I have long been wondering, my dear Sabinus, what it probably occurred to you to say now that you have read my essay on “Salaried Posts in Great Houses.” It is quite certain that you had a good laugh when you read it; but I am trying now to fit the detailed and general comments you made to the text. If I am any good at divination, I think I can hear you saying: “To think that anyone could write that and work up such a devastating indictment against that sort of life, then, when the die falls the other way up, completely forget it and himself of his own free will rush headlong into a slavery so manifest and conspicuous! How many Midases and Croesuses and whole Pactoluses have persuaded him to throw away his liberty, the object of his care and companion of his nurture since childhood? Already within sight of Aeacus himself, with one foot almost in the ferry-boat he lets himself be dragged and pulled along as though by a golden collar fastened round his throat!
 See On Sal, Posts., Loeb, vol. iii, 7. 
 What bracelets and necklaces the idle rich must have! There is much inconsistency here between his present life and his essay—‘rivers


 

flowing uphill’ and ‘the world upside down’ and ‘recantation for the worse,’ not for a Helen indeed, or what happened at Troy;
 The poet Stesichorus recanted his attack on Helen of Troy. 
 no, here in very fact are your words turned upside down, although they seemed well enough before.”
 That’s what you said to yourself, I’ve no doubt. Perhaps you will offer me some such advice, not untimely, but friendly, and becoming to an honest philosopher like yourself. If I put your mask on and answer properly, all will be well for us, and we shall sacrifice to the God of Reason. If not, well, you will add what is lacking. Well then it is time for us to change the scene; I must keep quiet and endure your cutting and cautery if need be for survival’s sake; you must apply the ointment and at the same time have the knife ready and the cauterising iron red-hot. Now you, Sabinus, take the word and thus you now address me:
 “My dear friend, your essay, as is right, has long been admired, both before a great crowd at its first appearance, as those who then heard it told me, and privately among educated people who have not hesitated to use and handle it. The style could not be censured, its content was ample and showed a knowledge of the world; it was clear in detail and, most important of all, it was useful for everybody and particularly for the educated, to save them falling into servitude through ignorance. Now all is changed; this course seems better to you, to bid


 

freedom good-bye for ever, and to follow that sordid verse
 ‘Where gain is, be a slave beyond your nature.’ 
Take care no one hears you reading it again; keep written copies out of the way of anyone who sees your present life, and pray Hermes down below to sprinkle plenty of Lethe on those who have already heard it. Otherwise you will be like the man in the Corinthian story, a Bellerophon who wrote the book against yourself.
 Bellerophon carried a letter requesting his execution. Hom., Il . vi, 155 sqq. 
 Indeed I don’t see what answer you can make to give you a good face before your accusers, especially if they are laughing at you and praise the essay and its freedom while they see the writer himself enslaved and willingly putting his neck under the yoke. It would be reasonable enough, at least, if they said that someone else was the noble author, and you were a jackdaw strutting in borrowed plumes; or, if it is yours, that you were another Salaethus who made a most severe law against adultery at Croton and was admired for it, but shortly afterwards was himself caught seducing his brother’s wife. It would be said that you were exactly that Salaethus—no, he was much more restrained than you; love caught him, as he said in his defence, and he jumped readily and bravely into the fire, although the people of Croton now pitied him and granted him exile if he preferred. But your case is much more shocking; you gave a precise description




 

in your essay of the slavishness of a life of that sort and added your condemnation of the thousand unpleasant things a man suffered and did once he fell into a rich man’s power and put himself in chains, yet in extreme old age you chose such an ignoble service when you were almost over the threshold into death, and furthermore you all but plumed yourself on entering that service. At any rate the more distinguished a person everyone thinks you, the more ridiculous you will seem if your present life contradicts your essay.
 “However, why need I look for a new charge against you when that splendid tragedy says:
 ‘I hate a wiseacre who’s not wise for himself.’ 
Your accusers will find plenty more examples to quote against you. Some will compare you to tragic actors, on stage each an Agamemnon, Creon, or Heracles himself, but with their masks off a Polus or Aristodemus, playing a part for money, hissed and whistled off the stage, and sometimes some of them are flogged, if the audience wishes. Others will say you are like the monkey which they say the famous Cleopatra owned; it was trained to dance most elegantly and in time, and was much admired as it kept up a part, behaving in a seemly fashion as it accompanied the singers and flautists of the bridal procession. But when he saw a fig, I suppose, or an almond some way off on the ground, then good-bye to flutes and rhythms and



 

dances! he grabbed and ate it up after pulling off his mask and even tearing it up.