De Morte Peregrini

Lucian to Cronius. Greeting.

Poor dear Peregrine—or Proteus, as he loved to call himself,—has quite come up to his namesake in Homer. We have seen him under many shapes: countless have been his transformations for glory’s sake; and now—'tis his last appearance—we see him in the shape of fire. So vast was his ambition. Yes, Cronius; all that is left of the best of men is a handful of ashes, It’s just like Empedocles; only with a difference. That philosopher would fain have sneaked into his crater unobserved: not so our high-souled friend, He bides his time till all Greece is mustered in full force—constructs a pyre of the largest dimensions—and jumps on top in the eyes of all the world, having briefly addressed the nation a few days before on the subject of his daring enterprise!

I fancy I see you chuckling away at the old dotard; or rather I hear you blurting out the inevitable comments— 'Mere imbecility’ — ‘Mere clap-trap’ ‘Mere...’ everything else that we are accustomed to attribute to these gentry. But then you are far enough off to be comparatively safe: now I made my remarks before a vast audience, in the very moment of cremation (and before it for that matter), exciting thereby the indignation of all the old fool’s admirers, though there were a few who joined in the laugh against him. I can tell you, I was within an ace of being torn limb from limb by the Cynics, like Actaeon among the dogs, or his cousin Pentheus among the Maenads.—

But I must sketch you the whole drama in detail. As to our author, I say nothing: you know the man, you know the sublime utterances that marked his earthly course, outvoicing Sophocles and Aeschylus.

Well, the first thing I did when I got to Elis was to take

‘Proteus,’ he cried, ‘Proteus vain-glorious? Who dares name the word? Earth! Sun! Seas! Rivers! God of our fathers, Heracles! Was it for this that he suffered bondage in Syria? that he forgave his country a debt of a million odd? that he was cast out of Rome,—he whose brilliance exceeds the Sun, fit rival of the Lord of Olympus? ”Tis his good will to depart from life by fire, and they call it vain-glory!_ What other end had Heracles? Twas the thunderbolt, methinks, that slew Asclepius, Dionysus[*](The allusion to Dionysus is unexplained. The Greek requires a fiery death, not the fiery birth, for which see Dionysus and Semele in Notes.)? 'Twas in the crater that Empedocles sought death?’

Theagenes (our friend with the lungs) had got thus far, when I asked one of the bystanders what all this meant about ‘fire,’ and what Heracles and Empedocles had got to do with Proteus?—‘Proteus,’ he replied, ‘will shortly cremate himself, at the Olympic games.’—'But how,’ I asked, ‘and why?’ He did his best to explain, but the Cynic went on .awling, and it was quite out of the question to attend to anything else. I waited on to the end. It was one torrent of wild fanegyric on Proteus. The sage of Sinope, Antisthenes his master,—nay, Socrates himself—none of them were so much as to be compared with him. Zeus was invited to contend for the preeminence. Subsequently however it seemed advisable to leave the two on some sort of equality.

‘The world,’ he cried in conclusion, ‘has seen but two works of surpassing excellence, the Olympian Zeus, and—Proteus. The one we owe to the

Well, after him, up jumped somebody else, before the crowd had time to disperse; pouring his libation upon the glowing embers of the previous sacrifice. He commenced operations with a loud guffaw—there was no doubting its sincerity—after which he addressed us as follows. ‘Theagenes (Heaven forgive him!) concluded his vile rant with the tears of Heraclitus: I, on the other hand, propose to begin with the laughs of Democritus.’ Another hearty guffaw, in which most of us were fain to join.

‘One simply can’t help it,’ he remarked, pulling himself together, ‘when one hears such sad stuff talked, and sees old men practically standing on their heads for the public amusement,—and all to keep their grubby little reputations alive! Now, if you want to know all about this “ statue” which proposes to cremate itself, I’m your man. I have marked his career from the first, and followed his intellectual development; and I learnt a good deal from his fellow citizens, and others whose authority was unquestionable.

‘To begin then, this piece of perfect workmanship, straight from Nature’s mould, this type of true proportion, had barely come of age, when he was caught in adultery; in Armenia this was; he received a brisk drubbing for his pains, and finally made a jump of it from the roof, and so got off. His next exploit was the corruption of a handsome boy. This would have brought him before the Governor, by rights; but the parents were poor, and he bought them off to the tune of a hundred

Our clay, you see, is yet unwrought: the “perfect workmanship” is still to come. That business about his father makes rather good hearing: only you know all about that;—how the old fellow would hang on, though he was past sixty already, till Proteus could stand it no longer, and put a noose about his neck. Well, this began to be talked about; so he passed sentence of banishment on himself, and wandered about from place to place.

'It was now that he came across the priests and scribes of the Christians, in Palestine, and picked up their queer creed. I can tell you, he pretty soon convinced them of his superiority; prophet, elder, ruler of the Synagogue—he was everything at once; expounded their books, commented on them, wrote books himself. They took him for a God, accepted his laws, and declared him their president. The Christians, you know, worship a man to this day,—the distinguished personage who introduced their novel rites, and was crucified on that account.

Well, the end of it was that Proteus was arrested and thrown into prison, This was the very thing to lend an air to his favourite arts of clap-trap and wonder-working; he was now amade man. The Christians took it all very seriously: he was no sooner in prison, thaa they began trying every means to get him out again,—but without success. Everything else that could be done for him they most devoutly did. They thought of nothing else. Orphans and ancient widows might be seen hanging about the prison from break of day. Their officials bribed the gaolers to let them sleep inside with him. Elegant dinners were conveyed in; their sacred writings were read; and our old friend Peregrine (as he was still called in those days) became for them “the modern Socrates.”

In some of the Asiatic cities, too, the Christian communities put themszlves to the expense of sending deputations, with offers of sympathy,

‘To return, however, to Peregrine. The governor of Syria perceived his mental warp: “he must make a name, though he die for it; now philosophy was the governor’s hobby; he discharged him—wouldn’t hear of his being punished—and Peregrine returned to Armenia. He found it too hot to hold him. He was threatened from all quarters with prosecutions for parricide. Then again, the greater part of his property had disappeared in his absence: nothing was left but the land, which might be worth a matter of four thousand pounds, The whole estate, as the old man left it, would come perhaps to eight thousand. Theagenes was talking nonsense when he said a million odd. Why, the whole city, with its five nearest neighbours thrown in, men, cattle, and goods of every description, would never fetch that sum.—

Meanwhile, indictments and accusations were brewing: an attack might be looked for at any moment: as for the common people, they were in

‘Proteus now set out again on his wanderings. The Christians were meat and drink to him; under their protection he lacked nothing, and this luxurious state of things went on for some time. At last he got into trouble even with them; I suppose they caught him partaking of some of their forbidden: meats. They would have nothing more to do with him, and he thought the best way out of his difficulties would be, to change his mind about that property, and try and get it back. He accordingly sent in a petition to the emperor, suing for its restitution. But as the people of Parium sent up a deputation to remonstrate, nothing came of it all; he was told that as he had been under no compulsion in making his dispositions, he must abide by them.

‘Pilgrimage number three, to Egypt, to see Agathobulus. Here he went through a most interesting course of discipline: shaved half his head bare; anointed his face with mud; grossly exposed himself before a large concourse of spectators, as a practical illustration of "Stoic indifference"; received

and mystified the public with a number of still more extravagant follies. Thus prepared, he took ship to Italy, and was scarcely on dry land again when he began abusing everybody, especially the Emperor, on whose indulgence and good nature he knew that he could safely rely. The Emperor, as you may suppose, was not greatly concerned at his invectives; and it was his theory that no one in the garb of philosophy should be called to account for his words, least of all a specialist in scandal. Proteus’s reputation throve upon neglect. The crack-brained philosopher became the cynosure of unsophisticated eyes; and he grew at last to be so unbearable that the city prefect judiciously expelled him: “ we do not require philosophers of your school,” he explained. Even this made for his notoriety: he was in every one’s mouth as the philosopher who was banished for being too outspoken, and saying what he thought. He took rank with Musonius, Dion, Epictetus, and others who have been in the same predicament.

‘Finally, Proteus arrives in Greece; and what does he do there? He makes himself offensive in Elis; he instigates Greece to revolt against Rome; he finds a man of enlarged views and established character[*](See Herades Atticus in Notes.), a public benefactor in general, and in particular the originator of the water-supply to Olympia, which saved that great assembly from perishing of thirst— and he has nothing but hard words for him; “Greece is demoralized,” he cries; “ the spectators of the games should have done without water, ay, and died if need be,”—and so many of them would have done, from the violence of the epidemics then raging in consequence of the drought. And all the time Proteus was drinking of that very water! At this there was a general rush to stone him, which pretty nearly succeeded; it was all our magnanimous friend could do, for

He spent the four following years in composing a speech, which he delivered in public at the next Olympic games; it consisted of encomiums on the donor of the water-supply and explanations of his flight on the former occasion. But by this time people had lost all curiosity about him; his prestige was quite gone; everything fell flat, and he could devise no more novelties for the amazement of chance-comers, nor elicit the admiration and applause for which he had always so passionately longed. Hence this last bold venture of the funeral-pyre. So long ago as the last Olympic Games he published his intention of cremating himself at the next.