



CHAPTER I.

  Here let us seek Athenæ's towers,
  The cradle of old Cecrops' race,
  The world's chief ornament and grace;
  Here mystic fanes and rites divine,
  And lamps in sacred splendour shine;
  Here the gods dwell in marble domes,
  Feasted with costly hecatombs,
  That round their votive statues blaze,
  Whilst crowded temples ring with praise;
  And pompous sacrifices here
  Make holidays throughout the year.
                           ARISTOPHANES.


The moon was moving through the heavens in silent glory; and Athens,
with all her beautiful variety of villas, altars, statues, and temples,
rejoiced in the hallowed light.

The white columns of the lofty Parthenon stood in distinct relief
against the clear blue sky; the crest and spear of Pallas Promachos
glittered in the refulgent atmosphere, a beacon to the distant mariner;
the line of brazen tripods, leading from the Theatre of Dionysus, glowed
like urns of fire; and the waters of the Illyssus glanced right
joyfully, as they moved onward to the ocean. The earth was like a
slumbering babe, smiling in its sleep, because it dreams of Heaven.

In the most ancient and quiet part of the city, not far from the gate
Diocharis, was the modest mansion of Anaxagoras; and at this tranquil
hour, the grand-daughter of the philosopher, with her beloved companion
Eudora, stood on the roof, enjoying the radiant landscape, and the balmy
air.

Philothea's tall figure was a lovely union of majesty and grace. The
golden hair, which she inherited from a Laconian mother, was tastefully
arranged on the top of her head, in a braided crown, over the sides of
which the bright curls fell, like tendrils of grapes from the edge of a
basket. The mild brilliancy of her large dark eyes formed a beautiful
contrast to a complexion fair even to transparency. Her expression had
the innocence of infancy; but it was tinged with something elevated and
holy, which made it seem like infancy in Heaven.

Eudora had more sparkling eyes, lips more richly coloured, and a form
more slender and flexile. Her complexion might have seemed dark, had it
not been relieved by a profusion of glossy black hair, a portion of
which was fastened with a silver arrow, while the remainder shaded her
forehead, and fell over her shoulders.

As they stood side by side, with their arms twined around each other,
they were as lovely a sight as the moon ever shone upon. Totally unlike
each other, but both excellent in beauty. One might have been a model
for the seraphs of Christian faith, the other an Olympian deity.

For a few moments, Philothea stood in earnest silence, gazing upon the
bright planet of evening--then, in a tone of deep enthusiasm, she
exclaimed:

"It is a night to feel the presence of the gods! Virgin sister of
Phoebus, how calm thou art in thy glorious beauty! Thou art filling the
world with music--silent to the ear, but audible to the heart! Phidias
has embodied the unbreathing harmony in stone, and we worship the fair
proportions, as an emanation from the gods. The birds feel it--and
wonder at the tune that makes no noise. The whole earth is lulled by its
influence. All is motionless; save the Naiades of the stream, moving in
wreathed dance to the voiceless melody. See how their shining hair
sparkles on the surface of the waters! Surely there is music in this
light! Eudora, what is it within us, that listens where there is no
sound? Is it thus we shall hear in Elysium?"

In a subdued and troubled voice, her companion answered, "Oh, Philothea,
when you talk thus, my spirit is in fear--and now, too, all is so still
and bright, that it seems as if the gods themselves were listening to
our speech."

"The same mysterious influence impresses me with awe," replied the
contemplative maiden: "In such an hour as this, Plato must have received
the sublime thought, 'God is truth--and light is his shadow.'"

Eudora drew more closely to her friend, and said, timidly: "Oh,
Philothea, do not talk of the gods. Such discourse has a strange and
fearful power, when the radiant daughter of Zeus is looking down upon us
in all her heavenly majesty. Even the midnight procession of the
Panathenæa affected me less deeply."

After a few moments of serious silence, she continued: "I saw it last
night, for the first time since my childhood; for you know I was very
ill when the festival was last celebrated. It was truly a beautiful and
majestic scene! The virgins all clothed in white; the heifers decorated
with garlands; the venerable old men bearing branches of olive; the
glittering chariots; the noble white horses, obeying the curb with such
proud impatience; the consecrated image of Pallas carried aloft on its
bed of flowers; the sacred ship blazing with gems and gold; all moving
in the light of a thousand torches! Then the music, so loud and
harmonious! It seemed as if all Athens joined in the mighty sound. I
distinguished you in the procession; and I almost envied you the
privilege of embroidering the sacred peplus, and being six long months
in the service of Pallas Athenæ. I have had so much to say since you
returned, and Phidias has so many guests, that I have found little time
to ask concerning the magnificent sights you saw within the Acropolis."

"The night would wear away, ere I could describe all I witnessed within
the walls of the Parthenon alone," rejoined her companion: "There is the
silver-footed throne, on which Xerxes sat, while he watched the battle
of Salamis; the scimitar of Mardonius, captured at Platææ; a beautiful
ivory Persephone, on a pedestal of pure gold; and a Methymnean lyre,
said to have belonged to Terpander himself, who you know was the first
that used seven strings. Victorious wreaths, coins, rings, and goblets
of shining gold, are there without number; and Persian couches, and
Egyptian sphynxes, and--",

"What do you find so interesting beyond the walls?" asked Eudora,
smiling at the earnestness with which her friend gazed in the distance:"
Do the slaves, bringing water from the Fountain of Callirhöe, look so
very beautiful in the moonlight?"

"I marvel that you can speak so lightly," replied Philothea: "We have as
yet heard no tidings concerning the decision in the Court of Cynosarges,
on which the fate of Philæmon depends; and you know how severely his
high spirit will suffer, if an unfavourable sentence is awarded. Neither
of us have alluded to this painful topic. But why have we thus lingered
on the house-top, if it were not to watch for the group which, if I
mistake not, are now approaching, on their return from Cynosarges?"

"Then it is for Philæmon's sake, that you have so long been looking
wistfully toward the Illyssus?" said Eudora, playfully.

"I will not deny that Paralus has had the largest share of my thoughts,"
replied the simple-hearted maiden; "but for Philæmon, as your betrothed
lover, and the favourite pupil of my grandfather, I feel an interest
strong enough to keep me on the watch during a less delightful evening
than this. I think it must be Paralus who walks in the centre of the
group; we have been separated many months; and courtesy to the numerous
strangers under his father's roof has prevented our having much
discourse to-day. For his sake, I am glad once more to be in my own
happy home. He is none the less dear to me because I know that he can
never be my husband."

"And why should he not?" exclaimed Eudora: "The blood of princes flowed
in the veins of your ancestors. If Anaxagoras is poor, it is because he
has preferred wisdom to gold."

With a faint sigh, Philothea answered, "Had the good old man preferred
gold to wisdom, I should have loved him less; nor would his instructions
have made me such a wife as Paralus deserves; yet Pericles would have
better liked the union. He has obtained from his son a solemn promise
never to speak to me of marriage. The precaution was unnecessary; for
since this new law has passed, I would not marry Paralus, even with his
father's consent. I would never be the means of bringing degradation and
losses upon him."

"If you still love Paralus, I wonder you can be so quiet and cheerful,"
said Eudora.

"I wished him to make the required promise, because obedience to parents
is our first duty," replied Philothea; "and had I thought otherwise, the
laws compel it. But the liberty of loving Paralus, no power can take
from me; and in that I find sufficient happiness. I am bound to him by
ties stronger than usually bind the hearts of women. My kind grandfather
has given me an education seldom bestowed on daughters; and from our
childhood, Paralus and I have shared the same books, the same music, and
the same thoughts, until our souls seem to be one. When I am very happy,
I always see a peculiar brightness on his countenance; and when I am
powerfully impressed by any of the fair sights of this beautiful world,
or by those radiant deities who live among the stars, often, before I
can speak my thoughts, he utters my very words. I sometimes think the
gods have united human beings by some mysterious principle, like the
according notes of music. Or is it as Plato has supposed, that souls
originally one have been divided, and each seeks the half it has lost?
Eudora, if you consider how generally maidens are bestowed in marriage
without consulting their affections, you must confess that you have
reason to feel deeply grateful for your own lot."

"Yet this new law against those of foreign parentage, renders marriage
with me as dishonourable as with you," rejoined the maiden: "Nay, it is
much more so; for I am a slave, though, by courtesy, they do not call me
one."

"But Philæmon has no parents to forbid his choice," said Philothea;
"and if the court decide against him, he will incur no fine by a
marriage with you; for he himself will then be a sojourner in Athens.
The loss of his paternal estates will indeed leave him poor; but he has
friends to assist his own energies, and in all probability, your union
will not be long delayed. Ah, now I am certain that Anaxagoras
approaches, with Paralus and Philæmon. They perceive us; but Paralus
does not wave his hand, as he promised to do, if they brought good
tidings."

Without appearing to share her anxiety, Eudora carelessly inquired, "Did
you witness the Festival of Torches, while you were within the
Acropolis? The swiftness of the runners, moving in the light of their
own torches, making statues and temples ruddy with the glow as they
passed, was truly a beautiful sight. I suppose you heard that Alcibiades
gained the prize? With what graceful celerity he darted through the
course! I was at Aspasia's house that evening. It is so near the goal,
that we could plainly see his countenance flushed with excitement and
exercise, as he stood waving his unextinguished torch in triumph."

"I am sorry Phidias considers improvement in music of sufficient
consequence to encourage your visits to that dangerous woman," answered
Philothea: "It was an unpropitious day for Athens when she came here to
invest vice with all the allurements of beauty and eloquence."

"I think women should judge kindly of Aspasia's faults, and remember
that they are greatly exaggerated by her enemies," rejoined Eudora; "for
she proves that they are fit for something better than mere domestic
slaves. Her house is the only one in all Greece where women are allowed
to be present at entertainments. What is the use of a beautiful face, if
one must be shut up in her own apartment for ever? And what avails skill
in music, if there is no chance to display it? I confess that I like the
customs Aspasia is trying to introduce."

"And I should like them, if I believed they would make the Grecian women
something _better_ than mere domestic slaves," said Philothea; "but such
as Aspasia will never raise women out of the bondage in which they are
placed by the impurity and selfishness of man. Your own confessions,
Eudora, do not speak well for her instructions. Why should a
true-hearted woman wish to display her beautiful face, or her skill in
music, to any but those on whom her affections are bestowed?"

"It is natural to wish for admiration," replied the handsome maiden:
"The goddesses themselves contended for it. You, at least, ought not to
judge Aspasia harshly; for she has the idea that you are some deity in
disguise; and she has the most extravagant desire to see you."

"Flattery to ourselves does not change the nature of what is wrong,"
answered Philothea. "Pericles has more than once mentioned Aspasia's
wish that I should visit her; but nothing short of my grandfather's
express command will ever induce me to do it. Our friends are now
entering the gate. Let us go to welcome them."

Eudora hastily excused herself under the plea of duties at home; and
Philothea, supposing it might be painful to meet her unfortunate lover
in the presence of others, forebore to urge it.

A paternal blessing beamed from the countenance of Anaxagoras, the
moment Philothea appeared. Paralus greeted her as a brother welcomes a
cherished sister; but in the earnest kindness of his glance was
expressed something more deep and heart-stirring than his words implied.

Philæmon, though more thoughtful than usual, received his own and
Eudora's friend, with cheerful cordiality. His countenance had the frank
and smiling expression of one who truly wishes well to all men, and
therefore sees everything reflected in forms of joy. His figure was
athletic, while his step and bearing indicated the promptitude and
decision of a man who acts spontaneously from his own convictions.

Paralus, far from being effeminate, was distinguished for his dexterity
and skill in all the manly sports of the gymnasium; but the purity of
his complexion, and the peculiarly spiritual expression of his face,
would have been deemed beautiful, even in a woman. The first he probably
derived from his mode of life; for, being a strict Pythagorean, he never
partook of animal food. The last was the transparent medium of
innocence, through which thoughts and affections continually showed
their changing forms of life.

In answer to her eager questions, Philothea soon learned that her fears
had prophesied aright concerning the decision of the court. Philæmon
had been unsuccessful; but the buoyant energy of his character did not
yield even to temporary despondency. He spoke of his enemies without
bitterness, and of his own prospects with confidence and hope.

Philothea would have immediately gone to convey the tidings to her
friend, had not Philæmon early taken his leave, and passed through the
garden into the house of Phidias.

Paralus remained until a late hour, alternately talking with the
venerable philosopher, and playing upon his flute, while Philothea sung
the songs they had learned together.

In the course of conversation, Anaxagoras informed his child that
Pericles particularly urged her attendance at Aspasia's next symposium.
"I obey my grandfather, without a question," she replied; "but I would
much rather avoid this visit, if it were possible."

"Such is likewise my wish," rejoined the philosopher; "but Pericles has
plainly implied that he should be offended by refusal; it is therefore
necessary to comply with his request."

The maiden looked doubtingly at her lover, as if she deemed his
sanction necessary; and the inquiring glance was answered by an
affectionate smile. "I need not repeat my thoughts and feelings with
regard to Aspasia," said Paralus, "for you know them well; but for many
reasons it is not desirable that an estrangement should take place
between my father and Anaxagoras. Since, therefore, it has pleased
Pericles to insist upon it, I think the visit had better be made. You
need not fear any very alarming innovation upon the purity of ancient
manners. Even Aspasia will reverence you,"

Philothea meekly yielded to the opinion of her friends; and it was
decided that, on the evening after the morrow, she should accompany her
grandfather to Aspasia's dwelling.

Before proceeding farther, it is necessary to relate the situation of
the several characters introduced in this chapter.

Anaxagoras had been the tutor of Pericles, and still retained
considerable influence over him; but there were times when the
straightforward sincerity, and uncompromising integrity of the old man
were somewhat offensive and troublesome to his ambitious pupil. For the
great Athenian statesman, like modern politicians, deemed honesty
excellent in theory, and policy safe in practice. Thus admitting the
absurd proposition that principles entirely false and corrupt in the
abstract are more salutary, in their practical manifestation, than
principles essentially good and true.

While Pericles was determined to profit by diseases of the state, the
philosopher was anxious to cure them; therefore, independently of
personal affection and gratitude, he was willing to make slight
concessions, in order to retain some influence over his illustrious
pupil.

The celebrated Aspasia was an elegant and voluptuous Ionian, who
succeeded admirably in pleasing the good taste of the Athenians, while
she ministered to their vanity and their vices. The wise and good
lamented the universal depravity of manners, sanctioned by her
influence; but a people so gay, so ardent, so intensely enamoured of the
beautiful, readily acknowledged the sway of an eloquent and fascinating
woman, who carefully preserved the appearance of decorum. Like the
Gabrielles and Pompadours of modern times, Aspasia obtained present
admiration and future fame, while hundreds of better women were
neglected and forgotten. The crowds of wealthy and distinguished men who
gathered around her, were profuse in their flattery, and munificent in
their gifts; and Pericles so far yielded to her influence, that he
divorced his wife and married her.

Philæmon was at that time on terms of intimacy with the illustrious
orator; and he earnestly remonstrated against this union, as alike
disgraceful to Pericles and injurious to public morals. By this advice
he incurred the inveterate dislike of Aspasia; who never rested from her
efforts until she had persuaded her husband to procure the revival of an
ancient law, by which all citizens who married foreigners, were
subjected to a heavy fine; and all persons, whose parents were not both
Athenians, were declared incapable of voting in the public assemblies,
or of inheriting the estates of their fathers. Pericles the more
readily consented to this, because such a law at once deprived many
political enemies of power. Philæmon was the son of Chærilaüs, a
wealthy Athenian; but his mother had been born in Corinth, though
brought to Athens during childhood. It was supposed that this latter
circumstance, added to the patriotism of his family and his own moral
excellence, would prevent the application of the law in his individual
case. But Alcibiades, for reasons unknown to the public, united his
influence with that of Aspasia; and their partizans were active and
powerful. When the case was tried in the court of illegitimacy at
Cynosarges, Philæmon was declared a sojourner in Athens, incapable of
holding any office, and dispossessed of his paternal inheritance.

Eudora was a mere infant when Phidias bought her of a poor goatherd in
Phelle. The child was sitting upon a rock, caressing a kid, when the
sculptor first saw her, and the gracefulness of her attitude attracted
his attention, while her innocent beauty touched his heart. She and her
nurse had been stolen from the Ionian coast, by Greek pirates. The nurse
was sold into slavery, and the babe delivered by one of the pirates to
the care of his mother. The little creature, in her lisping way, called
herself baby Minta; and this appellation she retained, until Phidias
gave her the name of Eudora.

Philothea, the orphan daughter of Alcimenes, son of Anaxagoras, was a
year or two older than Eudora. She was brought to Athens, at about the
same period; and as they resided very near each other, the habitual
intercourse of childhood naturally ripened into mature friendship. No
interruption of this constant intimacy occurred, until Philothea was
appointed one of the Canephoræ, whose duty it was to embroider the
sacred peplus, and to carry baskets in the grand procession of the
Panathenæa. Six months of complete seclusion within the walls of the
Acropolis, were required of the Canephoræ. During this protracted
absence, Aspasia persuaded Phidias to bring Eudora frequently to her
house; and her influence insensibly produced a great change in that
young person, whose character was even more flexile than her form.




CHAPTER II.

  "With grace divine her soul is blest,
  And heavenly Pallas breathes within her breast;
  In wonderous arts than woman more renowned,
  And more than woman with deep wisdom crowned.
                                     HOMER.


It was the last market hour of Athens, when Anaxagoras, Philothea, and
Eudora, accompanied by Geta, the favourite slave of Phidias, stepped
forth into the street, on their way to Aspasia's residence.

Loud shouts of laughter came from the agoras, and the whole air was
filled with the hum of a busy multitude. Groups of citizens lingered
about the porticos; Egyptians, Medians, Sicilians, and strangers from
all the neighbouring States of Greece, thronged the broad avenue of the
Piræus; women, carrying upon their heads olive jars, baskets of grapes,
and vases of water, glided among the crowd, with that majestic motion so
peculiar to the peasantry in countries where this custom prevails.

Philothea drew the folds of her veil more closely, and clung timidly to
her venerable protector. But neither this, nor increasing twilight,
could screen the graceful maidens from observation. Athenians looked
back as they passed, and foreigners paused to inquire their name and
parentage.

In a few moments they were under the walls of the Acropolis, walking in
the shadow of the olive groves, among god-like statues, to which the
gathering obscurity of evening gave an impressive distinctness--as if
the light departing from the world, stood petrified in marble.

Thence they entered the inner Ceramicus, where Aspasia resided. The
building, like all the private houses of Athens, had a plain exterior,
strongly contrasted by the magnificence of surrounding temples, and
porticos. At the gate, an image of Hermes looked toward the harbour,
while Phoebus, leaning on his lyre, appeared to gaze earnestly at the
dwelling.

A slave, stationed near the door, lighted the way to the apartment where
Aspasia was reclining, with a Doric harp by her side, on which she had
just been playing. The first emotion she excited was surprise at the
radiant and lucid expression, which mantled her whole face, and made the
very blood seem eloquent. In her large dark eye the proud consciousness
of intellect was softened only by melting voluptuousness; but something
of sadness about her beautiful mouth gave indication that the heavenly
part of her nature still struggled with earth-born passions.

A garland of golden leaves, with large drops of pearl, was interwoven
among the glossy braids of her hair, and rested on her forehead.

She wore a robe of rich Milesian purple, the folds of which were
confined on one shoulder within a broad ring of gold, curiously wrought;
on the other they were fastened by a beautiful cameo, representing the
head of Pericles. The crimson couch gave a soft flush to the cheek and
snowy arm that rested on it; and, for a moment, even Philothea yielded
to the enchantment of her beauty.

Full of smiles, Aspasia rose and greeted Eudora, with the ease and
gracefulness of one long accustomed to homage; but when the venerable
philosopher introduced his child, she felt the simple purity emanating
from their characters, and something of embarrassment mingled with her
respectful salutation.

Her own face was uncovered, contrary to the custom of Grecian women; and
after a few of those casual remarks which everywhere serve to fill up
the pauses in conversation, she playfully seized Eudora's veil, and
threw it back over her shoulders. She would have done the same to
Philothea; but the maiden placed her hand on the half transparent
covering, and said, "With your leave, lady, I remain veiled."

"But I cannot give my leave," rejoined Aspasia, playfully, still keeping
her hold upon the veil: "I must see this tyrannical custom done away in
the free commonwealth of Athens. All the matrons who visit my house
agree with me in this point; all are willing to renounce the absurd
fashion."

"But in a maiden it would be less seemly," answered Philothea.

Thus resisted, Aspasia appealed to Anaxagoras to exert his authority;
adding, in an audible whisper, "Phidias has told me that she is as
lovely as the immortals."

With a quiet smile, the aged philosopher replied, "My child must be
guided by her own heart. The gods have there placed an oracle, which
never misleads or perplexes those who listen to it."

Aspasia continued, "From what I had heard of you, Philothea, I expected
to find you above the narrow prejudices of Grecian women. In _you_ I was
sure of a mind strong enough to break the fetters of habit. Tell me, my
bashful maiden, why is beauty given us, unless it be like sunlight to
bless and gladden the world?"

"Lady," replied the gentle recluse, "beauty is given to remind us that
the soul should be kept as fair and perfect in its proportions, as the
temple in which it dwells."

"You are above ordinary women," said Aspasia; "for you hear me allude to
your beauty without affecting to contradict me, and apparently without
pleasure."

The sound of voices in earnest conversation announced the approach of
Pericles with visiters. "Come to my room for a few moments," said
Aspasia, addressing the maidens: "I have just received a magnificent
present, which I am sure Eudora will admire. As she spoke, she led the
way to an upper apartment. When they opened the door, a soft light shone
upon them from a lamp, which a marble Psyche shaded with her hand, as
she bent over the couch of Eros.

"Now that we are quite sure of being uninterrupted, you cannot refuse to
raise your veil," said Aspasia.

Simply and naturally, the maiden did as she was desired; without any
emotion of displeasure or exultation at the eager curiosity of her
hostess.

For an instant, Aspasia stood rebuked and silent, in the presence of
that serene and holy beauty.

With deep feeling she exclaimed, "Maiden, Phidias spoke truly. Even
thus do we imagine the immortals!"

A faint blush gleamed on Philothea's face; for her meek spirit was
pained by a comparison with things divine; but it passed rapidly; and
her whole soul became absorbed in the lovely statues before her.

Eudora's speaking glance seemed to say, "I knew her beauty would
surprise you!" and then, with the eager gayety of a little child, she
began to examine the gorgeous decorations of the room.

The couch rested on two sphinxes of gold and ivory, over which the
purple drapery fell in rich and massive folds. In one corner, a pedestal
of Egyptian marble supported an alabaster vase, on the edge of which
were two doves, exquisitely carved, one just raising his head, the other
stooping to drink. On a similar stand, at the other side, stood a
peacock, glittering with many coloured gems. The head lowered upon the
breast formed the handle; while here and there, among the brilliant tail
feathers, appeared a languid flame slowly burning away the perfumed oil,
with which the bird was filled.

Eudora clapped her hands, with an exclamation of delight. "That is the
present of which I spoke," said Aspasia, smiling: "It was sent by
Artaphernes, the Persian, who has lately come to Athens to buy pictures
and statues for the great king."

As Philothea turned towards her companion, she met Aspasia's earnest
gaze. "Had you forgotten where you were?" she asked.

"No, lady, I could not forget that," replied the maiden. As she spoke,
she hastily withdrew her eyes from an immodest picture, on which they
had accidentally rested; and, blushing deeply, she added, "But there is
something so life-like in that slumbering marble, that for a moment I
almost feared Eudora would waken it."

"You will not look upon the picture," rejoined Aspasia; "yet it relates
a story of one of the gods you reverence so highly. I am told you are a
devout believer in these fables?"

"When fiction is the robe of truth, I worship it for what it covers,"
replied Philothea; "but I love not the degrading fables which poets have
made concerning divine beings. Such were not the gods of Solon; for such
the wise and good can never be, in this world or another."

"Then you believe in a future existence?" said Aspasia, with an
incredulous smile.

With quiet earnestness, Philothea answered:--"Lady, the simple fact that
the human soul has ever _thought_ of another world, is sufficient proof
that there is one; for how can an idea be formed by mortals, unless it
has first existed in the divine mind?"

"A reader of Plato, I perceive!" exclaimed Aspasia: "They told me I
should find you pure and child-like; with a soul from which poetry
sparkled, like moonlight on the waters. I did not know that wisdom and
philosophy lay concealed in its depths."

"Is there any other wisdom, than true simplicity and innocence?" asked
the maiden.

With a look of delighted interest, Aspasia took her arm familiarly;
saying, "You and I must be friends. I shall not grow weary of you, as I
do of other women. Not of you, dearest," she added in an under tone,
tapping Eudora's cheek. "You must come here constantly, Philothea.
Though I am aware," continued she, smiling, "that it is bad policy for
me to seek a guest who will be sure to eclipse me."

"Pardon me, lady," said Philothea, gently disengaging herself:
"Friendship cannot be without sympathy."

A sudden flush of anger suffused Aspasia's countenance; and Eudora
looked imploringly at her friend, as she said, "You love _me_,
Philothea; and I am sure we are very different."

"I crave pardon," interrupted Aspasia, with haughty impatience. "I
should have remembered that the conversation prized by Pericles and
Plato, might appear contemptible, to this youthful Pallas, who so
proudly seeks to conceal her precious wisdom from ears profane."

"Lady, you mistake me," answered Philothea, mildly: "Your intellect,
your knowledge, are as far above mine, as the radiant stars are above
the flowers of the field. Besides, I never felt contempt for anything to
which the gods had given life. It is impossible for me to despise you;
but I pity you."

"Pity!" exclaimed Aspasia, in a piercing tone, which made both the
maidens start. "Am I not the wife of Pericles, and the friend of Plato?
Has not Phidias modelled his Aphrodite from my form? Is there in all
Greece a poet who has not sung my praises? Is there an artist who has
not paid me tribute? Phoenicia sends me her most splendid manufactures
and her choicest slaves; Egypt brings her finest linen and her metals of
curious workmanship; while Persia unrolls her silks, and pours out her
gems at my feet. To the remotest period of time, the world,--aye, the
_world_,--maiden, will hear of Aspasia, the beautiful and the gifted!"

For a moment, Philothea looked on her, silently and meekly, as she stood
with folded arms, flushed brow, and proudly arched neck. Then, in a
soft, sad voice, she answered: "Aye, lady--but will your spirit _hear_
the echo of your fame, as it rolls back from the now silent shores of
distant ages?"

"You utter nonsense!" said Aspasia, abruptly: "There is no immortality
but fame. In history, the star of my existence will never set--but shine
brilliantly and forever in the midst of its most glorious
constellation!"

After a brief pause, Philothea resumed: "But when men talk of Aspasia
the beautiful and the gifted, will they add, Aspasia the good--the
happy--the innocent?"

The last word was spoken in a low, emphatic tone. A slight quivering
about Aspasia's lips betrayed emotion crowded back upon the heart; while
Eudora bowed her head, in silent confusion, at the bold admonition of
her friend.

With impressive kindness, the maiden continued: "Daughter of Axiochus,
do you never suspect that the homage you receive is half made up of
selfishness and impurity? This boasted power of intellect--this giddy
triumph of beauty--what do they do for you? Do they make you happy in
the communion of your own heart? Do they bring you nearer to the gods?
Do they make the memory of your childhood a gladness, or a sorrow?"

Aspasia sank on the couch, and bowed her head upon her hands. For a few
moments, the tears might be seen stealing through her fingers; while
Eudora, with the ready sympathy of a warm heart, sobbed aloud.

Aspasia soon recovered her composure. "Philothea," she said, "you have
spoken to me as no one ever dared to speak; but my own heart has
sometimes uttered the truth less mildly. Yesterday I learned the same
lesson from a harsher voice. A Corinthian sailor pointed at this house,
and said, 'There dwells Aspasia, the courtezan, who makes her wealth by
the corruption of Athens!' My very blood boiled in my veins, that such
an one as he could give me pain. It is true the illustrious Pericles has
made me his wife; but there are things which even his power, and my own
allurements, fail to procure. Ambitious women do indeed come here to
learn how to be distinguished; and the vain come to study the fashion of
my garments, and the newest braid of my hair. But the purest and best
matrons of Greece refuse to be my guests. You, Philothea, came
reluctantly--and because Pericles would have it so. Yes," she added, the
tears again starting to her eyes--"I know the price at which I purchase
celebrity. Poets will sing of me at feasts, and orators describe me at
the games; but what will that be to me, when I have gone into the silent
tomb? Like the lifeless guest at Egyptian tables, Aspasia will be all
unconscious of the garlands she wears.

"Philothea, you think me vain, and heartless, and wicked; and so I am.
But there are moments when I am willing that this tongue, so praised for
its eloquence, should be dumb forever--that this beauty, which men
worship, should be hidden in the deepest recesses of barbarian
forests--so that I might again be as I was, when the sky was clothed in
perpetual glory, and the earth wore not so sad a smile as now. Oh,
Philothea! would to the gods, I had your purity and goodness! But you
despise me;--for you are innocent."

Soothingly, and almost tearfully, the maiden replied: "No, lady; such
were not the feelings which made me say we could not be friends. It is
because we have chosen different paths; and paths that never approach
each other. What to you seem idle dreams, are to me sublime realities,
for which I would gladly exchange all that you prize in existence. You
live for immortality in this world; I live for immortality in another.
The public voice is your oracle; I listen to the whisperings of the gods
in the stillness of my own heart; and never yet, dear lady, have those
two oracles spoken the same language."

Then falling on her knees, and looking up earnestly, she exclaimed,
"Beautiful and gifted one! Listen to the voice that tries to win you
back to innocence and truth! Give your heart up to it, as a little child
led by its mother's hand! Then shall the flowers again breathe poetry,
and the stars move in music."

"It is too late," murmured Aspasia: "The flowers are scorched--the stars
are clouded. I cannot again be as I have been."

"Lady, it is _never_ too late," replied Philothea: "You have unbounded
influence--use it nobly! No longer seek popularity by flattering the
vanity, or ministering to the passions of the Athenians. Let young men
hear the praise of virtue from the lips of beauty. Let them see religion
married to immortal genius. Tell them it is ignoble to barter the
heart's wealth for heaps of coin--that love weaves a simple wreath of
his own bright hopes, stronger than massive chains of gold. Urge
Pericles to prize the good of Athens more than the applause of its
populace--to value the permanence of her free institutions more than the
splendour of her edifices. Oh, lady, never, never, had any mortal such
power to do good!"

Aspasia sat gazing intently on the beautiful speaker, whose tones grew
more and more earnest as she proceeded.

"Philothea," she replied, "you have moved me strangely. There is about
you an influence that cannot be resisted. It is like what Pindar says of
music; if it does not give delight, it is sure to agitate and oppress
the heart. From the first moment you spoke, I have felt this mysterious
power. It is as if some superior being led me back, even against my
will, to the days of my childhood, when I gathered acorns from the
ancient oak that shadows the fountain of Byblis, or ran about on the
banks of my own beloved Meander, filling my robe with flowers."

There was silence for a moment. Eudora smiled through her tears, as she
whispered, "Now, Philothea, sing that sweet song Anaxagoras taught you.
He too is of Ionia; and Aspasia will love to hear it."

The maiden answered with a gentle smile, and began to warble the first
notes of a simple bird-like song.

"Hush!" said Aspasia, putting her hand on Philothea's mouth, and
bursting into tears--"It was the first tune I ever learned; and I have
not heard it since my mother sung it to me."

"Then let me sing it, lady," rejoined Philothea: "It is good for us to
keep near our childhood. In leaving it, we wander from the gods."

A slight tap at the door made Aspasia start up suddenly; and stooping
over the alabaster vase of water, she hastened to remove all traces of
her tears.

As Eudora opened the door, a Byzantian slave bowed low, and waited
permission to speak.

"Your message?" said Aspasia, with queenly brevity.

"If it please you, lady, my master bids me say he desires your
presence."

"We come directly," she replied; and with another low bow, the Byzantian
closed the door. Before a mirror of polished steel, supported by ivory
Graces, Aspasia paused to adjust the folds of her robe, and replace a
curl that had strayed from its golden fillet.

As she passed, she continued to look back at the reflection of her own
fair form, with a proud glance, which seemed to say, "Aspasia is herself
again!"

Philothea took Eudora's arm, and folding her veil about her, with a deep
sigh followed to the room below.




CHAPTER III.

  All is prepared--the table and the feast--
  With due appurtenance of clothes and cushions.
  Chaplets and dainties of all kinds abound:
  Here rich perfumes are seen--there cakes and cates
  Of every fashion; cakes of honey, cakes
  Of sesamum, and cakes of unground corn.
  What more? A troop of dancing women fair,
  And minstrels who may chaunt us sweet Harmodius.
                                  ARISTOPHANES.


The room in which the guests were assembled, was furnished with less of
Asiatic splendour than the private apartment of Aspasia; but in its
magnificent simplicity there was a more perfect manifestation of ideal
beauty. It was divided in the middle by eight Ionic columns, alternately
of Phrygian and Pentelic marble. Between the central pillars stood a
superb statue from the hand of Phidias, representing Aphrodite guided by
Love, and crowned by Peitho, goddess of Persuasion. Around the walls
were Phoebus and Hermes in Parian marble, and the nine Muses in ivory. A
fountain of perfumed water, from the adjoining room, diffused coolness
and fragrance, as it passed through a number of concealed pipes, and
finally flowed into a magnificent vase, supported by a troop of Naiades.

In a recess stood the famous lion of Myron, surrounded by infant Loves,
playing with his paws, climbing his back, and decorating his neck with
garlands. This beautiful group seemed actually to live and move in the
clear light and deep shadows derived from a silver lamp suspended above.

The walls were enriched with some of the choicest paintings of
Apollodorus, Zeuxis, and Polygnotus. Near a fine likeness of Pericles,
by Aristolaus, was Aspasia, represented as Chloris scattering flowers
over the earth, and attended by winged Hours.

It chanced that Pericles himself reclined beneath his portrait, and
though political anxiety had taken from his countenance something of the
cheerful freshness which characterized the picture, he still retained
the same elevated beauty--the same deep, quiet expression of
intellectual power. At a short distance, with his arm resting on the
couch, stood his nephew Alcibiades, deservedly called the handsomest man
in Athens. He was laughing with Hermippus, the comic writer, whose
shrewd, sarcastic and mischievous face was expressive of his calling.
Phidias slowly paced the room, talking of the current news with the
Persian Artaphernes. Anaxagoras reclined near the statue of Aphrodite,
listening and occasionally speaking to Plato, who leaned against one of
the marble pillars, in earnest conversation with a learned Ethiopian.

The gorgeous apparel of the Asiatic and African guests, contrasted
strongly with the graceful simplicity of Grecian costume. A
saffron-coloured mantle and a richly embroidered Median vest glittered
on the person of the venerable Artaphernes. Tithonus, the Ethiopian,
wore a skirt of ample folds, which scarcely fell below the knee. It was
of the glorious Tyrian hue, resembling a crimson light shining through
transparent purple. The edge of the garment was curiously wrought with
golden palm leaves. It terminated at the waist in a large roll, twined
with massive chains of gold, and fastened by a clasp of the far-famed
Ethiopian topaz. The upper part of his person was uncovered and
unornamented, save by broad bracelets of gold, which formed a
magnificent contrast with the sable colour of his vigorous and
finely-proportioned limbs.

As the ladies entered, the various groups came forward to meet them; and
all were welcomed by Aspasia with earnest cordiality and graceful
self-possession. While the brief salutations were passing, Hipparete,
the wife of Alcibiades came from an inner apartment, where she had been
waiting for her hostess. She was a fair, amiable young matron, evidently
conscious of her high rank. The short blue tunic, which she wore over a
lemon-coloured robe, was embroidered with golden grasshoppers; and on
her forehead sparkled a jewelled insect of the same species. It was the
emblem of unmixed Athenian blood; and Hipparete alone, of all the ladies
present, had a right to wear it. Her manners were an elaborate copy of
Aspasia; but deprived of the powerful charm of unconsciousness, which
flowed like a principle of life into every motion of that beautiful
enchantress.

The momentary silence, so apt to follow introductions, was interrupted
by an Ethiopian boy, who, at a signal from Tithonus, emerged from behind
the columns, and kneeling, presented to Aspasia a beautiful box of
ivory, inlaid with gold, filled with the choicest perfumes. The lady
acknowledged the costly offering by a gracious smile, and a low bend of
the head toward the giver.

The ivory was wrought with exquisite skill, representing the imaginary
forms of the constellations, studded with golden stars. The whole rested
on a golden image of Atlas, bending beneath the weight. The box was
passed from hand to hand, and excited universal admiration.

"Were these figures carved by an artist of your own country?" asked
Phidias.

With a smile, Tithonus replied, "You ask the question because you see a
Grecian spirit in those forms. They were indeed fashioned by an
Ethiopian; but one who had long resided in Athens."

"There is truly a freedom and variety in these figures, which I have
rarely seen even in Greece," rejoined Phidias; "and I have never met
with those characteristics in Ethiopian or Egyptian workmanship."

"They belong not to the genius of those countries," answered Tithonus:
"Philosophy and the arts are but a manifestation of the intelligible
ideas that move the public mind; and thus they become visible images of
the nations whence they emanate. The philosophy of the East is misty and
vast--with a gleam of truth here and there, resting like sunlight on the
edge of a dark and mighty cloud. Hence, our architecture and statuary is
massive and of immense proportions. Greece is free--therefore she has a
philosopher, who sees that every idea must have a form, and in every
form discovers its appropriate life. And because philosophy has
perceived that the principle of vitality and beauty flows from the
divine mind into each and every earthly thing, therefore Greece has a
sculptor, who can mould his thoughts into marble forms, from which the
free grandeur of the soul emanates like a perpetual presence." As he
spoke, he bowed low to Plato and Phidias.

"The gigantic statues of Sicily have fair proportions," said Plato; "and
they have life; but it is life in deep repose. There is the vastness of
eternity, without the activity of time."

"The most ancient statuary of all nations is an image of death; not of
sleeping energy," observed Aspasia. "The arms adhere rigidly to the
sides, the feet form one block; and even in the face, the divine ideal
seems struggling hard to enter the reluctant form. But thanks to
Pygmalion of Cyprus, we now have the visible impress of every passion
carved in stone. The spirit of beauty now flows freely into the
harmonious proportions, even as the oracle is filled by the inspiration
of the god. Now the foot bounds from the pedestal, the finger points to
the stars, and life breathes from every limb. But in good time the
Lybian pipe warns us that the feast is ready. We must not soar too far
above the earth, while she offers us the rich treasures of her
fruit-trees and vines."

"Yet it is ever thus, when Plato is with us," exclaimed Pericles. "He
walks with his head among the stars--and, by a magic influence, we rise
to his elevation, until we perceive the shadows of majestic worlds,
known in their reality only to the gods. As the approach of Phoebus
fills the priestess with prophecy, so does this son of Phoebus impart
something of his own eloquence to all who come within its power."

"You speak truly, O Pericles," replied Tithonus; "but it is a truth felt
only by those who are in some measure worthy to receive it. Aspasia
said wisely, that the spirit of beauty flows in, only where the
proportions are harmonious. The gods are ever with us, but few feel the
presence of the gods."

Philothea, speaking in a low tone to Eudora, added, "And Plato rejoices
in their glorious presence, not only because he walks with his head
among the stars, but because he carries in his heart a blessing for
every little child."

These words, though spoken almost in a whisper, reached the ear of the
philosopher himself; and he turned toward the lovely speaker with a
beaming glance, which distinctly told that his choicest blessings were
bestowed upon spirits pure and gentle as her own.

Thus conversing, the guests passed between the marble columns, and
entered that part of the room where the banquet was prepared. Aspasia
filled a golden basket with Athenian olives, Phoenician dates, and
almonds of Naxos, and whispering a brief invocation, placed it on a
small altar, before an ivory image of Demeter, which stood in the midst
of the table. Seats covered with crimson cloth were arranged at the end
of the couches, for the accommodation of women; but the men reclined in
Asiatic fashion, while beautiful damsels sprinkled perfumes on their
heads, and offered water for their hands in vases of silver.

In choosing one to preside over the festivities of the evening, the lot
fell upon Tithonus; but he gracefully declined the office, saying it
properly belonged to an Athenian.

"Then I must insist that you appoint your successor," said Aspasia.

"Your command partakes little of the democracy of Athenian
institutions," answered he, smiling; "but I obey it cheerfully; and
will, as most fitting, crown the wisest." He arose, as he spoke, and
reverently placed the chaplet on the head of Plato.

"I will transfer it to the most beautiful," rejoined the philosopher;
and he attempted to place the garland on the brow of Alcibiades. But the
young man prevented him, and exclaimed, "Nay--according to your own
doctrines, O admirable Plato, wisdom should wear the crown; since beauty
is but its outward form."

Thus urged, Plato accepted the honours of the banquet; and taking a
handful of garlands from the golden urn on which they were suspended, he
proceeded to crown the guests. He first placed upon Aspasia's head a
wreath of bright and variegated flowers, among which the rose and the
myrtle were most conspicuous. Upon Hipparete he bestowed a coronal of
violets, regarded by the proud Athenians as their own peculiar flower.
Philothea received a crown of pure white lilies.

Aspasia, observing this, exclaimed, "Tell me, O Plato, how you knew that
wreath, above all the others, was woven for the grand-daughter of
Anaxagoras?"

"When I hear a note of music, can I not at once strike its chord?"
answered the philosopher: "Even as surely is there an everlasting
harmony between the soul of man and the visible forms of creation. If
there were no innocent hearts, there would be no white lilies."

A shadow passed over Aspasia's expressive countenance; for she was aware
that her own brilliant wreath contained not one purely white blossom.
But her features had been well-trained to conceal her sentiments; and
her usual vivacity instantly returned.

The remainder of the garlands were bestowed so rapidly, that there
seemed scarcely time for deliberate choice; yet Pericles wore the oak
leaves sacred to Zeus; and the laurel and olive of Phoebus rested on the
brow of Phidias.

A half mischievous smile played round Aspasia's lips, when she saw the
wreath of ivy and grape leaves placed on the head of Alcibiades. "Son of
Aristo," she exclaimed, "the Phoenician Magii have given you good skill
in divination. You have bestowed every garland appropriately."

"It needed little magic," replied Plato, "to know that the oaken leaves
belonged to one whose eloquence is so often called Olympian; or that the
laurel was due to him who fashioned Pallas Parthenia; and Alcibiades
would no doubt contend boldly with any man who professed to worship the
god of vineyards with more zeal than himself."

The gay Athenian answered this challenge by singing part of an
Anacreontic ode, often repeated during the festivities of the Dionysia:

  "To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
  As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
  But if to-morrow comes, why then--
  I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

  For death may come with brow unpleasant--
  May come when least we wish him present,
  And beckon to the sable shore,
  And grimly bid us--drink no more!"

This profane song was sung in a voice so clear and melodious, that
Tithonus exclaimed, "You err, O Plato, in saying the tuneful soul of
Marsyas has passed into the nightingale; for surely it remains with this
young Athenian. Son of Clinias, you must be well skilled in playing upon
the flute the divine airs of Mysian Olympus?"

"Not I, so help me Dionysus!" lisped Alcibiades. "My music master will
tell you that I ever went to my pipes reluctantly. I make ten sacrifices
to equestrian Poseidon, where I offer one gift to the Parnassian
chorus."

"Stranger, thou hast not yet learned the fashions of Athens," said
Anaxagoras, gravely. "Our young equestrians now busy themselves with
carved chariots, and Persian mantles of the newest mode. They vie with
each other in costly wines; train doves to shower luxuriant perfumes
from their wings; and upon the issue of a contest between fighting
quails, they stake sums large enough to endow a princess. To play upon
the silver-voiced flute is Theban-like and vulgar. They leave that to
their slaves."

"And why not leave laughter to the slaves?" asked Hermippus; "since
anything more than a graceful smile distorts the beauty of the features?
I suppose bright eyes would weep in Athens, should the cheeks of
Alcibiades be seen puffed out with vulgar wind-instruments."

"And can you expect the youth of Athens to be wiser than their gods?"
rejoined Aspasia. "Pallas threw away her favourite flute, because Hera
and Aphrodite laughed at her distorted countenance while she played upon
it. It was but a womanly trick in the virgin daughter of Zeus."

Tithonus looked at the speaker with a slight expression of surprise;
which Hermippus perceiving, he thus addressed him, in a cool, ironical
tone: "O Ethiopian stranger, it is evident you know little of Athens; or
you would have perceived that a belief in the gods is more vulgar than
flute-playing. Such trash is deemed fit for the imbecility of the aged,
and the ignorance of the populace. With equestrians and philosophers, it
is out of date. You must seek for it among those who sell fish at the
gates; or with the sailors at Piræus and Phalerum."

"I have visited the Temple of Poseidon, in the Piræus," observed
Aspasia; "and I saw there a multitude of offerings from those who had
escaped shipwreck." She paused slightly, and added, with a significant
smile, "But I perceived no paintings of those who had been wrecked,
notwithstanding their supplications to the god."

As she spoke, she observed that Pericles withdrew a rose from the
garland wherewith his cup was crowned; and though the action was so
slight as to pass unobserved by others, she instantly understood the
caution he intended to convey by that emblem sacred to the god of
silence.

At a signal from Plato, slaves filled the goblets with wine, and he rose
to propose the usual libation to the gods. Every Grecian guest joined in
the ceremony, singing in a recitative tone:

  Dionysus, this to thee,
  God of warm festivity!
  Giver of the fruitful vine,
  To thee we pour the rosy wine!

Music, from the adjoining room, struck in with the chorus, and continued
for some moments after it had ceased.

For a short time, the conversation was confined to the courtesies of the
table, as the guests partook of the delicious viands before them. Plato
ate olives and bread only; and the water he drank was scarcely tinged
with Lesbian wine. Alcibiades rallied him upon this abstemiousness; and
Pericles reminded him that even his great pattern, Socrates, gave
Dionysus his dues, while he worshipped the heaven-born Pallas.

The philosopher quietly replied, "I can worship the fiery God of Vintage
only when married with Nymphs of the Fountain."

"But tell me, O Anaxagoras and Plato," exclaimed Tithonus, "if, as
Hermippus hath said, the Grecian philosophers discard the theology of
the poets? Do ye not believe in the Gods?"

Plato would have smiled, had he not reverenced the simplicity that
expected a frank and honest answer to a question so dangerous.
Anaxagoras briefly replied, that the mind which did not believe in
divine beings, must be cold and dark indeed.

"Even so," replied Artiphernes, devoutly; "blessed be Oromasdes, who
sends Mithras to warm and enlighten the world! But what surprises me
most is, that you Grecians import new divinities from other countries,
as freely as slaves, or papyrus, or marble. The sculptor of the gods
will scarcely be able to fashion half their images."

"If the custom continues," rejoined Phidias, "it will indeed require a
life-time as long as that conferred upon the namesake of Tithonus."

"Thanks to the munificence of artists, every deity has a representative
in my dwelling," observed Aspasia.

"I have heard strangers express their surprise that the Athenians have
never erected a statue to the principle of _Modesty_" said Hermippus.

"So much the more need that we enshrine her image in our own hearts,"
rejoined Plato.

The sarcastic comedian made no reply to this quiet rebuke. Looking
toward Artaphernes, he continued: "Tell me, O servant of the great king,
wherein the people of your country are more wise in worshipping the sun,
than we who represent the same divinity in marble!"

"The principles of the Persian religion are simple, steady, and
uniform," replied Artaphernes; "but the Athenian are always changing.
You not only adopt foreign gods, but sometimes create new ones, and
admit them into your theology by solemn act of the great council. These
circumstances have led me to suppose that you worship them as mere
forms. The Persian Magii do indeed prostrate themselves before the
rising Sun; but they do it in the name of Oromasdes, the universal
Principle of Good, of whom that great luminary is the visible symbol. In
our solemn processions, the chariot sacred to Oromasdes precedes the
horse dedicated to Mithras; and there is deep meaning in the
arrangement. The Sun and Zodiac, the Balance and the Rule, are but
emblems of truths, mysterious and eternal. As the garlands we throw on
the sacred fire feed the flame, rather than extinguish it, so the
sublime symbols of our religion are intended to preserve, not to
conceal, the truths within them."

"Though you disclaim all images of divinity," rejoined Aspasia, "yet we
hear of your Mithras pictured like a Persian King, trampling on a
prostrate ox."

With a smile, Artaphernes replied, "I see, lady, that you would fain
gain admittance to the Mithraic cave; but its secrets, like those of
your own Eleusis, are concealed from all save the initiated."

"They tell us," said Aspasia, "that those who are admitted to the
Eleusinian mysteries die in peace, and go directly to the Elysian
fields; while the uninitiated wander about in the infernal abyss."

"Of course," said Anaxagoras, "Alcibiades will go directly to Elysium,
though Solon groped his way in darkness."

The old philosopher uttered this with imperturbable gravity, as if
unconscious of satirical meaning; but some of the guests could scarcely
repress a smile, as they recollected the dissolute life of the young
Athenian.

"If Alcibiades spoke his real sentiments," said Aspasia, "I venture to
say he would tell us that the mystic baskets of Demeter, covered with
long purple veils, contain nothing half so much worth seeing, as the
beautiful maidens who carry them."

She looked at Pericles, and saw that he again cautioned her, by raising
the rose toward his face, as if inhaling its fragrance.

There was a brief pause, which Anaxagoras interrupted, by saying, "The
wise can never reverence images merely as images. There is a mystical
meaning in the Athenian manner of supplicating the gods with garlands on
their heads, and bearing in their hands boughs of olive twined with
wool. Pallas, at whose birth we are told gold rained upon the earth, was
unquestionably a personification of wisdom. It is not to be supposed
that the philosophers of our country consider the sun itself as anything
more than a huge ball of fire; but the sight of that glorious orb leads
the contemplative soul to the belief in one Pure Intelligence, one
Universal Mind, which in manifesting itself produces order in the
material world, and preserves the unconfused distinction of infinite
varieties."

"Such, no doubt, is the tendency of all reflecting minds," said Phidias;
"but in general, the mere forms are worshipped, apart from the sacred
truths they represent. The gods we have introduced from Egypt are
regarded by the priests of that learned land as emblems of certain
divine truths brought down from ancient times. They are like the Hermae
at our doors, which outwardly appear to rest on inexpressive blocks of
stone; but when opened, they are found to contain beautiful statues of
the gods within them. It is not so with the new fables which the Greeks
are continually mixing with their mythology. Pygmalion, as we all know,
first departed from the rigid outline of ancient sculpture, and
impressed life and motion upon marble. The poets, in praise of him,
have told us that his ardent wishes warmed a statue into a lovely and
breathing woman. The fable is fanciful and pleasing in itself; but will
it not hereafter be believed as reality? Might not the same history be
told of much that is believed? It is true," added he, smiling, "that I
might be excused for favouring a belief in images, since mortals are
ever willing to have their own works adored."

"What! does Plato respond to the inquiries of Phidias?" asked
Artaphernes.

The philosopher replied: "Within the holy mysteries of our religion is
preserved a pure and deep meaning, as the waters of Arethusa flow
uncontaminated beneath the earth and the sea. I do not presume to decide
whether all that is believed has the inward significancy. I have ever
deemed such speculations unwise. If the chaste daughter of Latona always
appears to my thoughts veiled in heavenly purity, it is comparatively
unimportant whether I can prove that Acteon was torn by his dogs, for
looking on the goddess with wanton eyes. Anaxagoras, said wisely that
material forms lead the contemplative mind to the worship of ideal good,
which is in its nature immortal and divine. Homer tells us that the
golden chain resting upon Olympus reaches even to the earth. Here we see
but a few of the last links, and those imperfectly. We are like men in a
subterranean cave, so chained that they can look only forward to the
entrance. Far above and behind us is a glowing fire: and beautiful
beings, of every form, are moving between the light and us poor fettered
mortals. Some of these bright beings are speaking, and others are
silent. We see only the shadows cast on the opposite wall of the
cavern, by the reflection of the fire above; and if we hear the echo of
voices, we suppose it belongs to those passing shadows. The soul, in its
present condition, is an exile from the orb of light; its ignorance is
forgetfulness; and whatever we can perceive of truth, or imagine of
beauty, is but a reminiscence of our former more glorious state of
being. He who reverences the gods, and subdues his own passions, returns
at last to the blest condition from which he fell. But to talk, or
think, about these things with proud impatience, or polluted morals, is
like pouring pure water into a miry trench; he who does it disturbs the
mud, and thus causes the clear water to become defiled. When Odysseus
removed his armour from the walls, and carried it to an inner apartment,
invisible Pallas moved before him with her golden lamp, and filled the
place with radiance divine. Telemachus, seeing the light, exclaimed,
'Surely, my father, some of the celestial gods are present.' With deep
wisdom, the king of Ithaca replied, 'Be silent. Restrain your intellect,
and speak not.'"

"I am rebuked, O Plato," answered Phidias; "and from henceforth, when my
mind is dark and doubtful, I will remember that transparent drops may
fall into a turbid well. Nor will I forget that sometimes, when I have
worked on my statues by torch-light, I could not perceive their real
expression, because I was carving in the shadow of my own hand."

"Little can be learned of the human soul, and its connection with the
Universal Mind," said Anaxagoras: "These sublime truths seem vague and
remote, as Phoeacia appeared to Odysseus like a vast shield floating on
the surface of the distant ocean.

"The glimmering uncertainty attending all such speculations, has led me
to attach myself to the Ionic sect, who devote themselves entirely to
the study of outward nature."

"And this is useful," rejoined Plato: "The man who is to be led from a
cave will more easily see what the heavens contain by looking to the
light of the moon and the stars, than by gazing on the sun at noon-day."

Here Hermippus interrupted the discourse, by saying, "The son of Clinias
does not inform us what _he_ thinks of the gods. While others have
talked, he has eaten."

"I am a citizen and a soldier--neither priest nor philosopher," replied
Alcibiades: "With a strong arm and a willing heart to fight for my
country, I leave others to settle the attributes of her gods. Enough for
me, that I regularly offer sacrifices in their temples, and pour
libations upon their altars. I care very little whether there be Elysian
fields, or not. I will make an Elysium for myself, as long as Aspasia
permits me to be surrounded by forms so beautiful, and gives me nectar
like this to drink." He replaced the goblet, from which he had drunk
deeply, and exclaimed, "By Dionysus! they quaff nothing better than this
in voluptuous Ionia!"

"Methinks a citizen and a soldier might find a more worthy model in
Spartan, than in Ionian manners," said Anaxagoras; "but the latter truly
suits better with the present condition of Athens."

"A condition more glorious than that of any other people upon earth,"
exclaimed Pericles, somewhat warmly: "The story of Athens, enthroned in
her beauty and power, will thrill through generous hearts, long after
other nations are forgotten."

"She is like a torch sending forth its last bright blaze, before it is
extinguished forever," replied Anaxagoras, calmly: "Where idle
demagogues control the revenues of industrious citizens, the government
cannot long stand. It is a pyramid with the base uppermost."

"You certainly would not blame the wisdom of Aristides, in allowing the
poor as well as the rich, the privilege of voting?" said Pericles.

"A moderate supply of wealth is usually the result of virtuous and
industrious habits; and it should be respected merely for what it
indicates," rejoined Anaxagoras. "Aristides, and other wise men, in
their efforts to satisfy the requirements of a restless people, have
opened a sluice, without calculating how it would be enlarged by the
rushing waters, until the very walls of the city are undermined by its
power."

"But can the safety of the state be secured by merely excluding the
vicious poor?" said Plato. "Are there not among us vicious rich men, who
would rashly vote for measures destructive of public good, if they could
thereby increase their own wealth? He who exports figs to maintain
personal splendour, when there is famine in Attica, has perhaps less
public virtue than the beggar, who steals them to avoid starvation."

"But the vicious rich man will bribe the beggar to vote as he
dictates," replied Anaxagoras; "and thus his power of doing evil becomes
two fold."

"Your respect for permanent institutions makes you blind to the love of
change, inherent and active in the human mind," said Pericles. "If
society be like the heaving ocean, those who would guide their vessels
in safety, must obey the winds and the tides."

"Nay, Pericles," replied the old man, earnestly; "if society be a
tumultuous ocean, government should be its everlasting shores. If the
statesman watches wind and tide only that his own bark may ride through
the storm in safety, while every fresh wave sweeps a landmark away, it
is evident that, sooner or later, the deluge must come."

The discourse was growing too serious to be agreeable to Pericles, who
well knew that some of his best friends deemed he had injured the state,
by availing himself too freely of the democratic tendencies of the
people. Plato, perceiving this, said, "If it please you, Anaxagoras, we
will leave these subjects to be discussed in the Prytaneum and the
Agoras. Fair and glorious is the violet-crowned city, and let us trust
the gods will long preserve it so."

"Thou hast well spoken, son of Aristo," replied Artaphernes: "Much as I
had heard of the glory and beauty of Athens, it far surpasses my hopes.
Perhaps I find myself lingering to gaze on the Odeum more frequently
than on any other of your magnificent edifices; not for its more
impressive beauty; but because it is in imitation of our Great King's
Pavilion."

Hermippus looked up, and smiled with ill-natured significance; for
Cratinus, the ribald, had openly declared in the theatre, that Pericles
needed only to look in his mirror, to discover a model for the sloping
roof of the Odeum. Athenian guests were indignant at being thus reminded
of the gross allusion to a deformity conspicuous in the head of their
illustrious statesman; but Artaphernes, quite unconscious of his
meaning, continued: "The noble structure is worthy of him who planned
it. Yet the unpretending beauty of some of your small temples makes me
feel more as if I were in the presence of a god. I have often marvelled
what it is in those fair white columns, that charms me so much more than
the palaces of the East, refulgent with gems and gold."

"The beauty that lies _within_ has ever a mysterious power," answered
Plato. "An amethyst may beam in the eye of a statue; but what, save the
soul itself, can give the expression of soul? The very spirit of harmony
is embodied in the proportions of the Parthenon. It is marble music. I
sometimes think the whole visible beauty of creation is formed from the
music of the Infinite; and that the various joys we feel are but the
union of accordant notes in the great chorus of the universe. There is
music in the airy dance; music in poetry; music in the glance of a
beautiful woman; music in the involutions and inflexions of numbers;
above all, there is music in light! And what _Light_ is in this world,
_Truth_ is in that glorious world to which the mind of man returns after
its long exile. Yes, there is music in light! Hence, Phoebus is god of
the Sun and of the Lyre, and Memnon yields sweet sounds to welcome
approaching day. For this reason, the disciples of Zoroaster and
Pythagoras hail the rising sun with the melody of harps; and the birds
pour forth their love of light in song. Perchance the order of the
universe is revealed in the story of Thebes rising to the lyre of
Amphion; and Ibycus might have spoken sublime truth, when he told of
music in the motion of the everlasting stars."

Philothea had listened so earnestly, that for a moment all other
thoughts were expelled from her mind. She threw back her veil, and with
her whole soul beaming from her face, she exclaimed, "O Plato, I once
_heard_ the music of the stars! Ibycus"----

The ardent gaze of Alcibiades restored her to painful consciousness;
and, blushing deeply, she replaced her veil. Aspasia smiled; but Plato,
with gentle reverence, asked, "What would Philothea say of the divine
Ibycus?"

The timid maiden gave no reply; and the tears of innocent shame were
seen falling fast upon her trembling arm.

With that ready skill, which ever knows how to adapt itself to the
circumstances of the moment, Aspasia gave a signal to her attendants,
and at once the mingled melody of voices and instruments burst upon the
ear. It was one of the enchanting strains of Olympus the Mysian; and
every heart yielded to its influence. A female slave noiselessly brought
Aspasia's silver harp, and placed before her guests citharas and lyres,
of ivory inlaid with gold. One by one, new voices and instruments joined
in the song; and when the music ceased, there was a pause of deep and
silent joy.

"Shame to the feast, where the praises of Harmodius are not sung," said
Pericles, smiling, as he looked toward Eudora. With rapid fingers the
maiden touched her lyre, and sung the patriotic song of Callistratus:

  "I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as brave Harmodius did,
  And as Aristogeiton his avenging weapon hid;
  When they slew the haughty tyrant and regained our liberty,
  And, breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free.

  "Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not surely dead,
  But to some secluded sanctuary far away art fled;
  With the swift-footed Achilleus, unmolested there to rest,
  And to rove with Diomedes through the islands of the blest.

  "I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as Aristogeiton did,
  And as the brave Harmodius his avenging weapon hid;
  When on Athenæ's festival they aimed the glorious blow,
  And calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low.

  "Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages still shall brighten,
  Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton;
  Because your country's champions ye nobly dared to be,
  And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free."

The exhilarating notes stirred every Grecian heart. Some waved their
garlands in triumph, while others joined in the music, and kept time
with branches of myrtle.

"By Phoebus! a glorious song and divinely sung," exclaimed Alcibiades:
"But the lovely minstrel brings danger to our hearts in those sweet
sounds, as Harmodius concealed his sword among myrtle leaves."

Hipparete blushed, and with a quick and nervous motion touched her
cithara. With a nod and a smile, Aspasia said, "Continue the music, I
pray you." The tune being left to her own choice, the young matron sang
Anacreon's Ode to the Grasshopper. Her voice was not unpleasing; but it
contrasted disadvantageously with the rich intonations of Eudora; and if
the truth must be told, that dark-haired damsel was quite too conscious
of the fact.

Tithonus expressed an earnest desire to hear one of Pindar's odes; and
Philothea, urged by Aspasia, began with a quivering hand to accompany
herself on the harp. Her voice was at first weak and trembling; and
Plato, to relieve her timidity, joined in the music, which soon gushed
forth, clear, deep, and melodious:

  "Hail, celestial Poesy!
  Fair enchantress of mankind!
  Veiled in whose sweet majesty
  Fables please the human mind.
  But, as year rolls after year,
  These fictitious charms decline;
  Then, O man, with holy fear,
  Write and speak of things divine.
  Of the heavenly natures say
  Nought unseemly, or profane--
  Hearts that worship and obey,
  Are preserved from guilty stain."

Oppressed with the grandeur of the music, and willing to evade the tacit
reproach conveyed in the words, Aspasia touched her lyre, and, with
mournful tenderness, sung Danæ's Hymn to her Sleeping Infant. Then,
suddenly changing to a gayer measure, she sang, with remarkable
sweetness and flexibility of voice:

  "While our rosy fillets shed
  Blushes o'er each fervid head,
  With many a cup, and many a smile,
  The festal moments we beguile.
  And while the harp impassioned flings
  Tuneful rapture from the strings,
  Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,
  Through the dance luxuriant swims,
  Waving in her snowy hand,
  The leafy Dionysian wand,
  Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
  Shakes its tresses to her sighs.

At these words, a troop of graceful maidens, representing the Zephyrs
and the Hours, glided in and out, between the marble columns, pelting
each other with roses, as they flew through the mazes of the dance.

Presently, the music, more slow and measured in its cadence, announced
the dance of Ariadne guiding her lover from the Labyrinth. In obedience
to a signal from Aspasia, Eudora sprang forward to hold the silken cord,
and Alcibiades darted forward to perform the part of Theseus. Slowly,
but gracefully as birds balancing themselves on the air, the maidens
went through the difficult involutions of the dance. They smiled on each
other, as they passed and repassed; and though Eudora's veil concealed
the expression of her features, Philothea observed, with an undefined
feeling of apprehension, that she showed no tokens of displeasure at the
brief whispers and frequent glances of Alcibiades.

At last, Pericles bade the attendants bring forth the goblet of the Good
Genius. A large golden bowl, around which a silver grape-vine twined its
luxuriant clusters, was immediately placed before him, filled with the
rich juices of the Chian grape. Then Plato, as king of the feast,
exclaimed, "The cup of the Good Genius is filled. Pledge him in unmixed
wine."

The massive goblet passed among all the guests; some taking a deep
draught, and others scarcely moistening their lips with the wine. When
the ceremony was finished, Pericles said, "Now, if it pleases Hermippus,
we should like to see him in the comic dance, for which he is so
celebrated."

Philothea looked earnestly at her grandfather. He instantly understood
her wishes, and bade farewell to Aspasia; urging the plea that his child
was unused to late hours, and too timid to be in the streets of Athens
without his protection. Phidias requested that Eudora might accompany
them; and Hipparete likewise asked leave to depart. Aspasia bestowed
gifts on her visiters, according to the munificent custom of the
country. To Hipparete she gave a bracelet of pearls; to Philothea, a
lyre of ivory and gold; and to Eudora, a broad clasp for her mantle, on
which the car of Aphrodite, drawn by swans, was painted in enamel, by
Polygnotus, the inventor of the art.

Alcibiades chose to remain at his wine; but slaves with torches were in
readiness at the gates, and Hipparete lived in the Ceramicus, within
sight of Aspasia's dwelling.

A rapid walk soon restored the maidens to their own peaceful homes.
Philothea, with the consent of Anaxagoras, went to share the apartment
of her friend; which, separated only by a small garden, was almost
within hearing of her own.




CHAPTER IV.

  Much I dislike the beamless mind,
  Whose earthly vision, unrefined,
  Nature has never formed to see
  The beauties of simplicity!
  Simplicity, the flower of Heaven,
  To souls elect by nature given."
                           ANACREON.


As the maidens entered their apartment, Eudora rather abruptly dismissed
Dione, the aged nurse, who had been waiting their arrival. Her favourite
dog was sleeping on the couch; and she gave the little creature a hasty
box on the ear, which made him spring suddenly to the floor, and look up
in her face, as if astonished at such ungentle treatment.

Philothea stooped down and caressed the animal, with a slightly
reproachful glance at her friend.

"He was sleeping on my mantle," said the petulant damsel.

"His soft, white fur could not have harmed it," rejoined her companion;
"and you know that Hylax himself, as well as the mantle, was a gift from
Philæmon."

Eudora carelesssly tossed the mantle over her embroidery frame, from
which it trailed along the dusty floor. Philothea looked earnestly in
her face, unable to comprehend such wayward conduct. "It is evident you
do not want my company to-night," she said; "I will therefore return to
my own apartment."

The peevish maiden slowly untied her sandal, without making any reply.
Philothea's voice trembled slightly, as she added, "Good night, Eudora,
To-morrow I hope you will tell me how I have offended you."

"Stay! Stay!" exclaimed the capricious damsel; and she laid her hand
coaxingly on her friend's arm. Philothea smiled a ready forgiveness.

"I know I am very petulant to-night," said Eudora; "but I do not believe
you yourself could listen to Hipparete without being vexed. She is so
stupid, and so haughty. I don't think she spoke ten words to-night
without having a grasshopper for one of them. She is so proud of her
pure Athenian blood! Do you know she has resolved to employ a skilful
artificer from Corinth, to make her an ivory box just like the one
Tithonus gave Aspasia; but she took care to inform me that it should be
inlaid with golden grasshoppers, instead of stars. A wise and witty
device, is't not? to put grasshoppers in the paws of transformed
Calisto, and fasten them in the belt of Orion. The sky will be so purely
Athenian, that Hipparete herself might condescend to be a
constellation."

The talkative maiden laughed at her own conceit; and even her more
serious companion could not refrain from a smile, as with untiring
volubility she continued: "Then she told me that she herself embroidered
her grasshopper robe, and bade me admire the excellence of the pattern.
She said Plato could not possibly have mistaken the wreath intended for
her; knowing, as he did, that her father and mother were both descended
from the most ancient families in Athens; and she repeated a list of
ancestors with names all ending in _ippus_ and _ippides_. When, in
answer to her question, I acknowledged that the ornament in her hair
was beautiful, she told me she would gladly give me one like it, if it
were proper for me to wear it. I do so detest the sight of that Athenian
emblem! I would walk to the fields of Acharnae, on purpose to crush a
grasshopper."

"You put yourself in a singular passion for such a harmless insect,"
replied Philothea, smiling. "I hope there are none of them within
hearing. You know the poets say they rose from the ashes of men, who,
when the Muses first had existence, pined away for the love of song; and
that after death they go to Parnassus, and inform the most ancient
Calliope, the heavenly Urania, and the amorous Erato, concerning the
conversation of their votaries. If they are truly the children of song,
they will indeed forget their own resentments; but your conversation
would be so unlikely to make a favourable impression on the tuneful
sisters, that it may be well for you the insects are now sleeping."

"If the tattling tribe were all awake and listening," replied Eudora, "I
would freely give them leave to report all I say against Astronomy, or
Poetry, or Music. If this be the test, I am willing to be tried with
Hipparete at the court of the Muses. If she were less stupid, I think I
could tolerate her pride. But I thought she would never have done with a
long story about a wine-stain that nearly spoiled her new dove-coloured
robe; the finest from the looms of Ecbatana; the pattern not to be
matched in all Greece; and Aspasia half wild to obtain one like it. She
did not fail to inform me that the slave who had spilled the wine, was
tied to the olive-tree in the garden, and whipped six days in
succession. I never saw her in my life that she did not remind me of
being a slave."

"Dearest Eudora," said Philothea, "how can you make yourself so unhappy
on this subject? Has not Phidias, from the first hour he bought you,
allowed you all the privileges of a daughter?"

"Yes," replied Eudora; "but the very circumstance that I was bought with
his money embitters it all. I do not thank him that I have been taught
all which becomes an Athenian maiden; for I can never be an Athenian.
The spirit and the gifts of freedom ill assort with the condition of a
slave. I wish he had left me to tend goats and bear burdens, as other
slaves do; to be beaten as they are beaten; starved as they are starved;
and die as they die. I should not then have known my degradation. I
would have made friends with the birds and the flowers, and never had a
heart-wound from a proud Athenian fool."

Philothea laid her hand gently on her friend's arm, and gazing on her
excited countenance, she said, "Eudora, some evil demon vexes you
strangely to-night. Did I not know the whole tenor of your blameless
life, I should fear you were not at peace with your own conscience."

Eudora blushed deeply, and busily caressed the dog with her foot.

In a mild, clear voice, Philothea continued: "What _now_ prevents you
from making friendship with the birds and the flowers! And why do you
cherish a pride so easily wounded? Yes, it is pride, Eudora. It is
useless disguise to call it by another name. The haughtiness of others
can never make us angry, if we ourselves are humble. Besides, it is
very possible that you are unjust to Hipparete. She might very naturally
have spoken of her slave's carelessness, without meaning to remind you
of bondage."

"She _did_ mean it," replied Eudora, with angry emphasis. "She is always
describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am
excluded from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud heart
humbled."

"Nay, Eudora," said Philothea, turning mournfully away: "Your feelings
are strangely embittered; the calm light of reason is totally obscured
by the wild torch-dance of your passions. Methinks hatred itself need
wish Hipparete no worse fate than to be the wife of so bold and bad a
man as Alcibiades."

"Oh, Philothea! I wonder you can call him bold," rejoined Eudora. "He
looks steadily at no one; his eyelashes ever rest on his face, like
those of a modest maiden."

"Aye, Eudora--but it is not the expression of a sinless heart, timidly
retiring within the shrine of its own purity; it is the shrinking of a
conscience that has something to conceal. Little as we know about the
evils of the world, we have heard enough of Alcibiades, to be aware that
Hipparete has much need to seek the protection of her patron goddess."

"She had better worship in the temple of Helen, at Therapne," answered
Eudora, sharply: "The journey might not prove altogether hopeless; for
that temple is said to confer beauty on the ugliest woman that ever
entered it." As the peevish damsel said this, she gave a proud glance
at her own lovely person, in the mirror, before which a lamp was
burning.

Philothea had often seen her friend in petulant moods; but she had never
before known her to evince so much bitterness, or so long resist the
soothing influence of kindness. Unwilling to contend with passions she
could not subdue, and would not flatter, she remained for some moments
in serious silence.

The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's quick feelings; and
she said, in an humble tone, "I know I am doing wrong, Philothea, but I
cannot help it."

Her friend calmly replied, "If you believe you cannot help it, you
deceive yourself; and if you do not believe it, you had better not have
said it."

"Now you are angry with me," exclaimed the sensitive maiden; and she
burst into tears.

Philothea passed her arm affectionately round her waist, saying, "I am
not angry with you, Eudora; but while I love you, I cannot and ought not
to love the bad feelings you cherish. Believe me, my dear friend, the
insults of others can never make us wretched, or resentful, if all is
right within our own hearts. The viper that stings us is always
nourished within us. Moreover, I believe, dearest Eudora, that half your
wrongs are in your own imagination. I too am a foreigner; but I have
been very happy within the walls of Athens."

"Because you have never been a slave," retorted her companion; "and you
have shared privileges that strangers are seldom allowed to share. You
have been one of the Canephoræ; you have walked in the grand
procession of the Panathenæa: and your statue in pure Pentelic marble,
upholds the canopy over the sacred olive-tree. I know that your skilful
fingers, and your surpassing beauty have deserved these honours; but you
must pardon me, if I do not like the proud Athenians quite so well as
you do."

"I gratefully acknowledge the part I have been allowed to take in the
sacred service of Pallas," replied the maiden; "but I owe it neither to
my beauty, nor my skill in embroidery. It was a tribute to that wise and
good old man, my grandfather."

"And I," said Eudora, in a tone of deep melancholy, "have neither
grandfather, parent, or brother to care for me."

"Who could have proved a better protector than Phidias has been?"
inquired her gentle friend.

"Philothea, I cannot forget that I am his slave. What I said just now in
anger, I repeat in sober sadness; it would be better for me to have a
slave's mind with a slave's destiny."

"I have no doubt," replied Philothea, "that Phidias continues to be your
master merely that he may retain lawful power to protect you, until you
are the wife of Philæmon."

"Some slaves have been publicly registered as adopted children," said
Eudora.

"But in order to do that," rejoined her friend, "it is necessary to
swear to their parentage; and yours is unknown. If it were not for this
circumstance, I believe Phidias would be most willing to adopt you."

"No, Philothea--Phidias would do no such thing. He is good and kind. I
know that I have spoken of him as I ought not to have spoken. But he is
a proud man. He would not adopt a nameless orphan, found with a poor
goatherd of Phelle. Had I descended from any of the princes conquered by
Grecian valour, or were I even remotely allied with any of the
illustrious men that Athens has ostracised, then indeed I might be the
adopted daughter of Phidias," After a short pause, she added, "If he
enfranchised me without adoption, I think I should have no difficulty in
finding a protector;" and again the maiden gave a triumphant glance at
her mirror.

"I am aware that your marriage with Philæmon has only awaited the
termination of these unfortunate law-suits," replied Philothea: "Though
he is not rich, it cannot be very long before he is able to take you
under his protection; and as soon as he has the power, he will have the
disposition."

"Will he, indeed!" exclaimed Eudora; and she trotted her little foot
impatiently.

"You are altogether mysterious to-night," said Philothea: "Has any
disagreement arisen between you and Philæmon, during my absence?"

"He is proud, and jealous; and wishes me to be influenced by every whim
of his," answered the offended beauty.

"The fetters of love are a flowery bondage," rejoined Philothea:
"Blossoms do not more easily unfold themselves to the sunshine, than
woman obeys the object of her affections. Don't you remember the little
boy we found piping so sweetly, under the great plane-tree by the
fountain of Callirhöe? When my grandfather asked him where he learned to
play so well, he answered; with a look of wondering simplicity, that it
'piped itself.' Methinks this would be the reply of a loving woman, to
one who inquired how her heart had learned submission. But what has
Philæmon required, that you consider so unreasonable?"

"He dislikes to have me visit Aspasia; and was angry because I danced
with Alcibiades."

"And did you tell him that you went to Aspasia's house, in conformity
with the express directions of Phidias?" inquired Philothea.

"Why don't you say of my _master_?" interrupted Eudora, contemptuously.

Without noticing the peevishness of this remark, her friend continued:
"Are you quite sure that you have not been more frequently than you
would have been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience to the
will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philæmon is offended at your
dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly a practice, so boldly at variance
with the customs of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly."

"It is enough to be one man's slave," replied Eudora. "I will dance with
whom I please. Alcibiades is the handsomest, and the most graceful, and
the most agreeable man in Athens--at least every body says so. I don't
know why I should offend him to please Philæmon."

"I thought there was a very satisfactory reason," observed Philothea,
quietly: "Alcibiades is the husband of Hipparete, and you are the
promised wife of Philæmon. I would not have believed the person who
told me that Eudora seriously called Alcibiades the handsomest and most
agreeable man in Athens."

"The sculptors think him pre-eminently beautiful," answered Eudora; "or
they would not so often copy his statue in the sacred images of Hermes.
Socrates applied Anacreon's eloquent praise of Bathyllus to him, and
said he saw in his lips 'Persuasion sleeping upon roses.'"

"That must have been in the days of youthful innocence," replied
Philothea: "Surely his countenance has now nothing divine in its
expression; though I grant the colouring rich, and the features regular.
He reminds me of the Alexandrian coin; outwardly pleasing to the eye but
inwardly made of base metal. Urania alone confers the beauty-giving
zone. The temple of Aphrodite in the Piræus is a fitting place for the
portrait of Alcibiades; and no doubt he is well pleased that the people
go there in throngs to see him represented leaning on the shoulder of
the shameless Nemea."

"If Aristophon chose to paint him side by side with the beautiful Nemea,
it is no fault of his," said Eudora.

"The artist would not have dared so to represent Plato, or Philæmon, or
Paralus," rejoined Philothea; "nor would Alcibiades allow his picture
thus to minister to the corruption of the Athenians, if he had any
perception of what is really beautiful. I confess, Eudora, it pained me
to see you listen to his idle flattery. He worships every handsome
woman, who will allow herself to be polluted by his incense. Like
Anacreon, his heart is a nest for wanton loves. He is never without a
brood of them--some trying their wings, some in the egg, and some just
breaking the shell."

With slight resentment in her manner, Eudora answered: "Anacreon is the
most beautiful of poets; and I think you speak too harshly of the son of
Clinias."

"I am sorry for you, if you can perceive the beautiful where the pure is
wanting," rejoined Philothea; "You have changed, since my residence in
the Acropolis. The cherub Innocence, that was once the ever-present
deity in your soul, has already retired deeper within the shrine, and
veils his face in presence of the vain thoughts you have introduced
there. I fear Aspasia has made you believe that a passion for
distinction is but another name for love of the good, the true, and the
beautiful. Eudora, if this false man has flattered you, believe me, he
is always ready to bestow the same upon others. He has told me that I
was the loveliest of earthly objects; no doubt he has told you the same;
but both cannot be true."

"You!" exclaimed her companion: "Where could he find opportunity to
address such language to you?"

"Where a better man would have had better thoughts," replied Philothea:
"It was during the sacred festival of the Panathenæa. A short time
before midnight, it was my duty to receive the sacred basket from the
hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the cave, beneath the Temple
of Urania, in the gardens. Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended
me, carrying a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I held the torch
while she took up the other sacred basket, which was there in readiness
to be conveyed to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the
gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple, so clear and
strong, that I could distinctly see the sacred doves, among the
multitude of fragrant roses--some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others
fluttering from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles,
frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the centre of the gardens,
stood Myron's statue of the heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her
temple by a garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression of
the human soul, when it dwells in love and peace. In this holy
atmosphere we paused for a moment in silent reverence. A smiling band of
infant hours came clustering round my memory, and softly folded
themselves about my heart. I thought of those early days, when, hand in
hand with Paralus, I walked forth in the spring-time, welcoming the
swallows to our shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees. We
did not then know that bees and young hearts need none to take thought
for their joy, but best gather their own sweet nourishment in sunlight
and freedom. I remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to my
care. When we dressed the little creature in wreaths, we mourned that
flowers would not _grow_ in garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts
to see them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered
rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus took one of them in his
hand; and when we had admired its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and
returned it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring of a
heart brimful of love for all things pure and simple. Paralus ever lived
in affectionate communion with the birds and the flowers. Firm in
principle, but gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in
whose bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so motherly and
safe, where she might brood over her young hopes in quiet joy."

The maiden's heart had unconsciously followed her own innocent
recollections, like the dove led by a garland; and for a few moments she
remained silent in thoughtful tenderness.

Eudora's changeful and perturbed spirit had been soothed by the serene
influence of her friend; and she too was silent for awhile. But the
giddy images that had of late been reeling their wild dance through her
brain, soon came back in glittering fantasy.

"Philothea!" she exclaimed, abruptly, "you have not told me where you
met Alcibiades?"

The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant startled from sweet dreams
by some rude noise. Recovering from her surprise, she smiled, and said,
"Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected and unwelcome
presence in the sacred gardens. I told you that we stood by that quiet
lake in meek reverence; worshipping,--not the marble image before
us,--but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through the universe,
breathing the invisible through visible forms, in such mysterious
harmony. Suddenly Eucoline touched my arm with a quick and timid motion.
I turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us. Our veils, which
had been thrown back while we looked at the statue, were instantly
dropped, and we hastily retraced our steps. The stranger followed us,
until we passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight of the
Propylæa. He then knelt, and attempting to hold me by the robe, poured
forth the wildest protestations of love. I called aloud for protection;
and my voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in and out of
the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the festival. The young man
suddenly disappeared; but he was one of the equestrians that shared in
the solemnities of the night, and I again saw him as I took my place in
the procession. I had then never seen Alcibiades; but when I met him
to-night, I immediately recognized the stranger who spoke so rudely in
the olive-grove."

"You must forgive me," said Eudora, "if I am not much disposed to blame
mortal man for wishing to look upon your face a second time. Even Plato
does homage to woman's beauty."

"True, Eudora; but there is reverence mingled with his homage. The very
atmosphere around Alcibiades seemed unholy. I never before met such a
glance; and the gods grant I may never meet such another. I should not
have mentioned the occurrence, even to you, had I not wished to warn you
how lightly this volatile Athenian can make love."

"I heard something of this before," rejoined Eudora; "but I did not know
the particulars."

"How could you have heard of it?" inquired Philothea, with an accent of
strong surprise.

"Alcibiades had a more eager curiosity than yourself," replied Eudora.
"He soon ascertained the name of the lovely Canephoræ that he saw in
the Gardens of Urania; and he has never ceased importuning Aspasia,
until you were persuaded to visit her house."

The face, neck, and arms of the modest maiden were flushed with
indignant crimson. "Was it for this purpose," she said, "that I was
induced to yield my own sense of propriety to the solicitations of
Pericles? It is ever thus, when we disobey the gods, to please mortals.
How could I believe that any motive so harmless as idle curiosity
induced that seductive and dangerous woman to urge me into her
unhallowed presence?"

"I marvelled at your courage in talking to her as you did," said Eudora.

"Something within impelled me," replied Philothea, reverently;--"I did
not speak from myself."

Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you
tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars
sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to
have me inquire?"

The maiden replied: "As I sat at my grandfather's feet, near the statue
of Phoebus in the portico, at early dawn, I heard music, of soft and
various sounds, floating in the air; and I thought perchance it was the
farewell hymn of the stars, or the harps of the Pleiades, mourning for
their lost sister.--I had never spoken of it; but to-night I forgot the
presence of all save Plato, when I heard him discourse so eloquently of
music."

"And were you as unhappy as you expected to be during this visit?"
inquired her friend.

"Some portions of the evening I enjoyed exceedingly," replied Philothea.
"I could have listened to Plato and Tithonus, until I grew old in their
presence. Their souls seem to move in glowing moonlight, as if
surrounded by bright beings from a better world."

Eudora looked thoughtfully in her friend's face. "It is strange," she
said, "how closely you associate all earthly objects with things divine.
I have heard Anaxagoras say that when you were a little child, you
chased the fleeting sunshine through the fields, and called it the
glittering wings of Phoebus Apollo, as he flew over the verdant earth.
And still, dearest Philothea, your heart speaks the same language.
Wherever you look, you see the shining of god-like wings. Just so you
talked of the moonlight, the other evening. To Hipparete, that solemn
radiance would have suggested no thought except that lamp-light was more
favourable to the complexion; and Hermippus would merely have rejoiced
in it, because it saved him the expense of an attendant and a torch, as
he reeled home from his midnight revels. I seldom think of sacred
subjects, except when I am listening to you; but they then seem so
bright, so golden, so divine, that I marvel they ever appear to me like
cold, dim shadows."

"The flowers of the field are unlike, but each has a beauty of its own;
and thus it is with human souls," replied Philothea.

For a brief space there was silence. But Eudora, true to the restless
vivacity of her character, soon seized her lyre, and carelessly touching
the strings, she hummed one of Sappho's ardent songs:

  "More happy than the gods is he,
  Who soft reclining sits by thee;
  His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,
  His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles.
  This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,
  And robbed me of my golden rest."

Philothea interrupted her, by saying, "I should much rather hear
something from the pure and tender-hearted Simonides."

But the giddy damsel, instead of heeding her request, abruptly
exclaimed, "Did you observe the sandals of Artaphernes sparkle as he
walked? How richly Tithonus was dressed! Was it not a magnificent
costume?"

Philothea, smiling at her childish prattle, replied, "It was gorgeous,
and well fancied; but I preferred Plato's simple robe, distinguished
only by the fineness of its materials, and the tasteful adjustment of
its folds."

"I never saw a philosopher that dressed so well as Plato," said Eudora.

"It is because he loves the beautiful, even in its minutest forms,"
rejoined Philothea; "in that respect he is unlike the great master he
reverences so highly."

"Yes--men say it is a rare thing to meet either Socrates or his robe
lately returned from the bath," observed Eudora; "yet, in those three
beautiful statues, which Pericles has caused to be placed in the
Propylæa, the philosopher has carved admirable drapery. He has clothed
the Graces, though the Graces never clothed him. I wonder Aristophanes
never thought of that jest. Notwithstanding his willingness to please
the populace with the coarse wit current in the Agoras, I think it
gratifies his equestrian pride to sneer at those who are too frugal to
buy coloured robes, and fill the air with delicious perfumes as they
pass. I know you seldom like the comic writers. What did you think of
Hermippus?"

"His countenance and his voice troubled me, like the presence of
evil," answered Philothea. "I rejoiced that my grandfather withdrew with
us, as soon as the goblet of the Good Genius passed round, and before he
began to dance the indecent cordax."

"He has a sarcastic, suspicious glance, that might sour the ripest
grapes in Chios," rejoined Eudora. "The comic writers are over-jealous of
Aspasia's preference to the tragic poets; and I suppose she permitted
this visit to bribe his enmity; as ghosts are said to pacify Cerberus
with a cake. But hark! I hear Geta unlocking the outer gate. Phidias has
returned; and he likes to have no lamp burn later than his own. We must
quickly prepare for rest; though I am as wakeful as the bird of Pallas."

She began to unclasp her girdle, as she spoke, and something dropped
upon the floor.

Philothea was stooping to unlace her sandal, and she immediately picked
it up.

It was a beautiful cameo of Alcibiades, with the quiver and bow of Eros.

Eudora took it with a deep blush, saying, "Aspasia gave it to me."

Her friend looked very earnestly in her face for a moment, and sighed as
she turned away. It was the first time she had ever doubted Eudora's
truth.




CHAPTER V.

                     "Two several gates
  Transmit those airy phantoms. One of horn,
  And of sawn ivory one. Such dreams as pass
  The gate of ivory, prove empty sounds;
  While others, through the polished horn effused,
  Whose eye soe'er they visit, never fail."
                                           HOMER.


The dwellings of Anaxagoras and Phidias were separated by a garden
entirely sheltered from public observation. On three sides it was
protected by the buildings, so as to form a hollow square; the remainder
was screened by a high stone wall. This garden was adorned with statues
and urns, among which bloomed many choice shrubs and flowers. The entire
side of Anaxagoras' house was covered with a luxuriant grape-vine, which
stretched itself out on the roof, as if enjoying the sunshine. The
women's apartments communicated by a private avenue, which enabled the
friends to see each other as conveniently as if they had formed one
household.

The morning after the conversation we have mentioned, Philothea rose
early, and returned to her own dwelling. As she passed through the
avenue, she looked into the garden, and smiled to see, suspended by a
small cord thrown over the wall, a garland, fastened with a
delicately-carved arrow, bearing the inscription--"To Eudora, the most
beautiful, most beloved."

Glad to assist in the work of reconciliation, she separated the wreath
from the string, and carried it to her for whom it was intended.
"Behold the offering of Philæmon!" she exclaimed, joyfully: "Dearest
Eudora, beware how you estrange so true a heart."

The handsome maiden received her flowers with evident delight, not
unmingled with confusion; for she suspected that they came from a
greater flatterer than Philæmon.

Philothea returned to her usual avocations, with anxiety somewhat
lessened by this trifling incident.

Living in almost complete seclusion, the simple-hearted maiden was
quite unconscious that the new customs, introduced by Aspasia, had
rendered industry and frugality mere vulgar virtues, But the restraint
of public opinion was unnecessary to keep her within the privacy of
domestic life; for it was her own chosen home. She loved to prepare her
grandfather's frugal repast of bread and grapes, and wild honey; to take
care of his garments; to copy his manuscripts; and to direct the
operations of Milza, a little Arcadian peasant girl, who was her only
attendant. These duties, performed with cheerful alacrity, gave a fresh
charm to the music and embroidery with which she employed her leisure
hours.

Anaxagoras was extremely attached to his lovely grandchild; and her
great intellectual gifts, accompanied as they were by uncommon purity of
character, had procured from him and his friends a degree of respect not
usually bestowed upon women of that period. She was a most welcome
auditor to the philosophers, poets, and artists, who were ever fond of
gathering round the good old man; and when it was either necessary or
proper to remain in her own apartment, there was the treasured wisdom of
Thales, Pythagoras, Hesiod, Homer, Simonides, Ibycus, and Pindar. More
than one of these precious volumes were transcribed entirely by her own
hand.

In the midst of such communion, her spirit drank freely from the
fountains of sublime knowledge; which, "like the purest waters of the
earth, can be obtained only by digging deep,--but when they are found,
they rise up to meet us."

The intense love of the beautiful, thus acquired, far from making the
common occupations of life distasteful, threw over them a sort of poetic
interest, as a richly painted window casts its own glowing colours on
mere boards and stones. The higher regions of her mind were never
obscured by the clouds of daily care; but thence descended perpetual
sunshine, to gild the vapour.

On this day, however, Philothea's mind was less serene than usual. The
unaccountable change in Eudora's character perplexed and troubled her.
When she parted from her to go into the Acropolis, she had left her as
innocent and contented as a little child; and so proud and satisfied in
Philæmon's love, that she deemed herself the happiest of all happy
beings: at the close of six short months, she found her transformed into
a vain, restless, ambitious woman, wild for distinction, and impatient
of restraint.

All this Philothea was disposed to pity and forgive; for she felt that
frequent intercourse with Aspasia might have dazzled even a stronger
mind, and changed a less susceptible heart. Her own diminished
influence, she regarded as the inevitable result of her friend's present
views and feelings; and she only regretted it because it lessened her
power of doing good where she was most desirous to be useful.

Several times, in the course of the day, her heart yearned toward the
favourite of her childhood; and she was strongly impelled to go to her
and confess all her anxieties. But Eudora came not, as she had ever been
wont to do, in the intervals of household occupation; and this obvious
neglect drove Philothea's kind impulses back upon her heart.

Hylax, as he ran round the garden, barking and jumping at the birds in
the air, instantly knew her voice, and came capering in, bounding up at
her side, and licking her hand. The tears came to Philothea's eyes, as
she stooped to caress the affectionate animal: "Poor Hylax," said she,
"_you_ have not changed." She gathered some flowers, and twined them
round the dog's neck, thinking this simple artifice might bring a visit
from her friend.

But the sun went down, and still she had not caught a glimpse of Eudora,
even in the garden. Her affectionate anxiety was almost deepening into
sadness, when Anaxagoras returned, accompanied by the Ethiopian boy.

"I bring an offering from the munificent Tithonus," said the
philosopher: "He came with my disciples to-day, and we have had much
discourse together. To-morrow he departs from Athens; and he bade me say
that he hoped his farewell gift would not be unacceptable to her whose
voice made even Pindar's strains more majestic and divine."

The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms, and with low
obeisance presented it to Philothea. It was a small statue of Urania,
wrought in ivory and gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if
regarding the heavens with quiet contemplation. A crown of golden
planets encircled the head, and the scarf, enamelled with deep and vivid
azure, likewise glowed with stars.

Philothea smiled, as she glanced round the apartment, and said, "It is a
humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly."

"Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for the gods, than mere
marble and gold," replied the philosopher.

As a small indication of respect and gratitude, the maiden sent Tithonus
a roll of papyrus, on which she had neatly copied Pindar's Odes; and the
boy, haying received a few oboli for his trouble, returned charged with
thanks and good wishes for his master.

Philothea, spontaneously yielding to the old habit of enjoying
everything with her friend, took the statue in her arms, and went
directly to her room. Eudora was kind and cheerful, but strangely
fluttered. She praised the beautiful image in the excessive terms of one
who feels little, and is therefore afraid of not saying enough. Her mind
was evidently disturbed with thoughts quite foreign to the subject of
her conversation; but, making an effort at self-possession, she said, "I
too have had a present: Artaphernes sent it because my voice reminded
him of one he loved in his youth." She unfolded a roll of perfumed
papyrus, and displayed a Persian veil of gold and silver tissue.
Philothea pronounced it fit for the toilette of a queen; but frankly
confessed that it was too gorgeous to suit her taste.

At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment for the night. The
maiden refused, under the pretext of illness; but when her friend
offered to remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be much
better alone.

As Philothea passed through the sheltered avenue, she saw Milza
apparently assisting Geta in cleansing some marbles; and thinking
Phidias would be pleased with the statue, she asked Geta to convey it to
his room. He replied, "My master has gone to visit a friend at Salamis,
and will not return until morning." The maiden was much surprised that
her friend had made no allusion to this circumstance; but she forbore to
return and ask an explanation.

Another subject attracted her attention and occupied some share of her
thoughts. She had observed that Geta and Milza appeared much confused
when she spoke to them. When she inquired what Geta had been saying, the
pretty Arcadian, with an averted face, replied, "He called me to see a
marble dog, barking as if he had life in him; only he did not make any
noise."

"Was that all Geta talked of?" said Philothea.

"He asked me if I liked white kids," answered the blushing peasant.

"And what did you tell him?" inquired the maiden.

With a bashful mixture of simplicity and archness, the young damsel
answered, "I told him I liked white kids very much."

Philothea smiled, and asked no more questions. When she repeated this
brief conversation to Anaxagoras, he heard it with affectionate interest
in Milza's welfare, and promised to have a friendly talk with
honest-hearted Geta.

The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding night had been quite at
variance with the tranquil regularity of Philothea's habits; and the
slight repose, which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been
disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that Paralus was with him,
and wished to see her a few moments, before they went out to the Piræus
together. Being therefore unusually weary, both in body and mind, the
maiden early retired to her couch; and with mingled thoughts of her
lover and her friend, she soon fell into a profound sleep.

She dreamed of being with Paralus in an olive grove, over the deep
verdure of which shining white blossoms were spread, like a silver veil.
Her lover played upon his flute, while she leaned against a tree and
listened. Soon, the air was filled with a multitude of doves, flocking
from every side; and the flapping of their wings kept time to the music.

Then, suddenly, the scene changed to the garden of Phidias. The statues
seemed to smile upon her, and the flowers looked up bright and cheerful,
in an atmosphere more mild than the day, but warmer than the moon.
Presently, one of the smiling statues became a living likeness of
Eudora, and with delighted expression gazed earnestly on the ground.
Philothea looked to see what excited her admiration--and lo! a large
serpent, shining with green and gold, twisted itself among the flowers
in manifold involutions; and wheresoever the beautiful viper glided,
the blossoms became crisped and blackened, as if fire had passed over
them. With a sudden spring the venomous creature coiled itself about
Eudora's form, and its poisoned tongue seemed just ready to glance into
her heart; yet still the maiden laughed merrily, heedless of her danger.

Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful to realize that
it was all a dream, she murmured a brief prayer, turned upon her couch,
and soon yielded to the influence of extreme drowsiness.

In her sleep, she seemed to be working at her embroidery; and Hylax came
and tugged at her robe, until she followed him into the garden. There
Eudora stood smiling, and the glittering serpent was again dancing
before her.

Disturbed by the recurrence of this unpleasant dream, the maiden
remained awake for a considerable time, listening to the voices of her
grandfather and his guests, which still came up with a murmuring sound
from the room below. Gradually her senses were lulled into slumber; and
again the same dream recurred to distress and waken her.

Unable longer to resist the strength of her impressions, Philothea
arose, and descending a few of the steps, which led to the lower part of
the house, she looked into the garden, through one of the apertures that
had been left in the wall for the admission of light. Behind a statue of
Erato, she was sure that she saw coloured drapery floating in the
moonlight. Moving on to the next aperture, she distinctly perceived
Eudora standing by the statue; and instead of the graceful serpent,
Alcibiades knelt before her. His attitude and gesture were impassioned;
and though the expression of Eudora's countenance could not be seen,
she was evidently giving him no ungracious audience.

Philothea put her hand to her heart, which throbbed violently with
painful emotion. Her first thought was to end this interview at all
hazards; but she was of a timid nature; and when she had folded her robe
and veil about her, her courage failed. Again she looked through the
aperture and saw that the arm of Alcibiades rested on the shoulder of
her misguided friend.

Without taking time for a second thought, she sprang down the remaining
steps, darted through the private avenue into the garden, and standing
directly before the deluded girl, she exclaimed, in a tone of earnest
expostulation, "Eudora!"

With a half-suppressed scream, the maiden disappeared. Alcibiades, with
characteristic boldness, seized Philothea's robe, exclaiming, "What have
we here? So help me Aphrodite! it is the lovely Canephora of the
gardens! Now Eros forsake me if I lose this chance to look on her
heavenly face again."

He attempted to raise the veil, which the terrified maiden grasped
convulsively, as she tried to extricate herself from his hold.

At that instant, a stern voice sounded from the opposite wall; and
Philothea, profiting by the sudden surprise into which Alcibiades was
thrown, darted through the avenue, bolted the door, and in an instant
after was within the sanctuary of her own chamber.

Here the tumult of mingled emotion subsided in a flood of tears. She
mourned over the shameful infatuation of Eudora, and she acutely felt
the degradation attached to her own accidental share in the scene. With
these thoughts was mingled deep pity for the pure-minded and excellent
Philæmon. She was sure that it was his voice she had heard from the
wall; and she rightly conjectured that, after his prolonged interview
with Anaxagoras, he had partly ascended the ladder leading to the
house-top, and looked through the fluttering grape-leaves at the
dwelling of his beloved.

The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of sleep. Again and
again she looked out anxiously. All was hushed and motionless. The
garden reposed in the moonbeams, like truths, which receive no warmth
from the heart--seen only in the clear, cold light of reason. The plants
were visible, but colourless; and the statues stood immovable in their
silent, lifeless beauty.




CHAPTER VI.

  Persuasive is the voice of Vice,
  That spreads the insidious snare.
                            ÆSCHYLUS.


Early the next morning, painful as the task was, Philothea went to
Eudora's room; for she felt that if she ever hoped to save her, she must
gain influence now.

The maiden had risen from her couch, and was leaning her head on her
hand, in an attitude of deep thought. She raised her eyes as Philothea
entered, and her face was instantly suffused with the crimson flush of
shame. She made no reply to the usual salutations of the morning, but
with evident agitation twisted and untwisted some shreds that had fallen
from her embroidery.

For a moment her friend stood irresolute. She felt a strong impulse to
put her arm around Eudora's neck and conjure her, even for her own sake,
to be frank and confiding; but the scene in the garden returned to her
memory, and she recoiled from her beloved companion, as from something
polluted.

Still ignorant how far the deluded girl was involved, she felt that the
manner in which she deported herself toward her, might perhaps fix her
destiny for good or evil. With a kind, but trembling voice, she said,
"Eudora, will you tell me whether the interview I witnessed last night
was an appointed one?"

Eudora persevered in silence, but her agitation obviously increased.

Her friend looked earnestly in her excited countenance for a moment,
and then said, "Eudora, I do entreat you to tell me the whole truth in
this matter."

"I have not yet learned what right you have to inquire," replied the
misguided maiden.

Philothea's eyes were filled with tears, as she said, "Does the love we
have felt for each other from our earliest childhood, give me no claim
to your confidence? Had we ever a cake, or a bunch of grapes, of which
one did not reserve for the other the largest and best portion? I well
remember the day when you broke the little marble kid Phidias had given
you. You fairly sobbed yourself to sleep in my lap, while I smoothed
back the silky curls all wet with your tears, and sung my childish songs
to please you. You came to me with all your infant troubles--and in our
maturer years, have we not shared all our thoughts? Oh, still trust to
the affection that never deceived you. Believe me, dear Eudora, you
would not wish to conceal your purposes and actions from your earliest
and best friend, unless you had an inward consciousness of something
wrong. Every human being has, like Socrates, an attendant spirit; and
wise are they who obey its signals. If it does not always tell us what
to do, it always cautions us what not to do. Have you not of late
struggled against the warnings of this friendly spirit? Is it safe to
contend with him, till his voice recedes, like music in the distance,
and is heard no more?"

She looked earnestly in Eudora's face for a moment, and perceiving that
her feelings were somewhat softened, she added, "I will not again ask
whether the meeting of last night was an appointed one; for you surely
would repel the suspicion, if you could do so with truth. It is too
evident that this insinuating man has fascinated you, as he already has
done hundreds of others; and for the sake of his transient flattery, you
have thrown away Philæmon's pure and constant love. Yet the passing
notice of Alcibiades is a distinction you will share with half the
maidens of Athens. When another new face attracts his fancy, you will be
forgotten; but you cannot so easily forget your own folly. The friends
you cast from you can never be regained; tranquillity of mind will
return no more; conscious innocence, which makes the human countenance a
tablet for the gods to write upon, can never be restored. And for what
will you lose all this? Think for a moment what is the destiny of those
women, who, following the steps of Aspasia, seek happiness in the homage
paid to triumphant beauty--youth wasted in restless excitement, and old
age embittered by the consciousness of deserved contempt. For this, are
you willing to relinquish the happiness that attends a quiet discharge
of duty, and the cheerful intercourse of true affection?"

In a tone of offended pride, Eudora answered: "Philothea, if I were what
you seem to believe me, your words would be appropriate; but I have
never had any other thought than that of being the acknowledged wife of
Alcibiades."

"Has he then made you believe that he would divorce Hipparete?"

"Yes--he has solemnly sworn it. Such a transaction would have nothing
remarkable in it. Each revolving moon sees similar events occur in
Athens. The wife of Pericles had a destiny like that of her namesake; of
whom the poets write that she was beloved for awhile by Olympian Zeus,
and afterward changed into a quail. Pericles promised Aspasia that he
would divorce Asteria and marry her; and he has kept his word. Hipparete
is not so very beautiful or gifted, as to make it improbable that
Alcibiades might follow his example."

"It is a relief to my heart," said Philothea, "to find that you have
been deluded with hopes, which, however deceitful, render you
comparatively innocent. But believe me, Eudora, Alcibiades will never
divorce Hipparete. If he should do so, the law would compel him to
return her magnificent dowry. Her connections have wealth and influence;
and her brother Callias has promised that she shall be his heir. The
paternal fortune of Alcibiades has all been expended, except his estate
near Erchia; and this he knows full well is quite insufficient to
support his luxury and pride."

Eudora answered warmly, "If you knew Alcibiades, you would not suspect
him of such sordid motives. He would throw money into the sea like dust,
if it stood in the way of his affections."

"I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness, when he wishes to purchase
popularity by lavish expenditure," replied Philothea. "But Alcibiades
has found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy with drachmæ,
what he can so easily obtain by flattery. Your own heart, I believe, is
not really touched. Your imagination is dazzled with his splendid
chariots of ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian
horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden armour which he
loves to display at festivals; his richly-coloured garments, fresh from
the looms of Sardis, and redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are
proud of his notice, because you see that other maidens are flattered by
it; because his statue stands among the Olympionicæ, in the sacred
groves of Zeus, and because all Athens rings with the praises of his
beauty, his gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity."

"I am not so weak as your words imply," rejoined Eudora. "I believe that
I love Alcibiades better than I ever loved Philæmon; and if the consent
of Phidias can be obtained, I cannot see why you should object to our
marriage."

For a few moments, Philothea remained in hopeless silence; then, in a
tone of tender expostulation, she continued: "Eudora, I would the power
were given me to open your eyes before it is too late! If Hipparete be
not beautiful, she certainly is not unpleasing; her connections have
high rank and great wealth; she is virtuous and affectionate, and the
mother of his children. If, with all these claims, she can be so lightly
turned away for the sake of a lovelier face, what can you expect, when
your beauty no longer has the charm of novelty? You, who have neither
wealth nor powerful connections, to serve the purposes of that ambitious
man? And think for yourself, Eudora, if Alcibiades means as he says, why
does he seek stolen interviews at midnight, in the absence of Phidias?"

"It is because he knows that Phidias has an uncommon regard for
Philæmon," replied Eudora; "but he thinks he can, in time, persuade him
to consult our wishes. I know, better than you possibly can, what
reasons I have to trust the strength of his affection. Aspasia says she
has never seen him so deeply in love as he is now."

"It is as I feared," said Philothea; "the voice of that siren is luring
you to destruction."

Eudora answered, in an angry tone, "I love Aspasia; and it offends me to
hear her spoken of in this manner. If you are content to be a slave,
like the other Grecian women, who bring water and grind corn for their
masters, I have no objection. I have a spirit within me that demands a
wider field of action, and I enjoy the freedom that reigns in Aspasia's
house. Alcibiades says he does not blame women for not liking to be shut
up within four walls all their life-time, ashamed to show their faces
like other mortals."

Quietly, but sadly, Philothea replied: "Farewell, Eudora. May the powers
that guide our destiny, preserve you from any real cause for shame. You
are now living in Calypso's island; and divine beings alone can save you
from the power of her enchantments."

Eudora made no response, and did not even raise her eyes, as her
companion left the apartment.

As Philothea passed through the garden, she saw Milza standing in the
shadow of the vines, feeding a kid with some flowers she held in her
hand, while Geta was fastening a crimson cord about its neck. A glad
influence passed from this innocent group into the maiden's heart, like
the glance of a sunbeam over a dreary landscape.

"Is the kid yours, Milza?" she asked, with an affectionate smile.

The happy little peasant raised her eyes with an arch expression, but
instantly lowered them again, covered with blushes. It was a look that
told all the secrets of her young heart more eloquently than language.

Philothea had drank freely from those abundant fountains of joy in the
human soul, which remain hidden till love reveals their existence, as
secret springs are said to be discovered by a magic wand. With
affectionate sympathy she placed her hand gently on Milza's head, and
said, "Be good--and the gods will ever provide friends for you."

The humble lovers gazed after her with a blessing in their eyes; and in
the consciousness of this, her meek spirit found a solace for the wounds
Eudora had given.




CHAPTER VII.

  O Zeus! why hast thou given us certain proof
  To know adulterate gold, but stamped no mark,
  Where it is needed most, on man's base metal?
                                       EURIPIDES.


When Philothea returned to her grandfather's apartment, she found the
good old man with an open tablet before him, and the remainder of a rich
cluster of grapes lying on a shell by his side.

"I have wanted you, my child," said he, "Have you heard the news all
Athens is talking of, that you sought your friend so early in the day?
You are not wont to be so eager to carry tidings."

"I have not heard the rumours whereof you speak," replied Philothea.
"What is it, my father?"

"Hipparete went from Aspasia's house to her brother Callias, instead of
the dwelling of her husband," rejoined Anaxagoras: "by his advice she
refused to return; and she yesterday appealed to the archons for a
divorce from Alcibiades, on the plea of his notorious profligacy.
Alcibiades, hearing of this, rushed into the assembly, with his usual
boldness, seized his wife in his arms, carried her through the crowd,
and locked her up in her own apartment. No man ventured to interfere
with this lawful exercise of his authority. It is rumoured that
Hipparete particularly accused him of promising marriage to Electra the
Corinthian, and Eudora, of the household of Phidias."

For the first time in her life, Philothea turned away her face, to
conceal its expression, while she inquired in a tremulous tone whether
these facts had been told to Philæmon, the preceding evening.

"Some of the guests were speaking of it when he entered," replied
Anaxagoras; "but no one alluded to it in his presence. Perhaps he had
heard the rumour, for he seemed sad and disquieted, and joined little in
the conversation."

Embarrassed by the questions which her grandfather was naturally
disposed to ask, Philothea briefly confessed that a singular change had
taken place in Eudora's character, and begged permission to silent on a
subject so painful to her feelings. She felt strongly inclined to return
immediately to her deluded friend; but the hopelessness induced by her
recent conversation, combined with the necessity of superintending Milza
in some of her household occupations, occasioned a few hours' delay.

As she attempted to cross the garden for that purpose, she saw Eudora
enter hastily by the private gate, and pass to her own apartment.
Philothea instantly followed her, and found that she had thrown herself
on the couch, sobbing violently. She put her arms about her neck, and
affectionately inquired the cause of her distress.

For a long time the poor girl resisted every soothing effort, and
continued to weep bitterly. At last, in a voice stifled with sobs, she
said, "I was indeed deceived; and you, Philothea, was my truest friend;
as you have always been."

The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon her hand, and asked
whether it was Hipparete's appeal to the archons, that had so suddenly
convinced her of the falsehood of Alcibiades.

"I have heard it all," replied Eudora, with a deep blush; "and I have
heard my name coupled with epithets never to be repeated to your pure
ears. I was so infatuated that, after you left me this morning, I sought
the counsels of Aspasia, to strengthen me in the course I had determined
to pursue. As I approached her apartment, the voice of Alcibiades met my
ear. I stopped and listened. I heard him exult in his triumph over
Hipparete; I heard my name joined with Electra, the wanton Corinthian. I
heard him boast how easily our affections had been won; I heard--"

She paused for a few moments, with a look of intense shame, and the
tears fell fast upon her robe.

In gentle tones Philothea said, "These are precious tears, Eudora. They
will prove like spring-showers, bringing forth fragrant blossoms."

With sudden impulse, the contrite maiden threw her arms around her neck,
saying, in a subdued voice, "You must not be so kind to me--it will
break my heart."

By degrees the placid influence of her friend calmed her perturbed
spirit. "Philothea," she said, "I promise with solemn earnestness to
tell you every action of my life, and every thought of my soul; but
never ask me to repeat all I heard at Aspasia's dwelling. The words went
through my heart like poisoned arrows."

"Nay," replied Philothea, smiling; "they have healed, not poisoned."

Eudora sighed, as she added, "When I came away, in anger and in shame, I
heard that false man singing in mockery:

  "Count me on the summer trees
  Every leaf that courts the breeze;
  Count me on the foamy deep
  Every wave that sinks to sleep;
  Then when you have numbered these,
  Billowy tides and leafy trees,
  Count me all the flames I prove,
  All the gentle nymphs I love."

Philothea, how could you, who are so pure yourself, see so much clearer
than I did the treachery of that bad man?"

The maiden replied, "Mortals, without the aid of experience, would
always be aware of the presence of evil, if they sought to put away the
love of it in their own hearts, and in silent obedience listened to the
voice of their guiding spirit. Flowers feel the approach of storms, and
birds need none to teach them the enmity of serpents. This knowledge is
given to them as perpetually as the sunshine; and they receive it fully,
because their little lives are all obedience and love."

"Then, dearest Philothea, you may well know when evil approaches. By
some mysterious power you have ever known my heart better than I myself
have known it. I now perceive that you told me the truth when you said I
was not blinded by love, but by foolish pride. If it were not so, my
feelings could not so easily have turned to hatred. I have more than
once tried to deceive you, but you will feel that I am not now speaking
falsely. The interview you witnessed was the first and only one I ever
granted to Alcibiades."

Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion, and her joy
that the real character of the graceful hypocrite had so soon been made
manifest. Her thoughts turned towards Philæmon; but certain
recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They were both
silent for a few moments; and Eudora's countenance was troubled. She
looked up earnestly in her friend's face, but instantly turned away her
eyes, and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and timid voice, "Do
you think Philæmon can ever love me again?"

Philothea felt painfully embarrassed; for when she recollected how
deeply Philæmon was enamoured of purity in women, she dared not answer
in the language of hope.

While she yet hesitated, Dione came to say that her master required the
attendance of Eudora alone in his apartment.

Phidias had always exacted implicit obedience from his household, and
Eudora's gratitude towards him had ever been mingled with fear. The
consciousness of recent misconduct filled her with extreme dread. Her
countenance became deadly pale, as she turned toward her friend, and
said, "Oh, Philothea, go with me."

The firm-hearted maiden took her arm gently within her own, and
whispered, "Speak the truth, and trust in the Divine Powers."




CHAPTER VIII.

  Thus it is; I have made those
  Averse to me whom nature formed my friends;
  Those, who from me deserved no ill, to win
  Thy grace, I gave just cause to be my foes;
  And thou, most vile of men, thou hast betrayed me.
                                            EURIPIDES.


Phidias was alone, with a large unfinished drawing before him, on a
waxen tablet. Various groups of statues were about the room; among which
was conspicuous the beautiful workmanship of Myron, representing a
kneeling Paris offering the golden apple to Aphrodite; and by a mode of
flattery common with Athenian artists, the graceful youth bore the
features of Alcibiades. Near this group was Hera and Pallas, from the
hand of Phidias; characterized by a severe majesty of expression, as
they looked toward Paris and his voluptuous goddess in quiet scorn.

Stern displeasure was visible in the countenance of the great sculptor.
As the maidens entered, with their faces covered, he looked up, and said
coldly, "I bade that daughter of unknown parents come into my presence
unattended."

Eudora keenly felt the reproach implied by the suppression of her name,
which Phidias deemed she had dishonoured; and the tremulous motion of
her veil betrayed her agitation.

Philothea spoke in a mild, but firm voice: "Son of Charmides, by the
friendship of my father, I conjure you do not require me to forsake
Eudora in this hour of great distress."

In a softened tone, Phidias replied: "The daughter of Alcimenes knows
that for his sake, and for the sake of her own gentle nature, I can
refuse her nothing."

"I give thee thanks," rejoined the maiden, "and relying on this
assurance, I will venture to plead for this helpless orphan, whom the
gods committed to thy charge. The counsels of Aspasia have led her into
error; and is the son of Charmides blameless, for bringing one so young
within the influence of that seductive woman?"

After a short pause, Phidias answered: "Philothea, it is true that my
pride in her gift of sweet sounds first brought her into the presence of
that bad and dangerous man; it was contrary to Philæmon's wishes, too;
and in this I have erred. If that giddy damsel can tell me the meeting
in the garden was not by her own consent, I will again restore her to my
confidence. Eudora, can you with truth give me this assurance?"

Eudora made no reply; but she trembled so violently, that she would have
sunk, had she not leaned on the arm of her friend.

Philothea, pitying her distress, said, "Son of Charmides, I do not
believe Eudora can truly give the answer you wish to receive; but
remember in her favour that she does not seek to excuse herself by
falsehood. Alcibiades has had no other interview than that one, of which
the divine Phoebus sent a messenger to warn me in my sleep. For that
fault, the deluded maiden has already suffered a bitter portion of shame
and grief."

After a short silence, Phidias spoke: "Eudora, when I called you
hither, it was with the determination of sending you to the temple of
Castor and Polydeuces, there to be offered for sale to your paramour,
who has already tried, in a secret way, to purchase you, by the
negociation of powerful friends; but Philothea has not pleaded for you
in vain. I will not punish your fault so severely as Alcibiades ventured
to hope. You shall remain under my protection. But from henceforth you
must never leave your own apartment, without my express permission,
which will not soon be granted. I dare not trust your sudden repentance;
and shall therefore order a mastiff to be chained to your door. Dione
will bring you bread and water only. If you fail in obedience, the fate
I first intended will assuredly be yours, without time given for
expostulation. Now go to the room that opens into the garden; and there
remain, till I send Dione to conduct you to your own apartment."

Eudora was so completely humbled, that these harsh words aroused no
feeling of offended pride. Her heart was too full for utterance; and her
eyes so blinded with tears, that, as she turned to leave the apartment,
she frequently stumbled over the scattered fragments of marble.

It was a day of severe trials for the poor maiden. They had remained but
a short time waiting for Dione, when Philæmon entered, conducted by
Phidias, who immediately left the apartment. Eudora instantly bowed her
head upon the couch, and covered her face with her hands.

In a voice tremulous with emotion, the young man said, "Eudora,
notwithstanding the bitter recollection of where I last saw you, I have
earnestly wished to see you once more--to hear from your own lips
whether the interview I witnessed in the garden was by your own
appointment. Although many things in your late conduct have surprised
and grieved me, I am slow to believe that you could have taken a step so
unmaidenly; particularly at this time, when it has pleased the gods to
load me with misfortunes. By the affection I once cherished, I entreat
you to tell me whether that meeting was unexpected."

He waited in vain for any other answer than audible sobs. After a slight
pause, he continued: "Eudora, I wait for a reply more positive than
silence. Let me hear from your own lips the words that must decide my
destiny. Perchance it is the last favour I shall ever ask."

The repentant maiden, without looking up, answered, in broken accents,
"Philæmon, I will not add deceit to other wrongs, I must speak the
truth, if my heart is broken. I did consent to that interview."

The young man bowed his head in silent anguish against one of the
pillars--his breast heaved, and his lips quivered. After a hard struggle
with himself, he said, "Farewell, Eudora. I shall never again intrude
upon your presence. Many will flatter you; but none will love you as I
have loved."

With a faint shriek, Eudora sprung forward, and threw herself at his
feet. She would have clasped his knees, but he involuntarily recoiled
from her touch, and gathered the folds of his robe about him.

Then the arrow entered deeply into her heart, She rested her burning
forehead against the marble pillar, and said, in tones of agonized
entreaty, "I never met him but once."

Philothea, who during this scene had wept like an infant, laid her hand
beseechingly on his arm, and added, "Son of Chærilaüs, remember that
was the only interview."

Philæmon shook his head mournfully, as he replied, "But I cannot forget
that it was an appointed one.--We can never meet again."

He turned hastily to leave the room; but lingered on the threshold, and
looked back upon Eudora with an expression of unutterable sadness.

Philothea perceived the countenance of her unhappy friend grow rigid
beneath his gaze. She hastened to raise her from the ground whereon she
knelt, and received her senseless in her arms.




CHAPTER IX.

  Fare thee well, perfidious maid!
  My soul,--its fondest hopes betrayed,
  Betrayed, perfidious girl, by thee,--
  Is now on wing for liberty.
  I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
  Since thou hast ceased to love me here.
                                  ANACREON.


Not long after the parting interview with Eudora, Philæmon, sad and
solitary, slowly wended his way from Athens. As he passed along the
banks of the Illyssus, he paused for a moment, and stood with folded
arms, before the chaste and beautiful little temple of Agrotera, the
huntress with the unerring bow.

The temple was shaded by lofty plane trees, and thickly intertwined
willows, among which transparent rivulets glided in quiet beauty; while
the marble nymphs, with which the grove was adorned, looked modestly
down upon the sparkling waters, as if awe-stricken by the presence of
their sylvan goddess.

A well-known voice said, "Enter Philæmon. It is a beautiful retreat. The
soft verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance
from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like
and sonorous sound. Enter, my son."

"Thanks, Anaxagoras," replied Philæmon, as he moved forward to give and
receive the cordial salutation of his friend: "I have scarcely travelled
far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is
indeed refreshing."

"Whither leads your path, my son?" inquired the good old man. "I
perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when
you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you,
like one who travels afar."

"I seek Mount Hymettus, my father," replied Philæmon: "There I shall
stop to-night, to take my last look of Athens. To-morrow, I join a
company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is
eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles."

"And would you have left Athens without my blessing?" inquired
Anaxagoras.

"In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting," rejoined
Philæmon. "Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless
outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever."

The aged philosopher endeavoured to speak, but his voice was tremulous
with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philæmon's, and
said, "My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back
to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted."

The young man spoke of the wearisome walk; and reminded him that Ibycus,
the beloved of the gods, was murdered while returning to the city after
twilight. But the philosopher replied, "My old limbs are used to
fatigue, and everybody knows that the plain robe of Anaxagoras conceals
no gold."

As they passed along through the smiling fields of Agra, the
cheerfulness of the scene redoubled the despondency of the exile. Troops
of laughing girls were returning from the vineyards with baskets full
of grapes; women were grinding corn, singing merrily, as they toiled;
groups of boys were throwing quoits, or seated on the grass eagerly
playing at dice, and anon filling the air with their shouts; in one
place was a rural procession in honour of Dionysus; in another, loads of
pure Pentelic marble were on their way from the quarry, to increase the
architectural glory of Athens.

"I could almost envy that senseless stone!" exclaimed Philæmon. "It goes
where I have spent many a happy hour, and where I shall never enter
more. It is destined for the Temple of the Muses, which Plato is causing
to be built among the olive-groves of Academus. The model is more
beautifully simple than anything I have ever seen."

"The grove of Academus is one of the few places now remaining where
virtue is really taught and encouraged," rejoined Anaxagoras. "As for
these new teachers, misnamed philosophers, they are rapidly hastening
the decay of a state whose diseases produced them."

"A few days since, I heard one of the sophists talking to crowds of
people in the old Agora," said Philæmon; "and truly his doctrines
formed a strange contrast with the severe simplicity of virtue expressed
in the countenances of Solon, Aristides, and the other god-like statues
that stood around him. He told the populace that it was unquestionably a
great blessing to commit an injury with impunity; but as there was more
evil in suffering an injury than there was good in committing one, it
was necessary to have the subject regulated by laws: that justice,
correctly defined, meant nothing more than the interest of the
strongest; that a just man always fared worse than the unjust, because
he neglected to aggrandize himself by dishonest actions, and thus became
unpopular among his acquaintances; while those who were less scrupulous,
grew rich and were flattered. He said the weak very naturally considered
justice as a common right; but he who had power, if he had likewise
courage, would never submit to any such agreement: that they who praised
virtue, did it because they had some object to gain from those who had
less philosophy than themselves; and these pretended worthies, if they
could act invisibly, would soon be found in the same path with the
villain. He called rhetoric the noblest of the arts, because it enabled
an ignorant man to appear to know as much as one who was thoroughly
master of his subject. Some of the people demanded what he had to say of
the gods, since he had spoken so ably of men. With an unpleasant mixture
of derision and feigned humility, the sophist replied, that he left such
vast subjects to be discussed by the immortal Socrates. He forthwith
left the Agora, and many a loud laugh and profane jest followed his
departure. When such doctrines can be uttered without exciting
indignation, it is easy to foresee the destinies of the state."

"Thucydides speaks truly," rejoined Anaxagoras: "In the history he is
writing, he says,--The Athenian people are beginning to be more fond of
calling dishonest men able, than simple men honest; and that statesmen
begin to be ashamed of the more worthy title, while they take pride in
the other: thus sincerity, of which there is much in generous natures,
will be laughed down; while wickedness and hypocrisy are everywhere
triumphant."

"But evil grows weary of wearing a mask in reluctant homage to good,"
replied Philæmon; "she is ever seeking to push it aside, with the hope
that men may become accustomed to her face, and find more beauty
therein, than in the disguise she wears. The hidden thought at last
struggles forth into expression, and cherished passions assume a form in
action. One of the sophists has already given notice that he can teach
any young man how to prove that right is wrong, or wrong is right. It is
said that Xanthippus has sent his son to benefit by these instructions,
with a request that he may learn the art thoroughly, but be taught to
use it only in the right way."

"Your words are truth, my son," answered the philosopher; "and the blame
should rest on those who taint the stream at its source, rather than
with them who thoughtlessly drink of it in its wanderings. The great and
the gifted of Athens, instead of yielding reverent obedience to the
unchangeable principle of truth, have sought to make it the servant of
their own purposes. Forgetful of its eternal nature, they strive to
change it into arbitrary forms of their own creating; and then marvel
because other minds present it in forms more gross and disgusting than
their own. They do not ask what is just or unjust, true or untrue, but
content themselves with recommending virtue, as far as it advances
interest, or contributes to popularity; and when virtue ceases to be
fashionable, the multitude can no longer find a satisfactory reason for
adhering to it. But when the teachers of the populace hear their vulgar
pupils boldly declare that vice is as good as virtue, provided a man can
follow it with success, pride prevents them from seeing that this maxim
is one of their own doctrines stripped of its equestrian robes, and
shown in democratic plainness. They did not venture to deride the gods,
or even to assert that they took no cognizance of human affairs; but
they declared that offences against divine beings might be easily atoned
for by a trifling portion of their own gifts--a sheep, a basket of
fruit, or a few grains of salt, offered at stated seasons, with becoming
decorum; and then when alone together, they smiled that such concessions
were necessary to satisfy the superstitions of the vulgar. But disbelief
in divine beings, and the eternal nature of truth, cannot long be
concealed by pouring the usual libations, or maintaining a cautious
reserve. The whispered opinions of false philosophers will soon be
loudly echoed by the popular voice, which is less timid, because it is
more honest. Even thus did Midas laboriously conceal the deformity of
his head; but his barber, who saw him without disguise, whispered his
secret in the earth, and when the winds arose, the voices of a thousand
reeds proclaimed to the world, 'King Midas hath ass's ears.'"

"The secret has already been whispered to the ground," answered
Philæmon, smiling: "If it were not so, the comic writers would not be
able to give with impunity such grotesque and disgusting representations
of the gods."

"And yet," rejoined the old man, "I hear that Hermippus, who has himself
personified Hera on the stage, as an angry woman attempting to strike
infuriated Zeus, is about to arraign me before the public tribunal,
because I said the sun was merely a great ball of fire. This he
construes into blasphemy against the life-giving Phoebus."

"The accusation may be thus worded," said Philæmon; "but your real crime
is that you stay away from political assemblies, and are therefore
suspected of being unfriendly to democratic institutions. Demos
reluctantly admits that the right to hold such opinions is an inherent
part of liberty. Soothe the vanity of the dicasts by humble
acknowledgments, and gratify their avarice by a plentiful distribution
of drachmæ; flatter the self-conceit of the Athenians, by assurances
that they are the greatest, most glorious, and most consistent people
upon earth; be careful that Cleon the tanner, and Thearion the baker,
and Theophrastus the maker of lyres, are supplicated and praised in due
form--and, take my word for it, the gods will be left to punish you for
whatever offences you commit against them. They will receive no
assistance from the violet-crowned city."

"And you, my son," replied the philosopher, "would never have been
exiled from Athens, if you had debated in the porticos with young
citizens, who love to exhibit their own skill in deciding whether the
true cause of the Trojan war were Helen, or the ship that carried her
away, or the man that built the ship, or the wood whereof it was made;
if in your style you had imitated the swelling pomp of Isagoras, where
one solitary idea is rolled over and over in an ocean of words, like a
small pearl tossed about in the Ægean; if you had supped with
Hyperbolus, or been seen in the agoras, walking arm in arm with Cleon.
With such a man as you to head their party, Pericles could not always
retain the ascendancy, by a more adroit use of their own weapons."

"As soon would I league myself with the Odomantians of Thrace!"
exclaimed Philæmon, with an expression of strong disgust. "It is such
men who destroy the innocence of a republic, and cause that sacred name
to become a mockery among tyrants. The mean-souled wretches! Men who
take from the poor daily interest for a drachma, and spend it in
debauchery. Citizens who applauded Pericles because he gave them an
obolus for a vote, and are now willing to see him superseded by any man
that will give two oboli instead of one! No, my father--I could unite
with none but an honest party--men who love the state and forget
themselves; and such are not now found in Athens. The few that exist
dare not form a barrier against the powerful current that would
inevitably drive them to destruction."

"You speak truth, Philæmon," rejoined Anaxagoras: "Pallas Athenæ seems
to have deserted her chosen people. The proud Spartans openly laugh at
our approaching downfall, while the smooth Persians watch for a
favourable moment to destroy the freedom already rendered so weak by its
own insanity."

"The fault will be attributed to democratic principles," said Philæmon;
"but the real difficulty exists in that love of power which hides itself
beneath the mask of Democracy, until a corrupted public can endure its
undisguised features without execration. No one can believe that
Pericles lessened the power of the Areopagus from a sincere conviction
that it was for the good of the people. It was done to obtain personal
influence, by purchasing the favour of those who had sufficient reasons
for desiring a less equitable tribunal. Nor could he have ever supposed
that the interests of the republic would be advanced by men whom the
gift of an obolus could induce to vote. The Athenians have been spoiled
by ambitious demagogues, who now try to surfeit them with flattery, as
nurses seek to pacify noisy children with sponges dipped in honey. They
strive to drown the din of domestic discord in boasts of foreign
conquests; and seek to hide corruption in a blaze of glory, as they
concealed their frauds amid the flames of the treasury."

"Pericles no doubt owes his great popularity to skill in availing
himself of existing circumstances," replied Anaxagoras; "and I am afraid
that the same motives for corrupting, and the same willingness to be
corrupted, will always be found in democratic institutions."

"It has always been matter of surprise to me," said Philæmon, "that one
so humble and frugal as yourself, and so zealous for the equal rights of
all men, even the meanest citizens, should yet be so little friendly to
that popular idol which the Athenians call Demos."

The philosopher rejoined: "When I was young, I heard it said of
Lycurgus, that being asked why he, who was such a friend to equality,
did not bestow a democratic government upon Sparta, he answered: "Go and
try a democracy in your own house." The reply pleased me; and a long
residence in Athens has not yet taught me to believe that a man who is
governed by ten thousand masters has more freedom than he who is
governed by one."

"If kings had the same natural affection for their subjects that parents
have for their children, the comparison of Lycurgus would be just,"
answered Philæmon.

"And what think you of the paternal kindness of this republican decree
whereby five thousand citizens have been sold into slavery, because the
unjust confiscation of their estates rendered them unable to pay their
debts?" said Anaxagoras.

"Such an edict was passed because Athens is _not_ a republic," replied
Philæmon. "All things are under the control of Pericles; and Aspasia
rules him. When she heard that I remonstrated against his shameful
marriage, she said she would sooner or later bring a Trojan horse into
my house. She has fulfilled her threat by the same means that enabled
Pericles to destroy the political power of some of his most influential
enemies."

"Pericles has indeed obtained unbounded influence," rejoined Anaxagoras;
"but he did it by counterfeiting the very principle that needed to be
checked; and this is so easily counterfeited, that democracy is always
in danger of becoming tyranny in disguise. The Athenians are as servile
to their popular idol, as the Persians to their hereditary one; but the
popular idol seeks to sustain his power by ministering to that love of
change, which allows nothing to remain sacred and established. Hence,
two opposite evils are combined in action--the reality of despotism
with the form of democracy; the power of a tyrant with the
irresponsibility of a multitude. But, in judging of Pericles, you, my
son, should strive to guard against political enmity, as I do against
personal affection. It cannot be denied that he has often made good use
of his influence. When Cimon brought the remains of Theseus to Athens,
and a temple was erected over them in obedience to the oracle, it was he
who suggested to the people that a hero celebrated for relieving the
oppressed could not be honoured more appropriately than by making his
temple a refuge for abused slaves."

"Friendly as I am to a government truly republican," answered Philæmon,
"it is indeed difficult to forgive the man who seduces a democracy to
the commission of suicide, for his own advancement. His great abilities
would receive my admiration, if they were not employed in the service of
ambition. As for this new edict, it will prove a rebounding arrow,
striking him who sent it. He will find ten enemies for one in the
kindred of the banished."

"While we have been talking thus sadly," said the old philosopher, "the
fragrant thyme and murmuring bees give cheerful notice that we are
approaching Mount Hymettus. I see the worthy peasant, Tellus, from whom
I have often received refreshment of bread and grapes; and if it please
you we will share his bounty now."

The peasant respectfully returned their friendly greeting, and readily
furnished clusters from his luxuriant vineyard. As the travellers seated
themselves beneath the shelter of the vines, Tellus asked, "What news
from Athens?"

"None of importance," replied Anaxagoras, "excepting rumours of
approaching war, and this new edict, by which so many citizens are
suddenly reduced to poverty."

"There are always those in Athens who are like the eel-catchers, that
choose to have the waters troubled," observed the peasant. "When the lake
is still, they lose their labour; but when the mud is well stirred, they
take eels in plenty. My son says he gets twelve oboli for a conger-eel,
in the Athenian markets; and that is a goodly price."

The travellers smiled, and contented themselves with praising his
grapes, without further allusion to the politics of Athens. But Tellus
resumed the discourse, by saying, "So, I hear my old neighbour,
Philargus, has been tried for idleness."

"Even so," rejoined Anaxagoras; "and his condemnation has proved the
best luck he ever had. The severe sentence of death was changed into a
heavy fine; and Lysidas, the Spartan, immediately begged to be
introduced to him, as the only gentleman he had seen or heard of in
Athens. He has paid the fine for him, and invited him to Lacedæmon;
that he may show his proud countrymen one Athenian who does not disgrace
himself by industry."

"That comes of having the Helots among them," said Tellus. "My boy
married a Spartan wife, and I can assure you she is a woman that looks
lightning, and speaks mustard. When my son first told her to take the
fish from his basket, she answered angrily, that she was no Helot."

"I heard this same Lysidas, the other day," said Philæmon, "boasting
that the Spartans were the only real freemen; and Lacedæmon the only
place where courage and virtue always found a sure reward. I asked him
what reward the Helots had for bravery or virtue. 'They are not
scourged; and that is sufficient reward for the base hounds,' was his
contemptuous reply. He approves the law forbidding masters to bestow
freedom on their slaves; and likes the custom which permits boys to whip
them, merely to remind them of their bondage. He ridicules the idea that
injustice will weaken the strength of Sparta, because the gods are
enemies to injustice. He says the sun of liberty shines brighter with
the dark atmosphere of slavery around it; as temperance seems more
lovely to the Spartan youth, after they have seen the Helots made
beastly drunk for their amusement. He seems to forget that the passions
are the same in every human breast; and that it is never wise in any
state to create natural enemies at her own doors. But the Lacedæmonians
make it a rule never to speak of danger from their slaves. They remind
me of the citizens of Amyclæ, who, having been called from their
occupations by frequent rumours of war, passed a vote that no man should
be allowed, under heavy penalties, to believe any report of intended
invasion. When the enemy really came, no man dared to speak of their
approach, and Amyclæ was easily conquered. Lysidas boasted of salutary
cruelty; and in the same breath told me the Helots loved their masters."

"As the Spartan boys love Orthia, at whose altar they yearly receive a
bloody whipping," said Tellus, laughing.

"There is one great mistake in Lacedæmonian institutions," observed
Anaxagoras: "They seek to avoid the degrading love of money, by placing
every citizen above the necessity of laborious occupation; but they
forget that the love of tyranny may prove an evil still more dangerous
to the state."

"You speak justly, my father," answered Philæmon: "The Athenian law,
which condemns any man for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbour's
trade, is most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of her young
equestrians begin to think it unbecoming to bring home provisions for
their own dinner from the agoras."

"Alcibiades, for instance!" exclaimed the philosopher: "He would
consider himself disgraced by any other burthen than his fighting
quails, which he carries out to take the air."

Philæmon started up suddenly--for the name of Alcibiades stung him like
a serpent. Immediately recovering his composure, he turned to recompense
the hospitality of the honest peasant, and to bid him a friendly
farewell.

But Tellus answered bluntly; "No, young Athenian; I like your
sentiments, and will not touch your coin. The gods bless you."

The travellers having heartily returned his parting benediction, slowly
ascended Mount Hymettus. When they paused to rest upon its summit, a
glorious prospect lay stretched out before them. On the north, were
Megara, Eleusis, and the cynosure of Marathon; in the south, numerous
islands, like a flock of birds, reposed on the bright bosom of the
Aegean; to the west, was the broad Piræus with its thousand ships, and
Athens in all her magnificence of beauty; while the stately buildings of
distant Corinth mingled with the cloudless sky. The declining sun threw
his refulgent mantle over the lovely scene, and temples, towers, and
villas glowed in the purple light.

The travellers stood for a few moments in perfect silence--Philæmon
with folded arms, and Anaxagoras leaning on his staff. At length, in
tones of deep emotion, the young man exclaimed, "Oh, Athens, how I have
loved thee! Thy glorious existence has been a part of my own being! For
thy prosperity how freely would I have poured out my blood! The gods
bless thee, and save thee from thyself!"

"Who could look upon her and not bless her in his heart?" said the old
philosopher: "There she stands, fair as the heaven-born Pallas, in all
her virgin majesty! But alas for Athens, when every man boasts of his
own freedom, and no man respects the freedom of his neighbour. Peaceful,
she seems, in her glorious beauty; but the volcano is heaving within,
and already begins to throw forth its showers of smoke and stones."

"Would that the gods had permitted me to share her dangers--to die and
mingle with her beloved soil!" exclaimed Philæmon.

The venerable philosopher looked up, and saw intense wretchedness in the
countenance of his youthful friend. He laid his hand kindly upon
Philæmon's arm; "Nay, my son," said he; "You must not take this unjust
decree so much to heart. Of Athens nothing can be so certainly predicted
as change. Things as trifling as the turning of a shell may restore you
to your rights. You can even now return, if you will submit to be a mere
sojourner in Athens. After all, what vast privileges do you lose with
your citizenship. You must indeed wrestle at Cynosarges, instead of the
Lyceum or the Academia; but in this, the great Themistocles has given
you honourable example. You will not be allowed to enter the theatre
while the Athenians keep the second day of their festival Anthesteria;
but to balance this privation, you are forbidden to vote, and are thus
freed from all blame belonging to unjust and capricious laws."

"My father, playful words cannot cure the wound," replied the exile,
seriously: "The cherished recollections of years cannot be so easily
torn from the heart. Athens, with all her faults, is still my own, my
beautiful, my beloved land. They might have killed me, if they would, if
I had but died an Athenian citizen."

He spoke with a voice deeply agitated; but after a few moments of forced
composure, he continued more cheerfully: "Let us speak of other
subjects. We are standing here, on the self-same spot where Aristo and
Perictione laid the infant Plato, while they sacrificed to the
life-giving Phoebus. It was here the bees clustered about his infant
mouth, and his mother hailed the omen of his future eloquence. Commend
me to that admirable man, and tell him I shall vainly seek throughout
the world to find another Plato.

"Commend me likewise to the Persian Artaphernes. To his bounty I am much
indebted. Lest he should hope that I carry away feelings hostile to
Athens, and favourable to her enemies, say to the kind old man, that
Philæmon will never forget his country or his friends. I have left a
long letter to Paralus, in which my full heart has but feebly expressed
its long-cherished friendship. When you return, you will find a trifling
token of remembrance for yourself and Philothea. May Pallas shower her
richest blessings upon that pure and gifted maiden."

With some hesitation, Anaxagoras said, "You make no mention of Eudora;
and I perceive that both you and Philothea are reserved when her name is
mentioned. Do not believe every idle rumour, my son. The gayety of a
light-hearted maiden is often unmixed with boldness, or crime. Do not
cast her from you too lightly."

Philæmon averted his face for a moment, and struggled hard with his
feelings. Then turning abruptly, he pressed the old man's hand, and
said, "Bid Philothea, guide and cherish her deluded friend, for my sake.
And now, farewell, Anaxagoras! Farewell, forever! my kind, my good old
master. May the gods bless the wise counsels and virtuous example you
have given me."

The venerable philosopher stretched forth his arms to embrace him. The
young man threw himself upon that friendly bosom, and overcome by a
variety of conflicting emotions, sobbed aloud.

As they parted, Anaxagoras again pressed Philæmon to his heart, and
said, "May that God, whose numerous attributes the Grecians worship,
forever bless thee, my dear son."




CHAPTER X.

  Courage, Orestes! if the lots hit right,
  If the black pebbles don't exceed the white,
  You're safe.
                              EURIPIDES.


Pericles sought to please the populace by openly using his influence to
diminish the power of the Areopagus; and a decree had been passed that
those who denied the existence of the gods, or introduced new opinions
about celestial things, should be tried by the people. This event proved
fortunate for some of his personal friends; for Hermippus soon laid
before the Thesmothetæ Archons an accusation of blasphemy against
Anaxagoras, Phidias, and Aspasia. The case was tried before the fourth
Assembly of the people; and the fame of the accused, together with the
well-known friendship of Pericles, attracted an immense crowd; insomuch
that the Prytaneum was crowded to overflowing. The prisoners came in,
attended by the Phylarchi of their different wards. Anaxagoras retained
his usual bland expression and meek dignity. Phidias walked with a
haughtier tread, and carried his head more proudly. Aspasia was veiled;
but as she glided along, gracefully as a swan on the bosom of still
waters, loud murmurs of approbation were heard from the crowd. Pericles
seated himself near them, with deep sadness on his brow. The moon had
not completed its revolution since he had seen Phidias arraigned before
the Second Assembly of the people, charged by Menon, one of his own
pupils, with having defrauded the state of gold appropriated to the
statue of Pallas. Fortunately, the sculptor had arranged the precious
metal so that it could be taken off and weighed; and thus his innocence
was easily made manifest. But the great statesman had seen, by many
indications, that the blow was in part aimed at himself through his
friends; and that his enemies were thus trying to ascertain how far the
people could be induced to act in opposition to his well-known wishes.
The cause had been hurried before the assembly, and he perceived that
his opponents were there in great numbers. As soon as the Epistates
began to read the accusation, Pericles leaned forward, and burying his
face in his robe, remained motionless.

Anaxagoras was charged with not having offered victims to the gods; and
with having blasphemed the divine Phoebus, by saying the sun was only a
huge ball of fire. Being called upon to answer whether he were guilty of
this offence, he replied: "Living victims I have never sacrificed to the
gods; because, like the Pythagoreans, I object to the shedding of blood;
but, like the disciples of their sublime philosopher, I have duly
offered on their altars small goats and rams made of wax. I did say I
believed the sun to be a great ball of fire; and deemed not that in so
doing I had blasphemed the divine Phoebus."

When he had finished, it was proclaimed aloud that any Athenian, not
disqualified by law, might speak. Cleon arose, and said it was well
known to the disciples of Anaxagoras, that he taught the existence of
but one God. Euripides, Pericles, and others who had been his pupils,
were separately called to bear testimony; and all said he taught One
Universal Mind, of which all other divinities were the attributes; even
as Homer represented the inferior deities subordinate to Zeus.

When the philosopher was asked whether he believed in the gods, he
answered, "I do: but I believe in them as the representatives of various
attributes in One Universal Mind." He was then required to swear by all
the gods, and by the dreaded Erinnys, that he had spoken truly.

The Prytanes informed the assembly that their vote must decide whether
this avowed doctrine r endered Anaxagoras of Clazomenæ worthy of death.
A brazen urn was carried round, in which every citizen deposited a
pebble. When counted, the black pebbles predominated over the white, and
Anaxagoras was condemned to die.

The old man heard it very calmly, and replied: "Nature pronounced that
sentence upon me before I was born. Do what you will, Athenians, ye can
only injure the outward case of Anaxagoras; the real, immortal
Anaxagoras is beyond your power."

Phidias was next arraigned, and accused of blasphemy, in having carved
the likeness of himself and Pericles on the shield of heaven-born
Pallas; and of having said that he approved the worship of the gods,
merely because he wished to have his own works adored. The sculptor
proudly replied, "I never declared that my own likeness, or that of
Pericles, was on the shield of heaven-born Pallas; nor can any Athenian
prove that I ever intended to place them there. I am not answerable for
offences which have their origin in the eyes of the multitude. If
_their_ quick discernment be the test, crimes may be found written even
on the glowing embers of our household altars. I never said I approved
the worship of the gods because I wished to have my own works adored;
for I should have deemed it irreverent thus to speak of divine beings.
Some learned and illustrious guests, who were at the symposium in
Aspasia's house, discoursed concerning the worship of images, apart from
the idea of any divine attributes, which they represented. I said I
approved not of this; and playfully added, that if it were otherwise, I
might perchance be excused for sanctioning the worship of mere images,
since mortals were ever willing to have their own works adored." The
testimony of Pericles, Alcibiades, and Plato, confirmed the truth of his
words.

Cleon declared it was commonly believed that Phidias decoyed the maids
and matrons of Athens to his house, under the pretence of seeing
sculpture; but in reality to minister to the profligacy of Pericles. The
sculptor denied the charge; and required that proof should be given of
one Athenian woman, who had visited his house, unattended by her husband
or her father. The enemies of Pericles could easily have procured such
evidence with gold; but when Cleon sought again to speak, the Prytanes
commanded silence; and briefly reminded the people that the Fourth
Assembly had power to decide concerning religious matters only.
Hermippus, in a speech of considerable length, urged that Phidias seldom
sacrificed to the gods; and that he must have intended likenesses on the
shield of Pallas, because even Athenian children recognized them.

The brazen urn was again passed round, and the black pebbles were more
numerous than they had been when the fate of Anaxagoras was decided.
When Phidias heard the sentence, he raised himself to his full stature,
and waving his right arm over the crowd, said, in a loud voice: "Phidias
can never die! Athens herself will live in the fame of Charmides' son."
His majestic figure and haughty bearing awed the multitude; and some,
repenting of the vote they had given, said, "Surely, invisible Phoebus
is with him!"

Aspasia was next called to answer the charges brought against her. She
had dressed herself, in deep mourning, as if appealing to the compassion
of the citizens; and her veil was artfully arranged to display an arm
and shoulder of exquisite whiteness and beauty, contrasted with glossy
ringlets of dark hair, that carelessly rested on it. She was accused of
saying that the sacred baskets of Demeter contained nothing of so much
importance as the beautiful maidens who carried them; and that the
temple of Poseidon was enriched with no offerings from those who had
been wrecked, notwithstanding their supplications--thereby implying
irreverent doubts of the power of Ocean's god. To this, Aspasia, in
clear and musical tones, replied: "I said not that the sacred baskets of
Demeter contained nothing of so much importance as the beautiful maidens
who carried them. But, in playful allusion to the love of beauty, so
conspicuous in Alcibiades, I said that _he_, who was initiated into the
mysteries of Eleusis, might think, the baskets less attractive than the
lovely maidens who carried them. Irreverence was not in my thoughts;
but inasmuch as my careless words implied it, I have offered atoning
sacrifices to the mother of Persephone, during which I abstained from
all amusements. When I declared that the temple of Poseidon contained no
offerings in commemoration of men that had been wrecked, I said it in
reproof of those who fail to supplicate the gods for the manes of the
departed. They who perish on the ocean, may have offended Poseidon, or
the Virgin Sisters of the Deep; and on their altars should offerings be
laid by surviving friends.

"No man can justly accuse me of disbelief in the gods; for it is well
known that with every changing moon I offer on the altars of Aphrodite,
doves and sparrows, with baskets of apples, roses and myrtles: and who
in Athens has not seen the ivory car drawn by golden swans, which the
grateful Aspasia placed in the temple of that love-inspiring deity?"

Phidias could scarcely restrain a smile, as he listened to this defence;
and when the fair casuist swore by all the gods, and by the Erinnys,
that she had spoken truly, Anaxagoras looked up involuntarily, with an
expression of child-like astonishment. Alcibiades promptly corroborated
her statement. Plato, being called to testify, gravely remarked that she
had uttered those words, and she alone could explain her motives. The
populace seemed impressed in her favour; and when it was put to vote
whether sentence of death should be passed, an universal murmur arose,
of "Exile! Exile!"

The Epistates requested that all who wished to consider it a question of
exile, rather than of death, would signify the same by holding up their
hands. With very few exceptions, the crowd were inclined to mercy.
Hermippus gave tokens of displeasure, and hastily rose to accuse Aspasia
of corrupting the youth of Athens, by the introduction of singing and
dancing women, and by encouraging the matrons of Greece to appear
unveiled.

A loud laugh followed his remarks; for the comic actor was himself far
from aiding public morals by an immaculate example.

The Prytanes again reminded him that charges of this nature must be
decided by the First Assembly of the people; and, whether true or
untrue, ought to have no influence on religious questions brought before
the Fourth Assembly.

Hermippus was perfectly aware of this; but he deemed that the vote might
be affected by his artful suggestion.

The brazen urn was again carried round; and fifty-one pebbles only
appeared in disapprobation of exile.

Then Pericles arose, and looked around him with calm dignity. He was
seldom seen in public, even at entertainments; hence, something of
sacredness was attached to his person, like the Salaminian galley
reserved for great occasions. A murmur like the Distant ocean was heard,
as men whispered to each other, "Lo, Pericles is about to speak!" When
the tumult subsided, he said, in a loud voice, "If any here can accuse
Pericles of having enriched himself at the expense of the state, let him
hold up his right hand!"

Not a hand was raised--for his worst enemies could not deny that he was
temperate and frugal.

After a slight pause, he again resumed: "If any man can show that
Pericles ever asked a public favour for himself or his friends, let him
speak!" No words were uttered; but a murmur of discontent was heard in
the vicinity of Cleon and Hermippus.

The illustrious statesman folded his arms, and waited in quiet majesty
for the murmur to assume a distinct form. When all was hashed, he
continued: "If any man believes that Athens has declined in beauty,
wealth, or power, since the administration of Pericles, let him give his
opinion freely!"

National enthusiasm was kindled; and many voices exclaimed, "Hail
Pericles! All hail to Athens in her glory!"

The statesman gracefully waved his hand toward the multitude, as he
replied, "Thanks, friends and brother-citizens. Who among you is
disposed to grant to Pericles one favour, not inconsistent with your
laws, or in opposition to the decrees of this assembly?"

A thousand hands were instantly raised. Pericles again expressed his
thanks, and said, "The favour I have to ask is, that the execution of
these decrees be suspended, until the oracle of Amphiaraus can be
consulted. If it please you, let a vote be taken who shall be the
messenger."

The proposal was accepted; and Antiphon, a celebrated diviner, appointed
to consult the oracle.

As the crowd dispersed, Cleon muttered to Hermippus, "By Circe! I
believe he has given the Athenians philtres to make them love him. No
wonder Archidamus of Sparta said, that when he threw Pericles in
wrestling, he insisted he was never down, and persuaded the very
spectators to believe him."

Anaxagoras and Phidias, being under sentence of death, were placed in
prison, until the people should finally decide upon their fate. The old
philosopher cheerfully employed his hours in attempts to square the
circle. The sculptor carved a wooden image, with many hands and feet,
and without a head; upon the pedestal of which he inscribed Demos, and
secretly reserved it as a parting gift to the Athenian people.

Before another moon had waned, Antiphon returned from Oropus, whither he
had been sent to consult the oracle. Being called before the people, he
gave the following account of his mission: "I abstained from food until
Phoebus had twice appeared above the hills, in his golden chariot; and
for three days and three nights, I tasted no wine. When I had thus
purified myself, I offered a white ram to Amphiaraus; and spreading the
skin on the ground, I invoked the blessing of Phoebus and his prophetic
son, and laid me down to sleep. Methought I walked in the streets of
Athens. A lurid light shone on the walls of the Piræus, and spread into
the city, until all the Acropolis seemed glowing beneath a fiery sky. I
looked up--and lo! the heavens were in a blaze! Huge masses of flame
were thrown backward and forward, as if Paridamator and the Cyclops were
hurling their forges at each other's heads. Amazed, I turned to ask the
meaning of these phenomena; and I saw that all the citizens were clothed
in black; and wherever two were walking together, one fell dead by his
side. Then I heard a mighty voice, that seemed to proceed from within
the Parthenon. Three times it pronounced distinctly, 'Wo! wo! wo unto
Athens!

"I awoke, and after a time slept again. I heard a rumbling noise, like
thunder; and from the statue of Amphiaraus came a voice, saying, 'Life
is given by the gods.'

"Then all was still. Presently I again heard a sound like the
multitudinous waves of ocean, when it rises in a storm--and Amphiaraus
said, slowly, 'Count the pebbles on the seashore--yea, count them
twice.' Then I awoke; and having bathed in the fountain, I threw therein
three pieces of gold and silver, and departed."

The people demanded of Antiphon the meaning of these visions. He
replied: "The first portends calamity to Athens, either of war or
pestilence. By the response of the oracle, I understand that the
citizens are commanded to vote twice, before they take away life given
by the gods."

The wish to gain time had chiefly induced Pericles to request that
Amphiaraus might be consulted. In the interval, his emissaries had been
busy in softening the minds of the people; and it became universally
known that in case Aspasia's sentence were reversed, she intended to
offer sacrifices to Aphrodite, Poseidon, and Demeter; during the
continuance of which, the citizens would be publicly feasted at her
expense.

In these exertions, Pericles was zealously assisted by Clinias, a noble
and wealthy Athenian, the friend of Anaxagoras and Phidias, and a
munificent patron of the arts. He openly promised, if the lives of his
friends were spared, to evince his gratitude to the gods, by offering a
golden lamp to Pallas Parthenia, and placing in each of the agoras any
statue or painting the people thought fit to propose.

Still, Pericles, aware of the bitterness of his enemies, increased by
the late severe edict against those of foreign parentage, felt
exceedingly fearful of the result of a second vote. A petition, signed
by Pericles, Clinias, Ephialtes, Euripides, Socrates, Plato, Alcibiades,
Paralus, and many other distinguished citizens, was sent into the Second
Assembly of the people, begging that the accused might have another
trial; and this petition was granted.

When the Fourth Assembly again met, strong efforts were made to fill the
Prytaneum at a very early hour with the friends of Pericles.

The great orator secluded himself for three preceding days, and
refrained from wine. During this time, he poured plentiful libations of
milk and honey to Hermes, god of Eloquence, and sacrificed the tongues
of nightingales to Peitho, goddess of Persuasion.

When he entered the Prytaneum, it was remarked that he had never before
been seen to look so pale; and this circumstance, trifling as it was,
excited the ready sympathies of the people. When the Epistates read the
accusation against Anaxagoras, and proclaimed that any Athenian, not
disqualified by law, might speak, Pericles arose. For a moment he looked
on the venerable countenance of the old philosopher, and seemed to
struggle with his emotions. Then, with sudden impulse, he exclaimed,
"Look on him, Athenians! and judge ye if he be one accursed of the
gods!--He is charged with having said that the sun is a great ball of
fire; and therein ye deem that the abstractions of philosophy have led
him to profane the sacred name of Phoebus. We are told that Zeus assumed
the form of an eagle, a serpent, and a golden shower; yet these forms do
not affect our belief in the invisible god. If Phoebus appeared on earth
in the disguise of a woman and a shepherd, is it unpardonable for a
philosopher to suppose that the same deity may choose to reside within a
ball of fire? In the garden of Anaxagoras, you will find a statue of
Pallas, carved from an olive-tree. He brought it with him from Ionia;
and those disciples who most frequent his house, can testify that
sacrifices were ever duly offered upon her altar. Who among you ever
received an injury from that kind old man? He was the descendant of
princes,--yet gave up gold for philosophy, and forbore to govern
mankind, that he might love them more perfectly. Ask the young noble,
who has been to him as a father; and his response will be 'Anaxagoras.'
Ask the poor fisherman at the gates, who has been to him as a brother;
and he will answer 'Anaxagoras.' When the merry-hearted boys throng your
doors to sing their welcome to Ornithæ, inquire from whom they receive
the kindest word and the readiest gift; and they will tell you,
'Anaxagoras.' The Amphiaraus of Eschylus, says, 'I do not wish to
_appear_ to be a good man, but I wish to _be_ one.' Ask any of the
poets, what living man most resembles Amphiaraus in this sentiment; and
his reply will surely be, 'It is Anaxagoras.'

"Again I say, Athenians, look upon his face; and judge ye if he be one
accursed of the gods!"

The philosopher had leaned on his staff, and looked downward, while his
illustrious pupil made this defence; and when he had concluded, a tear
was seen slowly trickling down his aged cheek. His accusers again urged
that he had taught the doctrine of one god, under the name of One
Universal Mind; but the melodious voice and fluent tongue of Pericles
had so wrought upon the citizens, that when the question was proposed,
whether the old man were worthy of death, there arose a clamourous cry
of "Exile! Exile!"

The successful orator did not venture to urge the plea of entire
innocence; for he felt that he still had too much depending on the
capricious favour of the populace.

The aged philosopher received his sentence with thanks; and calmly
added, "Anaxagoras is not exiled from Athens; but Athens from
Anaxagoras. Evil days are coming on this city; and those who are too
distant to perceive the trophy at Salamis will deem themselves most
blessed. Pythagoras said, 'When the tempest is rising,'tis wise to
worship the echo.'"

After the accusation against Phidias had been read, Pericles again rose
and said, "Athenians! I shall speak briefly; for I appeal to what every
citizen values more than his fortune or his name. I plead for the glory
of Athens. When strangers from Ethiopia, Egypt, Phoenicia, and distant
Taprobane, come to witness the far-famed beauty of the violet-crowned
city, they will stand in mute worship before the Parthenon; and when
their wonder finds utterance, they will ask what the Athenians bestowed
on an artist so divine. Who among you could look upon the image of
Virgin Pallas, resplendent in her heavenly majesty, and not blush to
tell the barbarian stranger that death was the boon you bestowed on
Phidias?

"Go, gaze on the winged statue of Rhamnusia, where vengeance seems to
breathe from the marble sent by Darius to erect his trophy on the plains
of Marathon! Then turn and tell the proud Persian that the hand which
wrought those fair proportions, lies cold and powerless, by vote of the
Athenian people. No--ye could not say it: your hearts would choke your
voices. Ye could not tell the barbarian that Athens thus destroyed one
of the most gifted of her sons."

The crowd answered in a thunder of applause; mingled with the cry of
"Exile! Exile!" A few voices shouted, "A fine! A fine!" Then Cleon arose
and said: "Miltiades asked for an olive crown; and a citizen answered,
'When Miltiades conquers alone, let him be crowned alone.' When Phidias
can show that he built the Parthenon without the assistance of Ictinus,
Myron, Callicrates, and others, then let him have the whole credit of
the Parthenon."

To this, Pericles replied, "We are certainly much indebted to those
artists for many of the beautiful and graceful details of that sublime
composition; but with regard to the majestic design of the Parthenon,
Phidias conquered alone, and may therefore justly be crowned alone."

A vote was taken on the question of exile, and the black pebbles
predominated. The sculptor heard his sentence with a proud gesture, not
unmingled with scorn; and calmly replied, "They can banish Phidias from
Athens, more easily than I can take from them the fame of Phidias."

When Pericles replied to the charges against Aspasia, his countenance
became more pale, and his voice was agitated: "You all know," said he,
"That Aspasia is of Miletus. That city which poets call the laughing
daughter of Earth and Heaven: where even the river smiles, as it winds
along in graceful wanderings, eager to kiss every new blossom, and court
the dalliance of every breeze. Do ye not find it easy to forgive a
woman, born under those joyful skies, where beauty rests on the earth in
a robe of sunbeams, and inspires the gayety which pours itself forth in
playful words? Can ye judge harshly of one, who from her very childhood
has received willing homage, as the favourite of Aphrodite, Phoebus, and
the Muses? If she spoke irreverently, it was done in thoughtless mirth;
and she has sought to atone for it by sacrifices and tears.

"Athenians! I have never boasted; and if I seem to do it now, it is
humbly,--as befits one who seeks a precious boon. In your service I have
spent many toilsome days and sleepless nights. That I have not enriched
myself by it, is proved by the well-known fact that my own son blames my
frugality, and reproachfully calls me the slave of the Athenian people."

He paused for a moment, and held his hand over Aspasia's head, as he
continued: "In the midst of perplexities and cares, here I have ever
found a solace and a guide. Here are treasured up the affections of my
heart. It is not for Aspasia, the gifted daughter of Axiochus, that I
plead. It is for Aspasia, the beloved wife of Pericles."

Tears choked his utterance; but stifling his emotion, he exclaimed,
"Athenians! if ye would know what it is that thus unmans a soul capable
of meeting death with calmness, behold, and judge for yourselves!"

As he spoke, he raised Aspasia's veil. Her drapery had been studiously
arranged to display her loveliness to the utmost advantage; and as she
stood forth radiant in beauty, the building rung with the acclamations
that were sent forth, peal after peal, by the multitude.

Pericles had not in vain calculated on the sympathies of a volatile and
ardent people, passionately fond of the beautiful, in all its forms.
Aspasia remained in Athens, triumphant over the laws of religion and
morality.

Clinias desired leave to speak in behalf of Philothea, grandchild of
Anaxagoras; and the populace, made good-humoured by their own clemency,
expressed a wish to hear. He proceeded as follows: "Philothea,--whom you
all know was, not long since, one of the Canephoræ, and embroidered the
splendid peplus exhibited at the last Panathenæa--humbly begs of the
Athenians, that Eudora, Dione, and Geta, slaves of Phidias, may remain
under his protection, and not be confiscated with his household goods. A
contribution would have been raised, to buy these individuals of the
state, were it not deemed an insult to that proud and generous people,
who fined a citizen for proposing marble as a cheaper material than
ivory for the statue of Pallas Parthenia."

The request, thus aided by flattery, was almost unanimously granted. One
black pebble alone appeared in the urn; and that was from the hand of
Alcibiades.

Clinias expressed his thanks, and holding up the statue of Urania, he
added: "In token of gratitude for this boon, and for the life of a
beloved grandfather, Philothea consecrates to Pallas Athenæ this image
of the star-worshipping muse; the gift of a munificent Ethiopian."

The populace, being in gracious mood, forthwith voted that the exiles
had permission to carry with them any articles valued as the gift of
friendship.

The Prytanes dismissed the assembly; and as they dispersed, Alcibiades
scattered small coins among them. Aspasia immediately sent to the
Prytaneum an ivory statue of Mnemosyne, smiling as she looked back on a
group of Hours; a magnificent token that she would never forget the
clemency of the Athenian people.

Hermippus took an early opportunity to proclaim the exhibition of a new
comedy called Hercules and Omphale; and the volatile citizens thronged
the theatre, to laugh at that infatuated tenderness, which in the
Prytaneum had well nigh moved them to tears. The actor openly ridiculed
them for having been so much influenced by their orator's
least-successful attempt at eloquence; but in the course of the same
play, Cratinus raised a laugh at his expense, by saying facetiously:
"Lo! Hermippus would speak like Pericles! Hear him, Athenians! Is he not
as successful as Salmoneus, when he rolled his chariot over a brazen
bridge, and hurled torches to imitate the thunder and lightning of
Zeus?"

When the day of trial had passed, Pericles slept soundly; for his heart
was relieved from a heavy pressure. But personal enemies and envious
artists were still active; and it was soon buzzed abroad that the people
repented of the vote they had given. The exiles had been allowed ten
days to sacrifice to the gods, bid farewell to friends, and prepare for
departure; but on the third day, at evening twilight, Pericles entered
the dwelling of his revered old master. "My father," said he, "I am
troubled in spirit. I have just now returned from the Piræus, where I
sought an interview with Clinias, who daily visits the Deigma, and has a
better opportunity than I can have to hear the news of Athens. I found
him crowned with garlands; for he had been offering sacrifices in the
hall. He told me he had thus sought to allay the anxiety of his mind
with regard to yourself and Phidias. He fears the capricious Athenians
will reverse their decree."

"Alas, Pericles," replied the old man, "what can you expect of a people,
when statesmen condescend to buy justice at their hands, by promised
feasts, and scattered coin?"

"Nay, blame me not, Anaxagoras," rejoined Pericles; "I cannot govern as
I would. I found the people corrupted; and I must humour their disease.
Your life must be saved; even if you reprove me for the means. At
midnight, a boat will be in readiness to conduct you to Salamis, where
lies a galley bound for Ionia. I hasten to warn Phidias to depart
speedily for Elis."

The parting interview between Philothea and her repentant friend was
almost too painful for endurance. Poor Eudora felt that she was indeed
called to drink the cup of affliction, to its last bitter drop. Her
heart yearned to follow the household of Anaxagoras; but Philothea
strengthened her own conviction that duty and gratitude both demanded
she should remain with Phidias.

Geta and Milza likewise had their sorrows--the harder to endure, because
they were the first they had ever encountered. The little peasant was so
young, and her lover so poor, that their friends thought a union had
better be deferred. But Milza was free: and Anaxagoras told her it
depended on her own choice, to go with them, or follow Geta. The
grateful Arcadian dropped on one knee, and kissing Philothea's hand,
while the tears flowed down her cheeks, said: "She has been a mother to
orphan Milza, and I will not leave her now. Geta says it would be wrong
to leave her when she is in affliction."

Philothea, with a gentle smile, put back the ringlets from her tearful
eyes, and told her not to weep for her sake; for she should be resigned
and cheerful, wheresover the gods might place her; but Milza saw that
her smiles were sad.

At midnight, Pericles came, to accompany Anaxagoras to Salamis. Paralus
and Philothea had been conversing much, and singing their favourite
songs together, for the last time. The brow of the ambitious statesman
became clouded, when he observed that his son had been in tears; he
begged that preparations for departure might be hastened. The young man
followed them to the Piræus; but Pericles requested him to go no
further. The restraint of his presence prevented any parting less formal
than that of friendship. But he stood watching the boat that conveyed
them over the waters; and when the last ripple left in its wake had
disappeared, he slowly returned to Athens.

The beautiful city stoood before him, mantled in moonlight's silvery
veil. Yet all seemed cheerless; for the heart of Paralus was desolate.
He looked toward the beloved mansion near the gate Diocharis; drew from
his bosom a long lock of golden hair; and leaning against the statue of
Hermes, bowed down his head and wept.




CHAPTER XI.

  "How I love the mellow sage,
  Smiling through the veil of age!
  Age is on his temples hung,
  But his heart--his heart is young!"
                              ANACREON


A few years passed away, and saw Anaxagoras the contented resident of a
small village near Lampsacus, in Ionia. That he still fondly cherished
Athens in his heart was betrayed only by the frequent walks he took to a
neighbouring eminence, where he loved to sit and look toward the Ægean;
but the feebleness of age gradually increased, until he could no longer
take his customary exercise. Philothea watched over him with renewed
tenderness; and the bright tranquillity he received from the world he
was fast approaching, shone with reflected light upon her innocent soul.
At times, the maiden was so conscious of this holy influence, that all
the earthly objects around her seemed like dreams of some strange
foreign land.

One morning, after they had partaken their frugal repast, she said, in a
cheerful tone, "Dear grandfather, I had last night a pleasant dream; and
Milza says it is prophetic, because she had filled my pillow with fresh
laurel leaves. I dreamed that a galley, with three banks of oars, and
adorned with fillets, came to carry us back to Athens."

With a faint smile, Anaxagoras replied, "Alas for unhappy Athens! If
half we hear be true, her exiled children can hardly wish to be restored
to her bosom. Atropos has decreed that I at least shall never again
enter her walls. I am not disposed to murmur. Yet the voice of Plato
would be pleasant to my ears, as music on the waters in the night-time.
I pray you bring forth the writings of Pythagoras, and read me something
that sublime philosopher has said concerning the nature of the soul, and
the eternal principle of life. As my frail body approaches the Place of
Sleep, I feel less and less inclined to study the outward images of
things, the forms whereof perish; and my spirit thirsteth more and more
to know its origin and its destiny. I have thought much of Plato's
mysterious ideas of light. Those ideas were doubtless brought from the
East; for as that is the quarter where the sun rises, so we have thence
derived many vital truths, which have kept a spark of life within the
beautiful pageantry of Grecian mythology."

"Paralus often said that the Persian Magii, the Egyptian priests, and
the Pythagoreans imbibed their reverence for light from one common
source," rejoined Philothea.

Anaxagoras was about to speak, when a deep but gentle voice, from some
invisible person near them, said:

"The unchangeable principles of Truth act upon the soul like the sun
upon the eye, when it turneth to him. But the _one_ principle, better
than intellect, from which all things flow, and to which all things
tend, is Good. As the sun not only makes objects visible, but is the
cause of their generation, nourishment, and increase, so the Good,
through Truth, imparts being, and the power of being known, to every
object of knowledge. For this cause, the Pythagoreans greet the sun with
music and with reverence."

The listeners looked at each other in surprise, and Philothea was the
first to say, "It is the voice of Plato!"

"Even so, my friends," replied the philosopher, smiling, as he stood
before them.

The old man, in the sudden joy of his heart, attempted to rise and
embrace him; but weakness prevented. The tears started to his eyes, as
he said, "Welcome, most welcome, son of Aristo. You see that I am fast
going where we hope the spirit is to learn its own mysteries."

Plato, affected at the obvious change in his aged friend, silently
grasped his hand, and turned to answer the salutation of Philothea. She
too had changed; but she had never been more lovely. The colour on her
cheek, which had always been delicate as the reflected hue of a rose,
had become paler by frequent watchings; but her large dark eyes were
more soft and serious, and her whole countenance beamed with the bright
stillness of a spirit receiving the gift of prophecy.

The skies were serene; the music of reeds came upon the ear, softened by
distance; while the snowy fleece of sheep and lambs formed a beautiful
contrast with the rich verdure of the landscape.

"All things around you are tranquil," said Plato; "and thus I ever found
it, even in corrupted Athens. Not the stillness of souls that sleep, but
the quiet of life drawn from deep fountains."

"How did you find our peaceful retreat?" inquired Philothea. "Did none
guide you?"

"Euago of Lampsacus told me what course to pursue," he replied; "and not
far distant I again asked of a shepherd boy--well knowing that all the
children would find out Anaxagoras as readily as bees are guided to the
flowers. As I approached nearer I saw at every step new tokens of my
friends. The clepsydra, in the little brook, dropping its pebbles to
mark the hours; the arytæna placed on the rock for thirsty travellers;
the door loaded with garlands, placed there by glad-hearted boys; the
tablet covered with mathematical lines, lying on the wooden bench,
sheltered by grape-vines trained in the Athenian fashion, with a distaff
among the foliage; all these spoke to me of souls that unite the wisdom
of age with the innocence of childhood."

"Though we live in indolent Ionia, we still believe Hesiod's maxim, that
industry is the guardian of virtue," rejoined Anaxagoras. "Philothea
plies her distaff as busily as Lachesis spinning the thread of mortal
life." He looked upon his beautiful grandchild, with an expression full
of tenderness, as he added, "And she does indeed spin the thread of the
old man's life; for her diligent fingers gain my bread. But what news
bring you from unhappy Athens? Is Pericles yet alive?"

"She is indeed unhappy Athens," answered Plato. "The pestilence is still
raging; a manifested form of that inward corruption, which, finding a
home in the will of man, clothed itself in thought, and now completes
its circle in his corporeal nature. The dream at the cave of Amphiaraus
is literally fulfilled. Men fall down senseless in the street, and the
Piræus has been heaped with unburied dead. All the children of Clinias
are in the Place of Sleep. Hipparete is dead, with two of her little
ones. Pericles himself was one of the first sufferers; but he was
recovered by the skill of Hippocrates, the learned physician from Cos.
His former wife is dead, and so is Xanthippus his son. You know that
that proud young man and his extravagant wife could never forgive the
frugality of Pericles. Even in his dying moments he refused to call him
father, and made no answer to his affectionate inquiries. Pericles has
borne all his misfortunes with the dignity of an immortal. No one has
seen him shed a tear, of heard him utter a complaint. The ungrateful
people blame him for all their troubles, as if he had omnipotent power
to avert evils. Cleon and Tolmides are triumphant. Pericles is deprived
of office, and fined fifty drachmæ."

He looked at Philothea, and seeing her eyes fixed earnestly upon him,
her lips parted, and an eager flush spread over her whole countenance,
he said, in a tone of tender solemnity, "Daughter of Alcimenes, your
heart reproaches me, that I forbear to speak of Paralus. That I have
done so has not been from forgetfulness, but because I have, with vain
and self-defeating prudence, sought for cheerful words to convey sad
thoughts. Paralus breathes and moves, but is apparently unconscious of
existence in this world. He is silent and abstracted, like one just
returned from the cave of Trophonius. Yet, beautiful forms are ever with
him, in infinite variety; for his quiescent soul has now undisturbed
recollection of the divine archetypes in the ideal world, of which all
earthly beauty is the shadow."

"He is happy, then, though living in the midst of death," answered
Philothea: "But does his memory retain no traces of his friends?"

"One--and one only," he replied. "The name of Philothea was too deeply
engraven to be washed away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom speaks;
but when he does, you are ever in his visions. The sound of a female
voice accompanying the lyre is the only thing that makes him smile; and
nothing moves him to tears save the farewell song of Orpheus to
Eurydice. In his drawings there is more of majesty and beauty than
Phidias or Myron ever conceived; and one figure is always there--the
Pythia, the Muse, the Grace, or something combining all these, more
spiritual than either."

As the maiden listened, tears started from fountains long sealed, and
rested like dew-drops on her dark eyelashes.

Farewell to Eurydice! Oh, how many thoughts were wakened by those words!
They were the last she heard sung by Paralus, the night Anaxagoras
departed from Athens. Often had the shepherds of Ionia heard the
melancholy notes float on the evening breeze; and as the sounds died
away, they spoke to each other in whispers, and said, "They come from
the dwelling of the divinely-inspired one!"

Plato perceived that the contemplative maiden was busy with memories of
the past. In a tone of gentle reverence, he added, "What I have told you
proves that your souls were one, before it wandered from the divine
home; and it gives hope that they will be re-united, when they return
thither after their weary exile in the world of shadows."

"And has this strange pestilence produced such an effect on Paralus
only?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"Many in Athens have recovered health without any memory of the images
of things," replied Plato; "but I have known no other instance where
recollections of the ideal world remained more bright and unimpaired,
than they possibly can be while disturbed by the presence of the
visible. Tithonus formerly told me of similar cases that occurred when
the plague raged in Ethiopia and Egypt; and Artaphernes says he has seen
a learned Magus, residing among the mountains that overlook Taoces, who
recovered from the plague with a perpetual oblivion of all outward
forms, while he often had knowledge of the thoughts passing in the minds
of those around him. If an unknown scroll were placed before him, he
would read it, though a brazen shield were interposed between him and
the parchment; and if figures were drawn on the water, he at once
recognized the forms, of which no visible trace remained."

"Marvellous, indeed, is the mystery of our being," exclaimed Anaxagoras.

"It involves the highest of all mysteries," rejoined Plato; "for if man
did not contain within himself a type of all that is,--from the highest
to the lowest plane of existence,--he could not enter the human form. At
times, I have thought glimpses of these eternal truths were revealed to
me; but I lost them almost as soon as they were perceived, because my
soul dwelt so much with the images of things. Thus have I stood before
the thick veil which conceals the shrine of Isis, while the narrow
streak of brilliant light around its edges gave indication of unrevealed
glories, and inspired the eager but fruitless hope that the massive
folds would float away, like a cloud before the sun. There are indeed
times when I lose the light entirely, and cannot even perceive the veil
that hides it from me. This is because my soul, like Psyche bending over
the sleeping Eros, is too curious to examine, by its own feeble taper,
the lineaments of the divinity whereby it hath been blessed."

"How is Pericles affected by this visitation of the gods upon the best
beloved of his children?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"It has softened and subdued his ambitious soul," answered Plato; "and
has probably helped him to endure the loss of political honours with
composure. I have often observed that affliction renders the heart of
man like the heart of a little child; and of this I was reminded when I
parted from Pericles at Salamis, whence the galley sailed for Ionia. You
doubtless remember the little mound, called Cynos-sema? There lies the
faithful dog, that died in consequence of swimming after the ship which
carried the father of Pericles, when the Athenians were all leaving
their beloved city by advice of Themistocles. The illustrious statesman
has not been known to shed a tear amid the universal wreck of his
popularity, his family, and his friends; but standing by this little
mound, the recollections of childhood came over him, and he wept as an
infant weeps for its lost mother."

There was a tremulous motion about the lips of the old man, as he
replied, "Perchance he was comparing the constancy of that affectionate
animal with the friendship of men, and the happy unconsciousness of his
boyhood with the anxious cares that wait on greatness. Pericles had a
soft heart in his youth; and none knew this better than the forgotten
old man, whom he once called his friend."

Plato perceived his emotion, and answered, in a soothing voice, "He has
since been wedded to political ambition, which never brought any man
nearer to his divine home; but Anaxagoras is not forgotten. Pericles has
of late often visited the shades of Academus, where he has talked much
of you and Philothea, and expressed earnest hopes that the gods would
again restore you to Athens, to bless him with your wise counsels."

The aged philosopher shook his head, as he replied, "They who would have
a lamp should take care to supply it with oil. Had Philothea's affection
been like that of Pericles, this old frame would have perished for want
of food."

"Nay, Anaxagoras," rejoined Plato, "you must not forget that this
Peloponessian war, the noisy feuds in Athens, and afflictions in his own
family, have involved him in continual distractions. He who gives his
mind to politics, sails on a stormy sea, with a giddy pilot. Pericles
has now sent you substantial proofs of his gratitude; and if his power
equalled his wishes, I have no doubt he would make use of the alarmed
state of public feeling to procure your recall."

"You have as yet given us no tidings of Phidias and his household," said
Philothea.

"The form of Phidias sleeps," replied Plato: "His soul has returned to
those sacred mysteries, once familiar to him; the recollection of which
enabled him while on earth to mould magnificent images of supernal
forms--images that awakened in all who gazed upon them some slumbering
memory of ideal worlds; though few knew whence it came, or why their
souls were stirred. The best of his works is the Olympian Zeus, made at
Elis after his exile. It is far more sublime than the Pallas Parthenia.
The Eleans consider the possession of it as a great triumph over
ungrateful Athens."

"Under whose protection is Eudora placed?" inquired Philothea.

"I have heard that she remains at the house where Phidias died,"
rejoined Plato. "The Eleans have given her the yearly revenues of a
farm, in consideration of the affectionate care bestowed on her
illustrious benefactor.--Report says that Phidias wished to see her
united to his nephew Pandænus; but I have never heard of the marriage.
Philæmon is supposed to be in Persia, instructing the sons of the
wealthy satrap Megabyzus."

"And where is the faithful Geta?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"Geta is at Lampsacus; and I doubt not will hasten hither, as soon as he
has taken care of certain small articles of merchandize that he brought
with him. Phidias gave him his freedom the day they left Athens; and
after his death, the people of Elis bestowed upon him fifty drachmæ. He
has established himself at Phalerum, where he tells me he has doubled
this sum by the sale of anchovies. He was eager to attend upon me for
the sake, as he said, of once more seeing his good old master
Anaxagoras, and that maiden with mild eyes, who always spoke kind words
to the poor; but I soon discovered there was a stronger reason for his
desire to visit Lampsacus. From what we had heard, we expected to find
you in the city. Geta looked very sorrowful, when told that you were
fifty stadia farther from the sea."

"When we first landed on the Ionian shore,"'replied Anaxagoras, "I took
up my abode two stadia from Lampsacus, and sometimes went thither to
lecture in the porticos. But when I did this, I seemed to breathe an
impure air; and idle young men so often followed me home, that the
maidens were deprived of the innocent freedom I wished them to enjoy.
Here I feel, more than I have ever felt, the immediate presence of
divinity."

"I know not whether it be good or bad," said Plato; "but philosophy has
wrought in me a dislike of conversing with many persons. I do not
imitate the Pythagoreans, who close their gates; for I perceive that
truth never ought to be a sealed fountain; but I cannot go into the
Prytanæum, the agoras, and the workshops, and jest, like Socrates, to
captivate the attention of young men. When I thus seek to impart hidden
treasures, I lose without receiving; and few perceive the value of what
is offered. I feel the breath of life taken away from me by the
multitude. Their praises cause me to fear, lest, according to Ibycus, I
should offend the gods, but acquire glory among men. For these reasons,
I have resolved never to abide in cities."

"The name of Socrates recalls Alcibiades to my mind," rejoined
Anaxagoras. "Is he still popular with the Athenians?"

"He is; and will remain so," replied Plato, "so long as he feasts them
at his own expense, and drinks three cotylæ of wine at a draught. I
know not of what materials he is made; unless it be of Carpasian flax,
which above all things burns and consumes not."

"Has this fearful pestilence no power to restrain the appetites and
passions of the people?" inquired the old man.

"It has but given them more unbridled license,'" rejoined Plato. "Even
when the unburied dead lay heaped in piles, and the best of our
equestrians were gasping in the streets, robbers took possession of
their dwellings, drinking wine from their golden vessels, and singing
impure songs in the presence of their household gods. Men seek to obtain
oblivion of danger by reducing themselves to the condition of beasts,
which have no perception above the immediate wants of the senses. All
pursuits that serve to connect the soul with the world whence it came
are rejected. The Odeum is shut; there is no more lecturing in the
porticos; the temples are entirely forsaken, and even the Diasia are no
longer observed. Some of the better sort of citizens, weary of fruitless
prayers and sacrifices to Phoebus, Phoebe, Pallas, and the Erinnys. have
erected an altar to the Unknown God; and this altar only is heaped with
garlands, and branches of olive twined with wool."

"A short time ago, he who had dared to propose the erection of such an
altar would have been put to death," said Anaxagoras. "The pestilence
has not been sent in vain, if the faith in images is shaken, and the
Athenians have been led to reverence One great Principle of Order, even
though they call it unknown."

"It is fear, unmingled with reverence, in the minds of many," replied
the philosopher of Academus. "As for the multitude, they consider all
principles of right and wrong as things that may exist, or not exist,
according to the vote of the Athenian people. Of ideas eternal in their
nature, and therefore incapable of being created or changed by the will
of a majority, they cannot conceive. When health is restored, they will
return to the old worship of forms, as readily as they changed from
Pericles to Cleon, and will again change from him to Pericles."

The aged philosopher shook his head and smiled, as he said: "Ah, Plato!
Plato! where will you find materials for your ideal republic?"

"In an ideal Atlantis," replied the Athenian, smiling in return; "or
perchance in the fabled groves of Argive Hera, where the wild beasts are
tamed--the deer and the wolf lie down together--and the weak animal
finds refuge from his powerful pursuer. But the principle of a republic
is none the less true, because mortals make themselves unworthy to
receive it. The best doctrines become the worst, when they are used for
evil purposes. Where a love of power is the ruling object, the tendency
is corruption; and the only difference between Persia and Athens is,
that in one place power is received by birth, in the other obtained by
cunning.

"Thus it will ever be; while men grope in the darkness of their outward
nature; which receives no light from the inward, because they will not
open the doors of the temple, where a shrine is placed, from which it
ever beams forth with occult and venerable splendour.

"Philosophers would do well if they ceased to disturb themselves with
the meaning of mythologic fables, and considered whether they have not
within themselves a serpent possessing more folds than Typhon, and far
more raging and fierce. When the wild beasts within the soul are
destroyed, men will no longer have to contend against their visible
forms."

"But tell me, O admirable Plato!" said Anaxagoras, "what connection can
there be between the inward allegorical serpent, and the created form
thereof?"

"One could not exist without the other," answered Plato, "because where
there is no ideal, there can be no image. There are doubtless men in
other parts of the universe better than we are, because they stand on a
higher plane of existence, and approach nearer to the _idea_ of man. The
celestial lion is intellectual, but the sublunary irrational; for the
former is nearer the _idea_ of a lion. The lower planes of existence
receive the influences of the higher, according to the purity and
stillness of the will. If this be restless and turbid, the waters from a
pure fountain become corrupted, and the corruption flows down to lower
planes of existence, until it at last manifests itself in corporeal
forms. The sympathy thus produced between things earthly and celestial
is the origin of imagination; by which men have power to trace the
images of supernal forms, invisible to mortal eyes. Every man can be
elevated to a higher plane by quiescence of the will; and thus may
become a prophet. But none are perfect ones; because all have a tendency
to look downward to the opinions of men in the same existence with
themselves: and this brings them upon a lower plane, where the prophetic
light glimmers and dies. The Pythia at Delphi, and the priestess in
Dodona, have been the cause of very trifling benefits, when in a
cautious, prudent state; but when agitated by a divine mania, they have
produced many advantages, both public and private, to the Greeks."

The conversation was interrupted by the merry shouts of children; and
presently a troop of boys and girls appeared, leading two lambs decked
with garlands. They were twin lambs of a ewe that had died; and they had
been trained to suck from a pipe placed in a vessel of milk. This day,
for the first time, the young ram had placed his budding horns under the
throat of his sister lamb, and pushed away her head that he might take
possession of the pipe himself. The children were greatly delighted with
this exploit, and hastened to exhibit it before their old friend
Anaxagoras, who always entered into their sports with a cheerful heart.
Philothea replenished the vessel of milk; and the gambols of the young
lambs, with the joyful laughter of the children, diffused a universal
spirit of gladness. One little girl filled the hands of the old
philosopher with tender leaves, that the beautiful animals might come
and eat; while another climbed his knees, and put her little fingers on
his venerable head, saying, "Your hair is as white as the lamb's; will
Philothea spin it, father?"

The maiden, who had been gazing at the little group with looks full of
tenderness, timidly raised her eyes to Plato, and said, "Son of Aristo,
these have not wandered so far from their divine home as we have!"

The philosopher had before observed the peculiar radiance of Philothea's
expression, when she raised her downcast eyes; but it never before
appeared to him so much like light suddenly revealed from the inner
shrine of a temple.

With a feeling approaching to worship, he replied, "Maiden, your own
spirit has always remained near its early glories."

When the glad troop of children departed, Plato followed them to see
their father's flocks, and play quoits with the larger boys. Anaxagoras
looked after him with a pleased expression, as he said, "He will delight
their minds, as he has elevated ours. Assuredly, his soul is like the
Homeric, chain of gold, one end of which rests on earth, and the other
terminates in Heaven."

Milza was daily employed in fields not far distant, to tend a
neighbour's goats, and Philothea, wishing to impart the welcome tidings,
took up the shell with which she was accustomed to summon her to her
evening labours. She was about to apply the shell to her lips, when she
perceived the young Arcadian standing in the vine-covered arbour, with
Geta, who had seized her by each cheek and was kissing her after the
fashion of the Grecian peasantry. With a smile and a blush, the maiden
turned away hastily, lest the humble lovers should perceive they were
discovered.

The frugal supper waited long on the table before Plato returned. As he
entered, Anaxagoras pointed to the board, which rested on rude sticks
cut from the trees, and said, "Son of Aristo, all I have to offer you
are dried grapes, bread, wild honey, and water from the brook."

"More I should not taste if I were at the table of Alcibiades," replied
the philosopher of Athens. "When I see men bestow much thought on eating
and drinking, I marvel that they will labour so diligently in building
their own prisons. Here, at least, we can restore the Age of Innocence,
when no life was taken to gratify the appetite of man, and the altars of
the gods were unstained with blood."

Philothea, contrary to the usual custom of Grecian women, remained with
her grandfather and his guest during their simple repast, and soon after
retired to her own apartment.

When they were alone, Plato informed his aged friend that his visit to
Lampsacus was at the request of Pericles. Hippocrates had expressed a
hope that the presence of Philothea might, at least in some degree,
restore the health of Paralus; and the heart-stricken father had sent to
intreat her consent to a union with his son.

"Philothea would not leave me, even if I urged it with tears," replied
Anaxagoras; "and I am forbidden to return to Athens."

"Pericles has provided an asylum for you, on the borders of Attica,"
answered Plato; "and the young people would soon join you, after their
marriage. He did not suppose that his former proud opposition to their
loves would be forgotten; but he said hearts like yours would forgive it
all, the more readily because he was now a man deprived of power, and
his son suffering under a visitation of the gods. Alcibiades laughed
aloud when he heard of this proposition; and said his uncle would never
think of making it to any but a maiden who sees the zephyrs run and
hears the stars sing. He spoke truth in his profane merriment. Pericles
knows that she who obediently listens to the inward voice will be most
likely to seek the happiness of others, forgetful of her own wrongs."

"I do not believe the tender-hearted maiden ever cherished resentment
against any living thing," replied Anaxagoras. "She often reminds me of
Hesiod's description of Leto:

  'Placid to men and to immortal gods;
  Mild from the first beginning of her days;
  Gentlest of all in Heaven.'

"She has indeed been a precious gift to my old age. Simple and loving as
she is, there are times when her looks and words fill me with awe, as if
I stood in the presence of divinity."

"It is a most lovely union when the Muses and the Charities inhabit the
same temple," said Plato. "I think she learned of you to be a constant
worshipper of the innocent and graceful nymphs, who preside over kind
and gentle actions. But tell me, Anaxagoras, if this marriage is
declined, who will protect the daughter of Alcimenes when you are
gone?"

The philosopher replied, "I have a sister Heliodora, the youngest of my
father's flock; who is Priestess of the Sun, at Ephesus. Of all my
family, she has least despised me for preferring philosophy to gold; and
report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked and obtained from
her a promise to protect Philothea when I am gone; but I will tell my
child the wishes of Pericles, and leave her to the guidance of her own
heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will be to him, as she has
been to me, a blessing like the sunshine."




CHAPTER XII.

  Adieu, thou sun, and fields of golden light;
  For the last time I drink thy radiance bright,
  And sink to sleep.
                                   ARISTOPHANES.


The galley that brought Plato from Athens was sent on a secret political
mission, and was not expected to revisit Lampsacus until the return of
another moon. Anaxagoras, always mindful of the happiness of those
around him, proposed that the constancy of faithful Geta should be
rewarded by an union with Milza. The tidings were hailed with joy; not
only by the young couple, but by all the villagers. The superstition of
the little damsel did indeed suggest numerous obstacles. The sixteenth
of the month must on no account be chosen; one day was unlucky for a
wedding, because as she returned from the fields, an old woman busy at
the distaff had directly crossed her path; and another was equally so,
because she had seen a weasel, without remembering to throw three stones
as it passed. But at last there came a day against which no objections
could be raised. The sky was cloudless, and the moon at its full; both
deemed propitious omens. A white kid had been sacrificed to Artemis, and
baskets of fruit and poppies been duly placed upon her altar. The long
white veil woven by Milza and laid by for this occasion, was taken out
to be bleached in the sunshine and dew. Philothea presented a zone,
embroidered by her own skilful hands; Anaxagoras bestowed a pair of
sandals laced with crimson; and Geta purchased a bridal robe of flaming
colours.

Plato promised to supply the feast with almonds and figs. The peasant,
whose goats Milza had tended, sent six large vases of milk, borne by
boys crowned with garlands. And the matrons of the village, with whom
the kind little Arcadian had ever been a favourite, presented a huge
cake, carried aloft on a bed of flowers, by twelve girls clothed in
white. The humble residence of the old philosopher was almost covered
with the abundant blossoms brought by joyful children. The door posts
were crowned with garlands anointed with oil, and bound with fillets of
wool. The bride and bridegroom were carried in procession, on a litter
made of the boughs of trees, plentifully adorned with garlands and flags
of various colours; preceded by young men playing on reeds and flutes,
and followed by maidens bearing a pestle and sieve. The priest performed
the customary sacrifices at the altar of Hera; the omens were
propitious; libations were poured; and Milza returned to her happy home,
the wife of her faithful Geta. Feasting continued till late in the
evening, and the voice of music was not hushed until past the hour of
midnight.

The old philosopher joined in the festivity, and in the cheerfulness of
his heart exerted himself beyond his strength. Each succeeding day found
him more feeble; and Philothea soon perceived that the staff on which
she had leaned from her childhood was about to be removed forever. On
the twelfth day after Milza's wedding, he asked to be led into the open
portico, that he might enjoy the genial warmth. He gazed on the bright
landscape, as if it had been the countenance of a friend. Then looking
upward, with a placid smile, he said to Plato, "You tell me that Truth
acts upon the soul, like the Sun upon the eye, when it turneth to him.
Would that I could be as easily and certainly placed in the light of
truth, as I have been in this blessed sunshine! But in vain I seek to
comprehend the mystery of my being. All my thoughts on this subject are
dim and shadowy, as the ghosts seen by Odysseus on the Stygian shore."

Plato answered: "Thus it must ever be, while the outward world lies so
near us, and the images of things crowd perpetually on the mind. An
obolus held close to the eye may prevent our seeing the moon and the
stars; and thus does the ever-present earth exclude the glories of
Heaven. But in the midst of uncertainty and fears, one feeling alone
remains; and that is hope, strong as belief, that virtue can never die.
In pity to the cravings of the soul, something will surely be given in
future time more bright and fixed than the glimmering truths preserved
in poetic fable; even as radiant stars arose from the ashes of Orion's
daughters, to shine in the heavens an eternal crown."

The old man replied, "I have, as you well know, been afraid to indulge
in your speculations concerning the soul, lest I should spend my life in
unsatisfied attempts to embrace beautiful shadows."

"To me likewise they have sometimes appeared doctrines too high and
solemn to be taught," rejoined Plato: "Often when I have attempted to
clothe them in language, the airy forms have glided from me, mocking me
with their distant beauty. We are told of Tantalus surrounded by water
that flows away when he attempts to taste it, and with delicious fruits
above his head, carried off by a sudden wind whenever he tries to seize
them. It was his crime that, being admitted to the assemblies of
Olympus, he brought away the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and gave
them unto mortals. Sometimes, when I have been led to discourse of ideal
beauty, with those who perceive only the images of things, the
remembrance of that unhappy son of Zeus has awed me into silence."

While they were yet speaking, the noise of approaching wheels was heard,
and presently a splendid chariot, with four white horses, stopped before
the humble dwelling.

A stranger, in purple robes, descended from the chariot, followed by
servants carrying a seat of ivory inlaid with silver, a tuft of peacock
feathers to brush away the insects, and a golden box filled with
perfumes. It was Chrysippus, prince of Clazomenæ, the nephew of
Anaxagoras. He had neglected and despised the old man in his poverty,
but had now come to congratulate him on the rumour of Philothea's
approaching marriage with the son of Pericles. The aged philosopher
received him with friendly greeting, and made him known to Plato.
Chrysippus gave a glance at the rude furniture of the portico, and
gathered his perfumed robes carefully about him.

"Son of Basileon, it is the dwelling of cleanliness, though it be the
abode of poverty," said the old man, in a tone of mild reproof.

Geta had officiously brought a wooden bench for the high-born guest;
but he waited till his attendants had opened the ivory seat, and covered
it with crimson cloth, before he seated himself, and replied:

"Truly, I had not expected to find the son of Hegesibulus in so mean a
habitation. No man would conjecture that you were the descendant of
princes."

With a quiet smile, the old man answered,--"Princes have not wished to
proclaim kindred with Anaxagoras; and why should he desire to perpetuate
the remembrance of what they have forgotten?"

Chrysippus looked toward Plato, and with some degree of embarrassment
sought to excuse himself, by saying, "My father often told me that it
was your own choice to withdraw from your family; and if they have not
since offered to share their wealth with you, it is because you have
ever been improvident of your estates."

"What! Do you not take charge of them?" inquired Anaxagoras. "I gave my
estates to your father, from the conviction that he would take better
care of them than I could do; and in this I deemed myself most
provident."

"But you went to Athens, and took no care for your country," rejoined
the prince.

The venerable philosopher pointed to the heavens, that smiled serenely
above them,--and said, "Nay, young man, my greatest care has ever been
for my country."

In a more respectful tone, Chrysippus rejoined: "Anaxagoras, all men
speak of your wisdom; but does this fame so far satisfy you, that you
never regret you sacrificed riches to philosophy?"

"I am satisfied with the pursuit of wisdom, not with the fame of it,"
replied the sage. "In my youth, I greatly preferred wisdom to gold; and
as I approach the Stygian shore, gold has less and less value in my
eyes. Charon will charge my disembodied spirit but a single obolus for
crossing his dark ferry. Living mortals only need a golden bough to
enter the regions of the dead."

The prince seemed thoughtful for a moment, as he gazed on the benevolent
countenance of his aged relative.

"If it be as you have said, Anaxagoras is indeed happier than princes,"
he replied. "But I came to speak of the daughter of Alcimenes. I have
heard that she is beautiful, and the destined wife of Paralus of
Athens."

"It is even so," said the philosopher; "and it would gladden my heart,
if I might be permitted to see her placed under the protection of
Pericles, before I die."

"Has a sufficient dowry been provided?" inquired Chrysippus. "No one of
our kindred must enter the family of Pericles as a slave."

A slight colour mantled in the old man's cheeks, as he answered, "I have
friends in Athens, who will not see my precious child suffer shame for
want of a few drachmæ."

"I have brought with me a gift, which I deemed in some degree suited to
the dignity of our ancestors," rejoined the prince; "and I indulged the
hope of giving it into the hands of the maiden."

As he spoke, he made a signal to his attendants, who straightway brought
from the chariot a silver tripod lined with gold, and a bag containing
a hundred golden staters. At the same moment, Milza entered, and in a
low voice informed Anaxagoras that Philothea deemed this prolonged
interview with the stranger dangerous to his feeble health; and begged
that he would suffer himself to be placed on the couch. The invalid
replied by a message desiring her presence. As she entered, he said to
her, "Philothea, behold your kinsman Chrysippus, son of Basileon."

The illustrious guest was received with the same modest and friendly
greeting, that would have been bestowed on the son of a worthy peasant.
The prince felt slightly offended that his splendid dress and
magnificent equipage produced so little effect on the family of the
philosopher; but as the fame of Philothea's beauty had largely mingled
with other inducements to make the visit, he endeavoured to conceal his
pride, and as he offered the rich gifts, said in a respectful tone,
"Daughter of Alcimenes, the tripod is from Heliodora, Priestess at
Ephesus. The golden coin is from my own coffers. Accept them for a
dowry; and allow me to claim one privilege in return. As I cannot be at
the marriage feast, to share the pleasures of other kinsmen, permit the
son of Basileon to see you now one moment without your veil."

He waved his hand for his attendants to withdraw; but the maiden
hesitated, until Anaxagoras said mildly, "Chrysippus is of your father's
kindred; and it is discreet that his request be granted."

Philothea timidly removed her veil, and a modest blush suffused her
lovely countenance, as she said, "Thanks, Prince of Clazomenæ, for
these munificent gifts. May the gods long preserve you a blessing to
your family and people."

"The gifts are all unworthy of her who receives them," replied
Chrysippus, gazing so intently that the maiden, with rosy confusion,
replaced her veil.

Anaxagoras invited his royal guest to share a philosopher's repast, to
which he promised should be added a goblet of wine, lately sent from
Lampsacus. The prince courteously accepted his invitation; and the kind
old man, wearied with the exertions he had made, was borne to his couch
in an inner apartment. When Plato had assisted Philothea and Milza in
arranging his pillows, and folding the robe about his feet, he returned
to the portico. Philothea supposed the stranger was about to follow him;
and without raising her head, as she bent over her grandfather's couch,
she said: "He is feeble, and needs repose. In the days of his, strength,
he would not have thus left you to the courtesy of our Athenian guest."

"Would to the gods that I had sought him sooner!" rejoined Chrysippus.
"While I have gathered foreign jewels, I have been ignorant of the gems
in my own family."

Then stooping down, he took Anaxagoras by the hand, and said
affectionately, "Have you nothing to ask of your brother's son?"

"Nothing but your prayers for us, and a gentle government for your
people," answered the old man. "I thank you for your kindness to this
precious orphan. For myself, I am fast going where I shall need less
than ever the gifts of princes."

"Would you not like to be buried with regal honour, in your native
Clazomenæ?" inquired the prince.

The philosopher again pointed upward as he replied, "Nay. The road to
heaven would be no shorter from Clazomenæ."

"And what monument would you have reared to mark the spot where
Anaxagoras sleeps?" said Chrysippus.

"I wish to be buried after the ancient manner, with the least possible
trouble and expense," rejoined the invalid. "The money you would expend
for a monument may be given to some captive sighing in bondage. Let an
almond tree be planted near my grave, that the boys may love to come
there, as to a pleasant home."

"The citizens of Lampsacus, hearing of your illness, requested me to ask
what they should do in honour of your memory, when it pleased the gods
to call you hence. What response do you give to this message?" inquired
the prince.

The philosopher answered, "Say to them that I desire all the children
may have a holiday on the anniversary of my death."

Chrysippus remained silent for a few moments; and then continued:
"Anaxagoras, I perceive that you are strangely unlike other mortals; and
I know not how you will receive the proposal I am about to make.
Philothea has glided from the apartment, as if afraid to remain in my
presence. That graceful maiden is too lovely for any destiny meaner than
a royal marriage. As a kinsman, I have the best claim to her; and if it
be your will, I will divorce my Phoenician Astarte, and make Philothea
princess of Clazomenæ."

"Thanks, son of Basileon," replied the old man; "but I love the innocent
orphan too well to bestow upon her the burden and the dangers of
royalty."

"None could dispute your own right to exchange power and wealth for
philosophy and poverty," said Chrysippus; "but though you are the lawful
guardian of this maiden, I deem it unjust to reject a splendid alliance
without her knowledge."

"Philothea gave her affections to Paralus, even in the days of their
childhood," replied Anaxagoras; "and she is of a nature too divine to
place much value on the splendour that passes away."

The prince seemed disturbed and chagrined by this imperturbable spirit
of philosophy; and after a few brief remarks retreated to the portico.

Here he entered into conversation with Plato; and after some general
discourse, spoke of his wishes with regard to Philothea. "Anaxagoras
rejects the alliance," said he, smiling; "but take my word for it, the
maiden would not dismiss the matter thus lightly. I have never yet seen
a woman who preferred philosophy to princes."

"Kings are less fortunate than philosophers," responded Plato; "I have
known several women, who preferred wisdom to gold. Could Chrysippus look
into those divine eyes, and yet believe that Philothea's soul would
rejoice in the pomp of princes?"

The wealthy son of Basileon still remained incredulous of any exceptions
to woman's vanity; and finally obtained a promise from Plato, that he
would use his influence with his friend to have the matter left
entirely to Philothea's decision.

When the maiden was asked by her grandfather, whether she would be the
wife of Paralus, smitten by the hand of disease, or princess of
Clazomenæ, surrounded by more grandeur than Penelope could boast in her
proudest days--her innocent countenance expressed surprise, not
unmingled with fear, that the mind of Anaxagoras was wandering. But when
assured that Chrysippus seriously proposed to divorce his wife and marry
her, a feeling of humiliation came over her, that a man, ignorant of the
qualities of her soul, should be thus captivated by her outward beauty,
and regard it as a thing to be bought with gold. But the crimson tint
soon subsided from her transparent cheek, and she quietly replied, "Tell
the prince of Clazomenæ that I have never learned to value riches; nor
could I do so, without danger of being exiled far from my divine home."

When these words were repeated to Chrysippus, he exclaimed impatiently,
"Curse on the folly which philosophers dignify with the name of wisdom!"

After this, nothing could restore the courtesy he had previously
assumed. He scarcely tasted the offered fruit and wine; bade a cold
farewell, and soon rolled away in his splendid chariot, followed by his
train of attendants.

This unexpected interview produced a singular excitement in the mind of
Anaxagoras. All the occurrences of his youth passed vividly before him;
and things forgotten for years were remembered like events of the past
hour. Plato sat by his side till the evening twilight deepened,
listening as he recounted scenes long since witnessed in Athens. When
they entreated him to seek repose, he reluctantly assented, and said to
his friend, with a gentle pressure of the hand, "Farewell, son of
Aristo. Pray for me before you retire to your couch."

Plato parted the silver hairs, and imprinted a kiss on his forehead;
then crowning himself with a garland, he knelt before an altar that
stood in the apartment, and prayed aloud: "O thou, who art King of
Heaven, life and death are in thy hand! Grant what is good for us,
whether we ask it, or ask it not; and refuse that which would be
hurtful, even when we ask it most earnestly."

"That contains the spirit of all prayer," said the old philosopher. "And
now, Plato, go to thy rest; and I will go to mine. Very pleasant have
thy words been to me. Even like the murmuring of fountains in a parched
and sandy desert." When left alone with his grandchild and Milza, the
invalid still seemed unusually excited, and his eyes shone with unwonted
brightness. Again he recurred to his early years, and talked fondly of
his wife and children. He dwelt on the childhood of Philothea with
peculiar pleasure. "Often, very often," said he, "thy infant smiles and
artless speech led my soul to divine things; when, without thee, the
link would have been broken, and the communication lost."

He held her hand affectionately in his, and often drew her toward him,
that he might kiss her cheek. Late in the night, sleep began to steal
over him with gentle influence; and Philothea was afraid to move, lest
she should disturb his slumbers.

Milza reposed on a couch close by her side, ready to obey the slightest
summons; the small earthen lamp that stood on the floor, shaded by an
open tablet, burned dim; and the footsteps of Plato were faintly heard
in the stillness of the night, as he softly paced to and fro in the open
portico.

Philothea leaned her head upon the couch, and gradually yielded to the
drowsy influence.

When she awoke, various objects in the apartment were indistinctly
revealed by the dawning light. All was deeply quiet. She remained
kneeling by her grandfather's side, and her hand was still clasped in
his; but it was chilled beneath his touch. She arose, gently placed his
arm on the couch, and looked upon his face. A placid smile rested on his
features; and she saw that his spirit had passed in peace.

She awoke Milza, and desired that the household might be summoned. As
they stood around the couch of that venerable man, Geta and Milza wept
bitterly; but Philothea calmly kissed his cold cheek; and Plato looked
on him with serene affection, as he said, "So sleep the good."

A lock of grey hair suspended on the door, and a large vase of water at
the threshold, early announced to the villagers that the soul of
Anaxagoras had passed from its earthly tenement. The boys came with
garlands to decorate the funeral couch of the beloved old man; and no
tribute of respect was wanting; for all that knew him blessed his
memory.

He was buried, as he had desired, near the clepsydra in the little
brook; a young almond tree was planted on his grave; and for years
after, all the children commemorated the anniversary of his death, by a
festival called Anaxagoreia.

Pericles had sent two discreet matrons, and four more youthful
attendants, to accompany Philothea to Athens, in case she consented to
become the wife of Paralus. The morning after the decease of Anaxagoras,
Plato sent a messenger to Lampsacus, desiring the presence of these
women, accompanied by Euago and his household. As soon as the funeral
rites were passed, he entreated Philothea to accept the offered
protection of Euago, the friend of his youth, and connected by marriage
with the house of Pericles. "I urge it the more earnestly," said he,
"because I think you have reason to fear the power and resentment of
Chrysippus. Princes do not willingly relinquish a pursuit; and his train
could easily seize you and your attendants, without resistance from
these simple villagers."

Aglaonice, wife of Euago, likewise urged the orphan, in the most
affectionate manner, to return with them to Lampsacus, and there await
the departure of the galley. Philothea acknowledged the propriety of
removal, and felt deeply thankful for the protecting influence of her
friends. The simple household furniture was given to Milza; her own
wardrobe, with many little things that had become dear to her, were
deposited in the chariot of Euago; the weeping villagers had taken an
affectionate farewell; and sacrifices to the gods had been offered on
the altar in front of the dwelling.

Still Philothea lingered and gazed on the beautiful scenes where she
had passed so many tranquil hours. Tears mingled with her smiles, as she
said, "O, how hard it is to believe the spirit of Anaxagoras will be as
near me in Athens, as it is here, where his bones lie buried!"




CHAPTER XIII.

  One day, the muses twined the hands
  Of infant love with flowery bands,
  And gave the smiling captive boy
  To be Celestial Beauty's joy.
                             ANACREON.


While Philothea remained at Lampsacus, awaiting the arrival of the
galley, news came that Chrysippus, with a company of horsemen, had been
to her former residence, under the pretext of paying funeral rites to
his deceased relative. At the same time, several robes, mantles, and
veils, were brought from Heliodora at Ephesus; with the request that
they, as well as the silver tripod, should be considered, not as a
dowry, but as gifts to be disposed of as she pleased. The priestess
mentioned feeble health as a reason for not coming in person to bid the
orphan farewell; and promised that sacrifices and prayers for her
happines should be duly offered at the shrine of radiant Phoebus.

Philothea smiled to remember how long she had lived in Ionia without
attracting the notice of her princely relatives, until her name became
connected with the illustrious house of Pericles; but she meekly
returned thanks and friendly wishes, together with the writings of
Simonides, beautifully copied by her own hand.

The day of departure at length arrived. All along the shore might be
seen smoke rising from the altars of Poseidon, Æolus, Castor and
Polydeuces, and the sea-green Sisters of the Deep. To the usual danger
of winds and storms was added the fear of encountering hostile fleets;
and every power that presided over the destinies of sailors was invoked
by the anxious mariners. But their course seemed more like an excursion
in a pleasure barge, than a voyage on the ocean. They rowed along
beneath a calm and sunny sky, keeping close to the verdant shores where,
ever and anon, temples, altars, and statues, peeped forth amid groves of
cypress and cedar; under the shadow of which many a festive train hailed
the soft approach of spring, with pipe, and song, and choral dance.

The tenth day saw the good ship Halcyone safely moored in the harbour of
Phalerum, chosen in preference to the more crowded and diseased port of
the Piræus. The galley having been perceived at a distance, Pericles and
Clinias were waiting, with chariots, in readiness to convey Philothea
and her attendants. The first inquiries of Pericles were concerning the
health of Anaxagoras; and he seemed deeply affected, when informed that
he would behold his face no more. Philothea's heart was touched by the
tender solemnity of his manner when he bade her welcome to Athens. Plato
anticipated the anxious question that trembled on her tongue; and a
brief answer indicated that no important change had taken place in
Paralus. Clinias kindly urged the claims of himself and wife to be
considered the parents of the orphan; and they all accompanied her to
his house, attended by boys burning incense, as a protection against the
pestilential atmosphere of the marshy grounds.

When they alighted, Philothea timidly, but earnestly, asked to see
Paralus without delay. Their long-cherished affection, the full
communion of soul they had enjoyed together, and the peculiar visitation
which now rested on him, all combined to make her forgetful of ceremony.

Pericles went to seek his son, and found him reclining on the couch
where he had left him. The invalid seemed to be in a state of deep
abstraction, and offered no resistance as they led him to the chariot.
When they entered the house of Clinias, he looked around with a painful
expression of weariness, until they tenderly placed him on a couch. He
was evidently disturbed by the presence of those about him, but
unmindful of any familiar faces, until Philothea suddenly knelt by his
side, and throwing back her veil, said, "Paralus! dear Paralus! Do you
not know me?" Then his whole face kindled with an expression of joy, so
intense that Pericles for a moment thought the faculties of his soul
were completely restored.

But the first words he uttered showed a total unconsciousness of past
events. "Oh, Philothea!" he exclaimed, "I have not heard your voice
since last night, when you came to me and sung that beautiful welcome to
the swallows, which all the little children like so well."

On the preceding evening, Philothea, being urged by her maidens to sing,
had actually warbled that little song; thinking all the while of the
days of childhood, when she and Paralus used to sing it, to please their
young companions. When she heard this mysterious allusion to the music,
she looked at Plato with an expression of surprise; while Milza and the
other attendants seemed afraid in the presence of one thus visited by
the gods.

With looks full of beaming affection, the invalid continued: "And now,
Philothea, we will again walk to that pleasant place, where we went when
you finished the song."

In low and soothing tones, the maiden inquired, "Where did we go,
Paralus?"

"Have you forgotten?" he replied. "We went hand in hand up a high
mountain. A path wound round it in spiral flexures, ever ascending, and
communicating with all above and all below. A stream of water, pure as
crystal, flowed along the path, from the summit to the base. Where we
stood to rest awhile, the skies were of transparent blue; but higher up,
the light was purple and the trees full of doves. We saw little children
leading lambs to drink at the stream, and they raised their voices in
glad shouts, to see the bright waters go glancing and glittering down
the sides of the mountain."

He remained silent and motionless for several minutes; and then
continued: "But this path is dreary. I do not like this wide marsh, and
these ruined temples. Who spoke then and told me it was Athens? But now
I see the groves of Academus. There is a green meadow in the midst, on
which rests a broad belt of sunshine. Above it, are floating little
children with wings; and they throw down garlands to little children
without wings, who are looking upward with joyful faces. Oh, how
beautiful they are! Come, Philothea, let us join them."

The philosopher smiled, and inwardly hailed the words as an omen
auspicious to his doctrines. All who listened were deeply impressed by
language so mysterious.

The silence remained unbroken, until Paralus asked for music. A cithara
being brought, Philothea played one of his favourite songs, accompanied
by her voice. The well-remembered sounds seemed to fill him with joy
beyond his power to express; and again his anxious parent cherished the
hope that reason would be fully restored.

He put his hand affectionately on Philothea's head, as he said, "Your
presence evidently has a blessed influence; but oh, my daughter, what a
sacrifice you are making--young and beautiful as you are!"

"Nay, Pericles," she replied, "I deem it a privilege once more to hear
the sound of his voice; though it speaks a strange, unearthly language."

When they attempted to lead the invalid from the apartment, and
Philothea, with a tremulous voice, said, "Farewell, Paralus,"--an
expression of intense gloom came over his countenance, suddenly as a
sunny field is obscured by passing clouds. "Not farewell to Eurydice!"
he said: "It is sad music--sad music."

The tender-hearted maiden was affected even to tears, and found it hard
to submit to a temporary separation. But Pericles assured her that his
son would probably soon fall asleep, and awake without any recollection
of recent events. Before she retired to her couch, a messenger was sent
to inform her that Paralus was in deep repose.

Clinias having removed from the unhealthy Piræus, in search of purer
atmosphere, Philothea found him in the house once occupied by Phidias;
and the hope that scenes of past happiness might prove salutary to the
mind of Paralus, induced Pericles to prepare the former dwelling of
Anaxagoras for his bridal home. The friends and relations of the invalid
were extremely desirous to have Philothea's soothing influence
continually exerted upon him; and the disinterested maiden earnestly
wished to devote every moment of her life to the restoration of his
precious health. Under these circumstances, it was deemed best that the
marriage should take place immediately.

The mother of Paralus had died; and Aspasia, with cautious delicacy,
declined being present at the ceremony, under the pretext of ill health;
but Phoenarete, the wife of Clinias, gladly consented to act as mother
of the orphan bride.

Propitiatory sacrifices were duly offered to Artemis, Hera, Pallas,
Aphrodite, the Fates, and the Graces. On the appointed day, Philothea
appeared in bridal garments, prepared by Phoenarete. The robe of fine
Milesian texture, was saffron-coloured, with a purple edge. Over this,
was a short tunic of brilliant crimson, confined at the waist by an
embroidered zone, fastened with a broad clasp of gold. Glossy braids of
hair were intertwined with the folds of her rose-coloured veil; and both
bride and bridegroom were crowned with garlands of roses and myrtle. The
chariot, in which they were seated, was followed by musicians, and a
long train of friends and relatives. Arrived at the temple of Hera, the
priest presented a branch, which they held between them as a symbol of
the ties about to unite them. Victims were sacrificed, and the omens
declared not unpropitious. When the gall had been cast behind the
altar, Clinias placed Philothea's hand within the hand of Paralus; the
bride dedicated a ringlet of her hair to Hera; the customary vows were
pronounced by the priest; and the young couple were presented with
golden cups of wine, from which they poured libations. The invalid was
apparently happy; but so unconscious of the scene he was acting, that
his father was obliged to raise his hand and pour forth the wine.

The ceremonies being finished, the priest reminded Philothea that when a
good wife died, Persephone formed a procession of the best women to
scatter flowers in her path, and lead her spirit to Elysium. As he
spoke, two doves alighted on the altar; but one immediately rose, and
floated above the other, with a tender cooing sound. Its mate looked
upward for a moment; and then both of them rose high in the air, and
disappeared. The spectators hailed this as an auspicious omen; but
Philothea pondered it in her heart, and thought she perceived a deeper
meaning than was visible to them.

As the company returned, with the joyful sound of music, many a friendly
hand threw garlands from the housetops, and many voices pronounced a
blessing.

In consideration of the health of Paralus, the customary evening
procession was dispensed with. An abundant feast was prepared at the
house of Clinias. The gentle and serious bride joined with her female
friends in the apartments of the women; but no bridegroom appeared at
the banquet of the men.

As the guests seated themselves at table, a boy came in covered with
thorn-boughs and acorns, bearing a golden basket filled with bread, and
singing, "I have left the worse and found the better." As he passed
through the rooms, musicians began to play on various instruments, and
troops of young dancers moved in airy circles to the sound.

At an early hour, Philothea went to the apartment prepared for her in
the home of her childhood. Phoenarete preceded her with a lighted torch,
and her female attendants followed, accompanied by young Pericles,
bearing on his head a vase of water from the Fountain of Callirhöe, with
which custom required that the bride's feet should be bathed. Music was
heard until a late hour, and epithalamia were again resumed with the
morning light.

The next day, a procession of women brought the bridal gifts of friends
and relatives, preceded by a boy clothed in white, carrying a torch in
one hand, and a basket of flowers in the other. Philothea, desirous to
please the father of her husband, had particularly requested that this
office might be performed by the youthful Pericles--a beautiful boy, the
only son of Aspasia. The gifts were numerous; consisting of embroidered
sandals, perfume boxes of ivory inlaid with gold, and various other
articles, for use or ornament. Pericles sent a small ivory statue of
Persephone gathering flowers in the vale of Enna; and Aspasia a clasp,
representing the Naiades floating with the infant Eros, bound in
garlands. The figures were intaglio, in a gem of transparent cerulean
hue, and delicately painted. When viewed from the opposite side, the
effect was extremely beautiful; for the graceful nymphs seemed actually
moving in their native element Alcibiades presented a Sidonian veil, of
roseate hue and glossy texture. Phoenarete bestowed a ring, on which was
carved a dancing Oread; and Plato a cameo clasp, representing the infant
Eros crowning a lamb with a garland of lilies.

On the third day, custom allowed every relative to see the bride with
her face unveiled; and the fame of her surpassing beauty induced the
remotest connections of the family to avail themselves of the privilege.
Philothea meekly complied with these troublesome requisitions; but her
heart was weary for quiet hours, that she might hold free communion with
Paralus, in that beautiful spirit-land, where his soul was wandering
before its time.

Music, and the sound of Philothea's voice, seemed the only links that
connected him with a world of shadows; but his visions were so blissful,
and his repose so full of peace, that restless and ambitious men might
well have envied a state thus singularly combining the innocence of
childhood with the rich imagination of maturer years.

Many weeks passed away in bright tranquillity; and the watchful wife
thought she at times perceived faint indication of returning health.
Geta and Milza, in compliance with their own urgent entreaties, were her
constant assistants in nursing the invalid; and more than once she
imagined that he looked at them with an earnest expression, as if his
soul were returning to the recollections of former years.

Spring ripened into summer. The olive-garlands twined with wool,
suspended on the doors during the festival of Thargelia, had withered
and fallen; and all men talked of the approaching commemoration of the
Olympic games.

Hippocrates had been informed that Tithonus, the Ethiopian, possessed
the singular power of leading the soul from the body, and again
restoring it to its functions, by means of a soul-directing wand; and
the idea arose in his mind, that this process might produce a salutary
effect on Paralus.

The hopes of the anxious father were easily kindled; and he at once
became desirous that his son should be conveyed to Olympia; for it was
reported that Tithonus would be present at the games.

Philothea sighed deeply, as she listened to the proposition; for she had
faith only in the healing power of perfect quiet, and the free communion
of congenial souls. She yielded to the opinion of Pericles with
characteristic humility; but the despondency of her tones did not pass
unobserved.

"It is partly for your sake that I wish it, my poor child," said he. "If
it may be avoided, I will not see the whole of your youth consumed in
anxious watchings."

The young wife looked up with a serene and bright expression, as she
replied, "Nay, my father, you have never seen me anxious, or troubled. I
have known most perfect contentment since my union with your son."

Pericles answered affectionately, "I believe it, my daughter; and I have
marvelled at your cheerfulness. Assuredly, with more than Helen's
beauty, you have inherited the magical Egyptian powder, whereby she
drove away all care and melancholy."




CHAPTER XIV.

  _Iphegenia_--Absent so long, with joy I look on thee.
  _Agamemnon_--And I on thee; so this is mutual joy.
                                    EURIPIDES.


In accordance with the advice of Hippocrates, the journey to Olympia was
undertaken. Some time before the commencement of the games, a party,
consisting of Pericles, Plato, Paralus, Philothea, and their attendants,
made preparations for departure.

Having kissed the earth of Athens, and sacrificed to Hermes and Hecate,
the protectors of travellers, they left the city at the Dipylon Gate,
and entered the road leading to Eleusis. The country presented a
cheerless aspect; for fields and vineyards once fruitful were desolated
by ferocious war. But religious veneration had protected the altars, and
their chaste simplicity breathed the spirit of peace; while the
beautiful little rustic temples of Demeter, in commemoration of her
wanderings in search of the lost Persephone, spoke an ideal language,
soothing to the heart amid the visible traces of man's destructive
passions.

During the solemnization of the Olympic Games, the bitterest animosities
were laid aside. The inhabitants of states carrying on a deadly war with
each other, met in peace and friendship. Even Megara, with all her
hatred to Athens, gave the travellers a cordial welcome. In every house
they entered, bread, wine, and salt, were offered to Zeus Xinias, the
patron of hospitality.

A pleasant grove of cypress trees announced the vicinity of Corinth,
famed for its magnificence and beauty. A foot-path from the grove led to
a secluded spot, where water was spouted forth by a marble dolphin, at
the foot of a brazen statue of Poseidon.

The travellers descended from their chariots to rest under the shadow of
the lofty plane trees, and refresh themselves with a draught from the
fountain. The public road was thronged with people on their way to
Olympia. Most of them drove with renewed eagerness to enter Corinth
before the evening twilight; for nearly all travellers made it a point
to visit the remarkable scenes in this splendid and voluptuous city, the
Paris of the ancient world. A few were attracted by the cool murmuring
of the waters, and turned aside to the fountain of Poseidon. Among these
was Artaphernes the Persian, who greeted Pericles, and made known his
friend Orsames, lately arrived from Ecbatana. The stranger said he had
with him a parcel for Anaxagoras; and inquired whether any tidings of
that philosopher had been lately received in Athens. Pericles informed
them of the death of the good old man, and mentioned that his
grand-daughter, accompanied by her husband and attendants, was then in a
retired part of the grove. The Persian took from his chariot a roll of
parchment and a small box, and placed them in the hands of Geta, to be
conveyed to Philothea. The tears came to her eyes, when she discovered
that it was a friendly epistle from Philæmon to his beloved old master.
It appeared to have been written soon after he heard of his exile, and
was accompanied by a gift of four minæ. His own situation was described
as happy as it could be in a foreign land. His time was principally
employed in instructing the sons of the wealthy satrap, Megabyzus; a
situation which he owed to the friendly recommendation of Artaphernes.
At the close, after many remarks concerning the politics of Athens, he
expressed a wish to be informed of Eudora's fate, and an earnest hope
that she was not beyond the reach of Philothea's influence.

This letter awakened busy thoughts. The happy past and a cheerful future
were opened to her mind, in all the distinctness of memory and the
brightness of hope. At such moments, her heart yearned for the ready
sympathy she had been wont to receive from Paralus. As she drew aside
the curtains of the litter, and looked upon him in tranquil slumber, she
thought of the wonderful gift of Tithonus, with an intense anxiety, to
which her quiet spirit was usually a stranger. Affectionate
recollections of Eudora, and the anticipated joy of meeting, mingled
with this deeper tide of feeling, and increased her desire to arrive at
the end of their journey. Pericles shared her anxiety, and admitted no
delays but such as were necessary for the health of the invalid.

From Corinth they passed into the pleasant valleys of Arcadia, encircled
with verdant hills. Here nature reigned in simple beauty, unadorned by
the magnificence of art. The rustic temples were generally composed of
intertwined trees, in the recesses of which were placed wooden images of
Pan, "the simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god." Here and there an aged
man reposed in the shadow of some venerable oak; and the shepherds, as
they tended their flocks, welcomed this brief interval of peace with
the mingled music of reeds and flutes.

Thence the travellers passed into the broad and goodly plains of Elis;
protected from the spoiler by its sacred character, as the seat of the
Olympic Games. In some places, troops of women might be seen in the
distance, washing garments in the river Alpheus, and spreading them out
to whiten in the sun. Fertility rewarded the labours of the husbandmen,
and the smiling fields yielded pasturage to numerous horses, which
Phoebus himself might have prized for strength, fleetness, and majestic
beauty.

Paralus passed through all these scenes entirely unconscious whether
they were sad or cheerful. When he spoke, it was of things unrecognized
by those of earthly mould; yet those who heard him found therein a
strange and marvellous beauty, that seemed not altogether new to the
soul, but was seen in a dim and pleasing light, like the recollections
of infant years.

The travellers stopped at a small town in the neighbourhood of Olympia,
where Paralus, Philothea, and their attendants were to remain during the
solemnization of the games. The place chosen for their retreat was the
residence of Proclus and his wife Melissa; worthy, simple-hearted
people, at whose house Phidias had died, and under whose protection he
had placed Eudora.

As the chariots approached the house, the loud barking of Hylax
attracted the attention of Zoila, the merry little daughter of Proclus,
who was playing in the fields with her brother Pterilaüs. The moment the
children espied a sight so unusual in that secluded place, they ran
with all speed to carry tidings to the household. Eudora was busy at the
loom; but she went out to look upon the strangers, saying, as she did
so, that they were doubtless travellers, who, in passing to the Olympic
Games, had missed their way.

Her heart beat tumultuously when she saw Hylax capering and fawning
about a man who bore a strong resemblance to Geta. The next moment, she
recognized Pericles and Plato speaking with a tall, majestic looking
woman, closely veiled. She darted forward a few paces, in the eagerness
of her joy; but checked herself when she perceived that the stranger
lingered; for she said, in her heart, "If it were Philothea, she could
not be so slow in coming to meet me."

Thus she reasoned, not knowing that Philothea was the wife of Paralus,
and that his enfeebled health required watchful care. In a few moments
her doubts were dispelled, and the friends were locked in each others'
arms.

Proclus gave the travellers a hospitable reception, and cheerfully
consented that Paralus and his attendants should remain with them.
Pericles, having made all necessary arrangements for the beloved
invalid, bade an early farewell, and proceeded with Plato to Olympia.

When Geta and Milza had received a cordial welcome; and Hylax had
somewhat abated his boisterous joy; and old Dione, with the tears in her
eyes, had brought forward treasures of grapes and wine--Eudora eagerly
sought a private interview with the friend of her childhood.

"Dearest Philothea!" she exclaimed, "I thought you were still in Ionia;
and I never expected to see you again; and now you have come, my heart
is _so_ full"----

Unable to finish the sentence, she threw herself on that bosom where she
had ever found sympathy in all her trials, and sobbed like a child.

"My beloved Eudora," said Philothea, "you still carry with you a heart
easily kindled; affections that heave and blaze like a volcano."

The maiden looked up affectionately, and smiled through her tears, as
she said, "The love you kindled in infancy has burned none the less
strongly because there was no one to cherish it. If the volcano now
blazes, it only proves how faithfully it has carried the hidden fire in
its bosom."

She paused, and spoke more sadly, as she added, "There was, indeed, one
brief period, when it was well-nigh smothered. Would to the gods, _that_
might pass into oblivion! But it will not. After Phidias came to Elis,
he made for Plato a small statue of Mnemosyne, that turned and looked
upward to Heaven, while she held a half-opened scroll toward the earth.
It was beautiful beyond description; but there was bitterness in my
heart when I looked upon it; I thought Memory should be represented
armed with the scourge of the Furies."

"And did you not perceive," said Philothea, "that yourself had armed the
benignant goddess with a scourge? Thus do the best gifts from the Divine
Fountain become changed by the will of those who receive them. But,
dearest Eudora, though your heart retains its fire, a change has passed
over your countenance. The cares of this world have driven away the
spirit of gladness, that came with you from your divine home. That
smiling twin of Innocence is ever present and visible while we are
unconscious of its existence; but when in darkness and sorrow the soul
asks where it has gone, a hollow voice, like the sound of autumn winds,
echoes, 'Gone!'"

Eudora sighed, as she answered, "It is even so. But I know not where you
could have learned it; for you have ever seemed to live in a region
above darkness and storms. Earth has left no shadow on your countenance.
It expresses the same transparent innocence, the same mild love. A light
not of this world is gleaming there; and it has grown brighter and
clearer since we parted. I could almost believe that you accompany Hera
to the Fountain of Canathus, where it is said she every year bathes to
restore her infant purity."

Philothea smiled, as she playfully laid her hand on Eudora's mouth, and
said, "Nay, Eudora, you forget that flattery produces effects very
unlike the Fountain of Canathus. We have been gazing in each other's
faces, as if we fondly hoped there to read the record of all that has
passed since we were separated. Yet, very little of all that we have
known and felt--of all that has gradually become a portion of our
life--is inscribed there. Perhaps you already know that Anaxagoras fell
asleep in Ionia. The good old man died in peace, as he had lived in
love. If I mistake not, while I talked with Pericles, Milza informed you
that I was the wife of Paralus?"

"Yes, dearest Philothea; but not till she had first told me of her own
marriage with Geta."

Philothea smiled, as she replied, "I believe it is the only case in
which that affectionate creature thinks of herself, before she thinks of
me; but Geta is to her an object of more importance than all the world
beside. When we were in Ionia, I often found her whispering magical
words, while she turned the sieve and shears, to ascertain whether her
lover were faithful to his vows. I could not find it in my heart to
reprove her fond credulity;--for I believe this proneness to wander
beyond the narrow limits of the visible world is a glimmering
reminiscence of parentage divine; and though in Milza's untutored mind
the mysterious impulse takes an inglorious form, I dare not deride what
the wisest soul can neither banish nor comprehend."

As she finished speaking, she glanced toward the curtain, which
separated them from the room where Paralus reposed, watched by the
faithful Geta. There was a tender solemnity in the expression of her
countenance, whereby Eudora conjectured the nature of her thoughts.
Speaking in a subdued voice, she asked whether Paralus would inquire for
her, when he awoke.

"He will look for me, and seem bewildered, as if something were lost,"
replied Philothea. "Since I perceived this, I have been careful not to
excite painful sensations by my absence. Geta will give me notice when
slumber seems to be passing away."

"And do you think Tithonus can restore him?" inquired Eudora.

Philothea answered, "Fear is stronger than hope. I thought I perceived a
healing influence in the perfect quiet and watchful love that surrounded
him in Athens; and to these I would fain have trusted, had it been the
will of Pericles. But, dearest Eudora, let us not speak on this subject.
It seems to me like the sacred groves, into which nothing unconsecrated
may enter."

After a short pause, Eudora said. "Then I will tell you my own history.
After we came to Elis, Phidias treated me with more tenderness and
confidence than he had ever done. Perhaps he observed that my proud,
impetuous character was chastened and subdued by affliction and
repentance. Though we were in the habit of talking unreservedly, he
never alluded to the foolish conduct that offended him so seriously. I
felt grateful for this generous forbearance; and by degress I learned to
fear him less and love him deeply."

"We received some tidings of him when Plato came into Ionia," rejoined
Philothea; "and we rejoiced to learn that he found in Elis a rich
recompense for the shameful ingratitude of Athens."

"It was a rich recompense, indeed," replied Eudora. "The people
reverenced him as if he were something more than mortal. His statue
stands in the sacred grove at Olympia, bearing the simple inscription;
'Phidias, Son of Charmides, sculptor of the Gods.' At his death, the
Elians bestowed gifts on all his servants; endowed me with the yearly
revenues of a farm; and appointed his nephew Pandænus to the honourable
office of preserving the statue of Olympian Zeus."

"Did Phidias express no anxiety concerning your unprotected situation?"
inquired Philothea.

"It was his wish that I should marry Pandænus," answered Eudora; "but
he urged the subject no farther, when he found that I regarded the
marriage with aversion. On his death-bed he charged his nephew to
protect and cherish me as a sister. He left me under the guardianship of
Proclus, with strict injunctions that I should have perfect freedom in
the choice of a husband. He felt no anxiety concerning my maintenance;
for the Elians had promised that all persons connected with him should
be liberally provided at the public expense; and I was universally
considered as the adopted daughter of Phidias."

"And what did Pandænus say to the wishes of his uncle?" asked
Philothea.

Eudora blushed slightly as she answered, "He tried to convince me that
we should all be happier, if I would consent to the arrangement. I could
not believe this; and Pandænus was too proud to repeat his
solicitations to a reluctant listener. I seldom see him; but when there
is opportunity to do me service, he is very kind."

Her friend looked earnestly upon her, as if seeking to read her heart;
and inquired, "Has no other one gained your affections? I had some fears
that I should find you married."

"And why did you fear?" said Eudora: "Other friends would consider it a
joyful occasion."

"But I feared, because I have ever cherished the hope that you would be
the wife of Philæmon," rejoined her companion.

The sensitive maiden sighed deeply, and turned away her head, as she
said, with a tremulous voice, "I have little doubt that Philæmon has
taken a Persian wife, before this time."

Philothea made no reply; but searched for the epistle she had received
at Corinth, and placed it in the hands of her friend. Eudora started,
when she saw the well-known writing of Philæmon. But when she read the
sentence wherein he expressed affectionate solicitude for her welfare,
she threw her arms convulsively about Philothea's neck, exclaiming, "Oh,
my beloved friend, what a blessed messenger you have ever been to this
poor heart!"

For some moments, her agitation was extreme; but that gentle influence,
which had so often soothed her, gradually calmed her perturbed feelings;
and they talked freely of the possibility of regaining Philæmon's love.

As Eudora stood leaning on her shoulder, Philothea, struck with the
contrast in their figures, said: "When you were in Athens, we called you
the Zephyr; and surely you are thinner now than you were then. I fear
your health suffers from the anxiety of your mind. "See!" continued she,
turning towards the mirror--"See what a contrast there is between us!"

"There should be a contrast," rejoined Eudora, smiling: "The pillars of
agoras are always of lighter and less majestic proportions than the
pillars of temples."

As she spoke, Geta lifted the curtain, and Philothea instantly obeyed
the signal. For a few moments after her departure, Eudora heard the low
murmuring of voices, and then the sound of a cithara, whose tones she
well remembered. The tune was familiar to her in happier days, and she
listened to it with tears.

Her meditations were suddenly disturbed by little Zoila, who came in
with a jump and a bound, to show a robe full of flowers she had gathered
for the beautiful Athenian lady. When she perceived that tears had
fallen on the blossoms, she suddenly changed her merry tones, and with
artless affection inquired, "What makes Dora cry?"

"I wept for the husband of that beautiful Athenian lady, because he is
very ill," replied the maiden.

"See the flowers!" exclaimed Zoila. "It looks as if the dew was on it;
but the tears will not make it grow again--will they?"

Eudora involuntarily shuddered at the omen conveyed in her childish
words; but gave permission to carry her offering to the Athenian lady,
if she would promise to step very softly, and speak in whispers.
Philothea received the flowers thankfully, and placed them in vases near
her husband's couch; for she still fondly hoped to win back the
wandering soul by the presence of things peaceful, pure, and beautiful.
She caressed the innocent little one, and tried to induce her to remain
a few minutes; but the child seemed uneasy, as if in the presence of
something that inspired fear. She returned to Eudora with a very
thoughtful countenance; and though she often gathered flowers for "the
tall infant," as she called Paralus, she could never after be persuaded
to enter his apartment.




CHAPTER XV.

                  They in me breathed a voice
  Divine; that I might know, with listening ears,
  Things past and future; and enjoined me praise
  The race of blessed ones, that live for aye.
                                           HESIOD


PHILOTHEA to PHILÆMON, greeting:

The body of Anaxagoras has gone to the Place of Sleep. If it were not
so, his hand would have written in reply to thy kind epistle. I was with
him when he died, but knew not the hour he departed, for he sunk to rest
like an infant.

We lived in peaceful poverty in Ionia; sometimes straitened for the
means whereby this poor existence is preserved, but ever cheerful in
spirit.

I drank daily from the ivory cup thou didst leave for me, with thy
farewell to Athens; and the last lines traced by my grandfather's hand
still remain on the tablet thou didst give him. They are preserved for
thee, to be sent in to Persia, if thou dost not return to Greece, as I
hope thou wilt.

I am now the wife of Paralus; and Pericles has brought us into the
neighbourhood of Olympia, seeking medical aid for my husband, not yet
recovered from the effects of the plague. Pure and blameless, Paralus
has ever been--with a mind richly endowed by the gods; and all this thou
well knowest. Yet he is as one that dies while he lives; though not
altogether as one unbeloved by divine beings. Wonderful are the accounts
he brings of that far-off world, where his spirit wanders. Sometimes I
listen with fear, till all philosophy seems dim, and I shrink from the
mystery of our being. When they do not disturb him with earthly
medicines, he is quiet and happy. Waking, he speaks of things clothed in
heavenly splendour; and in his sleep, he smiles like a child whose
dreams are pleasant. I think this blessing comes from the Divine, by
reason of the innocence of his life.

We abide at the house of Proclus, a kind, truth-telling man, whose wife,
Melissa, is at once diligent and quiet--a rare combination of goodly
virtues. These worthy people have been guardians of Eudora, since the
death of Phidias; and with much affection, they speak of her gentleness,
patience, and modest retirement. Melissa told me Aspasia had urgently
invited her to Athens, but she refused, without even asking the advice
of her guardian. Thou knowest her great gifts would have been worshipped
by the Athenians, and that Eudora herself could not be ignorant of this.

Sometimes a stream is polluted in the fountain, and its waters are
tainted through all its wanderings; and sometimes the traveller throws
into a pure rivulet some unclean thing, which floats awhile, and is then
rejected from its bosom. Eudora is the pure rivulet. A foreign stain
floated on the surface, but never mingled with its waters.

Phidias wished her to marry his nephew; and Pandænus would fain have
persuaded her to consent; but they forebore to urge it, when they saw it
gave her pain. She is deeply thankful to her benefactor for allowing her
a degree of freedom so seldom granted to Grecian maidens.

The Elians, proud of their magnificent statue of Olympian Zeus, have
paid extraordinary honours to the memory of the great sculptor, and
provided amply for every member of his household. Eudora is industrious
from choice, and gives liberally to the poor; particularly to orphans,
who, like herself, have been brought into bondage by the violence of
wicked men, or the chances of war. For some time past, she has felt all
alone in the world;--a condition that marvellously helps to bring us
into meekness and tenderness of spirit. When she read what thou didst
write of her in thy epistle, she fell upon my neck and wept.

I return to thee the four minæ. He to whose necessities thou wouldst
have kindly administered, hath gone where gold and silver avail not.
Many believe that they who die sleep forever; but this they could not,
if they had listened to words I have heard from Paralus.

Son of Chærilaüs, farewell. May blessings be around thee, wheresoever
thou goest, and no evil shadow cross thy threshold.

Written in Elis, this thirteenth day of the increasing moon, in the
month Hecatombæon, and the close of the eighty-seventh Olympiad."

Without naming her intention to Eudora, Philothea laid aside the scroll
she had prepared, resolved to place it in the hands of Pericles, to be
entrusted to the care of some Persian present at the games, which were
to commence on the morrow.

Before the hour of noon, Hylax gave notice of approaching strangers, who
proved to be Pericles and Plato, attended by Tithonus. The young wife
received them courteously, though a sudden sensation of dread ran
through her veins with icy coldness. It was agreed that none but
herself, Pericles, and Plato, should be present with Tithonus; and that
profound silence should be observed. Preparation was made by offering
solemn sacrifices to Phoebus, Hermes, Hecate, and Persephone; and
Philothea inwardly prayed to that Divine Principle, revealed to her only
by the monitions of his spirit in the stillness of her will.

Tithonus stood behind the invalid, and remained perfectly quiet for many
minutes. He then gently touched the back part of his head with a small
wand, and leaning over him, whispered in his ear. An unpleasant change
immediately passed over the countenance of Paralus; he endeavoured to
place his hand on his head, and a cold shivering seized him. Philothea
shuddered, and Pericles grew pale, as they watched these symptoms; but
the silence remained unbroken. A second and a third time the Ethiopian
touched him with his wand, and spoke in whispers. The expression of pain
deepened; insomuch that his friends could not look upon him without
anguish of heart. Finally his limbs straightened, and became perfectly
rigid and motionless.

Tithonus, perceiving the terror he had excited, said soothingly, "Oh,
Athenians, be not afraid. I have never seen the soul withdrawn without a
struggle with the body. Believe me, it will return. The words I
whispered, were those I once heard from the lips of Plato: 'The human
soul is guided by two horses; one white, with a flowing mane, earnest
eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is
black, heavy and sleepy-eyed--ever prone to lie down upon the earth.'

"The second time, I whispered, 'Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!' And the
third time I said, 'Behold the winged separates from that which hath no
wings.' When life returns, Paralus will have remembrance of these
words."

"Oh, restore him! Restore him!" exclaimed Philothea, in tones of
agonized entreaty.

Tithonus answered with respectful tenderness, and again stood in
profound silence several minutes, before he raised the wand. At the
first touch, a feeble shivering gave indication of returning life. As it
was repeated a second and a third time, with a brief interval between
each movement, the countenance of the sufferer grew more dark and
troubled, until it became fearful to look upon. But the heavy shadow
gradually passed away, and a dreamy smile returned, like a gleam of
sunshine after storms. The moment Philothea perceived an expression
familiar to her heart, she knelt by the couch, seized the hand of
Paralus, and bathed it with her tears.

When the first gush of emotion had subsided, she said, in a soft, low
voice, "Where have you been, dear Paralus?" The invalid answered: "A
thick vapour enveloped me, as with a dark cloud; and a stunning noise
pained my head with its violence. A voice said to me, 'The human soul is
guided by two horses; one white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and
wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is black,
heavy, and sleepy-eyed--ever prone to lie down upon the earth.' Then the
darkness began to clear away. But there was strange confusion. All
things seemed rapidly to interchange their colours and their forms--the
sound of a storm was in mine ears--the elements and the stars seemed to
crowd upon me--and my breath was taken away. Then I heard a voice,
saying, 'Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!' And I looked and saw the
chariot and horses, of which the voice had spoken. The beautiful white
horse gazed upward, and tossed his mane, and spread his wings
impatiently; but the black horse slept upon the ground. The voice again
said, 'Behold the winged separates from that which hath no wings!' And
suddenly the chariot ascended, and I saw the white horse on light fleecy
clouds, in a far blue sky. Then I heard a pleasing, silent sound--as if
dew-drops made music as they fell. I breathed freely, and my form seemed
to expand itself with buoyant life. All at once, I was floating in the
air, above a quiet lake, where reposed seven beautiful islands, full of
the sound of harps; and Philothea slept at my side, with a garland on
her head. I asked, 'Is this the divine home, whence I departed into the
body?' And a voice above my head answered 'It is the divine home. Man
never leaves it. He ceases to perceive.' Afterward, I looked downward,
and saw my dead body lying on a couch. Then again there came strange
confusion--and a painful clashing of sounds--and all things rushing
together. But Philothea took my hand, and spoke to me in gentle tones,
and the discord ceased."

Plato had listened with intense interest. He stood apart with Tithonus,
and they spoke together in low tones, for several minutes before they
left the apartment. The philosopher was too deeply impressed to return
to the festivities of Olympia. He hired an apartment at the dwelling of
a poor shepherd, and during the following day remained in complete
seclusion, without partaking of food.

While Paralus revealed his vision, his father's soul was filled with
reverence and fear, and he breathed with a continual consciousness of
supernatural presence. When his feelings became somewhat composed, he
leaned over the couch, and spoke a few affectionate words to his son;
but the invalid turned away his head, as if disturbed by the presence of
a stranger. The spirit of the strong man was moved, and he trembled like
a leaf shaken by the wind. Unable to endure this disappointment of his
excited hopes, he turned away hastily, and sought to conceal his grief
in solitude.

During the whole of the ensuing day, Paralus continued in a deep sleep.
This was followed by silent cheerfulness, which, flowing as it did from
a hidden source, had something solemn and impressive in its character.
It was sad, yet pleasant, to see his look of utter desolation whenever
he lost sight of Philothea; and the sudden gleam of joy that illumined
his whole face the moment she re-appeared.

The young wife sat by his side, hour after hour, with patient love;
often cheering him with her soft, rich voice, or playing upon the lyre
he had fashioned for her in happier days. She found a sweet reward in
the assurance given by all his friends, that her presence had a healing
power they had elsewhere sought in vain. She endeavoured to pour balm
into the wounded heart of Pericles, and could she have seen him willing
to wait the event with perfect resignation, her contentment would have
been not unmingled with joy.

She wept in secret when she heard him express a wish to have Paralus
carried to the games, to try the effect of a sudden excitement; for
there seemed to her something of cruelty in thus disturbing the
tranquillity of one so gentle and so helpless. But the idea had been
suggested by a learned physician of Chios, and Pericles seemed reluctant
to return to Athens without trying this experiment also. Philothea found
it more difficult to consent to the required sacrifice, because the laws
of the country made it impossible to accompany her beloved husband to
Olympia; but she suppressed her feelings; and the painfulness of the
struggle was never fully confessed, even to Eudora.

While the invalid slept, he was carefully conveyed in a litter, and
placed in the vicinity of the Hippodrome. He awoke in the midst of a
gorgeous spectacle. Long lines of splendid chariots were ranged on
either side of the barrier; the horses proudly pawed the ground, and
neighed impatiently; the bright sun glanced on glittering armour; and
the shouts of the charioteers were heard high above the busy hum of that
vast multitude.

Paralus instantly closed his eyes, as if dazzled by the glare; and an
expression of painful bewilderment rested on his countenance.

In the midst of the barrier stood an altar, on the top of which was a
brazen eagle. When the lists were in readiness, the majestic bird arose
and spread its wings, with a whirring noise, as a signal for the racers
to begin. Then was heard the clattering of hoofs, and the rushing of
wheels, as when armies meet in battle. A young Messenian was, for a
time, foremost in the race; but his horse took fright at the altar of
Taraxippus--his chariot was overthrown--and Alcibiades gained the prize.
The vanquished youth uttered a loud and piercing shriek, as the horses
passed over him; and Paralus fell senseless in his father's arms.

It was never known whether this effect was produced by the presence of a
multitude, by shrill and discordant sounds, or by returning
recollection, too powerful for his enfeebled frame. He was tenderly
carried from the crowd, and restoratives having been applied, in vain,
the melancholy burden was slowly and carefully conveyed to her who so
anxiously awaited his arrival.

During his absence, Philothea had earnestly prayed for the preservation
of a life so precious to her; and as the time of return drew near, she
walked in the fields, accompanied by Eudora and Milza, eager to catch
the first glimpse of his father's chariot. She read sad tidings in the
gloomy countenance of Pericles, before she beheld the lifeless form of
her husband.

Cautiously and tenderly as the truth was revealed to her, she became
dizzy and pale, with the suddenness of the shock. Pericles endeavoured
to soothe her with all the sympathy of a parental love, mingled with
deep feelings of contrition, that his restless anxiety had thus brought
ruin into her paradise of peace: and Plato spoke gentle words of
consolation; reminding her that every soul, which philosophized
sincerely and loved beautiful forms, was restored to the full vigour of
its wings, and soared to the blest condition from which it fell.

They laid Paralus upon a couch, with the belief that he slept to wake no
more. But as Philothea bent over him, she perceived a faint pulsation of
the heart. Her pale features were flushed with joy, as she exclaimed,
"He lives! He will speak to me again! Oh, I could die in peace,--if I
might once more hear his voice, as I heard it in former years."

She bathed his head with cool perfumed waters, and watched him with love
that knew no weariness.

Proclus and Telissa deemed he had fallen by the dart of Phoebus Apollo;
and fearing the god was angry for some unknown cause, they suspended
branches of rhamn and laurel on the doors, to keep off evil demons.

For three days and three nights, Paralus remained in complete oblivion.
On the morning of the fourth, a pleasant change was observed in his
countenance; and he sometimes smiled so sweetly, and so rationally, that
his friends still dared to hope his health might be fully restored.

At noon, he awoke; and looking at his wife with an expression full of
tenderness, said: "Dearest Philothea, you are with me. I saw you no
more, after the gate had closed. I believe it must have been a dream;
but it was very distinct." He glanced around the room, as if his
recollections were confused; but his eyes no longer retained the fixed
and awful expression of one who walked in his sleep.

Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, he continued: "It could not be a
dream. I was in the temple of the most ancient god. The roof was of
heaven's pure gold, which seemed to have a ligat within it, like the
splendour of the sun. All around the temple were gardens full of bloom.
I heard soft, mumuring sounds, like the cooing of doves; and I saw the
immortal Oreades and the Naiades pouring water from golden urns.
Anaxagoras stood beside me; and he said we were living in the age of
innocence, when mortals could gaze on divine beings unveiled, and yet
preserve their reason. They spoke another language than the Greeks; but
we had no need to learn it; we seemed to breathe it in the air. The
Oreades had music written on scrolls, in all the colours of the rainbow.
When I asked the meaning of this, they showed me a triangle. At the top
was crimson, at the right hand blue, and at the left hand yellow. And
they said, 'Know ye not that all life is three-fold!' It was a dark
saying; but I then thought I faintly comprehended what Pythagoras has
written concerning the mysterious signification of One and Three. Many
other things I saw and heard, but was forbidden to relate. The gate of
the temple was an arch, supported by two figures with heavy drapery,
eyes closed, and arms folded. They told me these were Sleep and Death.
Over the gate was written in large letters, 'The Entrance of Mortals.'
Beyond it, I saw you standing with outstretched arms, as if you sought
to come to me, but could not. The air was filled with voices, that sung:

  Come! join thy kindred spirit, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!
  When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain--
  What he hath brought, Death brings again.
  Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!

I tried to meet you; but as I passed through the gate, a cold air blew
upon me, and all beyond was in the glimmering darkness of twilight. I
would have returned, but the gate had closed; and I heard behind me the
sound of harps and of voices, singing:

  Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!"

Philothea kissed his hand, and her face beamed with joy. She had
earnestly desired some promise of their future union; and now she felt
the prayer was answered.

"Could it be a dream?" said Paralus: "Methinks I hear the music now."

Philothea smiled affectionately, as she replied: "When sleep hath
passed, thy dreams remain."

As she gazed upon him, she observed that the supernatural expression of
his eyes had changed; and that his countenence now wore its familiar,
household smile. Still she feared to cherish the hope springing in her
heart, until he looked toward the place where her attendant sat,
motionless and silent, and said, "Milza, will you bring me the lyre?"

The affectionate peasant looked earnestly at Philothea, and wept as she
placed it in his hand.

Making an effort to rise, he seemed surprised at his own weakness. They
gently raised him, bolstered him with pillows, and told him he had long
been ill.

"I have not known it," he replied. "It seems to me I have returned from
a far country."

He touched the lyre, and easily recalled the tune which he said he had
learned in the Land of Dreams. It was a wild, unearthly strain, with
sounds of solemn gladness, that deeply affected Philothea's soul.

Pericles had not visited his son since his return to perfect
consciousness. When he came, Paralus looked upon him with a smile of
recognition, and said, "My father!"

Milza had been sent to call the heart-stricken parent, and prepare him
for some favourable change; but when he heard those welcome words, he
dropped suddenly upon his knees, buried his face in the drapery of the
couch, and his whole frame shook with emotion.

The invalid continued: "They tell me I have been very ill, dear father;
but it appears to me that I have only travelled. I have seen Anaxagoras
often--Plato sometimes--and Philothea almost constantly; but I have
never seen you, since I thought you were dying of the plague at Athens."

Pericles replied, "You have indeed been ill, my son. You are to me as
the dead restored to life. But you must be quiet now, and seek repose."

For some time after the interview with his father, Paralus remained very
wakeful. His eyes sparkled, and a feverish flush was on his cheek.
Philothea took her cithara, and played his favourite tunes. This seemed
to tranquilize him; and as the music grew more slow and plaintive, he
became drowsy, and at length sunk into a gentle slumber.

After more than two hours of deep repose, he was awakened by the merry
shouts of little Zoila, who had run out to meet Plato, as he came from
Olympia. Philothea feared, lest the shrill noise had given him pain;
but he smiled; and said, "The voice of childhood is pleasant."

He expressed a wish to see his favourite philosopher; and their kindred
souls held long and sweet communion together. When Plato retired from
the couch, he said to Philothea, "I have learned more from this dear
wanderer, than philosophers or poets have ever written. I am confirmed
in my belief that no impelling truth is ever learned in this world; but
that all is received directly from the Divine Ideal, flowing into the
soul of man when his reason is obedient and still."

A basket of grapes, tastefully ornamented with flowers, was presented to
the invalid; and in answer to his inquiries, he was informed that they
were prepared by Eudora. He immediately desired that she might be
called; and when she came, he received her with the most cordial
affection. He alluded to past events with great clearness of memory, and
asked his father several questions concerning the condition of Athens.
When Philothea arranged his pillows and bathed his head, he pressed her
hand affectionately, and said, "It almost seems as if you were my wife."

Pericles, deeply affected, replied, "My dear son, she is your wife. She
forgot all my pride, and consented to marry you, that she might become
your nurse, when we all feared that you would be restored to us no
more."

Paralus looked up with a bright expression of gratitude, and said, "I
thank you, father. This was very kind. Now you will be her father, when
I am gone."

Perceiving that Pericles and Eudora wept, he added: "Do not mourn
because I am soon to depart. Why would ye detain my soul in this world?
Its best pleasures are like the shallow gardens of Adonis, fresh and
fair in the morning, and perishing at noon."

He then repeated his last vision, and asked for the lyre, that they
might hear the music he had learned from immortal voices.

There was melancholy beauty in the sight of one so pale and thin,
touching the lyre with an inspired countenance, and thus revealing to
mortal ears the melodies of Heaven.

One by one his friends withdrew; being tenderly solicitous that he
should not become exhausted by interviews prolonged beyond his strength.
He was left alone with Philothea; and many precious words were spoken,
that sunk deep into her heart, never to be forgotten.

But sleep departed from his eyes; and it soon became evident that the
soul, in returning to its union with the body, brought with it a
consciousness of corporeal suffering. This became more and more intense;
and though he uttered no complaint, he said to those who asked him, that
bodily pain seemed at times too powerful for endurance.

Pericles had for several days remained under the same roof, to watch the
progress of recovery; but at midnight, he was called to witness
convulsive struggles, that indicated approaching death.

During intervals of comparative ease, Paralus recognized his afflicted
parent, and conjured him to think less of the fleeting honours of this
world, which often eluded the grasp, and were always worthless in the
possession.

He held Philothea's hand continually, and often spoke to her in words of
consolation. Immediately after an acute spasm of pain had subsided, he
asked to be turned upon his right side, that he might see her face more
distinctly. As she leaned over him, he smiled faintly, and imprinted a
kiss upon her lips. He remained tranquil, with his eyes fixed upon hers;
and a voice within impelled her to sing:

  Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!

He looked upward with a radiant expression, and feebly pressed her hand.
Not long after, his eyelids closed, and sleep seemed to cover his
features with her heavy veil.

Suddenly his countenance shone with a strange and impressive beauty. The
soul had departed to return to earth no more.

In all his troubles, Pericles had never shed a tear; but now he rent the
air with his groans, and sobbed, like a mother bereft of her child.

Philothea, though deeply bowed down in spirit, was more composed: for
she heard angelic voices singing:

  When sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain--
  What he hath brought, Death brings again.
  Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!




CHAPTER XVI.

  Thus a poor father, helpless and undone,
  Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son;
  Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
  And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn.
                                           HOMER


Of the immense concourse collected together at Olympia, each one pursued
his pleasure, or his interest, in the way best suited to his taste.
Alcibiades was proud of giving a feast corresponding in magnificence to
the chariots he had brought into the course. Crowds of parasites
flattered him and the other victors, to receive invitations in return;
while a generous few sympathized with the vanquished. Merchants were
busy forming plans for profitable negociation, and statesmen were
eagerly watching every symptom of jealousy between rival states and
contending parties.

One, amid that mass of human hearts, felt so little interest in all the
world could offer, that she seemed already removed beyond its influence.
Philothea had herself closed the eyes of her husband, and imprinted her
last kiss upon his lips. Bathed in pure water, and perfumed with
ointment, the lifeless form of Paralus lay wrapped in the robe he had
been accustomed to wear. A wreath of parsley encircled his head, and
flowers were strewn around him in profusion.

In one hand was placed an obolus, to pay the ferryman that rowed him
across the river of death; and in the other, a cake made of honey and
flour, to appease the triple-headed dog, which guarded the entrance to
the world of souls.

The bereaved wife sat by his side, and occasionally renewed the
garlands, with a quiet and serene expression, as if she still found
happiness in being occupied for him who had given her his heart in the
innocence and freshness of its childhood.

The food prepared by Milza's active kindness was scarcely tasted; except
when she observed the tears of her faithful attendant, and sought to
soothe her feelings with characterestic tenderness.

The event soon became universally known; for the hair of the deceased,
consecrated to Persephone, and a vase of water at the threshold,
proclaimed tidings of death within the dwelling.

Many of the assembled multitude chose to remain until the funeral
solemnities were past; some from personal affection for Paralus, others
from respect to the son of Pericles.

Plato sent two large vases, filled with wine and honey; Eudora provided
ointments and perfumes; Alcibiades presented a white cloak, richly
embroidered with silver; and the young men of Athens, present at the
games, gave a silver urn, on which were sculptured weeping genii, with
their torches turned downward.

Enveloped in his glittering mantle, and covered with flowers, the form
of Paralus remained until the third day. The procession, which was to
attend the body to the funeral pile, formed at morning twilight; for
such was the custom with regard to those who died in their youth.
Philothea followed the bier, dressed in white, with a wreath of roses
and myrtle around her head, and a garland about the waist. She chose
this beautiful manner to express her joy that his pure spirit had passed
into Elysium.

At the door of the house, the nearest relatives addressed the inanimate
form, so soon to be removed from the sight of mortals. In tones of
anguish, almost amounting to despair, Pericles exclaimed: "Oh, my son!
my son! Why didst thou leave us? Why wast thou, so richly gifted of the
gods, to be taken from us in thy youth? Oh, my son, why was I left to
mourn for thee?"

Instead of the usual shrieks and lamentations of Grecian women,
Philothea said, in sad, heart-moving accents: "Paralus, farewell!
Husband of my youth, beloved of my heart, farewell!"

Then the dead was carried out; and the procession moved forward, to the
sound of many voices and many instruments, mingled in a loud and solemn
dirge. The body of Paralus was reverently laid upon the funeral pile,
with the garments he had been accustomed to wear; his lyre and Phrygian
flute; and vases filled with oil and perfumes.

Plentiful libations of wine, honey, and milk were poured upon the
ground, and the mourners smote the earth with their feet, while they
uttered supplications to Hermes, Hecate, and Pluto. Pericles applied the
torch to the pile, first invoking the aid of Boreas and Zephyrus, that
it might consume quickly. As the flames rose, the procession walked
slowly three times around the pile, moving toward the left hand. The
solemn dirge was resumed, and continued until the last flickering tongue
of fire was extinguished with wine. Then those who had borne the silver
urn in front of the hearse, approached. Pericles, with tender
reverence, gathered the whitened bones, sprinkled them with wine and
perfumes, placed them within the urn, and covered it with a purple pall,
inwrought with gold; which Philothea's prophetic love had prepared for
the occasion.

The procession again moved forward, with torches turned downward; and
the remains of Paralus were deposited in the Temple of Persephone, until
his friends returned to Athens.

In token of gratitude for kind attentions bestowed by the household of
Proclus, Pericles invited his family to visit the far-famed wonders of
the violet-crowned city; and the eager solicitations of young Pterilaüs
induced the father to accept this invitation for himself and son. As an
inhabitant of consecrated Elis, without wealth, and unknown to fame, it
was deemed that he might return in safety, even after hostilities were
renewed between the Peloponessian states. Eudora likewise obtained
permission to accompany her friend; and her sad farewell was cheered by
an indefinite hope that future times would restore her to that quiet
home. The virtuous Melissa parted from them with many blessings and
tears. Zoila was in an agony of childish sorrow; but she wiped her eyes
with the corner of her robe, and listened, well pleased, to Eudora's
parting promise of sending her a flock of marble sheep, with a painted
wooden shepherd.

The women travelled together in a chariot, in front of which reposed the
silver urn, covered with its purple pall. Thus sadly did Philothea
return through the same scenes she had lately traversed with hopes,
which, in the light of memory, now seemed like positive enjoyment.
Pericles indeed treated her with truly parental tenderness; and no
soothing attention, that respect or affection could suggest, was omitted
by her friends. But he, of whose mysterious existence her own seemed a
necessary portion, had gone to return no more; and had it not been for
the presence of Eudora, she would have felt that every bond of sympathy
with this world of forms had ceased forever.

At Corinth, the travellers again turned aside to the Fountain of
Poseidon, that the curiosity of Pterilaüs might be satisfied with a view
of the statues by which it was surrounded.

"When we are in Athens, I will show you something more beautiful than
these," said Pericles. "You shall see the Pallas Athenæ, carved by
Phidias."

"Men say it is not so grand as the statue of Zeus, that we have at
Olympia," replied the boy.

"Had you rather witness the sports of the gymnasia than the works of
artists?" inquired Plato.

The youth answered very promptly, "Ah, no indeed. I would rather gain
one prize from the Choragus, than ten from the Gymnasiarch. Anniceris,
the Cyrenæan, proudly displayed his skill in chariot-driving, by riding
several times around the Academia, each time preserving the exact orbit
of his wheels. The spectators applauded loudly; but Plato said, 'He who
has bestowed such diligence to acquire trifling and useless things, must
have neglected those that are truly admirable.' Of all sights in
Athens, I most wish to see the philosophers; and none so much as Plato."

The company smiled, and the philosopher answered, "I am Plato."

"You told us that your name was Aristocles," returned Pterilaüs; "and we
always called you so. Once I heard that Athenian lady call you Plato;
and I could not understand why she did so."

"I was named Aristocles for my grandfather," answered the philosopher;
"and when I grew older, men called me Plato."

"But you cannot be the Plato that I mean," said Pterilaüs; "for you
carried my little sister Zoila on your shoulders--and played peep with
her among the vines; and when I chased you through the fields, you ran
so fast that I could not catch you." The philosopher smiled, as he
replied, "Nevertheless, I am Plato; and they call me by that name,
because my shoulders are broad enough to carry little children."

The boy still insisted that he alluded to another Plato. "I mean the
philosopher, who teaches in the groves of Academus," continued he. "I
knew a freedman of his, who said he never allowed himself to be angry,
or to speak in a loud voice. He never but once raised his hand to strike
him; and that was because he had mischievously upset a poor old woman's
basket of figs; feeling that he was in a passion, he suddenly checked
himself, and stood perfectly still. A friend coming in asked him what he
was doing; and the philosopher replied, 'I am punishing an angry man.'

"Speusippus, his sister's son, was such a careless, indecent, and
boisterous youth, that his parents could not control him. They sent him
to his uncle Plato, who received him in a friendly manner, and forbore
to reproach him. Only in his own example he was always modest and
placid. This so excited the admiration of Speusippus, that a love of
philosophy was kindled within him. Some of his relatives blamed Plato,
because he did not chastise the impertinent youth; but he replied,
'There is no reproof so severe as to show him, by the manner of my own
life, the contrast between virtue and baseness.'--That is the Plato I
want you to show me, when we are in Athens."

Proclus, perceiving a universal smile, modestly added, by way of
explanation: "My son means him whom men call the divine Plato. He
greatly desires to see that philosopher, of whom it is said Socrates
dreamed, when he first received him as his pupil. In his dream he saw a
swan without wings, that came and sat upon his bosom; and soon after,
its wings grew, and it flew high up in the air, with melodious notes,
alluring all who heard it."

Pericles laid his hand on the philosopher's shoulder, and smiling,
answered, "My unbelieving friend, this is the teacher of Academus; this
is the divine Plato; this is the soaring swan, whose melodious notes
allure all that hear him."

Proclus was covered with confusion, but still seemed half incredulous.
"What would Melissa say," exclaimed he, "if she knew that her frolicsome
little plaything, Zoila, had been rude enough to throw flowers at the
divine Plato."

"Nay, my friend," replied the disciple of Socrates,--what better could
a philosopher desire, than to be pelted with roses by childhood?"

Eudora looked up with an arch expression; and Philothea smiled as she
said, "This is a new version of unknown Phoebus tending the flocks of
Admetus."

Pterilaüs seemed utterly confounded by a discovery so unexpected. It was
long before he regained his usual freedom; and from time to time he was
observed to fix a scrutinizing gaze on the countenance of Plato, as if
seeking to read the mystery of his hidden greatness.

As the travellers approached Athens, they were met by a numerous
procession of magistrates, citizens, and young men bearing garlands,
which they heaped on the urn in such profusion that it resembled a
pyramid of flowers. They passed the chariots with their arms and ensigns
of office all reversed; then turned and followed to the abode of
Pericles, singing dirges as they went, and filling the air with the
melancholy music of the Mysian flute.

The amiable character of the deceased, his genius, the peculiar
circumstances attending his death, and the accumulated afflictions of
his illustrious parent, all combined to render it an impressive scene.
Even the gay selfishness of Alcibiades was subdued into reverence, as he
carefully took the urn from the chariot, and gave it to attendants, who
placed it beside the household altar.

Early the next morning, a procession again formed to convey the ashes of
Paralus to the sepulchre of his fathers; called, in the beautiful
language of the Greeks, a Place of Sleep.

When the urn was again brought forth, Philothea's long golden hair
covered it, like a mantle of sunbeams. During his life-time, these
shining tresses had been peculiarly dear to him; and in token of her
love, she placed them on his grave. Her white robe was changed for
coarse black garments; and instead of flowery wreaths, a long black veil
covered the beautiful head, from which its richest ornament had just
been severed. She had rejoiced for his happy spirit, and now she mourned
her own widowed lot.

At the sepulchre, Pericles pronounced a funeral oration on the most
gifted, and best-beloved of his children. In the evening, kindred and
friends met at his house to partake a feast prepared for the occasion;
and every guest had something to relate concerning the genius and the
virtues of him who slept.

A similar feast was prepared in the apartments of the women, where
Philothea remained silent and composed; a circumstance that excited no
small degree of wonder and remark, among those who measured affection by
the vehemence of grief.

As soon as all ceremonies were completed, she obtained leave to return
to her early home, endeared by many happy scenes; and there, in the
stillness of her own heart, she held communion with the dear departed.




CHAPTER XVII.

  There await me till I die; prepare
  A mansion for me, as again with me
  To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,
  In the same cedar, by thy side composed:
  For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.
                                   EURIPIDES


It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in
Philothea's health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens,
still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the
death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a
strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a
painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was
something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than
the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew
thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining
its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most
affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely
strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.

A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, "Dearest Eudora, do
you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the assistance
of Areas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree
over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?"

"I remember it well," replied Eudora: "Dione told it to me when I was
quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning,
or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a
shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had
perished with it."

Philothea answered, "Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read
to me Hesiod's account of the Muses:

         'Far round, the dusky earth
  Rings with their hymning voices; and beneath
  Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound
  Ariseth, as they take their onward way
  To their own father's presence.'

"I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy
hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those

  'Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit
  In harmony; whose only thought is song.'

"There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every
hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All
earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth
we _feel_, though we _know_ it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the
Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose
existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not
long remain."

Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Oh, dearest Philothea,
do not speak thus," she said. "I shall indeed be left alone in the
world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me when you
are gone?"

Her friend endeavoured to calm these agitated feelings, by every
soothing art her kindness could suggest.

"I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary
pain," she replied, affectionately: "but I ought not to conceal from you
that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall
not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find
my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those
for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it;
but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be
disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather's
manuscripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in
Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which
Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the
Dionysia, is returned to his father's house, let them be placed within
it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the ivory
lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful
Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his
departed brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of Clinias
and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from
Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to
Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for
you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my
faithful Milza I have given all the garments and household goods suited
to her condition. My grandfather's books have been divided, as he
requested, between Plato and Philæmon; the silver harp and the ivory
tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you,
dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value
least the ivory cup lined with silver, which Philæmon gave me when he
departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros
in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with Philæmon."

With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, "Oh, Philothea! in the days of my
pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I
lost Philæmon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I
should at this moment be his happy, honoured wife. The hope of his
forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I
hardly dare to cherish it."

Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, "Believe me, you will yet
be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to
admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these
words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of
another world: you will be united to Philæmon."

As she spoke, Milza, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed
aloud. The sound was at Eudora's right hand, and she received the
auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.

Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: "When we
were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to Philæmon, in which I spoke of you
as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it
directly into Persia."

The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied, "Nay, my
dearest friend--you know that I must appear contemptible in his eyes;
and I would not have insulted him with the offer of a heart, which he
has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful."

"Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty might be wounded,"
answered Philothea: "I wrote as I was moved; and I felt strong assurance
that my words would waken a response in Philæmon's heart. But there is
one subject, on which my mind is filled with foreboding. I hope you will
leave Athens as soon as it is safe to return to Elis."

"Do you then fear that I would again dance over a pit, because it was
artfully covered with garlands?" said Eudora. "Believe me, I have been
tried with too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a load of
shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous snares."

Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied: "You are good
and pure; but you have ever been like a loving and graceful vine, ready
to cling to its nearest support."

"'Tis you have made me so," rejoined Eudora, kissing her pale cheek: "To
you I have always applied for advice and instruction; and when you gave
it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the gods."

"Then so much the more need that I should caution the weakness I have
produced," responded Philothea. "Should Aspasia gain access to you, when
I am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness consists not in
the duties we perform, but in the distinction we acquire; that my hopes
of Elysium are all founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has
returned to the elements of which he was composed; that he nourishes the
plants, and forms some of the innumerable particles of the atmosphere.
I have seen him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him; and I
believe the same power that enabled me to see him when these poor eyes
were veiled in slumber, will restore him to my vision when they are
closed in eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a beautiful
but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen to her syren tongue, the
secret guiding voice will be heard no more. She will make evil appear
good, and good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight,
unable to perceive the real size and character of any object."

"Never," exclaimed Eudora. "Never could she induce me to believe you an
idle dreamer. Moreover, she will never again have opportunity to exert
influence over me. The conversation I heard between her and Alcibiades
is too well impressed upon my memory; and while that remains
unforgotten, I shall shun them both, as I would shun a pestilence."

Philothea answered: "I do indeed believe that no blandishments will now
make you a willing victim. But I have a secret dread of the character
and power of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes a
pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak of his childish obstinacy and
perseverance. He was one day playing at dice with other boys, when a
loaded wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered the driver to
stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded, he laid down before the
horses' feet, and told him to go on if he dared. The same character
remains with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph of his
own will. From his youth, he has been a popular idol; a circumstance
which has doubtless increased the requirements of his passions, without
diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Milza tells me he has
already inquired of her concerning your present residence and future
intentions. Obstacles will only increase his eagerness and multiply his
artifices.

"I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely connected with our
own, to supply the place of your distant guardian, while you remain in
Athens. In Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so fatally
under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so lightly of these matters, I
sometimes fear they might both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too
trivial for their interference. For these reasons I wish you to return
to Elis as soon as possible when I am gone."

Eudora's countenance kindled with indignation, as she listened to what
Milza had told. In broken and contrite tones, she answered; "Philothea,
whatever trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all. But
rest assured, whenever it pleases the gods to remove your counsel and
protection, I will not abide in Athens a single hour after it is
possible to leave with safety."

"I find consolation in that assurance," replied Philothea; "and I have
strong belief that a divine shield will guard you from impending evil.
And now I will go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be lulled
with music."

Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a succession of sweet
and plaintive tunes, familiar to their childhood. Her friend listened
with an expression of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the
motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful sleep.

After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly, and looking up with a
beaming glance, exclaimed, "I shall follow him soon!"

Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she had spoken in such
delighted accents.

Philothea answered: "I dreamed that I sat upon a bank of violets, with
Paralus by my side; and he wove a garland and placed it on my head.
Suddenly, golden sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each
other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as Paralus often
described, when his soul lived apart from the body, and only returned at
intervals, to bring strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell
him so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments that shone like
woven sunbeams. Then voices above us began to sing:

  'Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!'

"Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus distinctly. It sounded
like the voice of Paralus in his youth, when we used to sing together,
to please my grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered
brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each other in silent
love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow him."

The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for resignation to this
bereavement seemed too hard a lesson for her suffering heart.

For several weeks, there was no apparent change in Philothea's health or
spirits. The same sad serenity remained--perpetually exciting the
compassion it never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the
neighbourhood brought their simple offering of flowers, with which she
wove fresh garlands for the tomb of Paralus. When no longer able to
visit the sepulchre herself, she intrusted them to the youthful
Pericles, who reverently placed them on his brother's urn.

The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in the conversation of
his widowed daughter. Scarcely a day passed without an interview between
them, and renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.

He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his desolated heart now
bestowed a double portion of paternal love. They remained a long time,
in earnest discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in tears.

Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the portico, and gazed
after them, as long as she could see a fold of their garments. As she
turned to lean on Eudora's arm, she said, "It is the last time I shall
ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister's love for that dear
boy. His heart is young and innocent."

For a few hours after, she continued to talk with unusual animation, and
her eyes beamed with an expression of inspired earnestness. At her
request, Geta and Milza were called; and the faithful servants listened
with mournful gratitude to her parting words of advice and consolation.

At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of flowers, sent by the
youthful Pericles. She took them with a smile, and said, "How fragrant
is their breath, and how beautiful their colours! I have heard that the
Persians write their music in colours; and Paralus spoke the same
concerning music in the spirit-world. Perchance there was heavenly
melody written on this fair earth in the age of innocence; but mortals
have now forgotten its language." Perceiving Eudora's thoughtful
countenance, she said: "Is my gentle friend disturbed, lest infant
nymphs closed their brief existence when these stems were broken?"

"Nay;" replied Eudora: "My heart is sad; but not for the perished genii
of the flowers."

Philothea understood the import of her words; and pressing her hand
affectionately, said, "Your love has been as balm to my lonely heart;
and let that remembrance comfort you, when I go hence. Listen in
stillness to the whispered warnings of your attendant spirit, and he
will never leave you. I am weary; and would fain repose on your
affectionate bosom."

Eudora gently placed her head as she desired; and carefully supporting
the precious burden, she began to sing, in low and soothing tones.

After some time, the quiet and regular respiration of the breath
announced that the invalid had fallen into tranquil slumber. Milza came,
to ask if the lamps were wanted; but receiving a silent signal from
Eudora, she crept noiselessly away.

For more than an hour, there was perfect stillness, as the shades of
evening deepened. All at once, the room was filled with soft, clear
light! Eudora turned her head quickly, to discover whence it came; but
could perceive no apparent cause for the sudden radiance.

With an undefined feeling of awe, she looked in the countenance of her
friend. It was motionless as marble; but never had she seen anything so
beautiful, and so unearthly.

As she gazed, doubting whether this could indeed be death, there was a
sound of music in the air--distinct, yet blended, like the warbling of
birds in the spring-time.

It was the tune Paralus had learned from celestial harps; and even after
the last note floated away, Eudora seemed to hear the well-remembered
words:

  Come hither, kindred spirit, come!
  Hail to the mystic two in one!




CHAPTER XVIII.

  Take courage I no vain dream hast thou beheld,
  But in thy sleep a truth.
                                  HOMER.


At the time of Philothea's death, Pandænus, the nephew of Phidias, was
in Athens, intending soon to return to Elis, in company with an
ambassador bound to Lacedæmon; and Eudora resolved to avail herself of
this opportunity to follow the farewell advice of her friend. As the
time for departure was near at hand, no change was made in household
arrangements; and though the desolate maiden at times experienced
sensations of extreme loneliness, the near vicinity of Clinias and
Phoenarete left her no fears concerning adequate protection.

This confidence seemed well grounded; yet not many days after the
funeral solemnities, Eudora suddenly disappeared. She had gone out, as
usual, to gather flowers for the tomb of the beloved sleeper; and not
rinding sufficient variety in the garden, had wandered into a small
field adjoining. Milza was the first to observe that her absence was
unusually protracted. She mentioned her anxiety to Geta, who immediately
went out in search of his young mistress; but soon returned, saying she
was neither in the house of Clinias, nor in the neighbouring fields, nor
at the Fountain of Callirhöe.

The faithful attendants at once suspected treachery in Alcibiades. "I
never rightly understood what was the difficulty, when Eudora was locked
up in her chamber, and Lucos chained to the door," said Geta; "but from
what I could hear, I know that Phidias was very angry with Alcibiades.
Many a time I've heard him say that he would always have his own way,
either by a straight course or a crooked one."

"And my good old master used to say he had changed but little since he
was a boy, when he made the wagoner turn back, by lying down in front of
his horses," rejoined Milza: "I thought of that, when Alcibiades came
and drank at the Fountain, while I was filling my urn. You remember I
told you that he just tasted of the water, for a pretence, and then
began to inquire where Eudora was, and whether she would remain in
Athens."

After some further consultation, it was deemed best for Milza to request
a private interview with Phoenarete, during which she freely expressed
her fears. The wife of Clinias, though connected by marriage with the
house of Alcibiades, was far from resenting the imputation, or
pretending that she considered it groundless. Her feelings were at once
excited for the lonely orphan girl, whose beauty, vivacity, and
gentleness, had won upon her heart; and she readily promised assistance
in any plan for her relief, provided it met the approbation of her
husband.

There was in Salamis a large mansion built by Eurysaces, the ancestor of
Alcibiades, by whom it had been lately purchased, and repaired for a
summer residence. Report said that many a fair maiden had been decoyed
within its walls, and retained a prisoner. This place was guarded by
several powerful dogs, and vigilant servants were always stationed at
the gates. Milza proposed to disguise herself as much as possible, and,
with a basket on her head, go thither to offer fish for sale. Geta,
being afraid to accompany her, hired an honest boatman to convey her to
the island, and wait till she was ready to return to Athens.

As she approached the walls of the mansion, the dogs began to growl, but
were soon silenced by the porters. Without answering the indecent jibes,
with which they greeted her ears as she passed along, the little
fish-woman balanced her basket on her head, and began carelessly to sing
some snatches of a hymn to Amphitrite. It was a tune of which Eudora was
particularly fond; and often when Milza was humming it over her work,
her soft and sonorous voice had been heard responding from the inner
apartment.

She had scarcely finished the first verse, ere the chorus was repeated
by some one within the dwelling; and she recognized the half-suppressed
growl of Hylax, as if his barking had been checked by some cautious
hand. Afraid to attract attention by a prolonged stay, Milza passed
along and entered the servants' apartment. Having sold a portion of her
fish, and lingered as long as she dared in conversation with the cooks,
she returned slowly in the same direction, singing as she went, and
carefully observing everything around her. She was just beginning to
fear the impossibility of obtaining any solution of her doubts, when she
saw a leaf fluttering near the ground, as if its motions were impelled
by some other cause than the wind. Approaching nearer, she perceived
that it was let down from a grated opening in the wall above, by a
small thread, with a little ball of wax attached to it for a weight. She
examined the leaf, and discovered certain letters pricked upon it; and
when the string was pulled gently, it immediately dropped upon her arm.
At the same time, a voice, which she distinctly recognized as Eudora's,
was heard singing:

  On a rock, amid the roaring water,
  Lies Cassiopea's gentle daughter.

Milza had just begun to sing, "Bold Perseus comes," when she perceived a
servant crossing the court, and deemed it prudent to retire in silence.
She carefully preserved the leaf, and immediately after her return
hastened to the apartment of Phoenarete, to obtain an explanation. That
matron, like most Grecian women, was ignorant of her own written
language. The leaf was accordingly placed in a vessel of water, to
preserve its freshness until Clinias returned from the Prytaneum. He
easily distinguished the name of Pandænus joined with his own; and
having heard the particulars of the story, had no difficulty in
understanding that Milza was directed to apply to them for assistance.
He readily promised to intercede with his profligate kinsman, and
immediately sent messengers in search of Pandænus.

Geta awaited intelligence with extreme impatience. He was grateful for
many an act of kindness from Eudora; and he could not forget that she
had been the cherished favourite of his beloved and generous master.

At night, Clinias returned from a conference with Alcibiades, in which
the latter denied all knowledge of Eudora; and it seemed hazardous to
institute legal inquiries into the conduct of a man so powerful and so
popular, without further evidence than had yet been obtained. Pandænus
could not be found. At the house where he usually resided, no
information could be obtained, except that he went out on the preceding
evening, and had not returned as usual.

During that night, and part of the following day, the two faithful
attendants remained in a state of melancholy indecision. At last, Geta
said, "I will go once more in search of Pandænus; and if he has not yet
returned, I have resolved what to do. To-day I saw one of the slaves of
Artaphernes buying olives; and he said he must have the very best,
because his master was to give a feast to-night. Among other guests, he
spoke of Alcibiades; and he is one that is always sure to stay late at
his wine. While he is feasting, I will go to Salamis. His steward often
bought anchovies of me at Phalerum. He is a countryman of mine; and I
know he is as avaricious as an Odomantian. I think money will bribe him
to carry a message to Eudora, and to place a ladder near the outer wall
for her escape. He is intrusted with all the keys, and can do it if he
will. And if he can get gold enough by it, I believe he will trust
Hermes to help him settle with his master, as he has done many a time
before this. I will be in readiness at the Triton's Cove, and bring her
back to Athens as fast as oars can fly."

"Do so, dear Geta," replied Milza; "but disguise yourself from the other
servants, and take with you the robe and veil that I wear to market.
Then if Eudora could only walk a little more like a fish-woman, she
might pass very well. But be sure you do not pay the steward till you
have her at the boat's edge; for he that will play false games with his
master, may do the same by you."

Necessary arrangements were speedily made. Geta resolved to offer the
earnings of his whole life as a bribe, rather than intrust the secret of
his bold expedition to any of the household of Clinias; and Milza,
fearful that their own store would not prove a sufficient temptation,
brought forth a sum of money found in Eudora's apartment, together with
a valuable necklace, which had been a birth-day present from Phidias.

It was past midnight when three figures emerged from the shadow of the
high wall surrounding the mansion of Alcibiades, and with cautious haste
proceeded toward the cove. Before they could arrive at the beach, a
large and gaily-trimmed boat was seen approaching the shore, from the
direction of the Piræus. It was flaming with torches; and a band of
musicians poured out upon the undulating waters a rich flood of melody,
rendered more distinct and soft by the liquid element over which it
floated. One of the fugitives immediately turned, and disappeared within
the walls they had left; the other two concealed themselves in a thick
grove, the darkness of which was deepened by the glare of torches along
its borders. A man richly dressed, with several fillets on his head, and
crowned with a garland of violets, ivy, and myrtle, stepped from the
boat, supported by the arm of a slave. His countenance was flushed with
wine, and as he reeled along, he sung aloud:

  "Have I told you all my flames,
  'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?
  Have I numbered every one
  Glowing under Egypt's sun!
  Or the nymphs, who, blushing sweet,
  Deck the shrine of Love in Crete--
  Where the God, with festal play,
  Holds eternal holiday?"

"Castor and Polydeuces!" whispered Geta, "there goes Alcibiades. He has
returned from his wine earlier than usual; but so blinded by the merry
god, that he would not have known us, if we had faced the glare of his
torches."

"Oh, hasten! hasten!" said Eudora, weeping and trembling, as she spoke.
"I beseech you do not let a moment be lost."

As Alcibiades and his train disappeared, they left the grove, and
hurried toward their boat; keeping as much as possible within the shadow
of the trees. They reached the cove in safety, and Geta rowed with
unwonted energy; but he was single-handed, and Salamis was many stadia
from Athens. Long before he arrived at the place were he had been
accustomed to land, they heard the sound of distant oars plied with
furious rapidity.

They landed, and with the utmost haste proceeded toward the city.
Eudora, fearful of being overtaken, implored Geta to seek refuge behind
the pillars of Poseidon's temple. Carefully concealing themselves in the
dense shadow, they remained without speaking, and almost without
breathing, until their pursuers had passed by. The moment these were out
of hearing, they quitted their hiding-place, and walked swiftly along
the Piræus. Intense fear imparted a degree of strength, which the
maiden, under other circumstances, would have hardly deemed it possible
to exert. She did not for a moment relax her speed, until they came
within sight of the Areopagus, and heard noisy shouts, apparently not
far distant. Eudora, sinking with fatigue and terror, entreated Geta not
to attempt any approach to the house of Clinias, where her enemies would
certainly be lying in wait for them. With uncertain steps they proceeded
toward the great Gate of the Acropolis, until the helpless maiden,
frightened at the approaching noise, stopped suddenly, and burst into a
flood of tears.

"There is one place of safety, if you have courage to try it," said
Geta: "We are nearly under the Propylæa; and close beside us is the
grotto of Creüsa. Few dare to enter it in the day-time, and no profane
steps will venture to pass the threshold after nightfall; for it is said
the gods often visit it, and fill it with strange sights and sounds.
Shall we enter?"

It was a windy night, and the clouds that occasionally passed over the
face of the moon gave the earth a dreary aspect. The high wall under
which they stood seemed to frown gloomily upon them, and the long flight
of white marble steps, leading from the Propylæa, looked cold and
cheerless beneath the fitful gleamings of the moon.

Eudora hesitated, and looked timidly around; but as the sound of riotous
voices came nearer, she seized Geta's arm, and exclaimed, in hurried
accents, "The gods protect me! Let us enter."

Within the grotto, all was total darkness. Having groped their way a
short distance from the entrance, they found a large rock, on which
they seated themselves. The voices approached nearer, and their
discordant revelry had an awful sound amid the echoes of the grotto.
These gradually died away in the distance, and were heard no more.

When all was perfectly still, Eudora, in whispered accents, informed
Geta that she had been seized, as she stooped to gather flowers within
sight of her own dwelling. Two men suddenly started up from behind a
wall, and one covered her mouth, while the other bound her hands. They
made a signal to a third, who came with two attendants and a curtained
chariot, in which she was immediately conveyed to a solitary place on
the seashore, and thence to Salamis. Two men sat beside her, and held
her fast, so as to prevent any possibility of communication with the few
people passing at that early hour.

Arrived at the place of destination, she was shut up in a large
apartment, luxuriously furnished. Alcibiades soon visited her, with an
affectation of the most scrupulous respect, urging the plea of ardent
love as an excuse for his proceedings.

Aware that she was completely in his power, she concealed her
indignation and contempt, and allowed him to indulge the hope that her
affections might be obtained, if she were entirely convinced of his wish
to atone for the treachery and violence with which she had been treated.

Milza's voice had been recognized the moment she began to sing; and she
at once conjectured the object that led her thither. But when hour after
hour passed without any tidings from Pandænus or Clinias, she was in a
state of anxiety bordering on distraction; for she soon perceived
sufficient indication that the smooth hypocrisy of Alcibiades was
assumed but for a short period.

She had already determined on an effort to bribe the servants, when the
steward came stealthily to her room, and offered to convey her to the
Triton's Cove, provided she would promise to double the sum already
offered by Geta. To this she eagerly assented, without even inquiring
the amount; and he, fearful of detection, scarcely allowed time to throw
Milza's robe and veil over her own.

Having thus far effected her escape, Eudora was extremely anxious that
Pandænus and Clinias should be informed of her place of retreat, as soon
as the morning dawned. When Geta told her that Pandænus had disappeared
as suddenly as herself, and no one knew whither, she replied, "This,
too, is the work of Alcibiades."

Their whispered conversation was stopped by the barking of a dog, to
which the echoes of the cavern gave a frightful appearance of nearness.
Each instinctively touched the other's arm, as a signal for silence.
When all was again quiet, Geta whispered, "It is well for us they were
not witty enough to bring Hylax with them; for the poor fellow would
certainly have betrayed us." This circumstance warned them of the danger
of listeners, and few more words were spoken.

The maiden, completely exhausted by the exertions she had made, laid her
head on the shoulder of her attendant, and slept until the morning
twilight became perceptible through the crevices of the rocks.

At the first approach of day, she implored Geta to hasten to the house
of Clinias, and ask his protection: for she feared to venture herself
abroad, without the presence of some one whose rank and influence would
be respected by Alcibiades.

"Before I go," replied Geta, "let me find a secure hiding-place for you;
for though I shall soon return, in the meantime those may enter whose
presence may be dangerous."

"You forget that this is a sacred place," rejoined Eudora, in tones that
betrayed fear struggling with her confidence.

"There are men, with whom nothing is sacred," answered Geta; "and many
such are now in Athens."

The cavern was deep, and wide. As they passed along, the dawning light
indistinctly revealed statues of Phoebus and Pan, with altars of pure
white marble. At the farthest extremity, stood a trophy of shields,
helmets, and spears, placed there by Miltiades, in commemoration of his
victory at Marathon. It was so formed as to be hollow in the centre, and
Geta proposed that the timid maiden should creep in at the side, and
stand upright. She did so, and it proved an effectual screen from head
to foot. Having taken this prudent precaution, the faithful attendant
departed, with a promise to return as soon as possible. But hour after
hour elapsed, and he came not. As Eudora peeped through the chinks of
the trophy, she perceived from the entrance of the cave glowing streaks
of light, that indicated approaching noon. Yet all remained still, save
the echoed din of noises in the city; and no one came to her relief.

Not long after the sun had begun to decline from its meridian, two men
entered, whom she recognized as among the individuals that had seized
and conveyed her to Salamis. As they looked carefully all around the
cave, Eudora held her breath, and her heart throbbed violently.
Perceiving no one, they knelt for a moment before the altars, and
hastily retreated, with indications of fear; for the accusations of
guilty minds were added to the usual terrors of this subterranean abode
of the gods.

The day was fading into twilight, when a feeble old man came, with a
garland on his head, and invoked the blessing of Phoebus. He was
accompanied by a boy, who laid his offering of flowers and fruit on the
altar of Pan, with an expression of countenance that showed how much he
was alarmed by the presence of that fear-inspiring deity.

After they had withdrawn, no other footsteps approached the sacred
place. Anxiety of mind, and bodily weariness, more than once tempted
Eudora to go out and mingle with the throng continually passing through
the city. But the idea that Geta might arrive, and be perplexed by her
absence, combined with the fear of lurking spies, kept her motionless,
until the obscurity of the grotto gave indication that the shadows of
twilight were deepening.

During the day, she had observed near the trophy a heap of withered
laurel branches and wreaths, with which the altar and statue of Phoebus
had been at various times adorned. Overcome with fatigue, and desirous
to change a position, which from its uniformity had become extremely
painful, she resolved to lie down upon the rugged rock, with the sacred
garlands for a pillow. She shuddered to remember the lizards and other
reptiles she had seen crawling, through the day; but the universal fear
of entering Creüsa's grotto after nightfall, promised safety from human
intrusion; and the desolate maiden laid herself down to repose, in such
a state of mind that she would have welcomed a poisonous reptile, if it
brought the slumbers of death. It seemed to her that she was utterly
solitary and friendless; persecuted by men, and forsaken by the gods.

By degrees, all sounds died away, save the melancholy hooting of owls,
mingled occasionally with the distant barking and howling of dogs.
Alone, in stillness and total darkness, memory revealed herself with
wonderful power. The scenes of her childhood; the chamber in which she
had slept; figures she had embroidered and forgotten; tunes that had
been silent for years; thoughts and feelings long buried; Philæmon's
smile; the serene countenance of Philothea; the death-bed of Phidias;
and a thousand other images of the past, came before her with all the
vividness of present reality. Exhausted in mind and body, she could not
long endure this tide of recollection. Covering her face with her hands,
she sobbed convulsively, as she murmured, "Oh, Philothea! why didst thou
leave me? My guide, my only friend! oh, where art thou!"

A gentle strain of music, scarcely audible, seemed to make reply. Eudora
raised her head to listen--and lo! the whole grotto was filled with
light; so brilliant that every feather in the arrow of Phoebus might be
counted, and the gilded horns and star of Pan were radiant as the sun.

Her first thought was that she had slept until noon. She rubbed her
eyes, and glanced at the pedestal of a statue, on which she distinctly
read the inscription: "Here Miltiades placed me, Pan, the goat-footed
god of Arcadia, who warred with the Athenians against the Medes."

Frightened at the possibility of having overslept herself, she started
up, and was about to seek the shelter of the trophy, when Paralus and
Philothea stood before her! They were clothed in bright garments, with
garlands on their heads. His arm was about her waist, and hers rested on
his shoulder. There was a holy beauty in their smile, from which a
protecting influence seemed to emanate, that banished mortal fear.

In sweet, low tones, they both said, as if with one voice, "Seek
Artaphernes, the Persian."

"Dearest Philothea, I scarcely know his countenance," replied the
maiden.

Again the bright vision repeated, "Seek Artaphernes, nothing doubting."

The sounds ceased; the light began to fade; it grew more and more dim,
till all was total darkness. For a long time, Eudora remained intensely
wakeful, but inspired with a new feeling of confidence and hope, that
rendered her oblivious of all earthly cares. Whence it came, she neither
knew nor asked; for such states preclude all inquiry concerning their
own nature and origin.

After awhile, she fell into a tranquil slumber, in which she dreamed of
torrents crossed in safety, and of rugged, thorny paths, that ended in
blooming gardens. She was awakened by the sound of a troubled, timid
voice, saying, "Eudora! Eudora!"

She listened a moment, and answered, "Is it you, Milza?"

"Oh, blessed be the sound of your voice," replied the peasant. "Where
are you? Let me take your hand; for I am afraid in this awful place."

"Don't be frightened, my good Milza. I have had joyful visions here,"
rejoined the maiden. She reached out her arms as she spoke, and
perceived that her companion trembled exceedingly. "May the gods protect
us!" whispered she; "but it is a fearful thing to come here in the
night-time. All the gold of Croesus would not have tempted me, if Geta
had not charged me to do it, to save you from starving."

"You are indeed kind friends," said Eudora; "and the only ones I have
left in this world. If ever I get safely back to Elis, you shall be to
me as brother and sister."

"Ah, dear lady," replied the peasant, "you have ever been a good friend
to us;--and there is one that sleeps, who never spoke an ungentle word
to any of us. When her strength was almost gone, she bade me love
Eudora, even as I had loved her; and the gods know that for her sake
Milza would have died. Phoebus protect me, but this is an awful place to
speak of those who sleep. It must be near the dawn; but it is fearfully
dark here. Where is your hand? I have brought some bread and figs, and
this little arabyllus of water mixed with Lesbian wine. Eat; for you
must be almost famished."

Eudora took the refreshment, but ere she tasted it, inquired, "Why did
not Geta come, as he promised?" Milza began to weep.

"Has evil befallen him?" said Eudora, in tones of alarm.

The afflicted wife sobbed out, "Poor Geta! Poor, dear Geta! I dreaded to
come into this cavern; but then I thought if I died, it would be well,
if we could but die together."

"Do tell me what has happened," said Eudora: "Am I doomed to bring
trouble upon all who love me? Tell me, I entreat you."

Milza, weeping as she spoke, then proceeded to say that Alcibiades had
discovered Eudora's escape immediately after his return from the feast
of Artaphernes. He was in a perfect storm of passion, and threatened
every one of the servants with severe punishment, to extort confession.
The steward received a few keen lashes, notwithstanding his
protestations of innocence. But he threatened to appeal to the
magistrates for another master; and Alcibiades, unwilling to lose the
services of this bold and artful slave, restrained his anger, even when
it was at its greatest height.

To appease his master's displeasure, the treacherous fellow acknowledged
that Geta had been seen near the walls, and that his boat had been lying
at the Triton's Cove.

In consequence of this information, men were instantly ordered in
pursuit, with orders to lie in wait for the fugitives, if they could not
be overtaken before morning. When Geta left Creüsa's Grotto, he was
seized before he reached the house of Clinias.

Milza knew nothing of these proceedings, but had remained anxiously
waiting till the day was half spent. Then she learned that Alcibiades
had claimed Eudora and Geta as his slaves, by virtue of a debt due to
him from Phidias, for a large quantity of ivory; and notwithstanding the
efforts of Clinias in their favour, the Court of Forty Four, in the
borough of Alcibiades, decided that he had a right to retain them, until
the debt was paid, or until the heir appeared to show cause why it
should not be paid. "The gods have blessed Clinias with abundant
wealth," said Eudora; "Did he offer nothing to save the innocent?"

"Dear lady," replied Milza, "Alcibiades demands such an immense sum for
the ivory, that he says he might as well undertake to build the wall of
Hipparchus, as to pay it. But I have not told you the most cruel part of
the story. Geta has been tied to a ladder, and shockingly whipped, to
make him tell where you were concealed. He said he would not do it, if
he died. I believe they had the will to kill him; but one of the young
slaves, whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted, was resolved to make
complaint to the magistrates, and demand another master. She helped Geta
to escape: they have both taken refuge in the Temple of Theseus. Geta
dared trust no one but me to carry a message to Clinias. I told him he
supped with Pericles to-night; and he would not suffer me to go there,
lest Alcibiades should be among the guests."

"I am glad he gave you that advice," said Eudora; "for though Pericles
might be willing to serve me, for Philothea's sake, I fear if he once
learned the secret, it would soon be in Aspasia's keeping."

"And that would be all the same as telling Alcibiades himself," rejoined
Milza. "But I must tell you that I did not know of poor Geta's
sufferings until many hours after they happened. Since he went to
Salamis in search of you, I have not seen him until late this evening.
He is afraid to leave the altar, lest he should fall into the hands of
his enemies; and that is the reason he sent me to bring you food. He
expects to be a slave again; but having been abused by Alcibiades, he
claims the privilege of the law to be transferred to another master."

Eudora wept bitterly, to think she had no power to rescue her faithful
attendant from a condition he dreaded worse than death.

Milza endeavoured, in her own artless way, to soothe the distress her
words had excited. "In all Geta's troubles, he thinks more of you than
he does of himself," said she. "He bade me convey you to the house of a
wise woman from Thessalia, who lives near the Sacred Gate; for he says
she can tell us what it is best to do. She has learned of magicians in
foreign lands. They say she can compound potions that will turn hatred
into love; and that the power of her enchantments is so great, she can
draw the moon down from the sky."

"Nevertheless, I shall not seek her counsel," replied the maiden; "for I
have heard a better oracle."

When she had given an account of the vision in the cave, the peasant
asked, in a low and trembling voice, "Did it not make you afraid?"

"Not in the least," answered Eudora; "and therefore I am doubtful
whether it were a vision or a dream. I spoke to Philothea just as I used
to do; without remembering that she had died. She left me more composed
and happy than I have been for many days. Even if it were a vision, I
do not marvel that the spirit of one so pure and peaceful should be less
terrific than the ghost of Medea or Clytemnestra."

"And the light shone all at once!" exclaimed Milza, eagerly. "Trust to
it, dear lady--trust to it. A sudden brightness hath ever been a happy
omen."

Two baskets, filled with Copaic eels and anchovies, had been deposited
near the mouth of the cavern; and with the first blush of morning, the
fugitives offered prayers to Phoebus and Pan, and went forth with the
baskets on their heads, as if they sought the market. Eudora, in her
haste, would have stepped across the springs that bubbled from the
rocks; but Milza held her back, saying, "Did you never hear that these
brooks are Creüsa's tears? When the unhappy daughter of Erectheus left
her infant in this cave to perish, she wept as she departed; and
Phoebus, her immortal lover, changed her tears to rills. For this
reason, the water has ever been salt to the taste. It is a bad omen to
wet the foot in these springs."

Thus warned, Eudora turned aside, and took a more circuitous path.

It happened, fortunately, that the residence of Artaphernes stood behind
the temple of Asclepius, at a short distance from Creüsa's Grotto; and
they felt assured that no one would think of searching for them within
the dwelling of the Persian stranger. They arrived at the gate without
question or hindrance; but found it fastened. To their anxious minds,
the time they were obliged to wait seemed like an age; but at last the
gate was opened, and they preferred a humble request to see
Artaphernes. Eudora, being weary of her load, stooped to place the
basket of fish on a bench, and her veil accidentally dropped. The porter
touched her under the chin, and said, with a rude laugh, "Do you
suppose, my pretty dolphin, that Artaphernes buys his own dinner?"

Eudora's eyes flashed fire at this familiarity; but checking her natural
impetuosity, she replied, "It was not concerning the fish that I wished
to speak to your master. We have business of importance."

The servant gave a significant glance, more insulting than his former
freedom. "Oh, yes, business of importance, no doubt," said he; "but do
you suppose, my little Nereid, that the servant of the Great King is
himself a vender of fish, that he should leave his couch at an hour so
early as this?"

Eudora slipped a ring from her finger, and putting it in his hand, said,
in a confidential tone, "I am not a fish-woman. I am here in disguise. Go
to your master, and conjure him, if he ever had a daughter that he
loved, to hear the petition of an orphan, who is in great distress."

The man's deportment immediately changed; and as he walked away, he
muttered to himself, "She don't look nor speak like one brought up at
the gates; that's certain."

Eudora and Milza remained in the court for a long time, but with far
less impatience than they had waited at the gate. At length the servant
returned, saying his master was now ready to see them. Eudora followed,
in extreme agitation, with her veil folded closely about her; and when
they were ushered into the presence of Artaphernes, the embarrassment
of her situation deprived her of the power of utterance. With much
kindness of voice and manner, the venerable stranger said: "My servant
told me that one of you was an orphan, and had somewhat to ask of me."

Eudora replied: "O Persian stranger, I am indeed a lonely orphan, in the
power of mine enemies; and I have been warned by a vision to come hither
for assistance."

Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite surprise, mingled
with deeper feelings; and the old man's countenance grew more troubled,
as she continued: "Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that sung at
Aspasia's house, to whom you afterwards sent a veil of shining texture?"

"Ah, yes," he replied, with a deep sigh: "I do recollect it. They told
me she was Eudora, the daughter of Phidias."

"I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias," rejoined the maiden. "My
benefactor is dead, and I am friendless."

"Who were your parents?" inquired the Persian.

"I never knew them," she replied. "I was stolen from the Ionian coast by
Greek pirates. I was a mere infant when Phidias bought me."

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes asked, "Were you
_then_ named Eudora?"

The maiden's heart began to flutter with a new and strange hope, as she
replied, "No one knew my name. In my childish prattle, I called myself
Baby Minta."

The old man started from his seat--his colour went and came--and every
joint trembled. He seemed to make a strong effort to check some sudden
impulse. After collecting himself for a moment, he said, "Maiden, you
have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it has stirred the deepest
fountains of my heart. I pray you, let me see your countenance."

As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair fell profusely over
her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful face was flushed with eager
expectation.

The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant, and then clasped her
to his bosom. The tears fell fast, as he exclaimed, "Artaminta! My
daughter! My daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have sought for
thee throughout the world, and at last I believed thee dead. My only
child! My long-lost, my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be
upon thee."




CHAPTER XIX.

  Whate'er thou givest, generous let it be.
                              EURIPIDES


When it was rumoured that Artaphernes had ransomed Eudora and Geta, by
offering the entire sum demanded for the ivory, many a jest circulated
in the agoras, at the expense of the old man who had given such an
enormous price for a handsome slave; but when it became known, that he
had, in some wonderful and mysterious manner, discovered a long-lost
daughter, the tide of public feeling was changed.

Alcibiades at once remitted his claim, which in fact never had any
foundation in justice; he having accepted two statues in payment for the
ivory, previous to the death of Phidias. He likewise formally asked
Eudora in marriage; humbly apologizing for the outrage he had committed,
and urging the vehemence of his love as an extenuation of the fault.

Artaphernes had power to dispose of his daughter without even making any
inquiry concerning the state of her affections; but the circumstances of
his past life induced him to forbear the exercise of his power.

"My dear child," said he, "it was my own misfortune to suffer by an
ill-assorted marriage. In early youth, my parents united me with
Artaynta, a Persian lady, whose affections had been secretly bestowed
upon a near kinsman. Her parents knew of this fact, but mine were
ignorant of it. It ended in wretchedness and disgrace. To avoid the
awful consequences of guilt, she and her lover eloped to some distant
land, where I never attempted to follow them.

Some time after, the Great King was graciously pleased to appoint me
Governor of the sea-coast in Asia Minor. I removed to Ephesus, where I
saw and loved your blessed mother, the beautiful Antiope, daughter of
Diophanes, priest of Zeus. I saw her accidentally at a fountain, and
watched her unobserved, while she bathed the feet of her little sister.
Though younger than myself, she reciprocated the love she had inspired.
Her father consented to our union; and for a few years I enjoyed as
great happiness as Oromasdes ever bestows on mortals. You were our only
child; named Artaminta, in remembrance of my mother. You were scarcely
two years old, when you and your nurse suddenly disappeared. As several
other women and children were lost at the same time, we supposed that
you were stolen by pirates. All efforts to ascertain your fate proved
utterly fruitless. As moon after moon passed away, bringing no tidings
of our lost treasure, Antiope grew more and more hopeless. She was a
gentle, tender-hearted being, that complained little and suffered much.
At last, she died broken-hearted."

After remaining in silent thoughtfulness for a few moments, he added:
"Of my two sons by Artaynta, one died in childhood; the other was killed
in battle, before I came to Athens. I had never ceased my exertions to
discover you; but after I became childless, it was the cherished object
of existence. Some information received from Phoenician sailors led to
the conclusion that I owed my misfortune to Greek pirates; and when the
Great King informed me that he had need of services in Athens, I
cherfully undertook the mission."

"Having suffered severely in my own marriage, I would not willingly
endanger your happiness by any unreasonable exercise of parental
authority. Alcibiades is handsome, rich, and of high rank. How do you
regard his proposal of marriage?"

The colour mounted high in Eudora's cheek, and she answered hastily, "As
easily could I consent to be the wife of Tereus, after his brutal
outrage on the helpless Philomela. I have nothing but contempt to bestow
on the man who persecuted me when I was friendless, and flatters me when
I have wealthy friends."

Artaphernes replied, "I knew not how far you might consider violent love
an excuse for base proceedings; but I rejoice to see that you have pride
becoming your noble birth. For another reason, it gives me happiness to
find you ill-disposed toward this match; for duty will soon call me to
Persia, and having just recovered you in a manner so miraculous, it
would be a grievous sacrifice to relinquish you so soon. But am I so
fortunate as to find you willing to return with me? Are there no strong
ties that bind your heart to Athens?"

Perceiving that Eudora blushed deeply, he added, in an inquiring tone,
"Clinias told me to-day, that Phidias wished to unite you with that
gifted artist, his nephew Pandænus?"

The maiden replied, "I have many reasons to be grateful to Pandænus;
and it was painful to refuse compliance with the wishes of my
benefactor; but if Phidias had commanded me to obey him in this
instance, my happiness would have been sacrificed. Of all countries in
the world, there is none I so much wish to visit as Persia. Of that you
may rest assured, my father."

The old man looked upon her affectionately, and his eyes filled with
tears, as he exclaimed, "Oromasdes be praised, that I am once more
permitted to hear that welcome sound! No music is so pleasant to my ears
as that word--father. Zoroaster tells us that children are a bridge
joining this earth to a heavenly paradise, filled with fresh springs and
blooming gardens. Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices
call him father! But, my daughter, why is it that the commands of
Phidias would have made you unhappy? Speak frankly, Artaminta; lest
hereafter there should be occasion to mourn that we misunderstood each
other."

Eudora then told all the particulars of her attachment to Philæmon, and
her brief infatuation with regard to Alcibiades. Artaphernes evinced no
displeasure at the disclosure; but spoke of Philæmon with great respect
and affection. He dwelt earnestly upon the mischievous effects of such
free customs as Aspasia sought to introduce, and warmly eulogized the
strictness and complete seclusion of Persian education. When Eudora
expressed fears that she might never be able to regain Philæmon's love,
he gazed on her beautiful countenance with fond admiration, and smiled
incredulously as he turned away.

The proposal of Alcibiades was civilly declined; the promised sum paid
to his faithless steward, and the necklace, given by Phidias, redeemed.

Hylax had been forcibly carried to Salamis with his young mistress, lest
his sagacity should lead to a discovery of her prison. When Eudora
escaped from the island, she had reluctantly left him in her apartment,
in order to avoid the danger that might arise from any untimely noise;
but as soon as her own safety was secured, her first thoughts were for
the recovery of this favourite animal, the early gift of Philæmon. The
little captive had pined and moaned continually, during their brief
separation; and when he returned, it seemed as if his boisterous joy
could not sufficiently manifest itself in gambols and caresses.

When Artaphernes was convinced that he had really found his long-lost
child, the impulse of gratitude led to very early inquiries for
Pandænus. The artist had not yet re-appeared; and all Athens was filled
with conjectures concerning his fate. Eudora still suspected that
Alcibiades had secreted him, for the same reason that he had claimed
Geta as a slave; for it was sufficiently obvious that he had desired, as
far as possible, to deprive her of all assistance and protection.

The event proved her suspicions well founded. On the fourth day after
her escape from Salamis, Pandænus came to congratulate Artaphernes, and
half in anger, half in laughter, told the particulars of his story. He
had been seized as he returned home at night, and had been forcibly
conveyed to the mansion of Eurysaces, where he was kept a close
prisoner, with the promise of being released whenever he finished a
picture, which Alcibiades had long desired to obtain. This was a
representation of Europa, just entering the ocean on the back of the
beautiful bull, which she and her unsuspecting companions had crowned
with garlands.

At first, the artist resisted, and swore by Phoebus Apollo that he would
not be thus forced into the service of any man; but an unexpected
circumstance changed his resolution.

There was a long, airy gallery, in which he was allowed to take exercise
any hour of the day. In some places, an open-work partition, richly and
curiously wrought by the skilful hand of Callicrates, separated this
gallery from the outer balustrade of the building. During his walks,
Pandænus often heard sounds of violent grief from the other side of the
screen. Curiosity induced him to listen, and inquire the cause. A sad,
sweet voice answered, "I am Cleonica, daughter of a noble Spartan. Taken
captive in war, and sold to Alcibiades, I weep for my dishonoured lot;
for much I fear it will bring the gray hairs of my mother to an untimely
grave."

This interview led to another, and another; and though the mode of
communication was imperfect, the artist was enabled to perceive that the
captive maiden was a tall, queenly figure, with a rich profusion of
sunny hair, indicating a fair and fresh complexion. The result was a
promise to paint the desired picture, provided he might have the Spartan
slave as a recompense.

Alcibiades, equally solicitous to obtain the painting, and to prolong
the seclusion of Pandænus, and being then eager in another pursuit,
readily consented to the terms proposed. After Eudora's sudden change
of fortune, being somewhat ashamed of the publicity of his conduct, and
desirous not to lose entirely the good opinion of Artaphernes, he gave
the artist his liberty, simply requiring the fulfilment of his promise.

"And what are your intentions with regard to this fair captive?"
inquired the Persian, with a significant smile.

With some degree of embarrassment, Pandænus answered, "I came to ask
your protection; and that Eudora might for the present consider her as a
sister, until I can restore her to her family."

"It shall be so," replied Artaphernes; "but this is a very small part of
the debt I owe the nephew of Phidias. Should you hereafter have a favour
to ask of Cleonica's noble family, poverty shall be no obstruction to
your wishes. I have already taken measures to purchase for you a large
estate in Elis, and to remit yearly revenues, which will I trust be
equal to your wishes. I have another favour to ask, in addition to the
many claims you already have upon me. Among the magnificent pictures
that adorn the Poecile, I have not observed the sculptor of your gods. I
pray you exert your utmost skill in a painting of Phidias crowned by the
Muses; that I may place it on those walls, a public monument of my
gratitude to that illustrious man."

"Of his statues and drawings I have purchased all that can be bought in
Athens. The weeping Panthea, covering the body of Abradates with her
mantle, is destined for my royal and munificent master. By the kindness
of Pericles, I have obtained for myself the beautiful group,
representing my precious little Artaminta caressing the kid, in that
graceful attitude which first attracted the attention of her benefactor.
For the munificent Eleans, I have reserved the Graceful Three, which
your countrymen have named the presiding deities over benevolent
actions. All the other statues and drawings of your illustrious kinsman
are at your disposal. Nay, do not thank me, young man. Mine is still the
debt, and my heart will be ever grateful."

The exertions of Clinias, although they proved unavailing, were
gratefully acknowledged by the present of a large silver bowl, on which
the skilful artificer, Mys, had represented, with exquisite delicacy,
the infant Dionysus watched by the nymphs of Naxos.

In the midst of this generosity, the services of Geta and Milza were not
forgotten. The bribe given to the steward was doubled in the payment,
and an offer made to establish them in any part of Greece or Persia,
where they wished to reside.

A decided preference was given to Elis, as the only place where they
could be secure from the ravages of war. A noble farm, in the
neighbourhood of Proclus, was accordingly purchased for them, well
stocked with herds and furnished with all agricultural and household
conveniences. Geta, having thus become an owner of the soil, dropped the
brief name by which he had been known in slavery, and assumed the more
sonorous appellation of Philophidias.

Dione, old as she was, overcame her fear of perils by land and sea, and
resolved to follow her young mistress into Persia.

Before a new moon had begun its course, Pandænus fulfilled his
intention of returning to Olympia, in company with the Lacedæmonian
ambassador and his train. Cleonica, attended by Geta and Milza,
travelled under the same protection. Artaphernes sent to Proclus four
noble horses and a Bactrian camel, together with seven minæ as a
portion for Zoila. For Pterilaüs, likewise, was a sum of money
sufficient to maintain him ten years in Athens, that he might gratify
his ardent desire to become the disciple of Plato. Eudora sent her
little playmate a living peacock, which proved even more acceptable than
her flock of marble sheep with their painted shepherd. To Melissa was
sent a long affectionate epistle, with the dying bequest of Philothea,
and many a valuable token of Eudora's gratitude.

Although a brilliant future was opening before her, the maiden's heart
was very sad, when she bade a last farewell to the honest and faithful
attendants, who had been with her through so many changing scenes, and
aided her in the hour of her utmost need. The next day after their
departure was spent by the Persian in the worship of Mithras, and
prayers to Oromasdes. Eudora, in remembrance of her vision, offered
thanksgiving and sacrifice to Phoebus and Pan; and implored the deities
of ocean to protect the Phoenician galley, in which they were about to
depart from Athens.

These ceremonies being performed, Artaphernes and his weeping daughter
visited the studio of Myron, who, in compliance with their orders, had
just finished the design of a beautiful monument to Paralus and
Philothea, on which were represented two doves sleeping upon garlands.

For the last time, Eudora poured oblations of milk and honey, and placed
fragrant flowers, with ringlets of her hair, upon the sepulchre of her
gentle friend; then, with many tears, she bade a long farewell to scenes
rendered sacred by the remembrance of their mutual love.




CHAPTER XX.

              Next arose
  A well-towered city, by seven golden gates
  Inclosed, that fitted to their lintels hung.
              Then burst forth
  Aloud the marriage song; and far and wide
  Long splendors flashed from many a quivering torch.
                                        HESIOD


When the galley arrived at the opulent city of Tyre, the noble Persian
and his retinue joined a caravan of Phoenician merchants bound to
Ecbatana, honoured at that season of the year with the residence of the
royal family. Eudora travelled in a cedar carriage drawn by camels. The
latticed windows were richly gilded, and hung with crimson curtains,
which her father ordered to be closed at the slightest indication of
approaching travellers. Dione, with six more youthful attendants,
accompanied her, and exerted all their powers to make the time pass
pleasantly; but all their stories of romantic love, of heroes mortal and
immortal, combined with the charms of music, could not prevent her from
feeling that the journey was exceedingly long and wearisome.

She recollected how her lively spirit had sometimes rebelled against the
restraints imposed on Grecian women, and sighed to think of all she had
heard concerning the far more rigid customs of Persia. Expressions of
fatigue sometimes escaped her; and her indulgent parent consented that
she should ride in the chariot with him, enveloped in a long, thick
veil, that descended to her feet, with two small openings of net-work
for the eyes.

As they passed through Persia, he pointed out to her the sacred groves,
inhabited by the Magii: the entrance of the cave where Zoroaster penned
his divine precepts; and the mountain on whose summit he was wont to
hold midnight communication with the heavenly bodies.

Eudora remarked that she nowhere observed temples or altars; objects to
which her eye had always been accustomed, and which imparted such a
sacred and peculiar beauty to Grecian scenery.

Artaphernes replied, "It is because these things are contrary to the
spirit of Persian theology. Zoroaster taught us that the temple of
Oromasdes was infinite space--his altar, the air, the earth, and the
heavens."

When the travellers arrived within sight of Ecbatana, the setting sun
poured upon the noble city a flood of dazzling light. It was girdled by
seven walls of seven different colours; one rising above the other, in
all the hues of the rainbow. From the centre of the innermost, arose the
light, graceful towers of the royal palace, glittering with gold. The
city was surrounded by fertile, spacious plains, bounded on one side by
Mount Orontes, and on the other by a stately forest, amid whose lofty
trees might here and there be seen the magnificent villas of Persian
nobles.

Eudora's heart beat violently, when her father pointed to the residence
of Megabyzus, and told her that the gilded balls on its pinnacles could
be discovered from their own dwelling; but maiden shame prevented her
from inquiring whether Philæmon was still the instructor of his sons.

The morning after his arrival, Artaphernes had a private audience with
his royal master. This conference lasted so long, that many of the
courtiers supposed his mission in Greece related to matters of more
political importance than the purchase of pictures and statues; and this
conjecture was afterward confirmed by the favours lavished upon him.

It was soon known throughout the precincts of the court that the
favourite noble had returned from Athens, bringing with him his
long-lost daughter. The very next day, as Eudora walked round the
terraces of her father's princely mansion, she saw the royal carriages
approach, followed by a long train of attendants, remarkable for age and
ugliness, and preceded by an armed guard, calling aloud to all men to
retire before their presence, on pain of death. In obedience to these
commands, Artaphernes immediately withdrew to his own apartment, closed
the shutters, and there remained till the royal retinue departed.

The visiters consisted of Amestris, the mother of Artaxerxes; Arsinöe of
Damascus, his favourite mistress; and Parysatis, his daughter; with
their innumerable slaves. They examined Eudora with more than childish
curiosity; pulled every article of her dress, to ascertain its colour
and its texture; teased to see all her jewels; wanted to know the name
of everything in Greek; requested her to sing Greek songs; were
impatient to learn Ionian dances; conjured her to paint a black streak
from the eyes to the ears; and were particularly anxious to ascertain
what cosmetic the Grecian ladies used to stain the tips of their
fingers.

When all these important matters were settled, by means of an
interpreter, they began to discuss the merits of Grecian ladies; and
loudly expressed their horror at the idea of appearing before brothers
unveiled, and at the still grosser indelicacy of sometimes allowing the
face to be seen by a betrothed lover. Then followed a repetition of all
the gossip of the harem; particularly, a fresh piece of scandal
concerning Apollonides of Cos, and their royal kinswoman, Amytis, the
wife of Megabyzus. Eudora turned away to conceal her blushes; for the
indelicacy of their language was such as seldom met the ear of a Grecian
maiden.

The Queen mother was eloquent in praise of a young Lesbian girl, whom
Artaphernes had bought to attend upon his daughter. This was equivalent
to asking for the slave; and the captive herself evinced no
unwillingness to join the royal household; it having been foretold by an
oracle that she would one day be the mother of kings. Amestris accepted
the beautiful Greek, with many thanks, casting a triumphant glance at
Arsinöe and Parysatis, who lowered their brows, as if each had reasons
of her own for being displeased with the arrangement.

The royal guests gave and received a variety of gifts; consisting
principally of jewels, embroidered mantles, veils, tufts of peacock
feathers with ivory handles, parrots, and golden boxes filled with
roseate powder for the fingers, and black paint for the eyebrows. At
length they departed, and Eudora's attendants showered perfumes on them
as they went.

Eudora recalled to mind the pure and sublime discourse she had so often
enjoyed with Philothea, and sighed as she compared it with this
specimen of intercourse with high-born Persian ladies.

When the sun was setting, she again walked upon the terrace; and,
forgetful of the customs of the country, threw back her veil, that she
might enjoy more perfectly the beauty of the landscape. She stood
thoughtfully gazing at the distant pinnacles, which marked the residence
of Megabyzus, when the barking of Hylax attracted her attention, and
looking into the garden, she perceived a richly dressed young man, with
his eyes fixed earnestly upon her. She drew her veil hastily, and
retired within the dwelling, indulging the secret hope that none of her
attendants had witnessed an action, which Artaphernes would deem so
imprudent.

On the following morning commenced the celebrated festival called, 'The
Salutation of Mithras;' during which, forty days were set apart for
thanksgiving and sacrifice. The procession formed long before the rising
of the sun. First appeared a long train of the most distinguished Magii
from all parts of the empire, led by their chief in scarlet robes,
carrying the sacred fire upon a silver furnace. Next appeared an empty
chariot consecrated to Oromasdes, decorated with garlands, and drawn by
white steeds harnessed with gold. This was followed by a magnificent
large horse, his forehead flaming with gems, in honour of Mithras. Then
came the Band of Immortals, and the royal kindred, their Median vests
blazing with embroidery and gold. Artaxerxes rode in an ivory chariot,
richly inlaid with precious stones. He was followed by a long line of
nobles, riding on camels splendidly caparisoned; and their countless
attendants closed the train. This gorgeous retinue slowly ascended
Mount Orontes. When they arrived upon its summit, the chief of the Magii
assumed his tiara interwoven with myrtle, and hailed the first beams of
the rising sun with sacrifice. Then each of the Magii in turns sung
orisons to Oromasdes, by whose eternal power the radiant Mithras had
been sent to gladden the earth, and preserve the principle of life.
Finally, they all joined in one universal chorus, while king, princes,
and nobles, prostrated themselves, and adored the Fountain of Light.

At that solemn moment, a tiger leaped from an adjoining thicket, and
sprung toward the king. But ere the astonished courtiers had time to
breathe, a javelin from some unknown hand passed through the ferocious
animal, and laid him lifeless in the dust.

Eudora had watched the procession from the house-top; and at this moment
she thought she perceived hurried and confused movements, of which her
attendants could give no explanation.

The splendid concourse returned toward the palace in the same order that
it had ascended the mountain. But next to the royal chariot there now
appeared a young man on a noble steed, with a golden chain about his
neck, and two heralds by his side, who ever and anon blew their
trumpets, and proclaimed, "This is Philæmon of Athens, whom the king
delighteth to honour?"

Eudora understood the proclamation imperfectly; but afar off, she
recognized the person of her lover. As they passed the house, she saw
Hylax running to and fro on the top of the wall, barking, and jumping,
and wagging his tail, as if he too were conscious of the vicinity of
some familiar friend. The dog evidently arrested Philæmon's attention;
for he observed him closely, and long continued to look back and watch
his movements.

A tide of sweet and bitter recollections oppressed the maiden's heart; a
deadly paleness overspread her cheeks; a suffocating feeling choked her
voice; and had it not been for a sudden gush of tears, she would have
fallen.

When her father returned, he informed her that the life of Artaxerxes
had been saved by the promptitude and boldness of Philæmon, who
happened to perceive the tiger sooner than any other person at the
festival. He added, "I saw Philæmon after the rescue, but we had brief
opportunity to discourse together. I think his secluded habits have
prevented him from hearing that I found a daughter in Athens. He told me
he intended soon to return to his native country, and promised to be my
guest for a few days before he departed. Furthermore, my child, the
Great King, in the fulness of his regal bounty, last night sent a
messenger to demand you in marriage for his son Xerxes."

He watched her countenance, as he spoke; but seemed doubtful how to
understand the fluctuating colour. Still keeping his scrutinizing gaze
fixed upon her, he continued, "Artaminta, this is an honour not to be
lightly rejected; to be princess of Persia now, and hereafter perhaps
its queen."

In some confusion, the maiden answered, "Perhaps the prince may not
approve his father's choice."

"No, Artaminta; the prince has chosen for himself. He sent his sister to
obtain a view of my newly discovered daughter; and he himself saw you,
as you stood on the terrace unveiled."

In an agitated voice, Eudora asked, "And must I be compelled to obey the
commands of the king?"

"Unless it should be his gracious pleasure to dispense with obedience,"
replied Artaphernes. "I and all my household are his servants. I pray
Oromasdes that you may never have greater troubles than the fear of
becoming a princess."

"But you forget, my dear father, that Parysatis told me her brother
Xerxes was effeminate and capricious, and had a new idol with every
change of the moon. Some fairer face would soon find favour in his
sight; and I should perhaps be shut up with hundreds of forgotten
favourites, in the old harem, among silly women and ugly slaves."

Her father answered, in an excited tone, "Artaminta, if you had been
brought up with more becoming seclusion, like those silly Persian women,
you would perhaps have known, better than you now seem to do, that a
woman's whole duty is submission."

Eudora had never heard him speak so harshly. She perceived that his
parental ambition was roused, and that her indifference to the royal
proposal displeased him. The tears fell fast, as she replied, "Dear
father, I will obey you, even if you ask me to sacrifice my life, at the
command of the king."

Her tears touched the feelings of the kind old man. He embraced her
affectionately, saying, "Do not weep, daughter of my beloved Antiope. It
would indeed gratify my heart to see you Queen of Persia; but you shall
not be made wretched, if my interest with the Great King can prevent
it. All men praise his justice and moderation; and he has pledged his
royal word to grant anything I ask, in recompense for services rendered
in Greece. The man who has just saved his life can no doubt obtain any
favour. But reflect upon it well, my daughter. Xerxes has no son; and
should you give birth to a boy, no new favourite could exclude you from
the throne. Perhaps Philæmon was silent from other causes than ignorance
of your arrival in Persia; and if this be the case, you may repent a too
hasty rejection of princely love."

Eudora blushed like crimson, and appeared deeply pained by this
suggestion; but she made no answer. Artaphernes departed, promising to
seek a private audience with the king; and she saw him no more that
night. When she laid her head upon the pillow, a mind troubled with many
anxious thoughts for a long time prevented repose; and when she did sink
to sleep, it was with a confused medley of ideas, in which the
remembrance of Philæmon's love was mixed up with floating visions of
regal grandeur, and proud thoughts of a triumphant marriage, now placed
within her power, should he indeed prove as unforgiving and indifferent,
as her father had suggested.

In her sleep, she saw Philothea; but a swift and turbid stream appeared
to roll between them; and her friend said, in melancholy tones, "You
have left me, Eudora; and I cannot come to you, now. Whence are these
dark and restless waters, which separate our souls?"

Then a variety of strange scenes rapidly succeeded each other--all
cheerless, perturbed, and chaotic. At last, she seemed to be standing
under the old grape-vine, that shaded the dwelling of Anaxagoras, and
Philæmon crowned her with a wreath of myrtle. In the morning, soon after
she had risen from her couch, Artaphernes came to her apartment, and
mildly asked if she still wished to decline the royal alliance. He
evinced no displeasure when she answered in the affirmative; but quietly
replied, "It may be that you have chosen a wise part, my child; for true
it is, that safety and contentment rarely take up their abode with
princes. But now go and adorn yourself with your richest apparel; for
the Great King requires me to present you at the palace, before the hour
of noon. Let your Greek costume be laid aside; for I would not have my
daughter appear like a foreigner, in the presence of her king."

With a palpitating heart, Eudora resigned herself into the hands of her
Persian tire-women, who so loaded her with embroidery and gems, that she
could scarcely support their weight.

She was conveyed to the palace in a cedar carriage, carefully screened
from observation. Her father rode by her side, and a numerous train of
attendants followed. Through gates of burnished brass, they entered a
small court with a tesselated pavement of black and white marble. Thence
they passed into a long apartment, with walls of black marble, and
cornices heavily gilded. The marble was so highly polished, that Eudora
saw the light of her jewels everywhere reflected like sunbeams.
Surprised by the multiplied images of herself and attendants, she did
not at first perceive, through the net-work of her veil, that a young
man stood leaning against the wall, with his arms folded. This
well-remembered attitude attracted her attention, and she scarcely
needed a glance to assure her it was Philæmon.

It being contrary to Persian etiquette to speak without license within
hearing of the royal apartments, the Athenian merely smiled, and bowed
gracefully to Artaphernes; but an audible sigh escaped him, as he
glanced at the Greek attendants. Eudora hastily turned away her head,
when he looked toward her; but her heart throbbed so violently that
every fold of her veil trembled. They continued thus in each other's
presence many minutes; one in a state of perfect unconsciousness, the
other suffering an intensity of feeling, that seemed like the condensed
excitement of years. At last a herald came to say it was now the
pleasure of the Great King to receive them in the private court, opening
into the royal gardens.

The pavement of this court was of porphyry inlaid with costly marbles,
in various hieroglyphics. The side connected with the palace was adorned
with carved open-work, richly painted and gilded, and with jasper
tablets, alternately surmounted by a golden ram and a winged lion; one
the royal ensign of Persia, the other emblematic of the Assyrian empire
conquered by Cyrus. The throne was placed in the centre, under a canopy
of crimson, yellow, and blue silk, tastefully intermingled and
embroidered with silver and gold. Above this was an image of the sun,
with rays so brilliant, that it dazzled the eyes of those who looked
upon it.

The monarch seemed scarcely beyond the middle age, with long flowing
hair, and a countenance mild and dignified. On his right hand stood
Xerxes--on his left, Darius and Sogdianus; and around him were a
numerous band of younger sons; all wearing white robes, with jewelled
vests of Tyrian purple.

As they entered, the active buzzing of female voices was heard behind
the gilded open-work of the wall; but this was speedily silenced by a
signal from the herald. Artaphernes prostrated himself, till his
forehead touched the pavement; Eudora copied his example; but Philæmon
merely bowed low, after the manner of the Athenians. Artaxerxes bade
them arise, and said, in a stern tone, "Artaphernes, has thy daughter
prepared herself to obey our royal mandate? Or is she still contemptuous
of our kingly bounty?"

Eudora trembled; and her father again prostrated himself, as he replied:
"O great and benignant king! mayest thou live forever. May Oromandes
bless thee with a prosperous reign, and forever avert from thee the
malignant influence of Arimanius. I and my household are among the least
of thy servants. May the hand that offends thee be cut off, and cast to
unclean dogs."

"Arise, Artaphernes!" said the monarch: "Thy daughter has permission to
speak."

Eudora, awed by the despotic power and august presence of Artaxerxes,
spoke to her father, in a low and tremulous voice, and reminded him of
the royal promise to grant whatever he might ask."

Philæmon turned eagerly, and a sudden flush mantled his cheeks, when he
heard the pure Attic dialect, "with its lovely marriage of sweet
sounds."

"What does the maiden say?" inquired the king. Artaphernes again paid
homage, and answered; "O Light of the World! Look in mercy upon the
daughter of thy servant, and grant that her petition may find favour in
thy sight. As yet, she hath not gained a ready utterance of the Persian
language--honoured and blessed above all languages, in being the
messenger of thy thoughts, O king. Therefore she spoke in the Greek
tongue, concerning thy gracious promise to grant unto the humblest of
thy servants whatsoever he might ask at thy hands."

Then the monarch held forth his golden sceptre, and replied, "Be it unto
thee, as I have said. I have sought thy daughter in marriage for Xerxes,
prince of the empire. What other boon does Artaphernes ask of the king?"

The Persian approached, and reverently touching the point of the
sceptre, answered: "O King of kings! before whom the nations of the
earth do tremble. Thy bounty is like the overflowing Nilus, and thy
mercy refreshing as dew upon the parched earth. If it be thy pleasure, O
King, forgive Artaminta, my daughter, if she begs that the favour of the
prince, like the blessed rays of Mithras, may fall upon some fairer
damsel. I pray thee have her excused."

Xerxes looked up with an angry frown; but his royal father replied, "The
word of the king is sacred; and his decree changeth not. Be it unto thee
even as thou wilt."

Then turning to Philæmon, he said: "Athenian stranger, our royal life
preserved by thy hand deserves a kingly boon. Since our well beloved son
cannot find favour in the eyes of this damsel, we bestow her upon thee.
Her father is one of the illustrious Pasargadæ, and her ancestors were
not unremotely connected with the princes of Media. We have never looked
upon her countenance--deeming it wise to copy the prudent example of our
cousin Cyrus; but report describes her beautiful as Panthea."

Eudora shrunk from being thus bestowed upon Philæmon; and she would have
said this to her father, had he not checked the first half-uttered word
by a private signal.

With extreme confusion, the Athenian bowed low, and answered, "Pardon
me, O King, and deem me not insensible of thy royal munificence. I pray
thee bestow the daughter of the princely Artaphernes upon one more
worthy than thy servant."

"Now, by the memory of Cyrus!" exclaimed Artaxerxes, "The king's favours
shall this day be likened unto a beggar, whose petitions are rejected at
every gate."

Then, turning to his courtiers, he added: "A proud nation are these
Greeks! When the plague ravaged all Persia and Media, Hippocrates of Cos
refused our entreaties, and scorned our royal bounty; saying he was born
to serve his own countrymen, and not foreigners. Themistocles, on whom
our mighty father bestowed the revenues of cities, died, rather than
fight for him against Athens; and lo! here is a young Athenian, who
refuses a maiden sought by the Persian prince, with a dowry richer than
Pactolus.

Philæmon bowed himself reverently, and replied: "Deem not, O king, that
I am moved by Grecian pride; for well I know that I am all unworthy of
this princely alliance. An epistle lately received from Olympia makes it
necessary for me to return to Greece; where, O king, I seek a beloved
maiden, to whom I was betrothed before my exile."

Eudora had trembled violently, and her convulsive breathing was audible,
while Philæmon spoke; but when he uttered the last words, forgetful of
the reverence required of those who stood in the presence of majesty,
she murmured, "Oh, Philothea!" and sunk into the arms of her father.

The young man started; for now, not only the language, but the tones
were familiar to his heart. As the senseless form was carried into the
garden, he gazed upon it with an excited and bewildered expression.

Artaxerxes smiled, as he said: "Athenian stranger, the daughter of
Artaphernes, lost on the coast of Ionia, was discovered in the household
of Phidias, and the Greeks called her Eudora."

Philæmon instantly knelt at the monarch's feet, and said, "Pardon me, O
king. I was ignorant of all this. I ----"

He would have explained more fully; but Artaxerxes interrupted him; "We
know it all, Athenian stranger--we know it all. You have refused
Artaminta, and now we bestow upon you Eudora, with the revenues of
Magnesia and Lampsacus for her dowry."

Before the next moon had waned, a magnificent marriage was celebrated in
the court of audience, opening into the royal gardens. On a shining
throne, in the midst of a stately pavilion, was seated Artaxerxes,
surrounded by the princes of the empire. Near the throne stood Philæmon
and Eudora. Artaphernes placed the right hand of the bride within the
right hand of the bridegroom, saying, "Philæmon of Athens, I bestow upon
thee, Artaminta, my daughter, with my estates in Pasagarda, and five
thousand darics as her dowry."

The chief of the Magii bore sacred fire on a silver censer, and the
bridal couple passed slowly around it three times, bowing reverently to
the sacred emblem of Mithras. Then the bridegroom fastened a golden
jewel about the bride's neck, and they repeated certain words, promising
fidelity to each other. The nuptial hymn was sung by six handsome
youths, and as many maidens, clothed in white garments, with a purple
edge.

Numerous lamps were lighted in the trees, making the gardens bright as
noon. Women belonging to the royal household, and to the most favoured
of the nobility, rode through the groves and lawns, in rich pavilions,
on the backs of camels and white elephants. As the huge animals were led
along, fireworks burst from under their feet, and playing for a moment
in the air, with undulating movements, fell in a sparkling shower.

Artaxerxes gave a luxurious feast, which lasted seven days; during which
time the Queen entertained her guests with equal splendour, in the
apartments of the women.

The Athenian decree against those of foreign parentage had been repealed
in favour of young Pericles; but in that country everything was in a
troubled and unsettled state; and Artaphernes pleaded hard to have his
daughter remain in Persia.

It was therefore decided that the young couple should reside at
Pasagarda, situated in a fertile valley, called the Queen's Girdle,
because its revenues were appropriated to that costly article of the
royal wardrobe. This pleasant city had once been the favourite residence
of Cyrus the Great, and a plain obelisk in the royal gardens marked his
burial-place. The adjacent promontory of Taoces afforded a convenient
harbour for Tyrian merchants, and thus brought in the luxuries of
Phoenicia, while it afforded opportunities for literary communication
between the East and the West. Here were celebrated schools under the
direction of the Magii, frequently visited by learned men from Greece,
Ethiopia, and Egypt.

Philæmon devoted himself to the quiet pursuits of literature; and
Eudora, happy in her father, husband and children, thankfully
acknowledged the blessings of her lot.

Her only daughter, a gentle maiden, with plaintive voice and earnest
eyes, bore the beloved name of Philothea.



