Meton the Astronomer appears, encumbered with a load of mathematical instuments, which are disposed about his person. He advances with short steps, a straight back, and his chin in the air, modifying, by what he conceives to be a tone of condescending familiarity, a manner of habitual self-importance.
Met. I'm come, you see, to join you.
Peis. (aside). (Another plague !)
For what? What's your design? Your plan, your notion?
Your scheme—your apparatus—your equipment—
Your outfit? What's the meaning of it all?
Met. I mean to take a geometrical plan995
Of your atmosphere—to allot it, and survey it
In a scientific form.
Peis. In the name of heaven!
Who are ye and what? What name? What manner of man?
Met. Who am I and what! Meton's my name, well known
In Greece, and in the village of Colonos.
Peis. But tell me, pray; these implements, these articles,
What are they meant for?
[Going up to him and pulling them about.
Met. These are—Instruments!
An atmospherical geometrical scale.
First, you must understand, that the atmosphere1000
Is formed—in a manner—altogether—partly,
In the fashion of a furnace, or a funnel;
I take this circular arc, with the movable arm,
And so, by shifting it round, till it coincides
At the angle;—you understand me?
Peis. Not in the least.
Met. (with animation and action illustrative of the proposed plan).
. . . I obtain a true division, with the quadrature
Of the equilateral circle. Here, I trace1005
Your market-place, in the centre, with the streets—
Converging inwards—and the roads, diverging—
From the circular wall, without—like solar rays
From the circular circumference of the Sun.
Peis. (in a pretended soliloquy; then calling to him with a tone of
mystery and alarm).
Another Thales! absolutely, a Thales!—
