_Apol._ Oh? the old gentleman deserved a better fate? _Zeus._ Why, as to that, I dare say he did. But I was alluding to the smell, which incommoded me extremely; the odour of roast man, I need hardly tell you, is far from pleasant. I made the best of my way to Arabia at once, or, upon my word, those awful fumes would have been the death of me. Even in that fragrant land of frankincense and spices I could scarcely get the villanous stench out of my nostrils; the mere recollection of it makes me feel queer. _Apol._ But what was his object, father? Was there anything to be got by jumping on to a pyre, and being converted to cinders? _Zeus._ Ah, if you come to that, you must call Empedocles to account first: _he_ jumped into a crater, in Sicily. _Apol._ Poor fellow! he must have been in a sad way. But what was the inducement in the present case? _Zeus._ I'll quote you his own words. He made a speech, explaining his motives to the public. As far as I remember, he said--but who comes here in such haste? There must be something wrong: she is crying; some one has been ill-treating her. Why, it is Philosophy, in a sad way, calling out to me. Why are you crying, child? and what brings you here, away from the world? More misdeeds of the ignorant herd? a repetition of the Socrates and Anytus affair? is that it? _Phi._ No, father, nothing of that kind. The common people have been most polite and respectful; they are my most devout admirers,--worshippers, I might almost say; not that they understand much of what I tell them. No; it was those--I don't know what to call them--but the people who pretend to be on such friendly terms with me, and are always using my name;--the wretches! _Zeus._ Oh, it's the philosophers who have been misbehaving themselves? _Phi._ No, no, father; they have been just as badly treated as I have. _Zeus._ Then if it is neither the philosophers nor the common people, who is it that you complain of? _Phi._ There are some people who are between the two: they are not philosophers, and yet they are not like the rest of mankind. They are got up to look like philosophers; they have the dress, the walk, the expression; they call me mistress, write philosopher after their names, and declare themselves my disciples and followers: but they are evil men, made up of folly and impudence and wickedness; a disgrace to my name. It was their misconduct that drove me away. _Zeus._ Poor child! it is too bad of them. And what have they been doing to you exactly?