“Thou hast lived to little purpose in witty companionship, complacent son of Maia,” observed the Olympian, “if _that_ be thy idea of sport. But thy thought is susceptible of improvement. Let that serene priest, who is fast asleep by the deserted shrine below, announce that a shower is indeed about to descend, but that it shall wet none but fools.” A slight sound of thunder was heard, and the aroused servant of the gods stood in front of the altar, and made the requisite announcement to the people. There was a philosopher close by, leaning against the door-post of his modest habitation. He no sooner heard that the impending storm was to wet only the fools, than he first hastily covered his head, and next hurriedly entered his dwelling-place and shut himself up in his study. Not another individual prepared to avoid the tempest. Each man waited to see the fools drenched, and every man there was, in two minutes, wet to the very skin. When the sun re-appeared, the philosopher walked out into the market-place. The thoroughly-soaked idiots, observing his comfortable condition, hailed the good man with the epithet of “fool.” They pelted him with sticks and stones, tore his gown, plucked his beard, and loaded him with foul terms that would have twisted the jaw of Aristophanes. Bruised, battered, deafened, staggering, the philosopher nevertheless contrived to keep his wits. “Oh, sagacious asses!” said he to the roaring crowd, who at once sank into silence at the compliment paid to their wisdom, “have patience but for a single minute, and I will prove to you that I am not such a fool as I look.” Bending back his head, and turning the palms of his hands upwards to the sky, “Oh wise father,” he exclaimed, “of the witty and the witless, vouchsafe to send down upon me a deluge for my peculiar and individual use. Wet me to the skin even as these fools are wet. Constitute me, thereby, as great a fool as my neighbours; and enable me, in consequence, a fool, to live at peace among fools.” At these words, the two assemblies,--of idiots below, and of Olympians above, shook with laughter, at once loud and inextinguishable. Down came the shower prayed for, upon the person of the philosopher, but peculiar influences were sent down with it, and the dripping sage rose from his knees ten times wittier than he was before. Jupiter’s beard was yet wagging with laughter, and merry tears fell from the eyelids of Juno, whose head lay in frolicsome helplessness upon the bosom of her hilarious lord,--when the latter exclaimed, “We have spoiled that good fellow’s robe, but we will also make his fortune.” “That is already accomplished,” remarked Juno. “I have just breathed into the ear of the chief of the district, and _he_ is now taking the philosopher home with him, to be at once his diverter and instructor.”