When he had said this and much more of the © same sort, he ended his talk. Until then I had listened to him in awe, fearing that he would cease. When he stopped, I felt like the Phaeacians of old,Odyss. 11, 333. for I stared at him a long time spellbound. Afterwards, in a great fit of confusion and giddiness, I dripped with sweat, I stumbled and stuck in the endeavour to speak, my voice failed, my tongue faltered, and finally I began to cry in embarrassment; for the effect he produced: in me was not superficial or casual. My wound was deep and vital, and his words, shot with great accuracy, clove, if I may say so, my very soul in twain.

For if I too may now adopt the language of a philosopher, my conception of the matter is that the soul of a well-endowed man resembles a very tender target. Many bowmen, their quivers full of words of all sorts and kinds, shoot at it during life, but not with success in every case. Some draw to the head and let fly harder than they should: though they hit the target, their arrows do not stick in it, but owing to their momentum go through and continue their flight, leaving only a gaping wound in the soul.. Others, again, do the opposite; themselves too weak, their bows too slack, the arrows do not even carry to the target as a rule, but often fall spent at half the distance; and if ever they do carry, they strike with a mere fret o’ the skin,Iliad 17, 599. and do not make a deep wound, as they were not sped with a strong pull.

But a good bowman like Nigrinus first of all scans the target closely for fear that it may be either very soft or too hard for his arrow—for of course there are impenetrable targets. When he is clear on this point, he dips his arrow, not in venom like those of the Scythians nor in vegetable poison like those of the Curetes, but in a sweet, gently-working drug, and then shoots with skill. The arrow, driven by just the right amount of force, penetrates to ghe point of passing through, and then sticks fast and gives off a quantity of the drug, which naturally spreads and completely pervades the soul. That is why people laugh and cry as they listen, as I did— of course the drug was quietly circulating in my soul. I could not help quoting him the well-known line: Shoot thus, and bring, mayhap, a ray of hope!Iliad 8, 282. Not everyone who hears the Phrygian flute goes frantic, but only those who are possessed of ‘Rhea and are put in mind of their condition by the music. In, like manner, naturally, not all who listen to philosophers go away enraptured and wounded, but only those who previously had in their nature some secret bond of kinship with philosophy.

A What a noble, marvellous,—yes, divine tale you have told, my dear fellow! I did not realise it, but you certainly were chock-full of your ambrosia and your lotus! The coysequence is that as you talked I felt something like a change of heart, and now that you have stopped I am put out: to speak in your own style, I am wounded. And no wonder! for yeu. know that people bitten by mad dogs not: only go mad themselves, but if in their fury they treat others as the dogs treated them, the others take leave of their senses too. Something of the affection is transmitted with the bite; the diseage multiplies, and there is a great run of-madness.

B Then you admit your madness?

A Why, certainly; and more than that, I ask you to think out some course of treatment for us both.

B We must do as Telephus did, I suppose.

A What’s your meaning now?

B Go to the man who inflicted the wound and beg him to heal us! Telephus had been grievously wounded by Achilles. Acting on the advice of the oracle at Delphi: "He who burt will heal you” (ὁ τρώσας καὶ ἰάσεται), he applied to Achilles for relief, and was at last cured with the rust of his spear. All that we know of Demonax derives from this essay, except for a few sayings elsewhere attributed to him. The authenticity of the essay has been repeatedly questioned, but should not be made to depend on the critic’s opinion of Demonax’s jokes, for—to paraphrase Lucian—we do not need a George Meredith to tell us that the flavour of a joke grows weak with age,