Works of Lucian of Samosata, vol 2 | Page 9

a poor half- chicken, or lean pigeon, an
insult, a positive outrage in poultry. As often as not, an extra guest
appears unexpectedly, and the waiter solves the difficulty by removing
your share (with the whispered consolation that you are 'one of the
family'), and placing it before the new-comer. When the joint, be it
pork or venison, is brought in to be carved, let us hope that you stand
well with the carver, or you will receive a Promethean helping of
'bones wrapped up in fat.' And the way in which a dish is whisked past
you, after remaining with your neighbour till he can eat no more!--what
free man would endure it, though he were as innocent of gall as any
stag? And I have said nothing yet of the wine. While the other guests
are drinking of some rare old vintage, you have vile thick stuff, whose
colour you must industriously conceal with the help of a gold or silver
cup, lest it should betray the estimation in which the drinker is held. It

would be something if you could get enough even of this. Alas! you
may call and call: the waiter is
as one that marketh not.
Many are your grievances; nay, all is one huge grievance. And the
climax is reached, when you find yourself eclipsed by some minion,
some dancing- master, some vile Alexandrian patterer of Ionic lays.
How should you hope to rank with the minister of Love's pleasures,
with the stealthy conveyer of billets-doux? You cower shamefaced in
your corner, and bewail your hard lot, as well you may; cursing your
luck that you have never a smattering of such graceful
accomplishments yourself. I believe you wish that you could turn
love-songs, or sing other men's with a good grace; perceiving as you do
what a thing it is to be in request. Nay, you could find it in you to play
the wizard's, the fortune-teller's part; to deal in thrones and in millions
of money. For these, too, you observe, make their way in the world,
and are high in favour. Gladly would you enter on any one of these
vocations, rather than be a useless castaway. Alas, even these are
beyond you; you lack plausibility. It remains for you to give place to
others; to endure neglect, and keep your complaints to yourself.
Nay, more. Should some slave whisper that you alone withheld your
praise, when his mistress's favourite danced or played, the neglect may
cost you dear. Then let your dry throat be as busy as any thirsty frog's.
See to it, that your voice is heard leading the chorus of applause; and
time after time, when all else are silent, throw in some studied servile
compliment. The situation is not without humour. Hungry as you are,
ay, and thirsty into the bargain, you must anoint yourself with oil of
gladness, and crown your head with garlands. It reminds one of the
offerings made by recent mourners at a tomb. The tomb gets the
ointment and the garlands, while the mourners drink and enjoy the
feast.
If your patron is of a jealous disposition, and has a young wife or
handsome children, and you are not wholly without personal attractions,
then beware! you are on dangerous ground. Many are the ears of a king,
and many the eyes, that see not the truth only, but ever something over
and above the truth, lest they should seem to fail of their office.
Imagine yourself, therefore, at a Persian banquet. Keep your eyes
downwards, lest a eunuch should catch them resting on one of the

concubines. For see, there stands another with his bow ever on the
stretch: one glance at the forbidden object as you raise your cup, and
his arrow is through your jaw before you can put it down.
And now dinner is over; you retire, and snatch a little sleep. But at
cock-crow you are aroused. 'Wretch! Worm that I am!' you exclaim.
'To sacrifice the pursuits, the society of former days, the placid life
wherein sleep was measured by inclination, and my comings and
goings were unfettered, and all to precipitate myself bodily into this
hideous gulf! And why? What, in God's name, is my glorious
recompense? Was there no other way? Could I not have provided for
myself better than this, and preserved liberty and free-will into the
bargain? Alas! the lion is fast bound in the net. I am haled hither and
thither. Pitiable is my lot, where no honour is to be won, no favour to
be hoped for. Untaught, unpractised in the arts of flattery, I am pitted
against professionals. I am no choice spirit, no jolly companion; to
raise a laugh is beyond me. My presence (well do I know it) is