Not long ago there was a rich man in Asia, both of
whose feet had been amputated in consequence of
an accident; they were frozen, I gather, when he
had to make a journey through snow. Well, this of
course was pitiable, and to remedy the mischance he
had had wooden feet made for him, which he used to
lace on, and in that way made shift to walk, leaning
upon his servants as he did so, But he did one thing
that was ridiculous: he used always to buy very
handsome sandals of the latest cut and went to the
utmost trouble in regard to them, in order that his
timber toes might be adorned with the most beautiful footwear! Now are not you doing just the same
thing? Is it not true that although you have a
crippled, fig-wood The most worthless sort of wood. understanding, you are buying
gilt buskins which even a normal man could hardly
get about in?

 

As you have often bought Homer among your
other books, have someone take the second book of
his Iliad and read it to you. Do not bother about



 

the rest of the book, for none of it applies to you ;
but he has a description of a man making a speech,
an utterly ridiculous fellow, warped and deformed
in body. Iliad2,212. Now then, if that man, Thersites, should
get the armour of Achilles, do you suppose that he
would thereby at once become both handsome and
strong ; that he would leap the river, redden its stream
with Trojan gore, and kill Hector—yes, and before
Hector, kill Lycaon and Asteropaeus—when he cannot even carry the “ash tree”
on his shoulders? Cf, Iliad 19, 387 fi 
You will hardly say so. No, he would make himself
a laughing-stock, limping under the shield, falling on
his face beneath the weight of it, showing those
squint eyes of his under the helmet every time he
looked up, making the corselet buckle up with the
hump on his back, trailing the greaves on the ground
—disgracing, in short, both the maker of the arms
and their proper owner. Do not you see that the
same thing happens in your case, when the roll that
you hold in your hands is very beautiful, with a slipcover of purple vellum and a gilt knob, but in
reading it you barbarize its language, spoil its beauty
and warp its meaning? Men of learning laugh at
you, while the toadies who live with you praise you
—and they themselves for the most part turn to one
another and laugh!

 

I should like to tell you of an incident that took
place at Delphi. A man of Tarentum, Evangelus
by name, a person of some distinction in Tarentum,
desired to obtain a victory in the Pythian games. As
far as the athletic competition was concerned, at the
very outset that seemed to him to be impossible, as



 

he was not well endowed by nature either for
strength or for speed; but in playing the lyre and
singing he became convinced that he would win
easily, thanks to detestable fellows whom he had
about him, who applauded and shouted whenever he
made the slightest sound in striking up. So he came
to Delphi resplendent in every way; in particular,
he had provided himself with a gold-embroidered
robe and a very beautiful laurel-wreath of gold,
which for berries had emeralds as large as berries.
The lyre itself was something extraordinary for
beauty and costliness, all of pure gold, ornamented
with graven gems and many-coloured jewels, with
the Muses and Apollo and Orpheus represented
upon it in relief—a great marvel to all who saw it. Compare the version of this story given in the Rhetorica ad Herennium 4, 47. 

 

When the day of the competition at last came,
there were three of them, and Evangelus drew
second place on the programme. So, after Thespis _
of Thebes had made a good showing, he came in all
ablaze with gold and emeralds and beryls and sapphires. The purple of his robe also became him
well, gleaming beside the gold. With all this he
bedazzled the audience in advance and filled his
hearers with wonderful expectations; but when at
Jength he had to sing and play whether he would or
no, he struck up a discordant, jarring prelude, breaking three strings at once by coming down upon the
lyre harder than he ought, and began to sing ‘in an
unmusical, thin voice, so that a burst of laughter
came from the whole audience, and the judges of the
competition, indignant at his presumption, scourged
him and turned him out of the theatre. Then indeed


 

that precious simpleton The word χρυσοῦς, applied to a person, means “simpleton” (Lapsus1). Here, of course, it also has a punning turn. Evangelus cut a comical
figure with his tears as he was chivvied across the
stage by the scourgers, his legs all bloody from their
whips, gathering up the gems of the lyre—for they
had dropped out when it shared his flogging.

 

After a moment’s delay, a man named Eumelus,
from Elis, came on, who had an old lyre, fitted with
wooden pegs, and a costume that, including the
wreath, was hardly worth ten drachmas; but as he
sang well and played skilfully, he had the best of it
and was proclaimed victor, so that he could laugh at
Evangelus for the empty display that he had made
with his lyre and his gems. Indeed, the story goes
that he said to him: “Evangelus, you wear golden
laurel, being rich; but I am poor and I wear the
laurel of Delphi! ‘However, you got at least this
much by your outfit: you are going away not only
unpitied for your defeat but hated into the bargain
because of this inartistic lavishness of yours.” There
you have your own living image in Evangelus, except
that you are not at all put out by the laughter of
the audience. 1