Works of Lucian of Samosata, vol 2 | Page 4

so occupied, such forgetfulness
was not wholly unnatural. But to dwell a prisoner, with Famine for
company, to watch one's neighbour fattening on the Lotus, and keeping
it all to himself, and to forget Honour and Virtue in the bare prospect of
a possible mouthful,--by Heaven, it is too absurd, and calls in good
truth for Homeric scourgings.

Such, as nearly as I can describe them, are men's motives for taking
service with the rich, for handing themselves over bodily, to be used as
their employers think fit. There is one class, however, of which I ought
perhaps to make mention--those whose vanity is gratified by the mere
fact of being seen in the company of well-born and well-dressed men.
For there are those who consider this a distinguished privilege; though
for my own part I would not give a fig to enjoy and to be seen enjoying
the company of the King of Persia, if I was to get nothing by it.
And now, since we understand what it is that these men would be at, let
us mentally review their whole career;--the difficulties that beset the
applicant before he gains acceptance; his condition when he is duly
installed in his office; and the closing scene of his life's drama. You
may perhaps suppose that his situation, whatever its drawbacks, is at
least attainable without much trouble; that you have but to will it, and
the thing is done in a trice. Far from it. Much tramping about is in store
for you, much kicking of heels. You will rise early, and stand long
before your patron's closed door; you will be jostled; you will hear
occasional comments on your impudence. You will be exposed to the
vile gabble of a Syrian porter, and to the extortions of a Libyan
nomenclator, whose memory must be fee'd, if he is not to forget your
name. You must dress beyond your means, or you will be a discredit to
your patron; and select his favourite colours, or you will be out of
harmony with your surroundings. Finally, you will be indefatigable in
following his steps, or rather in preceding them, for you will be thrust
forward by his slaves, to swell his triumphal progress. And for days
together you will not be favoured with a glance.
But one day the best befalls you. You catch his eye; he beckons you to
him, and puts a random question. In that supreme moment what cold
sweats, what palpitations, what untimely tremors are yours! and what
mirth is theirs who witness your confusion! 'Who was the king of the
Achaeans?' is the question: and your answer, as likely as not, 'A
thousand sail.' With the charitable this passes for bashfulness; but to the
impudent you are a craven, and to the ill-natured a yokel. This first
experience teaches you that the condescensions of the great are not
unattended with danger; and as you depart you pronounce upon
yourself a sentence of utter despair. Thereafter,
many a sleepless night, Many a day of strife shall be thy lot--

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