SOCRATES one day observing Aristarchus to look thoughtful and melancholy, said to him, ‘My friend, something seems to lie heavy upon your mind, you should share the burden with your friends; perhaps we may be able to assist you.’
To which Aristarchus replied, ‘Indeed, Socrates, I am in great perplexity. You know that on account of the war a great multitude have forsaken the open country, and fled into the Piraeum; and there are come to my house so many helpless sisters, nieces, and cousins, that I have not less than fourteen gentlewomen— Now from our landed estates we get nothing, for the enemy is master there; nor from rent of houses, inhabitants are so thin in the city; furniture no body will buy; and money there is none to be borrowed: one may as soon expect to find it in walking along the streets as to borrow any.—It is grievous, Socrates, to stand and see our relations perish; it is impossible to support such a number of them in such times.’
Socrates hearing all this, replied, ‘And how comes it to pass that Reramo, who has a great family to maintain, not only finds means to provide himself and them with all necessaries, but likewise has so much to spare that he even grows rich by what he vends?’
‘Good reason, replied the other, because he keeps slaves, and I gentlefolks.’
‘And of these two sorts of people which may you reckon the most valuable, his slaves or your gentlefolks?’ said Socrates.
“Surely mine,” says Aristarchus.
‘But then is it not a disgrace, says the philosopher, that while he is thriving by the means of a parcel of slaves, you should be driven to extremity with those that are so much their betters?’
‘Oh! but, says the other, he feeds handicraftsmen, I people who have been genteelly brought up.’
‘I suppose you mean by handicraftsmen, replied Socrates, those who are skilled in preparing the useful things of life.’
“Yes, I do,” said the other.
“Is meal in that number?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And bread?”
“Most surely.”
‘And cloaths for both sexes, coats, gowns, cloaks, linen?’
‘A […] questionless, these are all most useful […]’
‘Probably, continued Socrates, your people are not at all skilled in making any of these things?’
“O yes, one or other in all or most of them?”
‘Possibly then, said Socrates, you don’t know that by means of one single article Nausicydes, the mealman, not only maintains himself and several servants, but likewise a great number of hogs and cows; and hath so thriven as even to be named for serving the expensive offices of the state: and that Kerybus, by his business of a baker, supports a large family; nay lives in plenty:— then there’s Demeas, the taylor, and numbers of Megareans that get a fine livelihood by mercery ware.’
‘Defend me! says the other, these fellows are owners of many purchased slaves, whom they force to work, and by their labours they thrive; but I tell you, I have none but gentry and my relations.’
‘Pray now, because they are gentry and your relations, says Socrates, do you think they have nothing to do but to eat and sleep? or among people of the like condition do you reckon those that live after that manner, to pass their time more happily than others that both know and practise the necessary employments of life? or do you apprehend sloth and idleness to be more conducive towards a man’s learning what he ought to understand, or remembering what he has learned, or to his health and strength of body, or, in fine, toward his attaining or preserving the requisites of life? while industry and care are nothing worth. You confess they have been taught to do some of these works—why—because they were things of no service, or such as they must never put their hands to; or rather on the contrary, as what they might one day labour in, and profit by—for which makes men the most virtuous—living in idleness, or being engaged in a useful business?—or honestest, the being employed, or lazily to be talking how they shall live? Yet more, it is my opinion, that neither you love them, nor they you—not them, for you really feel them very burthensome to you; they love not you, for they must see you are quite weary of them—from whence ’tis a great chance but dislike and enmity will spring up more and more, while kindred and affection fades away. Now could you contrive to make yourself their director and protector in some kind of profitable employment, you would then be fond of them, finding them useful to you, and they would love you, because they would perceive you had pleasure in what they did; and then, reflecting with satisfaction on all former benefits, the obligation to them would be enhanced, and you would grow friendlier and dearer to each other every day.’
‘If any thing scandalous was proposed to be done, death is rather to be chosen; but now these women know to perform what is very laudable, very becoming their sex—and whatever we know how to do, that we do with the greatest facility and pleasure. Wherefore make no hesitation to press them to what will be of service to yourself and them; and it is my opinion they will with pleasure agree to the proposal.’
‘By all the gods! said Aristarchus, you give me such admirable advice, Socrates, that I, who lately dared not think of borrowing, being sure that when that money was gone I should never be able to discharge the debt, am now resolved to venture upon it to begin our undertaking.’
Accordingly, money was raised, a quantity of wool laid in, the women worked, even while they eat their dinner, they worked till supper time: sorrow was turned into joy; instead of sour glances they looked with chearfulness on each other; they loved him as their guardian, he them as a set of useful relations.
Some time after he came again to Socrates, and with pleasure in his face gave him an account of their proceedings, and added, ‘They now accuse me as the only person that eats idle bread in the house.’
‘Well, says Socrates, and don’t you tell them the fable of the dog? Upon a time when animals could speak, a sheep talked to her master in this manner, ‘We are vastly surprised that to us, who afford you wool, and lamb, and cheese, you never allow any other food but merely what the earth produces: whereas your dog, by whom you get nothing, comes in for a snap of every sort of victuals you eat yourself.’ The dog overhearing this, cries, ‘Aye, but ’tis to me you owe your safety, that you are neither stole by the rogues, nor devoured by the wolves: was not I to watch over you ye durst not go to pasture for your lives;’ this convinced the sheep of the dog’s merit. Tell them, therefore, that you, like the dog, are their guardian and careful overseer, by whose means they live to follow their employments with pleasure and safety.