Chapter 2, Section 12 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. We have now given some account of the general character of the Greek State. The ideas that underlay it, and the criticism of those ideas suggested by the course of history, and formulated by speculative thought, it remains to offer certain reflections on the political achievement of the Greeks and its relation to our own ideas. The fruitful and positive aspect of the Greek State, that which fastens it upon the eyes of later generations, as upon a model, if not to be copied, at least to be praised and admired, is that identification of the individual citizen with the corporate life which delivered him from the narrow circle of personal interests into a sphere of wider views and higher aims. The Greek citizen as we have seen in the best days of the best states, in Athens, for example, in the age of Pericles, was at once a soldier and a politician. Body and mind alike were at his country's service, and his whole ideal of conduct was inextricably bound up with his intimate and personal participation in public affairs. If now, with this ideal, we contrast the life of an average citizen in a modern state, the absorption in private business and family concerns, that greasy domesticity, to use a phrase of Byron's, that limits and clouds his vision of the world, we may well feel that the Greeks had achieved something which we have lost, and may even desire to return, so far as we may, upon our steps, and to re-establish that interpenetration of private and public life by which the individual citizen was at once depressed and glorified. It may be doubted, however, whether such a procedure would be in any way possible or desirable, for in the first place the existence of the Greek citizen depended upon that of an inferior class who were regarded not as ends in themselves, but as means to his perfection. And that is an arrangement which runs directly counter to the modern ideal. All modern societies aim, to this extent at least, at equality, that their tendency, so far as it is conscious and avowed, is not to separate off a privileged class of citizens set free by the labour of others to live the perfect life, but rather to distribute impartially to all the burdens and advantages of the state, so that everyone shall be at once a labourer for himself and a citizen of the state. But this ideal is clearly incompatible with the Greek conception of the citizen. It implies that the greater portion of every man's life must be devoted to some kind of mechanical labour whose immediate connection with the public good, though certain, is remote and obscure, and that in consequence a deliberate and unceasing preoccupation with the end of the state becomes, as a general rule, impossible. And in the second place the mere complexity and size of a modern state is against the identification of the man with the citizen. For on the one hand public issues are so large and so involved, that it is only a few who can hope to have any adequate comprehension of them, and on the other the subdivision of functions is so minute that even when a man is directly employed in the service of the state his activity is confined to some highly specialised department. He must choose, for example, whether he will be a clerk in the treasury or a soldier, but he cannot certainly be both. In the Greek state any citizen could undertake simultaneously or in succession, and with complete comprehension and mastery, every one of the comparatively few and simple public offices. In a modern state such an arrangement has become impossible. The mere mechanical and physical conditions of our life preclude the ideal of the ancient citizen. But it may be said the activity of the citizen of a modern state should be and increasingly will be concerned not with the whole, but with the part. By the development of local institutions he will come more and more to identify himself with the public life of his district and his town, and will bear to that much the same relation as was born by the ancient Greek to his city-state. Certainly so far as the limitation of area and the simplicity and intelligibility of issues is concerned such an analogy might be fairly pressed, and it is probably in connection with such local areas that the average citizen does and increasingly will become aware of his corporate relations. But on the other hand it can hardly be maintained that public business in this restricted sense either could or should play the part in the life of the modern man, but it played in that of the ancient Greek. For local business, after all, is a matter of sewers and parks, and however great the importance of such matters may be, and however great their claim upon the attention of competent men, yet the kind of interest they awaken and the kind of faculties they employ can hardly be such as to lead to the identification of the individual ideal with that of public activity. The life of the Greek citizen involved an exercise, the finest and most complete of all his powers of body, soul and mind. The same can hardly be said of the life of a county councillor, even of the best and most conscientious of them, and the conclusion appears to be that that fusion of public and private life which was involved in the ideal of the Greek citizen was a passing phase in the history of the world, that the state can never occupy again the place in relation to the individual which it held in the cities of the ancient world, and that an attempt to identify in a modern state the ideal of the man with that of the citizen would be an historical anachronism. Nor is this a conclusion which need be regretted, for as the sphere of the state shrinks, it is possible that that of the individual may be enlarged. The public side of human life it may be supposed would become more and more mechanical, as our understanding and control of social forces grow. But every reduction to habit and rule of what we want spiritual functions implies the liberation of the higher powers for a possible activity in other regions. And if advantage were taken of this opportunity, the inestimable compensation for the contraction to routine of the life of the citizen would be the expansion into new spheres of speculation and passion of the freer and more individual life of the man. End of Chapter 2 The Greek View of the State Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3 Section 1 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 3 The Greek View of the Individual. Section 1 The Greek View of Manual Labour and Trade In our discussion of the Greek view of the state, we noticed the tendency both of the theory and the practice of the Greeks to separate the citizens proper from the rest of the community as a distinct and aristocratic class. And this tendency we had occasion to observe was partly to be attributed to the high conception which the Greeks had formed of the proper excellence of man, an excellence which it was the function of the citizen to realise in his own person at the cost, if need be, of the other members of the state. This Greek conception of the proper excellence of man, it is now our purpose to examine more closely. The chief point that strikes us about the Greek ideal is its comprehensiveness. Our own word, virtue, is applied only to moral qualities. But the Greek word which we so translate should properly be rendered excellence, and includes a reference to the body as well as to the soul. A beautiful soul housed in a beautiful body, and supplied with all the external advantages necessary to produce and perpetuate such a combination, that is the Greek conception of well-being. And it is because labour with the hands or at the desk distorts or impairs the body, and the petty cares of a calling pursued for bread pervert the soul, that so stronger contempt was felt by the Greeks for manual labour and trade. The arts that are called mechanical, says Xenophon, are also, and naturally enough, held in bad repute in our cities, for they spoil the bodies of workers and superintendents alike, compelling them to live sedentary indoor lives, and in some cases even to pass their days by the fire, and as their bodies become effeminate, so do their souls also grow less robust. Besides this, in such trades one has no leisure to devote to the care of one's friends or of one's city, so that those who engage in them are thought to be bad backers of their friends and bad defenders of their country. In a similar spirit Plato asserts that a life of drudgery disfigures the body and Mars and enervates the soul, while Aristotle defines a mechanical trade as one which renders the body and soul or intellect of free persons unfit for the exercise and practice of virtue, and denies to the artisan not merely the proper excellence of man, but any excellence of any kind, on the plea that his occupation and status is unnatural, and that he misses even that reflex of human virtue which a slave derives from his intimate connection with his master. If then the artisan was excluded from the citizenship in some of the Greek states, and even in the most democratic of them never altogether threw off the stigma of inferiority attaching to his trade, the reason was that the life he was compelled to lead was incompatible with the Greek conception of excellence. That conception we will now proceed to examine a little more in detail. End of Chapter 3 Section 1 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3 Section 2 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 3 Section 2 Appreciation of External Goods. In the first place the Greek ideal required for its realization a solid basis of external goods. It recognized frankly the dependence of man upon the world of sense, and the contribution to his happiness of elements over which he had at best but a partial control. Not that it placed his good outside himself in riches, power and other such appendages, but that it postulated certain gifts of fortune as necessary means to his self-development. Of these the chief were a competence to secure him against sordid cares, health to ensure his physical excellence, and children to support and protect him in old age. Aristotle's definition of the happy man is one whose activity accords with perfect virtue, and who is adequately furnished with external goods. Not for a casual period of time, but for a complete or perfect lifetime. And he remarks somewhat caustically that those who say that a man on the rack would be happy if only he were good, intentionally or unintentionally, are talking nonsense. That here, as elsewhere, Aristotle represents the common Greek view we have abundant testimony from other sources. Even Plato, in whom there runs so clear a vein of asceticism, follows the popular judgment in reckoning high among goods, first health, then beauty, then skill and strength in physical exercises, and lastly wealth, if it be not blind, but illumined by the eye of reason. To these goods must be added to complete the scale, success and reputation. Acts which are the constant theme of the poet's eulogy. Two things alone there are, says Pindar, that cherish life's bloom to its utmost sweetness amid the fair flowers of wealth, to have good success and to win therefore fair fame. And the passage represents his habitual attitude, that the gifts of fortune, both personal and external, are in essential condition of excellence, is an axiom of the point of view of the Greeks. But on the other hand we never find them misled into the conception that such gifts are an end in themselves, apart from the personal qualities they are meant to support or adorn. The oriental ideal of unlimited wealth and power enjoyed merely for its own sake, never appealed to their fine and lucid judgment. Nothing could better illustrate this point than the anecdote related by Herodotus, of the interview between Solon and Cresus, King of Lydia. Cresus, proud of his boundless wealth, asks the Greek stranger, who is the happiest man on earth, expecting to hear in reply his own name. Solon, however, answers with the name of Telus, the Athenian, giving his reasons in the following speech. First, because his country was flourishing in his days, and he himself had sons both beautiful and good, and he lived to see children born to each of them, and these children all grew up. And further, because after a life spent in what our people look upon as comfort, his end was surpassingly glorious. In a battle between the Athenians and their neighbours near Eleusis, he came to the assistance of his countrymen, routed the foe, and died upon the field most gallantly. The Athenians gave him a public funeral on the spot where he fell, and paid him the highest honours. Later on in the discussion Solon defines the happy man as he who is whole of limb, a stranger to disease, free from misfortune, happy in his children, and comely to look upon, and who also ends his life well. End of chapter 3, section 2, Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3, section 3 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 3, section 3, Appreciation of Physical Qualities. While however the gifts of a happy fortune are in essential condition of the Greek ideal, they are not to be mistaken for the ideal itself. A beautiful soul in a beautiful body, to recur to our former phrase, is the real end and aim of their endeavour. Beautiful and good is their habitual way of describing what we should call a gentleman, and no expression could better represent what they admired. With ourselves, in spite of our addiction to athletics, the body takes a secondary place. After a certain age at least, there are few men who make its systematic cultivation an important factor of their life, and in our estimate of merit physical qualities are recorded either none or the very smallest weight. It was otherwise with the Greeks. To them a good body was the necessary correlative of a good soul. Balance was what they aimed at, balance and harmony, and they could scarcely believe in the beauty of the spirit unless it were reflected in the beauty of the flesh. The point is well put by Plato, the most spiritually minded of the Greeks, and the least apt to under-prize the qualities of the soul. Surely then, he says, to him who has an eye to see, there can be no fairer spectacle than that of a man who combines the possession of moral beauty in his soul with outward beauty of form, corresponding and harmonising with the former, because the same great pattern enters into both. There can be none so fair, and you will grant that what is fairest is loveliest, and doubtedly it is, then the truly musical person will love those who combine most perfectly moral and physical beauty, but will not love anyone in whom there is dissonance. No, not if there be any defect in the soul, but if it is only a bodily blemish, he may so bear with it as to be willing to regard it with complacency. I understand that you have now, or have had, a favourite of this kind, so I give way. The reluctance of the admission that a physical defect may possibly be overlooked is as significant as the rest of the passage. Body and soul, it is clear, are regarded as aspects of a single whole, so that a blemish in the one indicates and involves a blemish in the other. The training of the body is thus, in a sense, the training of the soul, and gymnastic and music, as Plato puts it, serve the same end, the production of a harmonious temperament. End of Chapter 3, Section 3. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3, Section 4 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 3, Section 4. Greek Athletics. It is this conception which gives, or appears at least in the retrospect to give, a character so gracious and fine to Greek athletics. In fact, if we look more closely into the character of the public games in Greece, we see that they were so surrounded and transfused by an atmosphere of imagination, that their appeal must have been as much to the aesthetic as to the physical sense. For in the first place, those great gymnastic contests in which all Hellas took part, and which gave the tone to their whole athletic life, were primarily religious festivals. The Olympic and Nemean games were held in honour of Zeus, the Pythian of Apollo, the Isthmian of Poseidon. In the enclosures in which they took place, stood temples of the gods, and sacrifice, prayer, and choral hymn, where the background against which they were set. And since in Greece religion implied art, in the wake of the athlete followed the sculptor and the poet. The colossal Zeus of Phidias, the wonder of the ancient world, flashed from the precincts of Olympia its glory of ivory and gold. Temples and statues broke the brilliant light into colour and form, and under that vibrating heaven of beauty, the loveliest nature crowned with the finest art, shifted and shone what was in itself perfect type of both, the grace of harmonious motion in naked youths and men. For in Greek athletics, by virtue of the practice of contending nude, the contest itself became a work of art. And not only did sculptors draw from it an inspiration such as has been felt by no later age, but to the combatants themselves and the spectators, the plastic beauty of the human form grew to be more than its prowess or its strength, and gymnastic became a training in aesthetics as much as or more than in physical excellence. And as with the contest so with the reward everything was designed to appeal to the sensuous imagination. The prize formerly a judged was symbolical only, a crown of olive, but the real triumph of the victor was the ode in which his praise was sung, the procession of happy comrades and the evening festival, when as Pindar has it, the lovely shining of the fair faced moon beamed forth, and all the precinct sounded with songs of festal glee, or beside Castali in the evening his name burnt bright when the glad sounds of the graces rose. Of the graces for these were the powers who presided over the world of Greek athletics. Here, for example, is the opening of one of Pindar's odes, typical of the spirit in which he at least conceived the functions of the chronicler of sport. O ye who haunt the land of goodly steeds, that drinketh of kefaisos waters, lusty or hominous queens renowned in song, O graces, guardians of the mini-eyes ancient race, harken, for unto you I pray. For by your gift come unto men all pleasant things and sweet, and the wisdom of a man, and his beauty, and the splendour of his fame. Ye even gods without the graces aid, rule never at feast or dance. But these have charge of all things done in heaven, and beside Pythian Apollo of the Golden Bow, they have set their thrones, and worship the eternal majesty of the Olympian father. O Lady Aglaya, and thou, Eufrosune, lover of song, children of the mightiest of the gods, listen and hear, and thou, Thalia, delighting in sweet sounds, and look down upon this triumphal company, moving with light step under happy fate. In Lydian mood of melody, concerning Asopichos am I come hither to sing, for that through thee, Aglaya, in the Olympic Games, the mini-eyes home is winner. This is but a single passage among many that might be quoted to illustrate the point we are endeavouring to bring into relief the conscious predominance in the Greek games of that element of poetry and art, which is either not present at all in modern sport, or at best is a happy accessory of chance. The modern man, and especially the Englishman, addicts himself to athletics, as to other avocations with a certain solidity of gaze on the immediate end which tends to confine him to the purely physical view of his pursuit. The Greek, an artist by nature, lifted his not less strenuous sports into an air of finer sentiment, touched them with the poetry of legend and the grace of art and song, and even to his most brutal contests, for brutal some of them were, imparted so rich an atmosphere of beauty, that they could be admitted as fit themes for dedication to the graces by the choice and spiritual genius of Pindar. End of Chapter 3 Section 4. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3 Section 5 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 3 Section 5. Greek Ethics, Identification of the Aesthetic and Ethical Points of View. And as with the excellence of the body, so with that of the soul, the conception that dominated the mind of the Greeks was primarily aesthetic. In speaking of their religion, we have already remarked that they had no sense of sin, and we may now add that they had no sense of duty. Moral virtue, they conceived not as obedience to an external law, a sacrifice of the natural man to a power that in a sense is alien to himself, but rather as the tempering into due proportion of the elements of which human nature is composed. The good man was the man who was beautiful, beautiful in soul. Virtue, says Plato, will be a kind of health and beauty and good habit of the soul, and vice will be a disease and deformity and sickness of it. It follows that it is as natural to seek virtue and to avoid vice as to seek health and to avoid disease. There is no question of a struggle between opposite principles. The distinction of good and evil is one of order or confusion among elements which in themselves are neither good nor bad. This conception of virtue we find expressed in many forms, but always with the same underlying idea. A favourite watchword with the Greeks is the middle or mean, the exact point of rightness between two extremes. Nothing in excess was a motto inscribed over the temple of Delphi, and none could be more characteristic of the ideal of these lovers of proportion. Aristotle indeed has made it the basis of his whole theory of ethics. In his conception, virtue is the mean, vice the excess lying on either side. Courage, for example, the mean between foolhardiness and cowardice, temperance between incontinence and insensibility, generosity between extravagance and meanness. The various phases of feeling and the various kinds of action he analyses minutely on this principle, understanding always by the mean, that which adapts itself in the due proportion to the circumstances and requirements of every case. The interest of this view for us lies in its assumption that it is not passions or desires in themselves that must be regarded as bad, but only their disproportional or misdirected indulgence. Let us take, for example, the case of the pleasures of sense. The Puritan's rule is to abjure them all together. To him they are absolutely wrong in themselves, apart from all considerations of time and place. Aristotle, on the contrary, enjoys not renunciation but temperance, and defines the temperate man as one who holds a mean position in respect of pleasures. He takes no pleasure in the things in which the licentious man takes most pleasure. He rather dislikes them. Nor does he take pleasure at all in wrong things, nor an excessive pleasure in anything that is pleasant, nor is he pained at the absence of such things, nor does he desire them, except perhaps in moderation. Nor does he desire them more than is right, or at the long time, and so on. But he will be eager in a moderate and right spirit for all such things as are pleasant, and at the same time conducive to health, or to a sound bodily condition, and for all other pleasures, so long as they are not prejudicial to these, or inconsistent with noble conduct, or extravagant beyond his means. For unless a person limits himself in this way, he affects such pleasures more than is right, whereas the temperate man follows the guidance of right reason. As another illustration of this point of view, we may take the case of anger. The Christian rule is never to resent an injury, but rather in the New Testament phrase, to turn the other cheek. Aristotle, while blaming the man who is unduly passionate, blames equally the man who is insensitive. The thing to aim at is to be angry on the proper occasions, and with the proper people in the proper manner, and for the proper length of time. And in this and all other cases, the definition of what is proper must be left to the determination of the sensible man. Thus in place of a series of hard and fast rules, a rigid and uncompromising distinction of acts and affections into good and bad, the former to be absolutely chosen, and the latter absolutely eschewed, Aristotle presents us with the general type of a subtle and shifting problem, the solution of which must be worked out afresh by each individual in each particular case. Conduct to him is a free and living creature, and not a machine controlled by fixed laws. Every life is a work of art shaped by the man who lives it. According to the faculty of the artist will be the quality of his work, and no general rules can supply the place of his own direct perception at every turn. The good is the right proportion, the right manner and occasion. The bad is all that varies from this right, but the elements of human nature in themselves are neither good nor bad. They are merely the raw material out of which the one or the other may be shaped. The idea thus formulated by Aristotle is typically Greek. In another form it is the basis of the ethical philosophy of Plato, who habitually regards virtue as a kind of order. The virtue of each thing, he says, whether body or soul, instrument or creature, when given to them in the best way, comes to them not by chance, but as the result of the order and truth and art which are imparted to them. And the conception here indicated is worked out in detail in his Republic. There, after distinguishing in the soul three principles or powers, reason, passion and desire, he defines justice as the maintenance among them of their proper mutual relation, each moving in its own place and doing its appropriate work, as is or should be the case with the different classes in a state. The just man will not permit the several principles within him to do any work but their own, nor allow the distinct classes in his soul to interfere with each other, but will really set his house in order, and having gained the mastery over himself will so regulate his own character as to be on good terms with himself, and to set those three principles in tune together, as if they were verily three chords of a harmony, a higher and a lower and a middle, and whatever may lie between these, and after he has bound all these together and reduced the many elements of his nature to a real unity as a temperate and duly harmonized man, he will then at length proceed to do whatever he may have to do. Plato, it is true, in other parts of his work approaches more closely to the dualistic conception of an absolute opposition between good and bad principles in man, yet even so he never altogether abandons that aesthetic point of view which looks to the establishment of order among the conflicting principles, rather than to the annihilation of one by the other in an internecine conflict. The point may be illustrated by the following passage, where the two horses represent respectively the elements of fleshly desire and spiritual passion, while the charioteer stands for the controlling reason, and where it will be noticed the ultimate harmony is achieved not by the complete eradication of desire, but by its due subordination to the higher principle. Even Plato, the most ascetic of the Greeks, is a Greek first and an ascetic afterwards. Of the nature of the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large and more than mortal discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure, and let the figure be composite, a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the winged horses and the charioteers of the gods are all of them noble and of noble descent, but those of other races are mixed. The human charioteer drives his in a pair, and one of them is noble and of noble breed, and the other is ignoble and of ignoble breed, and the driving of them of necessity gives a great deal of trouble to him. The right-hand horse is upright and cleanly made. He has a lofty neck and an aquiline nose.  He is a lover of honour and modesty and temperance, and the follower of true glory. He needs no touch of the whip, but is guided by word and admonition only. The other is a crooked, lumbering animal put together anyhow. He has a short, thick neck. He is flat-faced and of a dark colour, with grey eyes and blood-red complexion. The mate of insolence and pride shaggared and deaf, hardly yielding to whip and spur. Now, when the charioteer beholds the vision of love, and has his whole soul warmed through sense and is full of the prickings and ticklings of desire, the obedient steed then has always under the government of shame, refrains from leaping on the beloved. But the other, heedless of the blows of the whip, plunges and runs away, giving all manner of trouble to his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces to approach the beloved and to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly oppose him and will not be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds, but at last, when he persists in plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he bids them. And now they are at the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved, which when the charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty, whom he beholds in company with modesty, like an image placed upon a holy pedestal. He sees her, but he is afraid and falls backwards in adoration, and by his fall is compelled to pull back the reins with such violence as to bring both the steeds on their haunches, the one willing and unresisting, the unruly one very unwilling. And when they have gone back a little, the one is overcome with shame and wonder, and his whole soul is bathed in perspiration. The other, when the pain is over which the bridle and the fall had given him, having with difficulty taken breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the charioteer and his fellow steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that they have been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they refuse, and again he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that he would wait until another time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if they had forgotten, and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them on, until at length he, on the same thoughts intent, forces them to draw near again. And when they are near, he stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes the bit in his teeth and pulls shamelessly. Then the charioteer is worse off than ever. He falls back like a racer at the barrier, and with a still more violent wrench, drags the bit out of the teeth of the wild steed, and covers his abusive jaws and tongue with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the ground, and punishes him sorely. And when this has happened several times, and the villain has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and humbled, and follows the will of the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one, he is ready to die of fear. And from that time forward, the soul of the lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear. Even from this passage, in spite of its dualistic hypothesis, but far more clearly from the whole tenor of his work, we may perceive that Plato's description of virtue as an order of the soul is prompted by the same conception, characteristically Greek as Aristotle's account of virtue as a mean. The view, as we said at the beginning, is properly aesthetic rather than moral. It regards life less as a battle between two contending principles, in which victory means the annihilation of the one, the altogether bad, by the other, the altogether good, than as the maintenance of a balance between elements neutral in themselves, but capable, according as their relations are rightly ordered, or the reverse, of producing either that harmony which is called virtue, or that discord which is called vice. Such being the conception of virtue characteristic of the Greeks, it follows that the motive to pursue it can hardly have presented itself to them in the form of what we call the sense of duty, for duty emphasizes self-repression. Against the desires of man it sets a law of prohibition, a law which is not conceived as that of his own complete nature, asserting against a partial or disproportioned development the balance and totality of the ideal, but rather as a rule imposed from without by a power distinct from himself, for the mortification not the perfecting of his natural impulses and aims. Duty emphasizes self-repression, the Greek view emphasized self-development. That health and beauty and good habit of the soul which is Plato's ideal is as much its own recommendation to the natural man as is the health and beauty of the body. Vice, on this view, is condemned because it is a frustration of nature, virtue praised because it is her fulfilment, and the motive throughout is simply that passion to realize oneself, which is commonly acknowledged as sufficient in the case of physical development, and which appeared sufficient to the Greeks in the case of the development of the soul. End of Chapter 3, Section 5. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3, Section 6 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loews Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 3, Section 6. The Greek View of Pleasure From all this it follows clearly enough that the Greek ideal was far removed from asceticism, but it might perhaps be supposed, on the other hand, that it came dangerously near to license. Nothing, however, could be further from the case. That there were Libertines among the Greeks, as everywhere else goes without saying, but the conception that the Greek rule of life was to follow impulse and abandon restraint is a figment of would-be Hellenists of our own time. The word which best sums up the ideal of the Greeks is temperance, the mean, order, harmony, as we saw are its characteristic expressions, and the self-realization to which they aspired was not an anarchy of passion, but an ordered evolution of the natural faculties under the strict control of a balanced mind. The point may be illustrated by a reference to the treatment of pleasure in the philosophy of Plato and of Aristotle. The practice of the Libertine is to identify pleasure and good in such a manner that he pursues at any moment any pleasure that presents itself, eschewing comparison and reflection, with all that might tend to check that continuous flow of vivid and fresh sensations which he postulates as the end of life. The ideal of the Greeks, on the contrary, as interpreted by their two greatest thinkers, while on the one hand it is so far opposed to asceticism that it requires pleasure as an essential complement of good, on the other is so far from identifying the two that it recognizes an ordered scale of pleasures, and while rejecting altogether those at the lower end, admits the rest, not as in themselves constituting the good, but rather as harmless additions, or at most as necessary accompaniments of its operation. Plato in the Republic distinguishes between the necessary and unnecessary pleasures, defining the former as those derived from the gratification of appetites which we cannot get rid of and whose satisfaction does as good, such for example as the appetite for wholesome food, and the latter as those which belong to appetites which we can put away from us by early training, and the presence of which besides never does us any good, and in some cases does positive harm, such for example as the appetite for delicate and luxurious dishes. The former he would admit, the latter he excludes from his ideal of happiness, and though in a later dialogue the Philebus he goes further than this, and would exclude from the perfect life all pleasures except those which he describes as pure, that is those which attend upon the contemplation of form and colour and sound, or which accompany intellectual activity. Yet here, no doubt, he is passing beyond the sphere of the practicable ideal, and his distinct personal bias towards asceticism must be discounted if we ought to take him as representative of the Greek view. His general contention, however, that pleasures must be ranked as higher and as lower, and that at the best they are not to be identified with the good is fully accepted by so typical a Greek as Aristotle. Aristotle, however, is careful not to condemn any pleasure that is not definitely harmful. Even unnecessary pleasures, he admits, may be desirable in themselves. Even the deliberate creation of desire, with a view to the enjoyment of satisfying it, may be admissible if it is not injurious. Still there are kinds of pleasures which ought not to be pursued, and occasions and methods of seeking it which are improper and perverse. Therefore the reason must always be at hand to check and to control, and the ultimate test of true worth in pleasure as in everything else is the trained judgment of the good and sensible man. In Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3, Section 7 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 3, Section 7. Illustrations. Iscomicus. Socrates. Such then was the character of the Greek conception of excellence. The account we have given may seem somewhat abstract and ideal, but it gives the general formula of the life which every cultivated Greek would at any rate have wished to live. And in confirmation of this point we may adduce the testimony of Xenophon who has left us a description evidently drawn from life of what he conceives to be the perfect type of a gentleman. The interest of the account lies in the fact that Xenophon himself was clearly an average Greek, one that is to say of good natural parts, of perfectly normal faculties and tastes, undisturbed by any originality of character or mind, and representing therefore, as we may fairly assert, the ordinary views and aims of an upright and competent man of the world. His description of the gentleman therefore may be taken as a representative account of the recognized ideal of all that class of Athenian citizens. And this is how the gentleman in question, Iscomicus, describes his course of life. In the first place, he says, I worship the gods. Next I endeavour to the best of my ability, assisted by prayer, to get health and strength of body, reputation in the city, goodwill among my friends, honourable security in battle, and an honourable increase of fortune. At this point, Socrates, who is supposed to be the interlocutor, interrupts.  Certainly I do, is the reply, for it enables me to honour the gods magnificently, to help my friends if they are in want, and to contribute to the resources of my country. Here, definitely and precisely expressed, is the ideal of the Athenian gentleman, the beautiful body housing the beautiful soul, the external aids of fortune, friends and the like, and the realisation of the individual self in public activity. Upon it follows an account of the way in which Iscomicus was accustomed to pass his days. He rises early, he tells us, to catch his friends before they go out, or walks to the city to transact his necessary business. If he is not called into town, he pays a visit to his farm, walking for the sake of exercise, and sending on his horse. On his arrival, he gives directions about the sewing, plowing, or whatever it may be. And then, mounting his horse, practices his military exercises. Finally he returns home on foot, running part of the way, takes his bath, and sits down to a moderate midday meal. This combination of physical exercise, military training and business arouses the enthusiasm of Socrates. How right you are, he cries, and the consequence is that you are as healthy and strong as we see you, and one of the best riders and the wealthiest men in the country. This little prosaic account of the daily life of an Athenian gentleman is completely in harmony with all we have said about the character of the Greek ideal. But it comprehends only a part, and that the least spiritual of that rich and many-sided excellence. It may be as well, therefore, to append by way of compliment the description of another personality, exceptional indeed even among the Greeks, yet one which only Greece could have produced, the personality of Socrates. No more striking figure is presented to us in history. None has been more vividly portrayed, and none in spite of the originality of mind which provoked the hostility of the crowd is more thoroughly Hellenic in every aspect, physical, intellectual, and moral.  But apart from these defects his physique, it appears, was exceptionally good. He was sedulous in his attendance at the gymnasium, and was noted for his powers of endurance, and his courage and skill in war. Plato records it of him that in a hard winter on campaign, when the common soldiers were muffling themselves in sheepskins and felt against the cold, he alone went about in his ordinary cloak, and barefoot over the ice and snow, and he further describes his bearing in a retreat from a lost battle. How there you might see him, just as he is in the streets of Athens, stalking like a pelican, and rolling his eyes, calmly contemplating enemies as well as friends, and making very intelligible to anybody, even from a distance, that whoever attacked him would be likely to meet with a stout resistance. To this efficiency of body corresponded in accordance with the Greek ideal, a perfect balance and harmony of soul. Plato in a fine figure compares him to the wooden statues of Silinus, which concealed behind a grotesque exterior beautiful golden images of the gods. Of these divine forms none was fairer in Socrates than that typical Greek virtue, temperance. Without a touch of asceticism, he knew how to be contented with a little. His diet he measured strictly with a view to health. Naturally, obstemious, he could drink when he chose more than another man. But no one had ever seen him drunk. His affections were strong and deep, but never led him away to seek his own gratification at the cost of those he loved. Without cutting himself off from any of the pleasures of life, a social man and a frequent guest at feasts, he preserved without an effort the supremacy of character and mind over the flesh he neither starved nor pampered. Here is a description by Plato of his bearing at the close of an all-night carousel, which may stand as a concrete illustration not only of the character of Socrates, but of the meaning of temperance, as it was understood by the Greeks. Aristodemus said that Eric Simacus, Fidrus, and others went away. He himself fell asleep, and as the nights were long, took a good rest. He was awakened towards daybreak by a crowing of cocks. And when he awoke, the others were either asleep or had gone away. There remained awake only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon, who were drinking out of a large goblet which they passed round, and Socrates was discoursing to them. Aristodemus did not hear the beginning of the discourse, and he was only half awake. But the chief thing which he remembered was Socrates compelling the other two to acknowledge that the genius of comedy was the same as that of tragedy, and that the true artist in tragedy was an artist in comedy also. To this they assented being drowsy, and not quite following the argument. And first of all Aristophanes dropped off. Then when the day was already dawning, Agathon. Socrates, when he had laid them to sleep, rose to depart. Aristodemus, as his manner was following him. At the Lyceum he took a bath, and passed the day as usual. In the evening he retired to rest at his own house. With this quality of temperance was combined in Socrates a rare measure of independence and moral courage. He was never an active politician, but as every Athenian citizen was called at some time or another to public office, he found himself on a critical occasion responsible for putting a certain proposition to the vote in the Assembly. It was a moment of intense excitement. A great victory had just been won, but the generals who had achieved the success had neglected to recover the corpses of the dead, or to save the shipwrecked. It was proposed to take a vote of life or death on all the generals collectively. Socrates, as it happened, was one of the committee whose duty it was to put the question to the Assembly. But the proposition was in itself illegal, and Socrates with some other members of the committee refused to submit it to the vote. Every kind of pressure was brought to bear upon the recalcitrant officers. Orators threatened, friends besought, the mob clamoured and denounced. Finally all but Socrates gave way. He alone, an old man in office for the first time, had the courage to obey his conscience and the law in face of an angry populace crying for blood. And as he could stand against a mob, so he could stand against a despot. At the time when Athens was ruled by the thirty tyrants, he was ordered with four others to arrest a man whom the authorities wished to put out of the way. The man was guilty of no crime and Socrates refused. I went quietly home, he says, and no doubt I should have been put to death for it if the government had not shortly after come to an end. These, however, were exceptional episodes in the career of a man who was never a prominent politician. The main interest of Socrates was intellectual and moral, an interest, however, rather practical than speculative. For though he was charged in his indictment with preaching atheism, he appears, in fact, to have concerned himself little or nothing with either theological or physical inquiries. He was careful in his observance of all prescribed religious rights, and probably accepted the gods as powers of the natural world and authors of human institutions and laws. His originality lay not in any purely speculative views, but in the pertinacious curiosity, practical in its origin and aim, with which he attacked and sifted the ethical conceptions of his time. What is justice? What is piety? What is temperance? These were the kinds of questions he never tired of raising, pointing out contradictions and inconsistencies in current ideas, and awakening doubts, which, if negative in form, were positive and fruitful in effect. His method in pursuing these inquiries was that of cross-examination, in the streets, in the market, in the gymnasia, at meetings grave and gay. In season or out of season, he raised his points of definition. The city was in a ferment around him, young men and boys followed and hung on his lips wherever he went. By the charm of his personality, his gracious courtesy and wit, and the large and generous atmosphere of a sympathy always at hand to temper, to particular persons, the rigours of a generalising logic, he drew to himself with a fascination, not more of the intellect than of the heart, all that was best and brightest in the youth of Athens. His relation to his young disciples was that of a lover and a friend, and the stimulus given by his dialectics to their keen and eager minds was supplemented and reinforced by the appeal to their admiration and love of his sweet and virile personality. Only in ancient Athens, perhaps, could such a character and such conditions have met the sociable outdoor city life, the meeting places in the open air, and especially the gymnasia, frequented by young and old, not more for exercise of the body than for recreation of the mind. The nimble and versatile Athenian wits trained to preter natural acuteness by the debates of the law courts and the assembly. All this was exactly the environment fitted to develop and sustain a genius at once so subtle and so humane as that of Socrates. It is the concrete presentation of this city life that lends so peculiar a charm to the dialogues of Plato. The spirit of metaphysics puts on the human form, and dialectic walks the streets and contends in the polystra. It would be impossible to convey by citation the cumulative effect of this constant reference in Plato to a human background, but a single excerpt may perhaps help us to realize the conditions under which Socrates lived and worked. Here then is a description of the scene in one of those gymnasia in which he was wont to hold his conversations. Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing, and this part of the festival was nearly at an end. They were all in white array, and games at dice were going on among them. Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves, but some were in a corner of the apothetarium, playing at odd and even, with a number of dice, which they took out of little wicker baskets. There was also a circle of lookers on, one of whom was Lucis. He was standing among the other boys and youths, having a crown upon his head, like a fair vision, and not less worthy of praise for his goodness than for his beauty. We left them, and went over to the opposite side of the room, where, finding a quiet place, we sat down, and then we began to talk. This attracted Lucis, who was constantly turning round to look at us. He was evidently wanting to come to us, for a time he hesitated, and had not the courage to come alone. But first of all his friend Menexenus came out of the court in the interval of his play, and when he saw Ctesipus and myself came and sat by us, and then Lucis, seeing him, followed, and sat down with him, and the other boys joined. I turned to Menexenus and said, Son of Demophon, which of you two youths is the elder? That is a matter of dispute between us, he said. And which is the nobler? Is that a matter of dispute too? Yes, certainly. And another disputed point is, which is the fairer? The two boys laughed. I shall not ask which is the richer, I said, for you two are friends, are you not? Certainly, they replied, and friends have all things in common, so that one of you can be no richer than the other, if you say truly that you are friends. They assented. I was about to ask which was the greater of the two, and which was the wiser of the two. But at this moment Menexenus was called away by someone who came and said that the gymnastic master wanted him. I supposed that he had to offer sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked Lucis some more questions. Such were the scenes in which Socrates passed his life. Of his influence it is hardly necessary here to speak at length. In the well-known metaphor put into his mouth by Plato, he was the gadfly of the Athenian people, to prick intellectual lethargy, to force people to think, and especially to think about the conceptions with which they supposed themselves to be most familiar, those which guided their conduct in private and public affairs, justice, expediency, honesty, and the like. Such was the constant object of his life, that he should have made enemies, that he should have been misunderstood, that he should have been accused of undermining the foundations of morality and religion, is natural and intelligible enough, and it was on these grounds that he was condemned to death. His conduct at his trial was of a peace with the rest of his life. The customary arts of the pleader, the appeal to the sympathies of the public, the introduction into court of weeping wife and children, he rejected as unworthy of himself and of his cause. His defence was a simple exposition of the character and the aims of his life. So far from being a criminal, he asserted that he was a benefactor of the Athenian people, and having, after his condemnation, to suggest the sentence he thought appropriate, he proposed that he should be supported at the public expense, as one who had deserved well of his country. After his sentence to death, having to wait thirty days for its execution, he showed no change from his customary cheerfulness, passing his time in conversation with his friends. So far from regretting his fate, he rather congratulated himself that he would escape the decadence that attends upon old age, and he had, if we may trust Plato, a fair and confident assurance that a happy life awaited him beyond. He died according to the merciful law of Athens by drinking hemlock, the wisest and justest and best in Plato's judgment of all the men that I have ever known. We have dwelt thus long on the personality of Socrates, familiar though it be, not only on account of its intrinsic interest, but also because it is peculiarly Hellenic. That sunny and frank intelligence bathed does it wear in the open air, a gracious blossom springing from the root of physical health, that unique and perfect balance of body and soul, passion and intellect, represent against the brilliant setting of Athenian life, the highest achievement of the civilisation of Greece. The figure of Socrates, no doubt, has been idealised by Plato, but it is nonetheless significant of the trend of Hellenic life. No other people could have conceived such an ideal. No other could have gone so far towards its realisation. End of Chapter 3, Section 7. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 3, Section 8 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 3, Section 8 The Greek View of Woman In the preceding account, we have attempted to give some conception of the Greek ideal for the individual man. It is now time to remind ourselves that that ideal was only supposed to be proper to a small class, the class of soldier-citizens, artisans and slaves, as we have seen, had no participation in it. Neither, and that is our next point, had women. Nothing more profoundly distinguishes the Hellenic from the modern view of life than the estimate in which women were held by the Greeks. Their opinion on this point was partly the cause and partly the effect of that preponderance of the idea of the state, on which we have already dwelt, and from which it followed naturally enough that marriage should be regarded primarily as a means of producing healthy and efficient citizens. This view is best illustrated by the institutions of such a state as Sparta, where, as we saw, the woman was specially trained for maternity, and connections outside the marriage-tie were sanctioned by custom and opinion, if they were such as were likely to lead to healthy offspring. Further, it may be noted that in almost every state the exposure of deformed or sickly infants was encouraged by law, the child being thus regarded from the beginning as a member of the state, rather than as a member of the family. The same view is reflected in the speculations of political philosophers. Plato, indeed, in his Republic, go so far as to eliminate the family relation altogether. Not only is the whole connection between men and women to be regulated by the state, in respect both of the persons and of the limit of age within which they may associate, but the children as soon as they are born are to be carried off to a common nursery, there to be reared together, undistinguished by the mothers, who will suckle indifferently any infant that might happen to be assigned to them for the purpose. Here, as in other instances, Plato goes far beyond the limit set by the current sentiment of the Greeks, and in his later work is reluctantly constrained to abandon his scheme of community of wives and children. Yet even there he makes it compulsory on every man to marry between the ages of 30 and 35 under penalty of fine and civil disabilities. Plato, no doubt, as we have said, exaggerates the opinions of his time, but the view which he pushes to its extreme of the subordination of the family to the state was one, as we have already pointed out, which did predominate in Greece. It reappears in a soberer form in the treatise of Aristotle. He too would regulate by law both the age at which marriages should take place, and the number of children that should be produced, and would have all deformed infants exposed. And here, no doubt, he is speaking in conformity, if not with the practice, at least with the feeling of Greece. The modern conception that the marriage relation is a matter of private concern, and that any individual has a right to wed whom and when he will, and to produce children at his own discretion, regardless of all considerations of health and decency, was one altogether alien to the Greeks. In theory at least, and to some extent in practice, as for example in the case of Sparta, they recognized that the production of children was a business of supreme import to the state, and that it was right and proper that it should be regulated by law, with a view to the advantage of the whole community. And if now we turn from considering the family in its relation to the state, to regard it in its relation to the individual, we are struck once more by a divergence from the modern point of view, or rather from the view which is supposed to prevail, particularly by writers of fiction, at any rate in modern English life. In ancient Greece, so far as our knowledge goes, there was little or no romance connected with the marriage tie. Marriage was a means of producing legitimate children. That is how it is defined by Demosthenes, and we have no evidence that it was ever regarded as anything more. In Athens we know that marriages were commonly arranged by the father, much as they are in modern France, on grounds of age, property, connection, and the like, and without any regard for the inclination of the parties concerned. And an interesting passage in Xenophon indicates a point of view quite consonant with this accepted practice. God, he says, ordained the institution of marriage, but on what grounds? Not in the least for the sake of the personal relation that might be established between the husband and wife, but for ends quite external and indifferent to any affection that might exist between them. First, for the perpetuation of the human race. Secondly, to raise up protectors for the father in his old age. Thirdly, to secure an appropriate division of labour. The man performing the outdoor work, the woman guarding and superintending at home, and each thus fulfilling duly the function for which they were designed by nature. This eminently prosaic way of conceiving the marriage relation is also it would seem eminently Greek, and it leads us to consider more particularly the opinion prevalent in Greece of the nature and duty of woman in general. Here the first point to be noticed is the wide difference of the view represented in the Homeric poems from that which meets us in the historic period. Readers of the Iliad and the Odyssey will find depicted there amid all the barbarity of an age of raping and war, relations between men and women so tender, faithful and beautiful that they may almost stand as universal types of the ultimate human ideal. Such for example is the relation between Odysseus and Penelope, the wife waiting year by year for the husband whose fate is unknown, wooed in vain by suitors who waste her substance and wear her life, nightly watering her bed with her tears for twenty weary years, till at last the wanderer returns and at once her knees were loosened and her heart melted within her and she fell a weeping and ran straight towards him and cast her hands about his neck and kissed his head. For even as the sight of the land is welcome to Marinus so welcome to her was the sight of her lord and her white arms would never quite leave hold of his neck. Such again is the relation between Hector and Andromache, as described in the well-known scene of the Iliad, where the wife comes out with her babe to take leave of the husband on his way to battle. It were better for me, she cries, to go down to the grave if I lose thee, for never will any comfort be mine when once thou even thou hast met thy fate but only sorrow. Thou art to me father and lady mother, yay and brother, even as thou art my goodly husband.  Hector answers with the plea of honour, he cannot draw back, but he foresee his defeat, and in his anticipation of the future nothing is so bitter as the fate he fears for his wife. Yet doth the conquest of the Trojans hereafter not so much trouble me, neither Hector be his own, neither King Priam's, neither my brethren's, the many and the brave that shall fall in the dust before their foemen, as doth thine anguish in the day when some male clad Achaian shall lead thee weeping and rob thee of the light of freedom. But me in death may the heaped-up earth be covering ere I hear thy crying and thy carrying into captivity. But most striking of all the portraits of women to be found in Homer, and most typical of a frank and healthy relation between the sexes, is the account of Nausicaa given in the odyssey. Ulysses, shipwrecked and naked, battered and covered with brine, surprises Nausicaa, and her maidens as they are playing at ball on the shore. The attendants run away, but Nausicaa remains to hear what the stranger has to say. He asks her for shelter and clothing, and she grants the request with an exquisite courtesy and a freedom from all embarrassment, which becomes only the more marked and the more delightful when, as she sees him emerge from the bath, clothed and beautiful, she cannot restrain the exclamation, would that such a one might be called my husband, dwelling here, and that it might please him here to abide. About the whole scene there is a freshness and a fragrance as of early morning, and a tone so natural, free and frank, that in the face of this rustic idyll, the later centuries sicken and faint, like candle-light in the splendour of the dawn. If we had only Homer to give us our ideas of the Greeks, we might conclude from such passages as these, that they had a conception of woman and her relation to man finer and nobler in some respects than that of modern times. But in fact the Homeric poems represent a civilisation which had passed away before the opening of the period with which at present we are chiefly concerned, and in the interval, for reasons which we need not here attempt to state, a change had taken place in the whole way of regarding the female sex. So far at any rate as our authorities enable us to judge, woman, in the historic age, was conceived to be so inferior to man, but he recognised in her no other end than to minister to his pleasure, or to become the mother of his children. Romance and the higher companionship of intellect and spirit do not appear with certain notable exceptions to have been commonly sought or found in this relation. Woman, in fact, was regarded as a means, not as an end, and was treated in a manner consonant with this view. Of this estimate many illustrations might be adduced from the writers of the fifth and fourth centuries. Plato, for example, classes together children, women and servants, and states generally that there is no branch of human industry in which the female sex is not inferior to the male. Similarly Aristotle insists again and again on the natural inferiority of woman, and illustrates it by such quaint observations as the following. A man would be considered a coward who was only as brave as a brave woman, and a woman as a chatterbox who was only as modest as a good man. But the most striking example, perhaps, because the most unconscious of this habitual way of regarding women, is to be found in the funeral oration put by Thucydides into the mouth of Pericles, where the speaker, after suggesting what consolation he can to the fathers of the slain, turns to the women with the brief but significant exhortation. If I am to speak of womanly virtues to those of you who will henceforth be widows, let me sum them up in one short admonition. To a woman not to show more weakness than is natural to her sex is a great glory, and not to be talked about for good or for evil among men. The sentiments of the poets are less admissible as evidence, but some of them are so extreme that they may be adduced as a further indication of a point of view whose prevalence alone could render them even dramatically plausible. Such, for example, is the remark which Euripides puts into the mouth of his Medea. Women are impotent for good, but clever contrivers of all evil, or that of one of the characters of Menander. A woman is necessarily an evil, and he is a lucky man who catches her in the mildest form. While the general Greek view of the dependence of woman on man is well expressed in the words of Aethra in the suppliance of Euripides, it is proper for women who are wise to let men act for them in everything. In accordance with this conception of the inferiority of the female sex, and partly as a cause, partly as an effect of it, we find that the position of the wife in ancient Greece was simply that of the domestic drudge. To stay at home and mind the house was her recognised ideal. A free woman should be bounded by the street door, says one of the characters in Menander, and another writer discriminates as follows the functions of the two sexes. War, politics, and public speaking are the sphere of man. That of woman is to keep house, to stay at home, and to receive and tend her husband. We are not surprised, therefore, to find that the symbol of woman is the tortoise, and in the following burlesque passage from Aristophanes we shall recognise, in spite of the touch of caricature, the genuine features of the Greek wife. Praksagora is recounting the merits and services of women. They dip their wool in hot water, according to the ancient plan, all of them without exception, and never make the slightest innovation. They sit and cook as of old. They carry upon their heads as of old. They conduct the thesmophoriae as of old. They wear out their husbands as of old. They buy sweets as of old. They take their wine neat as of old. And that this was also the kind of ideal approved by their lords and masters, and that any attempt to pass beyond it was resented is amusingly illustrated in the following extract from the same poet, where Lysistrata explains the growing indignation of the women at the bad conduct of affairs by the men, and the way in which their attempts to interfere were resented. The comments of the magistrate typify, of course, the man's point of view. Think of our old moderation and gentleness. Think how we bore with your pranks and we're still, all through the days of your former prognacity, all through the war that is over and spent. Not that be sure we approved of your policy. Never our griefs you allowed us to vent. Well, we perceived your mistakes and mismanagement. Often at home on our housekeeping cares. Often we heard of some foolish proposal you made for conducting the public affairs.  Husband, how goes it abroad? we would ask of him. What have he done in assembly today? What would he write on the side of the treaty stone? Husband says angrily, what's that to you? You hold your tongue. And I held it accordingly. Stratilis, that is a thing which I never would do. Magistrate, marm, if you hadn't, you'd soon have repented it. Therefore I held it, and speak not a word, soon of another tremendous absurdity, wilder and worse than the former we heard.  Viciously, moodily, glaring as scants at me. Stick to your spinning, my mistress, says he. Else you will speedily find it the worse for you. War is the care and the business of men. Zeus was a worthy reply, and an excellent. What you unfortunate, shall we not then, then, when we see you perplexed and incompetent, shall we not tender advice to the state? The conception thus indicated in burlesque of the proper place of woman is expressed more seriously from the point of view of the average man in the Oiconomicos of Xenophon. Iscomacus, the hero of that work, with whom we have already made acquaintance, gives an account of his own wife and of the way in which he had trained her. When he married her, he explains, she was not yet fifteen, and had been brought up with the utmost care, that she might see here and ask as little as possible.  My duty, my mother said, is simply to be modest. Iscomacus proceeds to explain to her the place he expects her to fill. She is to suckle his children, to cook and to superintend the house, and for this purpose God has given her special gifts, different from but not necessarily inferior to those of man. Husband and wife naturally supply one another's deficiencies, and if the wife perform her function wordily, she may even make herself the ruling partner, and be sure that as she grows older, she will be held not less, but more in honour, as the guardian of her children, and the stewardess of her husband's goods. In Xenophon's view, in fact, the inferiority of the woman almost disappears, and the sentiment approximates closely to that of Tennyson. Either sex alone is half itself, and in true marriage lies nor equal nor unequal, each fulfills defect in each. Such a conception, however, of the complementary relation of woman to man, does not exclude a conviction of her essential inferiority. And this conviction, it can hardly be disputed, was a cardinal point in the Greek view of life.