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.

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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, looking
modestly down upon the sparkling waters, as if awestricken
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.”

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

“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 endeavored 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,

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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 honor 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
themselves.”

“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
godlike 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

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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 reluc
tant homage to good,” replied Philaæmon; “she is ever
seeking to push it aside, with the hope that men may
become accustomed to her face, and find more beauty

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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

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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 Phœbus.”

“The accusation may be thus worded,” said Philæ
mon “but your real crime is that you stay away from
political assemblies, and are therefore suspected of
being unfriendly to democratic institutions. Demus
reluctantly admits that the right to hold such opinions
is an inherent part of liberty. Soothe the vanity of

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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

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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 Athena seems to have deserted her chosen
people. The proud Spartans openly laugh at our approaching
downfall, while the smooth Persians watch
for a favorable 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 favor 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 conquest; and seek to hide corruption in a
blaze of glory, as they concealed their frauds amid the
flames of the treasury.”

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“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
Demus.”

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 Philæ
mon.

“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

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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 own 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
irresponsiblity 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 honored 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

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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
rumors 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 labor; 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 neighbor, 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

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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

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of Amyclæ, who, having been called from their occupations,
by frequent rumors 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 a love of tyranny may prove an evil still
more dangerous to the state.”

“You speak justly, my father,” answered Philamon:
“The Athenian law, which condemns any man
for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbor's trade, is
most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of
her young equestrains 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 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;

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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 Ægean; 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 neighbor. 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.

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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 honorable 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 Phœbus. 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.

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

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
favorable 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 rumor, 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 lost hit right,
If the black pebbles don't execed the white,
You're safe.
Euripides.

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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 wellknown
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

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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 Phœbus, 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 Phœbus.”

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

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

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 rendered
Anaxagoras of Clazomenœ 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 ye 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

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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
fact, 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.

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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 Phœbus 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

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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 favor;
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.

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

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 fiftyone
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 favor
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 hushed, he continued: “If any
man believes that Athens has declined in beauty,

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

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 brothercitizens.
Who among you is disposed to grant to Pericles
one favor, 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 favor 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 cele
brated 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 Demus, 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

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

oracle. Being called before the people, he gave the
following account of his mission: “I abstained from
food until Phœbus 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 Phœbus 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 Pandamator
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 sea-shore—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

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

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 Pitho, 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 the Phœbus. We are told that Zeus
assumed the form of an eagle, a serpent and a golden
shower; yet those forms do not affect our belief in the
invisible god. If Phœbus 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

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

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 clamorous 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 favor 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

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the tempest is rising, 't is 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, Phœnicia, 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

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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 these 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
favorite of Aphrodite, Phœbus, 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

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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-humored 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 Panathenœa,—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

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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 Athena 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:

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

“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 Piræum, 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 humor their disease.
Your life must be saved; even if you reprove me for
the means. At midnight, a boat will be in readiness
to conduct you to Salamis, where lies a galley bound
for Ionia. I hasten to warn Phidias to depart speedily
for Elis.”

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

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

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

At midnight, Pericles came, to accompany Anaxagoras
to Salamis. They had been conversing much,
and singing their favorite songs together, for the last
time. The brow of the ambitious statesman became
clouded, when he observed that his son had been in
tears; he begged that preparations for departure might
be hastened. The young man followed them to the
Piræus; but Pericles requested him to go no further.
The restraint of his presence prevented any parting

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less formal than that of friendshlp. But he stood
watching the boat that conveyed them over the waters;
and when the last ripple left in its wake had disappeared,
he slowly returned to Athens.

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

CHAPTER XI.

“How I love the mellow sage,
Smiling through the veil of age!
Age is on his temples hung,
But his heart—his heart is young!”
Anacreon.

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

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

With a faint smile, Anaxagoras replied, “Alas for
unhappy Athens! If half we hear be true, her

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Euago of Lampsacus told me what course to pursue,”
he replied; “and not far distant I again asked
of a shepherd boy—well knowing that all the children

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would find out Anaxagoras as readily as bees are
guided to the flowers. As I approached nearer, I saw
at every step new tokens of my friends. The clepsydra,
in the little brook, dropping its pebbles to mark
the hours; the arytæna placed on the rock for thirsty
travellers; the door loaded with garlands placed there
by glad-hearted boys; the tablet covered with mathematical
lines, lying on the wooden bench, sheltered by
grape-vines trained in the Athenian fashion, with a
distaff among the foliage; all these spoke to me of
souls that unite the wisdom of age with the innocence
of childhood.”

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

“She is indeed unhappy Athens,” answered Plato.
“The pestilence is still raging; a manifested form of
that inward corruption, which, finding a home in the
will of man, clothed itself in thought, and now completes
its circle in his corporeal nature. The dream
at the cave of Amphiaraus is literally fulfilled. Men
fall down senseless in the street, and the Piræus has
been heaped with unburied dead. All the children of
Clinias are in the Place of Sleep. Hipparete is dead,
with two of her little ones. Pericles himself was one
of the first sufferers; but he was recovered by the skill
of Hippocrates, the learned physician from Cos. His

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former wife is dead, and so is Xanthippus his son.
You know that that proud young man and his extravagant
wife could never forgive the frugality of Pericles.
Even in his dying moments he refused to call him
father, and made no answer to his affectionate inquiries.
Pericles has borne all his misfortunes with the dignity
of an immortal. No one has seen him shed a tear, or
heard him utter a complaint. The ungrateful people
blame him for all their troubles, as if he had omnipotent
power to avert evils. Cleon and Tolmides are triumphant.
Pericles is deprived of office, and fined fifty
drachmæ.”

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

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

“One—and one only,” he replied. “The name
of Philothea was too deeply engraven to be washed
away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom speaks;

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but when he does, you are ever in his visions. The
sound of a female voice accompanying the lyre is the
only thing that makes him smile; and nothing moves
him to tears save the farewell song of Orpheus to
Eurydice. In his drawings there is more of majesty
and beauty than Phidias or Myron ever conceived;
and one figure is always there—the Pythia, the Muse,
the Grace, or something combining all these, more
spiritual than either.”

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

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

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

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

“Many in Athens have recovered health without
any memory of the images of things,” replied Plato;
“but I have known no other instance where recollections
of the ideal world remained more bright and
unimpaired than they possibly can be while disturbed

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by the presence of the visible. Tithonus formerly
told me of similar cases that occurred when the plague
raged in Ethiopia and Egypt; and Artaphernes says
he has seen a learned Magus, residing among the
mountains that overlook Taoces, who recovered from
the plague with a perpetual oblivion of all outward
forms, while he often had knowledge of the thoughts
passing in the minds of those around him. If an unknown
scroll were placed before him, he would read
it, though a brazen shield were interposed between
him and the parchment; and if figures were drawn on
the water, he at once recognized the forms, of which
no visible trace remained.”

“Marvellous, indeed, is the mystery of our being;”
exclaimed Anaxagoras.

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

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

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

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

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

Plato perceived his emotion, and answered, in a
soothing voice, “He has since been wedded to political
ambition, which never brought any man nearer to
his divine home; but Anaxagoras is not forgotten.
Pericles has of late often visited the shades of Academus,
where he has talked much of you and Philothea,

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and expressed earnest hopes that the gods would agaín
restore you to Athens, to bless him with your wise
counsels.”

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

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

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

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

“Under whose protection is Eudora placed?” inquired
Philothea.

“I have heard that she remains at the house where

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

“And where is the faithful Geta?” inquired Anaxagoras.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It has but given them more unbridled license,”
rejoined Plato. “Even when the unburied dead lay
heaped in piles, and the best of our equestrians were
gasping in the streets, robbers took possession of their
dwellings, drinking wine from their golden vessels,
and singing impure songs in the presence of their
household gods. Men seek to obtain oblivion of danger
by reducing themselves to the condition of beasts,

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which have no perception above the immediate wants
of the senses. All pursuits that serve to connect the
soul with the world whence it came are rejected.
The Odeum is shut; there is no more lecturing in the
porticos; the temples are entirely forsaken, and even
the Diasia are no longer observed. Some of the better
sort of citizens, weary of fruitless prayers and sacrifices
to Phœbus, Phœbe, Pallas, and the Erinnys, have
erected an altar to the Unknown God; and this altar
only is heaped with garlands, and branches of olive
twined with wool.”

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

“It is fear, unmingled with reverence, in the minds
of many,” replied the philosopher of Academus:
“They are not aware of the existence of truths which
do not depend on the will of the majority; nor can
they conceive of any principles of right and wrong
that may not be changed by vote of the Athenian
people. When health is restored, they will return to
the worship of forms, as readily as they changed from
Pericles to Cleon, and will again change from him to
Pericles.”

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

“In an ideal Atlantis,” replied the Athenian, smiling
in return; “or perchance in the fabled groves of
Argive Hera, where the wild beasts are tamed—the
deer and the wolf lie down together—and the weak

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animal finds refuge from his powerful pursuer. But
the principle of a republic is none the less true, because
mortals make themselves unworthy to receive it.
The best doctrines become the worst, when they are
used for evil purposes. Where a love of power is the
ruling object, the tendency is corruption; and the only
difference between Persia and Athens is, that in one
place power is received by birth, in the other obtained
by cunning.

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

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

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

“One could not exist without the other,” answered
Plato, “because where there is no ideal, there can
be no image. There are doubtless men in other parts
of the universe better than we are, because they stand
on a higher plane of existence, and approach nearer to
the idea of man. The celestial lion is intellectual, but
the sublunary irrational; for the former is nearer the
idea of a lion. The lower planes of existence receive
the influences of the higher, according to the purity

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and stillness of the will. If this be restless and turbid,
the waters from a pure fountain become corrupted, and
the corruption flows down to lower planes of existence,
until it at last manifests itself in corporeal forms. The
sympathy thus produced between things earthly and
celestial is the origin of imagination; by which men
have power to trace the images of supernal forms, invisible
to mortal eyes. Every man can be elevated to
a higher plane by quiescence of the will; and thus
may become a prophet. But none are perfect ones;
because all have a tendency to look downward to the
opinions of men in the same existence with themselves;
and this brings them upon a lower plane, where the
prophetic light glimmers and dies. The Pythia at
Delphi, and the priestess in Dodona, have been the
cause of very trifling benefits, when in a cautious, prudent
state; but when agitated by a divine mania, they
have produced many advantages, both public and private,
to the Greeks.”

The conversation was interrupted by the merry
shouts of children; and presently a troop of boys and
girls appeared, leading two lambs decked with garlands.
They were twin lambs of a ewe that had died;
and they had been trained to suck from a pipe placed
in a vessel of milk. This day for the first time, the
young ram had placed his budding horns under the
throat of his sister lamb, and pushed away her head,
that he might take possession of the pipe himself. The
children were greatly delighted with this exploit, and
hastened to exhibit it before their old friend Anaxagoras,
who always entered into their sports with a cheerful
heart. Philothea replenished the vessel of milk;
and the gambols of the young lambs, with the joyful
laughter of the children, diffused a universal spirit of

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gladness. One little girl filled the hands of the old
philosopher with tender leaves, that the beautifu
animals might come and eat; while another climbed
his knees, and put her little fingers on his venerable
head, saying, “Your hair is as white as the lamb's;
will Philothea spin it, father?”

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

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

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

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

Mibra was daily employed in fields not far distant,
to tend a neighbor's goats, and Philothea, wishing to
impart the welcome tidings, took up the shell with
which she was accustomed to summon her to her evening
labors. She was about to apply the shell to her
lips, when she perceived the young Arcadian standing
in the vine-covered arbor, with Geta; who had seized
her by each cheek, and was kissing her after the

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fashion of the Grecian peasantry. With a smile and a
blush, the maiden turned away hastily, lest the humble
lovers should perceive they were discovered.

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

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

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

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

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

“Pericles has provided an asylum for you, on the
borders of Attica,” answered Plato; “and the young
people would soon join you, after their marriage. He

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

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


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

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

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

The philosopher replied, “I have a sister Heliodora,
the youngest of my father's flock, who is Priestess of
the Sun, at Ephesus. Of all my family, she has least

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despised me for preferring philosophy to gold; and
report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked
and obtained from her a promise to protect Philothea
when I am gone; but I will tell my child the wishes
of Pericles, and leave her to the guidance of her own
heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will
be to him, as she has been to me a blessing like the
sunshine.”

CHAPTER XII.

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

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

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presented a zone, embroidered by her own skillful hands;
Anaxagoras bestowed a pair of sandals laced with
crimson; and Geta purchased a bridal robe of flaming
colors.

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

The old philosopher joined in the festivities, and in
the cheerfulness of his heart exerted himself beyond
his strength. Each succeeding day found him more
feeble; and Philothea soon perceived that the staff on
which she had leaned from her childhood was about to
be removed forever. On the twelfth day after Mibra's
wedding, he asked to be led into the open portico, that
he might enjoy the genial warmth. He gazed on the

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bright landscape, as if it had been the countenance of
a friend. Then looking upward, with a placid smile,
he said to Plato, “You tell me that Truth acts upon
the soul like the Sun upon the eye, when it turneth to
him. Would that I could be as easily and certainly
placed in the light of truth, as I have been in this
blessed sunshine! But in vain I seek to comprehend
the mystery of my being. All my thoughts on this
subject are dim and shadowy, as the ghosts seen by
Odysseus on the Stygian shore.”

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

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

“To me likewise they have sometimes appeared
doctrines too high and solemn to be taught,” rejoined
Plato: “Often when I have attempted to clothe them
in language, the airy forms have glided from me,
mocking me with their distant beauty. We are told
of Tantalus surrounded by water that flows away when
he attempts to taste it, and with delicious fruits above

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his head, carried off by a sudden wind whenever he
tries to seize them. It was his crime that, being admitted
to the assemblies of Olympus, he brought away
the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and gave them
unto mortals. Sometimes, when I have been led to
discourse of ideal beauty, with those who perceive only
the images of things, the remembrance of that unhappy
son of Zeus has awed me into silence.”

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

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

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

Geta had officiously brought a wooden bench for the
high-born guest; but he waited till his attendants had
opened the ivory seat, and covered it with crimson
cloth, before he seated himself, and replied: “Truly,
I had not expected to find the son of Hegesibulus in
so mean a habitation. No man would conjecture that
you were the descendant of princes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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