That grave reply produced a short pause. It was broken by the boy, who said returning to the subject, “I have been thinking, Father, that it is not a good thing to be a Philosopher.”
“And what, my Son, has led thee to that thought?”
“What I have read at the end of the Dictionary, Father. There was one Philosopher that was pounded in a mortar.”
“That Daniel,” said the Father, “could neither have been the Philosopher's fault nor his choice.”
“But it was because he was a Philosopher, my lad,” said Guy, “that he bore it so bravely, and said, beat on, you can only bruise the shell of Anaxarchus! If he had not been a Philosopher they might have pounded him just the same, but they would never have put him in the Dictionary. Epictetus in like manner bore the torments which his wicked master inflicted upon him, without a groan, only saying, ‘take care, or you will break my leg;’ and when the leg was broken, he looked the wretch in the face and said, ‘I told you you would break it.’”
“But,” said the youngster, “there was one Philosopher who chose to live in a tub; and another who that he might never again see any thing to withdraw his mind from meditation, put out his eyes by looking upon a bright brass basin, such as I cured my warts in.”
“He might have been a wise man,” said William Dove, “but not wondrous wise: for if he had, he would not have used the basin to put his eyes out. He would have jumped into a quickset hedge, and scratched them out, like the Man of our Town; because when he saw his eyes were out, he might then have jumped into another hedge and scratched them in again. The Man of our Town was the greatest philosopher of the two.”
“And there was one,” continued the boy, “who had better have blinded himself at once, for he did nothing else but cry at every thing he saw. Was not this being very foolish?”
“I am sure,” says William, “it was not being merry and wise.”