so long
as needs must. It is the career of a civilized being with a gift
for citizenship and society, and with a natural disposition to live
a life of public influence, worthy aims, and social helpfulness
for as long as occasion calls.
The right course therefore is to be a public man, not to
have been one; just as it is right to speak the truth, not to
82|D|have spoken it; to act honestly, not to have so acted; to love one’s
country and fellow-citizens, not to have loved them. Those are
Nature’s objects, and where men are not utterly demoralized by
idleness and effeminacy, her promptings are such as these:
Thy sire begat thee for rich use to men,
and
Ne’er let us cease from service to mankind.
To urge the plea of ill-health or disablement is to blame
disease and injury, not old age. Young men are often sickly,
old men often vigorous. It is therefore not the old whom we
should discourage, but the incapable. It is the capable whom
|E| we should encourage, not the young. Aridaeus was young, and
Antigonus old; but while Antigonus annexed nearly the whole
of Asia, Aridaeus was like the ‘super’ upon the stage—a king
with nothing to say, and a butt for whoever happened to be in
power. To demand of the sophist Prodicus or the poet Philetas—who,
young though they might be, were thin, sickly, and
constantly taking to their beds through ill-health—that they
should take up public life, were folly. But it were folly also to
hinder old men like Phocion, or Masinissa the African, or the
Roman Cato, from holding office or military command. The
|F| Athenians being set upon an ill-timed war, Phocion ordered
that every man under sixty should take up arms and serve.
When this made them angry, he said, ‘There is no hardship.
I, who am to be with you in command, am over eighty.’ And of
Masinissa Polybius relates that he died when he was ninety,
leaving a child of four, of whom he was the father. Shortly
before his death he beat the Carthaginians in a great battle,
|792| and the next day was seen in front of his tent eating a loaf of
cheap coarse bread. To expressions of surprise he answered that
he did so to keep himself in training.
For like to goodly bronze, it shines in use,
While a house crumbles, if left idle long,
83says Sophocles. We may say the same of that glossy brightness
of the mind, to which we owe calculation, memory, and sound
judgement.
For the same reason it is said that wars and campaigns
make better kings than inactivity. Attalus, the brother of
Eumenes, was so thoroughly enervated by long peace and |B|
idleness that Philopoemen, one of his intimates, had simply
to shepherd him and keep him fat. In fact, the Romans
used to inquire of arrivals from Asia, whether ‘the king
had any influence with Philopoemen’. It would be hard to
find a Roman general more able than Lucullus, so long as he
kept his intellect braced with action. But he surrendered
himself to a life of inactivity, stayed at home, thought of
nothing, and became as lifeless and shrunken as a sponge in
a calm. Afterwards, in his old age, he so tamely accepted
a certain freedman, Callisthenes, for his keeper, that the man |C|
was thought to be bewitching him with spells and drugs,
till at last his brother Marcus drove the fellow away and
himself took to managing and tutoring him for the short
remainder of his life. On the other hand, Darius, the father
of Xerxes, used to say that he became his wisest in times of
danger; and Ateas the Scythian declared that, when he had
nothing to do, he could see nothing to distinguish him from his
grooms. When some one asked the elder Dionysius if he had
time to spare, he replied: ‘Heaven forbid I ever should!’
Whereas a bow, they tell us, is broken by stringing it tight, a
mind is broken by leaving it loose. If a musician gives up listening |D|
for pitch, a geometrician the solving of problems, an arithmetician
the constant habit of calculation, old age will enfeeble
the ability along with the loss of its exercise, although the art
in these cases is not a ‘practic’ one, but a ‘theoretic’. In the
case of the special ability of the statesman—his caution, wisdom,
and justice, together with an experienced knack of hitting the
84right language at the right time; that is to say, a faculty
for creating persuasion—it is kept in good condition by
constant speech, action, calculation, and judicial decision.
It would be a dire mistake for it to abandon such activities
|E| and permit all those important virtues to leak away from
the mind. For it naturally means a decline of kindly interest
in man and society—a thing which should be without limit
or end.
Suppose your father had been Tithonus. Suppose, though
he was immortal, old age had made him require close and constant
care. You would not, I imagine, have run away and
repudiated the task of tending him, talking to him, and helping
him, just because you had ‘borne the burden for a long time’.
Well, your fatherland—or ‘motherland’ as it is called in Crete—has
claims prior to those of parents, and greater. Your country’s
life has been a long one, but she is not without old age. She is
|F| not sufficient to herself, but is in perpetual need of watchful
and considerate help. She therefore grasps at the statesman
and holds him back:
Clutching his garment she stays him, though eager he be for departure.
You are aware that I have performed my public duty at many
a Pythian festival. But you would not say ‘Plutarch, you have
done enough in the way of sacrifices, processions, and choruses.
You are now in years; it is time to put off your wreath; age
entitles you to leave the shrine alone’. Well, look at your own
duty in the same way. In the sacred service of the State
you are coryphaeus and prophet, and it is not for you to
abandon that worship of Zeus, God of State and Assembly, in
which you have been so long initiated and are so thoroughly
versed.
|793| Permit me now to leave the arguments for quitting public
85life, and to examine another point. We must beware of inflicting
upon our old age an unbecoming or exacting task, when so
many portions of public work are so well suited to that time of
life. If it had been proper for us to go on singing all our days,
there are at our disposal many keys and modes, or, as the
musicians call them, ‘systems.’ Our right course in our old
age would have been to cultivate, not a mode both high and
sharp, but one combining ease with appropriate character.
And since Nature prompts mankind to act and speak—even more |B|
than it prompts the swan to sing—until the end, our duty is
not to lay action aside, like a lyre of too high a pitch, but to
lower the key and adapt it to such forms of public effort as
are light, unexacting, and within an old man’s compass. We
do not leave our bodies entirely without muscular exercise
because we cannot use the spade and the jumping-weights,
or hurl the discus, or practise fencing, as we used to do.
We swing or walk, and in some cases the breathing is exercised
and warmth stimulated by playing a gentle game of ball, or
by conversation.
On the one hand, then, do not let us allow ourselves to become |C|
stiff and torpid from inactivity. On the other, let us not undertake
any and every official position, clutch at any and every kind
of public work, and bring such an exposure upon old age that
it is driven to exclaim in despair:
Right hand, how fain art thou to grasp the spear!
How vain thy longing, in thy strengthlessness!
Even in the prime of strength a man wins no credit if he tries to
take on his shoulders the whole pack of public business, and |D|
refuses—like Zeus, according to the Stoics—to leave anything
to others; if he insinuates himself everywhere and has his
finger in everything, through an insatiable greed for notoriety
or through jealousy of any one who contrives to get a share
86of honour and power in the community. But when a man is
quite old, then, apart from the discredit, wretchedly hard work
is entailed by that itch for office which is always courting every
ballot-box, that meddlesomeness which lies in wait for every
opportunity of acting on a jury or a committee, that ambition
which snaps up every appointment as delegate or proctor.
|E| Such work is a heavy tax on an old man, even when people are
well-disposed. But the opposite may very well be the case.
For young men hate him because he leaves them no opportunities
and prevents them from coming to the front; while
the rest of the community looks upon his itch for office and
precedence with the same disapproval as upon the itch of other
old men for money and pleasure.
When Bucephalus was growing old, Alexander, being unwilling
to overwork him, used to ride some other horse while
reviewing the phalanx and getting it into position before the
|F| battle. Then, after giving the word for the day, he changed
his mount to Bucephalus, and at once led the charge and tried
the fortunes of war. In the same way a sensible public man—in
this case handling his own reins—will, when in years, hold
aloof from unnecessary effort, leaving more vigorous persons
to deal with the minor matters of state, but himself playing
a zealous part in great ones.
Athletes keep their bodies from all contact with necessary
labours and in perfect trim for useless ones. We, on the
contrary, will leave petty little details alone, and will keep
ourselves in reserve for matters of moment. No doubt, as
Homer says,
To the young all labours are seemly,
and the world gives consent and approval, calling them ‘public-spirited’
and ‘energetic’ when they do a large number of little
things, and ‘noble’ and ‘lofty-minded’ when they do brilliant
87and distinguished things. At that time of life there are |794|
occasions when a venturesome aggressiveness is more or less in
season and wears a grace of its own. But what when an
elderly man consents to perform routine services to the
public, such as letting out taxes, or superintending harbours
and markets? What when he seizes opportunities of being
sent on a mission to some governor or other powerful personage—a
position for which there is no necessity, which
contains no dignity, and which necessitates time-serving and
complaisance? To my mind, my friend, his case is one for
regret and commiseration; some may even think it distressingly
vulgar.
Not even positions of authority are any longer a suitable |B|
sphere for him, unless they are of high rank and importance;
such a position, for example, as you now hold in the Presidentship
of the Areopagite Council, not to mention the distinguished
rank of Amphictyon,[36] which your country has imposed upon
you all your life, with its
Welcome toil and labour sweet to bear.
Even these honours we should not seek, but should make from
holding them. We should ask, not for them, but to be excused
from them. It should seem, not that we are taking office to
ourselves, but that we are surrendering ourselves to office. The
Emperor Tiberius used to say that a man over sixty should be
ashamed of holding out his wrist to a physician. But he should |C|
be more ashamed of holding out his hand to the public in
solicitation of its ‘vote and influence’. That situation is as
humiliating and ignoble as the contrary is honourable and
dignified—I mean when your country chooses you, calls you,
and waits for you, and when you come down amidst respect
88and welcome, a ‘reverend signior’ indeed, to meet your distinction
with gracious acceptance.
Similarly with speaking in the Assembly. A man of advanced
age should not be perpetually springing upon the platform
and crowing back to every cock that crows. Young men are
like horses, and he should not, by constantly grappling with
|D| them and irritating them, lose control of their respect, or
encourage the practice and habit of resistance to the reins.
He should sometimes leave them to make a restive plunge for
distinction, keeping out of the way and not interfering, unless
the matter at stake is vital to the public safety or to decency
and honour. In that case he should not wait to be called, but
should let some one take him by the hand, or carry him in his
chair, and push his way at more than full speed, like Appius
Claudius in Roman history. The Romans had been defeated
by Pyrrhus in a great battle, and Appius heard that the Senate
|E| was listening to proposals for a truce and a peace. This was
more than he could bear, and, though blind of both eyes, along
he came in his chair through the Forum to the Senate House.
He went in, planted himself before them, and said: ‘Hitherto
I have been distressed at the loss of my sight; now I could pray
to be also unable to hear—that you are meditating so ignoble
and disgraceful a transaction.’ Thereupon, partly by reproaches,
partly by advice and encouragement, he persuaded them to have
|F| immediate recourse to arms and to fight Pyrrhus to a finish
for the prize of Italy.
Again, when it became manifest that, in acting the demagogue,
Peisistratus was aiming at absolutism, and yet no one ventured
to resist or prevent it, Solon brought out his weapons with
his own hands, piled them in front of his house, and called upon
the citizens to help. And when Peisistratus sent and asked
him what gave him the confidence to do so, he replied, ‘My age.’
Things so vital as these, it is true, are rousing enough to fire
89even the most worn-out of old men, so long as he possesses
the breath of life at all. Otherwise he will sometimes, as I have
said, be showing good taste if he declines to perform paltry
and menial tasks which bring more worry to the doer than good |793|
to the persons for whom they are done. There are also occasions
when he will wait for the citizens to call for him, feel the need
of him, and come to his house to fetch him. He is wanted, and
therefore his appearance on the scene will carry more weight.
But for the most part, though present, he will be silent and will
leave the younger generation to do the speaking, while he acts
as umpire to the match of political ambition. And if it goes
beyond bounds, he will offer a mild reproof and courteously
put an end to outbreaks of self-assertion, recrimination, or
ill-temper. When a motion is wrong, he will reason with and
correct the mover, but without blaming him. When it is right,
he will commend it without reserve and will cheerfully acquiesce,
often surrendering an argumentative victory in order that |B|
a young man may get on in the world and be in good heart.
In some cases he will supply a deficiency while paying a compliment,
like Nestor with his
No man, I trow, will find fault with thy words among all the Achaeans:
None say thee nay. Yet not to an end hast thou brought all the matter.
True ’tis, thou art yet but young, and myself might be thine own father.
There is a practice still more statesmanlike. One may not
merely teach a lesson openly in public by means of a reproval
unaccompanied by any sting of humiliation or injury to prestige.
Still more may be done in private for persons with good political
abilities. We may offer them kindly suggestions and assistance |C|
towards the bringing forward of useful arguments and public
measures, encourage them to high aims, help them to acquire
90a distinguished tone of mind, and—as riding-masters do with
their horses—see that at first the people shall be gentle and
docile for them to mount. And if so be a young man should
make a failure, instead of leaving him to despond, we may rouse
and comfort him. It was in this way that the spirits and courage
of Cimon were revived by Aristeides, and those of Themistocles
by Mnesiphilus, when they began by incurring ill-odour and
a bad name for forwardness and recklessness. It is also said
of Demosthenes that, when he was in great distress at his failure
|D| in the Assembly, he was taken to task by a very old man who had
heard Pericles, and who told him that he had no right to despair
of himself, seeing that he possessed gifts so much like those
of that eminent person. So when Timotheus was hissed for
his innovations and treated as guilty of an outrage on music,
Euripides bade him keep up his courage, since he would soon
be dictating to his audience.
At Rome the term of the Vestal Virgins is divided into three
stages—one for learning, one for the performance of the ceremonies,
and the third for teaching. So with the votaries of
|E| Artemis at Ephesus; each is called first a novice, next a priestess,
and then a past-priestess. In the same way the complete
statesman is during the first part of his public career still
engaged in learning the mysteries; during the last part he is
engaged in teaching and initiating.
Whereas to superintend the athletics of others is to take
no part in them oneself, it is otherwise with those who train
a youth in public business and the political arena, and who make
sure that for the good of his country he shall
Be speaker of words and eke doer of deeds.
They perform good service, not in some petty inconsiderable
|F| part of public life, but in one to which Lycurgus devoted his
first and foremost attention—training the young to give to
91every old man the same unfailing obedience as to a lawgiver.
What had Lysander in his mind, when he declared that the
finest form of old age is to be found at Lacedaemon? Did he
mean that at Lacedaemon elderly people had the best opportunities
of doing nothing, of lending money, of sitting together
and playing dice, or of meeting together at an early hour to
drink? Surely not. He meant that all persons at that time of
life hold, as it were, a magisterial position; that they are, in
a sense, public fathers or guardians, who not only look after
matters of state, but take active cognisance of everything a young |796|
man may do in connexion with his training-school, his pastimes,
or his style of living. Such a position makes them an object
of fear to wrong-doers, and of respect and affection to the well-behaved.
For young men make a point of cultivating their
society, because of the way in which they encourage steadiness
and nobility of character by sympathy and approbation and
without jealousy.
The last-named feeling is not a becoming one at any time
of life. But whereas in the case of a young man it finds plenty
of respectable names—‘rivalry’, ‘emulation’, ‘ambition’—in
an old man it is a coarse and vulgar sentiment altogether out
of place. The aged statesman should therefore be entirely
free from jealousy. He should be no malignant old tree, |B|
unequivocally snubbing the shoots and checking the growth of
plants which spring up beside or beneath it, but should give
them a kindly welcome and every opportunity to cling to him
and twine about him. He should hold young people upright,
lead them by the hand, and foster them, not only by wise
suggestion and advice, but by surrendering to them political
tasks which bring honour and distinction, or which afford scope
for services of an innocent nature and yet welcome and gratifying
to the public.
When a task is a stubborn and arduous one, or when it is
92like a medicine which stings and gives pain at the moment,
while its beneficial effects are not produced till afterwards, he
|C| should not prescribe it for young people. Instead of subjecting
them in their inexperienced state to the uproars of an unreasonable
mob, he should himself accept the unpopularity
attaching to salutary measures. By this means he will render
a youth both more well-disposed and also more zealous in other
duties.
Meanwhile it must be remembered that statesmanship does
not consist solely in holding office, acting as envoy, shouting
loudly in the Assembly, and indulging in a fine frenzy of speeches
and motions on the platform. The generality of people may
think that these make a statesman, just as they think that talking
|D| from a chair and delivering lectures based on books make a
philosopher. But they fail to discern the sustained statesmanship
or philosophy which is revealed consistently day after day
in actions and conduct. As Dicaearchus used to say, the word
peripatein, ‘walk’, has now come to be used of persons taking
a turn in the colonnades rather than of those who are walking
into the country or to see a friend. It is the same with acting
the statesman as it is with acting the philosopher. For Socrates
to play the philosopher there was no arranging of forms, seating
himself in a chair, or observing a fixed time—arranged with
his associates—for a discussion or discourse. He played the
philosopher while joking with you, perhaps, or drinking with you,
|E| or possibly campaigning with you, or at market with you, and
finally when he was in prison and drinking the poison. He was
thus the first to show that life affords scope for philosophy at
every moment, in every detail, in every feeling and circumstance
whatsoever. Statesmanship should be regarded in the same
light. Foolish persons, even if they are Ministers of War, or
Secretaries, or platform-speakers, should not be considered as
acting the statesman, but as courting the mob, or making a
93display, or creating dissension, or doing public service because
they must. But when a man possesses public spirit and broad
interests, and is a keen patriot and a ‘state’s man’ in the literal
sense, even if he has never worn official garb, he is playing the
statesman all the time. He does so by stimulating men of |F|
ability, giving advice to those who need it, lending his help to
deliberation, discouraging bunglers, and fortifying persons of
sense. And this does not mean that he goes to the Assembly
Theatre or Senate House out of pride of place when canvassed
or pressed, and, when he gets there, merely puts in an appearance—if
he does so—by way of pastime, as he might at a show or
entertainment. It means that, even if not present in body, he |797|
is present in spirit; that he asks how the business goes, and is
pleased or vexed as the case may be.
Aristeides at Athens and Cato at Rome held few public
offices; but they made their whole life a perpetual service to
their country. Though Epaminondas won many a distinguished
success as commander-in-chief, he is no less famous for what
he did in Thessaly at a time when he held no command or
office. The generals had plunged the phalanx into a difficult
situation. The enemy was attacking them with his missiles, |B|
and they were in confusion. Epaminondas was therefore summoned
from the ranks, and, after allaying the panic of the army
by words of encouragement, he proceeded to make an orderly
disposition of the phalanx—which was in a state of turmoil—extricated
it with ease, posted it so as to confront the enemy,
and compelled him to change his tactics and retire.
Once when King Agis was in Arcadia, and was in the act of
leading his army into action in full order of battle, one of the
elder Spartans shouted out that he was proposing to ‘mend one
error by another’, meaning (as Thucydides says) that ‘his |C|
present unseasonable ardour was intended to repair the discredit
of his retreat’ from Argos. Agis listened, took the advice, and
94retired. Menecrates actually had a seat placed for him every
day at the doors of the Government Office, and the Ephors
frequently rose and consulted him upon questions of the first
importance; so great was his reputation for wisdom and shrewdness.
The story goes that, when he had completely lost all
physical strength and was for the most part confined all day to
his bed, upon the Ephors sending for him to the Agora, he got
up and set out to walk. As he was toiling slowly along, he met
|D| some children on the way, and asked them: ‘Do you know
anything more binding than to obey a master?’ Upon their
replying, ‘Lack of the power,’ his reason told him that this
brought his service to an end, and he turned back home. For
though zeal should not fail so long as ability lasts, we must not
put pressure upon it when left helpless.
Once more, Scipio, whether in the field or in politics, constantly
sought the advice of Gaius Laelius to such an extent
as to make some people say of his achievements that Scipio
was the actor, but the author was Gaius. And Cicero himself
acknowledges that the greatest and finest of the successful
measures of his consulship were devised with the help of the
philosopher Publius Nigidius.
|E| There is, then, nothing to prevent an aged man from advancing
the public good in many a department of statesmanship.
He has the best of means thereto: reason, judgement, plain-speaking,
and ‘thought discreet‘, as the poets say. It is not
merely our hands and feet or the strength of our bodies that
are part and parcel of the possessions of the State. Most important
are the mind and the beauties of the mind—temperance,
justice, and wisdom. It is monstrous that, as these come late and
|F| slowly to their own, our house and farm and other goods and
chattels should get the benefit of them, while, in a public way,
to our country and our fellow-citizens, we make ourselves of no
further use because of ‘time’. For what time takes away from
95our powers of active effort is less than what it adds to those of
guidance and statesmanship. It is for this reason that, when
Hermes is represented in an elderly form, though he has no
hands or feet, his virile parts are tense—an indirect way of saying
that there is little need for old men’s bodies to be hard at work,
so long as their power of reasoned speech is—as it ought to be—vigorous
and generative.
ADVICE TO MARRIED COUPLES — The Rules :
96
|138 B|To Pollianus and Eurydice with Plutarch’s best wishes.
When they were shutting you in your bridal chamber, the
ancestral ritual was duly applied to you by the priestess of
Demeter. I believe that now, if reason also were to take you
in hand and join in the nuptial song, it would prove of some
service, and would support the tune as prescribed.
In the musical world they used to call one of the modes for
the flute ‘the Horse-and-Mare’, because, apparently, the strains
in that key were provocative of union between those animals.
Well, philosophy has many excellent sermons to give, but none
|C| more worthy of serious attention than that upon marriage. By
it she exerts a spell upon those who come together as partners
in life, and renders them gentle and tractable to each other.
I have, therefore, taken the main points of the lessons which you
have repeatedly heard, brought up as you have been in the company
of Philosophy. I have arranged them in a series of brief
comparisons to make them easier to remember, and am sending
them as a present to you both. In doing so I pray that the
Muses may graciously lend aid to Aphrodite, since, if it is their
province to see that a lyre or a harp shall be in tune, it is no
less so to provide that the music of the married home shall be
harmonized by reason and philosophy. When people in olden
times assigned a seat with Aphrodite to Hermes, it was because
|D| the pleasure of marriage stands in special need of reason; when
to Persuasion and the Graces, it was in order that the married
pair might obtain their wishes from each other by means of
persuasion, and not by contention and strife.
97
1. Solon bade the bride eat a piece of quince before coming
to the bridegroom’s arms—apparently an enigmatical suggestion
that, as a first requirement, a pleasant and inviting impression
should be gathered from an agreeable mouth and speech.
2. In Boeotia, after veiling the bride, they crown her with
a wreath of thorny asparagus. As that plant yields the sweetest
eating from among the roughest prickles, so a bride, if the
groom does not run away in disgust because he finds her difficult
and vexatious at first, will afford him a sweet and gentle companionship.
One who shows no patience with the girl’s first |E|
bickerings is as bad as those who let the ripe grapes go because
once they were sour. Many a young bride is affected in the
same way. First experiences disgust her with the bridegroom,
and she makes as great a mistake as if, after enduring the sting
of the bee, she were to abandon the honeycomb.
3. It is especially at the beginning that married people should
beware of quarrel and friction. Let them note how vessels
which have been mended will at first easily pull to pieces on the
slightest occasion, but as time goes on and they become solid
at the seams, it is as much as fire and iron can do to separate |F|
the parts.
4. Fire is readily kindled in chaff, dry rushes, or hare’s fur,
but quickly goes out unless it gets a further hold upon something
capable both of keeping it in and feeding it. So with
that fierce blaze of passion which is produced in the newly-married
by physical enjoyment. You must not rely upon it
nor expect it to last, unless it is built round the moral character,
gets a hold upon your rational part, and so obtains a permanent
vitality.
5. Doctoring the water is no doubt a quick and easy way of |139|
catching fish, but it renders them bad and uneatable. So when
98women work artificially upon their husbands with philtres and
spells, and control them by the agency of pleasure, they have
but crazy simpletons and dotards for their partners. While
Circe derived no good from the men she had bewitched, and
made no use of them when turned into swine and asses, she
found the greatest pleasure in the rational companionship of
the wise Odysseus.
6. A woman who is more desirous of ruling a foolish husband
than of obeying a wise one, is like a traveller who would rather
lead a blind man than follow one who possesses sight and
knowledge.
|B| 7. Why should people disbelieve that Pasiphae, though
consort to a king, fell in love with an ox, when they see that
some women find a strict and continent husband wearisome, and
prefer to live with one who is as much a mass of ungoverned
sensuality as a dog or a goat?
8. When a rider is too weak or effeminate to vault upon a horse,
he teaches the animal itself to bend its legs and crouch. In the
same way some men who marry high-born or wealthy women,
instead of improving themselves, put indignities upon their
wives, in the belief that they will be more easily ruled when
humbled. The proper course is, while using the rein, to maintain
the dignity of the wife, as one would the full height of the
horse.
|C| 9. When the moon is at a distance from the sun, we see it
bright and luminous. When it comes near him, it fades and is
lost to view. With a properly conducted woman it is the contrary.
She should be most visible when with her husband;
in his absence she should keep at home and out of sight.
10. Herodotus was wrong in saying that when a woman lays
aside her tunic she lays aside her modesty. On the contrary,
a chaste wife puts on modesty in its place. Between married
persons the token of greatest regard is greatest modesty.
9911. If two notes are taken in accord, the lower of the two is |D|
the dominant. So, though every action in a well-conducted
house is performed by both parties in tune, it will reveal the
husband’s leadership and priority of choice.
12. The Sun vanquished the North Wind. When the wind
endeavoured to take off the man’s cloak by violence and blowing
a gale, he only tightened his mantle the more and held it the
closer. But when, after the wind, the sun became hot, the man
began to grow warm. When at last he sweltered, he took off
not only his cloak but his tunic. The parable applies to the
generality of women. When their husbands take violent
measures to do away with extravagant indulgence, they show |E|
fight and temper; but if you reason with them, they give it
up peaceably and practise moderation.
13. Cato expelled from the Senate a man who had kissed his
own wife in the presence of his daughter. This, perhaps, was
too severe a step. But if—as is the case—it is unseemly to be
fondling and kissing and embracing each other in company, it
is surely more unseemly to be scolding and quarrelling in company,
and, while treating your love-passages as a sacred secret
between you and your wife, to make an open display of fault-finding |F|
and reproach.
14. A mirror,[37] though decorated with gold and precious
stones, is of no use unless it shows you your form true to life.
Similarly there is no advantage in a rich wife, if her conduct
does not represent that of her husband and harmonize with
it in character. If the reflection which it offers is glum when
you are joyful, but wears a merry grin when you are gloomy and
distressed, the mirror is faulty and bad. A wife is a poor thing
and out of place if she is in the dumps when her husband is
disposed for frolic or love-making, but is all fun and laughter
when he is serious. In the former case she is disagreeable; in
100|140| the latter, she slights you. Geometers tell us that lines and
surfaces make no movement by themselves, but only in conjunction
with the bodies to which they belong. In the same way
a woman should be free from peculiar states of mind of her
own, but should act as the husband’s partner in his earnestness
and his jest, in his preoccupation and his laughter.
15. A man who dislikes to see his wife eating with him,
teaches her to satisfy her appetite when she gets by herself.
Similarly one who is never a merry companion to her, nor
shares in her sport and laughter, teaches her to look for private
pleasures apart from him.
|B| 16. When the Persian kings are dining or feasting, their
legitimate wives sit at their side. But when they wish to amuse
themselves or get tipsy, they send those wives away and summon
their minstrel-women and concubines. The practice is a right
one, at least to the extent that they do not permit their wives
to take part in wanton and licentious scenes. So, if a private
man, who lacks self-control or good-breeding in his pleasures,
is guilty of a lapse with a common woman or a menial, the wife
should not be indignant and resentful, but should reflect that,
out of respect for her, he finds some other woman to share his
riot and lasciviousness.
|C| 17. When kings are fond of music, they make many musicians;
when of learning, learned men; when of athletics, gymnasts.
So when the love of a husband is for the person, his wife will
be all for dress; when for pleasure, she becomes lewd and
wanton; when for goodness and virtue, she shows herself
discreet and chaste.
18. When a Lacedaemonian girl was once asked whether she
had already embraced a man, she answered, ‘No, indeed; but
he has embraced me.’ Such, I believe, is the right attitude for
a lady—not to shun or dislike caresses, when the husband
begins them, nor yet to begin them of her own accord. The
101one course is bold and immodest, the other disdainful and |D|
unaffectionate.
19. The woman ought not to possess private friends, but to
share those of the man. But first and greatest are the gods,
and it is therefore right for the wife to reverence or acknowledge
only those gods who are recognized by the husband. Her
street-door should be kept shut to out-of-the-way forms of
worship and alien superstitions. No deity finds gratification
in ceremonies which a woman performs in secret and by stealth.
20. Plato holds that a community is in a state of blissful
well-being when the expressions ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ are
scarcely ever heard, inasmuch as the citizens enjoy, as far as |E|
possible, the common use of everything worth considering.
Much more ought such language to be abolished from the
married state. In the same way, however, in which medical
men tell us that a blow on the left side produces an answering
sensation in the right, it is proper for a wife to sympathize with
her husband’s concerns and the husband with the wife’s. In
this way, just as ropes, when interwoven, lend each other
strength, so, through each party reciprocating the other’s
goodwill, the partnership will be maintained by both combined.
Nature blends us through the body in such a way as to take |F|
a portion from each, and by commingling produce an offspring
common to both, so that neither can define or distinguish an
‘own’ part from ‘another’s’. The same sort of partnership
between married persons should assuredly exist in respect of
money also. They should pour it all into a single fund, and
blend it in such a way that they never think of one part as
‘own’ and one as ‘another’s’, but treat it all as ‘own’ and
none of it as ‘another’s’. And as we call a mixture ‘wine’,
though it may contain a greater proportion of water, so the
property of the house should be said to belong to the man,
even though the wife may contribute the larger share.
10221. Helen loved wealth, and Paris loved pleasure: Odysseus
was wise, and Penelope discreet. Hence the union of the latter
|141| pair was happy and enviable, while that of the former brought
upon Greeks and Asiatics an ‘Iliad of Woes’.
22. When the Roman was admonished by his friends for
having divorced a wife who was chaste, rich, and beautiful, he
stretched out his shoe and remarked: ‘Yes, and this looks
fine and new, but no one knows where it chafes me.’ The wife
must not rely upon her dowry, her birth, or her beauty. The
matters in which she touches her husband most closely are
conversation, character, and companionship. Instead of making
these harsh and vexatious day after day, she must render them
|B| compatible, soothing, and grateful. Physicians are more afraid
of fevers which spring from vague causes gradually accumulating,
than of those for which there is a great and manifest reason.
So it is these little, continual, daily frictions between man and
wife, which the world knows nothing of, that do most to create
the rifts which ruin married life.
23. King Philip was once enamoured of a Thessalian woman
who was charged with bewitching him. Olympias thereupon
became eager to get this person into her power. When, upon
presenting herself, she not only turned out to be a handsome
woman, but spoke with considerable nobility and good sense,
|C| Olympias said: ‘Those calumnies are all nonsense! Your
witchcraft lies in yourself.’ How irresistible a thing is a married
and lawful wife, if, by treating everything—dowry, birth,
philtres, the very girdle[38] of Aphrodite—as lying in herself, she
conquers affection by means of character and virtue!
24. On another occasion, when a youthful courtier had
married a handsome woman of bad repute, Olympias remarked,
‘The fellow has no judgement; otherwise he would not have
103married with his eyes.’ Marriage should not be made with
the eyes; neither should it with the fingers, as it is in the case
of some, who reckon up the amount of the dower, instead of
calculating the companionable quality, of the wife they are |D|
marrying.
25. To young men who are fond of looking at themselves
in the mirror Socrates recommended that the ugly should
correct their defects by virtue, while the handsome should
avoid spoiling their beauty by vice. It is a good thing for the
married woman also, while she is holding the mirror, to talk
to herself, and, if she is plain, to ask, ‘And what if I show
myself indiscreet?’ if beautiful, ‘And what if I show myself
discreet as well?’ The plain woman may pride herself on being
loved for her character, and the handsome woman on being
loved more for her character than her beauty.
26. When the Sicilian despot sent Lysander’s daughters
a set of costly mantles and chains, he refused to accept them.
‘These bits of ornaments,’ said he, ‘will rather take from my |E|
daughters’ beauty than set it off.’ Lysander, however, was
anticipated by Sophocles in the lines:
Nay, ’twould not seem, poor fool, to beautify,
But to unbeautify, and prove thee wanton.
As Crates used to say, ‘Adornment is that which adorns,’ and
that which adorns is that which adds to a woman’s seemliness.
This is not done by gold or jewels or scarlet, but by whatever
invests her with the badges of dignity, decorum, and
modesty.
27. In sacrificing to Hera as goddess of marriage, the gall
is not burned with the other portions of the sacrifice, but is |F|
taken out and thrown down at the side of the altar—an indirect
injunction of the legislator that gall and anger should have no
place in the married state. The austerity of the lady of the house,
104like the dryness of wine, should be wholesome and palatable,
not bitter like aloes or unpleasant like a drug.
28. Xenocrates being somewhat harsh in character, though
otherwise a high type of man, Plato recommended him to
sacrifice to the Graces. Now I take it that a woman of strict
morals stands in special need of the graces in dealing with her
|142| husband, so that—as Metrodorus used to say—she may live
with him on pleasant terms and not ‘in a temper because she
is chaste’. A woman should no more forget to be amiable
because she is faithful, than to be neat because she is thrifty.
Decorum in a woman is rendered as disagreeable by harshness
as frugality is by sluttishness.
29. A wife who is afraid to laugh and joke with her husband
for fear of seeming bold and wanton, is as bad as the woman
who, from fear of being thought to use ointments on her head,
does not even oil it,[39] and, to avoid seeming to rouge her face,
does not even wash it. We find that when poets and orators
avoid appealing to the vulgar by bad taste and affectation in
|B| respect of their diction, they practise every art to attract and
stir the hearer with their matter, their treatment, and their
moral quality. So the lady of the house, because she avoids
and deprecates—as she is quite right to do—extravagant or
meretricious demonstration, ought all the more to bring the
graces of character and conduct into play in dealing with her
husband, thus habituating him to proper ways, but in a pleasurable
manner. If, however, a wife shows herself strait-laced and
rigidly austere, her husband must put the best face upon it.
When Antipater required Phocion to perform an improper and
|C| degrading action, he answered, ‘I cannot serve you both as your
friend and your toady.’ In the same way, when a woman is
staid and strait-laced, our reflection should be, ‘The same
woman cannot behave to me as both a wife and a mistress.’
10530. By a national custom the Egyptian women wore no shoes,
so that they might keep at home all day. In the case of most
women, to deprive them of gold-worked shoes, bangles, anklets,
purple, and pearls, is to make them stay indoors.
31. Theano, in putting on her mantle, once showed a glimpse
of her arm. Upon some one saying, ‘A beautiful forearm!’
she retorted, ‘But not for the public!’ A well-conducted
woman will keep, not only her forearm, but her speech, from |D|
publicity. She will be as shy and cautious about her utterances
to the outside world as if they were an exposure of her person,
inasmuch as, when she talks, they are a revelation of feelings,
character, and disposition.
32. Pheidias, in representing the Elean Aphrodite with her
foot upon a tortoise, meant women to take it as a symbol of
home-keeping and silence. A woman should talk either to,
or through the medium of, her husband; nor should she resent
it if, like a player on the clarinet, she finds a more impressive
utterance through another tongue than through her own.
33. When rich or royal persons pay respect to a philosopher,
they do honour both to themselves and to him. But when
a philosopher pays court to rich people, he is not conferring |E|
distinction upon them, but lowering his own. The same is the
case with women. By submission to their husbands they win
regard; by seeking to govern them they demean themselves
worse than the men so governed. Meanwhile it is only right
that the husband, in controlling the wife, should not be like
an owner dealing with a chattel, but like the mind dealing with
the body—sympathetic with the sympathy of organic union.
It is possible to care for the body without being a slave to its
pleasures and desires, and it is possible to rule a wife and yet
do things to please and gratify her.
34. Compound objects are classified by philosophers as
follows. In some the parts are distinct, as in a fleet or army. |F|106In some they are conjoined, as in a house or ship. In others
they form an organic unity, as in all living creatures. We may
say much the same of marriage. The marriage of love is the
‘organic unity’; the marriage for a dowry or for children
is that of persons ‘conjoined’; marriage without sharing the
same couch is that of persons ‘distinct’, who may be said to
|143| dwell together, but not to live together. With persons marrying,
there should be a mutual blending of bodies, means, friends,
and relations, in the same way as, according to the scientists,
when liquids are mixed, the mixture runs through the whole.
When the Roman legislator forbade married couples to exchange
presents, he did not mean that they should not impart to each
other, but that they should look upon everything as joint
property.
35. At Leptis in Africa it is a traditional custom for the bride,
on the day after marriage, to send to the bridegroom’s mother
to borrow a pot. The latter refuses, saying she has none. The
intention is that the bride may realize from the first the ‘step-mother’
attitude of her mother-in-law, so that, if anything
more disagreeable happens afterwards, she may not be vexed
or irritated. The wife should understand this fact and apply
|B| treatment to its cause, which is, that the mother is jealous of
her son’s affections. There is but one treatment for this state
of mind. While winning the special affection of her husband
for herself, she must avoid detaching or lessening his affection
for his mother.
36. Mothers appear to be more fond of their sons, because
those sons are able to help them, and fathers of their daughters,
because daughters need their help. Maybe also it is out of
compliment to each other that both parties desire to be seen
making much of that which is more akin to the other. This,
perhaps, is a trait of no importance, but there is another which
is charming. I mean, when the wife’s respect is seen to incline
107rather to the husband’s parents than to her own, and when, |C|
in case of anything troubling her, she refers it to them and
conceals it from her own people. If you are thought to trust,
you are trusted; if you are thought to love, you are loved.
37. The Greeks who accompanied Cyrus received the following
order from their commanders: ‘If the enemy come shouting
to the attack, await them in silence; if they come in silence,
charge to meet them with a shout.’ When a husband has his
fits of anger, if he raises his voice, a sensible wife keeps quiet;
if he is silent, she soothes him by talking to him in a coaxing way.
38. Euripides is right in blaming those who have the lyre |D|
played to them at their wine. Music is more properly called
in to cure anger and grief than to encourage further abandonment
on the part of those who are taking their pleasure. So
I would have you believe that it is a wrong principle to share
the same bed for the sake of pleasure, and yet, when you are
angry or fall out, to sleep apart. That is exactly the time to
call in the Goddess of Love, who is the best physician for such
cases. This is practically the teaching of the poet, when he
makes Hera say:
And their tangled strife will I loosen,
When to their couch I bring them, to meet in love and in union.
|E| 39. At all times and everywhere a wife should avoid offending
the husband, and a husband the wife; but especially should they
beware of doing so when together at night. In the story, the
wife, in the vexation of her throes, used to say to those who were
putting her to bed: ‘How can this couch cure a trouble which
befell me upon it?’ So quarrels, recriminations, and tempers
which are begotten in the chamber are not easily got over in
another place or at another time.
40. There appears to be a truth in Hermione’s plea: |F|
‘Tis wicked women’s visits have undone me.
108This occurs in more than one way, but especially when connubial
quarrels and jealousies offer to such women not only an open
door, but an open ear. At such a time, therefore, should a
sensible woman shut her ears, keep out of the way of slanderous
whispers which add fuel to the fire, and be ready to apply the
well-known saying of Philip. We are told that when his friends
were trying to exasperate that monarch against the Greeks—on
the ground that, though he treated them well, they abused
him—he remarked, ‘Well, and what, pray, if we treat them
badly?’ So, when the scandalizers say, ‘Your husband
grieves you, in spite of all your affection and chastity,’ you
|144| should retort, ‘And what, pray, if I begin to hate and wrong
him?’
41. A man caught sight of a slave who had run away some time
before, and gave chase. When the slave was too quick, and
took refuge in a mill, he observed, ‘And in what better place
could I have wished to find you than where you are?‘[40] So
let a woman who is declaring for a divorce through jealousy
say to herself, ‘And where would my rival be more glad to see
me? And what would she be more pleased to see me doing, than
harbouring a grievance, at feud with my husband, and actually
abandoning the house and the marriage-chamber?’
|B| 42. The Athenians observe three sacred ploughings; the
first at Sciron, in memory of the oldest sowing of crops; the
second in the Rharian district; and the third—known as the
Buzygian festival—close to the Acropolis. More sacred than
all of these is the connubial ploughing and sowing for the procreation
of children. It is a happy expression of Sophocles,
when he calls Aphrodite ‘fair-fruited Cytherea‘. Man and
wife should therefore be especially scrupulous in this connexion,
keeping pure from unholy and unlawful intercourse with others,
109and forbearing to sow where they desire no crop to grow, or,
if it does, are ashamed of it and seek to conceal it.
43. When Gorgias the rhetorician once read to the Greeks
at Olympia a discourse upon peace and harmony, Melanthius
exclaimed, ‘Here is a man giving us advice about peace and |C|
harmony, when in private life he has failed to harmonize three
people—himself, his wife, and his maidservant.’ For Gorgias,
it appears, was enamoured, and his wife jealous, of the domestic.
A man’s house ought to be in tune before he offers to set in tune
a state, a public meeting, or friends. The public is more likely
to hear of offences against a wife than of offences committed
by her.
44. They say that the cat is driven frantic by the smell of
unguents. If it had been the case that women were provoked |D|
out of their senses by the same means, it would have been a
monstrous thing for men not to abstain from unguents, and to
let their wives suffer so cruelly for the sake of a trifling gratification
of their own. Now since, though the husband’s use of
unguents does not so afflict them, his dealings with other women
do, it is unjust to cause such vexation and distress to a wife
for the sake of a little pleasure. On the contrary, husbands
should come to their wives pure and untainted by other
intercourse, just as they would approach bees, who are said
to show disgust and hostility towards any one who has been so
engaged.
45. People never dress in bright clothes when approaching |E|
an elephant, nor in red when approaching a bull, since the
animals in question are particularly infuriated by those colours.
Of tigers it is said that, if you beat drums all round them, they
go mad and tear themselves to pieces. Surely, then, inasmuch
as some men cannot bear to see scarlet or purple clothes, and
some are irritated at cymbals and tambourines, it is not asking
too much for women to leave such things alone, and not harass
110or exasperate their husbands, but practise quietude and consideration
in their society.
|F| 46. When Philip was once seizing upon a woman against her
will, she said, ‘Let me go. All women are the same when you
take away the light.’ While this applies well enough to adulterers
and sensualists, it is particularly when the light is taken away
that a wife should not be the same as any ordinary female.
Her person may not be visible, but her modesty, chastity,
decorum, and natural affection should make themselves palpable.
47. Plato used to recommend that respect should rather be
paid by elderly men to the young, so that the latter might
behave modestly to them in return. For, said he, ‘where old
men are shameless,’ the young acquire no modesty or scruple.
A husband should bear this in mind, and show more respect
|145| to his wife than to any one else, since the nuptial chamber
will prove to be her school of propriety or its opposite. The
husband who indulges himself in certain pleasures, while
warning her against the same, is as bad as the man who bids
his wife fight on against an enemy to whom he has himself
surrendered.
48. As to love of display, do you, Eurydice, read and endeavour
to remember what Timoxena wrote to Aristylla. And you,
Pollianus, must not expect your wife to refrain from showy
extravagance, if she sees that you do not despise it in other
|B| matters, but that you take a pleasure in cups with gilding,
rooms with painted walls, mules with decorated harness, and
horses with neck-trappings. You cannot banish extravagance
from the women’s quarters when it has the free run of the
men’s. You are at the right age to cultivate philosophy.
Adorn your character, therefore, by listening to careful reasoning
and demonstration in improving company and conversation.
Be like the bees. Gather valuable matter from every source.
Carry it home in yourself, and share it with your wife by
111discussing it and making all the best principles agreeable and
familiar to her. While |C|
Thou unto her art father, and honoured mother, and brother,
it is no less a matter of pride to hear a wife say, ‘Husband, thou
unto me art guide, philosopher, and teacher of the noblest
and divinest lessons.’ It is studies of this kind that tend to
keep a woman from foolish practices. She will be ashamed
to be dancing, when she is learning geometry. She will lend
no ear to the incantations of sorcery, when she is listening
to those of Plato and Xenophon. When any one promises to
fetch down the moon,[41] she will laugh at the ignorance and
silliness of women who believe such things; for she will possess
a knowledge of astronomy, and will have heard how Aglaonice,
the daughter of Hegetor of Thessaly, thoroughly understood |D|
eclipses of the full moon, how she knew beforehand the date
at which it must be caught in the shadow, and how she
thereby cheated the women into believing that she was fetching
it down herself.
We are told that no woman produces a child without the
participation of the man, though there are shapeless and fleshlike
growths—called ‘millstones’—which form themselves spontaneously
from corrupted matter. We must beware of this
occurring in women’s minds. If they are not impregnated
with sound doctrines by sharing in the culture of their husbands, |E|
they will of their own accord conceive many an ill-advised
intention or irrational state of feeling.
As for you, Eurydice, above all things do your best to keep
touch with the sayings of wise and good men, and to have
continually in your mouth those utterances which you learned
by heart in my school when a girl. By so doing, you will not
only be a joy to your husband, but the admiration of other
112women, when they see how, at no expense, you can adorn
yourself with so much distinction and dignity.
This rich woman’s pearls, that foreign lady’s silks, are not to
be worn without paying a large price for them. But the ornaments
|F| of Theano, of Cleobuline, of Gorgo the wife of Leonidas,
of Timoclea the sister of Theagenes, of the Claudia of ancient
history, and of Cornelia the daughter of Scipio, you may wear
for nothing; and with this adornment your life may be as happy
as it is distinguished.
|146| Sappho thought so much of her skill as a lyrist that she wrote—addressing
a wealthy woman—
When thou art dead, thou shalt lie with none to remember thy name:
For no portion hast thou in the roses Pierian....
You will assuredly have more occasion to think highly and
proudly of yourself, if you have a portion, not only in the roses,
but also in the fruits, which the Muses bring as free gifts to
those who prize culture and philosophy.
CONCERNING BUSYBODIES
113
If a house is stuffy, dark, chilly, or unhealthy, it is perhaps |515 B|
best to get out of it. But if long association makes you fond
of the place, you may alter the lights, shift the stairs, open
a door here and close one there, and so make it brighter, fresher,
and more wholesome. Even cities have sometimes been improved |C|
by such rearrangement. For instance, it is said that
my own native town, which used to face the west and receive
the full force of the afternoon sun from Parnassus, was turned
by Chairon so as to front the east. Empedocles, the natural
philosopher, once blocked up a mountain gorge, which sent
a destructive and pestilential south wind blowing down upon
the plains. By this means, it was thought, he shut the plague
out of the district.
Well, since there are certain injurious and unhealthy states
of mind which chill and darken the soul, it would be best
to get rid of them—to make a clean sweep to the foundations,
and give ourselves the benefit of a clear sky, light, and pure air |D|
to breathe. If not, we should reform and readjust them by
turning them some other way about.
We may take the vice of the busybody as an instance in point.
It is a love of prying into other people’s troubles, a disease
tainted—we may believe—with both envy and malice.
Why so sharp-eyed, my most malignant Sir,
For others’ faults, yet overlook your own?
Pray turn your pryingness the other way about, and make it
face inwards. If you are so fond of the business of inquiring
into defects, you will find plenty to occupy you at home.
114|*|Abundant as leaves on the oak or the water that rolls from Alizon
will you find the errors in your conduct, the disorders in your
heart and mind, and the lapses in your duty.
|E| According to Xenophon, a good householder has a special
place for the utensils of sacrifice, and a special place for those
of the table; agricultural implements are stored in one room,
weapons of war in another. In your own case you have one
stock of faults arising from envy, another from jealousy,
another from cowardice, another from meanness. These are the
faults for you to inspect and examine. Block up the windows
|F| and alleys of your inquisitiveness on the side towards your
neighbours, and open others which look into your own house—the
male quarters, the female quarters, the living-rooms of the
servants. Our busy curiosity will find occupation of a profitable
and salutary, instead of a useless and malicious, kind, if each
one will say to himself:
How have I err’d? What deed have I done? What duty neglected?
As it is, we are all of us like the Lamia in the fable, of whom
|516| we are told that at home she is asleep and blind, with her eyes
stowed away in a jar, but that when she comes abroad she puts
them in and can see. Outside, and in dealing with others, we furnish
our malice with an eye in the shape of our meddlesomeness,
but we are continually being tripped up by our own misdeeds
and vices, of which we are unaware, because we provide ourselves
with no light or vision to perceive them. It follows that the
busybody is a better friend to his enemies than to himself.
While censoriously reproving their shortcomings and showing
them what they ought to avoid or amend, he is so taken up with
faults outside that he overlooks most of those at home.
|B| Odysseus refused even to talk to his mother, until he had got
his answer from the seer concerning the business which had
115brought him to Hades. When he had received the information,
he turned to her, and also began to put questions to the other
women, asking who Tyro was, and the beautiful Chloris, and
why Epicaste met her death by
Tying a sheer-hung noose from the height of the lofty roof-tree.
Not so we. While treating our own concerns with the greatest
indifference, ignorance, and neglect, we begin discussing other
people’s pedigrees—how our neighbour’s grandfather was
a Syrian and his grandmother a Thracian. ‘So-and-So owes
more than seven hundred pounds, and cannot pay the interest.’
We also make it our business to inquire about such matters as
where So-and-So got his wife from, and what private talk was
that between A and B in the corner. Socrates, on the other |C|
hand, went about inquiring, ‘By what arguments did Pythagoras
carry conviction?’ So Aristippus, when he met Ischomachus
at Olympia, proceeded to ask by what kind of conversation
Socrates affected the Athenians as he did. When he had
gleaned a few seeds or samples of his talk, he was so moved
that he suffered a physical collapse, and became quite pale and
thin. In the end he set sail for Athens, and slaked his thirst
with draughts from the fountain-head, studying the man, his
discourses and his philosophy, of which the aim was to recognize
one’s own vices and get rid of them.
But there are some to whom their own life is a most distressing |D|
spectacle, and who therefore cannot bear to look at it nor to reflect
the light of reason upon themselves. Their soul is so fraught with
all manner of vices, that, shuddering with horror at what lies
within, it darts away from home, and goes prowling round other
men’s concerns, where it lets its malice batten and grow fat.
It often happens that a domestic fowl, though there is plenty
of food lying at its disposal, will slink into a corner and scratch
Where so appeareth, mayhap, one barley-grain in a dunghill.
116It is much the same with the busybody. Ignoring the topics
and questions which are open to all, and which no one prevents
him from asking about or is annoyed with him if he does ask,
|E| he goes picking out of every house the troubles which it is
endeavouring to bury out of sight. But surely it was a neat
answer which the Egyptian made to the man who asked him
what he was carrying in that wrapper. ‘That,’ said he, ‘is why
it is in a wrapper.’ And why, pray, are you so inquisitive about
a thing which is being concealed? If it had not been something
undesirable, there would have been no concealment. It is not
usual to walk into another man’s house without knocking at
the door. Nowadays there are doorkeepers—formerly knockers
were beaten upon the doors in order to give warning—the intention
being that the stranger shall not surprise the lady of the
|F| house or her daughter in the open, or come upon a slave receiving
punishment, or the handmaids screaming. But these are exactly
the things which the busybody steals in to see. At a staid and
quiet household he would have no pleasure in looking, even
if he were invited. His object is to uncover and make public
those things to which keys, bolts, and the street-door owe
their existence. ‘The winds which vex us most,’ says Ariston,
‘are those which pull up our cloaks.’ But the busybody strips
off not only our mantles and tunics, but our walls; he spreads
our doors wide open, and makes his way like a piercing wind
through the ‘maiden of tender skin‘, prying and sneaking into
|517| her bacchic revels, her dances, and her all-night festivals.
As Cleon in the comedy had
His hands in Askthorpe and his thoughts in Thefton,
so the busybody’s thoughts are at one and the same time in the
houses of the rich and the hovels of the poor, in the courts
of kings and the chambers of the newly-wed. He searches into
everybody’s business—business of strangers, and business of
117potentates. Nor is his search without danger. If one were
to take a taste of aconite because he was inquisitive as to its
properties, he would find that he had killed the learner before
he got his lesson. So those who pry into the troubles of the |B|
great destroy themselves before discovering what they seek.
If any one is not satisfied with the beams which the sun lavishes
so abundantly upon all, but audaciously insists upon gazing
unabashed at the orb itself and probing the light to its heart,
the result is blindness. It was therefore wise of Philippides, the
comic poet, when King Lysimachus once asked him, ‘What
can I give you of mine?’ to reply, ‘Anything, Sire, but your
secrets.’ The finest and most pleasant aspects of royalty are
those displayed outwardly—its banquets, wealth, pomps and
shows, graces and favours. But if a king has any secret, keep
away from it and leave it alone. A king does not conceal his |C|
joy when prosperous, nor his laughter when jocose, nor his
intention to do a kindness or confer a boon. When he hides
a thing, when he is glum, unsmiling, unapproachable, it is
time for alarm. It means that he has been storing up anger,
and that it is festering; or that he is sullenly meditating a severe
punishment; or that he is jealous of his wife, or suspicious of
his son, or distrustful of a friend. Run, run from that cloud
which is gathering so black! You cannot possibly miss the
thunder and lightning, when the matter which is now a secret
bursts out in storm.
How, then, are we to escape this vice? By turning our
inquisitiveness—as we have said—the other way round, and,
as far as possible, directing our minds to better and more
interesting objects. If you are to pry, pry into questions |D|
connected with sky, earth, air, or sea. You are by nature fond
of looking either at little things or at big things. If at big
things, apply your curiosity to the sun; ask where he sets and
whence he rises. Inquire into the changes of the moon, as if
118she were a human being. Ask where she loses so much of her
light, and whence she gets it back; how
Once dim, she first comes forth and makes
Her young face beauteous, gathering to the full,
And, when her greatest splendours she hath shown,
Fades out, and passes into naught again.
These, too, are secrets—the secrets of Nature; but Nature has
|E| no grievance against those who find them out. Are the big
things beyond you? Then pry into the smaller ones. Ask how
it is that some plants are always flourishing and green, proudly
displaying their wealth at every season, while others are at one
moment as good as these, but at another have squandered their
abundance all at once, like some human spendthrift, and are
left bare and beggared. Why, again, do some plants produce
elongated fruits, some angular, some round and globelike?
But perhaps you will have no curiosity for such concerns,
|F| because there is nothing wrong about them. Well, if inquisitiveness
absolutely must be always browsing and passing its time
among things sordid, like a maggot among dead matter, let us
introduce it to history and story, and supply it with bad things
in abundance and without stint. For there it will find
Fallings of men and spurnings-off of life,
seductions of women, assaults by slaves, slanderings of friends,
concoctions of poisons, envies, jealousies, shipwrecks of homes,
overthrows of rulers. Take your fill, enjoy yourself, and cause no
annoyance or pain to any of those with whom you come in contact.
Apparently, however, inquisitiveness finds no pleasure in
scandals which are stale; it wants them hot and fresh. And
|518| while it enjoys the spectacle of a novel tragedy, it takes no sort
of interest in the comedy or more cheerful side of life. Consequently
the busybody lends but a careless and indifferent ear
to the account of a wedding, a sacrifice, or a complimentary
119‘farewell’. He says he has already heard most of the details,
and urges the narrator to cut them short or omit them. But
if any one will sit by him and tell him the news about the corruption
of a girl or the unfaithfulness of a wife or an impending
action at law or a quarrel between brothers, there is no sleepiness
or hurry about him, but
More words still doth he ask, and proffers his ears to receive them.
As applied to the busybody, the words
How much more apt to reach the ear of man
An ill thing than a happy!
are a true saying. As a cupping-glass sucks from the flesh what |B|
is worst in it, so the inquisitive ear draws to itself the most
undesirable topics. To vary the figure: cities have certain
‘Accursed’ or ‘Dismal’ gates, through which they take out
criminals on their way to death and throw the refuse and
offscourings of purification, while nothing sacred or undefiled
goes in or out through them. So with the ears of the busybody.
They give passage to nothing fine or useful, but serve only as
the pathway of gruesome communications, with their load of
foul and polluted gossip.
No chance brings other minstrel to my roof,
But always Lamentation.
|C| That is the one Muse and Siren of the busybody, the most
pleasant of all music to his ear. For his vice is a love of finding
out whatever is secret and concealed, and no one conceals a good
thing when he has one; on the contrary, he will pretend to
one which has no existence. Since therefore it is troubles that
the busybody is eager to discover, the disease from which he
suffers is malignant gloating—own brother to envy and spite.
For envy is pain at another’s good; malignity is pleasure at
another’s harm; and the parent of both is ill-nature—the |D|
feeling of a savage or a brute beast.
120So painful do we all find it to have our troubles revealed, that
there are many who would rather die than tell a physician of
a secret disease. Imagine Herophilus or Erasistratus, or Asclepius
himself—when he was a mortal man—calling from house to
house with his drugs and his instruments, and asking whether
a man had a fistula or a woman a cancer in the womb! Inquisitiveness
in their profession may, it is true, save a life. None the
less, I presume, every one would have scouted such a person,
|E| for coming to investigate other people’s ailments without
waiting till he was required and sent for. Yet our busybody
searches out precisely these, or even worse, ailments; and, since
he does so not by way of curing them, but merely of disclosing
them, he deserves the hatred he gets.
We are annoyed and indignant with the collector of customs,[42]
not when he picks out and levies on those articles which we
import openly, but when, in the search for hidden goods, he
ransacks among baggage and merchandise which are not in
|F| question. Yet the law permits him to do so, and he is the
loser if he does not. On the other hand, the busybody lets his
own concerns go to ruin, while he is occupying himself with
those of other people. He rarely takes a walk to the farm; it is
too lonely, and he cannot bear the quiet and silence. And if,
after a time, he does chance along, he has a keener eye for his
neighbour’s vines than for his own. He proceeds to ask how
many of his neighbour’s cattle have died, or how much of his
wine turned sour. After a good meal of such news he is quickly
off and away.
Your true and genuine type of farmer has no desire to hear
even the news which finds its own way from the city. Says he:
Then, while he digs, he’ll tell
The terms o’the treaty. He must now, confound him,
Go round and poke his nose in things like that!
121|519| But to your busybody country life is a stale and uninteresting
thing with nothing to fuss about. He therefore flees from it,
and pushes into the Exchange, the Market, or the Harbour.
‘Is there any news?’ ‘Why, weren’t you at market early this
morning? Do you imagine there has been a revolution in three
hours?’ If, however, any one has a piece of news to tell, down
he gets from his horse, grasps the man’s hand, kisses him, and
stands there listening. But if some one meets him and says
there is nothing fresh, he exclaims, as if he were annoyed:
‘What? Haven’t you been at market? Haven’t you been near
the Board-Room? And haven’t you met the new arrivals from |B|
Italy?’
The Locrian magistrates therefore did right in fining any one
who, after being out of town, came up and asked, ‘Is there any
news?’ As the butchers pray for a good supply of animals, and
fishermen for a good supply of fish, so busybodies pray for a good
supply of calamities, for plenty of troubles, for novelties and
changes. They must always have their fish to catch or carcass
to cut up.
Another good rule was that of the legislator of Thurii, who
forbade the lampooning of citizens on the stage, with the exception
of adulterers and busybodies. The one class bears a resemblance
to the other, adultery being a sort of inquisitiveness into |C|
another’s pleasure, and a prying search into matters protected
from the general eye, while inquisitiveness is the illicit denuding
and corrupting of a secret. While a natural consequence of
much learning is having much to say, and therefore Pythagoras
enjoined upon the young a five years’ silence, which he called
‘Truce to Speech’, the necessary concomitant of curiosity is
speaking evil. What the curious delight to hear, they delight
to talk about; what they take pains to gather from others, they
joy in giving out to new hearers. It follows that, besides its |D|
other drawbacks, their disease actually stands in the way of its
122own desires. For every one is on his guard to hide things from
them, and is reluctant to do anything when the busybody is
looking, or to say anything when he is listening. People put off
a consultation and postpone the consideration of business until
such persons are out of the way. If, when a secret matter is
towards, or an important action is in the doing, a busybody
appears upon the scene, they take it away and hide it, as they
|E| would a piece of victuals when the cat comes past. Often,
therefore, he is the only person not permitted to hear or see
what others may see and hear.
For the same reason the busybody can find no one to trust
him. We would rather trust our letters, papers, or seals to
a slave or a stranger than to an inquisitive relation or friend.
Bellerophon, though the writing which he carried was about
himself, would not broach it, but showed the same continence
in keeping his hands off the king’s letter as in keeping them off
his wife.
Yes, inquisitiveness is as incontinent as adultery, and not only
incontinent, but terribly silly and foolish. To pass by so many
women who are public property, and to struggle to get at one
|F| who is kept under lock and key, who is expensive, and perhaps
ugly to boot, is the very height of insanity. The busybody is just
as bad. He passes by much that is admirable to see and hear,
many an excellent discourse or discussion, to dig into another
man’s poor little letter or clap his ear to his neighbour’s wall,
listening to slaves and womenfolk whispering together, and
incurring danger often, and discredit always.
|520| Well, if he wishes to get rid of his vice, the busybody will find
nothing so helpful as to think over the discoveries he has hitherto
made. Simonides used to say that, in opening his boxes after
a lapse of time, he found the fee-box always full and the thanks-box
always empty. So, if one were to open the store-room of
inquisitiveness after an interval, and to contemplate all the
123useless, futile, and uninviting things with which it is filled,
he would probably become sick of the business, so nauseating
and senseless would it appear.
Suppose a person to run over the works of our old writers
and pick out their faultiest passages, compiling and keeping a
book full of such things as ‘headless’ lines of Homer, solecisms |B|
in the tragedians, the indecent and licentious language to
women by which Archilochus makes a sorry show of himself.
Does he not deserve the execration in the tragedy:
Perish, thou picker-up of miseries!
Execration apart, his treasury, filled with other men’s faults,
possesses neither beauty nor use. It is like the town which
Philip founded with the rudest riff-raff, and which he called
Knaveborough.
With the busybody, however, it is not from lines of poetry, but
from lives, that he goes gleaning and gathering blunders and
slips and solecisms, till the memory which he carries about is
the dullest and dreariest record-box, crammed with ugly things. |C|
At Rome there are those who set no store by the paintings,
the statues, or—failing these—the handsome children or women
on sale, but who haunt the monster-market, examining specimens
with no calves to their legs, or with weasel-elbows, three
eyes, or ostrich-heads, and looking out for the appearance of any
Commingled shape and misformed prodigy.
Yet if you keep on showing them such sights, they will soon
become surfeited and sick of it all. In the same way those who
make it their business to pry into other people’s failures in their
affairs, blots on their pedigree, disturbances and delinquencies
in their homes, will do well to remind themselves how thankless |D|
and unprofitable their previous discoveries have proved.
The most effective way, however, of preventing this weakness
is to form a habit—to begin at an early stage and train ourselves
124systematically to acquire the necessary self-control. It is by
habit that the vice increases, the advance of the disease being
gradual. How this is, we shall see, in discussing the proper
method of practice.
Let us make a beginning with comparatively trifling and
insignificant matters.
On the roads it can be no difficult matter to abstain from reading
|E| the inscriptions on the tombs. Nor in the promenades can
there be any hardship in refusing to let the eye linger upon
the writings on the walls. You have only to tell yourself that
they contain nothing useful or entertaining. There is A expressing
his ‘kind sentiments’ towards B; So-and-So described
as ‘the best of friends’; and much mere twaddle of the same
kind. No doubt it seems as if the reading of them does you no
harm; but harm you it does, without your knowing it, by inducing
a habit of inquiring into things which do not concern
you. Hunters do not permit young hounds to turn aside and
|F| follow up every scent, but pull them sharply back with the leash,
so as to keep their power of smell in perfectly clean condition for
their proper work, and make it stick more keenly to the tracks:
With nostril a-search for the trail that the beast gives forth from its body.
The same watchfulness must be shown in suppressing, or in
diverting to useful ends, the tendency of an inquisitive person
to run off the track and wander after everything that he can
see or hear. An eagle or a lion gathers its talons in when it
|521| walks, so as not to wear the sharp edge from their tips. Similarly
let us treat the inquiring spirit as the keen edge to our love of
learning, and refrain from wasting or blunting it upon objects
of no value.
In the next place let us train ourselves, when passing another’s
door, to refrain from looking in, or from letting our inquisitive
125gaze clutch at what is passing inside. Xenocrates said—and we
shall do well to keep the remark in mind—that whether we set
foot or set eyes in another man’s house makes no difference.
Not only is such prying unfair and improper; we get no pleasure
from the spectacle.
Unsightly, stranger, are the sights within,
is a saying which is generally true of what we see inside—a litter
of pots and pans, or servant-girls sitting about, but nothing of |B|
any importance or interest. This furtive throwing of sidelong
glances, which at the same time gives a kind of squint to the
mind, is ugly, and the habit is demoralizing. When the Olympian
victor Dioxippus was making a triumphal entry in a chariot,
and could not drag his eyes from a beautiful woman among the
spectators, but kept turning half round and throwing side
glances in her direction, Diogenes—who saw it all—remarked,
‘See how a bit of a girl gets the neck-grip on our great athlete!’
Inquisitive people, however, are to be seen gripped by the neck
and twisted about by any kind of sight, when they once develop
a habit of squandering their glances in all directions.
This is assuredly no right use of the faculty of vision. It should |C|
not go gadding about like some ill-trained maidservant; but
when the mind sends it upon an errand, it should make haste
to reach its destination, deliver its message, and then come
quietly home again to wait upon the commands of the reason.
Instead of this, the case is as in Sophocles:
Thereon the Aenean driver’s hard-mouthed colts
Break from control.
When the faculty of vision has not been tutored and trained
in the proper manner as above described, it runs away, drags |D|
the mind with it, and often brings it into disastrous collisions.
There is a story that Democritus deliberately destroyed his sight
by fixing his eyes upon a red-hot mirror and allowing its heat
126to be focussed upon them. His object, it is said, was to block
up the windows toward the street, and thus prevent the disturbance
of his intellect by repeated calls from outside, enabling
it to stay at home and devote itself to pure thinking. Though
the story is a fiction, nothing is more true than that those who
make most use of their mind make few calls upon the senses.
Note how our halls of learning are built far out from the towns,
and how night has been styled the ‘well-minded‘, from a belief
|E| that quiet and the absence of distraction are a powerful aid to
intellectual discovery and research.
Suppose, again, that people are quarrelling and abusing each
other in the market-place. It requires no great effort of self-denial
to keep at a distance. When a crowd is running towards
a certain spot, it is easy for you to remain seated, or else, if you
lack the necessary strength of mind, to get up and go away.
There is no advantage to be got from mixing yourself with
busybodies, whereas you will derive great benefit from putting
a forcible check upon your curiosity and training it to obey
the commands of the reason.
|F| We may now go a step further, and tax ourselves more severely.
It is good practice, when a successful entertainment is going
on in a public hall, to pass it by; when our friends invite us
to a performance by a dancer or comedian, to decline; when
there is a roar in the race-ground or the circus, to take no notice.
Socrates used to urge the avoidance of all foods and drinks
which tempt one to eat when he is not hungry or to drink when
he is not thirsty. In the same way we shall do well to shun
carefully all appeals to eye or ear, when, though they are no
business of ours, their attractions prove too much for us.
Cyrus refused to see Panthea, and when Araspes talked of her
|522| remarkable beauty, his answer was: ‘All the more reason for
keeping away from her. If I took your advice and went to see
her, she might perhaps tempt me to be visiting her again when
127I could not spare the time, and to be sitting and looking at her
to the neglect of much important business.’ In the same way
Alexander refused to set eyes on Darius’ wife, who was said to
be strikingly handsome. Though he visited the mother—an
elderly woman—he would not bring himself to see her young
and beautiful daughter. But what we do is to peep into women’s
litters and hang about their windows, finding nothing improper
in encouraging our curiosity and allowing it such dangerous |B|
and unchecked play.
Note how you may train yourself for other virtues. To learn
justice you should sometimes forgo an honest gain, and so
accustom yourself to keep aloof from dishonest ones. Similarly, to
learn continence, you should sometimes hold aloof from your own
wife, and so secure yourself against temptation from another’s.
Apply this habit to inquisitiveness. Endeavour occasionally to
miss hearing or seeing things which concern yourself. When
something happens at home, and a person wishes to tell you of
it, put the matter off; and when things have been said which
appear to affect yourself, refuse to hear them. Remember how
Oedipus was brought into the direst disasters by over-curiosity.
Finding he was no Corinthian, but an alien, he set to work |C|
to discover who he was, and so he met with Laius. He killed
him, married his own mother, with the throne for dowry, and
then, while apparently blessed by fortune, began his search once
more. The endeavours of his wife to prevent him only made
him question still more closely, and in the most peremptory way,
the old man who was in the secret. And at last, when circumstances
are already bringing him to suspect, and the old man cries:
Alas! I stand on the dread brink of speech!
he is nevertheless in such a blaze or spasm of passion that he
replies:
And I of hearing; and yet hear I must.
128|D| So bitter-sweet, so uncontrollable, is the excitement of curiosity—like
the tickling of a wound, at which one tears till he makes it
bleed. Meanwhile if we are free from that malady, and mild
by nature, we shall ignore a disagreeable thing and say:
Sovran Oblivion, how wise art thou!
We must therefore train ourselves to this end. If a letter is
brought to us, we must not show all that hurry and eagerness
to open it which most people display, when they bite the
fastenings through with their teeth, if their hands are too slow.
When a messenger arrives from somewhere or other, we must
not run to meet him, nor get up from our seats. If a friend
|E| says, ‘I have something new to tell you,’ let us reply: ‘Better,
if you have something useful or profitable.’ When I was once
lecturing at Rome, the famous Rusticus—who was afterwards
put to death by Domitian out of jealousy at his reputation—was
among my hearers. A soldier came through the audience
and handed him a note from the emperor. There was a hush,
and I made a pause, to allow of his reading the letter. This,
however, he refused to do, nor would he open it, until I had
finished my discourse and the audience broke up. The incident
caused universal admiration at his dignified behaviour.
But when one feeds his inquisitiveness upon permissible
material until he makes it robust and headstrong, he no longer
|F| finds it easy to master, when force of habit urges it towards
forbidden ground. Such persons will stealthily open their
friends’ missives, will push their way into a confidential meeting,
will get a view of rites which it is an impiety to see, will tread
in hallowed places, and will pry into the doings and sayings of
a king.
Now with a despot—who is compelled to know everything—there
is nothing that makes him so detested as the crew known
as his ‘ears’ and ‘jackals’. ‘Listeners’ were first instituted
129by Darius the Younger, who had no confidence in himself and
looked upon every one with fear and suspicion. ‘Jackals’ were |523|
the creation of the Dionysii, who distributed them among the
people of Syracuse. Naturally, when the revolution came,
these were the first to be seized and cudgelled to death by the
Syracusans.
Blackmailers and informers are a breed belonging to the Busybody
clan; they are members of the family. But, whereas the
informer looks to see if his neighbours have done or plotted any
mischief, the busybody brings to book and drags into public
even the misfortunes for which they are not responsible. It
is said that the outcast derived his name of aliterios in the
first instance from being a busybody. It appears that when
a severe famine once occurred at Athens, and when those who
were in possession of wheat, instead of bringing it in to the public |B|
stock, used to grind it (alein) secretly by night in their houses,
certain persons, who went round watching for the noise of the
mills, were in consequence called aliterioi. It was in the same
way, we are told, that the informer won his name of sukophantes.
The export of figs (suka) being prohibited, those who gave
information (phainein) and impeached the offenders were called
sukophantai. Busybodies would do well to reflect upon this
fact. It may make them ashamed of the family likeness between
their own practices and those of a class which is a special object
of loathing and anger.
ON GARRULOUSNESS
130
|502 B| When philosophy undertakes to cure garrulity it has a difficult
and intractable case in hand. The remedy is reason, which
requires that the patient should listen. But the garrulous person
|C| does not listen, for he is always talking. Herein lies the first
trouble with an inability to keep silent; it means an inability
to listen. It is the deliberate deafness of a person who appears
to find fault with nature for giving him two ears and only one
tongue. Euripides is, of course, right when he says of the
unintelligent hearer:
I cannot fill a man who cannot hold
My wise words, poured and poured in unwise ears.
But there is more reason to say of the babbler:
I cannot fill a man who takes not in
My wise words, poured and poured in unwise ears,
—or rather poured over them, since he talks though you do
|D| not listen, and refuses to listen when you talk. For even if,
thanks to some ebb in his loquacity, he does listen for a
moment, he immediately makes up for it several times over.
There is a colonnade at Olympia which reverberates a single
utterance time after time, and is therefore known as the ‘Seven-Voiced’.
Say but the least thing to set garrulity sounding, and
it immediately dins you with its echoes:
Stirring the strings o’ the mind that none should stir.
The passage through the babbler’s ears leads, apparently, not
to his mind, but to his tongue. Consequently, while others
|E| retain what is said, the loquacious person lets it all leak away,
and goes about like a vessel full of noise but void of sense.
131Nevertheless, if we are resolved to leave no stone unturned,
let us say to the babbler:
Hush, boy: in silence many a virtue lies,
and, first and foremost, the two virtues of hearing and being
heard. The garrulous person can get the benefit of neither, and
makes a miserable failure of the very thing he is aiming at.
In other mental maladies—love of money, love of glory, love
of pleasure—there is at least a chance of gaining the object
pursued. But with the babbler that result can hardly happen. |F|
What he desires is listeners, and listeners he cannot get, for they
all run headlong away. If, when they are sitting in a lounge
or taking a walk together, they catch sight of him approaching,
they promptly pass each other the word to shift camp.
When a silence occurs at some meeting, it is said that Hermes
has appeared upon the scene. Similarly, when a chatterer comes
in to a wine-party or a social circle, everybody grows mum, for |503|
fear of giving him an opportunity. And if he begins of his own
accord to open his lips, then
As ere the storm, when the North wind blows
By the headland that juts to the deep,
the prospect of being tossed and seasick is so distressing that
up they get and out they go.
For the same reason he finds no welcome from neighbours
at a dinner or from messmates on a journey or a voyage. They
merely tolerate him because they must. For he sticks to you
anywhere and everywhere, seizing you by the clothes or the
beard, and slapping you in the ribs.
Then are your feet most precious,
as Archilochus would say—and not only Archilochus, but that
wise man Aristotle. When the latter was himself once worried |B|
by a chatterer, who bored him with a number of silly stories
132and kept repeating, ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Aristotle?’ he retorted,
‘The wonder is not at that, but at any one tolerating you, when
he owns a pair of legs.’ To another person of the kind, who,
after a great deal of talk, remarked, ‘Master, I have wearied
you with my chatter,’ he replied, ‘Not at all; I was not
listening.’ Precisely so. If a chatterer insists on talking, the
mind surrenders the ears to him and lets the stream pour over
them on the outside, while inwardly it goes its own way, opening
|C| and reading to itself a book of quite different thoughts. It
follows that he can get no hearer either to attend to him or to
believe him. A babbler’s talk is as barren of effect as the seed
of a person over-prone to sexualities is said to be.
And yet there is no part of us which Nature has fenced with
so excellent a barricade as the tongue. In front of that organ
it has planted a guard in the shape of the teeth, so that, if it
will not obey orders and pull itself together inside when reason
tightens the ‘silence-working reins‘,[43] we may check its rashness
by biting it till it bleeds. The phrase of Euripides is that
‘disaster is the end’ not of an ‘unchained’ treasury or storeroom,
but of an ‘unchained mouth‘. To recognize that a storeroom
without a door, or a purse without a fastening, is of no
use to the owner, and yet to possess a mouth without lock or
door, but with as perpetual an outflow as the mouth of the
|D| Black Sea, is to set the lowest possible value on speech.
The result is that such a person meets with no belief, though
all speech has that object, its final cause being to create precisely
such credence in the hearer. A chatterer is disbelieved even
when he tells the truth. For as wheat, when shut in a bin, is
found to increase in bulk but to deteriorate in quality, so, when
a story finds its way into a chatterer, it generates a large addition
of falsehood and its credibility is thereby corrupted.
133Again, any self-respecting and well-behaved person will
beware of drunkenness. For while—as some put it—anger lives
next door to madness, drunkenness lives in the same house. |E|
Or rather it is madness, of shorter duration, it is true, but more
culpable, as being in a measure voluntary. But the charge most
seriously urged against drunkenness is its intemperate and irresponsible
language:
For though right shrewd be a man, wine eggs him on till he singeth;
It loosens him that he laughs with a feeble laughter, and danceth.
Yet if this were the worst—singing, laughing, and dancing—there
would be, so far, nothing very terrible.
And he letteth slip some speech, the which were better unspoken:—
|F| that is where the mischief and danger begin.
We may, indeed, believe that these lines of the poet give
the solution of the question discussed in the philosophic schools
as to the distinction between mellowness and intoxication:
mellowness produces unbending, but drunkenness foolish twaddling.
As the proverb-makers put it, ‘What is in the sober
man’s heart is on the drunken man’s tongue.’ Hence when Bias
once kept silent at a carousal, and a chatterer taunted him with
stupidity, he retorted: ‘And, pray, who could keep silent over
his wine, if he were a fool?’ A certain person at Athens was |504|
once entertaining envoys from a king, and, as they were eager
for him to get together the philosophic teachers, he made
every effort to gratify them. While the rest took part in general
discussion, to which each contributed his quota, Zeno said
nothing. At this the visitors, pledging him in friendly and
courteous terms, asked him, ‘And what are we to say to the
king about you, Zeno?’ ‘Merely,’ replied he, ‘that there is
one old man at Athens who is capable of holding his tongue |*|
when drinking.’
134Silence, then, goes with depth, the capacity to keep a secret,
|B| and sobriety. Drunkenness, on the other hand, will be talking,
for it means folly and witlessness, and therefore loquacity. In
fact, the philosophic definition of intoxication calls it ‘silly
talk in one’s cups‘. The blame, therefore, is not for drinking,
if one can drink and yet at the same time hold his tongue.
It is the foolish talk that converts mellowness into drunkenness.
Well, while the drunken man talks nonsense at his wine, the
babbler talks it everywhere—in the market-place, in the theatre,
when walking, when tipsy, by day and by night. As your doctor,
he is a greater infliction than the disease; as your shipmate,
more disagreeable than the sea-sickness; his praises are more
annoying than another person’s blame. A tactful rogue is more
pleasant company than an honest chatterer. In Sophocles, when
|C| Ajax is beginning to use rough language, Nestor, in endeavouring
to soothe him, says politely:
I blame thee not; for though thy words are wrong,
Thine acts are right.
But those are not our feelings towards the twaddler. On the
contrary, the tactlessness of his talk spoils and nullifies anything
acceptable in what he may do.
Lysias once gave a litigant a speech which he had composed
for him. After reading it several times the man came back.
In a despondent tone he told Lysias that, when he first went
through the speech, it appeared wonderfully good, but on taking
it up a second and third time, he found it extremely weak and
ineffective. ‘Well,’ said Lysias laughing, ‘isn’t it only once
|D| that you have to speak it before the jury?’ And consider how
persuasive and charming Lysias is! For he is another who
Hath goodly portion, I trow,
Of the Muses violet-tress’d.
Of all things that are said about the great bard the truest is
135this—that Homer alone manages never to cloy the appetite,
since he is always new, and his charm always at its height.
Nevertheless, exclaiming on his own account in the words of
Odysseus: |*|
But to me it is hateful
To tell o’er a story again, when once right plainly ’tis told you,
he is continually avoiding that tendency to surfeit which threatens
talk of every kind, carrying his hearers from one story to another,
and relieving their satiety by his constant freshness.
Our babblers, on the contrary, bore us to death with their
repetitions, as if our ears were palimpsests for them to scrawl
rubbish upon.
Let this, then, be the first thing of which we remind them. |E|
It is with talking as it is with wine. The purpose of wine is to
create pleasure and friendly feeling; but to insist upon our
drinking it in great quantities and without qualifying it, is to
lead us into offensive and wanton behaviour. So, while talk
plays the most pleasant and human part in our intercourse,
those who make a wrong and rash use of it render it inhuman
and insufferable. The means by which they imagine they are
ingratiating themselves and gaining admiration and friendship,
only makes them a nuisance and wins them ridicule and dislike.
How destitute of charm would be a person who alienated
his company and drove them away with the very ‘girdle of
charm’! And how destitute of culture and tact is the man |F|
who arouses annoyance and hostility by means of speech!
Other infirmities and disorders may be dangerous or detestable
or ridiculous. Garrulity is all three at once. It is derided for
relating what everybody knows; it is hated for bearing bad
news; it is endangered through blabbing secrets. This is the |505|
reason why, when Anacharsis went to sleep after being entertained
at dinner at Solon’s house, he was seen to be holding
his right hand over his mouth. He believed—quite rightly—that
136the tongue requires a firmer control than any other member.
It would be difficult, for instance, to count up as many persons
who have been ruined by sensuality, as cities and dominions
which have been brought to destruction by the divulgence of a
secret. When Sulla was besieging Athens, he could not afford
to spend much time upon it,
Since other labour was urging,
Mithridates having seized upon Asia, and the Marian party
|B| being again masters of Rome. It happened, however, that
a number of old men were talking at a barber’s, to the effect
that no watch was kept upon the Heptachalcon and that the
town was in danger of capture at that point. They were overheard
by spies, who gave information to Sulla; and he promptly
brought up his forces at midnight, led in his army, and almost
razed the city to the ground, filling it with carnage till the
Cerameicus flowed with blood. His anger with the Athenians
was, however, due more to their words than to their deeds.
They would leap on to the walls, and abuse him and Metella,
and by jeering at him with |C|
A mulberry is Sulla, sprinkled o’er with barley-meal,
and a number of similar scurrilities, they brought upon themselves—to
use a phrase of Plato—‘a very heavy penalty’ for
that ‘very light’ thing, their words.
It was, again, the talkativeness of one man that prevented
Rome from obtaining its freedom by the removal of Nero.
All preparations had been made, and only a single night was
left before the despot was to perish. It happened, however,
that the man who was to perform the assassination, when on
his way to the theatre, saw a prisoner at the palace doors on the
point of being brought before Nero. As he was bewailing his
fate, our friend came up close and whispered to him, ‘My good
|D| man, only pray that to-day may pass, and to-morrow you will
137be offering me thanks.’ The prisoner grasped the meaning of
the hint, and reflecting, I suppose, that
’Tis a fool who forgoes what he holds, to pursue what is out of his keeping,
chose the surer rather than the more righteous way of saving
himself. That is to say, he informed Nero of the expression
used. The man was thereupon promptly seized, and underwent
rack, fire, and lash while denying, in the face of constraint,
what he had betrayed without any constraint.
The philosopher Zeno, for fear that bodily suffering might
force him to reveal some secret in spite of himself, bit through
his tongue and spat it out at the despot. Leaena, again, has
been gloriously rewarded for her self-command. She was the |E|
mistress of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, and she shared in their
plot against the despots—to the best of her hopes, which was
all a woman could do. For she also was inspired with the
bacchic frenzy of that glorious ‘bowl of love‘, and the God had
caused her also to be initiated into the secret. Well, after they
had failed and met their death, she was put to the question and
ordered to inform against those who still escaped detection.
She refused, and the firmness with which she bore her sufferings |F|
proved that, in the love of those heroes for such a woman,
there was nothing unworthy of themselves. The Athenians
therefore had a bronze lioness made without a tongue, and set
it up in the gates of the Acropolis, that courageous animal
representing her indomitable firmness, and the absence of a
tongue her power of silence in keeping a solemn secret.
No uttered word has ever done such service as many which
have been unuttered. You may some day utter what you have
kept silent, but you cannot unsay what has been said; it has
been poured out, and has run abroad. Hence, I take it, we have
mankind to teach us how to speak, but gods to teach us how to
138keep silent, our lesson in that art being received at initiatory
|506| rites and mysteries. Odysseus, who possessed most eloquence,
the poet has made most reticent; he has done the same with
his son, his wife, and his nurse. You hear how she says:
Like stubborn oak or like iron will I hold your secret and keep it.
In the case of Odysseus himself, as he sat beside Penelope,
Though in his heart he pitied his wife, and was sore at her weeping,
Steady within their lids stood his eyes as horn or as iron.
|B| So full of self-command was his body in every part, under such
perfect discipline and control did reason hold it, that it forbade
the eyes to shed a tear, the tongue to utter a sound, the heart
to tremble or cry out with rage;
And his heart once more did obey, and endure with a patient enduring,
inasmuch as reason had extended even to his irrational movements
and made his very breath and blood amenable to its
authority. Most of his comrades also were of the same character.
Self-command and loyalty could no further go than in their case.
Though harried and dashed upon the ground by the Cyclops,
they would not denounce Odysseus to him. They would not
betray the plot against his eye and the implement which had
|C| been sharpened in the fire for that purpose; but they chose
to be eaten raw rather than tell a word of the secret.
Pittacus, therefore, was not far out, when, upon the King of
Egypt sending him a sacrificial victim and bidding him pick
out the ‘fairest and foulest’ part of the meat, he took out and
sent him the tongue, as being the instrument of both the
greatest good and the greatest evil.
Euripides’ Ino, making bold to speak for herself, says that she
knows how to be
Silent in season, speak where speech is safe.
139Those, indeed, who are blessed with a noble and a truly royal
education, know first how to be silent and then how to talk.
The famous king Antigonus, when his son asked him at what |D|
hour they were to break camp, replied, ‘What are you afraid of?
That you may be the only one to miss hearing the trumpet?’
Was it that he did not trust with a secret the man to whom he
intended to bequeath his throne? Rather he meant to teach
him self-mastery and caution in dealing with such matters.
The aged Metellus, on being asked a similar question during
a campaign, answered, ‘If I thought my shirt knew that secret,
I would take it off and put it on the fire.’ When Eumenes
heard that Craterus was advancing, he told the fact to none of
his friends, but pretended that it was Neoptolemus, whom his |E|
soldiers despised, whereas they entertained a great respect for
the reputation of Craterus and a high esteem of his ability.
As, however, no one else found out the truth, they joined battle,
won the victory, killed Craterus without knowing him, and only
discovered who he was from his corpse. So good a general was
the silence of Eumenes in the battle, and so formidable the
opponent whose presence it disguised, that his friends admired
instead of blaming him for not forewarning them. Even if
some one does find fault, it is better to be accused when mistrust
has saved you than to be the accuser when trust proves your
undoing.
What excuse can one possibly find for himself when blaming
another for not holding his tongue? If the matter ought not to |F|
have been known, it was wrong to tell it to any one else. If you
let the secret slip from yourself, and yet ask another person to
keep it, you take refuge in the loyalty of some one else while
abandoning loyalty to yourself. And if he turns out as bad as
you, you are deservedly undone; if better, you are saved by
a miracle, through finding another person more faithful to you
than yourself. ‘But So-and-So is my friend.’ So is a second
140person his friend, whom he again will trust as I trust him.
So with that person and a third, and thus the talk will go on
|507| increasing and extending in link after link of weak betrayal. The
Unit never goes beyond its own limit, but is, once and for all,
‘oneness’—whence its name. But the number ‘two’ is the
indefinite beginning of difference, for by the duplication it at
once shifts in the direction of multitude. In the same way, so
long as a piece of information is confined to the first possessor, it is
really and truly a ‘secret’. But if it passes by him to a second,
it must be classed as a ‘report’. ‘Winged words,’ says the poet.
If you let go from your hand a thing with wings, it is not easy
to get it back into your grasp; and if you let an observation
slip from your lips, it is impossible to seize and secure it, but
away it flies
on nimbly-whirling wing,
and circulates in all directions from one set of people to another.
When a ship is caught by a wind, they put a check upon it
|B| and deaden its speed with cables and anchors; but let a speech
run—so to speak—out of port, and it finds no place to cast and
ride at anchor. It is carried away with a roar, till he who has
uttered it is dashed and sunk upon some great and terrible
danger.
From but a little torch-light Ida’s heights
May all be set ablaze; so, tell but one,
And all the town will know it.
The Roman Senate had been engaged for a number of days
|C| in debating a secret matter of policy. As it gave rise to much
mystification and conjecture, a woman—otherwise irreproachable,
but still a woman—kept pestering her husband and
imploring him to tell her the secret. On her oath, she would
be silent: if not, might a curse fall upon her. She wept and
wailed because she was ‘not trusted’. From a desire to bring
home her folly by a proof, the Roman said, ‘Have your way,
141wife. But the news is terribly ominous. We have been informed
by the priests that a lark has been seen flying about with a gold
helmet and a spear. We are therefore discussing the portent,
and are inquiring, with the help of the augurs, whether it is
good or bad. But mind you tell nobody.’ With these words
he went off to the Forum. The wife at once seized hold of |D|
the first maid-servant to enter the room, and, beating her own
breast and tearing her hair, exclaimed, ‘O my poor husband
and country! What will become of us?‘, her wish being to
give the maid the opportunity of asking ‘Why, what has happened?’
At any rate she took the question as put, and told the
tale, adding the invariable refrain of every babbler, ‘Tell no one
about it, but hold your tongue.’ The girl no sooner left her
than she looked for the fellow-servant who had least to do, and |E|
imparted it to her. She in turn told it to her lover, who was
paying her a visit. The story went rolling on so rapidly that it
reached the Forum before the man who had invented it, and
he was met by an acquaintance, who said, ‘Have you just
come down from home?’ ‘This minute,’ he replied. ‘Then
you haven’t heard anything?’ ‘No. Why? Is there any
news?’ ‘A lark has been seen flying about with a gold helmet
and a spear, and the magistrates are about to hold a Senate
meeting on the matter.’ At this the man exclaimed with
a laugh, ‘O wife, wife! What a speed! To think the story
has got to the Forum ahead of me!’ First he interviewed the
magistrates and relieved their anxiety; then, on going home, |F|
he proceeded to punish his wife by saying, ‘Wife, you have been
the ruin of me. The secret is public property, and the fault
has been traced to my house. And so I am to be exiled, all
because of your loose tongue.’ Upon her attempting to deny
it by arguing ‘But there were three hundred who heard it as
well as you’, he retorted ‘Pooh for your three hundred! I
invented it to try you, all because of your persistence’.
142In this case the man took safe precautions in putting his wife
|508| to the test, by pouring into the leaky vessel not wine or oil, but
water. It was otherwise with Fulvius, the close friend of
Augustus. The emperor in his old age was lamenting to him
over his desolate home and grieving because, two of his daughter’s
children being dead, and Postumius, the only one left, being
in exile on some calumnious charge, he was being driven to
adopt his wife’s son as his successor, although he felt compassion
|B| for his grandson and was considering the question of recalling
him from abroad. Fulvius divulged what he had heard to his
wife, and she to Livia; whereupon Livia took Caesar bitterly
to task, asking why, if he had been so long of this mind, he did
not send for his grandson, instead of putting her in a position
of enmity and strife with the successor to the throne. Accordingly,
when Fulvius came to him—as he regularly did—in the
morning and said ‘Good morning, Caesar’, he replied ‘Good-bye,
Fulvius’. Fulvius took the hint, went away home at once,
sent for his wife, and said, ‘Caesar knows that I have betrayed
his secret, and I propose therefore to put myself to death.’
‘Rightly too,’ answered his wife, ‘seeing that, after living with
|C| me so long, you failed to discover the looseness of my tongue
and to guard against it. But after me, if you please’—and seizing
the sword she despatched herself first.
The comic poet Philippides therefore acted rightly when, in
answer to the friendly civilities of King Lysimachus and his
question ‘What is there of mine that I can share with you?‘,
he replied ‘What you choose, Sire, except your secrets.’
On the other hand garrulity goes with the equally objectionable
vice of inquisitiveness. The babbler must find much to
hear, so that he may have much to tell. Especially must he
go round tracking and hunting out hidden secrets, so as to provide
himself with a miscellaneous stock-in-trade for his foolish
|D| talk. Then, like a child with a piece of ice, he neither likes to
143keep hold nor wants to let go. Or rather, the secrets are reptiles,
which he grasps and puts in his bosom, but which he cannot
hold tight, and so is devoured by them. Garfish and vipers—so
we are told—burst in giving birth to their young. So the escape
of a secret is ruin and destruction to him who lets it out.
Seleucus the Victorious, having lost all his army and resources
in his fight with the Gauls, tore off his royal circlet with his
own hands, and fled away on horseback with three or four
attendants. After a long and circuitous ride away from the
highroads, he was at last so overcome by want that he approached
a homestead, and being fortunate enough to find the owner in |E|
person, asked him for bread and water. The man not only
gave him these, but supplied him liberally and in the most
friendly way with whatever else he had upon his farm. In doing
so he recognized the king’s face. So overjoyed was he at his
fortunate opportunity of rendering him service, that, instead of
restraining himself and playing up to the king’s desire to be
unknown, he accompanied him as far as the road, and, on taking
his leave, said, ‘Good-bye, King Seleucus.’ At this the king,
holding out his right hand and drawing the man towards him
as if to kiss him, gave a sign to one of the attendants to cut off
his head with a sword;
And so, with the word on his lips, his head in the dust lay mingled,—
whereas, if he had then had the patience to hold his tongue |F|
for a little while, he would in all probability, when the king
subsequently won success and power, have earned a larger
return for his silence than for his hospitality.
In this case, it is true, the man’s hopes and kindly feeling
formed some excuse for his lack of self-command. Most
babblers, however, have no excuse at all for their own undoing.
For example, people were once talking in a barber’s shop about
144the despotism of Dionysius, and saying how firmly established
it was against all assault. At this the barber remarked laughingly,
‘How can you say that, when every few days I have my
|509| razor at his throat?’ No sooner did Dionysius hear of this
speech than he impaled the barber.
Barbers, by the way, are generally a garrulous crew. Their
chairs being the resort of the greatest chatterers, they catch
the bad habit themselves. It was a neat quip that Archelaus
once gave to a loquacious barber. After putting the towel
round him, the man asked, ‘How shall I cut your hair, Sire?’
‘In silence,’ he replied. It was a barber also who reported the
great disaster of the Athenians in Sicily, he having been the
first to hear it at the Peiraeus from a slave, who had run away
|B| from the spot. Abandoning his shop, he hurried at full speed
to town,
Lest another the glory might win
by imparting the news to the capital,
while he might come but the second.
A panic naturally ensued, and the people were gathered to an
assembly, where they set to work to trace the rumour to its
source. When, however, the barber was brought forward and
questioned, he did not even know the name of his informant,
but could only give as his authority a person unnamed and unknown.
Thereupon the audience shouted in anger: ‘To the
rack and the wheel with the wretch! The thing is a pure concoction!
Who else has heard it? Who believes it?’ The wheel
|C| had been brought, and the man had been stretched upon it,
when there appeared upon the scene the bearers of the disastrous
news, who had escaped from the very midst of the action.
At this they all dispersed, to occupy themselves with their private
griefs, leaving the poor wretch bound upon the wheel. When
at a late hour towards evening he was set free, he proceeded to
145ask the executioner ‘whether they had also heard in what manner
Nicias, the commander, had met his death’. Such a hopeless and
incorrigible failing does garrulity become through force of habit.
After drinking a bitter and evil-smelling medicine, we are
disgusted with the cup as well. In the same way, if you are the
bearer of bad news, you are regarded with disgust and hatred
by those who hear it. Hence a pretty discussion in Sophocles: |D|
A. Is it in ear or heart that thou art stung?
B. Why seek thus to define where lies my pain?
A. ’Tis the doer grieves thine heart, I but thine ears.
Be that as it may, a speaker causes pain as well as a doer. Nevertheless
there is no stopping or chastening a loose, glib tongue.
On one occasion it was discovered that the temple of Athena
‘Of the Bronze House’ at Sparta had been pillaged, and an
empty flask was found lying inside. The crowd which had
run together could make nothing of it, when one of their
number said, ‘If you like, I will tell you my notion as to the
flask. I fancy the robbers, realizing all the danger they were to
run, first drank hemlock, and then brought wine with them.
If they managed to escape detection, they were to neutralize |E|
the effects of the poison by drinking the unmixed wine, and so
get away in safety. If they were caught, they were to die an
easy and painless death from the poison, before they could be
put to torture.’ The theory was so ingenious and acute that it
appeared to come of knowledge rather than conjecture. He was
therefore surrounded and questioned on every side—‘Who are |F|
you? Who knows you? How do you get to know all that?‘—till
finally, under this searching examination, he confessed that
he was one of the thieves.
Were not the murderers of Ibycus found out in the same way?
As they were sitting in the theatre, a number of cranes happened
to come in sight, and they whispered laughingly to one another,
‘Here are the avengers of Ibycus!’ They were overheard by
146persons sitting near them, and as a search was being made for
Ibycus, who had been missing for a considerable time, the
words were seized upon and reported to the magistrates. By
this means the matter was brought home, and the assassins
carried off to prison, where their punishment was due, not to
the cranes, but to their own garrulity, which played the part
|510| of an Erinys or Spirit of Vengeance in compelling them to
divulge the murder. For as in the body, when a part is diseased
or in pain, the neighbouring matter gathers towards it by
attraction; so is it with the babbler’s tongue. Perpetually
throbbing and inflamed, it must keep drawing towards itself
some secret or other which ought to be concealed.
We must therefore make ourselves secure. Let Reason lie
like a barrier in the way of the tongue, to restrain its flow or
prevent its slipping. And let us show that we possess no less
|B| sense than certain geese of which we are told. It is said that,
when they cross from Cilicia over the Taurus Range—which is
full of eagles—they clap a bolt or bit upon their utterance.
That is to say, they take in their mouths a good-sized stone,
and so fly over at night without being discovered.
Now if it were asked
Who it is that is the vilest, who most unredeemed of men,
it is the traitor who would always be named before any one
else. Well, Euthycrates (as Demosthenes puts it) ‘roofed his
house with the timber got from Macedon‘. Philocrates received
a large sum of gold and proceeded to buy ‘strumpets and fish‘.
Euphorbus and Philagrus, who betrayed Eretria, received lands
|C| from the Persian king. But the babbler is a traitor who volunteers
his services without pay, not in the way of betraying
horses or fortresses, but of divulging secrets connected with
lawsuits, party feuds, or political manœuvres. Instead of
any one thanking him, he actually has to thank people for
147listening to him. The line addressed to a man who was recklessly
squandering his money by giving indiscriminate presents—
Not generous, you: ’tis your disease; you love to be a-giving—
fits the prater also. ‘You do not give this information out of
friendliness and goodwill. ’Tis your disease; you love to be
a-talking and a-babbling.’
These remarks are not to be regarded as simply an indictment
of garrulity. They are an attempt to cure it. An ailment is |D|
overcome by diagnosis and treatment, but diagnosis comes first.
No one can be trained to avoid or to rid his mental constitution
of a thing which causes him no distress. That distress we learn
to feel at our disorders, when reason leads us to perceive the
injury and shame which result from them. Thus in the present
instance we perceive that the babbler is hated where he desires
to be liked, annoys where he wishes to ingratiate himself, is
derided where he thinks he is admired, and spends without
gaining anything by it. He wrongs his friends, assists his |E|
enemies, and ruins himself. The first step, therefore, in physicing
this disorder, is to reflect upon the disgrace and pain which
it causes. The second is to consider the advantages of the
contrary behaviour, constantly hearing, remembering, and
keeping at our call the praises of reticence, the solemn and
sacramental associations of silence, and the fact that it is not
by your unbridled talker at large that admiration, regard, and
reputation for wisdom are won, but by the man of short and
pithy speech, who can pack much sense into few words.
We find Plato commending such persons, and saying that, in |F|
their deliverance of crisp, terse, and compact utterances, they
resemble a skilful javelineer. Lycurgus, again, forced his fellow-citizens
to acquire this gift of compression and solidity by
applying the pressure of silence from their earliest childhood.
The Celtiberians produce steel from iron by first burying
148it in the ground and then clearing away the earthy surplusage.
So is it with Lacedaemonian speech. It has no surplusage, but
is steadily hardened down to absolute effectiveness by the
removal of everything unessential. And this knack of theirs of
saying a pithy thing, or making a keen and nimble retort, is the
result of a great habit of silence.
|511| We must not omit to give our chatterer examples of such
brevities, in order to show how pretty and effective they are.
For instance:
The Lacedaemonians to Philip: Dionysius at Corinth;
and, again, when Philip wrote to them ‘If I enter Laconia,
I will turn you out‘, they wrote back, ‘If.’ When King Demetrius
shouted in his indignation, ‘Have the Lacedaemonians
sent only one envoy to me?‘, the envoy replied undismayed,
‘One to one.’ Among our ancient worthies also we admire
|B| the men of few words. It was not the Iliad or the Odyssey
or the paeans of Pindar that the Amphictyons inscribed upon
the temple of the Pythian Apollo, but the maxims Know
Thyself: Nothing in Excess: Give pledge, and Mischief is nigh,
which they admired for their simple and compact expression,
with its closely-hammered thought in small compass. And does
not the god himself show a love of conciseness and brevity in
his oracles, deriving his name of ‘Loxias’ from the fact that he
would rather be obscure than garrulous?
Do we not also particularly praise and admire those who can
say, by means of a symbol and without speaking a word, all that
|C| is necessary? For instance, when his fellow-citizens insisted
upon Heracleitus proposing some measure for the promotion
of concord, he mounted the platform, took a cup of cold water,
sprinkled it with barley-meal, stirred it with a slip of pennyroyal,
drank it off, and went home. This was his way of intimating
that to be satisfied with the commonest things, and to have no
149expensive wants, is the way to maintain a community in peace
and concord. Another case is that of Scilurus, the Scythian
king, who left behind him eighty sons. When he was dying,
he called for a bundle of small spears, and bade them take and
break it in pieces, tied together as it was, and in the mass.
When they gave up the task, he himself drew the spears out one
by one and snapped them all with ease, thereby demonstrating |D|
how invincible was their strength if harmoniously united, how
weak and short-lived if they did not hold together.
Any one, I believe, who constantly recalls these and the like
examples, will cease to take a pleasure in chattering. But—speaking
for myself—there is a story of a certain slave which
greatly discourages me, when I reflect how hard it is to be so
careful of our words as to make sure of our purpose. The orator
Pupius Piso, not wishing to be troubled, ordered his slaves to
talk only in answer to questions, and not a word more. Subsequently,
being anxious to welcome Clodius in his official
position, he gave orders for him to be invited to dinner, and
prepared what was, of course, a splendid banquet. When the
hour arrived, the other guests were all present and waiting for |E|
Clodius. The slave who regularly carried the invitations was
repeatedly sent out to see whether he was on his way. When
evening came and he was given up in despair, Piso said to the
slave, ‘Of course you took him the invitation?’ ‘I did,’ he
answered. ‘Then why has he not appeared?’ ‘Because he
refused.’ ‘Then why did you not tell me so at once?’ ‘Because
you did not ask me that question.’
So much for the slave at Rome, whereas at Athens he will tell
his master while digging
What terms are named i’ the treaty,
so great in all things is the force of habituation. To habituation
let us now turn.
150|F| We cannot check the babbler by taking, as it were, a grip
on the reins. The malady can only be overcome by habit.
In the first place, therefore, when questions are asked of your
neighbours, train yourself to keep silent until they have all
failed to answer.
Counsel hath other ends than running hath,
says Sophocles, and so has speech or answer. In running, the
victor is the man who comes in first, but here the case is different.
If another makes a satisfactory reply, the proper course is to
lend approval and a word of support, and so win credit for good
|512| feeling. If he fails, there is nothing invidious or inopportune in
giving the information which he does not possess, or in supplementing
his deficiencies. But above all things let us be on our
guard, when a question is put to another person, that we do
not anticipate him and take the answer out of his mouth.
In any case in which a request is made of another it is, of course,
improper for us to push him aside and offer our own services.
By doing so we shall appear to be casting a slur on both parties;
as if the one were incapable of performing what is asked, and as
if the other did not know the right quarter from which to get
what he asks for. But it is especially in connexion with answers
to questions that such impudent forwardness is an outrage on
|B| manners. To give the answer before the person questioned has
time, implies the remark, ‘What do you want him for?‘, or
‘What does he know?‘, or, ‘When I am present, nobody else
should be asked that question.’
Yet we often put a question to a person, not because we need
the information, but by way of eliciting from him a few words
of a friendly nature, or from a wish to lead him on to converse,
as Socrates did with Theaetetus and Charmides. To take the
answer out of another’s mouth, to divert attention to yourself
and wrest it from another, is as bad as if, when a person desired
151to be kissed by some one else, you ran forward and kissed him
yourself, or as if, when he was looking at another, you twisted
him round in your own direction. The right and proper |C|
course, even if the person who is asked for information cannot
give it, is to wait, to take your cue to answer from the wish
of the questioner—his invitation not having been addressed
to you—and then to meet the situation in a modest and
mannerly way. If a person of whom a question is asked makes
a mistake in answering it, he meets with a due measure of
indulgence; but one who pushes himself forward and insists
on answering first, receives no welcome if he is right, while,
if he is wrong, he becomes an object of positive exultation and
derision.
The second item of our regimen concerns the answering of
questions put to ourselves. Our garrulous friend must be particularly
careful with these. In the first place he must not be
deceived into giving serious replies to those who merely provoke
him into a discussion in order to make a laughing-stock of him. |D|
Sometimes persons who require no information simply concoct
a question for the amusement and fun of the thing, and submit
it to a character of this kind in order to set his foolish tongue
wagging. Against this trick he must be on his guard. Instead
of promptly jumping at the subject as if he were grateful, he
should consider both the character of the questioner and the
necessity for the question. And when it is clear that information
is really desired, he must make a habit of waiting and
leaving some interval between question and answer. There
will then be time for the inquirer to add anything he
wishes, and for himself to reflect upon his reply, instead of
overrunning and muddling the question, hurriedly giving |E|
first one answer and then another while the question is still
going on.
The Pythian priestess, of course, is accustomed to deliver
152oracles on the instant, even before the question is asked, inasmuch
as the God whom she serves
Understandeth the dumb, and heareth a man though he speak not.
But if you wish your answer to be to the purpose, you must
wait for the questioner’s thought to be expressed, and discover
|F| precisely what he is aiming at. Otherwise it will be a case of
the old saying:
Asked for a bucket, they refused a tub.
In any case that ravenous greed to be talking must be checked.
Otherwise it will seem as if a stream, which has long been banked
up at the tongue, is taking joyful advantage of the question to
disgorge itself. Socrates used to control his thirst on the same
principle. He would not permit himself to drink after exercise
without pouring away the first jugful drawn from the well,
thereby training his irrational part to wait until reason named
the time.
|513| There are three possible kinds of answer to a question—the
barely necessary, the polite, and the superfluous. For instance,
to the inquiry, ‘Is Socrates at home?‘, one person may reply,
in an offhand and apparently grudging way, ‘Not at home;’
or, if he is disposed to adopt the Laconian style, he will omit
the ‘at home’ and merely utter the negative. Thus the
Lacedaemonians, when Philip had written to ask, ‘Do you
|*| receive me into your city?‘, wrote a large No on a piece of paper
and sent it back. Another, with more politeness, answers,
‘No, but you will find him at the bankers’ tables’—going so
far, perhaps, as to add, ‘waiting for some strangers.’ But,
|B| third, our inordinate chatterbox—at any rate, if he happens also
to have read Antimachus of Colophon—will say, ‘No; but you
will find him at the bankers’ tables, waiting for some strangers
from Ionia, concerning whom he has had a letter from Alcibiades,
who is near Miletus, staying with Tissaphernes, the Great
153King’s Satrap, the same who used formerly to help the Lacedaemonians,
but who is now attaching himself to the Athenians,
thanks to Alcibiades; for Alcibiades is anxious to be recalled
from exile, and is therefore working upon Tissaphernes to change
sides.’ In fact he will talk the whole eighth book of Thucydides
and will deluge the questioner with it, until, before he has done,
there is war with Miletus and Alcibiades has been exiled for |C|
the second time.
Here especially should loquacity be repressed. It should be
forced to follow in the footsteps of the question, and to confine
the answer within the circle of which the questioner’s requirement
gives the centre and radius. When Carneades, before he
became famous, was once discoursing in the gymnasium, the
superintendent sent and requested him to lower his voice, which
was a very loud one. Upon his replying ‘Give me my limit for
reach of voice’, the officer aptly rejoined ‘The person who is
speaking with you’. So, in making an answer, let the limit |D|
be the wishes of the questioner.
In the next place remember how Socrates used to urge the
avoidance of those foods and drinks which induce you to eat
when you are not hungry and to drink when you are not thirsty.
So those subjects in which he most delights, and in which he
indulges most immoderately, are the subjects which the babbler
should shun, and whose advances he should resist. For example,
military men are given to prosing about wars. Homer introduces
Nestor in that character, making him relate his own deeds
of prowess time after time. Take, again, those who have
scored a victory in the law-courts, or who have met with
surprising success at the courts of governors or kings. Generally |E|
speaking, they are chronic sufferers from an itch to talk about it,
and to describe over and over again how they came in, how they
were introduced, how they played their parts, how they talked,
how they confuted some opponent or accuser, and what eulogies
154they won. Their delight is more loquacious than that ‘sleepless
night’ in the comedy, and is perpetually fanning itself into new
flame and keeping itself fresh by telling over the tale. They are
therefore prone to slip into such subjects at every pretext.
For not only
Where the pain is, there also goes the hand;
|F| no less does the part which feels pleasure draw the voice and
twist the tongue in its own direction, from a desire to dwell
perpetually on the theme. It is the same also with amorous
persons, who chiefly occupy themselves with such conversation
as brings up some mention of the object of their passion. If
they cannot talk to human beings about it, they do so to
inanimate things:
O bed most dear!
or
Bacchis thought thee a god, thou blessed lamp;
And greatest god thou art, methinks, through her.
No doubt it makes not a pin’s difference to the chatterer
|514| what subject of conversation may arise. Nevertheless, if he
has a greater predilection for one class of subjects than for
another, he ought to be on his guard against that class and
force himself to hold aloof from it, since those are the subjects
which can always tempt him furthest into prolixity for the
pleasure of the thing. It is the same with those matters in
which the talker thinks that his experience or ability gives him
a superiority over other people. Through egotism and vanity
such a person
Giveth the most part of the day to that
Wherein he showeth to the most advantage.
With the much-read man it is general information; with the
|B| expert in letters, the rules of literary art; with the much-travelled
man, accounts of foreign parts. These subjects also
155must therefore be shunned. They are an enticement to
loquacity, which is led on to them like an animal towards its
wonted fodder. One admirable feature in the conduct of Cyrus
was that, in his matches with his mates, he challenged them to
compete at something in which he was not more, but less,
expert than they. Thus, while he caused no pain by eclipsing
them, he also derived advantage from a lesson. With the
chatterer it is the other way about. If any subject is mooted
which gives him the opportunity of asking and learning something
he does not know, he cannot even pay so small a fee |C|
for it as merely holding his tongue, but he blocks the topic
and elbows it aside, working steadily round till he drives the
conversation into the well-worn track of stale old twaddle.
We have had an example of this among ourselves, where a
person who happened to have read two or three books of Ephorus
used to weary every one to death, and put any convivial party
to rout, by everlastingly describing the battle of Leuctra and its
sequel, until he earned the nickname of ‘Epaminondas’. If,
however, we are to choose between evils, this is the least, and we
must divert loquacity into this channel. Talkativeness will be |D|
less disagreeable when its excess is in an expert connexion.
In the next place such persons should habituate themselves
to putting things in a written or conversational form when alone.
The case is not as with Antipater the Stoic. He gained his
sobriquet of ‘Pen-Valiant’ because, being—as it would appear—unable
and unwilling to come out and meet the vehement
attacks made by Carneades upon the Porch, he kept filling his
books with written disputations against him. But if the babbler
turns to writing and valiantly fights shadows with his pen, the
occupation will keep him from attacking people at large and
will render him daily more bearable to his company. It will
be as with dogs. Let them vent their anger on sticks and stones,
and they are less ferocious to human beings. |E|
156Another extremely beneficial course for talkers to adopt is
to associate continually with their superiors and elders, out of
respect for whose standing they will develop a habit of holding
their tongues.
As part and parcel of this training we should always vigilantly
apply the following reflection, when we are on the point of
talking and the words begin running to our mouths: ‘What
is this remark that is so pressing and importunate? With what
object is my tongue so impatient? What honour do I get by
speaking, or what harm by keeping quiet?’ If the thought were
an oppressive weight to be got rid of, the matter would be
|F| different; but it remains with you just as much, even if it is
spoken. When men talk, it is either for their own sake, because
they want something, or it is to help the hearer; or else they
seek to ingratiate themselves with each other by seasoning with
the salt of rational conversation the pastime or business in which
they happen to be engaged. But if a remark is neither of
advantage to the speaker nor of importance to the hearer, if it
contains nothing pleasant or interesting, why is it made? The
|*| meaningless and futile is as much to be avoided in words as it is
in deeds.
Over and above all this, we should keep in lively recollection
|515| the saying of Simonides that he ‘had often repented of talking,
but never of holding his tongue’. We should remember also
that practice is a potent thing and overcomes all difficulties.
People get rid even of the hiccoughs or a cough by resolutely
resisting them. Yet this involves trouble and pain, whereas
silence not only, as Hippocrates says, ‘prevents thirst;’ it also
prevents pain and suffering.
ON THE STUDENT AT LECTURES
157
My dear Nicander, |37 C|
This is an article upon ‘The Attitude of the Student’,
which I have written and am sending to you. Its purpose is to
teach you the right attitude towards your philosophic teacher,
now that you are a grown-up man and are no longer obliged
merely to obey orders.
Some young men are so ill-informed as to suppose that absence
of restraint is the same thing as freedom, whereas, by unchaining |D|
the passions, it makes them slaves to a set of masters more
tyrannical than all the teachers and mentors of childhood.
Herodotus says that when women take off the tunic they also
take off shame. It is the same with some young men. In laying
aside the garb of childhood they also lay aside shame and fear.
No sooner do they unloose the cloak which controlled their
conduct than they indulge in the utmost misbehaviour. With
you it should be otherwise. You have been told over and over
again that to ‘follow God’ and to ‘obey reason’ are the same
thing. Understand, therefore, that with right-minded persons
a coming of age does not mean rejection of rule, but change
of ruler. For the hired or purchased[44] director of conduct they |E|
substitute one that is divine—namely, reason. Only those who
follow reason deserve to be considered free; for they alone live
as they choose, because they alone have learned to make the
right choice, whereas ignorant and irrational desires and actions
give small and paltry scope to the will, but great scope to
repentance.
158Note what happens in the case of naturalized citizens. Entire
|F| foreigners from another country will often grumble irritably
at their experiences, whereas those who have previously been
denizens of the state, and have therefore lived in intimate touch
with the laws, will accept their obligations with cheerful
readiness. So with yourself. For a long time you have been
growing up in the company of philosophy. From the first you
have been accustomed to a taste of philosophic reason in everything
that you have been taught or told as a child. It should
therefore be in a well-disposed and congenial spirit that you come
to Philosophy, who alone can adorn a youth with that finish
of manhood which genuinely and rationally deserves the name.
You will not, I believe, object to a prefatory remark upon
|38| the sense of hearing. Theophrastus asserts that it is the most
susceptible of all the senses, inasmuch as nothing that can be
seen, tasted, or touched, is the cause of such strong emotional
disturbance and excitement as takes hold upon the mind when
certain sounds of beating, clashing, or ringing fall upon the ear.
It is, however, more rational, rather than more emotional,
than the other senses. Vice can find many places and parts
of the body open for it to enter and seize upon the soul. But
the only hold that virtue can take is upon pure young ears
|B| which have at all times been protected from the corruptions
of flattery or the touch of low communications. Hence the
advice of Xenocrates, that ear-guards should be worn by boys
more than by athletes, inasmuch as the latter merely have their
ears disfigured by blows, while the former have their characters
disfigured by words. Not that he would wed us to inattention
or deafness. It is but a warning to beware of wrong communications,
and to see that others of the right nature have first
been fostered in our character by philosophy and have mounted
guard in that quarter which is most open to influence and
persuasion.
159Bias, the ancient sage, was once bidden by Amasis to send him
that piece of meat from a sacrificial victim which was at the
same time the best and the worst. He replied by taking out and
sending the tongue, on the ground that speech can do both the
greatest harm and the greatest good. It is a general practice
in fondling little children to take them by the ears, and to bid |C|
them do the same to us—an indirect and playful way of suggesting
that we should be especially fond of those who make our
ears the instruments to our advantage.
It is, of course, obvious that a youth cannot be debarred from
any or every kind of hearing, or from tasting any discourse at
all. Otherwise not only will he remain entirely without fruit
or growth in the way of virtue; he will actually be perverted
in the direction of vice, his mind being an idle and uncultivated
patch producing a plentiful crop of weeds. Propensity to
pleasure and dislike of labour—the springs of innumerable forms
of trouble and disease—are not of external origin, nor imported |D|
from teaching, but they well up naturally from the soil. If
therefore they are left free to take their natural course; if they
are not done away with, or turned aside, by sound instruction;
if nature is not thus brought under control, man will prove
more unreclaimed than any brute beast.
The hearing of lectures, then, may be of great profit, but at
the same time of great danger, to a young man. This being so,
I believe it a good thing to make the matter one of constant
discussion, both with oneself and with others. In most cases |E|
we may notice a false procedure—that of cultivating the art of
speaking before being trained to the art of listening. It is
thought that, while speaking requires instruction and practice,
any kind of listening is attended with profit. But not so.
Whereas in ball-play one learns simultaneously how to throw
and how to catch, in the business of speech the right taking in is
prior to the giving out, just as conception is prior to parturition.
160We are told that in the case of a hen laying a wind-egg her
labour and travail end in nothing but an abortive and lifeless
piece of refuse. So when a young man lacks the ability to listen,
|F| or the training to gather profit through the ear, the speech
which he lets fall is wind-begotten indeed:
Sans all regard and sans note it is lost in the clouds and dispersèd.
He will take a vessel and tilt it in the right direction for receiving
anything to be poured into it, and so ensure a real ‘in-pouring’
instead of a pouring to waste. But he does not learn to lend his
own attention to a speaker and meet the lecture half-way, so as
to miss no valuable point. On the contrary, his behaviour is
in the last degree ridiculous. If he happens upon a person
|39| describing a dinner, a procession, a dream, or a brawling-match
in which he has been engaged, he listens in silence and is eager
for more. But if a teacher to whom he has attached himself
tries to impart something useful, or to urge him to some duty,
to admonish him when wrong, or to soothe him when angry,
he is out of all patience. If possible, he shows fight, and is
ambitious to get the best of the argument. Otherwise he is
off and away to discourses of a different and a rubbishy kind,
filling his ears—the poor leaky vessels—with anything rather than
the thing they need.
|B| From the right kind of breeder a horse obtains a good mouth
for the bit, and a lad a good ear for reason. He is taught to
do much listening, but to avoid much speaking. We may quote
the remark of Spintharus in praise of Epaminondas, that he had
scarcely ever met with any man either of greater judgement or
of fewer words. Moreover, we are told, the reason why nature
gave each of us two ears, but only one tongue, was that we should
do less speaking than hearing.
A youth is at all times sure to find silence a credit to him;
but in one case it is especially so—when he can listen to another
161without becoming excited and continually yelping; when, even |C|
if what is being said is little to his liking, he waits patiently
for the speaker to finish; when, at the close, he does not
immediately come to the attack with his contradiction, but
(to quote Aeschines) waits a while, in case the speaker might
wish to supplement his remarks, or perhaps to adjust or qualify
his position. To take instant objection, neither party listening
to the other but both talking at once, is an unseemly performance.
On the other hand, those who have been trained to
listen with modest self-control will accept a valuable argument
and make it their own, while they will be in a better position
to see through a worthless or false one and to expose it, thereby |D|
showing that they are lovers of truth, and not merely contentious,
headstrong, or quarrelsome persons. It is therefore not
a bad remark of some, that there is more need to expel the wind
of vanity and self-conceit from the young, than to expel the air
from a skin, when you wish to pour in anything of value: otherwise
they are too swollen and flatulent to receive it.
The presence of envious and malicious jealousy is, of course,
never to good purpose, but always an impediment to proper
action. In the case of a student at lectures it is the most
perverse of prompters. Words which ought to do him good are
rendered vexing, distasteful, and unwelcome by the fact that
there is nothing which an envious man likes so little as an |E|
excellent piece of reasoning. And note that, when a man is
piqued by fame or beauty belonging to others, he is envious
and nothing more; what annoys him is another’s good fortune.
But when he is irritated by admirable argument, his vexation
is at his own good, since reason—if he has a mind to accept it—is
as much to the good of one who hears as light is to the good
of one who sees.
Envy in other matters is the result of various coarse or low
attitudes of mind; envy of a speaker is born of inordinate love
162of glory and unfair ambition. A person so disposed is prevented
|F| from listening to reason. His mind is perturbed and distracted.
At one and the same time it is looking at its own endowments,
to see if they are inferior to those of the speaker, and at
the rest of the company, to see if they are wondering and
admiring. It is disgusted at their applause, and exasperated
at their approval. The previous portions of the speech it forgets
and ignores, because the recollection is irksome. The parts yet
to come it awaits with trembling anxiety, for fear they may
prove better still. When the speaker is at his best, it is most
|40| eager for him to stop. When the lecture is over, it thinks of
nothing that was said, but takes count of the expressions and
attitudes of the audience. From those who give praise it dances
away in a frenzy; and to those who carp and distort it runs
to form one of the herd. If there is nothing to distort, it makes
comparisons with others who have spoken ‘better and more
eloquently to the same purpose’. In the end our friend has
so cruelly mishandled the lecture that he has made it of no use
or profit to himself.
|B| Let the love of glory, then, be brought to terms with the love
of learning. Let us listen to a speaker with friendly courtesy,
regarding ourselves as guests at a sacred banquet or sacrificial
offering. Let us praise his ability when he makes a hit, or be
satisfied with the mere goodwill of a man who is making the
public a present of his views and endeavouring to convince
others by means of the arguments which have convinced himself.
When he goes right, let us consider that his rightness is
due not to chance or accident, but to painstaking effort and
learning. Let us take a pattern by it, and not only admire it,
but emulate it. When he is at fault, let us stop and think for
what reasons he is so, and at what point he began to go astray.
|C| Xenophon observes that good managers derive profit from their
enemies as well as from their friends. In the same way those
163who are attentive and alert derive benefit from a speaker not
only when he is in the right, but also when he is in the wrong.
Paltry thought, empty phrase, affected bearing, vulgar delight
and excitement at applause, and the like, are more palpable
to a listener in another’s case than to a speaker in his own. It is
well, therefore, to take the criticism which we apply to him,
and apply it to ourselves, asking whether we commit any mistake
of the kind without being aware of it. It is the easiest thing in |D|
the world to find fault with our neighbour, but it is a futile
and meaningless proceeding, unless made to bear in some way
upon the correction or prevention of similar faults. When
lapses are committed, let us always be prompt to exclaim to
ourselves in the phrase of Plato, ‘Am I, perhaps, as bad?’
As in the eyes of our neighbour we see the reflection of our
own, so we should find a picture of our own speech in that of
another. In that way we shall avoid treating others with over-confident
contempt, and shall also look more carefully to our
own deliverances.
There is another way in which comparison serves this useful |E|
purpose. I mean if, when we get by ourselves after the lecture,
we take some point which appears to have been wrongly or
unsatisfactorily treated, and attack the same theme, doing our
best to fill in, to correct, to re-word, or to attempt an entirely
original contribution to the subject, as the case may be—doing,
in fact, as Plato did[45] with the speech of Lysias. While
to argue against a certain deliverance is not difficult, but, on
the contrary, very easy, to set up a better in its stead is an
extremely hard matter. As the Lacedaemonian said on hearing
that Philip had razed Olynthus to the ground: ‘Yes, but to
create a city as good is beyond the man’s power’. Accordingly, |F|
when we find that in dealing with the same subject we can do
but little better than the speaker in the case, we make a large
164reduction in our contempt and speedily prune down that self-satisfied
conceit which has been exposed during such process of
comparison.
Nevertheless, though admiration, as opposed to contempt,
certainly betokens a fairer and gentler nature, it is a thing which,
in its own turn, requires no little—perhaps greater—caution.
|41| For while a contemptuous and over-confident person derives
too little benefit from a speaker, an enthusiastic and guileless
admirer derives too much injury. He forms no exception to
the rule of Heracleitus that ‘Any dictum will flutter a fool‘.
One should be frank in yielding praise to the speaker, but
cautious in yielding belief to the assertion; a kindly and candid
observer of the diction and delivery of the arguer, but a sharp
and exacting critic of the truth and value of his argument.
|B| While we thus escape dislike from the speaker, we escape harm
from the speech. How many false and pernicious doctrines we
unawares accept through esteeming and trusting their exponent!
The Lacedaemonian authorities, after examining a measure
suggested by a man of evil life, instructed another person,
famous for his conduct and character, to move it—a very proper
and statesmanlike encouragement to the people to be led more by
the character of an adviser than by his speech. But in philosophy
we must put aside the reputation of the speaker and examine
the speech in and by itself. In lecturing, as in war, there is
much that is mere show. The speaker’s grey hairs, his vocal
|C| affectations, his supercilious airs, his self-glorification; above
all, the shouting, applauding, and dancing of the audience
overwhelm the young and inexperienced student and sweep
him along with the current. There is deception in the language
also, when it streams upon the question in a delightful flood,
and when it contains a measure of studied art and the grandiose.
As, in singing to the accompaniment of the flageolet, mistakes
are generally undetected by an audience, so an elaborate and
165pretentious diction dazzles the hearer and blinds him to the
sense. I believe it was Melanthius who, when asked about |D|
Diogenes’ tragedy, replied: ‘I could not get a sight of it;
it was hidden behind the words.’ But with the discourses and
declamations of the majority of our professors it is not merely
a case of using the words to screen the thoughts. They also
dulcify the voice—modulating, smoothing, and intoning—till the
hearer is carried away with a perfect intoxication. They give
an empty pleasure, and are paid with an emptier fame. Their
case, in fact, is one for the quip given by Dionysius. It was he,
I think, who, during the performance of a distinguished harp-player,
promised him a liberal reward, but subsequently gave |E|
him nothing, on the ground that he had made a sufficient
return. ‘For as long a time as I was enjoying your singing’,
said he, ‘you were enjoying your expectations.’ The deliverer
of the lectures in question finds that they represent a joint
contribution of the same kind. He receives admiration as long
as his entertainment lasts. As soon as no more pleasure is
forthcoming for the ear, there is no more glory left for him.
The one party has wasted his time, the other his professional life.
Let us, then, strip aside all this empty show of language, and
make for the actual fruit. It is better to imitate the bee than |F|
the garland-maker. The latter looks for the bright-coloured
fragrant petals, and, by twining and plaiting them together,
produces an object which is pleasant enough, but short-lived
and fruitless. Bees, on the contrary, frequently skim through
meadows of violets, roses, or hyacinths, to settle upon the
coarsest and bitterest thyme. To this they devote themselves
Contriving yellow honey,
and then fly home to their proper business with something
worth the getting. So a student who takes his work in real
earnest will pay no regard to dainty flowery words nor to showy
166|42| theatrical matter. These he will consider as fodder for drones
who play the sophist. For his own part he will probe with keen
attention into the sense of a speech and the quality of the
speaker. Therefrom he will suck such part as will be of service
and profit. He will remember that he has not come to a theatre
or concert-hall, but to a classroom in the schools, and that his
object is to get his life corrected by means of reason. Hence
he should form a critical judgement of the lecture from his
own case, that is to say, from a calculation of its effect upon
himself. Has it been the chastening of a passion, the lightening
|B| of a grief? Has it been courage, firmness of spirit, enthusiasm
for excellence and virtue? Upon rising from the barber’s chair
he will stand at the glass and put his hands to his head, inspecting
the trim and arrangement of the hair. No less should he,
immediately on leaving a lecture in the philosophic school,
look at himself and examine his own mind, to see if it has got
rid of any useless and uncomfortable growth and become lighter
and more at ease. ‘There is no use’, says Aristo, ‘in either
a bath or a speech, unless it cleanses.’
|C| By all means let a young man, while profiting from a discourse,
find pleasure in the process. But he must not treat the
pleasure of the lecture as its end, nor expect to come out of the
philosopher’s school with a beaming face and humming a tune.
He must not ask for scented unguents when what he needs
is a lotion or a poultice. On the contrary, he should be grateful
if a pungent argument acts upon his mind like smoke upon a hive,
and clears out all the darkness and mistiness that fill it. Though
it is quite right for a speaker not to be altogether without
concern for an attractive and persuasive style of language, that
should be a matter least regarded by the young student, at any
rate in the first instance. Later, no doubt, the case may be
|D| different. It is when they are no longer thirsty that persons
engaged in drinking will turn a cup about and inspect the chasing
167upon it. Similarly during a breathing-time, after taking
our fill of the lesson, we may be permitted to examine any
uncommon elegance in the language. But if from the very first,
instead of taking a grip upon the substance, you insist upon
‘good pure Attic’ expression, you are like a person who refuses
to take an antidote unless the vessel is made of the best Attic
earthenware; or who declines to put on a thick cloak in winter
unless the wool is from Attic sheep, preferring to sit, stubborn
and impracticable, in the thin napless mantle of the ‘style of
Lysias’. Perversities of this kind are responsible for a plentiful |E|
lack of good sense and an abundance of loquacious claptrap in
the schools. Young fellows keep no watch upon the life, the
practical action, or the public services of a philosopher, but
make a great merit of diction, phrase, and fine method of statement,
while they possess neither the ability nor the desire to
find out whether the statement is valuable or worthless, whether
it is vital or a mere futility.
The next rule concerns the propounding of difficulties.
A guest at a dinner is bound to accept what is put upon the |F|
table, and neither to ask for anything else nor to find fault.
When the feast consists of a discourse, any one who comes to
it should listen and say nothing, if there is an understanding
to that effect. Persons who cannot listen in a pleasant and
sociable manner, but keep drawing the speaker off to other
topics, interposing questions and mooting side-issues, get no
benefit themselves and confuse both the speaker and the speech.
When, however, he invites the audience to ask questions and
advance difficulties, any that are proposed should prove to be
useful and important. Odysseus, when in the suitors’ company,
incurs ridicule through
Begging for morsels and scraps, and not for a sword or a cauldron.
|43| regard it as a sign of lofty-mindedness not only to give, but
168to ask for, something of value. It is, however, more a case for
ridicule when a hearer poses a speaker with petty little problems
of the kind often propounded by young men, when they
are talking claptrap in order to make a show of attainments in
logic or mathematics—for example, concerning ‘division of the
indeterminate’ and the nature of ‘lateral’ or ‘diagonal’
|B| motion. The proper answer to such persons is the remark of
Philotimus to a man who was suffering with abscesses and
consumption, but who had been talking to him for some time
about requiring ‘some little thing to cure a whitlow’. Perceiving
the man’s condition from his complexion and breathing,
Philotimus observed: ‘My good sir, a whitlow is not the question
with you.’ Nor in your case, young sir, is it worth while
to be discussing such questions as yours, but how you are to
get rid of conceit, swaggering about love-affairs, and such-like
nonsense, and how you are to plant your feet on the way to
a healthy and sober-minded life.
Especially are you bound, in putting your questions, to accommodate
yourself to a speaker’s range of knowledge or natural
|C| ability—to his special forte. A philosopher who is more concerned
with ethics should not be attacked with difficulties in
natural science or mathematics, nor should one who prides
himself upon his scientific knowledge be dragged into determining
hypothetical syllogisms or solving fallacies. If you
attempted to chop your wood with the key and to open your
door with the axe, it would not be thought that you were
making sport of these implements, but that you were depriving
yourself of their respective powers and uses. In the same way,
if you ask of a speaker a thing for which he has no gift or training,
while you make no harvest of what he possesses and offers,
|D| you not only do yourself harm to that extent, but you incur
condemnation for malicious ill-nature.
Be careful also not to propound difficulties yourself in too
169great numbers or too frequently. This is, in a sense, another
way of showing off. Meanwhile, to listen equably when some one
else is mooting them, shows that you are a clubbable person
and a student. This is assuming you have no harassing and
urgent trouble of your own, no mental disturbance to be controlled
or malady to be comforted. It may not, after all, be
(as Heracleitus says) ‘better to conceal ignorance’, but to bring
it into the open and cure it. If your mind is upset by a fit of
anger, an attack of superstition, a violent quarrel with your
friends, or a mad amorous passion which
Stirreth the heart-strings that should rest unstirred,
|E| you must not run away from a discourse which searches it home,
and fly to others of a different nature. On the contrary, these
are the very topics to which you should listen, both at lectures
and also by privately approaching the lecturer afterwards and
asking for further light.
The opposite course is the one too generally followed. So
long as the philosopher is dealing with other persons, his hearers
are all delight and admiration. But when he leaves those others
alone and frankly administers some important reminder to
themselves personally, they are disgusted with him for not
minding his own business. Generally speaking, they think |F|
a philosopher is entitled to a hearing inside his school, as the
tragedian is in the theatre; but in matters beyond it they do
not consider him in any way superior to themselves. Towards
a sophist their attitude is natural enough; for when he rises
from his chair, lays aside his books and his introductory manuals,
and makes his appearance in the practical departments of life,
he ranks in the popular mind as an unimportant and inferior
person. But towards a philosopher in the real sense their
attitude is wrong. They do not recognize that a tone of earnestness
or jest, a sign of approval or disapproval, a smile or a frown,
170|44| on his part—and, above all, his direct handling of their individual
cases—are fruitful in good to those who have learned the art of
listening with submission.
Applause, again, has its duties, which call for a certain
caution and moderation. A gentleman bestows neither too
little nor too much of it. A hearer shows churlishly bad taste
when nothing whatever in a lecture will make him thaw or
unbend; when he is diseased with festering conceit and chronic
self-complacency, and is all the time thinking he could improve
upon the deliverance; when he neither makes any appropriate
movement of the brow nor utters any sound to prove that he is
|B| a considerate and willing listener; when he is seeking a reputation
for solidity and depth by means of silence, an affected
gravity, and attitudes of pose, under the notion that applause
is like money, and that whatever amount you give to another
you take from yourself. The fact is that there are many who
take up the well-known saying of Pythagoras and sing it to a false
tune. His own gain from philosophy, he said, was to ‘wonder at
|*| nothing‘; whereas theirs is to ‘praise nothing’ or to ‘honour
nothing’. With them wisdom lies in contempt, and the way to
be dignified is to be disdainful. While, by means of knowledge
|C| and the ascertainment of the cause in a given case, philosophic
reason does away with the wonder and awe due to unenlightenment
and ignorance, it does not destroy a generous appreciation.
Those whose excellence is genuine and firmly seated find it the
highest honour to bestow honour, the highest distinction to
bestow distinction, where honour and distinction are due.
Such conduct implies that they have fame enough and to spare,
and are free from jealousy, whereas those who are niggards of
praise to others are in all probability pinched and hungry for
praise of their own.
On the other hand, the opposite type of hearer is the fluttering
feather-head who uses no discrimination, but punctuates with
171loud cheers at every word and syllable. While he is frequently
obnoxious to the disputant himself, he is invariably a nuisance |D|
to the hearers. He worries them on to their feet against their
judgement, and drags them willy-nilly to join in the chorus
because they are ashamed to refuse. Thanks to his applause
deranging the lecture and making an imbroglio of it, he gets no
good from it, but goes home with one of three descriptions
to his credit—fleerer, sycophant, or ignoramus.
It is true that, when hearing a case in court, we must lean |E|
neither towards hostility nor towards favour, but towards
justice as we best understand it. But at a lecture on a subject
of learning there is neither law nor oath to debar us from
granting the speaker an indulgent reception. The reason why
the ancients placed the statue of Hermes in the company of the
Graces was that speaking has a special claim to a gracious
friendliness. It is impossible for any one to be so complete
a failure or so utterly astray as to offer us nothing deserving of
a cheer, in the shape of a thought, a reference to others, the mere
choice of theme or purpose, or, possibly, in the wording or
arrangement of the matter,
As among urchin-foot or mid coarse broom
The tender snowflake springeth into bloom.
|F| There are persons who, for exhibition purposes, can lend a fair
measure of plausibility to a panegyric upon vomiting or fever,
or even a pot; and surely a deliverance by a man who has some
sort of claim to be thought, or to call himself, a philosopher
cannot absolutely fail to afford a well-disposed or courteous
audience some opportunity of finding relief in applause.
According to Plato young persons in the bloom of life can
always manage somehow to excite a lover’s passion. If they
are white he calls them ‘saint-like’; if swarthy, ‘virile’. |45|
A hook-nose is ‘regal’, a snub nose ‘piquant’; a sallow skin
172is a ‘complexion of honey’. He uses these pretty names, and
is pleased and satisfied. Love has, indeed, an ivy-like gift for
clinging to any pretext. Much less will an eager and earnest
student of letters ever fail in inventiveness. In every speaker
he will discover some grounds for reasonable applause. In the
speech of Lysias, though Plato objects to its want of arrangement,
and though he has no praise for its inventiveness, he nevertheless
commends him for his manner of statement, and because
there is ‘a clear round finish in the chiselling of every word’.
|B| We might find fault with Archilochus for his subject-matter,
Parmenides for his versification, Phocylides for his commonplaceness,
Euripides for his garrulity, Sophocles for his inequality.
Similarly one of the orators has no characterization, another
exerts no passion, a third is lacking in grace and charm. Nevertheless
each wins praise for a power to move and sway us in his
own peculiar way.
The hearer, then, has ample scope for showing good feeling
to a speaker. In some instances it is sufficient if, without further
declaration by word of mouth, we contribute a kindly eye,
a genial expression, a friendly and agreeable mood. There are
certain things for which even the man who is a total failure may
|C| look, and which are but ordinary items of common etiquette
for any and every audience. I mean an upright posture in
our chairs, with no lolling or lounging; eyes kept directly upon
the speaker; an air of businesslike attention; composure of
countenance, with no sign, I need not say of insolence or
peevishness, but of being taken up with other thoughts.
If in every exacting task beauty is made up of a number of
factors happily combined in a due proportion and harmony,
ugliness is the prompt and immediate outcome of the faulty
|D| omission or addition of this or that one element. And in this
particular matter of listening, not only is there impropriety
in a scowling brow, a disagreeable expression, a roving glance,
173a twisting of the body, and a crossing of the legs; but nodding
or whispering to a neighbour, smiling, yawning sleepily, looking
at the ground, and actions of a similar nature, are censurable
and should be studiously avoided.
There are some who think that, though the speaker has a duty,
the hearer has none. They expect the former to present
himself with his thoughts studiously prepared; yet, without
a thought or care for their own obligations, they drop casually
in and take their seats, for all the world as if they had come
to a dinner to enjoy themselves while others are doing the work.
Yet even a polite table-companion has his part to play, much |E|
more a polite hearer. He is a partner in the speech and a coadjutor
of the speaker; and he has no right to be sharply criticizing the
mistakes, and taking every phrase and fact to task, while himself
free from responsibility for the impropriety and the frequent
solecisms which he commits as a hearer. In ball-play the catcher
has to regulate his movements according to those of the thrower.
So, in the case of a speech, there is a certain consonance of action
in which both speaker and listener are concerned, if each is to
sustain his proper part. |F|
Our expressions in applauding must not, however, be used
without discrimination. It is an unpleasing phrase of Epicurus
when, in speaking of the little epistles from his friends, he says,
‘We give them a rattling clapping.’ But what of those who
nowadays introduce such outré expressions into our lecture-rooms?
The Capital!Well said! and Very true! which were
the terms of commendation used by the hearers of Plato,
Socrates, and Hypereides, are not enough for these persons.
With their exclamations Divine!An inspiration! or Unapproachable!
they commit a gross impropriety, libellously
making out that the speaker requires far-fetched eulogies of an |46|
outrageous kind. Highly obnoxious also are those who accompany
their attestations with an oath, as if they were in a court
174of law. And equally so those who blunder in their descriptive
terms; for instance, when the lecturer is a philosopher and they
call out, A shrewd hit!, or an old man and they exclaim Cleverly
put! or Brilliant!, thus misapplying to a philosopher the
expressions used at academic exercises, where the speaking is
not serious but merely an exhibition of adroitness. To offer
|B| to a sober discourse such meretricious praise is like crowning an
athlete with a wreath of lilies or roses instead of laurel or wild
olive. Once when the poet Euripides was going over a song
|*| with an original setting for the benefit of the members of his
chorus, and one of them happened to laugh, he observed:
‘If you had not been an ignorant dolt, you could not have
laughed while I was teaching you a mixolydian[46] piece.’ So,
I take it, a serious and practical philosopher might very well
make short work of the airs and affectations of a hearer by saying,
‘I presume your case is one of foolishness or ill breeding;
otherwise you would not have been piping out and jigging
about at my remarks, when I was teaching, or admonishing, or
arguing concerning religion, statesmanship, or the duties of
|C| office.’ Just frankly consider what it means, when a philosopher
is speaking, and the shouting and hurrahing inside the building
make people outside wonder whether it is a flute-player, a
harpist, or a dancer who is being applauded.
Meanwhile, in listening to admonition and reproof, the pupil
must be neither insensible nor unmanly. There are some who
bear the philosopher’s reproaches with an easy-going indifference,
laughing under the correction and applauding the corrector,
just as parasites applaud in sheer impudence and recklessness
when they are abused by those who keep them. The shamelessness
which such persons display is no proper or genuine proof
of courage. When a jibe containing no insult, and uttered in
|D| a playful and tactful way, is borne cheerfully and without
175annoyance, it shows neither a want of spirit nor a want of
breeding. On the contrary, it is exactly what a gentleman
of the true Spartan style would do. But it is different when
admonition takes in hand the correction of character by means
of a stinging remedy in the shape of rational reproof. If a young
man does not cower under the lesson and feel his soul burning
with shame, till he breaks into a sweat and is ready to faint;
if, on the contrary, he is unperturbed, gives a broad grin of
self-depreciation, and refuses to take the matter seriously, then
he is an extremely vulgar creature beyond all sense of shame,
a constant habituation to misconduct having made his soul no
more capable of a bruise than a thick callus in the flesh.
These form the one class. Youths of the opposite disposition, |E|
if a single hard word is said to them, turn deserters from philosophy
and run away without a glance behind them. While
nature has given them, in the shape of modesty, an excellent
start towards moral salvation, they are so squeamish and timid
that they throw their chance away. Unable to put up with
reproof or to accept correction with spirit, they turn away to
listen to the soft and agreeable utterances of some time-server
or sophist, who charms them with melodious phrases as useless
and futile as they are pleasing. If a man runs away from the
surgeon after the operation and objects to be bandaged, he is
submitting to the pain of the treatment but refusing to put up
with its benefit. So when a lesson has lanced and probed his |F|
folly, if he will not permit it to close and dress the wound, he
is abandoning philosophy after feeling the sting and the pain
but before deriving any advantage therefrom.
Euripides says that the wound of Telephus was
Soothed by the filings ground from the same spear.
It is no less true that the sting implanted by philosophy in |47|
a youth of parts is cured by the same reasoning that caused the
176wound. While, therefore, it is right that the subject of reproof
should feel some pain from the sting, he must not be crushed
or dispirited, but, after undergoing the first discomposing rites
of purification, he should look for some sweet and splendid
revelation to follow the distress and confusion of the moment.
For though the reproof may appear to be unjust, the proper
course is to endure it with all patience until the speaker concludes.
Then he may be met by a plea in self-defence, and by
|B| a request to reserve for some real fault all the vigorous candour
which he has shown in the present instance.
To proceed to the next consideration. In reading and writing,
playing the lyre, or wrestling, the first lessons are very harassing,
laborious, and unsure; but, as we advance step by step, it is
much as in dealing with mankind. By dint of frequent and
familiar acquaintance we find that it all becomes pleasant and
manageable, and every word or action easy. It is the same with
philosophy. No doubt the language and matter, as first met
with, contain something both hard and strange. But we must
not take fright at the rudiments and prove so timid and spiritless
|C| as to abandon the study. On the contrary, our duty is to grapple
with every question, to persevere, to be resolved on making
progress, and then to wait for that familiarity which converts
all right action into a pleasure. It will not be long before it
arrives, casting upon the study a flood of light, and inspiring
an ardent passion for excellence. To be without such passion
and to put up with the ordinary type of life because one is
driven from philosophy by a lack of mettle, is to be a miserable
or cowardly creature.
We may also expect that at first the argumentation will prove
somewhat difficult for young and inexperienced students to
understand. For the most part, however, the obscurity and want
of comprehension are due to themselves. Opposite dispositions
|D| lead to the same mistake. Thus one class, through bashfulness
177and a desire to spare the teacher, will shrink from putting
questions and making sure of the argument, and will ostensibly
assent as if they quite understood. The others, led by misplaced
ambition and meaningless rivalry to make a show of cleverness
and quickness, pretend to have mastered a thing before they take
it in, and so will not take it in at all. The consequence is that
when the former—the modest and silent kind—go home, they
will worry themselves with their perplexities, and in the end
they will be driven perforce to trouble the speaker by harking
back with their questions at a later date, when they will feel
still more ashamed. Meanwhile the bold and ambitious kind
will be perpetually cloaking their ignorance and hiding the fact
that it haunts them.
Let us then thrust aside all this pretentious silliness, and march |E|
on towards learning. Let our business be to get an intelligent
grasp upon valuable instruction. And let us put up with the
laughter of those who are thought to be clever. Remember
how Cleanthes and Xenocrates, though to all appearance slower
than their fellow-pupils, refused to give up or run away from
their studies. On the contrary, they were the first to joke at
their own expense, comparing themselves to a narrow-necked
bottle or a brass tablet, inasmuch as, though slow at taking their
instruction in, they were safe and sure at retaining it. Not only
must we, as Phocylides puts it,
Oft-times be baulked of our hope while seeking to come unto goodness;
we must also ‘oft-times’ be laughed at, and bear with scoffing |F|
and jeering, meanwhile putting all our heart and energy into
winning the struggle against our ignorance.
We must, however, be quite as careful not to err in the opposite
direction. Some do so from sloth, which makes them a
wearisome infliction. Unwilling to trouble themselves when |48|178alone, they keep troubling the teacher by repeatedly asking for
information on the same questions. Like unfledged birds in
the nest, they are perpetually agape to be fed from another’s
mouth, and expect to receive everything ready masticated by
someone else.
Another kind, in the misplaced quest of a reputation for
alertness and acumen, worry the lecturer with their fussy
garrulity, perpetually mooting some unimportant difficulty or
demanding some unnecessary demonstration,
Till a short journey so becometh long
|B| —as Sophocles says—not only to themselves but to every one
else. By continually arresting the teacher with superfluous
and futile questions, as if they were merely chatting with a companion,
they interfere with the continuity of the lesson by a
series of checks and delays. Persons of this class are (to quote
Hieronymus) like wretched cowardly puppies, who bite the skins
and tear the odds and ends of wild animals at home, but who
never touch the animals themselves.
As for the former and lazy class, let us give them this advice.
When they have managed to comprehend the main points,
let them piece the rest together for themselves, using their
|C| memory as a guide to independent thought. And let them
take the reasoning they hear from another as a beginning—a
seed which they are to make grow and thrive.
The mind is not a vessel which calls for filling. It is a pile,
which simply requires kindling-wood to start the flame of
eagerness for original thought and ardour for truth. Suppose
someone goes to borrow from his neighbour’s fire, and then,
on finding a large bright blaze, persists in staying and basking
on the spot. It is the same when a man comes to another to
borrow reason, and does not realize that he must kindle a light
of his own in the shape of thinking for himself, but sits enchanted
179with enjoyment of the lecture. He derives from the lesson |D|
a ruddy glow or outward brilliance, but he fails to drive out
the mould and darkness from within by the warming power of
philosophy.
If therefore any advice is needed for the hearing of lectures,
it is to remember the rule just given—to practise independent
thought along with learning. We shall thus attain, not to the
ability of a sophist or the ‘well-informed’ man, but to a deep-seated
philosophic power. Right listening will be for us the
introduction to right living.
ON MORAL IGNORANCE IN HIGH PLACES
180
|779 D| When Plato was invited by the Cyrenaeans to draw up a code
of laws for their use and to organize their constitution, he begged
to be excused, on the ground that it was difficult to legislate
for so prosperous a people:
For nought so arrogant—
nor so impracticable and headstrong—
as human kind,
when prosperity—or what is so considered—lies within its
grasp.
|E| No less difficult is the task of advising a ruler how to rule.
To admit reason, he fears, is to admit a ruler, whose law of duty
will make a slave of him and curtail the advantage he derives
from power. He has yet to learn a lesson from Theopompus,
the Spartan king, who was the first to modify the powers of the
throne by means of that of the Ephors. When his wife reproached
him for proposing to leave to his children less authority
than he had inherited, he replied: ‘Nay, greater, because more
assured.’ By relaxing its excessive absolutism he escaped the
|F| consequent ill-feeling, and therewith its dangers. But note.
Theopompus, in diverting into other channels a portion of the
full stream of power, deprived himself of just so much as he
gave away. But when philosophic reason becomes the established
colleague and protector of a ruler, it merely removes the perilous
element and leaves the healthy—a process as necessary to power
as to sound health.
181In most cases, however, monarchs or rulers show as little
wisdom as a tasteless sculptor, who fancies that to represent
a figure with a huge stride, strained muscles, and gaping mouth,
is to make it appear massive and imposing. They imagine that |780|
an arrogant tone, harsh looks, short temper, and exclusiveness
give them the true regal air of awe and majesty. In reality
they are not a bit better than a colossal statue with the outward
shape and form of a god or demigod, while the inside is a mass
of earth, stone, or lead. Indeed, in the case of the statue, these
heavy materials serve to keep it erect and prevent it from
warping; whereas, with an unschooled governor or chief, the
unreason within is often the cause of instability and collapse. |B|
His foundation being out of plumb, the lofty power which
he builds upon it is correspondingly unstable. Now it is only
when the builder’s square is itself faultless in line and angle,
that it can make other things true to line by adjustment to,
and comparison with, itself. So a ruler must begin by acquiring
rule within himself. Let him set his own soul straight, and make
his own character firm, and then begin adjusting his subjects
thereto. You cannot set upright, when you are falling; teach,
when you are ignorant; discipline, when unruly; command,
when disobedient; govern, when ungoverned. And yet it is
a common error to suppose that the chief blessing of authority |C|
is to be above authority. To the King of Persia every one was
a slave except his own wife, the very person whose master he
ought to have been.
By whom, then, is the ruler to be ruled? By the
Law,
Sovereign of mortals and immortals all,
as Pindar says; not a law written outwardly in books or on
wooden tables, but a living law of reason in himself, abiding
with him, watching him, and never leaving his soul destitute
182of guidance. The King of Persia kept one chamberlain whose
special function was to enter in the morning and say to him:
‘Rise, Sire, and attend to matters which Great Oromazdes
|D| meant for your concern.’ The ruler who has learned wisdom
and self-control hears the same voice of exhortation from within.
It was a saying of Polemo that love is ‘serving the Gods in the
care and protection of the young‘. With more truth it might
be said that a ruler serves God in the care and protection of
men, by dispensing, or safeguarding, the blessings which God
gives to mankind.
See’st thou yon boundless sky and air aloft,
How in soft arms it clasps the world about?
From it descend the first principles of seeds in due kind; earth
brings them forth; their growth is fostered by rains or winds
or the warmth of moon and stars; while the sun brings everything
|E| to beauty and tinctures all creation with that peculiar
love-spell which is his. But though the Gods may lavish these
great boons and blessings, who can enjoy or use them rightly,
if there be no law, justice, or ruler? Justice is the end of law;
law is the work of the ruler; and a ruler is an image of the God
who orders all things. He needs no Pheidias or Polycleitus or
Myro to fashion him, but brings himself into likeness with deity
|F| by means of virtue, and so creates the fairest and most divine
of effigies. In the heavens the sun and moon were set by God
as His own beauteous image; and, in a state, the same shining
embodiment is to be found in the ruler
Godfearing, who justice upholdeth,
—that is to say, when he holds, not a sceptre, but a mind which
is the reason of God; not when he holds the thunderbolt or
trident with which some represent themselves in statue or
picture, rendering their folly odious to Heaven by such impossible
assertion. For God visits with righteous wrath him who
183makes pretence of thunder or thunderbolt or darting sun-ray;
but when a man studies to emulate His goodness, and to take |781|
a pattern by His virtue and benevolence, He delights in furthering
him and bestowing a portion of His own righteousness,
justice, truth, and mercy. Not fire or light, not the course of
the sun, the risings and settings of the stars, everlastingness
and immortality, are more divine that these attributes. For it
is not by reason of length of life that God is happy, but by
reason of the virtue which rules. This is ‘divine’. ‘Noble’,
however, is the virtue whose part it is only to obey.
When Alexander was in sore distress at killing Cleitus, Anaxarchus
told him, by way of comfort, that Right and Justice were |B|
but the ‘assessors’ of Zeus—making out that any act was right
and lawful for a king. A false and pernicious salve for his repentance
at his sin, this encouragement to repeat it! If we are to
use such figures of speech, Right is no ‘assessor’ of Zeus, but
He himself is Right and Justice, the oldest and most consummate
Law. What the ancients tell and write and teach is that,
without Justice, not even Zeus can properly rule. According
to Hesiod
A virgin is she,
the incorruptible partner of feeling, self-control, and beneficence. |C|
Hence are kings called ‘merciful’, for mercy best becomes those
who are least afraid. A ruler’s fear should be of doing harm
rather than of suffering it; for the former action is the cause
of the latter, and this kind of fear on the part of a ruler is creditable
to humanity. There is nothing ignoble in a fear for his
subjects and of possible injury to them. Such rulers are like
Dogs that keep ward o’er the sheep in the farmstead, anxiously watching
At sound of a fierce wild beast—
their anxiety being not for themselves, but for their charges.
184Once when the Thebans had recklessly abandoned themselves
|D| to feasting and carousal, Epaminondas went the round of the
walls and the military posts all by himself, remarking that he
was keeping sober and wakeful so that the rest might be drunk
and asleep. When Cato, after the defeat at Utica, gave orders
that every one else should be sent to sea, saw them on board,
prayed that they might have a prosperous voyage, and then
went back home and stabbed himself, it was a lesson on the text,
‘For whose sake should a ruler feel fear, and for what should
he feel contempt?’ On the other hand, Clearchus, despot of
Pontus, used at bedtime to crawl like a snake into a chest.
|E| Similarly, Aristodemus of Argos crept into an upper room entered
by a trap-door. Over this he would put the couch upon which
he passed the night with his mistress. Meanwhile her mother
dragged away the ladder from below, bringing it back and
putting it in place in the morning. How, think you, must he
have shuddered at the theatre, at the Government offices, at
the Senate-House, at the banquet, when he turned his own
bedchamber into a prison? Yes, kings are afraid for their subjects,
despots are afraid of them. It follows that, as they add
to their power, they add to their alarms; the more people
they rule, the more people they fear.
|F| It is an improbable and unworthy view to hold of God—as
some philosophers do—that He exists as an element in matter
to which all sorts of things may happen, and in entities which are
subject to innumerable accidents, chances and changes. In
reality He is stablished somewhere aloft ‘on holy pedestal’ (as
Plato puts it) in the realm of nature uniform and constant, and
there ‘moves according to Nature in a straight line towards the
accomplishment of His end‘. And as in heaven the sun, His
beauteous counterfeit, shows itself as His reflection in a mirror
to those who have the power to see Him through it, so, in the
justice and reason which shine in a state, He sets up a likeness
185of that which is in Himself, and, by copying that likeness, men |782|
whom philosophy has gifted and chastened model themselves
after the highest pattern.
This condition of mind nothing can implant except reason
acquired from philosophy. Otherwise we are in the position
of Alexander, when he went to see Diogenes at Corinth. In
delight at his talent, and in admiration of his proud and lofty
spirit, he exclaimed: ‘If I had not been Alexander, I would
have been Diogenes.’ And what did this virtually mean?
That he was vexed at his own high fortune, splendour, and |B|
power, because they were an obstacle to the virtue for which
he could find no time, and that he envied the cloak and the wallet,
which made Diogenes as invincible and unassailable as he himself
was made by armour and horses and spears. And yet by the
practice of philosophy he might have secured the moral character
of a Diogenes while retaining the position of an Alexander.
Nay, he should have become all the more a Diogenes for being
an Alexander, since his high fortune, so liable to be tossed by
stormy winds, required ample ballast and a master hand at the
helm.
In the case of private men without strength or standing, folly
is so qualified by impotence that in the end no mischief is done.
It is as with a bad dream, in which, though the mind is excited
with passion, no harm results, inasmuch as it is unable to rise
and act in accordance with the desires. When, on the other |C|
hand, vice is adopted by power, the passions acquire sinew and
strength. Dionysius spoke truly when he said that the highest
advantage of power was to give speedy effect to a wish. A most
parlous thing, if you can give effect to a wish, and yet wish what
is wrong!
No sooner the word had been utter’d, than straightway the deed was accomplish’d.
Vice, when enabled by power to run rapid course, forces every
186passion into action, converting anger into murder, love into
adultery, greed into confiscation.
No sooner the word hath been utter’d,
than your opponent has met his doom. No sooner a suspicion,
than the victim of slander is a dead man.
|D| Scientists tell us that, whereas lightning really follows and
issues from thunder like blood from a wound, it is perceived first
because, while the hearing waits for the sound, the vision goes
out to meet the light. So with rulers. The punishment outstrips
the charge; the condemnation does not wait for the proof.
For forthwith anger slips and loses hold,
Like anchor’s tooth in sand when seas swell high,
unless reason with all its weight puts a heavy drag on power;
unless, that is, the ruler acts like the sun, whose motion is least
|E| when its height is greatest, namely, at the time of its northern
altitude, its course being steadied by the diminished speed.
Vice in high places cannot be hid. When an epileptic is
placed upon a height and made to turn round, he is seized with
giddiness and begins to totter, his malady being betrayed thereby.
So with an unschooled and ignorant person. After a brief
uplifting by wealth or fame or place, the same fortune which
raised him up immediately reveals how ready he is to fall. To
put it another way; when a vessel is empty, you cannot detect
the crack or flaw, but when you begin to fill it, the leak appears.
|F| So with a mind which is too unsound to hold power and
authority; its leaks are to be seen in its exhibitions of lust,
anger, pretentiousness, and ignorance. Yet why speak of this,
when holes are picked in eminent and distinguished men for
the merest peccadilloes? Cimon was reproached for his addiction
to wine, Scipio for his addiction to sleep, and Lucullus for his
extravagance at table[47]....
FAWNER AND FRIEND (WITH AN EXCURSUS ON CANDOUR)
187
My dear Antiochus Philopappus, |48 E|
‘Every one,’ says Plato, ‘will pardon a man for admitting
that he has a strong affection for himself,’ but—not to mention |F|
numerous other defects to which he is subject—there is one
chief weakness which precludes him from giving a just and
incorruptible verdict in his own case. ‘The lover is blind where
the beloved object is concerned,’ unless he has learned the habit
of prizing things, not because they are his own or related to
himself, but because they are beautiful. Hence, there is ample
opportunity for the flatterer to obtain a place among our friends.
He delivers his attack from an excellent point of vantage in
the shape of that self-love which makes every man his own |49|
first and greatest flatterer, ready and willing to welcome such
external testimony as will endorse his own conceits and desires.
For the man who is reprobated as a lover of toadies is an ardent
lover of himself. Out of fondness for himself he not only entertains
the wish to possess, but also the conceit that he possesses,
all manner of qualities; and though the desire may be natural
enough, the conceit is fallacious and calls for the greatest
watchfulness.
And if truth is divine, and—as Plato asserts—the first principle |B|
of ‘all good things both with Gods and men’, the toady must
be an enemy of the Gods, and especially of the Pythian. For, in
perpetual antagonism to the doctrine of Know Thyself, he produces
self-deception in a man, self-ignorance, and error as to his
188virtues and vices. The virtues he renders defective and abortive;
the vices he renders incorrigible.
Now if the flatterer had been like most other mischievous
things, and had solely or chiefly attacked mean and petty
victims, the harm would have been neither so great nor so
difficult to prevent. But it is into soft and sweet kinds of wood
that worms prefer to bore, and it is estimable and capable
characters—characters with a love of approbation—that give
access and supply nourishment to the flatterer who fastens upon
|C| them. ‘The breeding of the steed,’ says Simonides, ‘sorts not with
Zacynthus,[48] but with wheat-bearing plains.’ Similarly we do not
find toadyism in attendance upon the poor, the insignificant,
or the uninfluential, but sapping and debilitating great houses
and great fortunes, and frequently subverting rulers and thrones.
Consequently no slight effort or common precaution is required
in considering how it can be most readily detected and so prevented
from doing injury and discredit to friendship.
|D| Vermin quit a dying man and desert the body when the blood
which feeds them becomes exhausted. So with the time-server.
You will never find him approaching a person whose fortune is
destitute of sap and warmth. It is the famous and influential
whom he attacks; it is out of them that he makes capital; and
when their circumstances change he promptly beats a retreat.
We should not, however, wait for that test; it is then not
merely useless but fraught with injury and danger. It is a grievous
thing to find out who is not your friend only at the moment
when a friend is needed, since the discovery does not enable you
to exchange the uncertain and counterfeit for the genuine and
certain. You should possess friends as you possess coin—tested
|E| before the occasion, not waiting to be proved by the occasion.
Discovery should not come through injury, but injury should
be prevented by our acquiring a scientific insight into the
189nature of the toady. Otherwise we shall be in the position of
those who distinguish a deadly poison by tasting it; we shall
meet our death in the effort of judging.
One can neither approve of such a course, nor yet of those who,
because they regard a ‘friend’ as implying a high and wholesome
influence, imagine that an agreeable associate is immediately
and manifestly proved to be a time-server. For there is nothing
disagreeable or uncompromisingly severe about a friend, nor
does the high respect we pay to friendship depend upon harshness
or austerity. Nay, its high influence and claim to respect are
actually an agreeable and desirable thing in themselves, |F|
And close at its side do the Graces and Longing Desire set their dwellings.
Not only may the unfortunate man say, with Euripides,
’Tis sweet to look into a friend’s fond eyes,
but friendship is a comrade who adds as much pleasure and
gratification to our blessings as it brings relief to the pains and
perplexities of our mishaps. According to Euenus ‘the best of |50|
seasonings is fire‘. So, by making friendship an ingredient of
life, God has rendered all things bright and sweet and enjoyable
through its presence and participation. How, indeed, could
the fawner have wormed himself into our pleasures, if he had
seen that friendship refuses all admittance to what is pleasant?
The thing is absurd. No; the toady is like the mock-gilt and
tinsel which merely mimic the sheen and lustre of gold. It is
in order to imitate the attractiveness and charm of a friend
that he makes a constant show of agreeableness and amiability,
and never opposes or contradicts you. It is therefore wrong, |B|
when a person praises you, to suspect at once that he is simply
a flatterer. Friendship is quite as much called upon to praise
in season as it is to blame. In fact, perpetual peevishness and
fault-finding is the negation of friendship and sociability;
190whereas, when affection bestows zealous and ungrudging praise
upon our good deeds, we also submit readily and cheerfully
to its candid remonstrances, being satisfied with the belief that
the man who is glad to praise will only blame because he must.
|C| ‘It is a hard matter then,’ we may be told, ‘to distinguish
between flatterer and friend, if they are equally pleasant and
equally laudatory, especially when we find that toadyism is
often more than a match for friendship in the tendering of
services.’ Naturally so, we reply, if the object of our search
is the genuine toady, with a past-master’s skill at the business;
if, that is, we do not adopt the common view and mean by
‘toady’ your poverty-stricken trencherman, who ‘begins’—as
some one has said—‘to declare himself with the first course,’ and
whose lickspittle character betrays itself by gross and vulgar
|D| buffoonery at the first dish and the first glass. It needed no test
to expose Melanthius, the parasite of Pherae. It was enough
that, when asked ‘how Alexander was stabbed,’ he replied,
‘Through the ribs, into my belly.’ Nor is there any such need
with those who besiege ‘an opulent table’, and whom
Not fire, nor steel, nor bronze can keep
from making their way to a dinner. Nor yet with those female
toadies of Cyprus, who, after their transference to Syria, were
|E| called ‘pair o’ steps’ from the fact that they used to allow the
king’s wife to mount her carriage over their bent backs.
Against whom, then, are we to be on our guard? Against
the man who is not confessedly or apparently a toady; one who
is not to be found hanging about the kitchen, nor to be caught
watching the dial with a dinner in prospect; one who is not
to be made tipsy and then pitched into any corner; but one
who for the most part keeps sober and bustling, thinking it
his business to take part in all your doings, and to be privy to
your confidential talk—the man, in short, who acts the rôle of
191friend, not in the satyric[49] or comic style, but in the high
tragic. According to Plato, ‘the extreme of dishonesty is to
appear honest when you are not.’ So with time-serving. It is |F|
to be regarded as dangerous, not when confessed, but when
undetected; when it wears a serious, not an amusing, air.
In this form, unless we are careful, it casts a slur of discredit
even upon genuine friendship, the points of coincidence being
numerous. When the Mage was trying to escape and Gobryes
had plunged with him into a dark room and was grappling
with him, Darius stood at a loss what to do. ‘Stab,’ said
Gobryes, ‘though you stab both.’ With us it is not so easy,
inasmuch as we can by no means give any sanction to the maxim:
‘Perish friend, if so perish foe.’ There are so many points of
similarity to complicate the fawner with the friend that we must
find it a most parlous business to tear the one from the other.
We may either be casting out the good thing along with the bad, |51|
or, in trying to spare the right thing, we may let the wrong one
bring us to grief. There are wild plants of which the seeds
are similar in shape and size to those of wheat. When the two
are mixed it is difficult to sift these out; they will not fall
through smaller holes, and, if the holes are wider, one falls
through as much as the other. No less difficult is it to separate
time-serving from friendship, when it blends itself with every
feeling, every movement, need, and habit.
Friendship being the most pleasant and delightful thing in
the world, it follows that the toady also uses pleasure for his |B|
bait. To give pleasure is his main concern. And since agreeableness
and usefulness are concomitants of friendship—whence
the saying that ‘a friend is more indispensable than fire and water‘—it
follows that the toady insists on rendering services, and is
all eagerness to show unfaltering promptitude and zeal. But
the surest foundation of friendship is similarity of pursuits and
192character. The foremost agent in mutual attraction is similarity
of temperament—the liking and disliking of the same things.
This the time-server perceives, and therefore he adapts himself
|C| like wax to the proper shape and form, endeavouring by imitation
to mould himself so as exactly to fit his victim. His supple
versatility, his genius for mimicry, is so great that it is a case of
Thou art
Achilles’ self, and not Achilles’ son.
And note his craftiest device. He observes that candour is
called (what it appears to be) ‘the characteristic note of friendship’,
while lack of candour is the negation of friendship and
spirit. He does not fail, therefore, to imitate this quality also.
As a skilful chef will use some bitter or piquant juice for a sauce
in order to prevent sweets from cloying, so with the candour
|D| of the toady. It is not genuine, nor is it useful; it is given,
as it were, with a wink, and serves simply as an excitant. The
result is that he is as hard to detect as one of those creatures which
possess the natural power of altering their colour so as to match
the spot on which they happen to lie. Since, therefore, it is under
cover of resemblances that he deceives us, our proper course is to
find in the non-resemblances a means of stripping off his disguise
and showing that—as Plato puts it—he is ‘beautifying himself
with borrowed forms and colours through lack of any of his own’.
Let us begin at the very beginning. In most instances, we
remarked, friendship commences with similarity of temperament
|E| and disposition, a taste for very much the same habits and
principles, and a delight in the same pursuits, occupations, and
pastimes. Such a similarity is implied in the lines:
Most welcome to the old is old men’s speech;
Child pleaseth child, and woman pleaseth woman,
Sick men the sick, and one who meets disaste
Brings solace to another suffering it.
193The toady knows that it is natural to find pleasure in one’s like
and to be fond of his society. This, therefore, is his first device |F|
for approaching you and getting neighbours with you. He acts
like herdsmen on a pasture. He works gently up to you and rubs
shoulders with you in the same pursuits, amusements, tastes,
and way of life, until you give him his chance and let yourself
grow tame and accustomed to his touch. He condemns such
circumstances, such conduct, and such persons as he notices
you dislike; while of those that please you he cannot say too
much in praise, exhibiting boundless delight and admiration |52|
for them. He thus confirms you in your loves and hatreds, as
being the results, not of feelings, but of judgement.
How, then, is he to be exposed? By what points of difference
are we to prove that he is not, nor is on the way to be, our like,
but only a pretender thereto? In the first place we must look
for consistency and permanence in his principles. We must
see whether he takes pleasure in, and gives praise to, the same
things at all times; whether he directs and establishes his own
life after one pattern, as a frank and free lover of single-minded
friendship and fellowship ought to do. A friend does act in this
manner. On the other hand, the time-server possesses no one
fixed hearthstone to his character. He does not live a life |B|
chosen for himself, but a life chosen for another. Moulding
and adapting himself to suit others, he possesses no singleness
or unity, but adopts all manner of varying shapes. Like water
poured from one vessel into another, he is perpetually flowing
hither and thither and accommodating himself to the form of the
receptacle.
The ape, we are told, is captured through endeavouring to
imitate man by copying his motions in dancing. The time-server,
on the contrary, is one who allures and decoys others.
Nor does his mimicry take the same form in all cases. One person
he will help to dance and sing: with another he will share a taste
194for wrestling and athletics. If he gets hold of a sportsman
devoted to hunting, he follows his lead, and all but shouts, in the
words of Phaedra, |C|
I long, ye Gods, to cheer the hounds
Close-pressing on the dappled deer,
whereas he feels no interest whatever in the animal, but is
setting his toils to catch the huntsman himself. If his next
quarry is a young man with a taste for study and intellectual
improvement, he is all for books, and grows a beard down to
his feet; it is a case of wearing the philosopher’s cloak
and his air of ‘indifference’,[50] and of prating about Plato’s
‘numbers’ and ‘right-angled triangles’. If, next, there
happens along some easy-going bibulous person with plenty
of money,
Then forthwith are his rags cast off by the wily Odysseus.
|D| Away goes the cloak; shorn off is the beard—’tis a crop
that bears no corn: to the fore are wine-coolers and wine-cups,
laughter in the streets and mockery of the philosophic
student.
We are told, for instance, that at Syracuse, when Plato
visited the place and Dionysius was seized with a mania for
philosophy, the host of geometricians turned the palace into
a perfect whirl of dust.[51] But when Dionysius came to logger-heads
with Plato, had had enough of philosophy, and abandoned
himself to drink and women and to silly talk and wanton
|E| behaviour, in a moment it was as if Circe had transformed them
every one, and there came a reign of vulgarity, oblivion, and
folly. Examples are also to be found in the conduct of time-servers
on a large scale, such as demagogues. Greatest was
195Alcibiades. At Athens he joked, kept horses, and lived like
a wit and a man of the world. At Lacedaemon he cropped his
hair close, wore a short cloak, and bathed in cold water. In
Thrace he fought and drank. But when he attached himself
to Tissaphernes, he indulged in luxury, effeminacy, and ostentation,
and sought to win the good graces of his company by
adapting himself in all cases to their likeness and becoming
one of them. Not so Epaminondas or Agesilaus. Despite |F|
all their intercourse with so many persons, communities, and
standards of conduct, they everywhere maintained—in dress,
way of life, speech, and behaviour—their own proper character.
So with Plato. He was the same at Syracuse as at Athens, the
same to Dionysius as to Dion.
Our easiest method of exposing the polypus-like changes of
the time-server is to make a show of frequent changes on our
own part, finding fault with conduct of which we formerly
approved, and all of a sudden countenancing actions, conduct, |53|
or talk which used to fill us with disgust. We shall then perceive
that he has no sort of settled and specific character; that his
loves, hatreds, pleasures, and pains are not matters of his own
feeling; that he is merely a mirror reflecting extraneous moods,
principles, and emotions. For observe the man’s ways. Should
you speak disparagingly to him of one of your friends, he will
remark: ‘You have been slow in finding the fellow out; I never
did like him.’ If, on the contrary, you change your tone and
speak in his praise, he will declare that he is ‘right glad and
thankful on the man’s behalf’, because he ‘believes in him’.
If you propose to adopt a different mode of life—if, for example, |B|
you are converted from a political career to a life of quiet
inactivity—he will say, ‘We ought to have got quit of brawlings
and jealousies long before this.’ If, on the other hand, you
appear eager for office and the platform, he seconds you with,
‘A very proper spirit! A quiet life is pleasant, no doubt, but
196it lacks honour and distinction.’ We ought immediately to
answer that kind of man with the words:
‘Different, sir, dost thou show thyself now from the man thou wert erstwhile.
I do not want a friend who shifts his ground when I do and who
nods when I nod—my shadow can do that better—but one who
helps me to truth and sound judgement.’
|C| Such is one way of applying a test. There is a second point
of difference to be watched, as against the points of resemblance.
It is not in all matters that a genuine friend is prompt to copy
or commend us, but only in the best.
Not his to share our hates, but share our loves,
as Sophocles has it. Yes, and to share our right conduct and high
principles, not our wrong and wanton deeds, unless perhaps—as
a result of familiar association—some contaminating effluence,
like that of ophthalmia, affects him to some extent with a
blemish or a fault against his will. For instance, it is said that
|D| Plato’s stoop, Aristotle’s lisp, King Alexander’s crook of the
neck and harshness of voice in conversation, were tricks borrowed
by their respective intimates. There are persons who, without
knowing it, pick up from both the temperament and conduct
of their friends most of what is characteristic of them. The
time-server, however, is exactly like the chameleon. As the
latter assimilates himself to every colour but white, so the time-server,
though utterly unable to arrive at a likeness to your
valuable qualities, leaves no discreditable one uncopied. He is
like a bad painter, who, because beauty lies beyond the reach
of his weak capacity, makes the strikingness of his portraiture
|E| a matter of wrinkles, moles, and scars. So the toady becomes
an imitator of dissoluteness, superstition, irascibility, harshness
to servants, and distrust of friends and relatives. Not only is
197he by nature and of his own accord prone to the lower course;
it is by imitating a baseness that he appears to be farthest from
blaming it. A man who takes the higher line, and shows distress
and vexation at his friends’ misdeeds, is dubiously regarded—a
fact which accounts for the ruin of Dion with Dionysius, of
Samius with Philip, and of Cleomenes with Ptolemy. But when
a man desires to be, and to be thought, agreeable and to be
depended upon, the worse the thing is, the more display he
makes of liking it, as if the strength of his affection will not
permit him to dislike even your vices, but makes him your |F|
natural sympathizer in all circumstances. Such persons therefore
insist upon sharing even involuntary and accidental shortcomings.
When toadying an invalid, they pretend to suffer
with the same complaint. In company with a person who is
somewhat blind or deaf, they pretend to be dim-sighted and
hard of hearing, like the flatterers of Dionysius, whose sight was
so dull that they stumbled against each other and knocked over
the dishes at dinner.
Sometimes they work themselves into closer and more
intimate touch with a trouble or a malady, till they come to
participate in afflictions of the most secret kind. If they see |54|
that the patron is unhappy in his marriage or on bad terms
with his sons or his relatives, they do not spare themselves,
but make lamentations about their own children, or wife, or
relatives, or friends, on certain alleged grounds which they
divulge as a miserable secret. Such similarity creates a closer
understanding with their patron. He has received a sort of
hostage, thereupon betrays to them some secret or other, and,
because of that betrayal, keeps friends with them and is afraid
to leave his confidence to its fate. I know of one time-server
who, when the patron divorced his wife, turned his own wife
also out of doors. It was, however, found out—through a discovery |B|
of the patron’s wife—that he was visiting and sending
198messages to her in secret. The toady must have been but
little known to the man who thought that the lines:
Body all belly, and an eye that looks
All round; a thing that crawls upon its teeth,
were as apt a description for a crab as they are for the flatterer.
The picture is that of the parasite:
The friend of saucepan-time and dinner-hour,
as Eupolis expresses it.
This point, however, we will reserve till its proper place.
Meanwhile we must not omit to mention another shrewd
trick played by the time-server when he imitates you. If he
goes so far as to copy some good quality in the person whom he
|C| toadies, he is careful to leave the advantage with him. Friends
in the true sense are neither jealous nor envious of each other,
and, whether they reach or fail to reach the same degree of
excellence, they accept the situation fairly and without a grudge.
But the toady—who never forgets to play second rôle—lets his
resemblance fall short of equality, and owns to being distanced
at everything but vices. In vices, however, he insists on first
prize. If the patron is irritable, he says, ‘I am all bile;’ if
superstitious, ‘I am a mass of fears;’ if love-sick, ‘I am frantic.’
|D| ‘It was wrong of you to laugh,’ he will say, ‘but I was absolutely
dying with laughter.’ But where virtues are concerned it is
the other way about. ‘I am a fast runner, but you positively
fly.’ ‘I am a tolerable horseman, but nothing to a centaur like
our friend here.’ ‘I have a neat turn for poetry, and can write
a line better than some, but
Thunder is not for me, ’tis work for Zeus.’
He thus appears to do two things at once—to give an air of
merit to his patron’s tastes by imitating them, and of unapproachableness
to his ability by failing to match it.
199So much for the differences between fawner and friend in the
midst of their resemblances.
Since, as we have observed, pleasure is another point in
common—a good type of man taking as much delight in his
friends as a weak man does in his flatterers—we may proceed
to make a distinction here also. The distinction lies in the relation
between the pleasure and its end. Thus, not only unguents |E|
have an agreeable smell; a medicine may have it also. But
there is the difference that the object of the former is pleasure
and nothing else, while in the other case the purgative, warming,
or flesh-making quality happens to be combined with fragrance.
Again, a painter mixes engaging colours and dyes, and there
are also certain medical preparations with a taking appearance
and an attractive colour. Where is the difference? Clearly
our distinction will lie in the end for which they are used.
Just so with the case before us. In the agreeable relations of |F|
friend with friend the pleasant-giving element is a kind of gloss
upon a substance of high value and utility. Sometimes sportiveness,
the table, wine, and even mockery and nonsense are used
by them as a seasoning to high and serious purposes. Hence
such expressions as:
Then had they joyance in talk and in speaking the one to the other;
or:
Nor should aught else have parted us twain in our love and our joyance.
But, with the time-server, it is his function and end to be |55|
perpetually dishing up in a spicy form something amusing,
something done or something said which pleases and is meant
to please.
To put it briefly, the toady thinks the purpose of his every
action should be to make himself agreeable, whereas the friend
200will only do what is right, and therefore, though often agreeable,
he is often the contrary, not because he wishes it, but because,
when it is the proper course, he does not avoid it. It is as with
the physician. When it helps matters he will throw in a pinch
of saffron or spikenard, and will frequently order a pleasant
bath and an inviting diet. But there are times when he will
have none of these, but will shake in a dash of castor
Or polium foul of odor, that men e’en shudder to smell it.
|B| Or he will pound a dose of hellebore and make you drink it off.
Neither the unpleasantness in the one case nor the pleasantness
in the other is the end in his mind, but in both cases he has only
one object in view for the patient, and that object is his good.
In the same way there are times when a friend will lead you in
the path of duty by inspiriting you with praise or gratifying
you with courtesies, as the speaker does in
Teucer, Telamon’s son, dear prince of a warrior people,
Shoot as now thou dost,
or in:
How then should I, if ’tis so, be forgetful of godlike Odysseus?
But when, on the contrary, you need calling to attention, he
will upbraid you in biting terms and with the plain-speaking
of a guardian: |C|
Foolish art thou, Menelaus Zeus-foster’d: no time is this present
For folly like thine.
There are also times when he makes the deed accompany the
word, like Menedemus, when he taught the prodigal and
dissolute son of his friend Asclepiades a wholesome lesson by
shutting the door in his face and refusing to speak to him.
Similarly Arcesilaus forbade Bato the lecture-room for having
attacked Cleanthes in a verse of a comedy. He was reconciled
to him, however, when he repented and made his peace with
201Cleanthes. For though one must give a friend pain when it does
him good, one must not, while giving the pain, make an end
of the friendship. The sting should be used only as a medicine,
for the care and salvation of the patient. A friend is therefore |D|
like a musician. In converting us to right and salutary courses
he will sometimes loosen and sometimes tighten the strings.
Pleasure you will get from him often, profit always. On the
other hand, the time-server, who harps in a single key and is
accustomed to strike no note but that of your pleasure and gratification,
has no notion of any action to check you or word to pain
you. He merely plays the accompaniment to your wishes, with
which both his time and his words are invariably in accord.
Xenophon says of Agesilaus that he welcomed praise from those
who were no less ready to blame. So we should regard that
which gives pleasure and gratification as in the category of
‘friend’, if it can also on occasion oppose us and give us pain.
But a companionship which is uniformly pleasurable and maintains |E|
a perpetual graciousness unqualified by any sting, calls
for suspicion. We ought, in fact, to be ready to ask, like the
Laconian on hearing praise of King Charillus, ‘How can a man
be honest, when he cannot be angry even with a rascal?’
It is close to the ear, we are told, that the gadfly gets into
a bull and the tick into a dog. In the case of a man of ambition,
the time-server with his flatteries takes hold of his ears and sticks
so fast that it is hard to rub him off. Particularly, therefore,
in such circumstances must we keep our judgement vigilant.
It must be on the alert to see whether the praise is given to the |F|
thing or to the man. It is given to the thing when men praise
us in our absence more than in our presence; when they wish
and strive for the same objects themselves, and praise not only
us but every one else who does the like; when we do not find
them doing and saying first one thing and then the opposite;
and—most important of all—when our sense does not tell us
202that we are repenting or ashamed of the things for which we
are praised, or wishing that we had rather done and said the
|56| contrary. This inward judgement, which testifies against a
flattery and refuses to accept it, is immune from contamination,
and proof against the time-server.
It is a strange thing that most men, when they meet with
a misfortune, cannot bear to be consoled, but are better pleased
with those who will join in the lamentations; but when they
are guilty of a blunder or a fault, if you make them feel the sting
of repentance by means of a reproof or a reprimand, they think
you an enemy and an accuser; whereas, if you eulogize their
conduct, they regard you as a loyal friend and receive you with
open arms.
Now when people give you praise and applause for something
|B| you do or say, whether in sober earnest or in careless jest, the
harm they do is only for the moment, and only affects the
matter in hand. But when their praises go so far as to influence
your moral being, and their flatteries to affect your character,
they are as bad as servants who pilfer ‘not from the stack, but
from the seed‘. For the moral disposition and the moral character—first
principle and fountain-head of conduct—are the seed of
actions, and these they corrupt by clothing vice in the titles of
virtue. Thucydides tells us that in the midst of war and faction
‘the customary acceptation of words was arbitrarily changed to suit
an end. Reckless daring came to be thought devoted courage;
|C| cautious hesitation, an excuse for cowardice; moderation, weakness
in disguise; complete insight, complete inertia‘. So, when
flattery is at work, we should warily note how prodigality is
called ‘generosity’; cowardice, ‘caution’; light-headed caprice,
‘life and vigour’; meanness, ‘moderation’; the amorous man,
‘amiable and affectionate’; the arrogant and irascible person,
‘a man of spirit’; a poor meek creature, ‘civil and obliging’.
|D| Remember, how Plato tells us that the lover—the flatterer of
203the beloved—calls a snub nose ‘piquant’, a hook-nose ‘regal’,
a swarthy face ‘virile’, a white face ‘saint-like’, while ‘honey-colour’
is simply the coinage of a lover who indulgently invents
a pretty name for pallor. Yet when an ugly man is persuaded
that he is beautiful, or a little man that he is tall, his deception
is short-lived, and the harm which he sustains is slight and easily
repaired. But flattery may teach him to treat vices as if they |E|
were virtues, and to rejoice in them instead of sorrowing. It
may remove all sense of shame at misconduct. Such flattery
spelled destruction to the Siceliots, when it called the cruelty
of Dionysius and Phalaris a ‘hatred of wickedness’. It spelled
ruin to Egypt, when it gave to Ptolemy’s effeminacy, to his
hysterical superstition, to his shriekings and bangings of tambourines,
the name of piety and worship. It came once within
an ace of utterly subverting Roman morals, when it glossed over
Antony’s dissolute and ostentatious self-indulgence with pretty
terms as a ‘festive and genial appreciation of the boons of unstinted |F|
power and fortune’. What made Ptolemy tie on the
mouth-strap and its pair of flutes? What made Nero cultivate
the tragic stage and don the mask and buskin? What else but
praise from flatterers? Is not a king regularly called an Apollo
if he warbles, a Dionysius if he gets drunk, a Hercules if he
wrestles? And is he not so pleased with it, that there is no
way of disgracing himself to which flattery will not lead him?
It is therefore in the matter of praise that we should chiefly
beware of the time-server. He is himself alive to the fact, and |57|
is deft at avoiding suspicion. If therefore he gets hold of some
dull-witted and thick-skinned grandee, he fools him to the top of
his bent. Remember how Strouthias makes a hobby-horse of Bias
and dances his fling upon the man’s stupidity by praising him with:
You have drunk more than royal Alexander,
or:
I laugh to think o’ the quip you gave the Cyprian.
204But with persons of more discernment he perceives that in this
direction they are particularly on the alert, that in this quarter
they keep a special watch. He does not therefore adopt a direct
line of attack with his flattery, but fetches a circuitous course
from a distance, and
Advances noiselessly, as when a beast
|B| is tentatively approached and fingered. At one moment he
will describe how you have been praised by some one else, using
the public speaker’s device of putting the words in another
person’s mouth. He will say, for instance, that he had the great
pleasure of being present in the market-place when some
‘visitors’—or some ‘elderly people’—were relating a good
many admiring and complimentary stories about you. At
another time he will concoct a number of trivial and fictitious
charges against you, which he purports to have heard from
others, and he will say that he has hastened to find you and
desires to know where you said such-and-such a thing or did
so-and-so. If you deny them—as you naturally will—he at
|C| once has you in the trap for his compliments: ‘It did surprise
me that you should speak ill of a friend, seeing that it is not
your nature to do so even of an enemy;’ or ‘that you should
have designs on other people’s property, when you are so liberal
with your own’.
Others, again, are like a painter who brings the light and bright
parts into relief by the juxtaposition of dark and shaded portions.
By blaming, abusing, belittling, and ridiculing the opposite
qualities, they give a concealed praise and encouragement
to the defects of the person flattered. To a spendthrift they
disparage economy and call it stinginess. To a grasping knave
|D| who makes money by mean and shabby practices they depreciate
honest self-support and call it want of enterprise and business
capacity. When they associate with some careless idler who shuns
205the busy centres of affairs, they are not ashamed to style public
life a ‘meddling with other people’s business’, and public spirit
a ‘sterile vanity’. Sometimes, in order to flatter a public
speaker, a philosopher is belittled, or the favour of profligate
women is won by miscalling faithful and loving wives ‘provincial
and unattractive’. Most pitiful in its baseness is the
fact that the toady does not even spare himself. As a wrestler
crouches his body in order to throw another, so he insidiously
contrives to compliment his neighbour by disparaging himself. |E|
‘I am a nervous wretch at sea,’ says he. ‘I cannot face trouble.
Hard words make me frantically angry. But our friend here
has no nerves; nothing troubles him. He is a peculiar person,
always good-tempered, never ruffled.’ But if a man thinks
himself particularly sensible, and is so desirous of being severely
matter-of-fact that—out of what he calls straightforwardness—he
is always on the defensive with
Tydeus’ son, bepraise me not much, nor, prithee, upbraid me,
the artist in flattery will not adopt this manner of approaching |F|
him. Such cases are met by another device. He will come and
consult him, as a person of superior wisdom, about affairs of
his own. ‘Though,’ he will say, ‘there are others with
whom I am more intimate, I am compelled to trouble you.
For where are we to take refuge when we need advice? In
whom are we to put confidence?’ Then, after listening
to what he has to say, he will take his leave with the
remark that what he has received is ‘not an opinion; it
is an oracle’. And if he sees that you make pretensions to
being a judge of literature, he gives you something he has |58|
written himself, and asks you to read and correct it. When
King Mithridates had a fancy for doctoring, some of his
courtiers actually put themselves in his hands to be lanced
and cauterized. This was flattery by deeds in place of words,
206since he accepted their confidence as a sufficient voucher for
his skill.
Of many shapes are means divine,
and this negative class of praise requires to be countered with
some craftiness. The way to confute it is by deliberately offering
counsel and suggestion which are nonsensical, and making corrections
|B| which are absurd. If your man objects to nothing,
says ‘Yes’ to everything, and exclaims ‘Good!’ ‘Capital!’
at every item, he exposes himself as one who
The watchword asks, while other are his aims,
—those aims being to encourage your self-conceit with his
laudations.
Take another case. Painting has been styled ‘silent poetry’.
So there is a way of praising by silent flattery. The sportsman’s
purpose is better concealed from the game when he pretends
to be upon other business—walking, tending cattle, or tilling
the soil. In the same way a toady drives home his eulogies most
effectively when the eulogy is disguised under some different
form of action. It may be by giving up his seat, or his place
|C| at table, when you appear upon the scene. Or if he is addressing
the Assembly or Council, and notices that some wealthy man
desires to speak, he may stop his speech and yield him the
platform. His silence indicates more clearly than the loudest
acclamation that he regards the person in question as a better
man and his intellectual superior. Such persons may therefore
be seen taking possession of the front seats at an entertainment
or in the meeting-hall, not because they claim any right to
them, but in order that they may play the toady by giving up
their places to rich people. Or you may see them begin the
discussion at a congress or a board-meeting, and subsequently
give way to ‘superior argument’ and shift round with the
|D| greatest readiness to the opposite view, if their opponent is
207a person of influence, wealth, or note. The clearest exposure of
such complaisances and concessions is to be sought in the fact
that it is not to knowledge or high abilities or age that the
deference is paid, but to riches and reputations. When Megabyzus
took a seat at Apelles’ side and wanted to prate to him
about ‘line’ and ‘shading’, the painter remarked, ‘Do you
see those boys yonder grinding my mixing-earth? When you
were silent, they were all eyes of admiration for your purple and
your jewels. But now that you have begun to talk about things |E|
you do not understand, they are laughing at you.’ Similarly
Solon, when Croesus questioned him about ‘happiness’,
declared that Tellus, an Athenian of humble rank, as well as
Cleobis and Biton, were more favoured by fortune. A flatterer,
on the contrary, not only avers that a king, a rich man, or a man
in power, is prosperous and fortunate; he also declares that
he is pre-eminent in wisdom, art, and every form of excellence.
Hence while there are persons who have no patience to listen
when the Stoics describe the sage as at the same time ‘rich,
beautiful, noble, and king’, a toady will make out that the rich
man is at the same time an orator, a poet, and—if he so wishes—a
painter and a musician. He makes him out swift of foot and |F|
strong of thew by letting himself be thrown in wrestling and
outstripped in running, as Criso of Himera did in a race against
Alexander—much to Alexander’s disgust when he detected it.
Carneades used to say that the only thing that kings’ and rich
men’s sons understand is how to ride; they receive no proper
instruction in anything else. For their teacher flatters them in
school with his praises, and their antagonists in the wrestling-ring
by courting defeat; whereas a horse, who neither knows
nor cares whether you are in or out of office, poor or rich,
pitches you head first if you cannot keep your seat. It was
therefore a silly and stupid thing for Bion to say: ‘If by |59|
eulogizing a field we could make it bear a prolific crop, would
208it not be a mistake for a man to go digging and moiling instead?
Neither, then, is it irrational for you to praise a human being,
if your praise is productive of good fruit.’ A field suffers no
injury from being praised, whereas insincere and undeserved
compliment puffs a man up and ruins him.
On this point we have said enough. The next consideration
is that of candour.
|B| When Patroclus, on going out to fight, dressed himself in
Achilles’ armour and drove his team, the one thing he let alone
and did not venture to touch was the Pelian spear. So it might
have been expected of the flatterer that, when dressing himself
up carefully for the part of ‘friend’, with its proper tokens
and badges, the one thing he would leave untouched and
uncopied would be plain-speaking—a special attribute,
Heavy and huge and stubborn,
to be wielded only by friendship. But in his fear that laughter,
strong drink, jest, and fun may mean his betrayal, we find him
|C| putting a solemn face on the business, flattering with a frown
and administering dashes of blame and admonition. Here
again, therefore, we must apply our tests. In a comedy of
Menander, the Mock-Hercules comes in carrying a club which
has no strength or solidity, but is merely a hollow sham. So,
I take it, with the flatterer’s plain-speaking. On trial you will
find that it is soft and without weight or vigour; that it behaves
like a woman’s cushion, which, while seeming to offer a firm
support to the head, actually yields it more of its own way.
|D| This spurious candour, with its hollow fullness, its false and
superficial puffiness, is merely meant to shrink and collapse, so
as to induce the person who leans upon it to make himself more
comfortable. The genuine candour of a friend attacks only our
misdeeds; it hurts only out of care and protection; like honey,
it merely stings our sores in cleansing them, its general uses
209being grateful and sweet. This, however, is a theme for special
discussion.
With the flatterer it is different. In the first place, when he
displays sharpness or heat or inflexibility, it is in dealing with
others than yourself. He is severe upon his own servants;
he is terribly hard upon the misdeeds of his own relations;
he shows no admiration or respect for a stranger, but treats |E|
him with contempt; his scandalizing is merciless when exacerbating
other people. His object is to make it appear that he
detests low practices, and that he would not consent to abate
a jot of his candour in your behalf, or to do or say anything
to curry favour. In the next place, when there is something
really and seriously wrong, he pretends to be completely
ignorant and unconscious of it, while he will pounce upon some
little immaterial shortcoming and take it rigorously and vehemently
to task—if, for instance, he sees an implement carelessly
placed, or a fault of domestic management, or negligence in
the cut of your hair or the wearing of your clothes, or lack of |F|
proper attention to a dog or a horse. But should you slight
your parents, neglect your children, humiliate your wife, despise
your relatives, and waste your money, it becomes no business
of his. In such circumstances not a word does he venture to
utter, but he is like a trainer who permits an athlete to get drunk
and dissipated, while he is severe upon him in the matter of an
oil-flask or a scraping-iron; or like a grammar-master who scolds
a boy for the state of his slate and pencil, but pretends not to
hear his slips of grammar and expression. The toady is the kind
of man who, in dealing with a ridiculously incompetent public
speaker, has nothing to say about his matter, but finds fault
with his voice-production, and blames him severely for spoiling |60|
his larynx by drinking cold drinks; or who, when requested
to peruse some miserable composition, finds fault with the roughness
of the paper and calls the copyist a slovenly wretch. It
210was so in the case of Ptolemy, when he made pretence to literary
tastes. They would fight with him about some out-of-the-way
word or bit of a verse or point of information, and would keep
it up till midnight. But to his indulgence in cruelty and
outrage, to his tambourine-playing and initiating, not one of
|B| all their number offered any opposition. Imagine a man suffering
with tumours and abscesses, and some one taking a surgeon’s
knife and cutting—his hair or his nails! That is what the
flatterer does. He employs his candour upon those parts which
feel no pain or soreness.
There is a still craftier species, who make their plain-speaking
and fault-finding an actual means of pleasing. When Alexander
was once making large gifts to a jester, envy and vexation
drove Agis, the Argive, to bawl out, ‘How utterly absurd!’
The king turned upon him angrily and asked, ‘What is that
you say?’ ‘I confess,’ was the reply, ‘to being annoyed and
|C| indignant when I see how much alike all you sons of Zeus are
in your fondness for flatterers and ridiculous persons. Heracles
found pleasure in his Cercopes, Dionysus in Sileni, and we can
see what a high regard you have yourself for people of the kind.’
One day when the emperor Tiberius entered the Senate, one
of his flatterers got up and said that, as free men, they were
bound to speak frankly and to treat important interests without
reticence or reservation. When he had thus aroused every one’s
interest and had secured silence and the attention of Tiberius,
he said, ‘Listen, Caesar, to the charge which we all make
against you, but which no one dares to utter openly. You are
neglecting yourself, sacrificing your health and wearing it out
by perpetually working and thinking for us, and giving yourself
|D| no rest day or night.’ As he continued with a good deal more
in the same strain, the orator Cassius Severus is said to have
exclaimed, ‘Such plain-speaking will be the man’s death!’
These devices, however, are of minor moment. The matter
211becomes grave—as meaning ruin to foolish people—when a man
is accused of the opposite disorders to those with which he is
afflicted; as when the parasite Himerius used to scold the
meanest and most avaricious plutocrat in Athens by calling him
a reckless prodigal, bent on bringing himself and his children
to starvation; or when, on the contrary, a toady reproaches |E|
a prodigal spendthrift with sordid parsimony, as Titus Petronius
did Nero; or when he urges a ruler who behaves with savage
cruelty towards his subjects to divests himself of ‘all that gentleness
and ill-timed and mistaken clemency’.
To the same class belongs the man who pretends to look upon
some silly nincompoop as a clever rogue of whom he is afraid
and wary. Or if an ill-conditioned person who delights in
perpetual fault-finding and scandalizing does happen to be led
into praising some distinguished man, he may take him to task
and raise objections, for ‘it is a weakness of yours, this praising |F|
of even quite insignificant people. What remarkable thing has
he ever said or done?’
Love-affairs are favourite ground for the flatterer to play
upon his victim by further inflaming his passion. If he sees
you at variance with your brothers, or neglecting your parents,
or contemptuous towards your wife, he offers neither remonstrance
nor reproach, but actually intensifies the bad feeling.
‘No: you don’t appreciate yourself,’ or, ‘It is you that are
to blame, for always playing the humble servant.’ But if anger |61|
and jealousy provoke a tiff with a mistress of whom you are
enamoured, in comes flattery at once with a fine blaze of frankness,
and adds fuel to the fire by pleading cause and accusing
the lover of all sorts of unloverlike, unfeeling, and unforgivable
conduct:
O ingrate! after all that rain of kisses!
Thus, when Antony was becoming passionately enamoured of
the Egyptian queen, his friends did their best to persuade him
212that the love was on her side, and they upbraided him with
being ‘cold and supercilious’. ‘The lady has forsaken all that
royal state and that life of delightful enjoyments to go wandering
|B| about on the march with you, like any concubine.
But, for thee, the heart in thy breast is past all moving or charming,
and you leave her to suffer as she will.’ It gratified Antony
to be thus put in the wrong; no praise could please him like
these accusations; and unconsciously he became perverted to
the standard of the man who pretended to be reproving him.
For candour of this kind is like the bite of a lascivious woman;
while pretending to give pain, it arouses a provoking sensation of
pleasure.
Though unmixed wine is, generally speaking, a corrective of
hemlock, yet, if you add it to that drug in the form of a mixture,
|C| you make it impossible to counteract the power of the poison,
the heat driving it rapidly to the heart. So, while aware that
candour is a potent corrective of flattery, your rogue actually
uses ‘candour’ as his instrument for flattering you. Bias was
therefore wrong in his answer to the question: ‘What animal
is the most dangerous?’ when he replied, ‘Among wild animals,
the despot, among tame animals, the toady.’ It would have been
truer to say that, among toadies, those who merely frequent
your bath and your table are tame, while those who thrust the
|D| tentacles of their slanderous and malicious meddling into bedchamber
and boudoir are savage and unmanageable beasts.
The one method of protecting ourselves appears to lie in
recognizing and never forgetting that our mental being is made
up of two parts—one high-principled and rational, the other
irrational, mendacious and passionate—and that a friend is the
unfailing supporter and champion of the better part—a physician
who promotes and watches over good health—while a flatterer
acts as prompter to the passionate and irrational part, exciting,
213titillating, coaxing, and divorcing it from reason by inventing |E|
low forms of self-indulgence on its behalf. There are some kinds
of food which yield no benefit to blood or breath, and put no
vigour into muscle or marrow, but simply excite the sensual
appetites and make the flesh flabby and unsound. So with the
advice of a fawner. If does nothing to help sane thought and
judgement; but watch it, and you will find it cosseting an
amorous pleasure, aggravating a foolish fit of anger or provoking
an attack of envy, puffing you up with vulgar and empty pride,
encouraging your doleful dumps, or, where there is a tendency
to be ill-natured or mean-spirited or mistrustful, making the |F|
feeling more bitter or shy or suspicious by constantly suggesting
and anticipating evil. For he is perpetually in wait for some
passion or other, which he proceeds to feed up; and whenever
there is a festering or inflammation of your mental state, you
will always find him a kind of bubo, bringing it to a head. Are
you angry? ‘Then punish.’ Do you crave a thing? ‘Then buy
it.’ Are you afraid? ‘Then let us run away.’ Are you suspicious?
‘Then trust the feeling.’
If it is hard to catch him in connexion with such affections
as these—their strength being so overpowering as to baffle the
reason—he will give you a better opening in smaller matters;
for he will be just the same with them. If you are apprehensive |62|
of a headache or a surfeit, and are doubtful as to bathing or
taking food, a friend will try to check you and will urge you to
be cautious, whereas the toady will drag you to the bath, or
ask them to put some novel dish on the table, begging you not
‘to keep so tight a hand upon your body as to be cruel to it’.
If he sees you inclined to shirk a journey, a voyage, or a piece
of work, he will say that there is no immediate hurry, and that
it will do just as well if you postpone the matter or send someone
else. If, after promising a friend to make him a loan or a present
of a sum of money, you repent, but have your scruples, the toady |B|214throws his weight into the less honourable scale; he corroborates
‘the argument of the purse’, and makes short work of your
sense of shame by urging you to be economical, ‘seeing that
you have so many expenses and so many persons to support.’
If, therefore, we are able to perceive our own covetousness,
shamelessness, or cowardice, we shall also be able to see when
a man is a toady. Such he is when he is always playing the
advocate to those passions and ‘speaking his mind’ when we
deviate from them.
Enough having been said upon this topic, we may next proceed
to the question of the practical services rendered. In this
|C| respect the flatterer makes his distinction from the friend a very
obscure and perplexing matter; he always appears so prompt
and indefatigable in his zeal. While a friend’s way, like the
‘speech of truth’ as described by Euripides, is ‘single’, open,
and unaffected, that of the flatterer
Sick in itself, needs antidotes full shrewd
—uncommonly so, indeed, and plenty of them. When you meet
a friend, he sometimes passes on without uttering or receiving
a word, and with no more than a glance or a smile; he simply
manifests by his expression, and gathers from yours, the kindly
|D| understanding within. But the toady is on the run to overtake
you, greets you from a long way off, and, if you catch sight of
him and speak to him first, he excuses himself over and over
again, calling his witnesses and taking his oath. So in the
matter of actions. A friend will neglect many a trifle; he is
no precisian and makes no fuss; he does not insist upon serving
you at every turn. But the other is persistent, unremitting,
unwearied; he leaves no opportunity or room for any one else
to serve you; he is eager to receive your orders, and, if he does
not get them, he is piqued, nay, absolutely heart-broken with
disappointment. A sensible man, then, may take these as some
215indications that a friendship is not sincere and single-minded, |E|
but is like a harlot who forces her embraces upon you before
they are asked for.
The first place, however, in which to look for the difference
is in promises. It has already been well said by previous writers
that a friend will put his promise in the form familiar in
If I have power to achieve it, and if ’tis a thing for achievement,
while a time-server will put it in this:
Voice me the thought in thy mind.
The comedians present us with such characters:
Nicomachus, pit me against the soldier.
I’ll make ripe pulp of him; I’ll make his face
Softer than sponge: if not, then flog me soundly.
In the next place no friend will be a party to your actions |F|
unless he has first been a party to planning them. He must
first have looked into the business and helped to put it on a right
and proper footing. Not so the flatterer. Even if you do grant
him a share in weighing the matter and expressing an opinion
about it, he is not only so anxious to gratify you with his complaisance,
but is in such dread of leading you to suspect him of
unreadiness to face the action, that he leaves you to take your
course, or only lends spurs to your desire. It is not easy to find
a rich man or a grandee who is ready to say: |63|
Give me a man, a beggar—nay, no matter,
Lower than beggar, if he means me well—
To put fear by, and speak his heart to me.
Like the tragedian, he must have the support of a chorus of
friends who keep his tune, or of an audience who give applause.
Merope in the tragedy advises:
Get thee for friends such men as, when they speak,
Yield not; but when a man will for thy pleasure
Make himself knave, lock thou thy door against him.
216|B| But such persons do the opposite. If, ‘when you speak’ you
‘yield not’, but oppose them for their good, they abominate
you; but if ‘for their pleasure’ you are a ‘knave’ and a servile
charlatan, they receive you not merely inside their locked doors
but inside their most secret passions and concerns. The simple
kind of flatterer, it is true, does not aim at so much. What he
asks in such important matters is not to be your adviser, but
your minister and servant. But the more crafty person will
stand still—puzzling over the question with puckered brow and
appropriate changes of countenance—but will say nothing.
And if you give your own idea, he will exclaim, ‘How strange!
You just managed to anticipate me. I was about to make
exactly your suggestion.’
|C| Mathematicians tell us that lines and surfaces, being mental
perceptions and incorporeal, have in themselves no such thing
as bending, stretching, or motion, but that they are bent,
stretched, and changed in position along with the bodies of
which they are the boundaries. So you will discover that, with
the time-server, his assent, his opinion, even his pleasure and
anger, are always dependent. Here, therefore, it is perfectly
easy to detect the difference. It is still more apparent in the
manner in which a service is rendered. With the good feeling
of a friend, as with a living creature, its most vital functions lie
|D| deep. It is marked by no ostentatious display; but very often,
like a physician who conceals the fact that he is doctoring you,
a friend does you a good turn by a word of intercession or by
bringing about an understanding, and so consults your interests
without your knowing it. Arcesilaus was a man of this type.
Not to mention other instances, when Apelles the Chian was ill
and Arcesilaus had discovered how poor he was, he came back later
with twenty drachmae. Taking a seat close to him, he exclaimed,
‘There is nothing here beyond Empedocles’ four elements:
Fire and water and earth and the gentle air of the heavens.
217Why, even your bed is made all askew.’ With that he moved
his pillow and meanwhile slipped the coins under it. When the |E|
old woman in attendance found them and told Apelles in amazement,
he laughed and said, ‘It is that thief Arcesilaus.’[52]
And here we may note how philosophy produces ‘children
like unto their sires‘. Cephisocrates, who had been impeached,
was on his trial, and beside him, with the rest of his friends,
stood Lacudes, one of the coterie of Arcesilaus. The accuser
having asked for his ring, Cephisocrates quietly dropped it at
his side, and Lacudes, who noticed the action, put his foot upon
it and hid it. On that ring depended the proof of the charge.
When Cephisocrates, after his acquittal, went shaking hands
with members of the jury, one of them, who had apparently |F|
seen what occurred, bade him thank Lacudes, and gave an
account of the affair, which Lacudes had mentioned to no one.
We may believe that it is the same with the Gods, and that for
the most part they confer their benefits unperceived, it being
their nature to find pleasure in the mere act of bestowing favours
and doing good. But in a deed done by a flatterer there is
nothing honest, sincere, single-minded, or generous. It is a case
of sweating, bawling, bustling, and of a tense look upon the
face, intended to convey the impression of arduous and urgent
business. The thing resembles, in fact, an overdone painting, |64|
which strives to secure realistic effect by the use of blatant
colours and affected folds, wrinkles, and angles.
He is also offensive enough to relate how the business has
meant running about and anxiety, and he goes on to describe
how he has got into trouble with other people and had no end
of worry and some terrible experiences, until you declare that
the thing was not worth it all. Any obligation thrown in your
teeth will cause an unbearable and distressing sense of annoyance,
218but with an obligation from a time-server your sense of reproach
and shame is felt at once, from the very moment that the service
|B| is being rendered. A friend, on the other hand, if he has occasion
to speak of the matter, qualifies his account of it, and about
himself he says nothing. For example, the Lacedaemonians
once sent the people of Smyrna some corn at a time of need,
and, to their expressions of admiration of the kindness, they
replied, ‘Not at all! To scrape this together we had only to
vote the forgoing of one day’s dinner for ourselves and our
beasts.’ A favour so rendered is not only a generous one; it is
made the more welcome to the recipients by the thought that
no great harm is done to the benefactor.
It is not, however, by the flatterer’s offensive way of rendering
his services nor by the recklessness of his promises that one
|C| can best recognize the breed; an easier criterion consists in
the creditable or discreditable nature of the service, and in the
different character of the pleasure or benefit. A friend will not,
as Gorgias asserted, expect his friend to render him honest
services and yet himself oblige that friend in many ways which
are not honest:
’Tis his to share the wisdom, not the folly.
Rather, therefore, he will dissuade him also from improper
courses. And, if he fails, there is virtue in Phocion’s answer
to Antipater, ‘You cannot use me both as friend and toady’—that
is to say, both as friend and not friend. We must help a
friend in his need, not in his knavery; in his planning, not in
his plotting; with testimony, not conspiracy. Yes, and we must
share in his misfortunes, though not in his misdeeds. We
|D| should not choose even to be privy to the baseness of our friends;
how then to be a party to their misbehaviour? When the
Lacedaemonians, after their defeat by Antipater, were making
terms, they stipulated that, though he might impose any penalty
219he liked, he should impose no disgrace. It is the same with
a friend. Should occasion call for expense or danger or hard
work, he is foremost in his claim to be summoned and take a
prompt and zealous part; but when disgrace attaches to it, he
will as promptly beg to be spared and left alone. But with the
fawner it is the reverse. In services of difficulty and danger
he cries off, and, if you give him a tap to sound him, his excuse—whatever |E|
it may be—rings false and mean. But in vile and
degrading little jobs, do as you like with him; trample on him;
nothing shocks or insults him.
Look at the ape. He cannot watch the house like a dog,
nor carry like a horse, nor plough the ground like an ox. He is
therefore the bearer of scurrilous insult and buffoonery and the
butt of sport, his function being to serve as a tool for laughter.
Precisely so with the toady. He is unequal to any form of
labour and serious effort, and incapable of helping you by
a speech, with a contribution, or in a fight; but in business
which shuns the light he is promptitude itself—a most competent |F|
agent in an amour, an adept at ransoming a strumpet, alert
at checking the bill for a drinking-bout, no sloven in the ordering
of your dinner, deft at attentions to your mistress, and, if you
bid him show insolence to your wife’s relations or bundle her
out of doors, he is beyond all pity or shame.
This, therefore, is another easy means of finding him out.
Order him to do any disreputable and discreditable thing you |65|
choose, and he is ready to spare no pains in gratifying you
accordingly.
A very good indication of the wide difference between our
fawner and a friend may be found in his attitude towards your
other friends. The one is delighted to have many others giving
and receiving affection with him, and his constant aim is to
make his friend widely loved and honoured. He holds that
‘friends have all things in common‘, and their friends, he thinks,
220|B| should be more ‘in common’ than anything else. But the
other—the false, bastard, and spurious article—realizes, better
than any one, how he is himself sinning against friendship by—so
to speak—debasing its coinage. While, therefore, he is
jealous by nature, it is only against his like that he gives his
jealousy play, by striving to surpass them in grovelling and
lickspittle tricks. Of his betters he stands in fear and dread,
we cannot say because he is
Plodding on foot against a Lydian car,
but because, as Simonides has it, he
Hath not e’en lead
To match the pure refinèd gold.
If, therefore, light in weight, surface-gilt and counterfeit, he
finds himself put in close comparison with genuine friendship,
|C| full-carat and mint-made, he cannot bear the test, and must
be detected. Consequently he acts like the painter whose cocks
in a picture were wretchedly done, and who therefore ordered
his slave to drive any real cocks as far from his canvas as possible.
In the same way the flatterer drives away real friends and
prevents them coming near. If he fails, while openly he will
fawn upon them and pay them court and deference as being
his betters, in secret he will throw out calumnious hints and
suggestions. And if the word in secret has given a scratch
without at once absolutely producing a wound, he never forgets
Medius’s maxim. This Medius was what may be called the
|D| fugleman or expert conductor of the chorus of toadies who
surrounded Alexander, and was at daggers drawn with the highest
characters. His maxim was, ‘Be bold in laying on and biting
with your slanders, for even if the man who is bitten salves the
wound, the slander will leave its scar.’ It was through these
scars, or rather because he was eaten up with gangrenes and
ulcers, that Alexander put Callisthenes, Parmenio, and Philotas
221to death. Meanwhile he surrendered himself unreservedly to
a Hagnon, a Bagoas, an Agesias, or a Demetrius, and allowed
them to give him a fall by salaaming to him and dressing him
up after the fashion of an oriental idol. So powerful an effect |E|
has complaisance, and apparently most of all with those who think
most of themselves. Their wish for the finest qualities goes
with the belief that they possess them, and so the flatterer
acquires both credit and confidence. For while lofty places
are difficult of approach or assault for all who have designs upon
them, the lofty conceit produced in a foolish mind by the gifts
of fortune or talent offers the readiest footing to those who are
small and petty.
As therefore we urged at the beginning of this treatise, so we
urge again here; ‘Let us make a clearance of self-love and self-conceit.’
These, by flattering us in advance, render us more |F|
amenable to flattery from outside: we come prepared. But
if, in obedience to the God, we recognize how all-important
the maxim Know Thyself is to each of us; if we therefore
examine our own nature, training, and education, and observe
how all alike fall short of excellence in countless ways, and how
they all contain a large admixture of weakness in the things
we do or say or feel, we shall be very slow in allowing the flatterer
to abuse us at his pleasure. Alexander remarked that what
made him give least credence to those who called him a God
was his sleep and his sexualities, his excesses in those things
falling below his own standard. On our own part we shall |66|
always discover that at many a point and in many a way our
qualities are ugly or a source of pain, defective or misdirected.
We shall see ourselves in our true light, and find that what we
need is not a friend who will pay us compliments and eulogies,
but one who will bring us to book when we are really doing
wrong. But only then. There are in any case very few
with the courage to treat a friend with candour rather than
222complaisance; yet among these few it will be hard to find such
as understand their business. It will be easier to find persons
who imagine that they are using candour because they abuse and
scold. Yet it is with plain-speaking as with any other medicine.
|B| When it is given at the wrong time the effect is to upset and pain
you to no purpose. In a certain sense it does painfully what
flattery does pleasantly, inasmuch as unseasonable blame works
as much harm as unseasonable praise. More than anything
else it is a thing which drives a man headlong into the arms
of the flatterer. Like water, he turns from the steep unyielding
surface and glides away into the receptive shallows. Candour,
therefore, must be tempered by rational courtesy, which will
divest it of excess and over-severity. The light must not be
so strong that in our pain and distress at the invariable reproving
and fault-finding we turn away to escape discomfort and fly
to find shade with the flatterer.
|C| In shunning a vice, Philopappus, our object should always
be virtue, not the contrary vice. Some people think they
escape being shamefaced by being shameless; that they escape
being rustic by being ribald; that their behaviour becomes
furthest from timidity and cowardice when they appear nearest
to impudence and insolence. Some plead to themselves that
they would rather be irreligious than superstitious, rather
|D| knaves than simpletons. Their character may be likened to
a piece of wood, which, through lack of the skill to straighten
it, they crook to the opposite side. The ugliest way of
refusing to flatter is to give useless pain. Our social intercourse
must be boorishly ignorant of all the rules of good
feeling when it is by being harsh and disagreeable that we
avoid any creeping humbleness in our friendship, just as
if we were the freedman in the comedy, who thinks that, to
be properly enjoyed, ‘speech on equal terms’ means abusive
speech.
223Since, therefore, it as an ugly thing when our striving to be
agreeable lands us in flattery, and an ugly thing when, in the
avoidance of flattery, all the spirit of friendly sympathy is ruined
by immoderate plain-speaking; and since we ought to commit
neither mistake, but—in candour as in other things—draw
‘success from moderation’, mere logical sequence seems to |E|
dictate the conclusion to our treatise.
Plain-speaking, we find, is liable to be, as it were, tainted in
various ways. The first thing is to divest it of its selfish aspect, by
taking the greatest care not to let it appear as if your reproaches
were due to a kind of injury or grievance of your own. When
the speaker is concerned about himself, we regard his words
as the outcome of anger, not of goodwill; as grumbling, not as
reproof. For whereas candour is a mark of friendliness which
compels respect, grumbling is petty and selfish. We therefore
respect and admire the person who is frank, while a fault-finder
provokes recrimination and contempt. Though Achilles |F|
imagined he was speaking with but reasonable frankness,
Agamemnon lost his temper; but when Odysseus attacked
him bitterly in the words
Madman, thou shouldst have commanded some other, some pitiful army,
he patiently gave way, the friendly purpose and good sense of
the speech causing him to draw in his horns. The reason was
that, while the plain-speaking of Odysseus, who had no private |67|
grounds for anger, was only for the sake of Greece, the vexation
of Achilles was thought to be chiefly on his own account. Nay,
Achilles himself, though possessed of no sweet or gentle temper,
but
A terrible man, who must blame, e’en though it be blaming the blameless,
224silently permitted Patroclus to give him many such hard blows:
Man of no pity, no father of thine was Peleus the horseman,
Thetis no mother of thine; from the green-grey sea wert thou gotten
By beetling crags; so comes it thy heart is void of all mercy.
|B| The orator Hypereides used to urge the Athenians to consider
not merely whether he was angry, but whether his anger was
gratuitous. So with the admonition of a friend. When pure
from any private feeling, it is a thing of awe, which we cannot
face unabashed. And if, when a man is speaking his mind, it is
manifest that he is casting aside any wrongs his friend may have
done to himself; that it is other misdemeanours on his part
which he is bringing home—other reasons for which he does
not shrink from giving him pain—such candour produces an
irresistible effect, the sharpness and severity of the admonition
being intensified by the kindliness of the admonisher. Doubtless,
|C| as has been well said, ‘it is most of all when we are angry or
at variance with our friends that we should do or devise something
to their advantage or credit’; but we show no less true
a friendliness if, when we think ourselves slighted or neglected,
it is on behalf of other victims of neglect that we give them a
plain-spoken reminder. Plato, at a time when his relations
with Dionysius were strained and dubious, asked for an interview.
Dionysius granted it, in the belief that Plato was coming
with a tale of grievance of his own. The conversation, however,
took the following shape. ‘Suppose, Dionysius, you discovered
|D| that some ill-disposed person had made a voyage to Sicily with
the intention of doing you an injury, but that he could find no
opportunity. Would you allow him to leave the country and
get away scot-free?’ ‘Certainly not, Plato,’ said Dionysius:
‘enemies must be hated and punished not only for what they
do, but for what they propose to do.’ ‘Then suppose,’ said
Plato, ‘some one comes here in a friendly spirit, with the
225intention of rendering you a service, but that you afford him
no chance. Is it a proper thing to cast him aside with ingratitude
and contempt?’ Upon Dionysius asking who it was, he
answered, ‘Aeschines, a man who, in rightness of character,
will compare with any of Socrates’ associates, and whose teaching
cannot fail to set any hearer firmly on his feet. Though he has |E|
made a long voyage for the sake of philosophic intercourse
with you, he has been left in neglect.’ These words stirred
Dionysius so deeply that, in admiration of his kindliness and
magnanimity, he promptly embraced Plato with effusion and
proceeded to pay to Aeschines the most distinguished attentions.
In the second place, our candour must be cleared of all excrescences,
so to speak. We must allow it no coarse flavourings in
the shape of insulting ridicule or buffoonish mockery. When
a surgeon is performing an operation, a certain ease and neatness |F|
should be incidentally apparent in his work, but there should
be no supple juggleries of the hand in the way of fantastic and
risky fioriture. In the same way candour admits of a dexterous
touch of wit, so long as it is so prettily put as to maintain our
respect; but impertinent and insolent buffoonery utterly
destroys that feeling. Hence the harpist chose a polite as well
as a forcible way of stopping Philip’s mouth, when that monarch
attempted to argue with him on a question of musical note.
‘Sire,’ said he, ‘Heaven forbid you should ever become so
badly off as to know more about these things than I do!’ |68|
Epicharmus, on the other hand, chose the wrong way, when
Hiero, a few days after putting some of his familiars to death,
invited him to dinner. ‘Nay, but,’ said he, ‘the other day
there was no invitation to your sacrifice of your friends.’[53] It
was also a mistake for Antiphon, when the question: ‘What
226sort of bronze is the best?’ was under discussion in the presence
of Dionysius, to say, ‘That kind out of which they made the
statues of Harmodius and Aristogeiton at Athens.’ No good
is done by the stinging bitterness of such speeches, nor is any
pleasure given by their scurrilous pleasantry. Language of the
|B| kind comes only from a want of self-command—which is partly
insolent ill-nature—combined with enmity. Those who use it
are courting their own destruction as well; they are veritably
dancing a ‘dance at the well’s edge’. Antiphon was put to
death by Dionysius; Timagenes was banished from Caesar’s
friendship, not because of any free word he ever uttered, but
because, at dinner-parties or when walking, he would perpetually
and with no serious purpose whatever, but
For whatsoever him thought might move the Argives to laughter,
advance some charge against his conduct as a friend, merely
by way of pretext for upbraiding him.
It is the same with the comic poets. Their work contained
many serious and statesmanlike appeals to the audience; but
|C| these were so much mixed up with farce and ribaldry—like good
food in a hotch-potch of greenstuff—that their plain-speaking
lost all nutritive power and use, with the result that the speaker
was looked upon as an ill-natured buffoon, and the hearer
derived no benefit from the speech.
In other cases by all means have your fun and laugh with your
friends, but when you give them a piece of your mind, let it
be done with earnestness and with courtesy. And if the matter
is one of importance, impart a cogent and moving effect to your
words by your emotions, gestures, and tone of voice.
There is also the question of the right moment. To disregard
it is in all cases a serious mistake, but is particularly ruinous to
good results when you are ‘speaking your mind’. That we
should beware of doing anything of the kind when wine and
227inebriation are to the fore, is obvious. It is to bring a cloud |D|
over the bright sky, if, in the midst of fun and gaiety, you moot
a topic which puckers the brow and stiffens the face, as if to
defeat the ‘Relaxing God’, who—to quote Pindar—
Unbends the harassed brow of care.
Nay, there is actually great danger in such unseasonableness.
Wine renders the mind perilously testy, and tipsiness often takes
command of candour and converts it into enmity. Moreover,
instead of showing spirit and courage, it shows a want of manliness
for a person who dare not speak his mind when sober to become
bold at table, like a cowardly dog.
There is, however, no need to dwell further upon this theme.
Let us proceed.
There are many who, when affairs are going well with their |E|
friends, neither make any claim nor possess the courage to put
restraint upon them. Prosperity, they think, lies quite beyond
the reach of admonition. But should one stumble and come to
grief, they set upon him. He is tame and humbled, and they
trample upon him. The stream of their candour has been
unnaturally dammed up, and now they let the whole flood
loose upon him. He was once so disdainful, and they so feeble,
that they thoroughly enjoy his change of fortune and make
the most of it. It is as well, therefore, to discuss this class also.
If Euripides asks:
When fortune blesses, what the need of friends?
the answer must be that it is the prosperous man who has most |F|
need of friends to speak their minds and take down any excess
of pride. There are few who can be both prosperous and wise
at the same time. Most men require to import wisdom from
abroad; they require that reasoning from outside should put
compression upon them when fortune puffs them up and sets
them swaying in the wind. But when fortune reduces their
228inflated bulk, the situation itself carries its own lesson and brings
repentance home. There is consequently no occasion for
friendly candour or for language which bites and distresses.
When such reverses happen, verily |69|
’Tis sweet to look into a friend’s fond eyes,
while he gives us solace and encouragement. Xenophon says
of Clearchus that in battle and danger there appeared upon his
face a look of geniality which put greater heart into those who
were in peril. But to employ your mordant candour upon a man
who is in trouble, is like administering ‘sharp-sight drops’
to an eye suffering with inflammation. It does nothing to cure
or relieve the pain, but only adds anger to it by exasperating
|B| the sufferer. For instance, when a man is in health he is not
in the least angry or furious with a friend for blaming his
looseness with the other sex, his drinking, his shirking of work
and exercise, his continual bathings and ill-timed gorgings.
But when he is sick, the thing is intolerable. It is more sickening
than the disease to be told, ‘This is the result of your reckless
self-indulgence, your laziness, your rich dishes, and your
women.’ ‘What an unseasonable man you are! I am writing
my will; the doctors are getting castor and scammony ready
for me; and you come preaching and philosophizing!’ So,
when a man is in trouble, the situation is not one for speaking
your mind and moralizing. What it requires is sweet reasonableness
|C| and help. When a little child has a fall, the nurse does not
rush up in order to scold it. She picks it up, washes off the dirt,
and straightens its dress. It is afterwards that she proceeds
to reprimand and punish.
An apposite story is told of Demetrius Phalereus, when he
was in banishment and was living at Thebes in mean and obscure
circumstances. It was with no pleasure that he saw Crates
coming towards him, inasmuch as he expected to hear some
229plain-spoken cynic abuse. Crates, however, accosted him gently,
and then spoke upon the subject of exile—how there was no
calamity in it, and how little need there was to be distressed, |D|
since it meant getting rid of cares, with their dangers and
uncertainties. At the same time he urged him to have confidence
in himself and his inner man. Cheered and heartened
by such language, Demetrius exclaimed to his friends: ‘Alas,
for all that engrossing business which prevented me from getting
to know a man like this!’
To one in grief a friend should speak kind words,
But to great folly words of admonition.
Such is the way of a noble friend. But the mean and ignoble
flatterer of the prosperous man is like those ‘ruptures and |E|
sprains’ of which Demosthenes tells us that ‘when the body
meets with an injury, then you begin to feel them’. He seizes
upon your change of fortune with every appearance of delight
and enjoyment. If you do require any reminder when your
own ill-advised conduct has brought you to the ground, it
should suffice to say:
’Twas not with approval of mine: full oft did I seek to dissuade thee.
In what cases, then, ought a friend to be uncompromising?
When should he exert his candour to the full? It is when the
proper moment calls for him to stem the vehement course of
pleasure, anger, or insolence; to put the curb on avarice; to |F|
restrain a reckless folly. It was in this way that, when the
precarious favours of fortune had corrupted Croesus with the
pride of luxury, Solon spoke his mind to him, bidding him
wait and see the end. It was in this way that Socrates was
wont to put control on Alcibiades, to wrench his heart and draw
genuine tears from him by bringing his errors home. Such was
the method of Cyrus with Cyaxares. Such too, when Dion’s
230splendour was at its height and he was drawing all men’s eyes
upon him by the brilliance and greatness of his exploits, was
|70| the method of Plato, who bade him keep anxious watch against
Self-will, house-mate of Solitude.
Speusippus also urged Dion in his letters not to be proud
because he had a great name among children and women-folk,
but to take care and ‘make glorious’ the Academy by adorning
Sicily with piety and justice and the best of laws. But not so
Euctus and Eulaeus, the associates of Perseus. In his prosperity
they followed him like the rest, always assenting, always complaisant.
But when he met the Romans at Pydna, was defeated,
and fled, they attacked him with bitter censure, reminding him
of his errors and oversights and throwing them one after the
other in his teeth, until the man became so utterly sore and
|B| angry that he made an end of both by stabbing them with his
dagger.
This, then, may serve for the general rule as to place and time.
But opportunities are often offered by a man himself, and
no one who cares for his friend should let these occasions slip
or omit to use them. Sometimes a question asked, a story told,
blame or praise of a similar action in the case of other people,
gives you the cue for a piece of plain-speaking. For instance, the
story goes that Demaratus visited Macedonia at a time when
|C| Philip was at variance with his wife and son. Upon Philip
welcoming him and inquiring how far the Greeks were in
harmony with each other, Demaratus—who was his well-wisher
and intimate friend—remarked, ‘It becomes you excellently,
Philip, to be asking about the harmonious relations of Athens
and the Peloponnese, while you allow your own house to be so
full of feud and discord.’ A good hit was also made by Diogenes.
Philip was on his way to fight the Greeks, and Diogenes, who
had entered the camp, was brought before him. Philip, being
231unacquainted with him, asked him if he was a spy. ‘Certainly
I am,’ he replied. ‘I am a spy upon the short-sighted foolishness
which induces you to come, without any compulsion, and risk |D|
your throne and person upon the cast of a single hour.’ This,
however, was perhaps somewhat too forcible.
Another good opportunity for admonition occurs when a man
has been abused for his mistakes by some one else and is feeling
small and humbled. A person of discretion will make a happy
use of the occasion by sending the abusive parties to the right
about and himself taking his friend in hand, reminding him
that, if there is no other reason for being careful, he should at
least give his enemies no encouragement. ‘How can they open
their mouths or say another word, if you cast aside once for |E|
all these faults for which they abuse you?’ By this means the
abuser gets the credit of the pain, and the admonisher that of
the benefit.
Some are more subtle. They convert their familiar friends
by blaming some one else, accusing others of the things they
know that those friends do. Once at a lecture in the afternoon
our professor, Ammonius, aware that some of his class had not
lunched as simply as they might, ordered his freedman to give
his own boy a whipping, on the charge that ‘he must have
vinegar with his lunch’. Meanwhile the glance he threw at us
brought the reproach home to the guilty parties.
In the next place, we should be cautious of speaking plainly
to a friend before company. Remember the case of Plato. |F|
Socrates having handled one of his associates somewhat vigorously
in conversation at table, Plato remarked, ‘Would it not have
been better if this had been said in private?’ ‘And,’ retorted
Socrates, ‘would you not have done better if you had said that
to me in private?’ The story goes that, when Pythagoras once
dealt rather roughly with a pupil before a number of persons,
the youth hanged himself, and from that time Pythagoras never
232again reproved anyone in another’s presence. A fault should
be treated like a humiliating complaint. The uncovering and
|71| prescribing should be secret, not an ostentatious display to
a gathering of witnesses or spectators. It is not the act of a
friend, but of a sophist, to use another’s slips to glorify oneself,
showing off before the company like those medical men who
perform surgical operations in the theatre in order to advertise
themselves. And apart from the insult—which has no right to
accompany any curative treatment—we have to consider the
contentiousness and obstinacy of a man in the wrong. Not
merely is it the case that—as Euripides has it—
Love, when reproved,
Is but more tyrannous,
|B| but if you make no scruple about offering reproof in public,
you drive any moral disease or passion into becoming shameless.
Plato insists that, if old men are to inculcate reverence in the
young, they must themselves first show reverence towards the
young. In the same way the friendly candour which most
abashes is that which itself feels abashed. Let it be gently
and considerately that you approach and handle the offender;
then you undermine and destroy his vice, since regard is contagiously
felt where regard is shown. Excellent, therefore, is
the notion:
Putting his head close down, to the end that the rest should not hear it.
|C| Least propriety of all is there in exposing a husband in the
hearing of the wife, a father before the eyes of his children,
a lover in the presence of the beloved, or a teacher in that of
his pupils. He becomes frantic; so sore and angry is he at
being set right before persons in whose eyes he is all anxiety
to shine. When Cleitus enraged Alexander, it was, I imagine,
not so much the fault of the wine as that he appeared to be
233humbling him before a large company. Another case is that
of Aristomenes, the tutor[54] of Ptolemy. Once, when an embassy
was in the room, Ptolemy fell asleep and Aristomenes gave him
a hit to wake him up. The flatterers seized the opportunity,
and affected to be indignant on the king’s behalf. ‘If,’ said |D|
they, ‘you did drop off, thanks to hard work and want of sleep,
we ought to set you right privately, not lay hands on you before
so many people.’ As the result, he sent Aristomenes a cup of
poison and ordered him to drink it off. Aristophanes also tells
us how Cleon tried to exasperate the Athenians against him by
making it a charge that he
Abused the country before foreigners.
This, then, is another of the mistakes to be avoided, if your
desire is not so much to make a self-advertising display as to make
your candour produce helpful and healing results.
In the next place, your plain-speaker ought to bear in mind |E|
the principle which Thucydides makes the Corinthians so
properly express, in saying that they ‘had a right to find fault’
with others. It was Lysander, I believe, who said to the man
from Megara, when he was delivering himself at the Federal
Council concerning the interests of Greece, ‘You need a country
to back your talk.’ In any case, doubtless, you need character
for plain-speaking, but in no case is this so true as when you
are admonishing and lecturing other people. Plato used to
say that it was by his life he admonished Speusippus, and the
mere sight of Xenocrates at lecture, and a glance from him, |F|
sufficed to convert Polemon to better ways. When we lack
weight and strength of character the result of any attempt at
plain-speaking on our part is to draw upon ourselves the words:
Why physic us, thyself one mass of sores?
Nevertheless it often happens that, though a man’s own
234character is as weak as that of his neighbour, circumstances
drive him to administer reproof. In that case the civillest
behaviour is to contrive somehow to imply that the speaker
is included in the reproach. In this tone are the words:
Tydeus’ son, what ails us, forgetting our prowess and valour?
|72| and:
But no match are we now for Hector alone....
Socrates’ way of quietly setting young men right was of the same
kind. He would not be taken as being himself free from
ignorance, but as feeling it a duty to share with them in the
cultivation of virtue and the quest of truth. We inspire affection
and confidence when it is thought that, being equally to blame,
we are applying to our friends the same correction as to ourselves.
But if, when rebuking your neighbour, you put on the
superior air of a flawless and passionless being, unless you are
much the senior or possess an acknowledged eminence of
character and reputation, you do no good and only make yourself
|B| offensive and a nuisance. For this reason, when Phoenix
introduced the story of his own misfortunes—how in anger he
set to work to kill his father, but speedily repented:
Lest the Achaeans should name me ‘the man who murdered his father’—
it was of set purpose, that it might not seem as if, in reproving
Achilles, he claimed to be an impeccable person whom anger
had no power to corrupt. In such cases the moral effect sinks
in, since we yield more readily to a show of fellow-feeling than
to one of contempt.
Another point. Since a mind diseased can no more bear
unqualified candour and reproof than an inflamed eye can
|C| be submitted to a brilliant light, one most useful resource
235among our remedies is to add a slight tincture of praise. For
example:
Ugly is this that ye do, to cease from your valour and prowess,
All ye best of the host! I would not move me to quarrel,
If ’twere some other who thus might hold his hand from the fighting,
Some craven man; but with you is my heart exceedingly anger’d:
or:
Pandarus, where is thy bow, and where thy feathery arrows?
Where thy glory, the which no man among us doth challenge?
If a man is giving way, there is also a vigorous rallying power
in such language as
Where now
Is Oedipus and all his far-famed rede?
or:
Is ‘t Heracles,
He who hath borne so many a brunt, speaks thus?
Not only does it temper the harshness of the punishment |D|
inflicted by the reproach; it sets a man at rivalry with himself.
When reminded of the things which stand to his credit, he is
ashamed of those which degrade him, and he finds an elevating
example in his own person. But when we make comparisons
with others—with mates, fellow citizens, or kinsmen—the contentiousness
which belongs to his failings is piqued and exacerbated.
It has a habit of retorting angrily, ‘Then why don’t
you go to my betters, instead of harassing me?’ We must
therefore beware of belauding one person while we are speaking
our minds to another—always, of course, with the exception
of his parents. Thus Agamemnon can say:
Truly, a son little like to himself hath Tydeus begotten;
|E| or Odysseus, when in Scyrus:
But thou o’ersham’st the brilliance of thy race,
Wool-spinner! thou, whose sire was Greece’s hero!
236By no means should we use reproof to answer reproof, or
plain-speaking in counter-attack to plain-speaking. Otherwise
we quickly produce heat and create a quarrel. Moreover, such
disputatiousness is naturally regarded, not as a return of candour,
|F| but as intolerance of it. It is better, therefore, to listen with
a good grace when a friend believes he is reproving you. For
this, if at a later time some offence of his own calls for reprobation,
is the very thing which gives your plain-speaking its
right—as it were—to speak. When, without bearing any
grudge, you remind him that it has not been his own habit to
let his friends go wrong, but to teach them better and set them
right, he will be the more ready to give in and accept the
proffered correction; for he will believe that it is good feeling
and good intention, not anger and fault-finding, which prompt
this payment in return.
|73| In the next place, remember the saying of Thucydides: ‘Well
advised is he who accepts unpopularity in a great cause.’ It is
the duty of a friend to accept the odium of reproof when
questions of great moment are at stake. But if he is everywhere
and always being displeased; if he behaves to his intimates
as if he were their tutor and not their friend, his reproofs will
possess no edge and produce no effect when it comes to matters
of importance. He will have frittered away his candour, after
the manner of a physician who takes a pungent or bitter drug
|B| of a sovereign and costly character, and parcels it out in a large
number of petty doses for which there is no necessity. No!
while a friend will, for his own part, carefully avoid such
unremitting censoriousness, the incessant niggling and pettifogging
of some other person will afford him an opening to
attack those faults which are more serious. Once when a man
with an ulcerated liver showed the physician Philotimus a sore
on his finger, the doctor observed, ‘My good sir, your case is
not a matter of a whitlow!’ So when some one is finding fault
237with a number of insignificant peccadilloes, the real friend will
be offered the opportunity of saying to him, ‘What have his
tippling and foolery to do with us? My good sir, let our friend
here dismiss his mistress or stop dicing, and he is otherwise
an admirable fellow.’ If a man finds that allowance is made |C|
for his trifling errors, he will take it in good part when a friend
speaks his mind against those which are of more moment. But
to be everlastingly girding, to be bitter and harsh on all occasions,
to be continually meddling and taking cognisance of
every action, is intolerable even to a child or a brother, nay,
unendurable even to a slave.
Again, it is no more true of the folly of our friends than it is—despite
Euripides—of old age, that
All things are wrong with it.
Our friends have their right actions, and we should keep an
eye upon these no less than upon their errors. We should,
in fact, begin by zealously praising them. In dealing with iron
we have first to soften it with heat before the chilling process |D|
can impart to it the consistency and hardness of steel. So with
our friends. First we warm and fuse them with praise; then
a quiet application of candour serves as a tempering douche.
We have, for instance, the opportunity of saying, ‘Is there any
comparison between the other conduct and this? Do you see
what good fruit comes of doing the right thing? This is what
your friends expect of you; it is like you, and what nature
meant you for. The other conduct is abominable; away
with it
To the mountain or to the wave of the surging tumultuous ocean!‘
A sensible physician will always rather cure a sick man with
sleep and feeding than with castor and scammony; and a right-minded
friend, or a kind father or teacher, prefers to use praise |E|
rather than blame as his means of moral correction. For a candid
238friend to cause least pain and work most benefit, there is nothing
like showing the least possible anger and treating the offender
with polite good feeling. We must not, therefore, sharply
confute him if he denies a thing, nor try to stop him if he defends
himself. On the contrary, we must help him to contrive some
kind of plausible excuse; and, when he refuses to own to the
more discreditable motive, we must ourselves concede him a less
heinous one. Thus Hector says to his brother:
Not well is this wrath, foolish man, that thus thou hast stored in thy bosom,
|F| as if his retirement from the battle, instead of being a dastardly
running away, was an exhibition of temper. So Nestor to
Agamemnon:
Thou didst yield to the pride of thy spirit.
It is manifestly more courteous to say, ‘You did not stop to
think,’ or, ‘You failed to perceive,’ than ‘You behaved badly’,
or ‘You behaved unfairly’; to say, ‘Do not be hard upon
|74| your brother,’ than ‘Do not be jealous of your brother’; to
say, ‘Flee from the woman’s seductions,’ than ‘Stop trying to
seduce the woman’. This is the manner cultivated by curative
|*| candour; the other belongs to vexatious candour.
Suppose a person is about to do wrong and that we are called
upon to check him—to stem the current of some vehement
impulse. Or suppose that he is inclined to be unready in the
performance of duty, and we wish to brace him up and stimulate
him. We should do so by making charges which put the matter
in an outrageously unbecoming light. For instance, in Sophocles,
when Odysseus is working upon Achilles, he makes out, not that
Achilles is angry at the affair of the banquet, but |B|
Now that thou hast the Trojan burghs in sight,
Thou art afraid.
239And when, in answer to this, Achilles is so enraged that he
declares he is off home:
I know what ’tis thou flyest—not reproach:
Hector is nigh, and ’tis not well to stay.
In inciting to high courses and dissuading from low ones, we
may frighten a man with the reputation he will win: a man
of courage and spirit with that of coward; a man of temperance
and self-control with that of profligate; a man of magnificent
generosity with that of miser and cheeseparer. Where a thing
is past cure, we must show ourselves reasonable; our candour |C|
must display more sorrow and sympathy than blame. But when
we are preventing a misdeed or fighting against a passion, we
must be vigorous, inflexible, and insistent. Then is the right
moment for incorruptible affection and genuine frankness.
To blame an action when it is done is no more than we find
enemies doing to each other. Diogenes used to say that, if
you are to be kept right, you must possess either good friends
or red-hot enemies. The one will warn you, the other will
expose you. But it is better to avoid errors by taking advice
than to repent of an error because of abuse. For this reason |D|
we must study tact even in the matter of candour. As it is
the most effective drug that can be employed in friendship,
so it stands in most need of unfailing discretion as to time and
moderation as to strength.
And, finally, since, as I have said, it is in the nature of plain-speaking
that it should often cause pain to the person under
treatment, we must take a pattern by the medical man. He
does not use his lancet and then leave the part to suffer; he eases
it with gentle lotions and fomentations. Similarly, if our
admonitions are to be tactful, we do not administer a sharp
sting and then run away. We adopt a different strain, and soothe |E|
and calm the patient with courteous language, much as sculptors
240put smoothness and gloss upon a statue where they have chipped
it with hammer and chisel. If we strike and gash a man with
plain-speaking and then leave him in the rough—lumpy and
uneven with anger—it is a hard matter afterwards to call him
back and smooth him over. This, therefore, is a result against
which the admonisher must be especially on his guard. He must
not leave the patient too soon, nor allow the last words of his
conversation to be such as pain and exasperate his intimate
friend.
ON BRINGING UP A BOY [55]
241
I propose to offer some remarks upon the bringing-up of |1|
free-born children, as a means of securing soundness of character.
Perhaps the best starting-point is that at which they are
brought into existence.
Upon one who desires to become the father of reputable |B|
children I would urge that he should be careful as to his consort.
She must be no mistress or concubine. Base birth, whether on
mother’s or father’s side, is an indelible reproach. It sticks to
a man all the days of his life; it offers a handle to those who are
minded to discredit or vilify him; and it is a wise saying of
the poet that
When the foundation of a stock is laid
Amiss, needs must the issue be unhappy.
A sure fund of confidence for facing the world lies therefore in
honourable birth, and this must be a first consideration with all
who are anxious for a right and proper procreation of children.
It is quite natural that those whose birth is of base metal
which will not bear scrutiny should tend to be weak-spirited
and abject. The poet is quite right in saying: |C|
It slaves a man, stout-hearted though he be,
To know his mother or his father base.
It is no doubt equally the case that persons of distinguished
parentage become full of pride and self-assertion. Thus
Themistocles’ son, Diophantus, is reported to have said on many
occasions and to many persons that he had only to wish for
a thing and the Athenian people voted for it. ‘What he liked,
242|D| his mother liked; what his mother liked, Themistocles liked;
and what Themistocles liked, all Athens liked.’
A most praiseworthy pride was that exhibited by the Lacedaemonians,
when they mulcted their own king Archidamus for
condescending to marry a woman of small stature, their plea
being that he intended to provide them with kinglets instead
of kings.
In this connexion there is one observation which my predecessors
also have duly made. It is that those who approach their
wives with a view to offspring should do so either while wholly
abstaining from wine or at least after tasting it in moderation.
|2| This explains the remark of Diogenes on seeing a youth in a state
of mad excitement: ‘Young fellow, your father begat you when
he was drunk.’
So much for the question of birth. We will now turn to that
of upbringing.
Speaking generally, we must say of virtue what it is customary
to say of the arts and sciences—that for right action three
things must go together, namely, nature, reason, and habit.
By reason I mean instruction; by habit I mean exercise. The
|B| first elements come from nature; progress, from instruction;
the actual use, from practice; the consummation, from all
combined. In so far as any of these is defective, character must
necessarily be maimed. Nature without instruction is blind;
instruction without nature is futile; practice without both is
abortive. In farming, the soil must first be good; next, the farmer
must know his business; third, the seeds must be sound. Similarly
with education. Nature is the soil, the teacher is the farmer,
|C| the lessons and precepts are the seed. It may be confidently
asserted that all three were harmoniously blended in the souls
of those men whose renown is universal—Pythagoras, Socrates,
Plato, and others who have won imperishable glory.
Blest indeed, and divinely favoured, is the man on whom
243Heaven has bestowed each and all. Yet it would be a great,
or rather a total, mistake to suppose that, when natural gift
is defective, no right moral instruction and practice will lead
one to improve his faulty nature in some attainable degree.
For while neglect will ruin an excellent natural gift, teaching
will correct an inferior one. Be careless, and you miss a thing,
however easy: take pains, and you secure it, however difficult.
You have only to glance at a number of everyday facts in order |D|
to perceive how complete is the success of persistent effort.
Drops of water will hollow a rock; iron and bronze are worn
away by the touch of the hands; wood bent by pressure into
a carriage-wheel can never recover its original straightness.
To straighten the curved sticks used by actors is impossible, the
unnatural form having become, by dint of straining, stronger
than the natural.
Nor are these the only examples to prove the efficacy of
painstaking. Instances are countless. Soil may be naturally |E|
good; but neglect it, and it becomes a waste. Indeed, the better
it is by nature, the more hopeless a wilderness will your neglect
make of it. On the other hand, it may be too hard and rugged;
yet cultivation will speedily cause it to produce excellent crops.
Is there any tree which will not grow crooked and cease to bear
fruit if left untended, whereas, when properly trained, it bears
well and brings its fruit to perfection? Does not bodily strength
invariably become effete when you take your ease and neglect
to keep in good condition, whereas a feeble physique gains
immensely in strength through gymnastic and athletic exercise?
Is there any horse which a rider cannot render obedient by |F|
a thorough breaking-in, whereas, if left unbroken, it will prove
stiff-necked and full of temper?
But why dwell longer on such cases, when there are so many
examples of the most savage creatures being tamed and made
amenable to hard work?
244When a Thessalian was asked which of his countrymen were
the gentlest in manner, his answer was a good one: Those who
are giving up war. But it is useless to multiply instances.
Character is long-standing habit, and it would scarcely be beside
|3| the mark to speak of the virtues of the mind as the virtues
‘of minding’.[56] One more illustration, and we will dispense
with further elaboration of the subject. The Spartan legislator
Lycurgus once took two puppies belonging to the same parents
and brought them up in entirely different ways. The one he
turned into a gluttonous good-for-nothing, the other into
a keen and capable hunting-dog. Subsequently he got the
Lacedaemonians together and said to them: ‘A great factor
|B| in engendering virtue consists of habit and education—of
instruction in the conduct of life—as I am about to prove to
you here and now.’ He then brought forward the two young
dogs, put down directly in front of them a plate of food and a
hare, and let the dogs loose; whereupon the one darted after
the hare, while the other made for the plate. The Lacedaemonians,
who were not yet in the secret, failed to perceive the
meaning of his demonstration, until he told them: ‘Both these
dogs come from the same parents, but the difference in their
education has turned the one into a glutton and the other into
a hunter.’
No more need be said of habit and conduct of life. We may
|C| proceed to the question of nurture.
In my opinion mothers should nurse their own children and
offer them the breast; for their nursing will be of a more
sympathetic and painstaking kind, since their love is from the
heart, or, as the saying goes, ‘down to the finger-tips,’ whereas
the affection of professional nurses and foster-mothers—who
are paid for it—can only be spurious and factitious. That
245it is the duty of the mother herself to suckle and nurse her
offspring is evident from the arrangement of nature, which has
supplied every animal after parturition with the necessary
provision of milk. Here Providence further shows its wisdom,
inasmuch as it has furnished a woman with a pair of breasts, |D|
so that, even if she bears twins, there may be a double source for
them to draw upon. Moreover she will by so acting become more
tender and affectionate to her child. It can, indeed, scarcely be
otherwise; the connexion of nurse and nursling is the means
of raising affection to its highest pitch. One can see how even
a brute beast will yearn for its nursling, if you tear them apart.
If possible, then, the mother should endeavour to nurse the
child herself. But if—as may sometimes happen—she is prevented
by physical weakness, or if other children are speedily
on the way, it is at least desirable not to accept as foster-mother
or nurse the first that offers, but to choose the best possible. |E|
To begin with, her character should be Greek. It is as with
the treatment of the body. As soon as children are born, we
have to mould their limbs in order that they may grow straight
and shapely. Similarly their characters ought to be regulated
from the first. For youth is supple and plastic, and it is while
the mind is still soft and yielding that it acts as a mould for
instruction, whereas it is always difficult to knead into shape |F|
anything hard. As it is in soft wax that we make the impression
of a seal, so it is in the minds of those who are still little children
that we imprint a lesson.
That great thinker Plato is right, it seems to me, in exhorting
a nurse to use discretion in the tales she tells to young children;
otherwise their minds may become infected from the first with
folly and corruption. It is also sound advice which the poet
Phocylides gives in the words:
While yet but a child, it behoveth
To learn such deeds as are good.
246Another point which we cannot afford to omit concerns the
slave children who are to serve the young master and to be
brought up with him. Pains must be taken, first, of course, that
|4| they shall be well-behaved, but also that they shall talk Greek,
and talk it with good articulation. Otherwise, through rubbing
against barbarians and bad characters, he will pick up something
of their vices. The proverb-makers have good reason
for saying: If you have a lame man for a neighbour, you will
learn to limp.
When children reach the age to be put under a mentor, it
becomes especially necessary to take pains in the appointment
of such a person. Otherwise we shall have them entrusted to
some uncivilized or rascally fellow. What actually happens
|B| is often in the highest degree absurd. Respectable slaves are
made into farmers, skippers, traders, stewards, or money-lenders,
while any low specimen who is found to be a glutton and a tippler
and of no use in any kind of business is taken and put in charge
of the sons. A fit and proper attendant should possess the same
qualities of mind as Phoenix, the attendant of Achilles.
We now reach a topic more important and vital than any
yet treated—that of the right teachers for our children. The
kind to be sought for are those whose lives are irreproachable,
whose characters are unimpugned, and whose skill and experience
|C| are of the best. The root or fountain-head of character as
a man and a gentleman lies in receiving the proper education.
As farmers put stakes beside their plants, so the right kind of
teacher provides firm support for the young in the shape of
lessons and admonitions, carefully chosen so as to produce an
upright growth of character.
As things are, the behaviour of some fathers is contemptible.
Before making inquiry as to the proposed teachers, they put
their children into the hands of frauds and charlatans, without
knowing what they are about, or, maybe, because they are not
247competent to judge. In the latter case their behaviour is not
so ridiculous, but there is another case in which it is in the last
degree absurd. I mean, when they know, either from their own |D|
observation or from the accounts of others, how ignorant and |*|
bad certain educators are, and yet entrust their children to
them. Sometimes this is because they cannot resist the fawning
of some obsequious flatterer; sometimes it is done to gratify
the whim of a friend. It would be just as reasonable for a sick
man to gratify a friend by rejecting the doctor whose science
could save him, and preferring the ignoramus who will kill
him; or for a man to dismiss the best ship’s-captain and appoint
the worst, because a friend asked for it. In the name of all
that is sacred, can any one called a ‘father’ set the pleasing of |E|
somebody who asks a favour above the education of his children?
There was good sense in a frequent saying of famous old Socrates,
‘If it could be done, one ought to mount the loftiest part of the
city and shout: Good people, what are you after? Why in such
deadly earnest about making money, while troubling so little about
the sons to whom you are to leave it?’ We may add that the conduct
of such fathers is like that of a man who is anxious as to
his shoe, while his foot may look after itself. Many fathers
go to such lengths in the way of fondness for their money and |F|
want of fondness for their children, that, to avoid paying
a larger fee, they choose utterly worthless persons to educate
their sons, their object being an inexpensive ignorance. This
reminds one of Aristippus and his neat and witty repartee to
a foolish father. Questioned as to what fee he asked for educating
the child, he replied, ‘Forty pounds.’ ‘Good heavens!’ said
the father: ‘What an extravagant demand! For forty pounds
I can buy a slave.’ ‘Very well,’ was the answer: ‘then you |5|
will have two slaves—your son, and the one you buy.’
To put it shortly, it is surely absurd to train little children
to receive their food with the right hand, and to scold them
248if they put out the left, and yet to take no precautions that they
shall be taught moral lessons of a sound and proper kind.
What the consequence is to these admirable fathers, when they
bring up their sons badly and educate them badly, is soon told.
On coming of age and taking rank as men, the sons show an
utter disregard of a wholesome and orderly life, and throw
themselves headlong into low and irregular pleasures. Then
|B| at last, when it is of no use, and when their wrongdoing has
brought him to his wits’ end, the father repents of having
sacrificed his children’s education. Some of them take up with
toadies and parasites, wretched nondescripts who are the ruin
and bane of youth; others with haughty and expensive mistresses
and strumpets, whom they ransom from their employers.
Some spend recklessly on gormandizing; some are wrecked upon
dice and carousals; some go so far as to venture on the more daring
vices—they commit adultery, and think death not too much
|C| to pay for a single pleasure. Had these last studied philosophy,
they would in all probability not have succumbed to temptation
of this kind. They would have been told of the advice of
Diogenes—who, however coarse in his language, is right in his
facts—‘Go to a brothel, my boy, and you will find that the
|*| expensive article is not a bit better than the cheap one.’
In brief, then, I assert—and it would be fairer to regard me
as repeating an oracle than as giving advice—that in these
matters the one and essential thing, the first, middle, and last,
is a sound upbringing and right education. It is this, I say,
which leads to virtue and happiness.
|D| Other blessings are on the human plane; they are slight and
not worth serious pursuit. Good birth is a distinction, but
the boon depends on one’s ancestors. Wealth is a prize, but its
possession depends on fortune, which often carries it off from
those who have it and bestows it on those who never hoped
for it. Moreover, great wealth is a target exposed to any rogue
249of a servant or blackmailer who is minded to ‘aim a purse’ at it.
And, worst of all, even the basest of men have their share
of it. Fame, again, is imposing, but uncertain. Beauty, though
greatly courted, is short-lived; health, though highly prized,
is unstable; strength is a thing to be envied, but it falls an easy
prey to disease and age. Let us tell any one who prides himself |E|
on his bodily strength that he is manifestly under a delusion.
How small a fraction is human strength of the might of other
animals, such as the elephant, the bull, and the lion!
Meanwhile culture is the only thing in us that is immortal
and divine. In the nature of man there are two sovereign
elements—understanding and reason. It is the place of the
understanding to direct the reason and of the reason to serve
the understanding. Fortune cannot overcome them, calumny
cannot rob us of them, disease cannot corrupt them, old age
cannot impair them. The understanding is the only thing
that renews its youth as it grows old, and, while time carries
off everything else, it brings old age one gift—that of knowledge.
When, again, war comes like a torrent, tearing and sweeping
everything away, it is of our mental culture alone that it cannot
rob us. Stilpo, the Megarian philosopher, made what seems
a memorable answer when Demetrius, after enslaving the city
and razing it to the ground, asked him if he had lost anything.
‘O no!’ said he, ‘for virtue is not made spoil of war.’ The
reply of Socrates is evidently to the same tune and purpose. |6|
It was Gorgias, I believe, who asked him his opinion of the Great
King, and whether he considered him happy. ‘I have no
knowledge,’ said Socrates, ‘as to the state of his character and
culture.’ He assumed that happiness depended upon these, and
not upon the gifts of fortune.
Not only should the education of our children be treated
as of the very first importance, but I once more urge that
we should insist upon its being of the sound and genuine kind.
250From pretentious nonsense our sons should be kept as far aloof
|B| as possible. To please the many is to displease the wise, an
assertion in which I have the support of Euripides:
I am not deft of words before the crowd,
More skilled when with my compeers and the few.
’Tis compensation: they who ‘mid the wise
Are naught, surpass in gift of speech to mobs.
My own observation tells me that persons who make a business
of speaking in a way to please and curry favour with the rabble,
generally prove correspondingly dissolute and pleasure-loving
in their lives. Nor, indeed, should we expect anything else;
for if they have no regard to propriety when catering for the
|C| gratification of other people, it is not likely that they will permit
right and sound principles to have the upper hand of their
own voluptuous self-indulgence, nor that they will cultivate
self-control rather than enjoyment.
|*| And how can children learn from them anything admirable?
Among admirable things is the practice of neither saying nor
doing anything at random; and, as the proverb goes, ‘admirable
things are difficult.’ Meanwhile, speeches made offhand are
a mass of reckless slovenliness, without a notion where to begin
or where to end.
Apart from other faults, extempore speakers drop into a
terrible prolixity and verbiage, whereas premeditation keeps
|D| a speech safe within the lines of due proportion. When Pericles,
‘as tradition informs us,’ was called upon by the assembly, he
frequently refused the call, on the ground that his thoughts
were ‘not arranged’. Demosthenes, who took him for his own
political model, acted in the same way. If the Athenians
called upon him to address them, he would resist, with the words,
‘I have not arranged my thoughts.’ This, it is true, may be
unauthentic and a fabrication; but in the speech against
Meidias we have an explicit statement as to the advantage of
251preparation. His words are: ‘I admit, gentlemen, that I come
prepared; and I have no wish to deny it. I have even conned
over my speech to the best of my poor ability. It would have been
insane conduct, if, after and amid such harsh treatment, I had
paid no regard to what I meant to say to you on the subject.’
That impromptu speaking should be rejected altogether, or, |E|
failing this, that it should be practised only on unimportant
subjects, I do not say. I am recommending a tonic regimen.
Before manhood, I claim that there should be no speaking on the
spur of the moment. But when the ability has taken firm root,
it is only right for speech to enjoy free play as occasion invites.
Though persons who have been in prison for a long time may
subsequently be liberated, they are unsteady on their feet, |F|
a protracted habit of wearing chains making them unable to
step out. Similarly if those who have for a long time kept their
speaking under close constraint some day find it necessary to
speak offhand, they nevertheless retain the same style of expression.
But to let mere children make extempore speeches is
to become responsible for the worst of twaddle and futility.
There is a story of a wretched painter who showed Apelles
a picture, with the remark, ‘I have just painted this at one |7|
sitting.’ ‘I can see,’ said Apelles, ‘without your telling me,
that it has been quick work. But my wonder is that you haven’t
painted more than one as good.’
While (to return to the original matter in hand) we must
be careful to avoid a style which is theatrical and bombastic,
we must be equally on our guard against one which is low and
trivial. If the turgid style is unbusinesslike, too thin a style is
ineffective. Just as the body should be not only healthy but
also in good condition, so language must be full of strength |B|
and not simply free from disease. Keep on the safe side, and you
are merely commended: face some risk, and you are admired.
I take the same view of the mental disposition also. One should
252neither be over-bold, and so become brazen, nor yet timid and
bashful, and so become mean-spirited. The rule of art and taste
is The middle course in all things.
|*| While I am still upon the subject of this part of education
there is an opinion which I desire to express. A style consisting
of single clauses I regard in the first instance as no slight evidence
of poor taste, and, in the next, as too finical a thing ever to
|C| be maintained in practice. Here, as in everything else that
caters for ear or eye, monotony is as cloying and irksome as
variety is delightful.
There is no subject in the ‘regular curriculum’ of which
the eye or ear of a freeborn boy should be permitted to remain
uninformed. But while he receives a cursory education in those
subjects in order to taste their quality, the most important
place—complete all-round proficiency being impossible—must
belong to philosophy. We may explain by a comparison with
|D| travel, in which it is an excellent thing to visit a large number
of cities, but good policy to settle in the best. As the philosopher
Bion wittily remarked, when the suitors could obtain no access
to Penelope they satisfied themselves with her handmaids, and
when a man is unable to get hold of philosophy he makes dry
bones of himself upon the remaining subjects, which are of no
account.
Philosophy, then, should be put at the head of all mental
culture. The services which have been invented for the care
of the body are two—medicine and gymnastics—the one
imparting health, the other good condition. But for the
weaknesses and ailments of the soul philosophy is the only thing
to be prescribed. It is from and with philosophy that we can
tell what is becoming or disgraceful, what is just or unjust,
|E| what course, in short, is to be chosen or shunned. It teaches
us how to behave towards the Gods, our parents, our elders,
the laws, our rulers, friends, wives, children, and servants: that
253we should worship the Gods, honour our parents, respect our
elders, obey the laws, give way to our rulers, love our friends,
be continent towards our wives, show affection to our children,
and abstain from cruelty to our slaves. Above all, it warns us
against excess of joy when prosperous and excess of grief when
unfortunate; against dissoluteness in our pleasures, or fury
and brutality in our anger. These I judge to be chief among |F|
the blessings conferred by philosophy. To bear adversity nobly
is to act the brave man,[57] to bear prosperity unassumingly, the |*|
modest mortal. To get the better of pleasures by reason needs
wisdom; to master anger requires no ordinary character.
Perfect men I take to be those who can blend practical ability |8|
with philosophy, and who can achieve both of two best and
greatest ends—the life of public utility as men of affairs, and
the calm and tranquil life as students of philosophy. For there
are three kinds of life: the life of action, the life of thought,
and the life of enjoyment. When life is dissolute and enslaved
to pleasure, it is mean and animal; when it is all thought and
fails to act, it is futile; when it is all action and destitute of
philosophy, it is crude and blundering. We should therefore
do our best to engage both in public business and in the pursuit |B|
of philosophy, as occasion offers. Of this kind was the public
career of Pericles, of Archytas of Tarentum, of Dion of Syracuse,
and of Epaminondas of Thebes. Of these Dion actually attached
himself to Plato as his pupil.
There is no need, I think, to deal at any greater length with
mental cultivation. It is, however, further desirable—or rather
it is essential—that we should not neglect to possess the standard
treatises, but should collect a stock of them, with the result
of keeping our knowledge from starvation.[58] Farmers stock |*|254[their fertilizers], and the employment of books is instrumental
to culture in the same way.
|C| Meanwhile we must not omit to exercise the body also. Our
boys must be sent to the teacher of gymnastics and receive
a sufficient amount of physical training, both to secure a good
carriage and also to develop strength. Good condition is the
foundation laid in childhood for a hale old age, and, just as our
preparations for wintry weather should be made while it is
fine, so we should store up provision for age in the shape of
regular and temperate behaviour in youth. Physical exertion
should, however, be so regulated that a boy does not become
too exhausted to devote himself sufficiently to mental culture.
|D| As Plato observes, sleep and weariness are the enemies of
study.
Upon this topic I need not dwell, but will pass on at once
to the most important consideration of all—the necessity of
training a boy for service as a fighting-man. For this he must
go through hard drill in hurling the javelin, in shooting with the
bow, and in hunting. ‘The goods of the vanquished,’ it has
been said, ‘are prizes offered to the victor.’ There is no place
in war for the physical condition of the cloister, and a lean
soldier accustomed to warlike exercises will break through
|*| a phalanx of fleshy prize-fighters.
|E| ‘Well but,’ some one may urge, ‘while you promised us a set
of rules for the upbringing of free men, it turns out that you
have nothing to say concerning that of poor and common people,
but are satisfied to confine your suggestions to the rich.’ There
is a ready reply to the objection. If possible, I should desire
the proposed education to be applicable to all alike. But if
there are cases in which limited private circumstances make it
impossible to carry my rules into practice, the blame should
be laid upon fortune, not upon him who offers the advice.
Though a man is poor, he should make every possible effort
255to bring up his children in the ideal way. Failing this, he must
come as near to it as he can.
After thus encumbering our discussion with this side-issue, |F|
I will now proceed with the connected account of such other |*|
matters as contribute to the right upbringing of the young.
And first, children should be led into right practices of
persuasion and reasoning: flogging and bodily injury should
be out of the question. Such treatment is surely more fit for
slaves than for the free, whom the smart, or even the humiliation,
of a beating deprives of all life and spirit, making their tasks
a horror to them. The freeborn find praise a more effective |9|
stimulus to the right conduct, and blame a more effective
deterrent from the wrong, than any kind of bodily assault. In
the use of such praise and reprimand there should be a subtle
alternation. When a child is too bold, it should first be shamed
by reproof and then encouraged by a word of praise. We may
take a pattern by nurses, who may have to make an infant cry,
but who afterwards comfort it by offering it the breast. We
must, however, avoid puffing children up with eulogies, the
consequence of excessive praise being vanity and conceit.
I have noticed more than one instance in which the over-fondness |B|
of a father has proved to be a lack of fondness. To
make my meaning clear, I will use an illustration. Being in too
great haste for their children to take first place in everything,
they impose extravagant tasks, which prove too great for their
strength and end in failure, besides causing them such weariness
and distress that they refuse to submit patiently to instruction.
Water in moderation will make a plant grow, while a flood of
water will choke it. In the same way the mind will thrive under |C|
reasonably hard work, but will drown if the work is excessive.
We must therefore allow children breathing-time from perpetual
tasks, and remember that all our life there is a division of
relaxation and effort. Hence the existence of sleep as well as
256waking, of peace as well as war, of fine weather as well as bad,
of holidays as well as business. In a word, it is rest that seasons
toil. The fact is obvious, not merely in the case of living things,
but in that of the inanimate world. We loosen a bow or a lyre,
so that we may be able to tighten it. In fine, the body is kept
sound by want and its satisfaction, the mind by relaxation and
labour.
|D| There are some fathers who have a culpable way of entrusting
their sons to attendants and teachers, and then entirely omitting
to keep the instruction of such persons under their own eye or
ear. This is a most serious failure in their duty. Every few days
they should personally examine their children, instead of confiding
in the character of a hireling, whose attention to his
pupils will be more conscientious if he is to be brought continually
to book. In this connexion there is aptness in the
groom’s dictum that nothing is so fattening to a horse as the eye
of the king.
|E| Above all things one should train and exercise a child’s
memory. Memory serves as the storehouse of culture, and hence
the fable that Recollection is the mother of the Muses—an
indirect way of saying that memory is the best thing in the world
to beget and foster wisdom. Whether children are naturally
gifted with a good memory, or, on the contrary, are naturally
forgetful, the memory should be trained in either case. The
natural advantage will be strengthened, or the natural shortcoming
made up. The former class will excel others, the latter
will excel themselves. As Hesiod well puts it: |F|
If to the thing that is little you further add but a little,
And do the same oft and again, full soon it becometh a great thing.
This, then, is another fact for fathers to recognize—that the
mnemonic element in education plays a most important part,
not only in culture, but also in the business of life, inasmuch
257as the recollection of past experience serves as a guide to wise
policy for the future.
Our sons must also be kept from the use of foul language.
‘The word,’ says Democritus, ‘is the shadow of the deed.’
More than that, we must render them polite and courteous, |10|
for there is nothing so detestable as a boorish character. One
way in which children may avoid becoming disagreeable to their
company is by refraining from absolute stubbornness in discussion.
Credit is to be gained not merely by victory, but
also by knowing how to accept defeat where victory is harmful.
There is unquestionably such a thing as a ‘Cadmean
victory’. À propos I may quote the testimony of that wise
poet Euripides: |B|
When two men speak, and one is full of anger,
Wiser the one who strives not to reply.
This is the time to remember certain other habits quite as
necessary—and more so—for the young to cultivate as any yet
mentioned. These are modesty of behaviour, restraint of the
tongue, mastery of the temper, and control of the hands. Let
us see how important each of them is. We may take an illustration
to bring home the notion more clearly. And we will begin
with the last. There have been those who, by lowering their
hands to ill-gotten gains, have thrown away all the reputation
won by their previous career. This was the case with the
Lacedaemonian, Gylippus, who was driven into exile from Sparta |C|
for secretly broaching the money-bags. Absence of anger, again,
is a quality of wisdom. Socrates once received a kick from a very
impudent and gross young buffoon, but on seeing that his own
friends were in such a violent state of indignation that they
wanted to prosecute him, he remarked: ‘If a donkey had kicked
me, would you have condescended to kick him back?’ The
fellow did not, however, get off scot-free, but finding himself
258universally reproached and nicknamed ‘Kicker’, he hanged
himself. When Aristophanes brought out the Clouds, and poured
all manner of abuse upon Socrates, one of those present asked:
‘Pray, are you not indignant at his ridiculing you in this manner?’
|D| ‘Not I, indeed,’ replied Socrates; ‘this banter in the theatre
is only in a big convivial party.’ A close counterpart of this
attitude will be found in the behaviour of Plato and of Archytas
of Tarentum. When the latter, on his return from the war in
which he had held command, found that his land had gone
out of cultivation, he summoned his manager and remarked:
‘You would have suffered for this, if I had not been too angry.’
When Plato, again, was once worked into a passion with a greedy
and impudent slave, he called his sister’s son Speusippus and
said, ‘Go and give this fellow a thrashing: I am myself in a great
passion.’
But, it may be argued, it is difficult to reach so high a standard
|E| as this. I am well aware of it. We can therefore only do our
best to take a pattern by such conduct, and minimize any
tendency to ungovernable rage. As in other matters, we are
no match for either the moral mastery or the finished character
of those great models. Nevertheless we may act towards them
as we might towards the Gods, serving as hierophants and torch-bearers
of their wisdom and endeavouring to imitate in our
nibbling way as much as lies in our power.
As for the control of the tongue—the remaining point to be
considered according to our promise—any one who regards it
as of trivial moment is very much in the wrong. In a timely
|F| silence there is a wisdom superior to any speech. It is apparently
for this reason that men in old times invented our mystic rites
and ceremonies. The notion was that, through being trained
to silence in connexion with these, we should secure the keeping
of human secrets by carrying into them the same religious fear.
Moreover, though multitudes have repented of talking, no man
259has repented of silence, and while it is easy to utter what
has been kept back, it is impossible to recall what has been
uttered.
My own reading affords countless instances of the greatest
disasters resulting from an ungoverned tongue. I will content |11|
myself with mentioning one or two typical examples. When,
upon the marriage of Philadelphus with his sister, Sotades composed
a scurrilous verse, he paid ample atonement for talking
out of season by rotting for a long time in prison. He thus
purchased a laugh in others by long weeping of his own. The |*|
story is closely matched by that of the sophist Theocritus, who
endured similar, but much more terrible, consequences for a
similar remark. Alexander had ordered the Greeks to provide
a stock of purple garments, with a view to the thanksgiving |B|
sacrifice on his return from his Persian victories, and the various
peoples were contributing at so much per head. Hereupon
Theocritus observed: ‘I have now become clear upon a point
which used to puzzle me. This is what is meant by Homer’s
“purple death”‘—words which earned him the enmity of Alexander.
Antigonus, the Macedonian king, had but one eye, and
Theocritus made him excessively angry by a taunt at this disfigurement.
Eutropion, the chief cook, who had become a
person of importance, was sent to him by the king with a request
that he would come to court and engage him in argument. On
receiving repeated visits from Eutropion with this message, he |C|
remarked, ‘I am well aware that you want to dish me up raw
to the Cyclops,’ thus twitting the one with being disfigured,
the other with being a cook. ‘Then,’ replied Eutropion, ‘it will
be without your head, for you shall be punished for such mad
and reckless language.’ Thereupon he reported the words to
the king, who sent and put Theocritus to death.
The last and most sacred requirement is that children should
be trained to speak the truth. Lying is a servile habit; it
260deserves universal detestation and is unpardonable even in
a decent slave.
|D| So far I have had no doubt or hesitation in what I have said
of the modesty and good behaviour of children. But upon the
matter which now calls for mention I am dubious and undecided,
my judgement swaying in the balance first one way and then the
other, without finding it possible to turn the scale in either
direction. It concerns a practice which I can neither recommend
nor discountenance without great reluctance. Nevertheless one
must venture a word upon it. The question is whether a man
who is enamoured of a boy is to be allowed to keep intimate
|E| company with him, or whether, on the contrary, association
with such a person is to be tabooed. When I look at fathers
whose disposition is uncompromisingly harsh and austere, and
who regard such association as an intolerable insult to their
children, I have many scruples in recommending it or speaking
in its favour. When, on the other hand, I think of Socrates,
Plato, Xenophon, Aeschines, Cebes, and all those great men
who have with one accord approved of love between males, while
they have led youths on to culture, to public leadership, and to
|F| a virtuous character, I change my mind and am inclined to
copy those great exemplars. Euripides is on their side, when he
says:
Nay, men may feel passion of other sort,
Love of a just, chaste, virtuous mind and soul.
Nor must we omit the saying of Plato, partly serious and partly
humorous, that those who have shown special excellence should
have the right to kiss any beautiful person they choose. The
proper course is to drive away those who are enamoured of the
person, but, generally speaking, give a sanction to those who are
in love with the mind and soul. While we must have nothing
to say to the connexions in vogue at Thebes or in Elis, or to the
261so-called ‘abduction’ of Crete, we may well imitate that kind |12|
which is usual at Athens or in Lacedaemon.
On this matter it is for every man to hold such convictions
as he has formed for himself. I will now leave it, and, having
spoken of the discipline and good behaviour of the boy, will
pass on to deal with the age of adolescence. I shall do so in very
few words, for I have often expressed my disapproval of those
who encourage vicious habits by proposing to put a boy under
the charge of tutors and teachers, whereas, with a stripling, they
would permit his inclinations to range at will. As a matter of |B|
fact, there is need of more anxious precautions in the case of
the stripling than in that of the boy. Every one is aware that
the faults committed by a boy are small matters, which can be
cured without difficulty—such as paying no heed to his tutor,
or trickery and inattention in school. But the sins of adolescence
often reach a flagrant and shocking pitch—stealing the father’s
money, gormandizing, dicing, roistering, drinking, loose passion
for young girls, or corruption of married women. The propensities
of young manhood ought therefore to be carefully
watched and kept closely under the chain. When capacity for |C|
pleasure is at its prime, it rejects control, kicks over the traces,
and requires the curb. If therefore we do not take a firm hold
upon this time of life, we are giving folly a licence to sin. This
is the moment when wise fathers should be most watchful and
alert; when they should bring their lads within bounds by
warnings, threats, or entreaties, and by pointing out instances
of disaster caused by devotion to pleasure, and of praise and
good repute won by continence. These two things form what
may be called first principles of virtue, namely, hope of honour
and fear of punishment, the one producing a greater eagerness |D|
for the noblest pursuits, the other a shrinking from bad actions.
One general rule of duty is to keep boys from associating with
vicious persons; otherwise they will pick up something of their
262vice. This has been urged by Pythagoras among a number
of dark sayings. Since these also possess great value as aids to
the attainment of virtue, I will proceed to quote them, adding
their explanation. Do not taste black-tails[59]—keep no company
with persons who are malignant and therefore ‘black’. Do not
|E| step over a beam—justice must be scrupulously respected and
not ‘overstepped’. Do not sit on a quart-measure—beware of
idleness, and see to the providing of daily bread. Do not clasp
hands with every man—we should form no sudden connexions.
Do not wear a tight ring—one should carry out the practice of
|*| life, and not fasten it to any chain. Do not poke a fire with iron—do
not irritate a wrathful man (the right course being to let
angry men go their own way). Do not eat the heart—do not injure
|F| the mind with worry and brooding. Abstain from beans—avoid
public life (office in former times being determined by voting
with beans). Do not put victuals in a chamber-vessel—clever
speech ought not to be put into a wicked mind, since speech,
which is the food of thought, is polluted by the wickedness in
a man. Do not turn back on coming to the border—when about to
die, and with the end of life close in sight, behave calmly and
without losing heart.
To return to the topic with which we were dealing before
this digression. While, as I observed, boys should be kept from
every kind of vicious company, especially should they be kept
|13| from parasites. I venture to repeat here what I am continually
urging upon fathers. There is no set of creatures so pernicious—none
which so quickly and completely brings youth to headlong
destruction—as parasites. They are utter ruin to both father
and son, filling the old age of the one and the youth of the other
with vexation. To gain their purpose they offer an irresistible
263bait in the shape of pleasure. In the case of rich men’s sons,
the father preaches sobriety, the parasite drunkenness. The
father urges temperance and economy, the parasite profligacy
and extravagance. The father says: ‘Be industrious’; the
parasite says: ‘Be idle; for life is only a moment altogether. |B|
One ought to live, not merely exist. Why trouble about your
father’s threats? He is an old driveller with one foot in the
coffin, and we will promptly pick him up on our shoulders and
carry him off to his grave.’ One person tempts him with a drab,
or with the seduction of a married woman, plundering and
stripping the father of all the provision for his old age. They
are an abominable crew; their friendship is a sham; of candour
they have no idea; they toady the rich and despise the poor.
They are drawn to young men like puppets on a string; they |*|
grin, when those who feed them laugh; they counterfeit the
possession of a mind, and give a spurious imitation of details
of real life. They live at the rich man’s beck, and though fortune |C|
has made them free, their own choice makes them slaves. If
they are not insulted, they regard it as an insult, their maintenance
in that case being without a motive. If, therefore,
a father is concerned for the obedient conduct of his children,
he must keep these abominable creatures at a distance. And
he must by all means do the same with vicious fellow-pupils,
who are capable of corrupting the most moral of natures.
While these principles are right and expedient, I have a word
to say upon a human aspect of the matter. I have no desire,
all this time, that a father’s disposition should be altogether |D|
harsh and unyielding. I would have him frequently condone
a fault in his junior and recollect that he was once young himself.
The physician mixes his bitter drugs with syrup, and so
finds a way to work benefit through the medium of enjoyment.
In the same way a father should blend his severe reprimande
with kindliness, at one time giving the boy’s desires a loose or
264easy rein, at another time tightening it. If possible, he should
|E| take misdeeds calmly; failing that, his anger should be seasonable
and should quickly cool down. It is better for a father to
be sharp-tempered than sullen-tempered; to sulk and bear
malice goes far to prove a lack of parental affection. Sometimes,
when a fault is committed, it is a good thing to pretend ignorance,
turning to advantage the dim sight and defective hearing
of old age, and refusing to see or hear certain occurrences which
one hears and sees. We put up with the lapses of a friend. Is it
strange to do so with those of a child? A slave is often heavy-headed
from a debauch, without our taking him to task. The
other day you refused the boy money; there are times to meet
his requests. The other day you were indignant; there are times
to be lenient. Perhaps he has cozened you through a servant;
|F| restrain your anger. Has he borrowed the team from the farm?
Does he come reeking of yesterday’s bout? Do not notice it.
Smelling of perfumes? Say nothing. Such is the way to
manage the restiveness of youth.
A son who cannot resist pleasure and is deaf to remonstrance
should be put into matrimonial harness, that being the surest
way of tying a young man down. The woman who becomes
his wife should not, however, be to any great extent his superior
either in birth or means. Keep to your own level is a sound
maxim, and a man who marries much above him finds himself,
|14| not the husband of the woman, but the slave of the dowry.
A few words more, and I will conclude my list of principles.
Above all things a father should set an example to his children
in his own person, by avoiding all faults of commission or
omission. His life should be the glass by which they form
themselves and are put out of conceit with all ugliness of act
or speech. For him to rebuke his erring sons when guilty of the
same errors himself, is to become his own accuser while ostensibly
theirs. Indeed, if his life is bad, he is disqualified from reproving
265even a slave, much more his son. Moreover, he will naturally |B|
become their guide and teacher in wrongdoing. Where there
are old men without shame, inevitably there are quite shameless
young ones also. To obtain good behaviour from our children
we should therefore strive to carry out every moral duty. An
example to follow is that of Eurydice, who, though belonging
to a thoroughly barbarous country like Illyria, nevertheless took
to study and self-improvement late in life for the sake of her
children’s education. Her maternal affection finds apt expression
in the lines inscribed upon her offering to the Muses: |C|
To compass the whole of the foregoing elements of success is |*|
perhaps visionary—a counsel of perfection. But to cultivate
the majority of them, though itself requiring good fortune as
well as much care, is at any rate a thing within the reach of
a human being.
NOTES ON PERSONS AND PLACES
267
The following brief notes are intended to supply the bare amount
of information necessary for an understanding of the text. The
pronunciation marks are, of course, added only for the sake of those
who have no Greek. An accent marks the syllable which should bear
the stress in the English pronunciation, and the signs [ă ĕ ĭ ŏ ŭ] and
[ā ē ī ō ū], imply
that the vowels are short or long respectively. q.v. = see the note
on that name.
Ábaris: a legendary Scythian or ‘Hyperborean’ priest of Apollo,
to whom miraculous powers were attributed in the way of cures and
prophecy.
Aeolians: inhabitants of Aeolis, the NE. coast of the Aegean,
with the island of Lesbos.
Aeschĭnes: (1) a philosopher, pupil of Socrates (hence Aeschines
Socraticus). In the eyes of Plato he was a sophist, for the reason
that he took fees. His character was not of the highest. Like Plato,
he visited Syracuse during the philosophic pose of the elder Dionysius.
(2) Athenian orator, constant opponent of Demosthenes, who
charged him with being bribed by Philip. Died in exile 314 B.C.
Aeschylus: the first in date and most severe in style of the three
great Attic tragedians, 525-466 B.C. A master of condensed and
sonorous language and of powerful situations.
Aesop: the famous writer (or promulgator) of fables, c. 620-564
B.C. Said to have been an emancipated slave, who spent some time
at the court of Croesus and was sent by him on a mission to Delphi
to distribute largess. Practically nothing definite is known of him.
His fables were most probably of Indo-Persian origin. Those which
now pass under his name are a comparatively late compilation from
various sources.
Agésilāus: Agesilaus II, king of Sparta, 398-361 B.C.; the most
important man in the Greek world of his day. His wars were numerous,
the most important being with the Thebans. His character was
noble, his ability great, but his physique and appearance poor.
268Agis: (1) Agis II, king of Sparta, 427-399 B.C.; commander
against the Athenians in the Peloponnesian War, his greatest exploit
being the victory of Mantinea.
(2) Base and toadying poet of Argos, who accompanied Alexander
into Asia. The histories of the expedition agree with Plutarch as
to his character.
Alcibíades: a handsome noble of Athens; a type of ostentatious,
ambitious, and unscrupulous brilliancy. After a measure of military
and political prominence he was banished from Athens for sacrilege
(415 B.C.). Becoming hostile to his country he first found a home at
Sparta, thence migrated to Asia Minor and joined the Persian satrap,
Tissaphernes, whom he endeavoured to bring over to the Athenian
side as a means to his own recall. He returned to Athens for a brief
space in 407 B.C., then removed to Thrace, and thence again to the
Persian satrap.
Alcméōn: son of Amphiaraus (q.v.), who avenged his father by
putting to death his mother Eriphyle.
Alexander: (1) the Great, of Macedon.
(2) of Pherae, a despot who dominated Thessaly from 369 B.C. A
cruel tyrant, assassinated through the agency of his wife.
Alexis: poet of the ‘Middle Comedy’, who had migrated from
South Italy to Athens. Plutarch says that he lived to the age of 106,
and Suidas that his plays numbered 245.
Alyáttes: king of Lydia and father of Croesus, carried on wars
with the Greeks of the Aegean coast of Asia Minor and had apparently
some designs upon the islands.
Amásis: an insurgent Egyptian general who secured the throne
(569 B.C.). His rule was beneficent and prosperous, and he cultivated
the friendship of the Greeks, handing over to them the town of
Naucratis (q. v.). When reproached with his humble origin he converted
his bronze foot-pan into the effigy of a deity by way of instructive
parable. He was visited by Solon and had amicable relations
with Croesus.
Ammónius: Peripatetic philosopher from Attica, teacher of
Plutarch, who speaks elsewhere of his great erudition.
Amphiaráus: legendary seer of Argos, who accompanied the
‘Seven’ in their expedition against Thebes. A pious and just man,
269who was led into this false step by the persuasions of his wife, who
had been bribed.
Amphíctyons: members of a religious Council meeting at Delphi
and representing the older Greek communities.
Amphídămas: ‘hero’ (i. e. demigod) of Chalcis in Euboea,
conceived as a historical personage.
Amphitrítë: wife of Poseidon and queen-goddess of the sea.
Anacharsis: Scythian prince (of N. Thrace). To Greek literature
he is the type of the observant and critical visitor from abroad. A
pattern of the simple life and direct thinking. Said to have visited
Athens about 600 B.C.
Anaxarchus: an easy-going and witty philosopher of the school
of Democritus (q. v.); in the suite of Alexander on his Asiatic
expedition.
Antígŏnus: a general of Alexander. On the partition of the
empire he received Phrygia, Lycia, and Pamphylia, but afterwards
extended his rule over all the Asiatic portion. He fell before a combination
of the other Diadochi in 301 B.C.
Antímăchus: epic poet of Colophon, who wrote at great length
on the story of Thebes. He also composed a voluminous elegy on
‘Lyde’. Both pieces were crammed with mythological and other
learning, and Plutarch appears to treat him as a type of the diffuse.
He was a contemporary of Plato.
Antípăter: (1) regent of Macedonia during the Asiatic expedition
of Alexander and after his death (334-320 B.C.). A war with a Greek
league headed by Athens ended in the submission of the latter.
(2) A Stoic philosopher of Tyre; a friend of Cato the younger,
about the middle of the first century B.C.
Antiphōn: several persons were so named, e. g.:
(1) an orator of the fifth century B.C.
(2) An Athenian tragic poet, put to death by the elder Dionysius
at Syracuse.
(3) A sophist, epic poet, and antagonist of Socrates.
Apéllēs: (1) of Colophon or Cos, fl.c. 335-305 B.C. The greatest
painter of antiquity, especially favoured by Alexander the Great.
His maxim for draughtsmen nulla dies sine linea is famous.
(2) Of Chios, apparently unknown beyond Plutarch.
270Appius Claudius (Caecus): Roman censor 312 B.C., originator
of the Appian Way.
Aráspēs: a Mede, friend of Cyrus, who became enamoured of
Panthea (q. v.).
Arcĕsiláus: latter part of third century B.C.; first a disciple of
Theophrastus (q. v.), but took an independent line in philosophy as
founder of the sceptical New Academy. A man of amiable character
and a wit.
Archeláus: king of Macedonia 413-399 B.C.; a lover of art and
literature and a patron of Euripides and other Athenian men of
letters.
Archidámus: Archidamus II, king of Sparta, 469-427 B.C.
There were several other kings of the name.
Archílŏchus: of Paros, fl.c. 710-675 B.C. A lyrist of whom
only fragments are extant; particularly famous for his iambic
lampoons.
Archimédes: the Newton of antiquity; an eminent scientist of
Syracuse 287-212 B.C.; student of astronomy, applied mathematics,
and engineering. He served as mechanical engineer in defending
his city from the Romans, by whose soldiers he was killed in ignorance.
Archytas: of Tarentum, in the early part of the fourth century B.C.,
noted as a mathematician and philosophic statesman of the Pythagorean
order. Both in generalship and civil business of state he was
eminently successful and was trusted with extraordinary powers.
Arēs: the Greek War-God, answering generally to the Roman
Mars.
Arȋdaeus (Arrhidaeus): (1) feeble half-witted king of Macedonia
after his brother Alexander’s death.
(2) A general of Alexander, joint regent in 321 B.C., afterwards
governor on the Hellespont.
Aríōn: c. 600 B.C.; the famous bard and harp-player of Lesbos,
and supposed inventor of the dithyramb. His favourite abode was
at the court of Periander.
Aristarchus: the prince of Greek grammarians and critics;
flourished at Alexandria 181-146 B.C. Chiefly known for his commentaries
on the language and matter of Homer, and his recension
of the divergent manuscripts.
271Aristeides (Aristídes): with the sobriquet of ‘the Just’; a
noble of Athens, statesman and general, who figures in the stirring
times of the war with Persia. Died c. 470 B.C.
Aristíppus: of Cyrene, disciple, but not imitator, of Socrates.
A student and teacher of ethics, and founder of the Cyrenaic philosophy
and its cult of pleasure: fl.c. 380-366 B.C. For a time he was
at the court of Dionysius (q. v.) of Syracuse.
Arísto: (1) the chief bearer of the name was a philosopher who
became head of the Peripatetic school about 230 B.C. Anciently
considered a writer of more elegance than weight.
(2) A son of Sophocles, and probably himself a tragedian.
Aristómĕnes: practically regent of Egypt from 202 B.C.; a sound
adviser of the young Ptolemy Epiphanes (q. v.), who put him to
death for his frankness in 192 B.C.
Aristóphănes: of Athens, 444-380 B.C.; by far the greatest comic
poet of antiquity. His comedy was of the ‘Old’, or personal-political
type. Eleven of his plays are extant.
Arístŏphōn: painter, brother of Polygnotus (who fl.c. 420 B.C.).
Aristotle: of Stageira, but commonly domiciled in Athens or in
Macedonia. Pupil of Plato and subsequently tutor of Alexander.
Founder of the Peripatetic school, with its head-quarters in the
Lyceum (q. v.). His whole tone of mind is strikingly unlike that of
his teacher, being eminently precise, logical, and scientific. His
writing is without literary charm. He aimed at sound and comprehensive
knowledge as the basis of right principles in society,
conduct, and the arts (384-322 B.C.).
Asclépius: (= Aesculapius), the Greek ‘hero’ of medicine,
converted by legend into a son of Apollo and ultimately into
a god.
Atreides (Atrídes): = ‘son of Atreus’, a title of Agamemnon
and Menelaus.
Áttălus (brother of Eumenes): Attalus Philadelphus, king of
Pergamus, allied with the Romans in the middle of the second
century B.C. Philopoemen was his controlling minister.
Bacchýlȋdes: lyric poet of Ceos, fl.c. 470 B.C., principally at the
court of Hiero of Syracuse. In general he may be called a smoother
and weaker Pindar.
272Bagóas: a handsome young eunuch of Darius, afterwards taken
into the service and affections of Alexander.
Báthycles: an artist in metal-work, of uncertain date, but
probably to be placed in the early part of the age of the Seven Sages.
Bato: comic poet of Athens, fl.c. 280 B.C.; satirized philosophers.
Bias: of Priene; precise date unknown, but fl.c. 550 B.C. He is
invariably included in the list of the Seven Sages.
Biōn: fl.c. 250 B.C., a philosopher from Olbia on the Black Sea,
who settled at Athens, tried various systems, and ended by being
a Peripatetic. He was noted for his keen sententious sayings, but
was of dissolute character. Has been called ‘the Greek Voltaire’.
Brīséïs: captive woman assigned to Achilles, but taken from
him by Agamemnon when he surrendered Chryseis.
Busírites: the people of Busiris (modern Abousir), about the
middle of the Delta; one of the traditional birthplaces of Osiris.
Calchas: the seer of the Achaean army before Troy.
Callísthĕnes: philosopher and rhetorician; accompanied Alexander
into Asia, where he used over-bold language in reproving
him. Put to death 328 B.C. He wrote an account of the expedition
and other historical works.
Calýpso: nymph, on whose island the shipwrecked Odysseus was
detained for seven years.
Carnĕădes: of Cyrene, 213(?)-129 B.C.; a student of Stoicism,
but leader of the Academics. He was ambassador on behalf of Athens
(155 B.C.) to Rome, where he delivered striking discourses on ethics.
His cardinal doctrine was the ‘withholding of assent’ to doctrines.
Cato: (1) the elder (or ‘the Censor’), 234-149 B.C. The type
of severe old-fashioned Roman morality; soldier, statesman, orator,
and writer.
(2) The younger (or ‘Uticensis’), 95-46 B.C.; modelled himself
on his great-grandfather in respect of the moral and simple life, but
was much inferior in gifts. Committed suicide 46 B.C., when the
struggle against the domination of Julius Caesar had become
hopeless.
Cĕbēs: of Thebes, a pupil of Socrates and a persona in Plato’s
Phaedo. He is chiefly known for his (if it is his) symbolic picture
or ‘table’ of human life.
273Cĕrămeicus (-í-): a suburb without, and a broad street within,
the west walls of Athens.
Cercópes: mythical gnomes, mischievous and thievish, who
annoyed Heracles by their monkey-like tricks.
Chábrȋas: Athenian commander at various times between 392 and
357 B.C., gaining some successes by land and sea against the Spartans.
An able tactician, adventurous, but of somewhat dissolute life.
Chalcis: chief town of Euboea (Negropont), once a most important
commercial centre.
Charēs: Athenian general, of whose various operations we have
records for 367-333 B.C. A man of little principle. He effected little
against the Macedonians, and often followed independent and useless
lines of action.
Chármȋdes: uncle of Plato, who names one of his Socratic
dialogues after him. At the supposed date he was a beautiful and
charming youth, and the discussion is upon ‘self-control’.
Chīlōn: of Lacedaemon: fl.c. 600-570 B.C. Poet and coiner
of maxims, and shrewd man of affairs.
Chryséïs: captive woman assigned to Agamemnon; surrendered
by him at the bidding of Apollo, in order to check a pestilence.
Cimōn: son of Miltiades, became prominent as a commander
against the Persians in 477 B.C. His chief exploit was the victory
of Eurymedon, 466 B.C. A handsome, liberal, affable, but somewhat
self-indulgent person.
Cīnésias: Athenian dithyrambic poet, much satirized by Aristophanes
and others. His verse, music, and character appear all to
have been of an inferior order.
Claudia: Roman maiden, who, in full vindication of her chastity,
was enabled to move the vessel containing the image of Cybele when
it stuck fast in the Tiber.
Cleánthes: Stoic philosopher, pupil and successor of Zeno (q. v.)
263 B.C. The only fragment of his writing still extant is from a Hymn
to Zeus.
Cleárchus: (1) of Heraclea on the Black Sea; availed himself
of faction to make himself despot and tyrant (365 B.C.). Despite
the precautions described by Plutarch he was assassinated in 353 B.C.
(2) Of Sparta, leader of the 10,000 Greeks in the expedition of Cyrus
274the Younger against Babylon; decoyed and put to death by the
Persians, 401 B.C. The retreat was led by Xenophon (q.v.).
Cleisthĕnes: Athenian noble, who adopted the popular cause
and made important democratic changes in the constitution; fl. from
510 B.C.
Cleitus (Clītus): a Macedonian commander under Alexander,
whose life he saved at the battle of Granícus (334 B.C.). He was killed
(328 B.C.) by Alexander with a spear-thrust, after a quarrel at a carousal,
in which he had spoken with excessive freedom to his chief.
Cleobulínë: daughter (as the name implies) of Cleobulus (q.v.).
Though her father is said to have named her Eumetis (‘sagacious’),
the word may be suspected of being an afterthought.
Cleobúlus: c. 610-560 B.C. A citizen of Lindus in Rhodes, who
became its despot. His position may have been similar to that of
Pittacus (q.v.).
Cleómĕnes: Cleomenes III, high-minded king of Sparta, 240-222
B.C. On his defeat by the Achaeans he fled to Ptolemy
Euergetes, with whom he was in alliance. The next Ptolemy
(Philopator) suspected and imprisoned him.
Cleōn: a tanner of Athens; an able but coarse-grained leader
of the popular party 428-422 B.C. A special enemy of Aristophanes
(q.v.), whose fiercest political attacks are delivered against him.
A self-sufficient amateur in military operations, in one of which he
was slain.
Clódius: P. Clodius Pulcher; a daring and unscrupulous person,
who became quaestor in 61 B.C. and tribune of the plebs in 59 B.C.
The notorious and relentless enemy of Cicero. Killed by Milo on
the high road 52 B.C.
Colónus: a suburb of Athens outside the north wall, with a small
hill, grove, and sanctuary.
Cólophōn: Greek town of Asia Minor, near the Aegean coast,
about ten miles north of Ephesus.
Cornelia: daughter of Scipio Africanus; the famous ‘mother of
the Gracchi’; the type of matronly virtue, dignity, cultivation, and
high example.
Crátĕrus: a noble type of Macedonian; one of Alexander’s
generals. After the death of his chief (323 B.C.) he became colleague
275with Antipater in the Graeco-Macedonian portion of the empire.
See also under Eumenes.
Cratēs: of Thebes; pupil of Diogenes (q.v.) at Athens; fl.c.
320 B.C. A Cynic philosopher in practice as well as theory, he
renounced his wealth and led the simple life in a cheerful manner.
A philosophic writer and a tragic poet.
Croesus: king of Lydia 560-546 B.C. A wealthy and powerful
ruler, who made war upon the Persians when their empire was
growing rapidly under Cyrus. Was defeated and carried off in the
train of the conqueror. While in power he was in friendly or hostile
relations with various Greek states, and was particularly noted for
his liberality to the Delphian oracle. Whether Solon ever actually
had the famous interview with Croesus is chronologically doubtful,
but it is not impossible.
Cyáxares: king of Media, appears in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia
as uncle of Cyrus the Great, but the whole book is something of
a romance.
Cýpsĕlus: father of Periander, established himself as despot of
Corinth c. 656 B.C. His name was commonly associated with
cypsele (‘chest’). The designs upon him in his infancy were those
of a Corinthian noble house, and were made in consequence of an
oracle foretelling danger from the child.
Cyrus: (1) the elder: the famous Persian monarch, founder of
the empire, and subjugator of Babylon. The stories told of him in
the Cyropaedia of Xenophon are largely romance.
(2) the younger: satrap of Lydia, Phrygia, &c., who sought, but
failed, to dispossess his brother Artaxerxes with the assistance
of a Greek force (401 B.C.). This was the expedition related in
Xenophon’s Anabasis.
Daphnūs: a river running into the Corinthian Gulf on the north
side not far from the entrance.
Dāríus: (1) Darius I; strong and able king of Persia (521-485
B.C.), previously satrap under Cyrus the Great. This is the Darius
mentioned in connexion with Gobryas.
(2) Darius II (Ochus or Nothus), or Darius the Younger, a weak
monarch endangered by perpetual rebellions, 424-405 B.C.
(3) Darius Codomannus, overthrown by Alexander. Died 330 B.C.
276Délos: central island of the south half of the Aegean, with a temple
of Apollo, the gathering-place of a great religious confederacy of
Ionians.
Dēmarátus: of Corinth, in friendly relations with Philip and a
mediator between him and Alexander after their quarrel in 337 B.C.
Dēmétrius: (1) Demetrius I (or Poliorcetes), king of Macedonia.
His father Antigonus, king of Asia, sent him in 307 B.C. to annex
Greece, then under Cassander and Ptolemy. It was at this time
that he took Megara and met with Stilpo (q. v.).
(2) Demetrius Phaléreus: Athenian orator and writer (345-283
B.C.); an able and cultivated man, put in charge of Athens by the
Macedonians, 317 B.C. First highly honoured, then expelled, he
made his way to Thebes and subsequently to Alexandria.
(3) The name of several Macedonian officers in the army of
Alexander.
Dēmócrȋtus: c. 460-360 B.C. Of Abdēra in Thrace. A great
traveller and student, who developed (though he did not invent)
the ‘Atomic Theory’. Ethically his aim was cheerfulness of mind
(hence ‘the laughing philosopher’). His character was of the highest
for truth and simplicity.
Dicaeárchus: philosopher from Massana in Sicily; writer on
history and geography. A follower of Aristotle, fl.c. 300 B.C.
Díŏcles: the narrator of the Dinner of the Seven Sages: professional
seer, and interpreter and expiator of omens and dreams.
Nothing is known of such a person outside Plutarch.
Diógĕnes: (1) the Cynic philosopher of Sinope, who migrated to
Athens, and after being captured by pirates was sold as a slave to
a Corinthian. Whether or not he ever lived in the famous (earthenware)
‘tub’ is doubtful. He was distinguished for his plainness of
life, his shrewd good sense, his independence, and his caustic tongue.
(2) Tragic poet of Athens, c. 404 B.C.
Diōn: of Syracuse, brother-in-law of the elder Dionysius (q. v.).
On the visit of Plato to Sicily he became a disciple of that philosopher.
The younger Dionysius resented his reputation and his harshness.
Dion therefore removed to Athens and other parts of Greece, whence
he returned with a force, expelled Dionysius, and was himself
appointed practically dictator. Assassinated 353 B.C.
277Dionysius: (i) the elder: despot of Syracuse (‘sole general’)
405-367 B.C. He extended its power over a great part of Sicily, and
strongly fortified the city itself. In the end he became a veritable
tyrant. Like many other despots he affected literature and philosophy,
and himself wrote bad verses. After inviting Plato to Syracuse
he quarrelled with and dismissed that philosopher.
(2) the younger, who succeeded his father. For a time he was
under the influence of Dion (q.v.) assisted by Plato. Of weaker
character and more licentious than his father, he was compelled to
abandon Syracuse after a rule of eleven years. Insecurely restored
ten years later he was again driven out by Timoleon (343 B.C.).
The remainder of his life was spent in poverty at Corinth, where he
is said to have taught an elementary school.
Dōdóna: in Epirus, near the modern Janina; a very ancient
seat of the worship of Zeus.
Dolōn: a Trojan in the Iliad, who undertakes to penetrate the
Achaean camp as a spy, but is slain in the attempt.
Dryópians: a people of Central Greece.
Elephantínë = Djesiret-el-Sag; a garrisoned island in the Nile
(First Cataract) opposite the modern Assouan; the frontier town of
Egypt towards Ethiopia.
Empédŏcles: Sicilian physical and practical philosopher of
Acragas (= Girgenti); fl.c. 450 B.C. His studies of nature specially
qualified him for the cure or ‘purification’ of epidemics due to
insanitary conditions. His travels took him to Athens and other
parts of Greece. The legend went that he threw himself into the
crater of Etna.
Eōs: = Aurora, dawn-goddess; wife of Tithonus; mother of
Memnon, the opponent of Achilles.
Epáminōndas: a type of patriotism, particularly to his compatriot
Plutarch. The greatest of Theban commanders and statesmen,
especially famous for his victory over the Spartans at Leuctra
(371 B.C.). So far as he applied any philosophy to life, it was that of
Pythagoras.
Éphŏrus: historian of Cumae, fl.c. 340 B.C. His history,
once very famous and much discussed, covered a period of 750
years.
278Epichármus: c. 540-450 B.C.; the great comic poet of Sicily,
chiefly associated with the court of Hiero I (q.v.) at Syracuse.
Epicúrus: 342-270 B.C. Athenian philosopher and founder of
the Epicurean school, of which the aim was ‘peace of mind’ or
‘freedom from emotional disturbance’. His own life (as his tenets required)
was simple and wholesome, and the self-indulgence of the sect
in later days was either a parody or a misconception of his teachings.
A voluminous writer on physics and ethics, but with a bad style.
Epiménȋdes: priest-prophet and bard of Crete, with peculiar
knowledge of medicine and methods of purification. Many fables
were current concerning him (e.g. of his sleep of fifty-seven years).
He was called in by the Athenians (c. 596 B.C.) to cleanse their city
of a plague.
Epimétheus: brother of Prometheus (q.v.). The name was taken
to mean ‘After-thinker’, and hence arose a notion that he ‘thought
too late’.
Erasístrătus: a very distinguished physician in the earlier part
of the third century B.C. He practised and taught in Syria and
Alexandria. An eminent student of anatomy.
Eratósthĕnes: librarian of Alexandria under the Ptolemies;
a writer on mathematical geography, history, and grammar. Died
about 196 B.C.
Érĕsus: a town on the south-west coast of Lesbos (Mytilene);
birthplace of Theophrastus.
Erétria: the second town of Euboea, a little south of Chalcis.
See Lelantum.
Erínys: a spirit of vengeance sent up from the underworld to
punish unnatural crimes and offences.
Éteŏcles: (legendary): son of Oedipus, joint king of Thebes with
Polyneices, whom he expelled through a selfish desire to rule alone.
Euénus: two poets of Paros are so named, one of the date of
Socrates and one earlier. It is, and was anciently, difficult to distinguish
between the two.
Eúmĕnes: an eminent and very able general (and also secretary) of
Alexander, after whose death he obtained (322 B.C.) the chief command
in Asia. His subordinate Neoptolemus, governor of Armenia,
made head against him with the help of Craterus. Their defeat,
279mentioned in the article on Garrulity, took place in Cappadocia in
321 B.C.
Eúpŏlis: one of the three chief poets of the ‘old’ comedy of
Athens, a contemporary of Aristophanes (q.v.).
Eurípides: 480-406 B.C.; third in date of the three great Athenian
tragedians. His works were numerous and uneven. His poetical
merits were (and are) variously estimated.
Fabius Maximus: the best known person of the name was
Q. Fabius Maximus Cunctator, who saved Rome by his waiting
tactics against Hannibal; but the one who was associated with
Polybius, as pupil and patron, was Q. F. M. Aemilianus, consul in
145 B.C., who served against Macedonia and in Spain.
Góbryes: one of the seven Persian nobles (Darius being another)
who conspired against the usurper Smerdis the Mage. Darius was
raised to the throne and Gobryes became one of his lieutenants.
Górgȋas: of Leontini in Sicily: orator, rhetorical teacher, and
sophist, who visited Athens 427 B.C. and subsequently. His style,
which was highly artificial, was widely imitated. He is the Gorgias
of Plato’s dialogue.
Gorgo: of Sparta; wife of Leonidas and daughter of Cleomenes I.
Stories of her wisdom and sagacity are told by Herodotus (6. 49,
7. 239).
Gylippus: Spartan general who came to the rescue of Syracuse
and chiefly caused the utter collapse of the Athenian attack upon
that city. After the fall of Athens (404 B.C.) it was his business to
convey to Sparta the 1,500 talents of booty. He opened the seams
of the sacks, filched about one-fifth of the amount, but was betrayed
by the inventories enclosed.
Harmódius: a handsome youth of Athens associated with Aristogeiton
(the older man) in the assassination of Hipparchus, brother
of the despot Hippias in 514 B.C. Though Athens was not liberated
till four years later, these tyrannicides were canonized as saviours
of their country.
Hecuba: the aged wife of Priam, and mother of Hector.
Hephaestus: practically the Greek equivalent of the Latin
Vulcan or Fire-God. He is represented as a lame, but sturdy and
somewhat humorous deity, a master of smithcraft.
280Hēracleides (Héraclides): It is not clear to which person of
the name Plutarch refers. The best known was Heracleides Ponticus,
a pupil of Plato and a miscellaneous writer.
Hēracleitus (Hēraclítus): physical philosopher of Ephesus,
fl.c. 515 B.C. Famous for the compression of his style, which
became so cryptic that he earned the title of the ‘Obscure’. He was
something of a hermit and favoured the simple vegetarian life. The
‘weeping philosopher’.
Hermíŏne: daughter of Menelaus and Helen; married to Neoptolemus
(son of Achilles) and jealous of Andromache, whom she tried
to put to death.
Hēródŏtus: c. 484-400 B.C.; the so-called ‘Father of History’.
He travelled widely in the East and in the Grecian world, and wrote
on Lydia, Babylonia, Egypt, Persia, and the great Persian war.
His desire is to get at the facts, but he displays a naïve fondness for
story-telling and for wonders and miracles.
Hēróphȋlus: of Chalcedon; a most eminent physician and a
discoverer in anatomy and physiology; fl.c. 300 B.C.
Hiero I: or the Magnificent, despot of Gelon and Syracuse
(478-467 B.C.), and most powerful Sicilian of his day. Poets at one
time or other associated with his court were Epicharmus, Xenophanes,
Simonides, Aeschylus, Pindar, and Bacchylides.
Hierónymus: tragic and dithyrambic poet of Athens and
apparently a writer on poets.
Hippócrătes: of Cos; the ‘father of medicine’; the most
renowned physician and medical teacher and writer of antiquity:
c. 460-357 B.C.
Hypereides (Hyperídes): Attic orator; patriot, contemporary
and, for the most part, supporter of Demosthenes in his anti-Macedonian
policy. Put to death by Antipater (q.v.), 322 B.C. An elegant
speaker, of dubious private life.
Íbycus: of Rhegium, fl.c. 540 B.C. at the court of the despot of
Samos; a lyric poet of the erotic type. The proverb, ‘the cranes of
Ibycus’, arose from the story that, when being murdered by brigands
near Corinth, he invoked a flock of cranes, then flying past, to avenge
his death. Plutarch tells the sequel (Garrulity).
īno: or Leucóthea; a mythological personage, daughter of
281Cadmus and wife of Athamas. One story went that, when she leapt
into the sea, she was carried to Corinth by a dolphin. Hence the
allusion in the story of Arion.
īphícrătes: Athenian general in early part of the fourth century
B.C. An innovator in tactics and military equipment, noted for his
prudence and foresight.
Ischómăchus: a character of the name appears in Xenophon’s
Oeconomicus as lecturing his wife upon the principles of domestic
management. Such a philosophically disposed person may be the
associate of Socrates mentioned by Plutarch.
Ithacans: the people of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, one of the
Ionian islands, south of Corfu.
Ixíon: mythical Thessalian king, who made illicit love to Hera,
wife of Zeus, and was punished by being fastened to a perpetually
revolving wheel in Hades.
Laelius: C. Laelius Sapiens, friend of Scipio Africanus Minor.
Consul 140 B.C. Cicero’s De Amicitia is otherwise named his Laelius.
Philosopher, orator, and scholar.
Laértes: aged father of Odysseus; superannuated king of
Ithaca.
Lĕchaeum: the port of Old Corinth, with which it was connected
by walls one and a half miles in length.
Lēlántum: a river of Euboea, flowing through the fertile Lelantine
plain (between Chalcis and Eretria), which was long a bone of
contention between the two cities.
Leónȋdas: the famous Spartan king, who so stubbornly held the
pass of Thermopylae against the Persians with his ‘Three Hundred’,
480 B.C.
Leptis: a town in Africa near the modern Tripoli; a Phoenician
settlement and afterwards a Roman colony.
Lesches: one of the post-Homeric (‘Cyclic’) poets, and writer
of the Little Iliad; a native of Lesbos, fl.c. 705 B.C.
Leuctra: Boeotian village; the scene of the great defeat of the
Spartans by Epaminondas, 371 B.C.
Livia: Livia Drusilla, 56 B.C.-A.D. 29. Her first husband was
Tiberius Claudius Nero, by whom she was the mother of Tiberius,
the future emperor. Married to Augustus (then Octavianus) in
28238 B.C., and having no children by him, she was anxious to keep the
succession in her own family. A woman of strong character, she
exerted a tactful control over Augustus and attempted one more
imperious over Tiberius, but failed.
Locri: Locri Epizephyrii, an important Greek town of South
Italy, about the modern Gerace. Its constitutional code was often
regarded as a model.
Locris: a Greek community lying along the north side of the
middle of the Corinthian Gulf.
Loxias: Apollo as God of Oracles. The name was commonly
interpreted as ‘Riddling’ or ‘Indirect’.
Lucullus: Roman conqueror of Mithridates, succeeded in his
command by Pompey, 66 B.C. Famous for his wealth and luxury,
and particularly for his lavish feasts. A byword for self-indulgence.
Lycéum: an exercise ground with terraces (‘walks’) and colonnades
just outside the wall to the east of Athens. It was here that
Aristotle discoursed on the ‘Walk’ (peripatos), whence the name
‘Peripatetic’ became applied to his school.
Lycurgus: (1) the more or less legendary lawgiver and constitution-maker
of Sparta. His date and personality are quite uncertain,
and he is not improbably as mythical as Heracles.
(2) son of Dryas, a legendary Thracian king who resisted the worship
of Dionysius and hacked down his sacred plant, the vine. Dionysius
punished him with madness, during which he killed his own son,
thinking him a vine. The story is much varied in particulars.
Lysander: Spartan admiral, who won the battle of Aegospotami
against the Athenians and concluded the reduction of Athens in
404 B.C. He was afterwards distinguished for his ostentation and
arrogance.
Lysias: orator and professional rhetorician of Athens, distinguished
for the purity and lucidity of his diction and his grace of
style: fl.c. 403 B.C. The majority of his 230 speeches were written
for litigants.
Lysímăchus: of Macedonia; became king of Thrace on the
partition of Alexander’s empire. A man of powerful physique and
an able soldier. Later his territory included the western half of Asia
Minor. Killed in battle 281 B.C.
283Masinissa: king of Numidia; first a supporter, then an enemy, of
Carthage, he lent great assistance to the Romans from 204 B.C. to 148.
His reign was long and he died at ninety.
Meidias (Mídias): an Athenian citizen and bitter enemy of
Demosthenes, one of whose best known speeches is a violent, and
possibly a rather scurrilous, attack upon him.
Melánthius: of Athens: an inferior tragic and elegiac poet of
worthless character: a contemporary of Aristophanes and Plato.
Meleáger: legendary prince of Calydon. Having slain his mother’s
brothers, he was cursed by her, and thereupon refused to take further
part in the war against the Curetes. No offers could induce him to
leave his chamber and rout the enemy, until he yielded to the prayers
of his wife Cleopatra.
Menander: chief poet of the Athenian New Comedy (or comedy
of manners), 342-291 B.C.; a polished and easy-tempered man of
the world. His sententious writings lent themselves to quotation
and were much read in schools. To moralizing critics of a later age
he was to comedy what Homer was to epic.
Mĕnedémus: philosopher and statesman of Euboea, of the
‘Megarian’ school. Died c. 277 B.C.
Méropë: the name of several mythological semi-goddesses, mostly
connected with the heavenly bodies.
Metellus: Q. Caecilius Metellus, who successfully conducted the
Numidian War against Jugurtha (109 B.C.) until superseded by
Marius. A man of high character, military ability, and intellectual
culture.
Mētrodórus: favourite pupil of Epicurus (q.v.) and almost
co-master of his school. Died 277 B.C.
Mithridátes: Mithridates VI, or the Great, king of Pontus
120-63 B.C., a Hellenized oriental famed for his physical and
intellectual ability, his ambition and daring; of importance in history
for his wars with the Romans under Lucullus and Pompey. He made
a special study of poisons and their antidotes.
Mnēsíphȋlus: Athenian statesman of sound practical ability, taken
by Themistocles as his model. It was he who urged Themistocles
to force on the battle of Salamis (480 B.C.). In the Dinner-Party
Plutarch borrows the name for an imaginary friend of Solon.
284Molycréa: a town just inside the entrance to the Corinthian
Gulf on the north side.
Myrōn: Boeotian sculptor; fl. 430 B.C. Best known by his
Discobolus and his ‘Cow’. His work included animal forms, and
human figures in a state of muscular activity or tension.
Mýrsȋlus: see Pittacus.
Naucrătis: a Greek town in the Delta of Egypt, thirty miles
from the sea. At first only a trading-station, it was granted privileges
of internal self-government by Amasis (q.v.).
Neoptólĕmus: see Eumenes.
Nestor: the typical wise old man of the Iliad.
Nicander: poet and physician of Colophon; fl. in earlier half of
second century B.C. Two of his poems are extant: the Theriaca on
venomous animals, and the Alexipharmaca (or ‘Antidotes‘) on poisons
and their remedies. The verse in itself is poor.
Nícias: (1) Athenian general in the calamitous expedition against
Syracuse (415-413 B.C.). A man of wealth, but religious to the point
of disastrous superstition; a commander of experience, though
wanting in promptitude and self-reliance. He was put to death by
the victors.
(2) painter of Athens, fl.c. 310 B.C., particularly noted for his
chiaroscuro and for improvements in encaustic painting.
Nilóxĕnus: a character probably invented by Plutarch, with
a name geographically suitable.
Numa: Numa Pompilius, second king of Rome, famed for his piety
and the excellence of his legislation. Much of his history is legendary.
Olympias: wife of Philip (q.v.) and mother of Alexander. An
imperious and vindictive woman, with good reasons for jealousy,
who often figures in Macedonian feuds.
Olynthus: a Greek town on the Chalcidic peninsula, south of
Thessalonica.
Ómphălë: queen of Lydia, to whom Heracles was for a time
enslaved and for whom he played an effeminate part. In a sense
she played the Delilah to his Samson.
Orchómĕnus: a very ancient town in Boeotia.
Oromazdes: = Ahuramazda, the great God of the Zoroastrians;
deity of light and good, as opposed to Ahrimanes.
285Pándărus: a Lycian warrior on the Trojan side, famous for his
skill as an archer.
Panthéa: beautiful wife of Abradatas, king of Susa. Cyrus, who
had captured her, showed her such respect that Abradatas came over
to his side.
Parménȋdes: philosopher and legislator of Elea, fl.c. 476 B.C.
His writings were in the hexameter verse then usual as the vehicle
of literary philosophy.
Parménio: general under Philip and Alexander, and right-hand
lieutenant of the latter. Accused of taking part in a conspiracy against
his chief, he was assassinated at the age of seventy in 330 B.C.
Parrhásius: painter of Ephesus, domiciled at Athens, c. 400 B.C.;
famed for his accurate drawing and proportion. As a man he was
arrogant and luxurious.
Pāsíphaë: (legendary): wife of Minos of Crete; enamoured of
a bull and mother of the Minotaur.
Patróclus: the ‘squire’ and beloved friend of Achilles. Killed
by Hector in battle, and avenged by Achilles.
Peísistrătus: a younger relative of Solon; intrigued himself into
the position of despot of Athens 560 B.C. He was twice expelled,
but re-established himself. A highly capable ruler, beautifier of
Athens, and a lover of literature.
Pēleides (-ī-): (i.e. ‘son of Peleus’) = Achilles.
Péleus: aged father of Achilles; superannuated king in Thessaly.
Periander: despot of Corinth, c. 625-585 B.C. An able and powerful
ruler, patron of literature and art, generally (but not invariably)
included among the Seven Sages. His early mildness is commonly
reported to have passed into tyranny (see Thrasybulus). His wife
was Melissa.
Pericles: the highest name among what may be called ‘Prime
Ministers’ of Athens. His career may be dated 470-429 B.C., but his
leadership became most pronounced about 444 B.C. A man of large
conceptions, brilliant oratorical powers, and philosophic tastes, but
of an aristocratic and exclusive temperament.
Perséphŏnë: daughter of Demeter, wife of Pluto, and therefore,
in one of her aspects, Queen of the Dead.
Perseus: king of Macedonia, on whom the Romans made war
286in 171 B.C. At first victorious or equal, he was defeated at Pydna by
L. Aemilius Paulus 168 B.C. He was carried to Rome and lived for
some years at Alba. A weak, vacillating and parsimonious monarch.
Petrónius: Titus (or Gaius) Petronius, the famous ‘arbiter of
taste’ under Nero and director of his pleasures. Whether he was
the author of the famous Satyricon is doubtful.
Phaeácians: seafaring inhabitants of the rich and fertile island
of Phaeacia, traditionally identified with Corfu, but possibly Crete.
When Odysseus arrived at the island on his raft he was hospitably
entertained by King Alcinous and sent home to Ithaca by him on
a ship.
Phaedra: wife of Theseus and step-mother of Hippolytus, of
whom she became enamoured. The allusion in Plutarch refers to
the fondness of Hippolytus for hunting.
Phálăris: despot of Agrigentum in Sicily c. 570 B.C. His name
was in some legends proverbial for cruelty, and with him is associated
the legend of roasting his victims in a brazen bull. Put he is sometimes
represented otherwise and as a student of letters and philosophy.
Pheidias (Phíd-) of Athens, the most eminent sculptor of
antiquity: died 432 B.C. He is best known for his work upon the
Parthenon and his colossal statue of Zeus at Olympia.
Phérae: a town in Thessaly, somewhat west of the modern Volo,
which became dominant under the despots Jason and Alexander (q.v.).
Philadolphus: see Ptolemy (1).
Philémōn: Athenian poet of the New Comedy, reckoned second
only to Menander. Lived c. 360-262 B.C., and wrote ninety-seven
plays.
Philétas: of Cos, c. 300 B.C.; elegiac poet and critic, tutor of
Ptolemy II. His thinness was a matter of jest for the comedians.
Philip: 382-336 B.C. king of Macedon, father of Alexander, and,
in a large measure, conqueror of Greece. Demosthenes’ Philippics
and other speeches were directed against him. An able, hard-working,
ambitious, and rather unscrupulous man; a hard drinker and a
sensualist, especially fond of rude jest, but with intellectual tastes.
Philíppȋdes: one of the better Athenian poets of the New
Comedy; fl.c. 335 B.C. At first he attacked the Macedonian rulers,
but later became a friend of Lysimachus (q.v.).
287Philóchŏrus: Athenian writer on the history, antiquities, and
legends of his country, and on miscellaneous subjects: fl.c. 300-260
B.C.
Philócrătes: Athenian orator, first a supporter, then an opponent,
of Demosthenes. His policy was consistently to abet the pretensions of
Philip of Macedon, who had bribed him lavishly, to the detriment
of Athens. He was ultimately impeached and compelled to go into
exile, 330 B.C.
Philoctétos: Greek hero (in the expedition to Troy) left desolate
on the island of Lemnos, where he suffered deprivations and the
agonies of a gangrened foot.
Philopoemen: (1) the most distinguished Greek soldier of his
day; head of the Achaean League several times from 208 B.C.;
a man of culture and high character.
(2) controlling minister of Attalus II (q.v.).
Philótas: there were several Macedonians of the name in the
service of Alexander. The two chief were (1) the son of Parmenio,
a favourite of Alexander, but found guilty of conspiracy and executed;
(2) a general who subsequently became governor of Cilicia.
Philotímus: a distinguished physician and writer on medicine
of the date of Erasistratus and Herophilus (q.v.), c. 300 B.C.
Philóxĕnus: a dithyrambic poet of high repute: fl. at Athens
400 B.C. He thence moved to the court of Dionysius (q.v.), by whom
he is said to have been imprisoned for his scathing criticism on the
despot’s verses.
Phóciōn: 402-317 B.C. An upright Athenian general and statesman,
who favoured, though probably not in an unpatriotic spirit,
the submission of Athens to the Macedonian power under Alexander
(335) and Antipater (q.v.). He was frequently opposed to Demosthenes,
and was put to death by his countrymen on a charge of
treason.
Phōcýlȋdes: epic and elegiac poet of Miletus, fl.c. 530 B.C. Many
of his lines passed into current maxims, and were so intended.
Phoenix: a fugitive kindly received by Peleus and entrusted
with the bringing-up of his son Achilles. He had quarrelled with
his own father, whose young mistress he had corrupted at the request
of his jealous mother.
288Pindar: of Thebes, the most eminent lyrist of Greece, composer
of songs, choral and processional odes, dirges, &c.; lived c. 522-442 B.C.
Píttăcus: of Mytilene, c. 650-569. Contemporary of Sappho.
During the struggles of the oligarchical and popular parties he was
appointed by the latter ‘elective autocrat’ and legislator. The chief
representative on the other side had been Myrsilus. A philosophic
poet and the originator of moral maxims.
Plato: the aristocratic and cultured philosopher of Athens,
follower of Socrates, founder of the Academy, and writer of the
Dialogues which go under his name.
Pólĕmo: (1) of Athens, who in his youth abandoned profligate
habits for the cult of the Platonic philosophy under the influence of
Xenocrates (q.v.), whom he succeeded 315 B.C.
(2) a Stoic philosopher, traveller, and geographer, who wrote
copiously on inscriptions, &c.; fl.c. 195 B.C.
Polýbius: Greek historian from Arcadia, carried to Italy by the
Romans 167 B.C., and taken under the patronage of Q. Fabius
Maximus and Scipio Aemilianus. He accompanied Scipio against
Carthage and in Spain. Wrote a sound, useful, unimaginative history
of the years 220-146 B.C. A practical statesman and a student of the
military art.
Polycleitus (-clít-): of Argos, fl.c. 450-412 B.C.; a sculptor of the
first rank, particularly distinguished for his representation of human
forms, to which he imparted his ideals of strength and beauty
according to a ‘canon of proportions’. These were best typified
in his Doryphorus (‘spear-bearer’), which was itself sometimes called
‘the Canon’. His chief colossal statue was the chryselephantine
Hera of Argos.
Pontus: in two senses: (1) the Black Sea; (2) a province or region
on the eastern half of the south coast of that sea.
Praxítĕles: the second greatest name in Athenian sculpture;
fl.c. 365 B.C. He is the head of the ‘later’ (or more graceful) Attic
school, Pheidias (q.v.) representing the earlier, more massive and
majestic. He particularly excelled with his statues of Aphrodite
(e.g. the ‘Venus of Cnidos’).
Priam: aged king of Troy, father of Hector, whose dead body
he came to Achilles to ransom.
289Priénë: an Ionian Greek town in Asia Minor a little south of
Ephesus; the home of Bias.
Pródȋcus: of Ceos, sophist and rhetorical teacher; a contemporary
of Plato and a frequent visitor to Athens. His bodily weakness was
notorious.
Prométheus: mythical semi-deity, gifted with great foresight;
a benefactor of mankind by giving them fire stolen from heaven
(an offence for which he was cruelly punished by Zeus), and by the
invention of the civilizing arts. His name was commonly interpreted
‘Fore-thinker’.
Ptolemy: (1) Ptolemy II (Philadelphus), king of Egypt 285-247
B.C.
(2) Ptolemy III (Euergetes), king of Egypt 247-222 B.C.
(3) Ptolemy IV (Philopator), king 222-205 B.C.; a vicious and
sensual monarch, ruled by his minister Sosibius.
(4) Ptolemy V (Epiphanes), king 205-181 B.C. See Aristomenes.
It was in the early part of his reign that Egypt became a Roman
protectorate. He came to the throne at the age of four.
Publius Nigidius: contemporary of Cicero; a man of great
scientific and mathematical learning, as became a Pythagorean.
Pūpius Piso: Roman orator, and consul in 61 B.C.; a supporter
of Clodius and therefore hostile to Cicero.
Pyrrhus: king of Epirus, called in by the people of Tarentum
against the Romans. After a dearly won victory in 280 B.C. he sent
his eloquent minister to Rome to offer humiliating terms of peace.
These were rejected, and after a practically equal contest he retired
from Italy.
Pythagoras: of Samos, fl.c. 540-520 B.C. He had apparently
travelled in the East and acquired, besides mathematical knowledge
(in which he made some advances), mystical theological views and probably
also his doctrine of the transmigration of souls. He migrated
to Croton in South Italy, and there became the founder of a close and
aristocratic philosophical brotherhood, to whom the word of the master
was sufficient (ipse dixit). Many legends gathered about him and a
mystical interpretation was put upon his rather compressed maxims.
Pythian: = ‘belonging to Pytho’, i.e. to Delphi, the seat of the
chief oracle of Apollo.
290Rhium: the promontory on the south side of the mouth of the
Corinthian Gulf, the north promontory being Antirrhium.
Rusticus: L. Junius Arulenus Rusticus, a Roman noble of the
Stoic school and champion of liberty, so far as that was possible under
the Roman emperors. Put to death by Domitian (emperor A.D.
81-96).
Samius: lyrist and writer of epigrams at the Macedonian court,
c. 300 B.C.
Scipio: (1) P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus Major; the brilliant
and almost ideal Roman general who conquered Hannibal in 202 B.C.
(2) P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Minor, who completed
the conquest of Carthage 146 B.C.; a student of letters and philosophy.
Scirōn: a spot on the Sacred Way from Athens to Eleusis.
Scyros: island in the Aegean off north-east of Euboea. Here
Achilles was for a time hidden by his mother in woman’s dress,
and occupied in feminine tasks to keep him from the dangers of
Troy.
Seleucus: called Callinicus (the ‘Victorious’); king of Syria
246-226 B.C. He was defeated by Antiochus with the help of Gauls
(= Galatians) at Ancyra, and it was for a time thought that he had
perished in the rout. He managed, however, to retain his kingdom.
Silániōn: Athenian portrait sculptor c. 324 B.C. His Jocasta
represented her as dying, her pallor being realistically rendered by
the unworthy device of mixing silver with bronze.
Siléni: a class of tipsy satyrs associated with Dionysus. The
Silenus was in a sense the Falstaff of Greek legend.
Simónȋdes: a most distinguished poet of Ceos, writer of elegies,
choral and processional odes, epigrams, and drinking songs (556-467
B.C.). He spent part of his life as a kind of court poet in Thessaly
and at Syracuse, and visited Athens. His compositions were of
a high order, and his moral maxims much in vogue, but he was
notorious for worldliness and a love of money.
Sísyphus: legendary king of Corinth; type of fraudulent and
criminal cunning; punished in Hades by being compelled to roll
a stone up a hill for ever and never establishing it at the top.
Socrates: the Athenian philosopher (468-399 B.C.), from whose
291thinking most of the later schools were in some way descended.
His object was to bring philosophy down to earth, and to arrive at
true and universal definitions. His simple character, his whimsical
irony, and his dialectical skill formed the groundwork for many
stories. His method was conversational and non-didactic. He wrote
nothing, and what we know of him is due to his disciples Plato and
Xenophon, and to later writers.
Solōn: of Athens, c. 638-558 B.C.; aristocrat, trader, traveller,
poet and thinker. Chosen at a time of political and financial crisis
as mediator between parties in Attica, and as constitution-maker,
he behaved with strict impartiality and self-effacement. We may
believe that he visited Egypt, but his intercourse with Croesus (q.v.)
is of doubtful warrant. Author of much proverbial wisdom.
Sophocles: 496-406 B.C.; second in date, and perhaps in merit,
of three great Athenian tragedians; a genial and practical man of
the world.
Sótădes: a poet at Alexandria c. 280 B.C. He wrote songs and
satires of a lascivious kind. One account states that in consequence
of his abuse he was thrown into the sea in a leaden chest.
Speusippus: of Athens, nephew and disciple of Plato, and his
successor as head of the Academy (347-339 B.C.); a writer on ethical
and dialectical subjects. His character is said to have excelled his
intellect.
Spínthărus: the best known person of the name was an inferior
tragic poet of Heraclea on the Black Sea satirized by Aristophanes
and other comedians.
Stilpo: a high-minded and sane philosopher of great dialectical
acuteness. Founder of the Megarian school, which made a cult of
virtue while denying the possibility of knowledge. See also under
Demetrius.
Sulla: the distinguished Roman general, 138-78 B.C. He took
charge of the war against Mithridates in 87 B.C., his capture of Athens
taking place in the next year. His love of pleasure resulted in the
pimpled face referred to in Plutarch’s article on Garrulity. Caecilia
Metella was his fourth wife.
Sýbăris: the oldest Greek settlement in the southernmost part
of Italy, once large, prosperous, and a by-word for effeminate luxury
292(whence ‘sybarite’); afterwards completely overthrown and destroyed,
its place being taken by Thurii (q.v.).
Taenărum: now Matapan; cape at the end of the middle prong
of the Peloponnese.
Télĕphus: king of Mysia at the time of the Trojan war. He was
wounded by Achilles, and could only be cured by ‘that which had
wounded him’. The remedy turned out to be the rust of Achilles’ spear.
Tháïs: a witty and beautiful courtesan of Athens, first associated
with Alexander during his Asiatic campaigns and then with Ptolemy
in Egypt.
Thales: of Miletus, c. 635-555 B.C. Famous as a physical philosopher,
mathematician, and shrewd practical man. He is regularly
mentioned first among the Seven Sages.
Theaetétus: a high-minded Athenian youth, eager for knowledge,
who plays his part in Plato’s dialogue of that name.
Theágĕnes: Theban general at Chaeronea (338 B.C.).
Theánō: wife or pupil (or both) of Pythagoras (q.v.), herself a
writer on philosophy and a pattern of virtue.
Themistŏcles: became political leader at Athens 483 B.C., and
commanded the Athenian contingent at the battle of Salamis.
Subsequently (471 B.C.) this extremely able, but apparently not
extremely honest, man was ostracised. His last days were spent
in the service of Persia. His son Diophantus is of no note.
Theócritus: of Chios, rhetorician and sophist, noted for his caustic
wit. The Antigonus who put him to death was Antigonus the
‘One-Eyed’.
Theógnis: elegiac poet of the sententious order. He flourished
at Megara c. 550-540 B.C. Amid the feuds of his country he sides
with the aristocrats, and allusions to political injustice are frequent.
Many current maxims of proverbial wisdom were fathered on
‘Theognis’ as a matter of course.
Theōn: painter of Samos, contemporary of Apelles (q.v.) and
Alexander; spoken of by Pliny as ‘next to the first’.
Theophrastus: of Lesbos and afterwards of Athens; disciple
and successor of Aristotle as head of the Peripatetics (322 B.C.). An
encyclopaedic writer on logic, physics, history, biology, zoology, &c.
His best-known work is his Characters.
293Theopompus: king of Sparta, fl.c. 750 B.C. To his reign
belonged the change of the form of government by the establishment
of the popular ‘ephors’ to control the royal power.
Thersítes: misshapen and virulent demagogue in the Greek army
before Troy.
Thĕtis: sea-goddess; mother of Achilles.
Thrasybúlus: despot of Miletus, contemporary and friend of
Periander (q.v.), over whom he exercised a bad influence, as in advising
him to ‘cut down the tall poppies’.
Thúrii: Greek city in South Italy on the west side of the Gulf
of Tarentum, noted for its special democratic system.
Tīmágĕnes: an Alexandrian or Syrian rhetorician and historian.
He taught and wrote at Rome under Augustus, whose friendship
he obtained, losing it, however, through his caustic freedom.
Tīmocléa: of Thebes. Plutarch tells of her noble and daring
spirit in his Life of Alexander (c. 12).
Tīmomăchus: painter of Byzantium, first century B.C.; particularly
famed for his Ajax and Medea, which were bought by Julius
Caesar. Medea was represented meditating the murder of her children.
Timóthëus: (1) an able and spirited Athenian general, who
obtained several rather roving successes, chiefly against the Lacedaemonians.
Something of a free lance; of popular character and
considerable culture; fl. 378-354 B.C.
(2) poet and musician of Miletus, settled at Athens; fl.c. 400-360
B.C. His poems were mainly dithyrambs (high-flown and wordy
compositions) or cognate lyrics. His music, at first ill received on
account of its vulgarizing innovations, became immensely popular.
Tissaphernes: Persian satrap of lower Asia Minor. See
Alcibiades.
Tīthónus: a mortal beloved of Eos (Aurora), who obtained for
him immortality, but forgot to obtain him immortal youth.
Troezen: a town in the east of the Peloponnese near the entrance
of the Saronic Gulf.
Tyndareus’ sons: Castor and Pollux, the traditional preservers
of seamen.
Typhōn: = Set; Egyptian malignant deity; brother, enemy, and
slayer of Osiris.
294Xenócrătes: 396-314 B.C.: philosopher from Chalcedon, disciple
of Plato, and philosophic teacher and writer. His earnestness of
character and application to study atoned for his lack of the Graces.
Became head of the Academic school next but one after Plato.
Xenóphănes: philosopher of Colophon, and afterwards of Elea in
Italy, in later part of sixth century B.C. Noted for his high conception
of a Deity as neither anthropomorphic nor subject to human passions.
His doctrines were embodied in hexameter verse.
Xenophōn: of Athens; the well-known historian, and leader of
the retreat of the ‘Ten Thousand’ as recorded in his Anabasis.
A philosophical adherent of Socrates and a voluminous writer.
Lived c. 444-359 B.C.
Zacýnthus = Zante, the southernmost of the Ionian islands.
Zéno: (1) of Citium in Cyprus and subsequently of Athens;
founder of the Stoic philosophy; a man of simple, if rather dour,
character, and capable of an apt retort: fl.c. 270 B.C. A writer on
ethical, physical, and other philosophic subjects.
(2) Philosopher of Elea; disciple of Parmenides (q.v.); upholder
of popular liberty against a usurping despot.
5 C ἵνα μάθῃς ὅτι τῶν ἀναξίων τὰ τίμια οὐδὲν διαφέρει. The sense
requires ἀξίων ‘cheap’.
6 C πρὸς δὲ τούτοις τί ἄν τοὺς παῖδας ... καλὸν γάρ τοι κτλ.
The cause of the lacuna is obvious if we read τί ἄν τοὺς παῖδας
(καλὸν διδάσκοιεν;) καλὸν γάρ τοι κτλ.
7 B ἕως ἔτι μέμνημαι τῆς παιδείας. Rather ... (ταύτης) τῆς παιδείας.
13 B ὡς ἐκ λυρικῆς τέχνης. The sense requires νευροσπαστικῆς,
to which νευρικῆς may be equivalent.
14 C τὸ μὲν οὖν πάσας τὰς προειρημένας ... συμπεριλαβεῖν εὐχῆς
ἴσως ἢ παραινέσεως ἔργον ἐστί. The word most easily lost would
be (εὐημερίας). Also (μἂλλον) is to be supplied.
160 F ἐπὶ τὸν τόπον οἷ προσέμελλε. Read προσέκελλε.
163 D ... ἀπαντῆσαι μόνον ... θαλάττῃ ἕπεσθαι κτλ. The sense
would be given by ... ἀπαντῆσαι μόνον (θαρρῆσαι, τὸ δ᾽ ἀπαλλάττεσθαι,
καὶ ἐκ τῆς) θαλάττης ἕπεσθαι κτλ.
504 B ὅτι πρεσβύτης ἐστὶν ἐν Ἀθήναις παρὰ πότον σιωπᾶν δυνάμενος.
Rather ... πρεσβύτης (εἷς) ...
513 A Φιλίππου γράψαντος εἰ δέχονται τῇ πόλει αὐτόν, εἰς χάρτην
ΟΥ μέγα γράψαντες ἀπέστειλαν. There would be more point in ... εἰς
χάρτην (τὴν αὐτὴν) ... Moreover, what they wrote was simply Ο.
1. The reproof might ostensibly be general, but its particular application
was readily felt. Musonius, we are told by Epictetus, made all his hearers
feel ‘as if some one had been talking to him about them’.
3. Over and above his resemblances to Macaulay as a writer of essays and
biographical history, there is a distinct similarity between their conversational
tastes. We can imagine a Plutarch fully at home with
Macaulay at one of those astonishing early Victorian breakfast-parties
where a man might be asked if he ‘knew his Popes’, and where he might
be endured while he recited them. Plutarch’s Table-Talk, like his Dinner-Party
of the Seven Sages, reveals for contemporary Greek society the same
deliberate cult of intellectual conversation sharpened by challenge and
debate. In such conversation he must himself have played a conspicuous
part. Nevertheless, it may fairly be gathered that the Greek or Graeco-Roman
interlocutors in the reign of Trajan were the more ingenuously
athirst for reciprocal enlightenment, however dubiously we may regard
the value of the information or misinformation actually gained. Nor
is it easy to believe that Plutarch would have thought it etiquette to
indulge in the protracted monologues to which the more modern society
submitted with such grace as it best could.
4. e.g. in his De repugnantiis Stoicorum and his Non posse suaviter vivi
secundum Epicurum. Yet, as Mahaffy says, ‘it would be hard to say
whether the number of Stoic dogmas which he rejects exceeds that which
he quotes with approval’ (The Greek World under Roman Sway, pp. 300 sqq.).
5. Volkmann names in particular Clement of Alexandria and Basil.
6. This does not mean that he had no friends among the rhetorical
teachers (the contrary is shown by his reference to ‘our Niger’ in praec.
san., § 16), but only that he distrusted the type. He refused to approve
of a fluent and polished style as an end in itself. Pliny describes how
the amazingly voluble Isaeus would offer his audience a choice of subject
and allow it to dictate the side which he should take. He would then
rise and demonstrate his extemporizing powers with much show of
rhetorical ornament.
7. Volkmann says of the Lives, ‘Das Werthvolle an ihnen sind nicht die
historischen Details, die er giebt, sondern die eingestreuten Reflexionen,
die ethischen Betrachtungen, das Eingehen auf individuelle Stimmungen
und Leidenschaften der grossen Männer.’
8. Aulicis tantum scripsit, non doctis, says Scaliger.
9. Volkmann guesses that it is ein Produkt der späteren Sophistik. If so,
we may congratulate the Sophist on his perfect reproduction of Plutarch’s
style and of his non-sophistic tone.
10. Bacon’s Essay Of Followers and Friends owes almost nothing to
Plutarch beyond the title. We do, however, find him borrowing the words
‘for there is no such Flatterer as a Man’s selfe’.
11. As Volkmann happily puts it, he writes ‘with comfortable breadth’.
12. The sentences would doubtless have been easier still if Plutarch had
not felt bound to follow the fashion of the time and elaborately avoid
hiatus.
13. Perhaps this is why Plutarch, as seen through Amyot, appeared to
Montaigne ‘close and thorny,’ while his sense was nevertheless ‘closely-jointed
and pithily-continued’.
14. Stobaeus (sixth century) had access to much of Plutarch that is now
lost.
15. See an observation of Professor Summers, Seneca Select Letters, Introduction,
p. lxxiv.
16. Plutarch ‘is the theme of more than 230 allusions or direct references
on the part of Jeremy Taylor’ (Sandys, A History of Classical Scholarship,
i. 300).
17. He was familiar reading of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and
appears in the Gesta Romanorum. Later the Adagia of Erasmus draw
freely upon him.
18. ‘Il a en quelque sorte créé Plutarque,’ says Demogeot.
19. Euphues appeared in 1579. Jusserand (The English Novel in the
Time of Shakespeare, p. 127) remarks that Euphues ‘addresses moral
epistles to his fellow men to guide them through life’, but he appears to
be unaware that Lyly borrowed this object, as well as so large a quantity
of his matter, from Plutarch.
20. We meet, for example, with the story of Zeno, ‘the olde man in
Athens that amiddest the pottes could hold his peace.’
21. History of Greek Classical Literature, ii. 427.
25. According to another account he waited till the shadow was equal
in length to the stick. The pyramid was then also equal in height to the
length of its shadow.
33. Which was bequeathed ‘to the wisest’. It was given to Thales, who
passed it on to another, and the process was repeated till it came back
to Thales, whereupon he dedicated it to Apollo.
51. Since diagrams were often drawn with sticks in the dust.
52. The Greek jest does not admit of translation. The same word may
mean both ‘theft’ and a ‘stealthy act’.
53. The point lies in an ambiguity which is possible only in the Greek.
The words may equally mean: ‘You issued no invitation when sacrificing
your friends,’ and ‘when sacrificing, you did not invite your friends’.
55. This article is in all probability not the work of Plutarch. See the
Introduction.
56. The play upon words (ēthikas, ‘moral’ and ĕthikas, ‘of habit’) is not
adequately translatable.
57. The Greek text is here corrupt; the translation represents the
probable sense.
58. The Greek text is again faulty. The sense here given is approximate.
59. These maxims were probably in the first instance merely hygienic,
or even popular superstitions, but subsequently they received recondite
interpretations.
60. The Greek verse is doggerel, and no attempt is made to better it in
the English.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
Typographical errors were silently corrected.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant
form was found in this book.
Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text, and are linked for ease of
reference.
