Read Ebook: The Characters of Theophrastus A Translation with Introduction by Theophrastus BCE BCE Bennett Charles E Charles Edwin Translator Hammond William A William Alexander Translator

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He tells us what a man does, simply as an illustration of what he is, and this method of writing had a very intimate bearing on the evolution of the New Comedy under the leadership of Menander. There is a tradition, in fact, that Theophrastus was the teacher of Menander, who in turn furnished models for Terence in his delineation of conventional dramatic types. The influence of Theophrastus was further directly and potently exerted on the so-called character-writers of the seventeenth century in England and France. The simple methods of these character-writers and their uninvolved sketches were succeeded by the more elaborate art of the novelists, in whose works individuals rather than types are described by exhibiting their development in long periods of time and under great diversity of circumstances.

It is doubtless true, however, that he influenced his own time as much by his administrative ability in the conduct of the Lyceum and by his oral utterances as by his written treatises. His prodigious industry was no doubt partially inspired by Aristotle as well as by the swift, stirring movement of the age immediately preceding and following the death of Alexander, in which his literary manhood was passed. "Time," he says, "is the most valuable thing a man can spend." He expressed his sense of the value of order in the apothegm: "Better trust a horse without bridle than a discourse without arrangement." His estimate of oral converse at table is recorded in a rather brusque and un-Athenian remark said to have been made by him to a silent neighbor at dinner: "Sir, if you are an ignorant man, your conduct shows wisdom; but if you are a wise man, you act like a fool." The genuinely kind character of Theophrastus, however, is amply illustrated by the provisions of his will, which evidences also his very considerable wealth. He had inherited from Aristotle the largest private library then known. This library, to which he had himself made notable additions, he bequeathed to Neleus, his nephew , and by Neleus it was taken to Asia Minor, where it was hidden in a cellar to avoid the rapacity of the agents of the Attalid dynasty, who were seizing all available books for the Royal Library at Pergamon. And hereby hangs the curious old story of the loss of Aristotle's works for one hundred and fifty years, until they were rediscovered, worm eaten, in the cellar of Neleus at Scepsis. A Museum,--temple of the muses,--had been built by Theophrastus as the home of the Lyceum. In his will he provided that this should be maintained and beautified, that statues of the illustrious dead should be completed, for which commissions had already been given to the renowned sculptor Praxiteles; further, that tablets with maps of the world engraved on them should be erected in the lower colonnade. In acknowledgment of the claims of religion, he also directed that an altar should be placed there. He devised the garden, promenade, and houses adjoining the garden to the joint control of Hipparchus, Neleus, Strato, and their successors, as a trust, enjoining that a school of philosophy should be maintained in them, and that the property should never be alienated from this purpose nor claimed as private possession. After piously making provision for certain friends and the support of faithful attendants, he further directed that he should be buried in the school garden without unnecessary expense or ceremony.

As to the serious function of instruction which Theophrastus no doubt aims to combine with that of entertainment, there is no more skilful mode of inducing moral betterment than the discovery and exposure of the ludicrous. Most men would rather incur the charge of immorality than be exposed to the belittling laugh or derision of a community; they would rather be rogues than fools. The portrait-painter of moral life makes use of the ludicrous when he desires to catch the popular attention, and there is nothing, one may safely say, that makes society at large prick up its ears and fall to gossiping so much as a satire in which some well-known person is subjected to ridicule.

The original name of Theophrastus, according to tradition, was Tyrtamus, but owing to his divine speech Aristotle gave him the name which has come down to us.

A character is the individuality which is engraved by habits and temperament on a man or group of men, and in a literary sense it is the verbal delineation of this individuality.

THEOPHRASTUS TO POLYCLES:

Dissembling, generally speaking, is an affectation, whether in word or action, intended to make things seem other than they really are. The dissembler is a man, for instance, who accosts his enemies and engages readily in talk with them, to show that he bears no grudge, and who praises to their faces the very men he slanders behind their backs; and when these lose a suit at court, he professes sympathy for their misfortune. When men malign him, or the opposition's loud, he is ever ready with forgiveness.

When others have suffered such ill-treatment as to have just cause for indignation, his comments on their wrongs are couched in non-committal terms. And when a man is anxious to have an interview with him, he bids him come again, pretending that he has just reached home, that the hour is late, or that his health is too feeble to bear the strain.

Flattery is a cringing sort of conduct that aims to promote the advantage of the flatterer. The flatterer is the kind of man who, as he walks with an acquaintance, says: "Behold! how the people gaze at you! There is not a man in the city who enjoys so much notice as yourself. Yesterday your praises were the talk of the Porch. While above thirty men were sitting there together and the conversation fell upon the topic: 'Who is our noblest citizen?' they all began and ended with your name." As the flatterer goes on talking in this strain he picks a speck of lint from his hero's cloak; or if the wind has lodged a bit of straw in his locks, he plucks it off and says laughingly, "See you? Because I have not been with you these two days, your beard is turned gray. And yet if any man has a beard that is black for his years, it is you."

While his patron speaks, he bids the rest be silent. He sounds his praises in his hearing and after the patron's speech gives the cue for applause by "Bravo!" If the patron makes a stale jest, the flatterer laughs and stuffs his sleeve into his mouth as though he could not contain himself.

Amongst guests at a banquet he is the first to praise the wine and, doing it ample justice, he observes: "What a fine cuisine you have!" He takes a bit from the board and exclaims: "What a dainty morsel this is!" Then he inquires whether his friend is chilly, asks if he would like a wrap put over his shoulders, and whether he shall throw one about him. With these words he bends over and whispers in his ear. While his talk is directed to the rest, his eye is fixed on his patron. In the theatre he takes the cushions from the page and himself adjusts them for the comfort of the master. Of his hero's house he says: "It is well built"; of his farm: "It is well tilled"; and of his portrait: "It is a speaking image."

Cowardice is a certain shrinking of the heart. A coward is a man who, as he sails along, imagines that the cliffs in the distance are pirate ships; if the waves are high, he asks if there's anybody in the ship's company who has not been initiated into the mysteries. He bends over toward the helmsman and inquires whether he intends to keep to the high sea, and what he thinks of the weather; and to his companion says that he is in terror in consequence of a dream he has had; and he takes off his tunic and gives it to his slave, and begs to be set on shore.

In a campaign, when the infantry march forth, he bids his comrades stand by him and look sharp, urging the importance of finding out whether yonder object be the foe or not. When he hears the sound of battle, and sees men fall, he says to those about him that, in his haste, he has forgotten to take his sword; then he runs back to his tent, sends his servant out and bids him see where the enemy are; meanwhile he hides his weapon under his pillow, and then wastes a long time hunting for it. While in his tent, seeing one of his companions brought wounded from the field, he runs out, bids the fellow "Cheer up!" and lends a hand to carry the stretcher. And then he stays to tend the sufferer, washes his wounds, and sits by his side driving away the flies,--anything but fight the enemy.

When the trumpeter sounds the signal for a fresh onset, he exclaims as he sits in his tent: "Plague take him! He won't let the poor fellow get to sleep with his eternal bugling." Then, staining himself with blood from the other's wound, he meets the troops as they return from battle, and pretending to have been in the thick of the fight, he exclaims, "I've saved a comrade!" And then he takes his demesmen and tribesmen into the tent, and assures each one of them that he himself brought the wounded man to the tent with his own hands.

Apparently the reference is to the Samothracian mysteries, initiation in which was thought to ensure protection at sea in time of danger.

Over-zealousness is an excess in saying or doing,--with good intentions, of course. The over-zealous man is one who gets up in public and engages to do things which he cannot perform. In cases where no doubt exists in the mind of anyone else, he raises some objection--only to be refuted.

At a banquet, he forces the servants to mix more wine than the guests can drink. If he sees two men in a quarrel, he strives to part them though he knows neither one. Leaving the main road he leads his friends upon a by-path and presently cannot find his way. He accosts his commander and inquires when he is going to draw up the troops for battle, and what orders he intends to issue for day after to-morrow.

He goes and tells his father that his mother is already asleep in her chamber. If the doctor gives instructions that no wine be given a patient, he administers "just a little," on the plea that he wants to set the sufferer right. And when a woman dies, he has carved on the tombstone her husband's name, and her father's and her mother's, along with the woman's own name and her native place, and adds: "Worthy people, all of them." In court, as he takes the oath, he remarks to the bystanders, "I have done this many a time before."

Tactlessness is the faculty of hitting a moment that is unpleasant to the persons concerned. The tactless man is the sort of person who selects a man's busy hour to go and confer with him. He serenades his sweetheart when she has a fever. If an acquaintance has just lost bail-money on a friend, he hunts him up and asks him to be his surety. After a verdict has been rendered he appears at the trial to give evidence. At a wedding where he is a guest he declaims against womankind.

When a friend has just finished a long journey he invites him to go for a walk. He has a faculty for fetching a higher bidder for an article after it has been sold; and in a group of companions he gets up and explains from the beginning a story which the others have just heard and have completely understood. He is anxious to give himself the trouble to do what nobody wants done, and yet what nobody likes to decline.

When men are in the midst of religious offerings and are making outlay of money, he goes to collect his interest. If he happens to be standing by when a slave is flogged, he tells the story of how he once flogged a slave, who then went away and hanged himself. If he is arbitrator in a dispute, he sets both contestants by the ears just at the moment when they are ready to settle their differences. When he wants to dance he takes a partner who is not yet merry.

Shamelessness may be defined as contempt for decency, joined with meanness of purpose. Your shameless fellow is one who robs a man and then returns to borrow money of him. He sacrifices a victim to the gods, and instead of making his supper from it, he salts the meat down and then gets a meal at the house of a friend. He calls a servant, and, taking bread and meat from the table, says in a voice that all can hear: "Try that, Tibios!"

When he goes to market, he reminds the butcher of all the patronage he has given him, and as he stands by the scales, throws in an extra piece, if he can, or if not, a soup-bone. If he secures these, he rests content. If he fails, he snatches a piece of tripe from the bench and makes off with it laughing. He buys theatre tickets for friends that are staying in town and goes along with them to the performance, but does not contribute his share of the expense; and the next day you'll find him taking his children and their tutor, too.

When anybody has found a bargain in any line, he demands to have a share. He goes to the neighbors and borrows barley, or sometimes even bran, and actually endeavors to make those who lend him these articles deliver them at his house. A favorite trick of his is to march up to the tubs in a private bath-house, draw a bucket of warm water, dash it over his head, despite the loud protests of the attendant, and then say, as he leaves: "That's a good bath; no thanks to you!"

Newsmaking is the concoction of false stories of what people say and do, at the gossip's caprice. The newsmonger is one who straightway strikes an attitude and assumes a smiling air when he meets a friend, and asks: "Where have you been? What news? How is the situation? Have you any fresh word about it?" and then going straight on, he asks: "Is there no later report? Well! the current rumors are good."

And without letting his friend reply, he keeps right on: "What! you haven't heard a word about it! Then I think I have a feast of news for you." He always has in readiness some unheard-of soldier or a slave belonging to one Asteus, a piper, or Lycon, an obscure contractor, just back from the battle-field; and it is from one of these that he has heard the tidings. The authorities for his reports are of the sort that you can never get hold of. Such are the men he quotes when he tells how Polyperchon and the king carried the day and Cassander was taken prisoner.

Cassander, the son of Antipater became involved in a struggle with Polyperchon, whom Antipater on his deathbed had appointed regent. Cassander met with many reverses, but finally secured undisputed possession of Macedonia and Greece.

Meanness is undue sparing of expense. The mean man is the sort of person who will go to a creditor's house and demand a half-penny interest before the month is up. At dinner he counts the glasses each guest drinks, and amongst his fellow banqueters he pours the smallest offering to Artemis.

He counts up the price a friend pays for a cheap purchase, exclaiming that it takes his last penny. If a servant breaks a pot or plate he deducts its value from his rations. If his wife has lost a three-farthing piece, he turns the furniture, beds, and cupboards round and round, and hunts between the boards of the floor. When he has anything to sell he puts the price so high that the buyer gets no bargain. He permits no one to take a fig from his garden or to cross his field, or even pick up an olive or a date that has fallen to the ground. He examines his boundary marks every day to see that they have not been touched.

And he is always ready in case of default to use the right of seizure and to collect compound interest. When he gives a banquet to his townsmen he cuts the meat in small pieces and sets a portion before each guest. He goes to market, but buys nothing. He forbids his wife to lend salt or a lamp-wick or a pinch of cummin, marjoram, or meal, a fillet or a sacrificial wafer, observing that these trifles make a large sum in the course of a year.

In a word, one may see that the mean man's money chest is mouldy from being unopened, the key rusty, his cloak too scant to reach his thigh; that he uses a mean little oil jar, has his hair cropped to the scalp; he does not wear his boots until midday, and charges the fuller to use plenty of earth on his coat to keep it from soon getting soiled again.

Stupidity one may define as sluggishness in what a man says or does. The stupid man computes a sum, sets down the total, and then asks his neighbor: "How much does it all make?" When he is defendant in a suit and should go to court, he forgets all about it and puts off to his farm. When he goes to a play at the theatre he is the only spectator that is left behind on the benches asleep. He gets up in the night to go out, after he has gorged himself, and is bitten by the neighbor's dog. He takes a thing and puts it away, but when he comes to look for it he cannot find it. If the death of a friend is announced to him that he may go to the funeral, with a sorrowful air and tears in his eyes he says: "Thank God!" When he goes to receive payment of a debt, he takes witnesses with him. In the winter season he quarrels with his slave because cucumbers have not been provided. He forces his children to wrestle and to run until they fall into a fever. When he is roughing it in the country and himself cooks the vegetables, he puts salt in the pot twice and so makes the dish impossible. When it rains and others declare that the sky is darker than pitch, he exclaims: "How sweet it is to consider the stars!" And if he is asked, what is the mortality of the city,--how many bodies have passed through the Sacred Gates,--he replies: "Would that you and I had as many."

Surliness is sullen rudeness of speech. The surly man is one who, when you ask him, "Who is that gentleman?" retorts "Don't bother me!" and when you greet him on the street refuses to return your salutation. When he has anything for sale, he will not tell the purchaser what he charges, but instead inquires, "How much do I get for it?" When one would show him some attention and sends him a gift for the holidays, he says he is not in need of presents.

He accepts no excuse when by accident you smutch his clothes, or push against him in a crowd, or chance to tread upon his foot. If you ask for his contribution to some object, he refuses to make one, though afterwards he may bring it around, declaring, however, that he's throwing the money away. Sometimes he stumbles in the street, and then he curses the stone that tripped him up.

And he's not a man to tarry many minutes for a friend who has an appointment with him. Singing, declamation, and dancing are amusements for which he has no taste; and it's exactly like him to refuse to join even in prayer to the gods.

Superstition is a crouching fear of unseen powers. The superstitious man is the sort of person who begins the day only after he has sprinkled himself, washed his hands with holy water, and taken a sprig of laurel in his mouth. If a weasel cross his path, he will not go a step further until some one else has crossed, or until he has thrown three stones over the way. If he sees a snake in his house, he prays to Sabazius or, if it be a sacred serpent, he straightway builds a shrine upon the spot.

As he passes by the consecrated stones at the cross-roads, he pours oil on them from his flask, falls on his knees, and prays before he goes further. If a mouse should gnaw through a leather flour-bag, he goes to the seer and asks what he shall do. If the seer bids him give the bag to the cobbler to be sewn up, he pays no heed to him, but goes his way and offers up the bag as a holy sacrifice.

He is given to purifying his house often by religious rites and insists it is haunted by Hecate. When he takes a walk and hears an owl hoot, he is terrified and cries out: "Athena! thine is the power!" and so walks on. He will not step on a grave, nor go up to a corpse, nor to a woman in confinement, but says it is not well to risk pollution. He orders his domestics to mull the wine on the fourth and seventh of the month, while he goes out and buys myrtle, incense, and holy cakes; on his return he spends the livelong day in crowning the images of Hermaphroditus.

When he has had a vision, he goes to the soothsayer, the seer, or the augur, to ask to what god or goddess he must pray. He goes to the Orphic mysteries to be initiated into them. You will be sure to find him amongst the people who frequent the beach to besprinkle themselves. Every month he goes there with his wife, or if his wife is busy, then with the nurse and children.

If he observes any one at the cross-roads crowned with garlic, on his return he washes himself from head to foot, summons a priestess, and gives orders to celebrate rites of purification either with an onion or a small dog. Whenever he sees a madman or an epileptic, he shakes with terror and spits in his bosom.

A Thracian and Phrygian deity, whose worship was introduced at Athens in the fifth century. Sabazius represented the active powers of nature, and hence was often identified with Dionysus.

Thanklessness is an improper criticism of what one receives. The thankless man, when a friend has sent him something from his table, says to the servant who brings it, "He grudged me a dish of soup and a cup of wine, I suppose, and so wouldn't invite me to dinner." When his sweetheart kisses him, he says, "I wonder if you really do love me so in your heart."

He blames Zeus, not for raining, but for not raining before. When he picks up a purse in the street, he says, "But I never found a treasure!" If he secures a slave at a bargain after long dickering with the owner, he says, "I imagine I haven't got much at this price." To the person who brings the glad tidings that a son is born to him, he retorts, "If you only add, 'And half your fortune's gone,' you'll hit it."

When he wins his case in court and secures a unanimous verdict, he abuses his attorney for having omitted many points in his brief. When his friends make him up a purse, and wish him joy, "Why so?" he exclaims. "Is it because I shall have to pay you all back and be grateful into the bargain, as though you had done me a favor?"

Suspicion is a kind of belief that everybody is fraudulent. The suspicious man is the sort of person who sends a servant to market and then sends another to watch him and find out the price he pays. When he carries the money himself, he sits down every hundred yards and counts it over. After he is in bed he asks his wife whether she locked the chest and shut the cupboard, and whether the hall-door bolt was pushed well in. If she answers "Yes!" he gets up, nevertheless, and lights a lamp; naked and barefoot he goes around and examines everything. Even then he finds it hard to go to sleep. When he goes to collect interest, he takes witnesses along, lest his debtors deny the claims. He has his cloak dyed, not by the best workman, but by the fuller who can furnish good security. If any one asks the loan of a wine-set, he prefers not to lend it; but if a member of his family or a near relative wants it, he makes the loan; yet he scarcely does so until he has had it assayed and weighed and has received a guarantee for its safe return. He orders his footman not to fall behind him, but to go in front so that by watching him he may prevent his running away. If a purchaser has bought goods of him and says: "Charge the amount to me; I have no time now to send the money," he replies: "Do not trouble yourself about it; when you have finished your business, I will go with you and get my pay."

Disagreeableness we may define as a kind of conduct which is annoying, although it may not be injurious. The disagreeable man will go to a friend and wake him out of a sound sleep to have a talk with him. He detains passengers who are on the point of embarking; others who have come to see him he bids wait until he has taken his walk. He takes the baby from its nurse, chews its food for it and feeds it, dandles it on his knee while he cooes to it and calls it "Papa's little rascal!"

When he gives a dinner he exhibits his jester and shows him off before the company. To enliven his guests over their cups, he says that further pleasures have been arranged for them.

Exquisiteness is a striving for honor in small things. The exquisite when invited to dinner, is eager to sit by his host. When he cuts off his son's hair for an offering to the gods, no place but Delphi will answer for the ceremony. His attendant must be an Ethiopian. When he pays a mina of money he makes a point of offering a freshly minted piece. If he has a pet daw in the house, he must needs buy it a ladder and a brazen shield, that the daw may learn to climb the ladder carrying the shield.

When he has sacrificed an ox, he winds the head and horns with fillets, and nails them up opposite the entrance, in order that those who come in may see what he has been doing. When he parades with the cavalry, he gives all his accoutrements to his squire to carry home, and throwing back his mantle stalks proudly about the market-place in his spurs. When his pet dog dies, he raises a monument to the creature, and has a pillar erected with the inscription: "Fido, Pure Maltese." In the Asclepieion he dedicates a brazen finger, polishes it, crowns it with flowers, and anoints it every day with oil.

And he has his hair cut frequently. His teeth are always pearly white. While his old suit is still good, he gets himself a new one; and he anoints himself with the choicest perfumes.

In the agora he frequents the banker's counters. If he visits the gymnasia, he selects those in which the ephebi practise; and, when there's a play, the place he chooses in the theatre is close beside the generals.

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