provided with metal tongues that increased the
sound of the voice; the cothurnus, which raised the actors to the height
of gods; the tragic majesty and the splendid verses that used to be
sung, have all gone. Pantomimists, and dancing girls with bare faces,
have replaced Paulus and Roscius. What would the Athenians of the days
of Pericles have said if they had seen a woman on the stage? It is
indecent for a woman to appear in public. We must be very degenerate to
permit it. It is as certain as that my name is Dorion, that woman is the
natural enemy of man, and a disgrace to human kind."

"You speak wisely," replied Paphnutius; "woman is our worst enemy. She
gives us pleasure, and is to be feared on that account."

"By the immovable gods," cried Dorion, "it is not pleasure that woman
gives to man, but sadness, trouble, and black cares. Love is the cause
of our most biting evils. Listen, stranger. When I was a young man
I visited Troezene, in Argolis, and I saw there a myrtle of a most
prodigious size, the leaves of which were covered with innumerable
pinholes. And this is what the Troezenians say about that myrtle. Queen
Phaedra, when she was in love with Hippolytos, used to recline idly all
day long under this same tree. To beguile the tedium of her weary life
she used to draw out the golden pin which held her fair locks, and
pierce with it the leaves of the sweet-scented bush. All the leaves were
riddled with holes. After she had ruined the poor young man whom
she pursued with her incestuous love, Phaedra, as you know, perished
miserably. She locked herself up in her bridal chamber, and hanged
herself by her golden girdle from an ivory peg. The gods willed that the
myrtle, the witness of her bitter misery, should continue to bear, in
its fresh leaves, the marks of the pin-holes. I picked one of these
leaves, and placed it at the head of my bed, that by the sight of it
I might take warning against the folly of love, and conform to the
doctrine of the divine Epicurus, my master, who taught that all lust is
to be feared. But, properly speaking, love is a disease of the liver,
and one is never sure of not catching the malady."

Paphnutius asked--

"Dorion, what are your pleasures?"

Dorion replied sadly--

"I have only one pleasure, and, it must be confessed, that it is not a
very exciting one; it is meditation. When a man has a bad digestion, he
must not look for any others."

Taking advantage of these words, Pap