predestined even before birth to evil, cast out to die on Mount Cithaeron, but rescued by the cruel kindness of a stranger to kill his own father, to marry his own mother, to beget children that were his brothers and sisters, and to die, an exile, in self-inflicted blindness, bequeathing his evil fate to guilty sons and a guiltless daughter! But Epictetus would not let Edipus alone: "It is among the rich, the kings, and the despots, that tragedies find place. No poor man fills a tragic part except as one of the chorus. But the kings begin with prosperity, commanding their subjects (like Edipus) to fix garlands on their houses in joy and thankfulness to the Gods. Then, about the third or fourth act, comes Alas, Cithaeron, why didst thou receive and shelter me?' Poor, servile wretch, where are your crowns now? Where is your royal diadem? Cannot your guards assist you?"

All this was in stage-play, the agony of the king and the scoffing of the philosopher so life-like as to be quite painful— at least to me. Then Epictetus turned to us in his own person: "Well, then, in the act of approaching one of these great people, remember this, that you are going to a tragedian. By tragedian' I do not mean an actor, but a tragic person, Edipus himself. But perhaps you say to me 'Yes, but such and such a lord or ruler may be called blessed. For he walks with a multitude'"-of slaves, he meant "around him.' See, then I too go and place myself in company with that multitude. Do not I also walk with a multitude'? But to sum up. Remember that the door is always open. Do not be more cowardly than the children. When they cease to take pleasure in their game, they cry at once I will not play any more.' So you, too, as soon as things appear to you to point to that conclusion, say, 'I will not play any more.' And be off. Or, if you stay, don't keep complaining."

This was the end of the lecture, and I felt gladder than ever that Glaucus had gone; for he seemed to me to have been just in the mood to take to heart that last suggestion, "The door is always open." I hastened to his rooms, but he was not there. I found however that he was expected back soon, for he was making preparations for a journey. Leaving

word that I should call again in an hour, I determined to use the interval to leave Arrian's note with Epictetus.

The Master was disengaged and gave me a most kindly welcome, asking with manifest interest about Arrian and his prospects, and giving me to understand that he had heard of me, too, from Arrian and others. His countenance always expressed vigour, but on this occasion it had even more than its usual glow. Perhaps he was a little flushed with the exertion of his lecture. Perhaps he was glad to hear that at least one pupil, likely to do good work in the world, was remembering him gratefully in Bithynia. Possibly he thought another such pupil stood before him. I had never seen him close, face to face. Now I felt strongly drawn towards him, but not quite as pupil to master. From the moment of leaving the lecture-room that day, I had been repeating, "Alas, Cithaeron, why didst thou receive and preserve me?" Poor Edipus! He seemed to sum up the cry of myriads of mortals predestined to misery. And what gospel had my Master for them? Nothing but mockery, Nothing but mockery, "Poor, servile

wretches!"

Yet I had felt almost sure, even from the first utterance of the cruel words, that he had not intended to be cruel. Now, as I stood looking down into his face and he up at mine, some kind of subtle fellowship seemed to spring up between us. At least I felt it in myself and thought I saw it in him. And it grew stronger as we conversed. I rapidly recalled the reproach he had just now addressed to himself in his lecture, as coming from one of his pupils, "Are you so hard hearted?" At the moment I had asked "Could it possibly be true?" Now I knew it was not true. Certainly he had been absorbed in God. His God was not the God of Christ. It was a Being of Goodness of some sort, but impersonal, an Alone, not a real Father. Such as it was, however, Epictetus had been absorbed in it. He motioned to me to be seated, and began to question me about friends of his in Rome.

I was on the point of replying, when the door burst open and Glaucus suddenly rushed in, beside himself with fury. Striding

straight up to Epictetus, he began pouring forth a tale of wrongs, treacheries, outrages and malignities, perpetrated on his family in Corinth. He took no notice of my presence, and I doubt whether he was even aware of it, as he burst out into passionate reproaches on our Master for teaching that a son must witness such sufferings in a father or mother, brother or sister, and say, These evils are no evils to me."

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It would serve no useful purpose, nor should I be able, to set down exactly what Glaucus said. Let it suffice that he had only too much reason for burning indignation against certain miscreants in Corinth. He had only that morning received news—which had been kept back from him by treachery—that cruel and powerful enemies had brought ruin, desolation, and disgrace upon his family. His father had been suddenly imprisoned on false charges, his sister had been shamefully humiliated, and his mother had died of a broken heart. Epictetus," he cried, "do you hear this? Or do you make yourself a stone to me, as you bid us make ourselves stones when men smite us and revile us? Do you still assert that there are no evils except to the evil-minded? By Zeus in heaven, if there is a Zeus and if there is a heaven, I would sooner torture myself like a Sabazian, or be crucified like a Christian, or writhe with Ixion in hell, that I might at least cry out in the hearing of Gods and men, 'These things are evil, they are, they are,' than be transported to the side of the throne above with you, looking down on the things that have befallen my father, mother, and sister, and repeating my Epictetian catechism, I am in perfect bliss and blessedness; these things are no evils to me! O man, man, are you a hypocrite, or are you indeed a stone?" So saying, without waiting for a word of reply, he rushed from the room.

I went with him. I was not sure-nor am I now-whether Epictetus wished me to stay or to go. But I thought Glaucus needed me most. My heart went out to him when I heard for the first time how shamefully he had been deceived and how cruelly his family had been outraged, and I did not know what he might do in his despair. Besides, if I had stayed, could Epictetus have helped me to help my friend? What would his

helping have been? It could have been nothing more—if he had been consistent-than to repeat for the thousandth time that Glaucus's "trouble," and my "trouble" for Glaucus's sake, were mere dogmas, or "convictions," and that our "convictions" were wrong and must be given up. Would he have been consistent? Would he have said these things?

To this day I cannot tell. As I followed Glaucus out of the room, while in the act of turning round to close the door, I had my Master at a disadvantage. I saw him, but he did not see me. His head was drooping. The light was gone from his face; the eyes were lacking their usual lustre; the forehead was drawn as if in pain. It was no longer Epictetus the Godabsorbed, but Epictetus the God-abandoned. If I had turned to him with a reproach, "Epictetus, you are breaking your own. rule. You are sorrowing, sorrowing in earnest," would he have replied, "No, only in appearance, not from within"? I do not think he would. He was too honest. To this day I verily believe that for once, at least for that once, our Master broke his own rule and felt real "trouble." And I love him the better for it. That indeed is how I always like to remember his face as I saw it for the last time, not knowing that it was the last, through the closing door-clouded with real grief, while I was leaving him for ever without farewell, never trusting so little in his teaching, never loving the teacher so much.

CHAPTER XXIX

SILANUS MEETS CLEMENS

WE walked on together, both of us silent, till we came to Glaucus's rooms. "Farewell," said he. I replied that I would come in to see whether I could help him to make arrangements for his journey. He said nothing, but suffered me to enter. For some time I busied myself with practical matters. So did Glaucus. But every now and then he stopped, and sat down as though dazed. I questioned him about his journey and time of starting. Finding that only two or three hours remained, I urged him to rouse himself. "It will be of no use,' he said, "but you are right." Then he exclaimed bitterly, "Am I not obeying Epictetus? Am I not making myself a stone?" 'Not quite," said I, "for a stone feels nothing. You are worse than a stone. For you feel much, yet do nothing to help those for whom you feel." "Thank you for that," said he. Then he roused himself. He did injustice to Epictetus, yet I perceived, as never before, how harmful this "stone-doctrine"-if I may so call it might prove to many

people.

I have no space, nor have I the right, to describe more fully Glaucus's private affairs, the courage, affection, and steadfastness with which he bore the burdens of his family and saved his father and sister from their worst extremity. His course was different from Arrian's. Arrian remained outside the fold. Glaucus found peace as I did. And I know that many a suffering soul in Corinth suffered the less because Glaucus, having experienced such a weight of sorrow himself, had