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Philothea: A Grecian Romance

by Lydia Maria Child · English · Gutenberg #9982 · 448,664 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Philothea: A Grecian Romance

Author: Lydia Maria Child


        
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9982]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILOTHEA: A GRECIAN ROMANCE ***




Produced by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.









PHILOTHEA:

A Grecian Romance.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

AUTHOR OF LETTERS FROM NEW YORK, FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN, ETC




  The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
  The fair humanities of old religion,
  The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,
  That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain.
  Or forest by slow stream, or pabbly spring,
  Or chasms and watery depths, all these have vanished--
  They live no longer in the faith of Reason!
  But still, the heart doth need a language--still
  Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.
                                      COLERIDGE.

                               A Spirit hung,
  Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms,
  Statues, and temples, and memorial tombs,
  And _emanations_ were perceived.
                                      WORDSWORTH.


A NEW AND CORRECTED EDITION.




To

MY BELOVED BROTHER,

Dr. Francis,

OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY,

To whose Early Influence I owe my Love of Literature

THIS VOLUME

IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.




PREFACE


This volume is purely romance; and most readers will consider it romance
of the wildest kind. A few kindred spirits, prone to people space "with
life and mystical predominance," will perceive a light _within_ the
Grecian Temple.

For such I have written it. To minds of different mould, who may think
an apology necessary for what they will deem so utterly useless, I have
nothing better to offer than the simple fact that I found delight in
doing it.




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.
You

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