"There is a Policeman Inside All Our Heads - He Must Be Destroyed"
In the 1960s, a radical group of psychotherapists challenged the influence of Freudian ideas in America. They were inspired by the ideas of Wilhelm Reich, a pupil of, who had turned against him and was hated by the Freud family. He believed that the inner self did not need to be repressed and controlled. It should be encouraged to express itself. Out of this came a political movement that sought to create new beings free of the psychological conformity that had been implanted in people's minds by business and politics. This programme shows how this rapidly developed in America through self-help movements like Werber Erhard's Erhard Seminar Training - into the irresistible rise of the expressive self: the Me Generation. But the American corporations soon realised that this new self was not a threat but their greatest opportunity. It was in their interest to encourage people to feel they were unique individuals and then sell them ways to express that individuality. To do this they turned to techniques developed by Freudian psychoanalysts to read the inner desires of the new self.
" I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—“but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”
“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“It is his hat.”
“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
“Which surely he restored to their owner?”
“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”
“What, then, did Peterson do?”
“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“No.”
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him.“It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked,“and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,”he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,”said he;“a man with so large a brain must have something in it.”
“The decline of his fortunes, then?”
“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”
“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”
“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”
“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”
“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”
“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”
“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?”
“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”
“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.”
“It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.
“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.
“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:
“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.”
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods.”
“What will you say?”
“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.”
“Very. But will he see it?”
“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”
“In which, sir?”
“Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.”
“Very well, sir. And this stone?”
“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.”
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.”
“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?”
“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.”
“And you can do nothing until then?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.”
“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.
“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.
“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”
Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”
“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.
“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—”
The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.
“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.”
“By all means.”
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he. “My geese!” The man seemed surprised.
“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”
“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.”
“Indeed! Whose, then?”
“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”
“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”
“Breckinridge is his name.”
“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.”
“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters.
“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.
“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”
“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by?”
“The landlord of the Alpha.”
“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”
“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.
“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”
“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”
“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”
“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”
“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”
“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”
“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“I say it is.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.”
“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”
“Will you bet, then?”
“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.
“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”
“Well?”
“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’ ”
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”
“ ‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’ ”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?”
“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.
“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.
“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.
“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”
“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”
“But you can know nothing of this?”
“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”
“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.”
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”
“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.”
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.
“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”
Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?”
“It came here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”
Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.
“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.
“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice.
“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—”
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.”
“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us The Truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.”
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.
“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.
“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’
“ ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’
“ ‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’
“ ‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’
“ ‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’
“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’
“ ‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.
“ ‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.
“ ‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’
“ ‘Which dealer’s?’
“ ‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’
“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’
“ ‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’
“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.”
(ll. 1-10) Muses of Pieria who give glory through song, come
hither, tell of Zeus your father and chant his praise. Through
him mortal men are famed or un-famed, sung or unsung alike, as
great Zeus wills. For easily he makes strong, and easily he
brings the strong man low; easily he humbles the proud and raises
the obscure, and easily he straightens the crooked and blasts the
proud, -- Zeus who thunders aloft and has his dwelling most high.
Attend thou with eye and ear, and make judgements straight with
righteousness. And I, Perses, would tell of true things.
(ll. 11-24) So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife
alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a
man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the
other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature.
For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man
loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men
pay harsh Strife her honour due. But the other is the elder
daughter of dark Night, and the son of Cronos who sits above and
dwells in the aether, set her in the roots of the earth: and she
is far kinder to men. She stirs up even the shiftless to toil;
for a man grows eager to work when he considers his neighbour, a
rich man who hastens to plough and plant and put his house in
good order; and neighbour vies with is neighbour as he hurries
after wealth. This Strife is wholesome for men. And potter is
angry with potter, and craftsman with craftsman, and beggar is
jealous of beggar, and minstrel of minstrel.
(ll. 25-41) Perses, lay up these things in your heart, and do not
let that Strife who delights in mischief hold your heart back
from work, while you peep and peer and listen to the wrangles of
the court-house. Little concern has he with quarrels and courts
who has not a year's victuals laid up betimes, even that which
the earth bears, Demeter's grain. When you have got plenty of
that, you can raise disputes and strive to get another's goods.
But you shall have no second chance to deal so again: nay, let us
settle our dispute here with true judgement which is of Zeus and
is perfect. For we had already divided our inheritance, but you
seized the greater share and carried it off, greatly swelling the
glory of our bribe-swallowing lords who love
to judge such a cause as this. Fools! They know not how much
more the half is than the whole, nor what great advantage there
is in mallow and asphodel (1).
(ll. 42-53) For the gods keep hidden from men the means of life.
Else you would easily do work enough in a day to supply you for a
full year even without working; soon would you put away your
rudder over the smoke, and the fields worked by ox and sturdy
mule would run to waste. But Zeus in the anger of his heart hid
it, because Prometheus the crafty deceived him; therefore he
planned sorrow and mischief against men. He hid fire; but that
the noble son of Iapetus stole again for men from Zeus the
counsellor in a hollow fennel-stalk, so that Zeus who delights in
thunder did not see it. But afterwards Zeus who gathers the
clouds said to him in anger:
(ll. 54-59) `Son of Iapetus, surpassing all in cunning, you are
glad that you have outwitted me and stolen fire -- a great plague
to you yourself and to men that shall be. But I will give men as
the price for fire an evil thing in which they may all be glad of
heart while they embrace their own destruction.'
(ll. 60-68) So said the father of men and gods, and laughed
aloud. And he bade famous Hephaestus make haste and mix earth
with water and to put in it the voice and strength of human kind,
and fashion a sweet, lovely maiden-shape, like to the immortal
goddesses in face; and Athene to teach her needlework and the
weaving of the varied web; and golden Aphrodite to shed grace
upon her head and cruel longing and cares that weary the limbs.
And he charged Hermes the guide, the Slayer of Argus, to put in
her a shameless mind and a deceitful nature.
(ll. 69-82) So he ordered. And they obeyed the lord Zeus the son
of Cronos. Forthwith the famous Lame God moulded clay in the
likeness of a modest maid, as the son of Cronos purposed. And
the goddess bright-eyed Athene girded and clothed her, and the
divine Graces and queenly Persuasion put necklaces of gold upon
her, and the rich-haired Hours crowned her head with spring
flowers. And Pallas Athene bedecked her form with all manners of
finery. Also the Guide, the Slayer of Argus, contrived within
her lies and crafty words and a deceitful nature at the will of
loud thundering Zeus, and the Herald of the gods put speech in
her. And he called this woman Pandora (2), because all they who
dwelt on Olympus gave each a gift, a plague to men who eat bread.
(ll. 83-89) But when he had finished the sheer, hopeless snare,
the Father sent glorious Argus-Slayer, the swift messenger of the
gods, to take it to Epimetheus as a gift. And Epimetheus did not
think on what Prometheus had said to him, bidding him never take
a gift of Olympian Zeus, but to send it back for fear it might
prove to be something harmful to men. But he took the gift, and
afterwards, when the evil thing was already his, he understood.
(ll. 90-105) For ere this the tribes of men lived on earth remote
and free from ills and hard toil and heavy sickness which bring
the Fates upon men; for in misery men grow old quickly. But the
woman took off the great lid of the jar (3) with her hands and
scattered all these and her thought caused sorrow and mischief to
men. Only Hope remained there in an unbreakable home within
under the rim of the great jar, and did not fly out at the door;
for ere that, the lid of the jar stopped her, by the will of
Aegis-holding Zeus who gathers the clouds. But the rest,
countless plagues, wander amongst men; for earth is full of evils
and the sea is full. Of themselves diseases come upon men
continually by day and by night, bringing mischief to mortals
silently; for wise Zeus took away speech from them. So is there
no way to escape the will of Zeus.
(ll. 106-108) Or if you will, I will sum you up another tale well
and skilfully -- and do you lay it up in your heart, -- how the
gods and mortal men sprang from one source.
(ll. 109-120) First of all the deathless gods who dwell on
Olympus made a golden race of mortal men who lived in the time of
Cronos when he was reigning in heaven. And they lived like gods
without sorrow of heart, remote and free from toil and grief:
miserable age rested not on them; but with legs and arms never
failing they made merry with feasting beyond the reach of all
evils. When they died, it was as though they were overcome with
sleep, and they had all good things; for the fruitful earth
unforced bare them fruit abundantly and without stint. They
dwelt in ease and peace upon their lands with many good things,
rich in flocks and loved by the blessed gods.
(ll. 121-139) But after earth had covered this generation -- they
are called pure spirits dwelling on the earth, and are kindly,
delivering from harm, and guardians of mortal men; for they roam
everywhere over the earth, clothed in mist and keep watch on
judgements and cruel deeds, givers of wealth; for this royal
right also they received; -- then they who dwell on Olympus made
a second generation which was of silver and less noble by far.
It was like the golden race neither in body nor in spirit. A
child was brought up at his good mother's side an hundred years,
an utter simpleton, playing childishly in his own home. But when
they were full grown and were come to the full measure of their
prime, they lived only a little time in sorrow because of their
foolishness, for they could not keep from sinning and from
wronging one another, nor would they serve the immortals, nor
sacrifice on the holy altars of the blessed ones as it is right
for men to do wherever they dwell. Then Zeus the son of Cronos
was angry and put them away, because they would not give honour
to the blessed gods who live on Olympus.
(ll. 140-155) But when earth had covered this generation also --
they are called blessed spirits of the underworld by men, and,
though they are of second order, yet honour attends them also --
Zeus the Father made a third generation of mortal men, a brazen
race, sprung from ash-trees (4); and it was in no way equal to
the silver age, but was terrible and strong. They loved the
lamentable works of Ares and deeds of violence; they ate no
bread, but were hard of heart like adamant, fearful men. Great
was their strength and unconquerable the arms which grew from
their shoulders on their strong limbs. Their armour was of
bronze, and their houses of bronze, and of bronze were their
implements: there was no black iron. These were destroyed by
their own hands and passed to the dank house of chill Hades, and
left no name: terrible though they were, black Death seized them,
and they left the bright light of the sun.
(ll. 156-169b) But when earth had covered this generation also,
Zeus the son of Cronos made yet another, the fourth, upon the
fruitful earth, which was nobler and more righteous, a god-like
race of hero-men who are called demi-gods, the race before our
own, throughout the boundless earth. Grim war and dread battle
destroyed a part of them, some in the land of Cadmus at seven-
gated Thebe when they fought for the flocks of Oedipus, and some,
when it had brought them in ships over the great sea gulf to Troy
for rich-haired Helen's sake: there death's end enshrouded a part
of them. But to the others father Zeus the son of Cronos gave a
living and an abode apart from men, and made them dwell at the
ends of earth. And they live untouched by sorrow in the islands
of the blessed along the shore of deep swirling Ocean, happy
heroes for whom the grain-giving earth bears honey-sweet fruit
flourishing thrice a year, far from the deathless gods, and
Cronos rules over them (5); for the father of men and gods
released him from his bonds. And these last equally have honour
and glory.
(ll. 169c-169d) And again far-seeing Zeus made yet another
generation, the fifth, of men who are upon the bounteous earth.
(ll. 170-201) Thereafter, would that I were not among the men of
the fifth generation, but either had died before or been born
afterwards. For now truly is a race of iron, and men never rest
from labour and sorrow by day, and from perishing by night; and
the gods shall lay sore trouble upon them. But, notwithstanding,
even these shall have some good mingled with their evils. And
Zeus will destroy this race of mortal men also when they come to
have grey hair on the temples at their birth (6). The father
will not agree with his children, nor the children with their
father, nor guest with his host, nor comrade with comrade; nor
will brother be dear to brother as aforetime. Men will dishonour
their parents as they grow quickly old, and will carp at them,
chiding them with bitter words, hard-hearted they, not knowing
the fear of the gods. They will not repay their aged parents the
cost their nurture, for might shall be their right: and one man
will sack another's city. There will be no favour for the man
who keeps his oath or for the just or for the good; but rather
men will praise the evil-doer and his violent dealing. Strength
will be right and reverence will cease to be; and the wicked will
hurt the worthy man, speaking false words against him, and will
swear an oath upon them. Envy, foul-mouthed, delighting in evil,
with scowling face, will go along with wretched men one and all.
And then Aidos and Nemesis (7), with their sweet forms wrapped in
white robes, will go from the wide-pathed earth and forsake
mankind to join the company of the deathless gods: and bitter
sorrows will be left for mortal men, and there will be no help
against evil.
(ll. 202-211) And now I will tell a fable for princes who
themselves understand. Thus said the hawk to the nightingale
with speckled neck, while he carried her high up among the
clouds, gripped fast in his talons, and she, pierced by his
crooked talons, cried pitifully. To her he spoke disdainfully:
`Miserable thing, why do you cry out? One far stronger than you
now holds you fast, and you must go wherever I take you,
songstress as you are. And if I please I will make my meal of
you, or let you go. He is a fool who tries to withstand the
stronger, for he does not get the mastery and suffers pain
besides his shame.' So said the swiftly flying hawk, the long-
winged bird.
(ll. 212-224) But you, Perses, listen to right and do not foster
violence; for violence is bad for a poor man. Even the
prosperous cannot easily bear its burden, but is weighed down
under it when he has fallen into delusion. The better path is to
go by on the other side towards justice; for Justice beats
Outrage when she comes at length to the end of the race. But
only when he has suffered does the fool learn this. For Oath
keeps pace with wrong judgements. There is a noise when Justice
is being dragged in the way where those who devour bribes and
give sentence with crooked judgements, take her. And she,
wrapped in mist, follows to the city and haunts of the people,
weeping, and bringing mischief to men, even to such as have
driven her forth in that they did not deal straightly with her.
(ll. 225-237) But they who give straight judgements to strangers
and to the men of the land, and go not aside from what is just,
their city flourishes, and the people prosper in it: Peace, the
nurse of children, is abroad in their land, and all-seeing Zeus
never decrees cruel war against them. Neither famine nor
disaster ever haunt men who do true justice; but light-heartedly
they tend the fields which are all their care. The earth bears
them victual in plenty, and on the mountains the oak bears acorns
upon the top and bees in the midst. Their woolly sheep are laden
with fleeces; their women bear children like their parents. They
flourish continually with good things, and do not travel on
ships, for the grain-giving earth bears them fruit.
(ll. 238-247) But for those who practise violence and cruel deeds
far-seeing Zeus, the son of Cronos, ordains a punishment. Often
even a whole city suffers for a bad man who sins and devises
presumptuous deeds, and the son of Cronos lays great trouble upon
the people, famine and plague together, so that the men perish
away, and their women do not bear children, and their houses
become few, through the contriving of Olympian Zeus. And again,
at another time, the son of Cronos either destroys their wide
army, or their walls, or else makes an end of their ships on the
sea.
(ll. 248-264) You princes, mark well this punishment you also;
for the deathless gods are near among men and mark all those who
oppress their fellows with crooked judgements, and reck not the
anger of the gods. For upon the bounteous earth Zeus has thrice
ten thousand spirits, watchers of mortal men, and these keep
watch on judgements and deeds of wrong as they roam, clothed in
mist, all over the earth. And there is virgin Justice, the
daughter of Zeus, who is honoured and reverenced among the gods
who dwell on Olympus, and whenever anyone hurts her with lying
slander, she sits beside her father, Zeus the son of Cronos, and
tells him of men's wicked heart, until the people pay for the mad
folly of their princes who, evilly minded, pervert judgement and
give sentence crookedly. Keep watch against this, you princes,
and make straight your judgements, you who devour bribes; put
crooked judgements altogether from your thoughts.
(ll. 265-266) He does mischief to himself who does mischief to
another, and evil planned harms the plotter most.
(ll. 267-273) The eye of Zeus, seeing all and understanding all,
beholds these things too, if so he will, and fails not to mark
what sort of justice is this that the city keeps within it. Now,
therefore, may neither I myself be righteous among men, nor my
son -- for then it is a bad thing to be righteous -- if indeed
the unrighteous shall have the greater right. But I think that
all-wise Zeus will not yet bring that to pass.
(ll. 274-285) But you, Perses, lay up these things within you
heart and listen now to right, ceasing altogether to think of
violence. For the son of Cronos has ordained this law for men,
that fishes and beasts and winged fowls should devour one
another, for right is not in them; but to mankind he gave right
which proves far the best. For whoever knows the right and is
ready to speak it, far-seeing Zeus gives him prosperity; but
whoever deliberately lies in his witness and forswears himself,
and so hurts Justice and sins beyond repair, that man's
generation is left obscure thereafter. But the generation of the
man who swears truly is better thenceforward.
(ll. 286-292) To you, foolish Perses, I will speak good sense.
Badness can be got easily and in shoals: the road to her is
smooth, and she lives very near us. But between us and Goodness
the gods have placed the sweat of our brows: long and steep is
the path that leads to her, and it is rough at the first; but
when a man has reached the top, then is she easy to reach, though
before that she was hard.
(ll. 293-319) That man is altogether best who considers all
things himself and marks what will be better afterwards and at
the end; and he, again, is good who listens to a good adviser;
but whoever neither thinks for himself nor keeps in mind what
another tells him, he is an unprofitable man. But do you at any
rate, always remembering my charge, work, high-born Perses, that
Hunger may hate you, and venerable Demeter richly crowned may
love you and fill your barn with food; for Hunger is altogether a
meet comrade for the sluggard. Both gods and men are angry with
a man who lives idle, for in nature he is like the stingless
drones who waste the labour of the bees, eating without working;
but let it be your care to order your work properly, that in the
right season your barns may be full of victual. Through work men
grow rich in flocks and substance, and working they are much
better loved by the immortals (8). Work is no disgrace: it is
idleness which is a disgrace. But if you work, the idle will
soon envy you as you grow rich, for fame and renown attend on
wealth. And whatever be your lot, work is best for you, if you
turn your misguided mind away from other men's property to your
work and attend to your livelihood as I bid you. An evil shame
is the needy man's companion, shame which both greatly harms and
prospers men: shame is with poverty, but confidence with wealth.
(ll. 320-341) Wealth should not be seized: god-given wealth is
much better; for it a man take great wealth violently and
perforce, or if he steal it through his tongue, as often happens
when gain deceives men's sense and dishonour tramples down
honour, the gods soon blot him out and make that man's house low,
and wealth attends him only for a little time. Alike with him
who does wrong to a suppliant or a guest, or who goes up to his
brother's bed and commits unnatural sin in lying with his wife,
or who infatuately offends against fatherless children, or who
abuses his old father at the cheerless threshold of old age and
attacks him with harsh words, truly Zeus himself is angry, and at
the last lays on him a heavy requittal for his evil doing. But
do you turn your foolish heart altogether away from these things,
and, as far as you are able, sacrifice to the deathless gods
purely and cleanly, and burn rich meats also, and at other times
propitiate them with libations and incense, both when you go to
bed and when the holy light has come back, that they may be
gracious to you in heart and spirit, and so you may buy another's
holding and not another yours.
(ll. 342-351) Call your friend to a feast; but leave your enemy
alone; and especially call him who lives near you: for if any
mischief happen in the place, neighbours come ungirt, but kinsmen
stay to gird themselves (9). A bad neighbour is as great a
plague as a good one is a great blessing; he who enjoys a good
neighbour has a precious possession. Not even an ox would die
but for a bad neighbour. Take fair measure from your neighbour
and pay him back fairly with the same measure, or better, if you
can; so that if you are in need afterwards, you may find him
sure.
(ll. 352-369) Do not get base gain: base gain is as bad as ruin.
Be friends with the friendly, and visit him who visits you. Give
to one who gives, but do not give to one who does not give. A
man gives to the free-handed, but no one gives to the close-
fisted. Give is a good girl, but Take is bad and she brings
death. For the man who gives willingly, even though he gives a
great thing, rejoices in his gift and is glad in heart; but
whoever gives way to shamelessness and takes something himself,
even though it be a small thing, it freezes his heart. He who
adds to what he has, will keep off bright-eyed hunger; for it you
add only a little to a little and do this often, soon that little
will become great. What a man has by him at home does not
trouble him: it is better to have your stuff at home, for
whatever is abroad may mean loss. It is a good thing to draw on
what you have; but it grieves your heart to need something and
not to have it, and I bid you mark this. Take your fill when the
cask is first opened and when it is nearly spent, but midways be
sparing: it is poor saving when you come to the lees.
(ll. 370-372) Let the wage promised to a friend be fixed; even
with your brother smile -- and get a witness; for trust and
mistrust, alike ruin men.
(ll. 373-375) Do not let a flaunting woman coax and cozen and
deceive you: she is after your barn. The man who trusts
womankind trust deceivers.
(ll. 376-380) There should be an only son, to feed his father's
house, for so wealth will increase in the home; but if you leave
a second son you should die old. Yet Zeus can easily give great
wealth to a greater number. More hands mean more work and more
increase.
(ll. 381-382) If your heart within you desires wealth, do these
things and work with work upon work.
(ll. 383-404) When the Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, are rising
(10), begin your harvest, and your ploughing when they are going
to set (11). Forty nights and days they are hidden and appear
again as the year moves round, when first you sharpen your
sickle. This is the law of the plains, and of those who live
near the sea, and who inhabit rich country, the glens and dingles
far from the tossing sea, -- strip to sow and strip to plough and
strip to reap, if you wish to get in all Demeter's fruits in due
season, and that each kind may grow in its season. Else,
afterwards, you may chance to be in want, and go begging to other
men's houses, but without avail; as you have already come to me.
But I will give you no more nor give you further measure.
Foolish Perses! Work the work which the gods ordained for men,
lest in bitter anguish of spirit you with your wife and children
seek your livelihood amongst your neighbours, and they do not
heed you. Two or three times, may be, you will succeed, but if
you trouble them further, it will not avail you, and all your
talk will be in vain, and your word-play unprofitable. Nay, I
bid you find a way to pay your debts and avoid hunger.
(ll. 405-413) First of all, get a house, and a woman and an ox
for the plough -- a slave woman and not a wife, to follow the
oxen as well -- and make everything ready at home, so that you
may not have to ask of another, and he refuses you, and so,
because you are in lack, the season pass by and your work come to
nothing. Do not put your work off till to-morrow and the day
after; for a sluggish worker does not fill his barn, nor one who
puts off his work: industry makes work go well, but a man who
putts off work is always at hand-grips with ruin.
(ll. 414-447) When the piercing power and sultry heat of the sun
abate, and almighty Zeus sends the autumn rains (12), and men's
flesh comes to feel far easier, -- for then the star Sirius
passes over the heads of men, who are born to misery, only a
little while by day and takes greater share of night, -- then,
when it showers its leaves to the ground and stops sprouting, the
wood you cut with your axe is least liable to worm. Then
remember to hew your timber: it is the season for that work. Cut
a mortar (13) three feet wide and a pestle three cubits long, and
an axle of seven feet, for it will do very well so; but if you
make it eight feet long, you can cut a beetle (14) from it as
well. Cut a felloe three spans across for a waggon of ten
palms' width. Hew also many bent timbers, and bring home a
plough-tree when you have found it, and look out on the mountain
or in the field for one of holm-oak; for this is the strongest
for oxen to plough with when one of Athena's handmen has fixed in
the share-beam and fastened it to the pole with dowels. Get two
ploughs ready work on them at home, one all of a piece, and the
other jointed. It is far better to do this, for if you should
break one of them, you can put the oxen to the other. Poles of
laurel or elm are most free from worms, and a share-beam of oak
and a plough-tree of holm-oak. Get two oxen, bulls of nine
years; for their strength is unspent and they are in the prime of
their age: they are best for work. They will not fight in the
furrow and break the plough and then leave the work undone. Let
a brisk fellow of forty years follow them, with a loaf of four
quarters (15) and eight slices (16) for his dinner, one who will
attend to his work and drive a straight furrow and is past the
age for gaping after his fellows, but will keep his mind on his
work. No younger man will be better than he at scattering the
seed and avoiding double-sowing; for a man less staid gets
disturbed, hankering after his fellows.
(ll. 448-457) Mark, when you hear the voice of the crane (17) who
cries year by year from the clouds above, for she give the signal
for ploughing and shows the season of rainy winter; but she vexes
the heart of the man who has no oxen. Then is the time to feed
up your horned oxen in the byre; for it is easy to say: `Give me
a yoke of oxen and a waggon,' and it is easy to refuse: `I have
work for my oxen.' The man who is rich in fancy thinks his
waggon as good as built already -- the fool! He does not know
that there are a hundred timbers to a waggon. Take care to lay
these up beforehand at home.
(ll. 458-464) So soon as the time for ploughing is proclaimed to
men, then make haste, you and your slaves alike, in wet and in
dry, to plough in the season for ploughing, and bestir yourself
early in the morning so that your fields may be full. Plough in
the spring; but fallow broken up in the summer will not belie
your hopes. Sow fallow land when the soil is still getting
light: fallow land is a defender from harm and a soother of
children.
(ll. 465-478) Pray to Zeus of the Earth and to pure Demeter to
make Demeter's holy grain sound and heavy, when first you begin
ploughing, when you hold in your hand the end of the plough-tail
and bring down your stick on the backs of the oxen as they draw
on the pole-bar by the yoke-straps. Let a slave follow a little
behind with a mattock and make trouble for the birds by hiding
the seed; for good management is the best for mortal men as bad
management is the worst. In this way your corn-ears will bow to
the ground with fullness if the Olympian himself gives a good
result at the last, and you will sweep the cobwebs from your bins
and you will be glad, I ween, as you take of your garnered
substance. And so you will have plenty till you come to grey
(18) springtime, and will not look wistfully to others, but
another shall be in need of your help.
(ll. 479-492) But if you plough the good ground at the solstice
(19), you will reap sitting, grasping a thin crop in your hand,
binding the sheaves awry, dust-covered, not glad at all; so you
will bring all home in a basket and not many will admire you.
Yet the will of Zeus who holds the aegis is different at
different times; and it is hard for mortal men to tell it; for if
you should plough late, you may find this remedy -- when the
cuckoo first calls (20) in the leaves of the oak and makes men
glad all over the boundless earth, if Zeus should send rain on
the third day and not cease until it rises neither above an ox's
hoof nor falls short of it, then the late-plougher will vie with
the early. Keep all this well in mind, and fail not to mark grey
spring as it comes and the season of rain.
(ll 493-501) Pass by the smithy and its crowded lounge in winter
time when the cold keeps men from field work, -- for then an
industrious man can greatly prosper his house -- lest bitter
winter catch you helpless and poor and you chafe a swollen foot
with a shrunk hand. The idle man who waits on empty hope,
lacking a livelihood, lays to heart mischief-making; it is not an
wholesome hope that accompanies a need man who lolls at ease
while he has no sure livelihood.
(ll. 502-503) While it is yet midsummer command your slaves: `It
will not always be summer, build barns.'
(ll. 504-535) Avoid the month Lenaeon (21), wretched days, all of
them fit to skin an ox, and the frosts which are cruel when
Boreas blows over the earth. He blows across horse-breeding
Thrace upon the wide sea and stirs it up, while earth and the
forest howl. On many a high-leafed oak and thick pine he falls
and brings them to the bounteous earth in mountain glens: then
all the immense wood roars and the beasts shudder and put their
tails between their legs, even those whose hide is covered with
fur; for with his bitter blast he blows even through them
although they are shaggy-breasted. He goes even through an ox's
hide; it does not stop him. Also he blows through the goat's
fine hair. But through the fleeces of sheep, because their wool
is abundant, the keen wind Boreas pierces not at all; but it
makes the old man curved as a wheel. And it does not blow
through the tender maiden who stays indoors with her dear mother,
unlearned as yet in the works of golden Aphrodite, and who washes
her soft body and anoints herself with oil and lies down in an
inner room within the house, on a winter's day when the Boneless
One (22) gnaws his foot in his fireless house and wretched home;
for the sun shows him no pastures to make for, but goes to and
fro over the land and city of dusky men (23), and shines more
sluggishly upon the whole race of the Hellenes. Then the horned
and unhorned denizens of the wood, with teeth chattering
pitifully, flee through the copses and glades, and all, as they
seek shelter, have this one care, to gain thick coverts or some
hollow rock. Then, like the Three-legged One (24) whose back is
broken and whose head looks down upon the ground, like him, I
say, they wander to escape the white snow.
(ll. 536-563) Then put on, as I bid you, a soft coat and a tunic
to the feet to shield your body, -- and you should weave thick
woof on thin warp. In this clothe yourself so that your hair may
keep still and not bristle and stand upon end all over your body.
Lace on your feet close-fitting boots of the hide of a
slaughtered ox, thickly lined with felt inside. And when the
season of frost comes on, stitch together skins of firstling kids
with ox-sinew, to put over your back and to keep off the rain.
On your head above wear a shaped cap of felt to keep your ears
from getting wet, for the dawn is chill when Boreas has once made
his onslaught, and at dawn a fruitful mist is spread over the
earth from starry heaven upon the fields of blessed men: it is
drawn from the ever flowing rivers and is raised high above the
earth by windstorm, and sometimes it turns to rain towards
evening, and sometimes to wind when Thracian Boreas huddles the
thick clouds. Finish your work and return home ahead of him, and
do not let the dark cloud from heaven wrap round you and make
your body clammy and soak your clothes. Avoid it; for this is
the hardest month, wintry, hard for sheep and hard for men. In
this season let your oxen have half their usual food, but let
your man have more; for the helpful nights are long. Observe all
this until the year is ended and you have nights and days of
equal length, and Earth, the mother of all, bears again her
various fruit.
(ll. 564-570) When Zeus has finished sixty wintry days after the
solstice, then the star Arcturus (25) leaves the holy stream of
Ocean and first rises brilliant at dusk. After him the shrilly
wailing daughter of Pandion, the swallow, appears to men when
spring is just beginning. Before she comes, prune the vines, for
it is best so.
(ll. 571-581) But when the House-carrier (26) climbs up the
plants from the earth to escape the Pleiades, then it is no
longer the season for digging vineyards, but to whet your sickles
and rouse up your slaves. Avoid shady seats and sleeping until
dawn in the harvest season, when the sun scorches the body. Then
be busy, and bring home your fruits, getting up early to make
your livelihood sure. For dawn takes away a third part of your
work, dawn advances a man on his journey and advances him in his
work, -- dawn which appears and sets many men on their road, and
puts yokes on many oxen.
(ll. 582-596) But when the artichoke flowers (27), and the
chirping grass-hopper sits in a tree and pours down his shrill
song continually from under his wings in the season of wearisome
heat, then goats are plumpest and wine sweetest; women are most
wanton, but men are feeblest, because Sirius parches head and
knees and the skin is dry through heat. But at that time let me
have a shady rock and wine of Biblis, a clot of curds and milk of
drained goats with the flesh of an heifer fed in the woods, that
has never calved, and of firstling kids; then also let me drink
bright wine, sitting in the shade, when my heart is satisfied
with food, and so, turning my head to face the fresh Zephyr, from
the everflowing spring which pours down unfouled thrice pour an
offering of water, but make a fourth libation of wine.
(ll. 597-608) Set your slaves to winnow Demeter's holy grain,
when strong Orion (28) first appears, on a smooth threshing-floor
in an airy place. Then measure it and store it in jars. And so
soon as you have safely stored all your stuff indoors, I bid you
put your bondman out of doors and look out for a servant-girl
with no children; -- for a servant with a child to nurse is
troublesome. And look after the dog with jagged teeth; do not
grudge him his food, or some time the Day-sleeper (29) may take
your stuff. Bring in fodder and litter so as to have enough for
your oxen and mules. After that, let your men rest their poor
knees and unyoke your pair of oxen.
(ll. 609-617) But when Orion and Sirius are come into mid-heaven,
and rosy-fingered Dawn sees Arcturus (30), then cut off all the
grape-clusters, Perses, and bring them home. Show them to the
sun ten days and ten nights: then cover them over for five, and
on the sixth day draw off into vessels the gifts of joyful
Dionysus. But when the Pleiades and Hyades and strong Orion
begin to set (31), then remember to plough in season: and so the
completed year (32) will fitly pass beneath the earth.
(ll. 618-640) But if desire for uncomfortable sea-faring seize
you; when the Pleiades plunge into the misty sea (33) to escape
Orion's rude strength, then truly gales of all kinds rage. Then
keep ships no longer on the sparkling sea, but bethink you to
till the land as I bid you. Haul up your ship upon the land and
pack it closely with stones all round to keep off the power of
the winds which blow damply, and draw out the bilge-plug so that
the rain of heaven may not rot it. Put away all the tackle and
fittings in your house, and stow the wings of the sea-going ship
neatly, and hang up the well-shaped rudder over the smoke. You
yourself wait until the season for sailing is come, and then haul
your swift ship down to the sea and stow a convenient cargo in
it, so that you may bring home profit, even as your father and
mine, foolish Perses, used to sail on shipboard because he lacked
sufficient livelihood. And one day he came to this very place
crossing over a great stretch of sea; he left Aeolian Cyme and
fled, not from riches and substance, but from wretched poverty
which Zeus lays upon men, and he settled near Helicon in a
miserable hamlet, Ascra, which is bad in winter, sultry in
summer, and good at no time.
(ll. 641-645) But you, Perses, remember all works in their season
but sailing especially. Admire a small ship, but put your
freight in a large one; for the greater the lading, the greater
will be your piled gain, if only the winds will keep back their
harmful gales.
(ll. 646-662) If ever you turn your misguided heart to trading
and with to escape from debt and joyless hunger, I will show you
the measures of the loud-roaring sea, though I have no skill in
sea-faring nor in ships; for never yet have I sailed by ship over
the wide sea, but only to Euboea from Aulis where the Achaeans
once stayed through much storm when they had gathered a great
host from divine Hellas for Troy, the land of fair women. Then I
crossed over to Chalcis, to the games of wise Amphidamas where
the sons of the great-hearted hero proclaimed and appointed
prizes. And there I boast that I gained the victory with a song
and carried off an handled tripod which I dedicated to the Muses
of Helicon, in the place where they first set me in the way of
clear song. Such is all my experience of many-pegged ships;
nevertheless I will tell you the will of Zeus who holds the
aegis; for the Muses have taught me to sing in marvellous song.
(ll. 663-677) Fifty days after the solstice (34), when the season
of wearisome heat is come to an end, is the right time for me to
go sailing. Then you will not wreck your ship, nor will the sea
destroy the sailors, unless Poseidon the Earth-Shaker be set upon
it, or Zeus, the king of the deathless gods, wish to slay them;
for the issues of good and evil alike are with them. At that
time the winds are steady, and the sea is harmless. Then trust
in the winds without care, and haul your swift ship down to the
sea and put all the freight no board; but make all haste you can
to return home again and do not wait till the time of the new
wine and autumn rain and oncoming storms with the fierce gales of
Notus who accompanies the heavy autumn rain of Zeus and stirs up
the sea and makes the deep dangerous.
(ll. 678-694) Another time for men to go sailing is in spring
when a man first sees leaves on the topmost shoot of a fig-tree
as large as the foot-print that a cow makes; then the sea is
passable, and this is the spring sailing time. For my part I do
not praise it, for my heart does not like it. Such a sailing is
snatched, and you will hardly avoid mischief. Yet in their
ignorance men do even this, for wealth means life to poor
mortals; but it is fearful to die among the waves. But I bid you
consider all these things in your heart as I say. Do not put all
your goods in hallow ships; leave the greater part behind, and
put the lesser part on board; for it is a bad business to meet
with disaster among the waves of the sea, as it is bad if you put
too great a load on your waggon and break the axle, and your
goods are spoiled. Observe due measure: and proportion is best
in all things.
(ll. 695-705) Bring home a wife to your house when you are of the
right age, while you are not far short of thirty years nor much
above; this is the right age for marriage. Let your wife have
been grown up four years, and marry her in the fifth. Marry a
maiden, so that you can teach her careful ways, and especially
marry one who lives near you, but look well about you and see
that your marriage will not be a joke to your neighbours. For a
man wins nothing better than a good wife, and, again, nothing
worse than a bad one, a greedy soul who roasts her man without
fire, strong though he may be, and brings him to a raw (35) old
age.
(ll. 706-714) Be careful to avoid the anger of the deathless
gods. Do not make a friend equal to a brother; but if you do, do
not wrong him first, and do not lie to please the tongue. But if
he wrongs you first, offending either in word or in deed,
remember to repay him double; but if he ask you to be his friend
again and be ready to give you satisfaction, welcome him. He is
a worthless man who makes now one and now another his friend; but
as for you, do not let your face put your heart to shame (36).
(ll. 715-716) Do not get a name either as lavish or as churlish;
as a friend of rogues or as a slanderer of good men.
(ll. 717-721) Never dare to taunt a man with deadly poverty which
eats out the heart; it is sent by the deathless gods. The best
treasure a man can have is a sparing tongue, and the greatest
pleasure, one that moves orderly; for if you speak evil, you
yourself will soon be worse spoken of.
(ll. 722-723) Do not be boorish at a common feast where there are
many guests; the pleasure is greatest and the expense is least
(37).
(ll. 724-726) Never pour a libation of sparkling wine to Zeus
after dawn with unwashen hands, nor to others of the deathless
gods; else they do not hear your prayers but spit them back.
(ll. 727-732) Do not stand upright facing the sun when you make
water, but remember to do this when he has set towards his
rising. And do not make water as you go, whether on the road or
off the road, and do not uncover yourself: the nights belong to
the blessed gods. A scrupulous man who has a wise heart sits
down or goes to the wall of an enclosed court.
(ll. 733-736) Do not expose yourself befouled by the fireside in
your house, but avoid this. Do not beget children when you are
come back from ill-omened burial, but after a festival of the
gods.
(ll. 737-741) Never cross the sweet-flowing water of ever-rolling
rivers afoot until you have prayed, gazing into the soft flood,
and washed your hands in the clear, lovely water. Whoever
crosses a river with hands unwashed of wickedness, the gods are
angry with him and bring trouble upon him afterwards.
(ll. 742-743) At a cheerful festival of the gods do not cut the
withered from the quick upon that which has five branches (38)
with bright steel.
(ll. 744-745) Never put the ladle upon the mixing-bowl at a wine
party, for malignant ill-luck is attached to that.
(ll. 746-747) When you are building a house, do not leave it
rough-hewn, or a cawing crow may settle on it and croak.
(ll. 748-749) Take nothing to eat or to wash with from uncharmed
pots, for in them there is mischief.
(ll. 750-759) Do not let a boy of twelve years sit on things
which may not be moved (39), for that is bad, and makes a man
unmanly; nor yet a child of twelve months, for that has the same
effect. A man should not clean his body with water in which a
woman has washed, for there is bitter mischief in that also for a
time. When you come upon a burning sacrifice, do not make a mock
of mysteries, for Heaven is angry at this also. Never make water
in the mouths of rivers which flow to the sea, nor yet in
springs; but be careful to avoid this. And do not ease yourself
in them: it is not well to do this.
(ll. 760-763) So do: and avoid the talk of men. For Talk is
mischievous, light, and easily raised, but hard to bear and
difficult to be rid of. Talk never wholly dies away when many
people voice her: even Talk is in some ways divine.
(ll. 765-767) Mark the days which come from Zeus, duly telling
your slaves of them, and that the thirtieth day of the month is
best for one to look over the work and to deal out supplies.
(ll. 769-768) (40) For these are days which come from Zeus the
all-wise, when men discern aright.
(ll. 770-779) To begin with, the first, the fourth, and the
seventh -- on which Leto bare Apollo with the blade of gold --
each is a holy day. The eighth and the ninth, two days at least
of the waxing month (41), are specially good for the works of
man. Also the eleventh and twelfth are both excellent, alike for
shearing sheep and for reaping the kindly fruits; but the twelfth
is much better than the eleventh, for on it the airy-swinging
spider spins its web in full day, and then the Wise One (42),
gathers her pile. On that day woman should set up her loom and
get forward with her work.
(ll. 780-781) Avoid the thirteenth of the waxing month for
beginning to sow: yet it is the best day for setting plants.
(ll. 782-789) The sixth of the mid-month is very unfavourable for
plants, but is good for the birth of males, though unfavourable
for a girl either to be born at all or to be married. Nor is the
first sixth a fit day for a girl to be born, but a kindly for
gelding kids and sheep and for fencing in a sheep-cote. It is
favourable for the birth of a boy, but such will be fond of sharp
speech, lies, and cunning words, and stealthy converse.
(ll. 790-791) On the eighth of the month geld the boar and loud-
bellowing bull, but hard-working mules on the twelfth.
(ll. 792-799) On the great twentieth, in full day, a wise man
should be born. Such an one is very sound-witted. The tenth is
favourable for a male to be born; but, for a girl, the fourth day
of the mid-month. On that day tame sheep and shambling, horned
oxen, and the sharp-fanged dog and hardy mules to the touch of
the hand. But take care to avoid troubles which eat out the
heart on the fourth of the beginning and ending of the month; it
is a day very fraught with fate.
(ll. 800-801) On the fourth of the month bring home your bride,
but choose the omens which are best for this business.
(ll. 802-804) Avoid fifth days: they are unkindly and terrible.
On a fifth day, they say, the Erinyes assisted at the birth of
Horcus (Oath) whom Eris (Strife) bare to trouble the forsworn.
(ll. 805-809) Look about you very carefully and throw out
Demeter's holy grain upon the well-rolled (43) threshing floor on
the seventh of the mid-month. Let the woodman cut beams for
house building and plenty of ships' timbers, such as are suitable
for ships. On the fourth day begin to build narrow ships.
(ll. 810-813) The ninth of the mid-month improves towards
evening; but the first ninth of all is quite harmless for men.
It is a good day on which to beget or to be born both for a male
and a female: it is never an wholly evil day.
(ll. 814-818) Again, few know that the twenty-seventh of the
month is best for opening a wine-jar, and putting yokes on the
necks of oxen and mules and swift-footed horses, and for hauling
a swift ship of many thwarts down to the sparkling sea; few call
it by its right name.
(ll. 819-821) On the fourth day open a jar. The fourth of the
mid-month is a day holy above all. And again, few men know that
the fourth day after the twentieth is best while it is morning:
towards evening it is less good.
(ll. 822-828) These days are a great blessing to men on earth;
but the rest are changeable, luckless, and bring nothing.
Everyone praises a different day but few know their nature.
Sometimes a day is a stepmother, sometimes a mother. That man is
happy and lucky in them who knows all these things and does his
work without offending the deathless gods, who discerns the omens
of birds and avoids transgressions.
ENDNOTES:
(1) That is, the poor man's fare, like `bread and cheese'.
(2) The All-endowed.
(3) The jar or casket contained the gifts of the gods mentioned
in l.82.
(4) Eustathius refers to Hesiod as stating that men sprung `from
oaks and stones and ashtrees'. Proclus believed that the
Nymphs called Meliae ("Theogony", 187) are intended.
Goettling would render: `A race terrible because of their
(ashen) spears.'
(5) Preserved only by Proclus, from whom some inferior MSS. have
copied the verse. The four following lines occur only in
Geneva Papyri No. 94. For the restoration of ll. 169b-c see
"Class. Quart." vii. 219-220. (NOTE: Mr. Evelyn-White means
that the version quoted by Proclus stops at this point, then
picks up at l. 170. -- DBK).
(6) i.e. the race will so degenerate that at the last even a
new-born child will show the marks of old age.
(7) Aidos, as a quality, is that feeling of reverence or shame
which restrains men from wrong: Nemesis is the feeling of
righteous indignation aroused especially by the sight of the
wicked in undeserved prosperity (cf. "Psalms", lxxii. 1-19).
(8) The alternative version is: `and, working, you will be much
better loved both by gods and men; for they greatly dislike
the idle.'
(9) i.e. neighbours come at once and without making
preparations, but kinsmen by marriage (who live at a
distance) have to prepare, and so are long in coming.
(10) Early in May.
(11) In November.
(12) In October.
(13) For pounding corn.
(14) A mallet for breaking clods after ploughing.
(15) The loaf is a flattish cake with two intersecting lines
scored on its upper surface which divide it into four equal
parts.
(16) The meaning is obscure. A scholiast renders `giving eight
mouthfulls'; but the elder Philostratus uses the word in
contrast to `leavened'.
(17) About the middle of November.
(18) Spring is so described because the buds have not yet cast
their iron-grey husks.
(19) In December.
(20) In March.
(21) The latter part of January and earlier part of February.
(22) i.e. the octopus or cuttle.
(23) i.e. the darker-skinned people of Africa, the Egyptians or
Aethiopians.
(24) i.e. an old man walking with a staff (the `third leg' -- as
in the riddle of the Sphinx).
(25) February to March.
(26) i.e. the snail. The season is the middle of May.
(27) In June.
(28) July.
(29) i.e. a robber.
(30) September.
(31) The end of October.
(32) That is, the succession of stars which make up the full
year.
(33) The end of October or beginning of November.
(34) July-August.
(35) i.e. untimely, premature. Juvenal similarly speaks of
`cruda senectus' (caused by gluttony).
(36) The thought is parallel to that of `O, what a goodly outside
falsehood hath.'
(37) The `common feast' is one to which all present subscribe.
Theognis (line 495) says that one of the chief pleasures of
a banquet is the general conversation. Hence the present
passage means that such a feast naturally costs little,
while the many present will make pleasurable conversation.
(38) i.e. `do not cut your finger-nails'.
(39) i.e. things which it would be sacrilege to disturb, such as
tombs.
(40) H.G. Evelyn-White prefers to switch ll. 768 and 769, reading
l. 769 first then l. 768. -- DBK
(41) The month is divided into three periods, the waxing, the
mid-month, and the waning, which answer to the phases of the
moon.
(42) i.e. the ant.
(43) Such seems to be the meaning here, though the epithet is
otherwise rendered `well-rounded'. Corn was threshed by
means of a sleigh with two runners having three or four
rollers between them, like the modern Egyptian "nurag".