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Child, Lydia Maria Francis, 1802-1880 [1836], Philothea (Otis, Broaders & Co., Boston) [word count] [eaf046].
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Front matter Covers, Edges and Spine

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

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

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts
Abbott Press.
D. K.
Hitchcock, 9 Cornhill.

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[figure description] Preface.[end figure description]

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

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

The work has been four or five years in its
progress; for the practical tendencies of the age,
and particularly of the country in which I lived,
have so continually forced me into the actual, that
my mind has seldom obtained freedom to rise
into the ideal.

The hope of extended usefulness has hitherto
induced a strong effort to throw myself into the
spirit of the times; which is prone to neglect
beautiful and fragrant flowers, unless their roots

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answer for vegetables, and their leaves for herbs.
But there have been seasons when my soul felt
restless in this bondage,—like the Pegasus of
German fable, chained to a plodding ox, and offered
in the market; and as that rash steed, when he
caught a glimpse of the far blue sky, snapped the
chain that bound him, spread his wings, and left
the earth beneath him—so I, for a while, bid adieu
to the substantial fields of utility, to float on the
clouds of romance.

The state of mind produced by the alternation
of thoughts, in their nature so opposite, was oddly
pictured by the following dream, which came before
me in my sleep, with all the distinctness of reality,
soon after I began to write this work.

I dreamed that I arose early in the morning, and
went into my garden, eager to see if the crocus
had yet ventured to peep above the ground. To
my astonishment, that little spot, which the day
before had worn the dreary aspect of winter, was
now filled with flowers of every form and hue!
With enthusiastic joy I clapped my hands, and
called aloud to my husband to come and view the
wonders of the garden. He came; and we passed
from flower to flower, admiring their marvellous
beauty. Then, with a sudden bound, I said, “Now
come and see the sunshine on the water!”

We passed to the side of the house, where the
full sea presented itself, in all the radiance of
morning. And as we looked, lo! there appeared
a multitude of boats, with sails like the wings of

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butterflies—which now opened wide, and reposed
on the surface of the water; and now closed, like
the motions of weary insects in July;—and ever
as they moved, the gorgeous colors glittered in the

I exclaimed, “These must have come from
fairy land!” As I spoke, suddenly we saw among
the boats a multitude of statues, that seemed to be
endowed with life; some large and majestic, some
of beautiful feminine proportions, and an almost
infinite variety of lovely little cherubs. Some
were diving, some floating, and some undulating
on the surface of the sea; and ever as they rose up,
the water-drops glittered like gems on the pure
white marble.

We could find no words to express our rapture,
while gazing on a scene thus clothed with the
beauty of other worlds. As we stood absorbed in
the intensity of delight, I heard a noise behind me,
and turning round, saw an old woman with a
checked apron, who made an awkward courtesy,
and said, “Ma'am, I can't afford to let you have
that brisket for eight pence a pound.”

When I related this dream to my husband, he
smiled and said, “The first part of it was dreamed
by Philothea; the last, by the Frugal Housewife.”

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Main text

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

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

The white columns of the lofty Parthenon stood in
distinct relief against the clear blue sky; the crest and
spear of Pallas Promachos glittered in the refulgent
atmosphere, a beacon to the distant mariner; the line
of brazen tripods, leading from the Theatre of Dionysus,
glowed like urns of fire; and the waters of

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the Illyssus glanced right joyfully, as they moved
onward to the ocean. The earth was like a slumbering
babe, smiling in its sleep, because it dreams of

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

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

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

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

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For a few moments Philothea stood in earnest silence,
gazing upon the bright planet of evening—then, in a
tone of deep enthusiasm, she exclaimed: “It is a
night to feel the presence of the gods! Virgin sister
of Phœbus, how calm thou art in thy glorious beauty!
Thou art filling the world with music, silent to the ear,
but audible to the heart! Phidias has embodied the
unbreathing harmony in stone, and we worship the fair
proportions as an emanation from the gods. The birds
feel it—and wonder at the tune that makes no noise.
The whole earth is lulled by its influence. All is
motionless; save the Naiades of the stream, moving in
wreathed dance to the voiceless melody. See how
their shining hair sparkles on the surface of the waters!
Surely there is music in this light! Eudora, what is it
within us that listens where there is no sound? Is it
thus we shall hear in Elysium?”

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

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

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

After a few moments of serious silence, she continued:
“I saw it last night, for the first time since my

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a faint sigh, Philothea answered, “Had the
good old man preferred gold to wisdom, I should have
loved him less; nor would his instructions have made
me such a wife as Paralus deserves; yet Pericles

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would have better liked the union. He has obtained
from his son a solemn promise never to speak to me of
marriage. The precaution was unnecessary; for since
this new law has passed, I would not marry Paralus,
even with his father's consent. I would never be
the means of bringing degradation and losses upon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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profuse in their flattery and munificent in their gifts;
and Pericles so far yielded to her influence, that he
divorced his wife and married her.

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

Eudora was a mere infant when Phidias bought her
of a poor goatherd in Phelle. The child was sitting
upon a rock, caressing a kid, when the sculptor first
saw her, and the gracefulness of her attitude attracted
his attention, while her innocent beauty touched his

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heart. She and her nurse had been stolen from the
Ionian coast, by Greek pirates. The nurse was sold
into slavery, and the babe delivered by one of the
pirates to the care of his mother. The little creature,
in her lisping way, called herself baby Minta; and this
appellation she retained, until Phidias gave her the
name of Eudora.

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

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

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

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

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

In a few moments they were under the walls of the
Acropolis, walking in the shadow of the olive groves,
among god-like statues, to which the gathering

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obscurity of evening gave an impressive distinctness—
as if the light departing from the world, stood petrified
in marble.

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

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

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

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

Full of smiles, Aspasia rose and greeted Eudora,
with the ease and gracefulness of one long accustomed

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to homage; but when the venerable philosopher introduced
his child, she felt the simple purity emanating
from their characters, and something of embarrassment
mingled with her respectful salutation.

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

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

“But in a maiden it would be less seemly,” answered

Thus resisted, Aspasia appealed to Anaxagoras to
exert his authority; adding, in an audible whisper,

“Phidias has told me that she is as lovely as the immortals.”

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

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

-- 025 --

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 026 --

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

“When fiction is the robe of truth, I worship it for
what it covers,” replied Philothea; “but I love not
the degrading fables which poets have made concerning

-- 027 --

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

divine beings. Such were not the gods of Solon; for
such the wise and good can never be, in this world or

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

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

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

“Is there any other wisdom than true simplicity and
innocence?” asked the maiden.

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

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

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

“I crave pardon,” interrupted Aspasia, with haughty
impatience. “I should have remembered that the

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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

conversation prized by Pericles and Plato, might appear
contemptible, to this youthful Pallas, who so proudly
seeks to conceal her precious wisdom from ears profane.”

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

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

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

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

-- 029 --

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

Aspasia soon recovered her composure. “Philothea,”
she said, “you have spoken to me as no one
ever dared to speak; but my own heart has sometimes
uttered the truth less mildly. Yesterday I
learned the same lesson from a harsher voice. A
Corinthian sailor pointed at this house, and said,
`There dwells Aspasia, the courtezan, who makes her
wealth by the corruption of Athens!' My very blood
boiled in my veins, that such an one as he could give
me pain. It is true the illustrious Pericles has made
me his wife; but there are things which even his power,

-- 030 --

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

and my own allurements fail to procure. Ambitious
women do indeed come here to learn how to be distinguished;
and the vain come to study the fashion of my
garments, and the newest braid of my hair. But the
purest and best matrons of Greece refuse to be my
guests. You, Philothea, came reluctantly—and because
Pericles would have I so. Yes,” she added,
the tears again starting to her eyes—“I know the
price at which I purchase celebrity. Poets will sing
of me at feasts, and orators describe me at the games;
but what will that be to me, when I have gone into
the silent tomb? Like the lifeless guest at Egyptian
tables, Aspasia will be all unconscious of the garlands
she wears.

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

Soothingly, and almost tearfully, the maiden replied:
“No, lady; such were not the feelings which made
me say we could not be friends. It is because we
have chosen different paths; and paths that never approach
each other. What to you seem idle dreams,
are to me sublime realities, for which I would gladly
exchange all that you prize in existence. You live for
immortality in this world; I live for immortality in
another. The public voice is your oracle; I listen to

-- 031 --

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

the whisperings of the gods in the stillness of my own
heart; and never yet, dear lady, have those two oracles
spoken the same language.”

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

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

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

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

“Philothea,” she replied, “you have moved me
strangely. There is about you an influence that cannot
be resisted. It is like what Pindar says of music;
if it does not give delight, it is sure to agitate and oppress
the heart. From the first moment you spoke, I

-- 032 --

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

have felt this mysterious power. It is as if some
superior being led me back, even against my will, to
the days of my childhood, when I gathered acorns from
the ancient oak that shadows the fountain of Byblis,
or ran about on the banks of my own beloved Meander,
filling my robe with flowers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your message?” said Aspasia, with queenly

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

“We come directly,” she replied; and with another
low bow, the Byzantian closed the door.

Before a mirror of polished steel, supported by ivory
graces, Aspasia paused to adjust the folds of her robe,
and replace a curl that had strayed from its golden

-- 033 --

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

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

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

-- 034 --


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

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

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

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

-- 035 --

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

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

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

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

-- 036 --

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

uncovered and unornamented, save by broad bracelets
of gold, which formed a magnificent contrast with the
sable color of his vigorous and finely-proportioned

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

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

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

-- 037 --

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

-- 038 --

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

-- 039 --

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 040 --

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 041 --

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

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

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

“To day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
For death may come with brow unpleasant—
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us— drink no more!”

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

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

“Stranger, thou hast not yet learned the fashions of
Athens,” said Anaxagoras, gravely. “Our young
equestrians now busy themselves with carved chariots,
and Persian mantles of the newest mode. They vie

-- 042 --

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

with each other in costly wines; train doves to sho wer
luxuriant perfumes from their wings; and upon the
issue of a contest between fighting quails, they stake
sums large enough to endow a princess. To play upon
the silver-voiced flute is Theban-like and vulgar. They
leave that to their slaves.”

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

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

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

“I have visited the Temple of Poseidon, in the
Piræus,” observed Aspasia; “and I saw there a multitude
of offerings from those who had escaped ship-wreck.”
She paused slightly, and added, with a significant
smile, “but I perceived no paintings of those

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who had been wrecked, notwithstanding their supplications
to the god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have heard strangers express their surprise that
the Athenians have never erected a statue to the principle
of Modesty,” said Hermippus.

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

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

“The principles of the Persian religion are simple,
steady, and uniform,” replied Artaphernes; “but the
Athenian are always changing. You not only adopt
foreign gods, but sometimes create new ones, and
admit them into your theology by solemn act of the

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great council. These circumstances have led me to
suppose that you worship them as mere forms. The
Persian Magi do indeed prostrate themselves before
the rising Sun; but they do it in the name of Oromasdes,
the universal Principle of Good, of whom that
great luminary is the visible symbol. In our solemn
processions, the chariot sacred to Oromasdes
precedes the horse dedicated to Mithras; and there
is deep meaning in the arrangement. The Sun and
the Zodiac, the Balance and the Rule, are but emblems
of truths, mysterious and eternal. As the garlands
we throw on the sacred fire feed the flame, rather
than extinguish it, so the sublime symbols of our religion
are intended to preserve, not to conceal, the truths
within them.”

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

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

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

“Of course,” said Anaxagoras, “Alcibiades will go
directly to Elysium, though Solon groped his way in

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

“If Alcibiades spoke his real sentiments,” said

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Aspasia, “I venture to say he would tell us that the
mystic baskets of Demeter, covered with long purple
veils, contain nothing half so much worth seeing, as
the beautiful maidens who carry them.”

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

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

“Such, no doubt, is the tendency of all reflecting
minds,” said Phidias; “but in general, the mere forms
are worshipped, apart from the sacred truths they represent.
The gods we have introduced from Egypt are
regarded by the priests of that learned land as emblems
of certain divine truths brought down from ancient
times. They are like the Hermæ at our doors, which
outwardly appear to rest on inexpressive blocks of
stone; but when opened, they are found to contain
beautiful statues of the gods within them. It is not so
with the new fables which the Greeks are continually
mixing with their mythology. Pygmalion, as we all
know, first departed from the rigid outline of ancient

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sculpture, and impressed life and motion upon marble.
The poets, in praise of him, have told us that his ardent
wishes warmed a statue into a lovely and breathing
woman. The fable is fanciful and pleasing in itself;
but will it not hereafter be believed as reality? Might
not the same history be told of much that is believed?
It is true,” added he, smiling, “that I might be excused
for favoring a belief in images, since mortals are
ever willing to have their own works adored.”

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

The philosopher replied: “Within the holy mysteries
of our religion is preserved a pure and deep
meaning, as the waters of Arethusa flow uncontaminated
beneath the earth and the sea. I do not presume to
decide whether all that is believed has the inward significancy.
I have ever deemed such speculations unwise.
If the chaste daughter of Latona always appears
to my thoughts veiled in heavenly purity, it is comparatively
unimportant whether I can prove that Acteon
was torn by his dogs, for looking on the goddess with
wanton eyes. Anaxagoras said wisely that material
forms lead the contemplative mind to the worship of
ideal good, which is in its nature immortal and divine.
Homer tells us that the golden chain resting upon
Olympus reaches even to the earth. Here we see but
a few of the last links, and those imperfectly. We are
like men in a subterranean cave, so chained that they
can look only forward to the entrance. Far above and
behind us is a glowing fire: and beautiful beings, of
every form, are moving between the light and us poor
fettered mortals. Some of these bright beings are
speaking, and others are silent. We see only the
shadows cast on the opposite wall of the cavern, by the
reflection of the fire above; and if we hear the echo of

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voices, we suppose it belongs to those passing shadows.
The soul, in its present condition, is an exile from the
orb of light; its ignorance is forgetfulness; and whatever
we can perceive of truth, or imagine of beauty, is
but a reminiscence of our former more glorious state of
being. He who reverences the gods, and subdues his
own passions, returns at last to the blest condition from
which he fell. But to talk, or think, about these things
with proud impatience, or polluted morals, is like pouring
pure water into a miry trench; he who does it disturbs
the mud, and thus causes the clear water to become
defiled. When Odysseus removed his armor
from the walls, and carried it to an inner apartment,
invisible Pallas moved before him with her golden lamp,
and filled the place with radiance divine. Telemachus,
seeing the light, exclaimed, `Surely, my father, some
of the celestial gods are present.' With deep wisdom,
the king of Ithaca replied, `Be silent. Restrain your
intellect, and speak not.' ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is like a torch sending forth its last bright
blaze, before it is extinguished forever,” replied Anaxagoras,
calmly: “Where idle demagogues control the
revenues of industrious citizens, the government

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cannot long stand. It is a pyramid with the base uppermost.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nay, Pericles,” replied the old man, earnestly;
“if society be a tumultuous ocean, government should
be its everlasting shores. If the statesman watches
wind and tide only that his own bark may ride through
the storm in safety, while every fresh wave sweeps a

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landmark away, it is evident that, sooner or later, the
deluge must come.”

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

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

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

“The beauty that lies within has ever a mysterious

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll wreath my sword with myrtle, as brave Harmodius did,
And as Aristogeiton his avenging weapon hid;
When they slew the haughty tyrant and regained our liberty,
And, breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free.
“Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not surely dead,
But to some secluded sanctuary far away art fled;
With the swift-footed Achilleus, unmolested there to rest,
And to rove with Diomedes through the islands of the blest.
“I'll wreath my sword with myrtle, as Aristogeiton did,
And as the brave Harmodius his avenging weapon hid;
When on Athenæ's festival they aimed the glorius blow,
And calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low.
“Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages still shall brighten,
Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton;
Because your country's champions ye nobly dared to be,
And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently, the music, more slow and measured in
its cadence, announced the dance of Ariadne guiding
her lover from the Labyrinth. In obedience to a
signal from Aspasia, Eudora sprang forward to hold
the silken cord, and Alcibiades darted forward to perform
the part of Theseus. Slowly, but gracefully as
birds balancing themselves on the air, the maidens
went through the difficult involutions of the dance.
They smiled on each other, as they passed and repassed;
and though Eudora's veil concealed the expression
of her features, Philothea observed, with an

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undefined feeling of apprehension, that she showed no
tokens of displeasure at the brief whispers and frequent
glances of Alcibiades.

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

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

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

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

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

-- 058 --


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

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

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

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

“He was sleeping on my mantle,” said the petulant

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

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

The peevish maiden slowly untied her sandal, without
making any reply. Philothea's voice trembled

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slightly, as she added, “Good night, Eudora. Tomorrow
I hope you will tell me how I have offended you.”

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

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

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

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sight of that Athenian emblem! I would walk to the
fields of Acharnæ, on purpose to crush a grasshopper.”

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

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

“Dearest Eudora,” said Philothea, “how can you
make yourself so unhappy on this subject? Was not

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Phidias, from the first hour he bought you, allowed you
all the privileges of a daughter?”

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

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

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

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

“She did mean it,” replied Eudora, with angry emphasis:
“She is always describing her pompous

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sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am excluded
from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud
heart humbled.”

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

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

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

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

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

The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's

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quick feelings; and she said, in a humble tone, “I
know I am doing wrong, Philothea; but I cannot help

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am aware that your marriage with Philæmon
has only awaited the termination of these unfortunate

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law-suits,” replied Philothea: “Though he is not rich,
it cannot be very long before he is able to take you
under his protection; and as soon as he has the power,
he will have the disposition.”

“Will he indeed!” exclaimed Eudora; and she
trotted her little foot impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why don't you say of my master?” interrupted
Eudora, contemptuously.

Without noticing the peevishness of this remark,
her friend continued: “Are you quite sure that you
have not been more frequently than you would have

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been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience
to the will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philæ
mon is offended at your dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly
a practice, so boldly at variance with the customs
of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You!” exclaimed her companion: “Where could

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he find opportunity to address such language to

“Where a better man would have had better
thoughts,” replied Philothea: “It was during the
sacred festival of the Panathenaia. A short time before
midnight it was my duty to receive the sacred basket
from the hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the
cave, beneath the Temple of Urania, in the gardens.
Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended me, carrying
a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I
held the torch while she took up the other sacred
basket, which was there in readiness to be conveyed
to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the
gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple,
so clear and strong, that I could distinctly see the
sacred doves, among the multitude of fragrant roses—
some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others fluttering
from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles,
frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the
centre of the gardens, stood Myron's statue of the
heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her temple by a
garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression
of the human soul, when it dwells in love and
peace. In this holy atmosphere we paused for a moment
in silent reverence. A smiling band of infant
hours came clustering round my memory, and softly
folded themselves about my heart. I thought of those
early days, when, hand in hand with Paralus, I walked
forth in the spring-time, welcoming the swallows to our
shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees.
We did not then know that bees and young hearts need
none to take thought for their joy, but best gather their
own sweet nourishment in sunlight and freedom. I
remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to

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my care. When we dressed the little creature in
wreaths, we mourned that flowers would not grow in
garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts to see
them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered
rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus
took one of them in his hand; and when we had admired
its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and returned
it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring
of a heart brimfull of love for all things pure and simple.
Paralus ever lived in affectionate communion
with the birds and the flowers. Firm in principle, but
gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in whose
bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so
motherly and safe, where she might brood over her
young hopes in quiet joy.”

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

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

“Philothea!” she exclaimed, abruptly, “You have
not told me where you met Alcibiades?”

The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant
startled from sweet dreams by some rude noise. Recovering
from her surprise, she smiled, and said,
“Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected
and unwelcome presence in the sacred gardens.
I told you that we stood by that quiet lake in meek
reverence; worshipping,—not the marble image before
us,—but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through

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the universe, breathing the invisible through visible
forms, in such mysterious harmony. Suddenly Eucoline
touched my arm with a quick and timid motion. I
turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us.
Our veils, which had been thrown back while we looked
at the statue, were instantly dropped; and we hastily
retraced our steps. The stranger followed us, until we
passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight
of the Propylæa. He then knelt, and attempting to
hold me by the robe, poured forth the wildest protestations
of love. I called aloud for protection; and my
voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in
and out of the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the
festival. The young man suddenly disappeared; but
he was one of the equestrians, that shared in the solemnities
of the night, and I again saw him as I took
my place in the procession. I had then never seen
Alcibiades; but when I met him to-night, I immediately
recognized the stranger, who spoke so rudely in the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something within impelled me,” replied Philothea,
reverently;— “I did not speak from myself.”

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

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

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

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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

“More happy than the gods is he,
Who soft-reclining sits by thee;
His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,

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His eyes thy sweetly-dimpled smiles.
This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,
And robbed me of my golden rest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I know you seldom like the comic writers. What did
you think of Hermippus?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 075 --


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

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

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

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

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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

Anaxagoras was extremely attached to his lovely
grandchild; and her great intellectual gifts, accompanied
as they were by uncommon purity of character,
had procured from him and his friends a degree of respect
not usually bestowed upon women of that period.
She was a most welcome auditor to the philosophers,
poets, and artists, who were ever fond of gathering
round the good old man; and when it was either
necessary or proper to remain in her own apartment,

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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

there was the treasured wisdom of Thales, Pythagoras,
Hesiod, Homer, Simonides, Ibycus, and Pindar.
More than one of these precious volumes were transcribed
entirely by her own hand.

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

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

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

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

-- 078 --

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regretted it because it lessened her power of doing good
where she was most desirous to be useful.

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

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

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

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

The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms,
and with low obeisance presented it to Philothea. It
was a small statue of Urania, wrought in ivory and

-- 079 --

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if regarding
the heavens with quiet contemplation. A
crown of golden planets encircled the head, and the
scarf, enameled with deep and vivid azure, likewise
glowed with stars.

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

“Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for
the gods, than mere marble and gold,” replied the

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

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

At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment
for the night. The maiden refused, under the
pretext of illness; but when her friend offered to

-- 080 --

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remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be
much better alone.

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

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

“Was that all Geta talked of?” said Philothea.

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

“And what did you tell him?” inquired the maiden.

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

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

The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding
night had been quite at variance with the tranquil regularity
of Philothea's habits; and the slight repose,

-- 081 --

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been
disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that
Paralus was with him, and wished to see her a few
moments, before they went out to the Pyræum together.
Being therefore unusually weary, both in
body and mind, the maiden early retired to her couch;
and with mingled thoughts of her lover and her friend,
she soon fell into a profound sleep.

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

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

Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful
to realize that it was all a dream, she murmured a

-- 082 --

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

brief prayer, turned upon her couch, and soon yielded
to the influence of extreme drowsiness.

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

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

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

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

-- 083 --

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of
sleep. Again and again she looked out anxiously.
All was hushed and motionless. The garden reposed

-- 084 --

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

in the moonbeams, like truths—which receive no
warmth from the heart—seen only in the clear, cold
light of reason. The plants were visible, but colorless;
and the statues stood immovable in their silent,
lifeless beauty.

-- 085 --


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

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

-- 086 --

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

Eudora persevered in silence, but her agitation
obviously increased.

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

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

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

She looked earnestly in Eudora's face for a moment,
and perceiving that her feelings were somewhat softened,
she added, “I will not again ask whether the
meeting of last night was an appointed one; for you

-- 087 --

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

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

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

“Has he then made you believe that he would divorce

“Yes—he has solemnly sworn it. Such a transaction
would have nothing remarkable in it. Each
revolving moon sees similar events occur in Athens.
The wife of Pericles had a destiny like that of her
namesake; of whom the poets write that she was

-- 088 --

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

beloved for awhile by Olympian Zeus, and afterward
changed into a quail. Pericles promised Aspasia that
he would divorce Asteria and marry her; and he has
kept his word. Hipparete is not so very beautiful or
gifted, as to make it improbable that Alcibiades might
follow his example.”

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

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

“I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness,
when he wishes to purchase popularity by lavish expenditure,”
replied Philothea. “But Alcibiades has
found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy
with drachmæ, what he can so easily obtain by flattery.
Your own heart, I believe, is not really touched. Your
imagination is dazzled with his splendid chariots of
ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian
horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden
armor which he loves to display at festivals; his richlycolored
garments, fresh from the looms of Sardis, and
redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are proud
of his notice, because you see that other maidens are

-- 089 --

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

flattered by it; because his statue stands among the
Olympionicæ, in the sacred groves of Zeus, and because
all Athens rings with the praises of his beauty, his
gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity.”

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

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

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

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

Eudora answered, in an angry tone, “I love

-- 090 --

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

“Is the kid yours, Mibra?” she asked, with an affectionate

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

Philothea had drank freely from those abundant
fountains of joy in the human soul, which remain hidden
till love reveals their existence, as secret springs are

-- 091 --

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

said to be discovered by a magic wand. With affectionate
sympathy she placed her hand gently on Mibra's
head, and said, “Be good—and the gods will ever
provide friends for you.”

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

-- 092 --


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

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

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

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

“I have not heard the rumors whereof you speak,”
replied Philothea. “What is it, my father?”

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

-- 093 --

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

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

The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon
her hand, and asked whether it was Hipparete's appeal

-- 094 --

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

to the archons that had so suddenly convinced her of
the falsehood of Alcibiades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- 095 --

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion,
and her joy that the real character of the graceful
hypocrite had so soon been made manifest. Her
thoughts turned towards Philæmon; but certain

-- 096 --

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They
were both silent for a few moments; and Eudora's
countenance was troubled. She looked up earnestly
in her friend's face, but instantly turned away her eyes,
and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and
timid voice, “Do you think Philæmon can ever love
me again?”

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

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

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

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

-- 097 --


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

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

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

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

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

Philothea spoke in a mild, but firm voice: “Son of
Charmides, by the friendship of my father, I conjure

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you do not require me to forsake Eudora in this hour
of great distress.”

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

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

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

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

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

After a short silence, Phidias spoke: “Eudora,
when I called you hither, it was with the determination
of sending you to the temple of Castor and Polydeuces,

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

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

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

In a voice tremulous with emotion, the young man
said, “Eudora, notwithstanding the bitter recollection
of where I last saw you, I have earnestly wished to
see you once more—to hear from your own lips
whether the interview I witnessed in the garden was by
your own appointment. Although many things in your

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late conduct have surprised and grieved me, I am
slow to believe that you could have taken a step so
unmaidenly; particularly at this time, when it has
pleased the gods to load me with misfortunes. By the
affection I once cherished, I entreat you to tell me
whether that meeting was unexpected.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

-- 102 --


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.

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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.”

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“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

“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

“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

“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

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

“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

“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

“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,

“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

“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.

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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.”

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Courage, Orestes! if the lost hit right,
If the black pebbles don't execed the white,
You're safe.

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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

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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

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

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.

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[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

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,

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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

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

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[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

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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

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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

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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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

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“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

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

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.

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“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!”

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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

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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

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

“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

“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

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

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

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.”

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

“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

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

“Under whose protection is Eudora placed?” inquired

“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

“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

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

“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

-- 155 --


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

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

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

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

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

“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

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

“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

“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

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

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

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

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

Anaxagoras invited his royal guest to share a philosopher's
repast, to which he promised should be
added a goblet of wine, lately sent from Lampsacus.
The prince courteously accepted his invitation; and
the kind old man, wearied with the exertions he had
made, was borne to his couch in an inner apartment.

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When Plato had assisted Philothea and Mibra in
arranging his pillows, and folding the robe about his
feet, he returned to the portico. Philothea supposed
the stranger was about to follow him; and without
raising her head, as she bent over her grandfather's
couch, she said: “He is feeble, and needs repose. In
the days of his strength he would not have thus left
you to the courtesy of our Athenian guest.”

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

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

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

“Would you not like to be buried with regal honor,
in your native Clazomenæ?” inquired the prince.

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

“And what monument would you have reared to
mark the spot where Anaxagoras sleeps?” said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here he entered into conversation with Plato; and

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

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

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

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

When these words were repeated to Chrysippus, he

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exclaimed impatiently, “Curse on the folly which
philosophers dignify with the name of wisdom!”

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

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

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

“That contains the spirit of all prayer,” said the
old philosopher. “And now, Plato, go to thy rest;
and I will go to mine. Very pleasant have thy words
been to me. Even like the murmuring of fountains in
a parched and sandy desert.”

When left alone with his grandchild and Mibra, the
invalid still seemed unusually excited, and his eyes
shone with unwonted brightness. Again he recurred

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to his early years, and talked fondly of his wife and
children. He dwelt on the childhood of Philothea with
peculiar pleasure. “Often, very often,” said he,
“thy infant smiles and artless speech led my soul to
divine things; when, without thee, the link would have
been broken, and the communication lost.”

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

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

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

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

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

A lock of grey hair suspended on the door, and a

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

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

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

Aglaonice, wife of Euago, likewise urged the orphan,
in the most affectionate manner, to return with them to
Lampsacus, and there await the departure of the galley.
Philothea acknowledged the propriety of removal,
and felt deeply thankful for the protecting influence
of her friends. The simple household furniture
was given to Mibra; her own wardrobe, with many

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little things that had become dear to her, were deposited
in the chariot of Euago; the weeping villagers
had taken an affectionate farewell; and sacrifices to
the gods had been offered on the altar in front of the

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

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

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

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

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

The day of departure at length arrived. All along
the shore might be seen smoke rising from the altars
of Poseidon, Æolus, Castor, and Polydeuces and the

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

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

When they alighted, Philothea timidly, but ear
nestly, asked to see Paralus without delay. Their
long-cherished affection, the full communion of soul

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they had enjoyed together, and the peculiar visitation
which now rested on him, all combined to make her
forgetful of ceremony.

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

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

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

With looks full of beaming affection, the invalid
continued: “And now, Philothea, we will again walk

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to that pleasant place, where we went when you finished
the song.”

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

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

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

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

The silence remained unbroken, until Paralus asked
for music. A cithara being brought, Philothea played
one of his favorite songs, accompanied by her voice.

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The well-remembered sounds seemed to fill him with
joy beyond his power to express; and again his anxious
parent cherished the hope that reason would be
fully restored.

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

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

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

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

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

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the restoration of his precious health. Under these
circumstances, it was deemed best that the marriage
should take place immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At an early hour, Philothea went to the apartment
prepared for her in the home of her childhood. Phœ
narete preceded her with a lighted torch, and her
female attendants followed, accompanied by young
Pericles, bearing on his head a vase of water from the
Fountain of Callirhöe, with which custom required

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that the bride's feet should be bathed. Music was
heard until a late hour, and epithalamia were again
resumed with the morning light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philothea sighed deeply, as she listened to the proposition;
for she had faith only in the healing power of
perfect quiet, and the free communion of congenial
souls. She yielded to the opinion of Pericles with

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characteristic humility; but the despondency of her
tones did not pass unobserved.

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

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

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

-- 179 --


Iphegenia.—Absent so long, with joy I look on thee.
Agamemnon.—And I on thee; so this is mutual joy.

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

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

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

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

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

The travellers descended from their chariots to rest
under the shadow of the lofty plane trees, and refresh
themselves with a draught from the fountain. The
public road was thronged with people on their way to
Olympia. Most of them drove with renewed eagerness
to enter Corinth before the evening twilight; for nearly
all travellers made it a point to visit the remarkable
scenes in this splendid and voluptuous city, the Paris
of the ancient world. A few were attracted by the
cool murmuring of the waters, and turned aside to the
fountain of Poseidon. Among these was Artaphernes
the Persian, who greeted Pericles, and made known
his friend Orsames, lately arrived from Ecbatana. The
stranger said he had with him a parcel for Anaxagoras;
and inquired whether any tidings of that philosopher
had been lately received in Athens. Pericles informed
them of the death of the good old man, and mentioned
that his grand-daughter, accompanied by her husband
and attendants, was then in a retired part of the grove.
The Persian took from his chariot a roll of parchment
and a small box, and placed them in the hands of Geta,
to be conveyed to Philothea. The tears came to her
eyes, when she discovered that it was a friendly epistle
from Philæmon to his beloved old master. It appeared
to have been written soon after he heard of his exile,
and was accompanied by a gift of four minæ. His
own situation was described as happy as it could be in
a foreign land. His time was principally employed in
instructing the sons of the wealthy satrap, Megabyzus;

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a situation which he owed to the friendly recommendation
of Artaphernes. At the close, after many remarks
concerning the politics of Athens, he expressed a wish
to be informed of Eudora's fate, and an earnest hope
that she was not beyond the reach of Philothea's influence.

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

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

Thence the travellers passed into the broad and
goodly plains of Elis; protected from the spoiler by

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its sacred character, as the seat of the Olympic Games.
In some places, troops of women might be seen in the
distance, washing garments in the river Alpheus, and
spreading them out to whiten in the sun. Fertility
rewarded the labors of the husbandmen, and the smiling
fields yielded pasturage to numerous horses, which
Phœbus himself might have prized for strength, fleetness,
and majestic beauty.

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

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

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

Her heart beat tumultuously when she saw Hylax

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

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

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

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

“Dearest Philothea!” she exclaimed, “I thought
you were still in Ionia; and I never expected to see
you again; and now you have come, my heart is so

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

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

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

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

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

Eudora sighed, as she answered, “It is even so.
But I know not where you could have learned it; for
you have ever seemed to live in a region above darkness
and storms. Earth has left no shadow on your

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countenance. It expresses the same transparent innocence,
the same mild love. A light not of this world
is gleaming there; and it has grown brighter and
clearer since we parted. I could almost believe that
you accompany Hera to the Fountain of Canathus,
where it is said she every year bathes to restore her
infant purity.”

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

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

Philothea smiled, as she replied, “I believe it is the
only case in which that affectionate creature thinks of
herself, before she thinks of me; but Geta is to her an
object of more importance than all the world beside.
When we were in Ionia, I often found her whispering
magical words, while she turned the seive and shears,
to ascertain whether her lover were faithful to his
vows. I could not find it in my heart to reprove her
fond credulity;—for I believe this proneness to wander
beyond the narrow limits of the visible world is a
glimmering reminiscence of parentage divine; and
though in Mibra's untutored mind the mysterious

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[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

impulse takes an inglorious form, I dare not deride what
the wisest soul can neither banish nor comprehend.”

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

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

“And do you think Tithonus can restore him?” inquired

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what did Pandænus say to the wishes of his
uncle,” asked Philothea.

Eudora blushed slightly as she answered, “He tried
to convince me that we should all be happier, if I
would consent to the arrangement. I could not believe
this; and Pandænus was too proud to repeat his

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[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

solicitations to a reluctant listener. I seldom see him;
but when there is opportunity to do me service, he is
very kind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Eudora stood leaning on her shoulder, Philothea,
struck with the contrast in their figures, said:
“When you were in Athens, we called you the
Zephyr; and surely you are thinner now than you

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were then. I fear your health suffers from the anxiety
of your mind. “See!” continued she, turning towards
the mirror—“See what a contrast there is between

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

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

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

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

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

Eudora involuntarily shuddered at the omen conveyed
in her childish words; but gave permission to
carry her offering to the Athenian lady, if she would
promise to step very softly, and speak in whispers.

Philothea received the flowers thankfully, and placed
them in vases near her husband's couch; for she still
fondly hoped to win back the wandering soul by the
presence of things peaceful, pure and beautiful. She

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caressed the innocent little one, and tried to induce
her to remain a few minutes; but the child seemed
uneasy, as if in the presence of something that inspired
fear. She returned to Eudora with a very thoughtful
countenance; and though she often gathered flowers
for “the tall infant,” as she called Paralus, she could
never after be persuaded to enter his apartment.

-- 191 --


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

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Philothea to Philæmon, greeting:

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

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

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

I am now the wife of Paralus; and Pericles has
brought us into the neighborhood of Olympia, seeking
medical aid for my husband, not yet recovered from
the effects of the plague. Pure and blameless, Paralus
has ever been—with a mind richly endowed by the
gods; and all this thou well knowest. Yet he is as
one that dies while he lives; though not altogether as

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one unbeloved by divine beings. Wonderful are the
accounts he brings of that far-off world where his spirit
wanders. Sometimes I listen with fear, till all philosophy
seems dim, and I shrink from the mystery of our
being. When they do not disturb him with earthly
medicines, he is quiet and happy. Waking, he speaks
of things clothed in heavenly splendor; and in his
sleep, he smiles like a child whose dreams are pleasant.
I think this blessing comes from the Divine, by
reason of the innocence of his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before the hour of noon, Hylax gave notice of approaching
strangers, who proved to be Pericles and
Plato, attended by Tithonus. The young wife received
them courteously, though a sudden sensation of dread
ran through her veins with icy coldness. It was agreed

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that none but herself, Pericles, and Plato, should be
present with Tithonus; and that profound silence should
be observed. Preparation was made by offering solemn
sacrifices to Phœbus, Hermes, Hecate, and Persephone;
and Philothea inwardly prayed to that Divine
Principle, revealed to her only by the monitions of his
spirit in the stillness of her will.

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

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

“The second time, I whispered, `Lo, the soul seeketh
to ascend!' And the third time I said, `Behold the

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winged separates from that which hath no wings.'
When life returns, Paralus will have remembrance of
these words.”

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

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

When the first gush of emotion had subsided, she
said, in a soft, low voice, “Where have you been,
dear Paralus?” The invalid answered: “A thick vapor
enveloped me, as with a dark cloud; and a stunning
noise pained my head with its violence. A voice
said to me, `The human soul is guided by two horses.
One white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and
wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the
other is black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone
to lie down upon the earth.' Then the darkness began
to clear away. But there was strange confusion. All
things seemed rapidly to interchange their colors and
their forms—the sound of a storm was in mine ears—
the elements and the stars seemed to crowd upon me—
and my breath was taken away. Then I heard a
voice, saying, `Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!' And

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I looked and saw the chariot and horses, of which the
voice had spoken. The beautiful white horse gazed
upward, and tossed his mane, and spread his wings
impatiently; but the black horse slept upon the ground.
The voice again said, `Behold the winged separates
from that which hath no wings!' And suddenly the
chariot ascended, and I saw the white horse on light
fleecy clouds, in a far blue sky. Then I heard a
pleasing, silent sound—as if dew-drops made music
as they fell. I breathed freely, and my form seemed
to expand itself with buoyant life. All at once, I was
floating in the air, above a quiet lake, where reposed
seven beautiful islands, full of the sound of harps; and
Philothea slept at my side, with a garland on her head.
I asked, `Is this the divine home, whence I departed
into the body?' And a voice above my head answered
`It is the divine home. Man never leaves it. He
ceases to perceive.' Afterward, I looked downward,
and saw my dead body lying on a couch. Then again
there came strange confusion—and a painful clashing
of sounds—and all things rushing together. But Philothea
took my hand, and spoke to me in gentle tones,
and the discord ceased.”

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

While Paralus revealed his vision, his father's soul
was filled with reverence and fear, and he breathed
with a continual consciousness of supernatural

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presence. When his feelings became somewhat composed,
he leaned over the couch, and spoke a few affectionate
words to his son; but the invalid turned away his head,
as if disturbed by the presence of a stranger. The
spirit of the strong man was moved, and he trembled
like a leaf shaken by the wind. Unable to endure this
disappointment of his excited hopes, he turned away
hastily, and sought to conceal his grief in solitude.

During the whole of the ensuing day, Paralus continued
in a deep sleep. This was followed by silent
cheerfulness, which, flowing as it did from a hidden
source, had something solemn and impressive in its
character. It was sad, yet pleasant, to see his look
of utter desolation whenever he lost sight of Philothea;
and the sudden gleam of joy that illumined his
whole face the moment she re-appeared.

The young wife sat by his side hour after hour with
patient love; often cheering him with her soft, rich
voice, or playing upon the lyre he had fashioned for
her in happier days. She found a sweet reward in
the assurance given by all his friends, that her presence
had a healing power they had elsewhere sought
in vain. She endeavored to pour balm into the
wounded heart of Pericles, and could she have seen
him willing to wait the event with perfect resignation,
her contentment would have been not unmingled with

She wept in secret when she heard him express a
wish to have Paralus carried to the games, to try the
effect of a sudden excitement; for there seemed to her
something of cruelty in thus disturbing the tranquillity
of one so gentle and so helpless. But the idea had
been suggested by a learned physician of Chios, and
Pericles seemed reluctant to return to Athens without

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trying this experiment also. Philothea found it more
difficult to consent to the required sacrifice, because
the laws of the country made it impossible to accompany
her beloved husband to Olympia; but she suppressed
her feelings; and the painfulness of the struggle
was never fully confessed, even to Eudora.

While the invalid slept, he was carefully conveyed
in a litter, and placed in the vicinity of the Hippodrome.
He awoke in the midst of a gorgeous spectacle.
Long lines of splendid chariots were ranged on
either side of the barrier; the horses proudly pawed
the ground, and neighed impatiently; the bright sun
glanced on glittering armor; and the shouts of the
charioteers were heard high above the busy hum of
that vast multitude.

Paralus instantly closed his eyes, as if dazzled by
the glare; and an expression of painful bewilderment
rested on his countenance.

In the midst of the barrier stood an altar, on the top
which was a brazen eagle. When the lists were in
readiness, the majestic bird arose and spread its
wings, with a whirring noise, as a signal for the
racers to begin. Then was heard the clattering of
hoofs, and the rushing of wheels, as when armies meet
in battle. A young Messenian was, for a time, foremost
in the race; but his horse took fright at the altar
of Taraxippus—his chariot was overthrown—and Alcibiades
gained the prize. The vanquished youth uttered
a loud and piercing shriek, as the horses passed
over him; and Paralus fell senseless in his father's

It was never known whether this effect was produced
by the presence of a multitude, by shrill and discordant
sounds, or by returning recollection, too

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powerful for his enfeebled frame. He was tenderly carried
from the crowd, and restoratives having been applied,
in vain, the melancholy burden was slowly and carefully
conveyed to her who so anxiously awaited his

During his absence, Philothea had earnestly prayed
for the preservation of a life so precious to her; and
as the time of return drew near, she walked in the
fields, accompanied by Eudora and Mibra, eager to
catch the first glimpse of his father's chariot.

She read sad tidings in the gloomy countenance of
Pericles, before she beheld the lifeless form of her

Cautiously and tenderly as the truth was revealed
to her, she became dizzy and pale, with the suddenness
of the shock. Pericles endeavored to soothe her with
all the sympathy of parental love, mingled with deep
feelings of contrition, that his restless anxiety had thus
brought ruin into her paradise of peace: and Plato
spoke gentle words of consolation; reminding her
that every soul, which philosophized sincerely and
loved beautiful forms, was restored to the full vigor of
its wings, and soared to the blest condition from which
it fell.

They laid Paralus upon a couch, with the belief that
he slept to wake no more. But as Philothea bent over
him, she perceived a faint pulsation of the heart.
Her pale features were flushed with joy, as she exclaimed,
“He lives! He will speak to me again!
Oh, I could die in peace, if I might once more hear
his voice, as I heard it in former years.”

She bathed his head with cool perfumed waters, and
watched him with love that knew no weariness.

Proclus and Melissa deemed he had fallen by the

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dart of Phœbus Apollo; and fearing the god was angry
for some unknown cause, they suspended branches
of rhamn and laurel on the doors, to keep off evil

For three days and three nights, Paralus remained
in complete oblivion. On the morning of the fourth, a
pleasant change was observed in his countenance; and
he sometimes smiled so sweetly, and so rationally, that
his friends still dared to hope his health might be fully

At noon, he awoke; and looking at his wife with an
expression full of tenderness, said: “Dearest Philothea,
you are with me. I saw you no more, after the
gate had closed. I believe it must have been a dream;
but it was very distinct.” He glanced around the
room, as if his recollections were confused; but his
eyes no longer retained the fixed and awful expression
of one who walks in his sleep.

Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, he continued:
“It could not be a dream. I was in the temple of the
most ancient god. The roof was heaven's pure gold,
which seemed to have a light within it, like the splendor
of the sun. All around the temple were gardens
full of bloom. I heard soft, murmuring sounds, like
the cooing of doves; and I saw the immortal Oreades
and the Naiades pouring water from golden urns.
Anaxagoras stood beside me; and he said we were
living in the age of innocence, when mortals could
gaze on divine beings unveiled, and yet preserve their
reason. They spoke another language than the Greeks;
but we had no need to learn it; we seemed to breathe
it in the air. The Oreades had music written on
scrolls, in all the colors of the rainbow. When I
asked the meaning of this, they showed me a triangle.

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At the top was crimson, at the right hand blue, and at
the left hand yellow. And they said, `Know ye not
that all life is threefold?' It was a dark saying; but
I then thought I faintly comprehended what Pythagoras
has written concerning the mysterious signification of
One and Three. Many other things I saw and heard,
but was forbidden to relate. The gate of the temple
was an arch, supported by two figures with heavy drapery,
eyes closed, and arms folded. They told me
these were Sleep and Death. Over the gate was written
in large letters, `The Entrance of Mortals.' Beyond
it, I saw you standing with outstretched arms, as
if you sought to come to me, but could not. The air
was filled with voices, that sung:

Come! join thy kindred spirit, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain—
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

I tried to meet you; but as I passed through the
gate, a cold air blew upon me, and all beyond was in
the glimmering darkness of twilight. I would have
returned, but the gate had closed; and I heard behind
me the sound of harps and of voices, singing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!”

Philothea kissed his hand, and her face beamed with
joy. She had earnestly desired some promise of their
future union; and now she felt the prayer was answered.

“Could it be a dream?” said Paralus: “Methinks I
hear the music now.”

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Philothea smiled affectionately, as she replied:
“When sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain.”

As she gazed upon him, she observed that the supernatural
expression of his eyes had changed; and
that his countenance now wore its familiar, household
smile. Still she feared to cherish the hope springing in
her heart, until he looked toward the place where her
attendant sat, motionless and silent, and said, “Mibra,
will you bring me the lyre?”

The affectionate peasant looked earnestly at Philothea,
and wept as she placed it in his hand.

Making an effort to rise, he seemed surprised at his
own weakness. They gently raised him, bolstered him
with pillows, and told him he had long been ill.

“I have not known it,” he replied. “It seems to
me I have returned from a far country.”

He touched the lyre, and easily recalled the tune
which he said he had learned in the Land of Dreams.
It was a wild, unearthly strain, with sounds of solemn
gladness, that deeply affected Philothea's soul.

Pericles had not visited his son since his return to
perfect consciousness. When he came, Paralus looked
upon him with a smile of recognition, and said, “My

Mibra had been sent to call the heart-stricken parent,
and prepare him for some favorable change; but when
he heard those welcome words, he dropped suddenly
upon his knees, buried his face in the drapery of the
couch, and his whole frame shook with emotion.

The invalid continued: “They tell me I have been
very ill, dear father; but it appears to me that I have
only travelled. I have seen Anaxagoras often—Plato
sometimes—and Philothea almost constantly; but I
have never seen you since I thought you were dying
of the plague at Athens,”

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Pericles replied, “You have indeed been ill, my son.
You are to me as the dead restored to life. But you
must be quiet now, and seek repose.”

For some time after the interview with his father,
Paralus remain ed very wakeful. His eyes sparkled,
and a feverish flush was on his cheek. Philothea took
her cithara, and played his favorite tunes. This seemed
to tranquillize him; and as the music grew more slow
and plaintive, he became drowsy, and at length sunk
into a gentle slumber.

After more than two hours of deep repose he was
awakened by the merry shouts of little Zoila, who had
run out to meet Plato, as he came from Olympia. Philothea
feared, lest the shrill noise had given him pain;
but he smiled, and said, “The voice of childhood is

He expressed a wish to see his favorite philosopher;
and their kindred souls held long and sweet communion
together. When Plato retired from the couch, he said
to Philothea, “I have learned more from this dear
wanderer, than philosophers or poets have ever written.
I am confirmed in my belief that no impelling
truth is ever learned in this world; but that all is received
directly from the Divine Ideal, flowing into the
soul of man when his reason is obedient and still.”

A basket of grapes, tastefully ornamented with flowers,
was presented to the invalied; and in answer to his
inquiries, he was informed that they were prepared by
Eudora. He immediately desired that she might be
called; and when she came, he received her with the
most cordial affection. He alluded to past events with
great clearness of memory, and asked his father several
questions concerning the condition of Athens. When

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Philothea arranged his pillows, and bathed his head,
he pressed her hand affectionately, and said, “It almost
seems as if you were my wife.”

Pericles, deeply affected, replied, “My dear son,
she is your wife. She forgot all my pride, and consented
to marry you, that she might become your nurse,
when we all feared that you would be restored to us no

Paralus looked up with a bright expression of
gratitude, and said, “I thank you, father. This was
very kind. Now you will be her father, when I am

Perceiving that Pericles and Eudora wept, he added:
“Do not mourn because I am soon to depart. Why
would ye detain my soul in this world? Its best pleasures
are like the shallow gardens of Adonis, fresh and
fair in the morning, and perishing at noon.”

He then repeated his last vision, and asked for the
lyre, that they might hear the music he had learned from
immortal voices.

There was melancholy beauty in the sight of one
so pale and thin, touching the lyre with an inspired
countenance, and thus revealing to mortal ears the
melodies of Heaven.

One by one his friends withdrew; being tenderly
solicitous that he should not become exhausted by interviews
prolonged beyond his strength. He was left
alone with Philothea; and many precious words were
spoken, that sunk deep into her heart, never to be forgotten.

But sleep departed from his eyes; and it soon became
evident that the soul, in returning to its union
with the body, brought with it a consciousness of

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corporeal suffering. This became more and more intense;
and though he uttered no complaint, he said to those
who asked him, that bodily pain seemed at times too
powerful for endurance.

Pericles had for several days remained under the
same roof, to watch the progress of recovery; but at
midnight, he was called to witness convulsive struggles,
that indicated approaching death.

During intervals of comparative ease, Paralus recognized
his afflicted parent, and conjured him to think
less of the fleeting honors of this world, which often
eluded the grasp, and were always worthless in the

He held Philothea's hand continually, and often
spoke to her in words of consolation. Immediately
after an acute spasm of pain had subsided, he asked to
be turned upon his right side, that he might see her
face more distinctly. As she leaned over him, he
smiled faintly, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. He
remained tranquil, with his eyes fixed upon hers; and
a voice within impelled her to sing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

He looked upward, with a radiant expression, and
feebly pressed her hand. Not long after, his eyelids
closed, and sleep seemed to cover his features with her
heavy veil.

Suddenly his countenance shone with a strange and
impressive beauty. The soul had departed to return
to earth no more.

In all his troubles, Pericles had never shed a tear;
but now he rent the air with his groans, and sobbed,
like a mother bereft of her child.

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[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]

Philothea, though deeply bowed down in spirit,
was more composed: for she heard angelic voices

When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain—
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

-- 207 --


Thus a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son;
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn.

[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]

Of the immense concourse collected together at
Olympia, each one pursued his pleasure, or his interest,
in the way best suited to his taste. Alcibiades
was proud of giving a feast corresponding in magnificence
to the chariots he had brought into the course.
Crowds of parasites flattered him and the other victors,
to receive invitations in return; while a generous few
sympathized with the vanquished. Merchants were
busy forming plans for profitable negociation, and
statesmen were eagerly watching every symptom of
jealousy between rival states and contending parties.

One, amid that mass of human hearts, felt so little
interest in all the world could offer, that she seemed
already removed beyond its influence. Philothea had
herself closed the eyes of her husband, and imprinted
her last kiss upon his lips. Bathed in pure water, and
perfumed with ointment, the lifeless form of Paralus
lay wrapped in the robe he had been accustomed to
wear. A wreath of parsley encircled his head, and
flowers were strewn around him in profusion.

In one hand was placed an obolus, to pay the ferryman
that rowed him across the river of death; and in
the other, a cake made of honey and flour, to appease

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[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]

the triple-headed dog, which guarded the entrance to
the world of souls.

The bereaved wife sat by his side, and occasionally
renewed the garlands, with a quiet and serene expression,
as if she still found happiness in being occupied for
him who had given her his heart in the innocence and
freshness of its childhood.

The food prepared by Mibra's active kindness was
scarcely tasted; except when she observed the tears of
her faithful attendant, and sought to soothe her feelings
with characteristic tenderness.

The event soon became universally known; for the
hair of the deceased, consecrated to Persephone, and a
vase of water at the threshold, proclaimed tidings of
death within the dwelling.

Many of the assembled multitude chose to remain
until the funeral solemnities were past; some from
personal affection for Paralus, others from respect to
the son of Pericles.

Plato sent two large vases, filled with wine and
honey; Eudora provided ointments and perfumes;
Alcibiades presented a white cloak, richly embroidered
with silver; and the young men of Athens, present at
the games, gave a silver urn, on which were sculptured
weeping genii, with their torches turned downward.

Enveloped in his glittering mantle, and covered with
flowers, the form of Paralus remained until the third
day. The procession, which was to attend the body
to the funeral pile, formed at morning twilight; for such
was the custom with regard to those who died in their
youth. Philothea followed the bier, dressed in white,
with a wreath of roses and myrtle around her head,
and a garland about the waist. She chose this

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beautiful manner to express her joy that his pure spirit had
passed into Elysium.

At the door of the house, the nearest relatives addressed
the inanimate form, so soon to be removed
from the sight of mortals. In tones of anguish, almost
amounting to despair, Pericles exclaimed: “Oh, my
son! my son! Why didst thou leave us? Why wast
thou, so richly gifted of the gods, to be taken from us
in thy youth? Oh, my son, why was I left to mourn
for thee?”

Instead of the usual shrieks and lamentations of
Grecian women, Philothea said, in sad, heart-moving
accents: “Paralus, farewell! Husband of my youth,
beloved of my heart, farewell!”

Then the dead was carried out; and the procession
moved forward, to the sound of many voices and many
instruments, mingled in a loud and solemn dirge. The
body of Paralus was reverently laid upon the funeral
pile, with the garments he had been accustomed to
wear; his lyre and Phrygian flute; and vases filled
with oil and perfumes.

Plentiful libations of wine, honey, and milk were
poured upon the ground, and the mourners smote the
earth with their feet, while they uttered supplications
to Hermes, Hecate and Pluto. Pericles applied the
torch to the pile, first invoking the aid of Boreas and
Zephyrus, that it might consume quickly. As the
flames rose, the procession walked slowly three times
around the pile, moving toward the left hand. The
solemn dirge was resumed, and continued until the last
flickering tongue of fire was extinguished with wine.
Then those who had borne the silver urn in front of
the hearse, approached. Pericles, with tender reverence,
gathered the whitened bones, sprinkled them

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with wine and perfumes, placed them within the urn,
and covered it with a purple pall, inwrought with gold;
which Philothea's prophetic love had prepared for the

The procession again moved forward, with torches
turned downward; and the remains of Paralus were
deposited in the Temple of Persephone, until his friends
returned to Athens.

In token of gratitude for kind attentions bestowed by
the household of Proclus, Pericles invited his family to
visit the far-famed wonders of the violet-crowned city;
and the eager solicitations of young Pterilaüs induced
the father to accept this invitation for himself and son.
As an inhabitant of consecrated Elis, without wealth,
and unknown to fame, it was deemed that he might
return in safety, even after hostilities were renewed
between the Peloponessian states. Eudora likewise
obtained permission to accompany her friend; and her
sad farewell was cheered by an indefinite hope that
future times would restore her to that quiet home.
The virtuous Melissa parted from them with many
blessings and tears. Zoila was in an agony of childish
sorrow; but she wiped her eyes with the corner of her
robe, and listened, well pleased, to Eudora's parting
promise of sending her a flock of marble sheep, with a
painted wooden shepherd.

The women travelled together in a chariot, in front
of which reposed the silver urn, covered with its purple
pall. Thus sadly did Philothea return through the
same scenes she had lately traversed with hopes, which,
in the light of memory, now seemed like positive enjoyment.
Pericles indeed treated her with truly parental
tenderness; and no soothing attention, that respect
or affection could suggest, was omitted by her

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friends. But he, of whose mysterious existence her
own seemed a necessary portion, had gone to return
no more; and had it not been for the presence of Eudora,
she would have felt that every bond of sympathy
with this world of forms had ceased forever.

At Corinth, the travellers again turned aside to the
Fountain of Poseidon, that the curiosity of Pterilaüs
might be satisfied with a view of the statues by which
it was surrounded.

“When we are in Athens, I will show you something
more beautiful than these,” said Pericles.
“You shall see the Pallas Athenæ, carved by Phidias.”

“Men say it is not so grand as the statue of Zeus,
that we have at Olympia,” replied the boy.

“Had you rather witness the sports of the gymnasia
than the works of artists?” inquired Plato.

The youth answered very promptly, “Ah, no indeed.
I would rather gain one prize from the Choragus,
than ten from the Gymnasiarch. Anniceris, the
Cyrenæan, proudly displayed his skill in chariot-driving,
by riding several times around the Academia,
each time preserving the exact orbit of his wheels.
The spectators applauded loudly; but Plato said, `He
who has bestowed such diligence to acquire trifling
and useless things, must have neglected those that are
truly admirable.' Of all sights in Athens, I most wish
to see the philosophers; and none so much as Plato.”

The company smiled, and the philosopher answered,
“I am Plato.”

“You told us that your name was Aristocles,” returned
Pterilaüs; “and we always called you so.
Once I heard that Athenian lady call you Plato; and
I could not understand why she did so.”

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“I was named Aristocles, for my grandfather,” answered
the philosopher; “and when I grew older, men
called me Plato.”

“But you cannot be the Plato that I mean,” said
Pterilaüs; “for you carried my little sister Zoila on
your shoulders—and played peep with her among the
vines; and when I chased you through the fields, you
ran so fast that I could not catch you.”

The philosopher smiled, as he replied, “Nevertheless,
I am Plato; and they call me by that name, because
my shoulders are broad enough to carry little

The boy still insisted that he alluded to another
Plato. “I mean the philosopher, who teaches in the
groves of Academus,” continued he. “I knew a
freedman of his, who said he never allowed himself to
be angry, or to speak in a loud voice. He never but
once raised his hand to strike him; and that was because
he had mischievously upset a poor old woman's basket
of figs; feeling that he was in a passion, he suddenly
checked himself, and stood perfectly still. A friend
coming in asked him what he was doing; and the philosopher
replied, `I am punishing an angry man.'

“Speusippus, his sister's son, was such a careless,
indecent, and boisterous youth, that his parents could
not control him. They sent him to his uncle Plato,
who received him in a friendly manner, and forbore to
reproach him. Only in his own example he was always
modest and placid. This so excited the admiration
of Speusippus, that a love of philosophy was kindled
within him. Some of his relatives blamed Plato,
because he did not chastise the impertinent youth; but
he replied, “There is no reproof so severe as to show
him, by the manner of my own life, the contrast between

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virtue and baseness.'—That is the Plato I want you
to show me, when we are in Athens.”

Proclus, perceiving a universal smile, modestly
added, by way of explanation: “My son means him
whom men call the divine Plato. He greatly desires
to see that philosopher, of whom it is said Socrates
dreamed, when he first received him as his pupil. In
his dream he saw a swan without wings, that came and
sat upon his bosom; and soon after, its wings grew,
and it flew high up in the air, with melodious notes,
alluring all who heard it.”

Pericles laid his hand on the philosopher's shoulder,
and smiling, answered, “My unbelieving friend, this
is the teacher of Academus; this is the divine Plato;
this is the soaring swan, whose melodious notes allure
all that hear him.”

Proclus was covered with confusion, but still seemed
half incredulous. “What would Melissa say,” exclaimed
he, “if she knew that her frolicsome little
plaything, Zoila, had been rude enough to throw flowers
at the divine Plato.”

“Nay, my friend,” replied the disciple of Socrates—
what better could a philosopher desire, than to be
pelted with roses by childhood?”

Eudora looked up with an arch expression; and
Philothea smiled as she said, “This is a new version
of unknown Phœbus tending the flocks of Admetus.”

Pterilaüs seemed utterly confounded by a discovery
so unexpected. It was long before he regained his
usual freedom; and from time to time he was observed
to fix a scrutinizing gaze on the countenance of Plato,
as if seeking to read the mystery of his hidden greatness.

As the travellers approached Athens, they were met

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by a numerous procession of magistrates, citizens, and
young men bearing garlands, which they heaped on
the urn in such profusion that it resembled a pyramid
of flowers. They passed the chariots with their arms
and ensigns of office all reversed; then turned and
followed to the abode of Pericles, singing dirges as
they went, and filling the air with the melancholy
music of the Mysian flute.

The amiable character of the deceased, his genius,
the peculiar circumstances attending his death, and
the accumulated afflictions of his illustrious parent, all
combined to render it an impressive scene. Even the
gay selfishness of Alcibiades was subdued into reverence,
as he carefully took the urn from the chariot,
and gave it to attendants who placed it beside the
household altar.

Early the next morning, a procession again formed
to convey the ashes of Paralus to the sepulchre of his
fathers; called, in the beautiful language of the Greeks,
a Place of Sleep.

When the urn was again brought forth, Philothea's
long golden hair covered it, like a mantle of sunbeams.
During his life-time, these shining tresses
had been peculiarly dear to him; and in token of her
love, she placed them on his grave. Her white robe
was changed for coarse black garments; and instead
of flowery wreaths, a long black veil covered the beautiful
head, from which its richest ornament had just
been severed. She had rejoiced for his happy spirit,
and now she mourned her own widowed lot.

At the sepulchre, Pericles pronounced a funeral
oration on the most gifted, and best-beloved of his
children. In the evening, kindred and friends met at
his house to partake a feast prepared for the occasion;

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and every guest had something to relate concerning
the genius and the virtues of him who slept.

A similar feast was prepared in the apartments of the
women, where Philothea remained silent and composed;
a circumstance that excited no small degree of
wonder and remark, among those who measured affection
by the vehemence of grief.

As soon as all ceremonies were completed she obtained
leave to return to her early home, endeared by
many happy scenes; and there, in the stillness of her
own heart, she held communion with the dear departed.

-- --


There await me till I die; prepare
A mansion for me, as again with me
To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,
In the same cedar, by thy side composed:
For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.

[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]

It soon became evident that a great change had
taken place in Philothea's health. Some attributed it
to the atmosphere of Athens, still infected with the
plague; others supposed it had its origin in the death
of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her
grief, made a strong effort to be cheerful; but her
gentle smile, like moonlight in a painting, retained its
sweetness when the life was gone. There was something
in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting
than the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained
of no illness, but grew thinner and thinner, like a cloud
gradually floating away, and retaining its transparent
beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most affectionate
attentions upon her friend, conscious that she
was merely strewing flowers in her pathway to the

A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said,
“Dearest Eudora, do you remember the story of the
nymph Erato, who implored the assistance of Arcas,
when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away
the tree over which she presided, and on whose preservation
her life depended?”

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“I remember it well,” replied Eudora: “Dione
told it to me when I was quite a child; and I could
never after see a tree torn by the lightning, or carried
away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without
a shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle,
fair-haired Dryad had perished with it.”

Philothea answered, “Thus was I affected, when
my grandfather first read to me Hesiod's account of
the Muses:

`Far round, the dusky earth
Brings with their hymning voices; and beneath
Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound
Ariseth, as they take their onward way
To their own father's presence.'

“I never after could hear the quivering of summer
leaves, or the busy hum of insects, without thinking it
was the echoed voices of those

`Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit
In harmony; whose only thought is song.'

“There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart
loves to invest every hill, and stream, and tree, with a
mysterious principle of life. All earthly forms are but
the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth we
feel, though we know it not. But when I spoke of
Arcus and the Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus
had been the tree, on whose existence my own
depended; and that now he was removed, I should not
long remain.”

Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Oh,
dearest Philothea, do not speak thus,” she said. “I
shall indeed be left alone in the world. Who will
guide me, who will protect me, who will love me, when
you are gone?”

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Her friend endeavored to calm these agitated feelings,
by every soothing art her kindness could suggest.

“I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give
you unnecessary pain,” she replied, affectionately:
“but I ought not to conceal from you that I am about
to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall
not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say.
You will find my clothing and jewels done up in
parcels, bearing the names of those for whom they are
intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave
it; but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything
else should be disposed of according to my own
wishes. Several of my grandfather's manuscripts,
and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I
was in Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the
silver tripod, which Paralus gained as a prize for the
best tragedy exhibited during the Dionysia, is returned
to his father's house, let them be placed within it.
The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,)
and the ivory lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in
his trust for the youthful Pericles; together with all
the books and garments that belonged to his departed
brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of
Clinias and his wife, I have bestowed on them the
rich tripod received from Heliodora. In addition to
the trifling memorials I have already sent to Melissa,
and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared
for you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful
home in Elis. To my faithful Mibra I have given
all the garments and household goods suited to her
condition. My grandfather's books have been divided,
as he requested, between Plato and Philæmon; the
silver harp and the ivory tablet are likewise designed

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for them. Everything else belongs to you, dearest
Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you
will not value least the ivory cup lined with silver,
which Philæmon gave me when he departed from
Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding
Eros in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage
with Philæmon.”

With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, “Oh, Philothea!
in the days of my pride and gayety, I little knew
what a treasure I threw from me, when I lost Philæ
mon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse
folly, I should at this moment be his happy, honored
wife. The hope of his forgiveness is now the only
gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I hardly
dare to cherish it.”

Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, “Believe
me, you will yet be united. Of this, there is an
impression on my mind too strong to admit of doubt.
If at times you are tempted to despond, remember
these words were uttered by your friend, when she
drew near the confines of another world: you will be
united to Philæmon.”

As she spoke, Mibra, who was occupied in the next
apartment, sneezed aloud. The sound was at Eudora's
right hand, and she received the auspicious omen
with a sudden thrill of joy.

Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile,
and added: “When we were at Elis, I wrote an
epistle to Philæmon, in which I spoke of you as my
heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to
send it directly into Persia.”

The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied
“Nay, my dearest friend—you know that I
must appear contemptible in his eyes; and I would

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not have insulted him with the offer of a heart which
he has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful.”

“Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty
might be wounded,” answered Philothea: “I wrote as
I was moved; and I felt strong assurance that my
words would waken a response in Philæmon's heart.
But there is one subject, on which my mind is filled
with foreboding. I hope you will leave Athens as
soon as it is safe to return to Elis.”

“Do you then fear that I would again dance over a
pit, because it was artfully covered with garlands?”
said Eudora. “Believe me, I have been tried with
too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a
load of shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous

Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied:
“You are good and pure; but you have ever
been like a loving and graceful vine, ready to cling to
its nearest support.”

“'Tis you have made me so,” rejoined Eudora,
kissing her pale cheek: “To you I have always applied
for advice and instruction; and when you gave
it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the gods.”

“Then so much the more need that I should caution
the weakness I have produced,” responded Philothea.
“Should Aspasia gain access to you, when I
am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness
consists not in the duties we perform, but in the distinction
we acquire; that my hopes of Elysium are all
founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has returned
to the elements of which he was composed;
that he nourishes the plants, and forms some of the
innumerable particles of the atmosphere. I have seen

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him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him;
and I believe the same power that enabled me to see
him when these poor eyes were veiled in slumber,
will restore him to my vision when they are closed in
eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a
beautiful but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen
to her syren tongue, the secret, guiding voice will be
heard no more. She will make evil appear good, and
good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight,
unable to perceive the real size and character of any

“Never,” exclaimed Eudora. “Never could she
induce me to believe you an idle dreamer. Moreover,
she will never again have opportunity to exert influence
over me. The conversation I heard between her
and Alcibiades is too well impressed upon my memory;
and while that remains unforgotten, I shall shun them
both, as I would shun a pestilence.”

Philothea answered: “I do indeed believe that no
blandishments will now make you a willing victim.
But I have a secret dread of the character and power
of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes
a pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak
of his childish obstinacy and perseverance. He was
one day playing at dice with other boys, when a loaded
wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered
the driver to stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded,
he laid down before the horses' feet, and told
him to go on if he dared. The same character remains
with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph
of his own will. From his youth, he has been a
popular idol; a circumstance which has doubtless increased
the requirements of his passions, without

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diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Mibra tells
me he has already inquired of her concerning your
present residence and future intentions. Obstacles will
only increase his eagerness and multiply his artifices.

I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely
connected with our own, to supply the place of your
distant guardian, while you remain in Athens. In
Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so
fatally under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so
lightly of these matters, I sometimes fear they might
both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too trivial
for their interference. For these reasons I wish you
to return to Elis as soon as possible when I am

Eudora's countenance kindled with indignation, as
she listened to what Mibra had told. In broken and
contrite tones, she answered; “Philothea, whatever
trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all.
But rest assured, whenever it pleases the gods to remove
your counsel and protection, I will not abide in
Athens a single hour after it is possible to leave with

“I find consolation in that assurance,” replied Philothea;
“and I have strong belief that a divine shield
will guard you from impending evil. And now I will
go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be
lulled with music.”

Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a
succession of sweet and plaintive tunes, familiar to
their childhood. Her friend listened with an expression
of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the
motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful

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[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]

After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly,
and looking up with a beaming glance, exclaimed, “I
shall follow him soon!”

Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she
had spoken in such delighted accents.

Philothea answered: “I dreamed that I sat upon a
bank of violets, with Paralus by my side; and he wove
a garland and placed it on my head. Suddenly, golden
sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each
other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as
Paralus often described, when his soul lived apart from
the body, and only returned at intervals, to bring
strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell him
so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments
that shone like woven sunbeams. Then voices above
us began to sing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus
distinctly. It sounded like the voice of Paralus in his
youth, when we used to sing together, to please my
grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered
brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each
other in silent love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow

The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for
resignation to this bereavement seemed too hard a
lesson for her suffering heart.

For several weeks, there was no apparent change in
Philothea's health or spirits. The same sad serenity
remained—perpetually exciting the compassion it
never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the

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[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]

neighborhood brought their simple offering of flowers,
with which she wove fresh garlands for the tomb of
Paralus. When no longer able to visit the sepulchre
herself, she intrusted them to the youthful Pericles,
who reverently placed them on his brother's urn.

The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in
the conversation of his widowed daughter. Scarcely
a day passed without an interview between them, and
renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.

He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his
desolated heart now bestowed a double portion of
paternal love. They remained a long time, in earnest
discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in

Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the
portico, and gazed after them, as long as she could see
a fold of their garments. As she turned to lean on
Eudora's arm, she said, “It is the last time I shall
ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister's
love for that dear boy. His heart is young and innocent.”

For a few hours after, she continued to talk with
unusual animation, and her eyes beamed with an expression
of inspired earnestness. At her request, Geta
and Mibra were called; and the faithful servants listened
with mournful gratitude to her parting words of
advice and consolation.

At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of
flowers, sent by the youthful Pericles. She took them
with a smile, and said, “How fragrant is their breath,
and how beautiful their colors! I have heard that the
Persians write their music in colors; and Paralus spoke
the same concerning music in the spirit-world.

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Perchance there was heavenly melody written on this fair
earth in the age of innocence; but mortals have now
forgotten its language.” Perceiving Eudora's thoughtful
countenance, she said: “Is my gentle friend disturbed,
lest infant nymphs closed their brief existence
when these stems were broken?”

“Nay;” replied Eudora: “My heart is sad; but not
for the perished genii of the flowers.”

Philothea understood the import of her words; and
pressing her hand affectionately, said, “Your love has
been as balm to my lonely heart; and let that remembrance
comfort you, when I go hence. Listen in stillness
to the whispered warnings of your attendant
spirit, and he will never leave you. I am weary; and
would fain repose on your affectionate bosom.”

Eudora gently placed her head as she desired; and
carefully supporting the precious burden, she began to
sing, in low and soothing tones.

After some time, the quiet and regular respiration of
the breath announced that the invalid had fallen into
tranquil slumber. Mibra came, to ask if the lamps were
wanted; but receiving a silent signal from Eudora, she
crept noiselessly away.

For more than an hour, there was perfect stillness,
as the shades of evening deepened. All at once, the
room was filled with soft, clear light! Eudora turned
her head quickly, to discover whence it came; but
could perceive no apparent cause for the sudden

With an undefined feeling of awe, she looked in the
countenance of her friend. It was motionless as marble;
but never had she seen anything so beautiful, and
so unearthly.

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[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]

As she gazed, doubting whether this could indeed
be death, there was a sound of music in the air—distinct,
yet blended, like the warbling of birds in the

It was the tune Paralus had learned from celestial
harps; and even after the last note floated away, Eudora
seemed to hear the well-remembered words:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

-- 227 --


Take courage! no vain dream hast thou beheld,
But in thy sleep a truth.

[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]

At the time of Philothea's death, Pandænus, the
nephew of Phidias, was in Athens, intending soon to
return to Elis, in company with an ambassador bound
to Lacedæmon; and Eudora resolved to avail herself
of this opportunity to follow the farewell advice of her
friend. As the time for departure was near at hand,
no change was made in household arrangements; and
though the desolate maiden at times experienced sensations
of extreme loneliness, the near vicinity of Clinias
and Phœnarete left her no fears concerning adequate

This confidence seemed well grounded; yet not
many days after the funeral solemnities, Eudora suddenly
disappeared. She had gone out, as usual, to
gather flowers for the tomb of the beloved sleeper; and
not finding sufficient variety in the garden, had wandered
into a small field adjoining. Mibra was the first
to observe that her absence was unusually protracted.
She mentioned her anxiety to Geta, who immediately
went out in search of his young mistress; but soon
returned, saying she was neither in the house of Clinias,
nor in the neighboring fields, nor at the Fountain of

The faithful attendants at once suspected treachery

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[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]

in Alcibiades. “I never rightly understood what was
the difficulty, when Eudora was locked up in her
chamber, and Lucos chained to the door,” said Geta;
“but from what I could hear, I know that Phidias was
very angry with Alcibiades. Many a time I've heard
him say that he would always have his own way, either
by a straight course or a crooked one.”

“And my good old master used to say he had
changed but little since he was a boy, when he made
the wagoner turn back, by lying down in front of his
horses,” rejoined Mibra: “I thought of that, when
Alcibiades came and drank at the Fountain, while I
was filling my urn. You remember I told you that he
just tasted of the water, for a pretence, and then began
to inquire where Eudora was, and whether she would
remain in Athens.”

After some further consultation, it was deemed best
for Mibra to request a private interview with Phœnarete,
during which she freely expressed her fears.
The wife of Clinias, though connected by marriage
with the house of Alcibiades, was far from resenting
the imputation, or pretending that she considered it
groundless. Her feelings were at once excited for the
lonely orphan girl, whose beauty, vivacity, and gentleness,
had won upon her heart; and she readily promised
assistance in any plan for her relief, provided it
met the approbation of her husband.

There was in Salamis a large mansion built by Eurysaces,
the ancestor of Alcibiades, by whom it had
been lately purchased, and repaired for a summer
residence. Report said that many a fair maiden had
been decoyed within its walls, and retained a prisoner.
This place was guarded by several powerful dogs, and
vigilant servants were always stationed at the gates.

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Mibra proposed to disguise herself as much as possible,
and, with a basket on her head, go thither to offer fish
for sale. Geta, being afraid to accompany her, hired
an honest boatman to convey her to the island, and wait
till she was ready to return to Athens.

As she approached the walls of the mansion, the
dogs began to growl, but were soon silenced by the
porters. Without answering the indecent jibes, with
which they greeted her ears as she passed along, the
little fish-woman balanced her basket on her head, and
began carelessly to sing some snatches of a hymn to
Amphitrite. It was a tune of which Eudora was particularly
fond; and often when Mibra was humming it
over her work, her soft and sonorous voice had been
heard responding from the inner apartment.

She had scarcely finished the first verse, ere the
chorus was repeated by some one within the dwelling;
and she recognized the half-suppressed growl of Hylax,
as if his barking had been checked by some cautious
hand. Afraid to attract attention by a prolonged
stay, Mibra passed along and entered the servants'
apartment. Having sold a portion of her fish, and
lingered as long as she dared in conversation with the
cooks, she returned slowly in the same direction, singing
as she went, and carefully observing everything
around her. She was just beginning to fear the impossibility
of obtaining any solution of her doubts, when
she saw a leaf fluttering near the ground, as if its motions
were impelled by some other cause than the wind.
Approaching nearer, she perceived that it was let down
from a grated opening in the wall above, by a small
thread, with a little ball of wax attached to it for a
weight. She examined the leaf, and discovered certain
letters pricked upon it; and when the string was pulled

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gently, it immediately dropped upon her arm. At the
same time, a voice, which she distinctly recognized as
Eudora's, was heard singing:

On a rock, amid the roaring water,
Lies Cassiopea's gentle daughter.

Mibra had just begun to sing, “Bold Perseus
comes,” when she perceived a servant crossing the
court, and deemed it prudent to retire in silence. She
carefully preserved the leaf, and immediately after her
return hastened to the apartment of Phœnarete, to
obtain an explanation. That matron, like most Grecian
women, was ignorant of her own written language.
The leaf was accordingly placed in a vessel of water,
to preserve its freshness until Clinias returned from
the Prytaneum. He easily distinguished the name of
Pandænus joined with his own; and having heard the
particulars of the story, had no difficulty in understanding
that Mibra was directed to apply to them for assistance.
He readily promised to intercede with his
profligate kinsman, and immediately sent messengers in
search of Pandænus.

Geta awaited intelligence with extreme impatience.
He was grateful for many an act of kindness from
Eudora; and he could not forget that she had been
the cherished favorite of his beloved and generous

At night, Clinias returned from a conference with
Alcibiades, in which the latter denied all knowledge of
Eudora; and it seemed hazardous to institute legal
inquiries into the conduct of a man so powerful and so
popular, without further evidence than had yet been
obtained. Pandænus could not be found. At the house
where he usually resided, no information could be

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obtained, except that he went out the preceding evening,
and had not returned as usual.

During that night, and part of the following day, the
two faithful attendants remained in a state of melancholy
indecision. At last, Geta said, “I will go once
more in search of Pandænus; and if he has not yet
returned, I have resolved what to do. To-day I
saw one of the slaves of Artaphernes buying olives;
and he said he must have the very best, because his
master was to give a feast to-night. Among other
guests, he spoke of Alcibiades; and he is one that is
always sure to stay late at his wine. While he is
feasting, I will go to Salamis. His steward often
bought anchovies of me at Phalerum. He is a countryman
of mine; and I know he is as avaricious as an
Odomantian. I think money will bribe him to carry a
message to Eudora, and to place a ladder near the
outer wall for her escape. He is intrusted with all the
keys, and can do it if he will. And if he can get gold
enough by it, I believe he will trust Hermes to help
him settle with his master, as he has done many a
time before this. I will be in readiness at the Triton's
Cove, and bring her back to Athens as fast as oars can

“Do so, dear Geta,” replied Mibra; “but disguise
yourself from the other servants, and take with you
the robe and veil that I wear to market. Then if
Eudora could only walk a little more like a fish-woman,
she might pass very well. But be sure you do not pay
the steward till you have her at the boat's edge; for
he, that will play false games with his master, may do
the same by you.”

Necessary arrangements were speedily made. Geta
resolved to offer the earnings of his whole life as a

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bribe, rather than intrust the secret of his bold expedition
to any of the household of Clinias; and Mibra,
fearful that their own store would not prove a sufficient
temptation, brought forth a sum of money found in
Eudora's apartment, together with a valuable necklace,
which had been a birth-day present from Phidias.

It was past midnight when three figures emerged
from the shadow of the high wall surrounding the mansion
of Alcibiades, and with cautious haste proceeded
toward the cove. Before they could arrive at the
beach, a large and gaily-trimmed boat was seen approaching
the shore from the direction of the Piræus.
It was flaming with torches; and a band of musicians
poured out upon the undulating waters a rich flood of
melody, rendered more distinct and soft by the liquid
element over which it floated. One of the fugitives
immediately turned, and disappeared within the walls
they had left; the other two concealed themselves in a
thick grove, the darkness of which was deepened by
the glare of torches along its borders. A man richly
dressed, with several fillets on his head, and crowned
with a garland of violets, ivy, and myrtle, stepped from
the boat, supported by the arm of a slave. His countenance
was flushed with wine, and as he reeled along,
he sung aloud:

“Have I told you all my flames,
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?
Have I numbered every one
Glowing under Egypt's sun?
Or the nymphs, who, blushing sweet,
Deck the shrine of Love in Crete—
Where the god, with festal play,
Holds eternal holiday?”

“Castor and Polydeuces!” whispered Geta, “there

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goes Alcibiades. He has returned from his wine
earlier than usual; but so blinded by the merry god,
that he would not have known us, if we had faced the
glare of his torches.”

“Oh, hasten! hasten!” said Eudora, weeping and
trembling, as she spoke. “I beseech you do not let a
moment be lost.”

As Alcibiades and his train disappeared, they left
the grove, and hurried toward their boat; keeping as
much as possible within the shadow of the trees. They
reached the cove in safety, and Geta rowed with unwonted
energy; but he was single-handed, and Salamis
was many stadia from Athens. Long before he arrived
at the place where he had been accustomed to land,
they discerned the sound of distant oars plied with
furious rapidity.

They landed, and with the utmost haste proceeded
toward the city. Eudora, fearful of being overtaken,
implored Geta to seek refuge behind the pillars of
Poseidon's temple. Carefully concealing themselves
in the dense shadow, they remained without speaking,
and almost without breathing, until their pursuers had
passed by. The moment these were out of hearing,
they quitted their hiding-place, and walked swiftly
along the Piræus. Intense fear imparted a degree of
strength, which the maiden, under other circumstances,
would have hardly deemed it possible to exert. She
did not for a moment relax her speed, until they came
within sight of the Areopagus, and heard noisy shouts,
apparently not far distant. Eudora, sinking with
fatigue and terror, entreated Geta not to attempt any
approach to the house of Clinias, where her enemies
would certainly be lying in wait for them. With uncertain
steps they proceeded toward the great Gate of

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the Acropolis, until the helpless maiden, frightened at
the approaching noise, stopped suddenly, and burst into
a flood of tears.

“There is one place of safety, if you have courage
to try it,” said Geta: “We are nearly under the
Propylæa; and close beside us is the grotto of Creüsa.
Few dare to enter it in the day-time, and no profane
steps will venture to pass the threshold after night-fall;
for it is said the gods often visit it, and fill it with
strange sights and sounds. Shall we enter?”

It was a windy night, and the clouds that occasionally
passed over the face of the moon gave the earth a
dreary aspect. The high wall under which they stood
seemed to frown gloomily upon them, and the long
flight of white marble steps, leading from the Propylæa,
looked cold and cheerless beneath the fitful gleamings
of the moon.

Eudora hesitated, and looked timidly around; but as
the sound of riotous voices came nearer, she seized
Geta's arm, and exclaimed, in hurried accents, “The
gods protect me! Let us enter.”

Within the grotto, all was total darkness. Having
groped their way a short distance from the entrance,
they found a large rock, on which they seated themselves.
The voices approached nearer and their discordant
revelry had an awful sound amid the echos of the
grotto. These gradually died away in the distance,
and were heard no more.

When all was perfectly still, Eudora, in whispered
accents, informed Geta that she had been seized, as
she stooped to gather flowers within sight of her own
dwelling. Two men suddenly started up from behind a
wall, and one covered her mouth, while the other bound
her hands. They made a signal to a third, who came

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with two attendants and a curtained chariot, in which
she was immediately conveyed to a solitary place on the
seashore and thence to Salamis. Two men sat beside
her, and held her fast, so as to prevent any possibility
of communication with the few people passing at that
early hour.

Arrived at the place of destination, she was shut up
in a large apartment luxuriously furnished. Alcibiades
soon visited her, with an affectation of the most
scrupulous respect, urging the plea of ardent love as
an excuse for his proceedings.

Aware that she was completely in his power, she
concealed her indignation and contempt, and allowed
him to indulge the hope that her affections might be
obtained, if she were entirely convinced of his wish to
atone for the treachery and violence with which she
had been treated.

Mibra's voice had been recognized the moment she
began to sing; and she at once conjectured the object
that led her thither. But when hour after hour passed
without any tidings from Pandænus or Clinias, she
was in a state of anxiety bordering on distraction; for
she soon perceived sufficient indication that the smooth
hypocrisy of Alcibiades was assumed but for a short

She had already determined on an effort to bribe
the servants, when the steward came stealthily to her
room, and offered to convey her to the Triton's Cove,
provided she would promise to double the sum already
offered by Geta. To this she eagerly assented, without
even inquiring the amount; and he, fearful of
detection, scarcely allowed time to throw Mibra's robe
and veil over her own.

Having thus far effected her escape, Eudora was

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extremely anxious that Pandænus and Clinias should
be informed of her place of retreat, as soon as the
morning dawned. When Geta told her that Pandæ
nus had disappeared as suddenly as herself, and no
one knew whither, she replied, “This, too, is the
work of Alcibiades.”

Their whispered conversation was stopped by the
barking of a dog, to which the echos of the cavern
gave a frightful appearance of nearness. Each instinctively
touched the other's arm, as a signal for
silence. When all was again quiet, Geta whispered,
“It is well for us they were not witty enough to
bring Hylax with them; for the poor fellow would
certainly have betrayed us.” This circumstance
warned them of thedanger of listeners, and few more
words were spoken.

The maiden, completely exhausted by the exertions
she had made, laid her head on the shoulder of her
attendant, and slept until the morning twilight became
perceptible through the cervices of the rocks.

At the first approach of day, she implored Geta to
hasten to the house of Clinias, and ask his protection;
for she feared to venture herself abroad, without the
presence of some one whose rank and influence would
be respected by Alcibiades.

“Before I go,” replied Geta, “let me find a secure
hiding-place for you; for though I shall soon return,
in the meantime those may enter whose presence may
be dangerous.”

“You forget that this is a sacred place,” rejoined
Eudora, in tones that betrayed fear struggling with
her confidence.

“There are men, with whom nothing is sacred,”
answered Geta; “and many such are now in Athens.”

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The cavern was deep, and wide. As they passed
along, the dawning light indistinctly revealed statues
of Phœbus and Pan, with altars of pure white marble.
At the farthest extremity, stood a trophy of shields,
helmets, and spears, placed there by Miltiades, in
commemoration of his victory at Marathon. It was so
formed as to be hollow in the centre, and Geta proposed
that the timid maiden should creep in at the side
and stand upright. She did so, and it proved an effectual
screen from head to foot.

Having taken this prudent precaution, the faithful
attendant departed, with a promise to return as soon as
possible. But hour after hour elapsed, and he came
not. As Eudora peeped through the chinks of the
trophy, she perceived from the entrance of the cave
glowing streaks of light, that indicated approaching
noon. Yet all remained still, save the echoed din of
noises in the city; and no one came to her relief.

Not long after the sun had begun to decline from its
meridian, two men entered, whom she recognized as
among the individuals that had seized and conveyed
her to Salamis. As they looked carefully all around
the cave, Eudora held her breath, and her heart
throbbed violently. Perceiving no one, they knelt for
a moment before the altars, and hastily retreated, with
indications of fear; for the accusations of guilty minds
were added to the usual terrors of this subterranean
abode of the gods.

The day was fading into twilight, when a feeble old
man came, with a garland on his head, and invoked
the blessing of Phœbus. He was accompanied by a
boy, who laid his offering of flowers and fruit on the
altar of Pan, with an expression of countenance that
showed how much he was alarmed by the presence of
that fear-inspiring deity.

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After they had withdrawn, no other footsteps approached
the sacred place. Anxiety of mind and
bodily weariness more than once tempted Eudora to
go out and mingle with the throng continually passing
through the city. But the idea that Geta might arrive,
and be perplexed by her absence, combined with the
fear of lurking spies, kept her motionless, until the obscurity
of the grotto gave indication that the shadows
of twilight were deepening.

During the day, she had observed near the trophy a
heap of withered laurel branches and wreaths, with
which the altar and statue of Phœbus had been at various
times adorned. Overcome with fatigue, and
desirous to change a position, which from its uniformity
had become extremely painful, she resolved to lie
down upon the rugged rock, with the sacred garlands
for a pillow. She shuddered to remember the lizards
and other reptiles she had seen crawling, through the
day; but the universal fear of entering Creüsa's grotto
after night-fall promised safety from human intrusion;
and the desolate maiden laid herself down to repose in
such a state of mind that she would have welcomed a
poisonous reptile, if it brought the slumbers of death.
It seemed to her that she was utterly solitary and
friendless; persecuted by men, and forsaken by the

By degrees, all sounds died away, save the melancholy
hooting of owls, mingled occasionally with the
distant barking and howling of dogs. Alone, in stillness
and total darkness, memory revealed herself with
wonderful power. The scenes of her childhood; the
chamber in which she had slept; figures she had embroidered
and forgotten; tunes that had been silent for
years; thoughts and feelings long buried; Philæmon's

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smile; the serene countenance of Philothea; the
death-bed of Phidias; and a thousand other images of
the past, came before her with all the vividness of
present reality. Exhausted in mind and body, she
could not long endure this tide of recollection. Covering
her face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively,
as she murmured, “Oh, Philothea! why didst thou
leave me? My guide, my only friend! Oh, where art

A gentle strain of music, scarcely audible, seemed
to make reply. Eudora raised her head to listen—
and lo! the whole grotto was filled with light; so brilliant
that every feather in the arrow of Phœbus might
be counted, and the gilded horns and star of Pan were
radiant as the sun.

Her first thought was that she had slept until noon.
She rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the pedestal of a
statue, on which she distinctly read the inscription:
“Here Miltiades placed me, Pan, the goat-footed god
of Arcadia, who warred with the Athenians against the

Frightened at the possibility of having overslept herself,
she started up, and was about to seek the shelter
of the trophy, when Paralus and Philothea stood before
her! They were clothed in bright garments, with garlands
on their heads. His arm was about her waist,
and hers rested on his shoulder. There was a holy
beauty in their smile, from which a protecting influence
seemed to emanate that banished mortal fear.

In sweet, low tones, they both said, as if with one
voice: “Seek Artaphernes, the Persian.”

“Dearest Philothea, I scarcely know his countenance,”
replied the maiden.

Again the bright vision repeated, “Seek Artaphernes,
nothing doubting.”

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The sounds ceased; the light began to fade; it
grew more and more dim, till all was total darkness.

For a long time, Eudora remained intensely wakeful,
but inspired with a new feeling of confidence and
hope, that rendered her oblivious of all earthly cares.
Whence it came she neither knew nor asked; for such
states preclude all inquiry concerning their own nature
and origin.

After awhile, she fell into a tranquil slumber, in
which she dreamed of torrents crossed in safety, and
of rugged, thorny paths, that ended in blooming gardens.
She was awakened by the sound of a troubled,
timid voice, saying, “Eudora! Eudora!”

She listened a moment, and answered, “Is it you,

“Oh, blessed be the sound of your voice,” replied
the peasant. “Where are you? Let me take your
hand; for I am afraid, in this awful place.”

“Don't be frightened, my good Mibra. I have had
joyful visions here,” rejoined the maiden. She reached
out her arms as she spoke, and perceived that her
companion trembled exceedingly. “May the gods
protect us!” whispered she; “but it is a fearful thing
to come here in the night-time. All the gold of Crœ
sus would not have tempted me, if Geta had not
charged me to do it, to save you from starving.”

“You are indeed kind friends,” said Eudora; “and
the only ones I have left in this world. If ever I get
safely back to Elis, you shall be to me as brother and

“Ah, dear lady,” replied the peasant, “you have
ever been a good friend to us;—and there is one that
sleeps, who never spoke an ungentle word to any of
us. When her strength was almost gone, she bade

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me love Eudora, even as I had loved her; and the
gods know that for her sake Mibra would have died.
Phœbus protect me! but this is an awful place to speak
of those who sleep. It must be near the dawn; but
it is fearfully dark here. Where is your hand? I
have brought some bread and figs, and this little arabyllus
of water mixed with Lesbian wine. Eat; for
you must be almost famished.”

Eudora took the refreshment, but ere she tasted it,
inquired, “Why did not Geta come, as he promised?”

Mibra began to weep.

“Has evil befallen him?” said Eudora, in tones of

The afflicted wife sobbed out, “Poor Geta! Poor,
dear Geta! I dreaded to come into this cavern; but
then I thought if I died, it would be well if we could
but die together.”

“Do tell me what has happened,” said Eudora:
“Am I doomed to bring trouble upon all who love me?
Tell me, I entreat you.”

Mibra, weeping as she spoke, then proceeded to say
that Alcibiades had discovered Eudora's escape immediately
after his return from the feast of Artaphernes.
He was in a perfect storm of passion, and
threatened every one of the servants with severe punishment,
to extort confession. The steward received a few
keen lashes, notwithstanding his protestations of innocence.
But he threatened to appeal to the magistrates
for another master; and Alcibiades, unwilling to lose
the services of this bold and artful slave, restrained
his anger, even when it was at its greatest height.

To appease his master's displeasure, the treacherous
fellow aknowledged that Geta had been seen near the

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walls, and that his boat had been lying at the Triton's

In consequence of this information, men were instantly
ordered in pursuit, with orders to lie in wait for
the fugitives, if they could not be overtaken before
morning. When Geta left Creüsa's Grotto, he was
seized before he reached the house of Clinias.

Mibra knew nothing of these proceedings, but had
remained anxiously waiting till the day was half spent.
Then she learned that Alcibiades had claimed Eudora
and Geta as his slaves, by virtue of a debt due to him
from Phidias for a large quantity of ivory; and notwithstanding
the efforts of Clinias in their favor, the
Court of Forty Four, in the borough of Alcibiades, decided
that he had a right to retain them, until the debt
was paid, or until the heir appeared to show cause why
it should not be paid.

“The gods have blessed Clinias with abundant
wealth,” said Eudora; “Did he offer nothing to save
the innocent?”

“Dear lady,” replied Mibra, “Alcibiades demands
such an immense sum for the ivory, that he says he
might as well undertake to build the wall of Hipparchus,
as to pay it. But I have not told you the most
cruel part of the story. Geta has been tied to a ladder,
and shockingly whipped, to make him tell where you
were concealed. He said he would not do it if he died.
I believe they had the will to kill him; but one of the
young slaves, whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted,
was resolved to make complaint to the magistrates, and
demand another master. She helped Geta to escape;
they have both taken refuge in the Temple of Theseus.
Geta dared trust no one but me to carry a message to

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Clinias. I told him he supped with Pericles to-night;
and he would not suffer me to go there, lest Alcibiades
should be among the guests.”

“I am glad he gave you that advice,” said Eudora;
for though Pericles might be willing to serve me, for
Philothea's sake, I fear if he once learned the secret,
it would soon be in Aspasia's keeping.”

“And that would be all the same as telling Alcibiades
himself,” rejoined Mibra. “But I must tell you
that I did not know of poor Geta's sufferings until
many hours after they happened. Since he went to
Salamis in search of you, I have not seen him until
late this evening. He is afraid to leave the altar lest
he should fall into the hands of his enemies; and that
is the reason he sent me to bring you food. He expects
to be a slave again; but having been abused by
Alcibiades, he claims the privilege of the law to be
transferred to another master.”

Eudora wept bitterly to think she had no power to
rescue her faithful attendant from a condition he
dreaded worse than death.

Mibra endeavored, in her own artless way, to soothe
the distress her words had excited. “In all Geta's
troubles, he thinks more of you than he does of himself.”
said she. “He bade me convey you to the
house of a wise woman from Thessalia, who lives near
the Sacred Gate; for he says she can tell us what it is
best to do. She has learned of magicians in foreign
lands. They say she can compound potions that will
turn hatred into love; and that the power of her enchantments
is so great, she can draw the moon down
from the sky.”

“Nevertheless, I shall not seek her counsel,” replied
the maiden; “for I have heard a better oracle.”

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When she had given an account of the vision in the
cave, the peasant asked, in a low and trembling voice,
“Did it not make you afraid?”

“Not in the least,” answered Eudora; “and therefore
I am doubtful whether it were a vision or a dream.
I spoke to Philothea just as I used to do; without remembering
that she had died. She left me more composed
and happy than I have been for many days.
Even if it were a vision, I do not marvel that the spirit
of one so pure and peaceful should be less terrific than
the ghost of Medea or Clytemnestra.”

“And the light shone all at once!” exclaimed Mibra,
eagerly. “Trust to it, dear lady—trust to it.
A sudden brightness hath ever been a happy omen.”

Two baskets, filled with Copaic eels and anchovies,
had been deposited near the mouth of the cavern; and
with the first blush of morning, the fugitives offered
prayers to Phœbus and Pan, and went forth with the
baskets on their heads, as if they sought the market.
Eudora, in her haste, would have stepped across the
springs that bubbled from the rocks; but Mibra held
her back, saying, “Did you never hear that these
brooks are Creüsa's tears? When the unhappy
daughter of Erectheus left her infant in this cave to
perish, she wept as she departed; and Phœbus, her immortal
lover, changed her tears to rills. For this
reason, the water has ever been salt to the taste. It
is a bad omen to wet the foot in these springs.”

Thus warned, Eudora turned aside, and took a more
circuitous path.

It happened, fortunately, that the residence of Artaphernes
stood behind the temple of Asclepius, at a
short distance from Creüsa's Grotto; and they felt
assured that no one would think of searching for them

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within the dwelling of the Persian stranger. They
arrived at the gate, without question or hindrance; but
found it fastened. To their anxious minds, the time
they were obliged to wait seemed like an age; but at
last the gate was opened, and they preferred a humble
request to see Artaphernes. Eudora, being weary of
her load, stooped to place the basket of fish on a
bench, and her veil accidentally dropped. The porter
touched her under the chin, and said, with a rude laugh,
“Do you suppose, my pretty dolphin, that Artaphernes
buys his own dinner?”

Eudora's eyes flashed fire at this familiarity; but
checking her natural impetuosity, she replied, “It was
not concerning the fish that I wished to speak to your
master. We have business of importance.”

The servant gave a significant glance, more insulting
than his former freedom. “Oh, yes, business of
importance, no doubt,” said he; “but do you suppose,
my little Nereid, that the servant of the Great King is
himself a vender of fish, that he should leave his couch
at an hour so early as this?”

Eudora slipped a ring from her finger, and putting it
in his hand, said, in a confidential tone, “I am not a
fishwoman. I am here in disguise. Go to your master,
and conjure him, if he ever had a daughter that he
loved, to hear the petition of an orphan, who is in great

The man's deportment immediately changed; and
as he walked away, he muttered to himself, “She
don't look nor speak like one brought up at the gates;
that's certain.”

Eudora and Mibra remained in the court for a long
time, but with far less impatience than they had
waited at the gate. At length the servant returned,

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saying his master was now ready to see them. Eudora
followed, in extreme agitation, with her veil folded
closely about her; and when they were ushered into
the presence of Artaphernes, the embarrassment of her
situation deprived her of the power of utterance.
With much kindness of voice and manner, the venerable
stranger said: “My servant told me that one of
you was an orphan, and had somewhat to ask of me.”

Eudora replied: “O Persian stranger, I am indeed
a lonely orphan, in the power of mine enemies; and
I have been warned by a vision to come hither for assistance.”

Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite
surprise, mingled with deeper feelings; and the old
man's countenance grew more troubled, as she continued:
“Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that
sung at Aspasia's house, to whom you afterwards sent
a veil of shining texture?”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a deep sigh: “I do
recollect it. They told me she was Eudora, the
daughter of Phidias.”

“I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias,”
rejoined the maiden. “My benefactor is dead, and I
am friendless.”

“Who were your parents?” inquired the Persian.

“I never knew them,” she replied. “I was stolen
from the Ionian coast by Greek pirates. I was a mere
infant when Phidias bought me.”

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes
asked, “Were you then named Eudora?”

The maiden's heart began to flutter with a new and
and strange hope, as she replied, “No one knew my
name. In my childish prattle, I called myself Baby

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The old man started from his seat—his color went
and came—and every joint trembled. He seemed to
make a strong effort to check some sudden impulse.
After collecting himself for a moment, he said, “Maiden,
you have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it
has stirred the deepest fountains of my heart. I pray
you, let me see your countenance.”

As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair
fell profusely over her neck and shoulders, and her
beautiful face was flushed with eager expectation.

The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant,
and then clasped her to his bosom. The tears fell fast,
as he exclaimed, “Artaminta! My daughter! My
daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have
sought for thee throughout the world, and at last I
believed thee dead. My only child! My long-lost,
my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be
upon thee.”

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Whate'er thou givest, generous let it be.

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When it was rumored that Artaphernes had ransomed
Eudora and Geta, by offering the entire sum
demanded for the ivory, many a jest circulated in the
agoras at the expense of the old man who had given
such an enormous price for a handsome slave; but
when it became known, that he had, in some wonderful
and mysterious manner, discovered a long-lost daughter,
the tide of public feeling was changed.

Alcibiades at once remitted his claim, which in fact
never had any foundation in justice; he having accepted
two statues in payment for the ivory, previous to
the death of Phidias. He likewise formally asked
Eudora in marriage; humbly apologizing for the outrage
he had committed, and urging the vehemence of
his love as an extenuation of the fault.

Artaphernes had power to dispose of his daughter
without even making any inquiry concerning the state
of her affections; but the circumstances of his past life
induced him to forbear the exercise of his power.

“My dear child,” said he, “it was my own misfortune
to suffer by an ill-assorted marriage. In early
youth, my parents united me with Artaynta, a Persian
lady, whose affections had been secretly bestowed upon
a near kinsman. Her parents knew of this fact, but

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mine were ignorant of it. It ended in wretchedness
and disgrace. To avoid the awful consequences of
guilt, she and her lover eloped to some distant land,
where I never attempted to follow them.

Sometime after, the Great King was graciously
pleased to appoint me Governor of the sea-coast in
Asia Minor. I removed to Ephesus, where I saw and
loved your blessed mother, the beautiful Antiope,
daughter of Diophanes, priest of Zeus. I saw her
accidentally at a fountain, and watched her unobserved
while she bathed the feet of her little sister. Though
younger than myself, she reciprocated the love she had
inspired. Her father consented to our union; and for
a few years I enjoyed as great happiness as Oromasdes
ever bestows on mortals. You were our only child;
named Artaminta, in remembrance of my mother. You
were scarcely two years old, when you and your nurse
suddenly disappeared. As several other women and
children were lost at the same time, we supposed that
you were stolen by pirates. All efforts to ascertain
your fate proved utterly fruitless. As moon after moon
passed away, bringing no tidings of our lost treasure,
Antiope grew more and more hopeless. She was a
gentle, tender-hearted being, that complained little and
suffered much. At last, she died broken-hearted.”

After remaining in silent thoughtfulness for a few
moments, he added: “Of my two sons by Artaynta,
one died in childhood; the other was killed in battle,
before I came to Athens. I had never ceased my
exertions to discover you; but after I became childless,
it was the cherished object of existence. Some
information received from Phænician sailors led to the
conclusion that I owed my misfortune to Greek pirates;
and when the Great King informed me that he had

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need of services in Athens, I cheerfully undertook the

Having suffered severely in my own marriage, I
would not willingly endanger your happiness by any
unreasonable exertion of parental authority. Alcibiades
is handsome, rich, and of high rank. How do you regard
his proposal of marriage?”

The color mounted high in Eudora's cheek, and she
answered hastily, “As easily could I consent to be the
wife of Tereus, after his brutal outrage on the helpless
Philomela. I have nothing but contempt to bestow on
the man who persecuted me when I was friendless, and
flatters me when I have wealthy friends.”

Artaphernes replied, “I knew not how far you might
consider violent love an excuse for base proceedings;
but I rejoice to see that you have pride becoming your
noble birth. For another reason it gives me happiness
to find you ill-disposed toward this match; for duty
will soon call me to Persia, and having just recovered
you in a manner so miraculous, it would be a grevious
sacrifice to relinquish you so soon. But am I so
fortunate as to find you willing to return with me.
Are there no strong ties that bind your heart to

Perceiving that Eudora blushed deeply, he added, in
an inquiring tone, “Clinias told me to-day that Phidias
wished to unite you with that gifted artist, his nephew

The maiden replied, “I have many reasons to be
grateful to Pandænus; and it was painful to refuse
compliance with the wishes of my benefactor; but if
Phidias had commanded me to obey him in this instance,
my happiness would have been sacrificed. Of all
countries in the world, there is none I so much wish to

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visit as Persia. Of that you may rest assured, my

The old man looked upon her affectionately, and his
eyes filled with tears, as he exclaimed, “Oromasdes
be praised that I am once more permitted to hear that
welcome sound! No music is so pleasant to my ears
as that word—father. Zoroaster tells us that children
are a bridge joining this earth to a heavenly paradise,
filled with fresh springs and blooming gardens. Blessed
indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call
him father! But, my daughter, why is it that the commands
of Phidias would have made you unhappy?
Speak frankly, Artaminta; lest hereafter there should
be occasion to mourn that we misunderstood each

Eudora then told all the particulars of her attachment
to Philæmon, and her brief infatuation with regard
to Alcibiades. Artaphernes evinced no displeasure at
the disclosure; but spoke of Philæmon with great respect
and affection. He dwelt earnestly upon the
mischievous effects of such free customs as Aspasia
sought to introduce, and warmly eulogized the strictness
and complete seclusion of Persian education.
When Eudora expressed fears that she might never be
able to regain Philæmon's love, he gazed on her beautiful
countenance with fond admiration, and smiled incredulously
as he turned away.

The proposal of Alcibiades was civilly declined; the
promised sum paid to his faithless steward and the
necklace, given by Phidias, redeemed.

Hylax had been forcibly carried to Salamis with his
young mistress, lest his sagacity should lead to a discovery
of her prison. When Eudora escaped from
the island, she had reluctantly left him in her

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apartment, in order to avoid the danger that might arise
from any untimely noise; but as soon as her own
safety was secured, her first thoughts were for the
recovery of this favorite animal, the early gift of Philæ
mon. The little captive had pined and moaned continually,
during their brief separation; and when he
returned, it seemed as if his boisterous joy could not
sufficiently manifest itself in gambols and caresses.

When Artaphernes was convinced that he had really
found his long-lost child, the impulse of gratitude led
to very early inquiries for Pandænus. The artist had
not yet re-appeared; and all Athens was filled with
conjectures concerning his fate. Eudora still suspected
that Alcibiades had secreted him, for the same
reason that he had claimed Geta as a slave; for it
was sufficiently obvious that he had desired, as far
as possible, to deprive her of all assistance and protection.

The event proved her suspicions well founded. On
the fourth day after her escape from Salamis, Pandænus
came to congratulate Artaphernes, and half in anger,
half in laughter, told the particulars of his story. He
had been seized as he returned home at night, and had
been forcibly conveyed to the mansion of Eurysaces,
where he was kept a close prisoner, with the promise
of being released whenever he finished a picture, which
Alcibiades had long desired to obtain. This was a
representation of Europa, just entering the ocean on
the back of the beautiful bull, which she and her unsuspecting
companions had crowned with garlands.

At first, the artist resisted, and swore by Phæbus
Apollo that he would not be thus forced into the service
of any man; but an unexpected circumstance changed
his resolution.

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There was a long, airy gallery, in which he was
allowed to take exercise any hour of the day. In some
places, an open-work partition, richly and curiously
wrought by the skillful hand of Callicrates, separated
this gallery from the outer balustrade of the building.
During his walks, Pandænus often heard sounds of
violent grief from the other side of the screen. Curiosity
induced him to listen and inquire the cause. A
sad, sweet voice answered, “I am Cleonica, daughter
of a noble Spartan. Taken captive in war, and sold to
Alcibiades, I weep for my dishonored lot; for much I
fear it will bring the grey hairs of my mother to an untimely

This interview led to another, and another; and
though the mode of communication was imperfect, the
artist was enabled to perceive that the captive maiden
was a tall, queenly figure, with a rich profusion of
sunny hair, indicating a fair and fresh complexion.
The result was a promise to paint the desired picture,
provided he might have the Spartan slave as a recompense.

Alcibiades, equally solicitous to obtain the painting,
and to prolong the seclusion of Pandænus, and being
then eager in another pursuit, readily consented to the
terms proposed. After Eudora's sudden change of
fortune, being somewhat ashamed of the publicity of
his conduct, and desirous not to lose entirely the good
opinion of Artaphernes, he gave the artist his liberty,
simply requiring the fulfilment of his promise.

“And what are your intentions with regard to this
fair captive?” inquired the Persian, with a significant

With some degree of embarrassment, Pandænus
answered, “I came to ask your protection; and that

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Eudora might for the present consider her as a sister,
until I can restore her to her family.”

“It shall be so,” replied Artaphernes; “but this is
a very small part of the debt I owe the nephew of
Phidias. Should you hereafter have a favor to ask of
Cleonica's noble family, poverty shall be no obstruction
to your wishes. I have already taken measures
to purchase for you a large estate in Elis, and to remit
yearly revenues, which will I trust be equal to your
wishes. I have another favor to ask, in addition to
the many claims you already have upon me. Among
the magnificent pictures that adorn the Pæcile, I have
not observed the sculptor of your gods. I pray you
exert your utmost skill in a painting of Phidias crowned
by the Muses; that I may place it on those walls,
a public monument of my gratitude to that illustrious

“Of his statues and drawings I have purchased all
that can be bought in Athens. The weeping Panthea,
covering the body of Abradates with her mantle, is
destined for my royal and munificent master. By the
kindness of Pericles, I have obtained for myself the
beautiful group, representing my precious little Artaminta
caressing the kid, in that graceful attitude which
first attracted the attention of her benefactor. For the
munificent Eleans, I have reserved the Graceful Three,
which your countrymen have named the presiding
deities over benevolent actions. All the other statues
and drawings of your illustrious kinsman are at your
disposal. Nay, do not thank me, young man. Mine is
still the debt; and my heart will be ever grateful.”

The exertions of Clinias, although they proved unavailing,
were gratefully acknowledged by the present
of a large silver bowl, on which the skillful artificer,

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Mys, had represented, with exquisite delicacy, the
infant Dionysus watched by the nymphs of Naxos.

In the midst of this generosity, the services of Geta
and Mibra were not forgotten. The bribe given to the
steward was doubled in the payment, and an offer made
to establish them in any part of Greece, or Persia,
where they wished to reside.

A decided preference was given to Elis, as the only
place where they could be secure from the ravages of
war. A noble farm, in the neighborhood of Proclus,
was accordingly purchased for them, well stocked with
herds and furnished with all agricultural and household
conveniences. Geta, having thus become an owner of
the soil, dropped the brief name by which he had been
known in slavery, and assumed the more sonorous appellation
of Philophidias.

Dione, old as she was, overcame her fear of perils
by land and sea, and resolved to follow her young
mistress into Persia.

Before a new moon had begun its course, Pandænus
fulfilled his intention of returning to Olympia, in company
with the Lacedæmonian ambassador and his train.
Cleonica, attended by Geta and Mibra, travelled under
the same protection. Artaphernes sent to Proclus four
noble horses and a Bactrian camel, together with seven
minæ as a portion for Zoila. For Pterilaüs, likewise,
was a sum of money sufficient to maintain him ten
years in Athens, that he might gratify his ardent desire
to become the disciple of Plato. Eudora sent her
little playmate a living peacock, which proved even
more acceptable than her flock of marble sheep with
their painted shepherd. To Melissa was sent a long,
affectionate epistle, with the dying bequest of Philothea,
and many a valuable token of Eudora's gratitude.

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Although a brilliant future was opening before her,
the maiden's heart was very sad, when she bade a last
farewell to the honest and faithful attendants, who
had been with her through so many changing scenes,
and aided her in the hour of her utmost need.

The next day after their departure was spent by the
Persian in the worship of Mithras, and prayers to
Oromasdes. Eudora, in remembrance of her vision,
offered thanksgiving and sacrifice to Phœbus and Pan;
and implored the deities of ocean to protect the Phœ
nician galley in which they were about to depart from

These ceremonies being performed, Artaphernes
and his weeping daughter visited the studio of Myron,
who, in compliance with their orders, had just finished
the design of a beautiful monument to Paralus and
Philothea, on which were represented two doves sleeping
upon garlands.

For the last time, Eudora poured oblations of milk
and honey, and placed fragrant flowers with ringlets of
her hair upon the sepulchre of her gentle friend; then,
with many tears, she bade a long farewell to scenes
rendered sacred by the remembrane, of their mutual

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Next arose
A well-towered city, by seven golden gates
Inclosed, that fitted to their lintels hung.
Then burst forth
Aloud the marriage-song; and far and wide
Long splendors flashed from many a quivering torch.

[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]

When the galley arrived at the opulent city of Tyre,
the noble Persian and his retinue joined a caravan of
Phœnician merchants bound to Ecbatana, honored at
that season of the year with the residence of the royal
family. Eudora travelled in a cedar carriage drawn
by camels. The latticed windows were richly gilded,
and hung with crimson curtains, which her father ordered
to be closed at the slightest indication of approaching
travellers. Dione, with six more youthful
attendants, accompanied her, and exerted all their
powers to make the time pass pleasantly; but all their
stories of romantic love, of heroes mortal and immortal—
combined with the charms of music, could not prevent
her from feeling that the journey was exceedingly
long and wearisome.

She recollected how her lively spirit had sometimes
rebelled against the restraints imposed on Grecian
women, and sighed to think of all she had heard concerning
the far more rigid customs of Persia. Expressions
of fatigue sometimes escaped her; and her indulgent
parent consented that she should ride in the

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chariot with him, enveloped in a long, thick veil, that
descended to her feet, with two small openings of network
for the eyes.

As they passed through Persia, he pointed out to her
the sacred groves, inhabited by the Magi; the entrance
of the cave where Zoroaster penned his divine precepts;
and the mountain on whose summit he was
wont to hold midnight communication with the heavenly

Eudora remarked that she nowhere observed temples
or altars; objects to which her eye had always
been accustomed, and which imparted such a sacred
and peculiar beauty to Grecian scenery.

Artaphernes replied, “It is because these things
are contrary to the spirit of Persian theology. Zoroaster
taught us that the temple of Oromasdes was infinite
space—his altar, the air, the earth, and the

When the travellers arrived within sight of Ecbatana,
the setting sun poured upon the noble city a
flood of dazzling light. It was girdled by seven walls,
of seven different colors; one rising above the other,
in all the hues of the rainbow. From the centre of the
innermost, arose the light, graceful towers of the royal
palace, glittering with gold. The city was surrounded
by fertile, spacious plains, bounded on one side by
Mount Orontes and on the other by a stately forest,
amid whose lofty trees might here and there be seen
the magnificent villas of Persian nobles.

Eudora's heart beat violently, when her father
pointed to the residence of Megabyzus, and told her
that the gilded balls on its pinnacles could be discovered
from their own dwelling; but maiden shame prevented
her from inquiring whether Philæmon was still the instructer
of his sons.

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The morning after his arrival, Artaphernes had a
private audience with his royal master. This conference
lasted so long that many of the courtiers supposed
his mission in Greece related to matters of more
political importance than the purchase of pictures and
statues; and this conjecture was afterward confirmed
by the favors lavished upon him.

It was soon known throughout the precincts of the
court that the favorite noble had returned from Athens,
bringing with him his long-lost daughter. The very
next day, as Eudora walked round the terraces of her
father's princely mansion, she saw the royal carriages
approach, followed by a long train of attendants, remarkable
for age and ugliness, and preceded by an
armed guard, calling aloud to all men to retire before
their presence, on pain of death. In obedience to
these commands, Artaphernes immediately withdrew
to his own apartment, closed the shutters, and there
remained till the royal retinue departed.

The visiters consisted of Amestris, the mother of
Artaxerxes; Arsinöe of Damascus, his favorite mistress;
and Parysatis, his daughter; with their innumerable
slaves. They examined Eudora with more
than childish curiosity—pulled every article of her
dress, to ascertain its color and its texture—teased to
see all her jewels—wanted to know the name of every
thing in Greek—requested her to sing Greek songs—
were impatient to learn Ionian dances—conjured
her to paint a black streak from the eyes to the ears—
and were particularly anxious to ascertain what cosmetic
the Grecian ladies used to stain the tips of their

When all these important matters were settled, by
means of an interpreter, they began to discuss the

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merits of Grecian ladies; and loudly expressed their
horror at the idea of appearing before brothers unveiled,
and at the still grosser indelicacy of sometimes
allowing the face to be seen by a betrothed lover.
Then followed a repetition of all the gossip of the
harem; particularly, a fresh piece of scandal concerning
Apollonides of Cos, and their royal kinswoman,
Amytis, the wife of Megabyzus. Eudora turned away
to conceal her blushes; for the indelicacy of their language
was such as seldom met the ear of a Grecian

The Queen mother was eloquent in praise of a young
Lesbian girl, whom Artaphernes had bought to attend
upon his daughter. This was equivalent to asking for
the slave; and the captive herself evinced no unwillingness
to join the royal household; it having been
foretold by an oracle that she would one day be the
mother of kings. Amestris accepted the beautiful
Greek with many thanks, casting a triumphant glance
at Arsinöe and Parysatis, who lowered their brows, as
if each had reasons of her own for being displeased
with the arrangement.

The royal guests gave and received a variety of
gifts; consisting principally of jewels, embroidered
mantles, veils, tufts of peacock feathers with ivory
handles, parrots, and golden boxes filled with roseate
powder for the fingers, and black paint for the eyebrows.
At length they departed, and Eudora's attendants
showered perfumes on them as they went.

Eudora recalled to mind the pure and sublime discourse
she had so often enjoyed with Philothea, and
sighed as she compared it with this specimen of intercourse
with high-born Persian ladies.

When the sun was setting, she again walked upon

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the terrace; and, forgetful of the customs of the country,
threw back her veil, that she might enjoy more
perfectly the beauty of the landscape. She stood
thoughtfully gazing at the distant pinnacles, which
marked the residence of Megabyzus, when the barking
of Hylax attracted her attention, and looking into the
garden, she perceived a richly dressed young man,
with his eyes fixed earnestly upon her. She drew her
veil hastily, and retired within the dwelling, indulging
the secret hope that none of her attendants had witnessed
an action which Artapherues would deem so

On the following morning commenced the celebrated
festival called, `The Salutation of Mithras;' during
which, forty days were set apart for thanksgiving and
sacrifice. The procession formed long before the
rising of the sun. First appeared a long train of the
most distinguished Magi from all parts of the empire,
led by their chief in scarlet robes, carrying the sacred
fire upon a silver furnace. Next appeared an empty
chariot consecrated to Oromasdes, decorated with garlands,
and drawn by white steeds harnessed with gold.
This was followed by a magnificent large horse, his
forehead flaming with gems, in honor of Mithras.
Then came the Band of Immortals, and the royal kindred,
their Median vests blazing with embroidery and
gold. Artaxerxes rode in an ivory chariot, richly inlaid
with precious stones. He was followed by a long
line of nobles, riding on camels splendidly caparisoned;
and their countless attendants closed the train. This
gorgeous retinue slowly ascended Mount Orontes.
When they arrived upon its summit, the chief of the
Magi assumed his tiara interwoven with myrtle, and
hailed the first beams of the rising sun with prayer and

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sacrifice. Then each of the Magi in turns sung orisons
to Oromasdes, by whose eternal power the radiant
Mithras had been sent to gladden the earth, and
preserve the principle of life. Finally, they all joined
in one universal chorus, while king, princes, and nobles,
prostrated themselves, and adored the Fountain
of Light.

At that solemn moment, a tiger leaped from an adjoining
thicket, and sprung toward the king. But ere
the astonished courtiers had time to breathe, a javelin
from some unknown hand passed through the ferocious
animal, and laid him lifeless in the dust.

Eudora had watched the procession from the housetop;
and at this moment she thought she perceived hurried
and confused movements, of which her attendants
could give no explanation.

The splendid concourse returned toward the palace
in the same order that it had ascended the mountain.
But next to the royal chariot there now appeared a
young man on a noble steed, with a golden chain about
his neck, and two heralds by his side, who ever and
anon blew their trumpets, and proclaimed, “This is
Philæmon of Athens, whom the king delighteth to

Eudora understood the proclamation imperfectly;
but afar off, she recognized the person of her lover.
As they passed the house, she saw Hylax running to
and fro on the top of the wall, barking, and jumping,
and wagging his tail, as if he too were conscious of the
vicinity of some familiar friend. The dog evidently
arrested Philæmon's attention; for he observed him
closely, and long continued to look back and watch his

A tide of sweet and bitter recollections oppressed

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the maiden's heart; a deadly paleness overspread her
cheeks; a suffocating feeling choked her voice; and
had it not been for a sudden gush of tears, she would
have fallen.

When her father returned, he informed her that the
life of Artaxerxes had been saved by the promptitude
and boldness of Philæmon, who happened to perceive
the tiger sooner than any other person at the festival.
He added, “I saw Philæmon after the rescue, but we
had brief opportunity to discourse together. I think
his secluded habits have prevented him from hearing
that I found a daughter in Athens. He told me he
intended soon to return to his native country, and
promised to be my guest for a few days before he
departed. Furthermore, my child, the Great King,
in the fullness of his regal bounty, last night sent
a messenger to demand you in marriage for his son

He watched her countenance, as he spoke; but
seemed doubtful how to understand the fluctuating color.
Still keeping his scrutinizing gaze fixed upon her, he
continued, “Artaminta, this is an honor not to be lightly
rejected—to be princess of Persia now, and hereafter
perhaps its queen.”

In some confusion, the maiden answered, “Perhaps
the prince may not approve his father's choice.”

“No, Artaminta; the prince has chosen for himself.
He sent his sister to obtain a view of my newly-discovered
daughter; and he himself saw you, as you
stood on the terrace unveiled.”

In an agitated voice, Eudora asked, “And must I be
compelled to obey the commands of the king?”

“Unless it should be his gracious pleasure to dispense
with obedience,” replied Artaphernes. “I and all my

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household are his servants. I pray Oromasdes that
you may never have greater troubles than the fear of
becoming a princess.”

“But you forget, my dear father, that Parysatis
told me her brother Xerxes was effeminate and capricious,
and had a new idol with every change of the
moon. Some fairer face would soon find favor in his
sight; and I should perhaps be shut up with hundreds
of forgotten favorites, in the old harem, among silly
women and ugly slaves.”

Her father answered, in an excited tone, “Artaminta,
if you had been brought up with more becoming seclusion,
like those silly Persian women, you would perhaps
have known, better than you now seem to do, that a
woman's whole duty is submission.”

Eudora had never heard him speak so harshly.
She perceived that his parental ambition was roused,
and that her indifference to the royal proposal displeased
him. The tears fell fast, as she replied, “Dear
father, I will obey you, even if you ask me to sacrifice
my life, at the command of the king.”

Her tears touched the feelings of the kind old man.
He embraced her affectionately, saying, “Do not weep,
daughter of my beloved Antiope. It would indeed
gratify my heart to see you queen of Persia; but you
shall not be made wretched, if my interest with the
Great King can prevent it. All men praise his justice
and moderation; and he has pledged his royal word to
grant anything I ask, in recompense for services rendered
in Greece. The man who has just saved his
life can no doubt obtain any favor. But reflect upon
it well, my daughter. Xerxes has no son; and should
you give birth to a boy, no new favorite could exclude
you from the throne. Perhaps Philæmon was silent

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from other causes than ignorance of your arrival in Persia;
and if this be the case, you may repent a too hasty
rejection of princely love.”

Eudora blushed like crimson, and appeared deeply
pained by this suggestion; but she made no answer.

Artaphernes departed, promising to seek a private
audience with the king; and she saw him no more that
night. When she laid her head upon the pillow, a
mind troubled with many anxious thoughts for a long
time prevented repose; and when she did sink to sleep,
it was with a confused medley of ideas, in which the
remembrance of Philæmon's love was mixed up with
floating visions of regal grandeur, and proud thoughts
of a triumphant marriage, now placed within her power,
should he indeed prove as unforgiving and indifferent,
as her father had suggested.

In her sleep, she saw Philothea; but a swift and
turbid stream appeared to roll between them; and her
friend said, in melancholy tones, “You have left me,
Eudora; and I cannot come to you, now. Whence
are these dark and restless waters, which separate our

Then a variety of strange scenes rapidly succeeded
each other—all cheerless, perturbed, and chaotic.
At last, she seemed to be standing under the old
grape-vine, that shaded the dwelling of Anaxagoras,
and Philæmon crowned her with a wreath of myrtle.

In the morning, soon after she had risen from her
couch, Artaphernes came to her apartment, and mildly
asked if she still wished to decline the royal alliance.
He evinced no displeasure when she answered in the
affirmative; but quietly replied, “It may be that you
have chosen a wise part, my child; for true it is, that
safety and contentment rarely take up their abode

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with princes. But now go and adorn yourself with
your richest apparel; for the Great King requires me
to present you at the palace, before the hour of noon.
Let your Greek costume be laid aside; for I would
not have my daughter appear like a foreigner, in the
presence of her king.”

With a palpitating heart, Eudora resigned herself
into the hands of her Persian tire-women, who so loaded
her with embroidery and gems, that she could scarcely
support their weight.

She was conveyed to the palace in a cedar carriage,
carefully screened from observation. Her father rode
by her side, and a numerous train of attendants followed.
Through gates of burnished brass, they entered
a small court with a tesselated pavement of black
and white marble. Thence they passed into a long
apartment, with walls of black marble, and cornices
heavily gilded. The marble was so highly polished
that Eudora saw the light of her jewels everywhere
reflected like sunbeams. Surprised by the multiplied
images of herself and attendants, she did not at first
perceive, through the net-work of her veil, that a
young man stood leaning against the wall, with his
arms folded. This well-remembered attitude attracted
her attention, and she scarcely needed a glance to assure
her it was Phiæmon.

It being contrary to Persian etiquette to speak
without license within hearing of the royal apartments,
the Athenian merely smiled, and bowed gracefully to
Artaphernes; but an audible sigh escaped him, as he
glanced at the Greek attendants. Eudora hastily
turned away her head, when he looked toward her;
but her heart throbbed so violently, that every fold of
her veil trembled. They continued thus in each

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other's presence many minutes; one in a state of perfect
unconsciousness, the other suffering an intensity
of feeling, that seemed like the condensed excitement
of years. At last a herald came to say it was now the
pleasure of the Great King to receive them in the private
court, opening into the royal gardens.

The pavement of this court was of porphyry inlaid
with costly marbles, in various hieroglyphics. The
side connected with the palace was adorned with
carved open-work, richly painted and gilded, and with
jasper tablets, alternately surmounted by a golden ram
and a winged lion; one the royal ensign of Persia, the
other emblematic of the Assyrian empire conquered by
Cyrus. The throne was placed in the centre, under a
canopy of crimson, yellow, and blue silk, tastefully intermingled
and embroidered with silver and gold.
Above this was an image of the sun, with rays so
brilliant, that it dazzled the eyes of those who looked
upon it.

The monarch seemed scarcely beyond the middle
age, with long flowing hair, and a countenance mild
and dignified. On his right hand stood Xerxes—on
his left, Darius and Sogdianus; and around him were
a numerous band of younger sons; all wearing white
robes, with jewelled vests of Tyrian purple.

As they entered, the active buzzing of female voices
was heard behind the gilded open-work of the wall;
but this was speedily silenced by a signal from the
herald. Artaphernes prostrated himself, till his forehead
touched the pavement; Eudora copied his example;
but Philæmon merely bowed low, after the
manner of the Athenians. Artaxerxes bade them
arise, and said, in a stern tone, “Artaphernes, has
thy daughter prepared herself to obey our royal

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mandate? Or is she still contemptuous of our kingly

Eudora trembled; and her father again prostrated
himself, as he replied: “O great and benignant king!
mayest thou live forever. May Oromasdes bless thee
with a prosperous reign, and forever avert from thee
the malignant influence of Arimanius. I and my
household are among the least of thy servants. May
the hand that offends thee be cut off, and cast to unclean

“Arise, Artaphernes!” said the monarch. “Thy
daughter has permission to speak.”

Eudora, awed by the despotic power and august
presence of Artaxerxes, spoke to her father, in a low
and tremulous voice, and reminded him of the royal
promise to grant whatever he might ask.

Philæmon turned eagerly, and a sudden flush mantled
his cheeks, when he heard the pure Attic dialect,
with its lovely marriage of sweet sounds.”

“What does the maiden say?” inquired the king.

Artaphernes again paid homage, and answered: “O
Light of the World! Look in mercy upon the daughter
of thy servant, and grant that her petition may find
favor in thy sight. As yet, she hath not gained a
ready utterance of the Persian language—honored
and blessed above all languages, in being the messenger
of thy thoughts, O king. Therefore, she spoke in
the Greek tongue, concerning thy gracious promise to
grant unto the humblest of thy servants whatsoever he
might ask at thy hands.”

Then the monarch held forth his golden sceptre, and
replied, “Be it unto thee, as I have said. I have
sought thy daughter in marriage for Xerxes, prince of
the empire. What other boon does Artaphernes ask
of the king?”

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The Persian approached, and reverently touching
the point of the sceptre, answered: “O King of kings!
before whom the nations of the earth do tremble.
Thy bounty is like the overflowing Nilus, and thy
mercy refreshing as dew upon the parched earth. If
it be thy pleasure, O king, forgive Artaminta, my
daughter, if she begs that the favor of the prince, like
the blessed rays of Mithras, may fall upon some fairer
damsel. I pray thee have her excused.”

Xerxes looked up with an angry frown; but his royal
father replied, “The word of the king is sacred; and
his decree changeth not. Be it unto thee even as thou

Then turning to Philæmon, he said: “Athenian
stranger, our royal life preserved by thy hand deserves
a kingly boon. Since our well beloved son cannot find
favor in the eyes of this damsel, we bestow her upon
thee. Her father is one of the illustrious Pasargadæ,
and her ancestors were not unremotely connected with
the princes of Media. We have never looked upon
her countenance—deeming it wise to copy the prudent
example of our cousin Cyrus; but report describes
her beautiful as Panthea.”

Eudora shrunk from being thus bestowed upon
æmon; and she would have said this to her father, had
Philhe not checked the first half-uttered word by a private

“With extreme confusion, the Athenian bowed low,
and answered, “Pardon me, O King, and deem me
not insensible of thy royal munificence. I pray thee
bestow the daughter of the princely Artaphernes upon
one more worthy than thy servant.”

“Now, by the memory of Cyrus! exclaimed Artaxerxes,
“The king's favors shall this day be likened

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unto a beggar, whose petitions are rejected at every

Then, turning to his courtiers, he added: “A proud
nation are these Greeks! When the plague ravaged
all Persia and Media, Hippocrates of Cos, refused our
entreaties, and scorned our royal bounty; saying he
was born to serve his own countrymen, and not foreigners.
Themistocles, on whom our mighty father
bestowed the revenues of cities, died, rather than fight
for him against Athens;—and lo! here is a young
Athenian, who refuses a maiden sought by the Persian
prince, with a dowry richer than Pactolus.”

Philæmon bowed himself reverently, and replied:
“Deem not, O king, that I am moved by Grecian
pride; for well I know that I am all unworthy of this
princely alliance. An epistle lately received from
Olympia makes it necessary for me to return to
Greece; where, O king, I seek a beloved maiden, to
whom I was betrothed before my exile.”

Eudora had trembled violently, and her convulsed
breathing was audible, while Philæmon spoke; but
when he uttered the last words, forgetful of the reverence
required of those who stood in the presence of
majesty, she murmured, “Oh, Philothea!” and sunk
into the arms of her father.

The young man started;—for now, not only the language,
but the tones were familiar to his heart. As
the senseless form was carried into the garden, he
gazed upon it with an excited and bewildered expression.

Artaxerxes smiled, as he said. “Athenian stranger,
the daughter of Artaphernes, lost on the coast of Ionia,
was discovered in the household of Phidias, and the
Greeks called her Eudora.”

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Philæmon instantly knelt at the monarch's feet, and
said, “Pardon me, O king. I was ignorant of all this.

He would have explained more fully; but Artaxerxes
interrupted him; “We know it all, Athenian
stranger—we know it all. You have refused Artaminta,
and now we bestow upon you Eudora, with the
revenues of Magnesia and Lampsacus for her dowry.”

Before the next moon had waned, a magnificent
marriage was celebrated in the court of audience,
opening into the royal gardens. On a shining throne,
in the midst of a stately pavilion, was seated Artaxerxes,
surrounded by the princes of the empire. Near
the throne stood Philæmon and Eudora. Artaphernes
placed the right hand of the bride within the right hand
of the bridegroom, saying, “Philæmon of Athens, I
bestow upon thee, Artaminta, my daughter, with my
estates in Pasagarda, and five thousand darics as her

The chief of the Magi bore sacred fire on a silver
censer, and the bridal couple passed slowly around it
three times, bowing reverently to the sacred emblem
of Mithras. Then the bridegroom fastened a golden
jewel about the bride's neck, and they repeated certain
words, promising fidelity to each other. The nuptial
hymn was sung by six handsome youths, and as many
maidens, clothed in white garments, with a purple

Numerous lamps were lighted in the trees, making
the gardens bright as noon. Females belonging to the
royal household, and to the most favored of the nobility,
rode through the groves and lawns, in rich pavilions,
on the backs of camels and white elephants. As
the huge animals were led along, fireworks burst from

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under their feet, and playing for a moment in the air,
with undulating movements, fell in a sparkling shower.

Artaxerxes gave a luxurious feast, which lasted
seven days; during which time the Queen entertained
her female guests with equal splendor, in the apartments
of the women.

The Athenian decree against those of foreign parentage
had been repealed in favor of young Pericles; but
in that country everything was in a troubled and unsettled
state; and Artaphernes pleaded hard to have
his daughter remain in Persia.

It was therefore decided that the young couple
should reside at Pasagarda, situated in a fertile valley,
called the Queen's Girdle, because its revenues were
appropriated to that costly article of the royal wardrobe.
This pleasant city had once been the favorite
residence of Cyrus the Great, and a plain obelisk in
the royal gardens marked his burial-place. The adjacent
promontory of Taoces afforded a convenient
harbor for Tyrian merchants, and thus brought in the
luxuries of Phœnicia, while it afforded opportunities
for literary communication between the East and the
West. Here were celebrated schools under the direction
of the Magi, frequently visited by learned men
from Greece, Ethiopia, and Egypt.

Philæmon devoted himself to the quiet pursuits of
literature; and Eudora, happy in her father, husband
and children, thankfully acknowledged the blessings of
her lot.

Her only daughter, a gentle maiden, with plaintive
voice and earnest eyes, bore the beloved name of

Back matter

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Zeus—The Jupiter of the Romans.

Zeus Xenius—Jupiter the Hospitable.



Pallas Athena—An ancient appellation of Minerva, from which
Athens took its name.

Pallas Parthenia—Pallas the Virgin.

Pallas Promachos—Pallas the Defender.

Phœbus—The Apollo of the Romans; the Sun.

Phœbus Apollo—Phœbus the Destroyer, or the Purifier.

Phœbe—Diana; the Moon.


Agrotera—Diana the Huntress.

Orthia—Name of Diana among the Spartans.



Urania—The Heavenly Venus. The same name was applied
to the Muse of Astronomy.






Pandamator—A name of Vulcan, signifying the All-subduing.

Mnemosyne—Goddess of Memory.



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Rhamnusia—Name of a statue of Nemesis, goddess of Vengeance;
so called because it was in the town of Rhamnus.



Taraxippus—A deity whose protection was implored at Elis,
that no harm might happen to the horses.

Erinnys—The Eumenides, or Furies.

Naiades—Nymphs of Rivers, Springs, and Fountains.

Nereides—Nymphs of the Sea.

Oreades—Nymphs of the Mountains.

Dryades—Nymphs of the Woods.

Oromasdes—Persian name for the Principle of Good.

Mithras—Persian name for the Sun.

Arimanius—Persian name for the Principle of Evil.



Cordax—An immodest comic dance.

Agora—A Market House.

Prytaneum—The Town House.

Deigma—A place in the Piræus, corresponding to the modern

Clepsydra—A Water-dial.

Cotylœ—A measure. Some writers say one third of a quart;
others much less.

Arytœna—A small cup.

Arabyllus—A vase, wide at bottom and narrow at top.

Archons—Chief Magistrates of Athens.

Prytanes—Magistrates who presided over the Senate.


Epistates—Chairman, or speaker.

Hippodrome—The Horse-course.

Stadium—Thirty six and a half rods.

Obolus, (plural Oboli)—A small coin, about the value of a

Drachma, (plural Drachmœ)—About ten-pence sterling.

Mina, (plural Minœ)—Four pounds, three shillings, four pence.

Stater—A gold coin; estimated at about twelve shillings, three

Daric—A Persian gold coin, valued one pound, twelve shillings,
three pence.

(All the above coins are estimated very differently by different writers.)

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The midnight procession of the Panathenaia.” p. 11.

This festival in honor of Pallas was observed early in the summer,
every fifth year, with great pomp.

The Sacred Peplus.” p. 12.

This was a white garment consecrated to Pallas, on which the
actions of illustrious men were represented in golden embroidery.

Court of Cynosarges.” p. 13.

Cases of illegitimacy were decided at this court.

Festival of Torches.” p. 15.

In honor of Prometheus. The prize was bestowed on him who
ran the course without extinguishing his torch.

Six months of seclusion within the walls of the Acropolis,
were required of the Canephorœ
.” p. 21.

Maidens of the first families were selected to embroider the sacred
peplus. The two principal ones were called Canephoræ, because
they carried baskets in the Panathenaic procession.

Fountain of Byblis.” p. 32.

This name was derived from a young Ionian, passionately fond
of her brother Caunus, for whom she wept till she was changed into
a fountain, near Miletus.

During the festivities of the Dionysia.” p. 41.

This festival, in honor of Dionysus, was observed with great
splendor. Choragic games are supposed to have been celebrated;
in which prizes were given to the successful competitors in music,
and the drama.

The tuneful sould of Marsyas.” p. 41.

Marsyas was a celebrated musician of Phrygia, generally considered
the inventor of the flute.

Contest between fighting quails.” p. 42.

In Athens, quails were pitched against each other, in the same
manner as game-cocks among the moderns.

I perceived no paintings of those who had been wrecked.” p. 43.

This idea is borrowed; but I cannot remember whence.

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Pericles withdrew a rose from the garland.” p. 43.

This flower was sacred to Silence. The ancients often suspended
it above the table at feasts, to signify that what was said sub
was not to be repeated.

A life-time as long as that conferred upon the namesake of
.” p. 44.

It is related of him, that he asked and obtained the gift of immortality
in this world; but unfortunately forgot to ask for youth and

Eleusinian Mysteries.” p. 45.

Ceremonies at Eleusis, in honor of Demeter, observed with great
secresy. Those who were initiated were supposed to be peculiarly
under the protection of the gods.

The Universal Mind.” p. 46.

Anaxagoras is supposed to have been the first who taught the doctrine
of one God, under the name of One Universal Mind.

Model for the sloping roof of the Odeum.” p. 51.

Pericles was usually represented with a helmet, to cover the deformity
in his skull. It was jestingly said that the model for the
Odeum was from his own head.

Patriotic song of Callistratus.” p. 53.

Translated from the Greek, by the Rt. Rev. G. W. Doane, Bishop
of New-Jersey.

“While our rosy fillets shed,” &c. p. 55.

The 43d Ode of Anacreon. This and other extracts from the
same poet are translated by Thomas Moore, Esq. In the mottoes,
some phrases are slightly altered; not with the hope of improving
them, but merely to adapt them to the chapters.

All ending in ippus and ippides.” p. 59.

Ippus is the Greek for horse. Wealthy Athenians generally belonged
to the equestrian order; to which the same ideas of honor
were attached as to the knights, or cavaliers, of modern times.
Their names often signified some quality of a horse; as Leucippus,
a white horse, &c.

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Describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter.” p. 47.

None but Greeks were allowed to enter the temple of this goddess.

Urania alone confers the beauty-giving zone.” p. 66.

Urania was the Heavenly Venus, who presided over the pure sentiment
of love, in distinction from Aphrodite, who presided over the
sensual passion.

Temple of Urania in the Gardens.” p. 68.

This was the temple of the Heavenly Venus.

The Pleiades mourning for their lost sister.” p. 71.

One of the stars in the constellation of the Pleiades is said to have
disappeared. They were fabled as seven sisters, and one lost her
place in the sky by marrying a mortal.

More happy than the gods is he.” p. 57.

Second Ode of Sappho, translated by F. Fawkes, Esq.

He clothed the Graces.” p. 58.

Socrates was originally a sculptor. He carved a beautiful group
of the Graces; said to have been the first that were represented with

Too frugal to buy colored robes.” p. 73.

The common people in Athens generally bought white garments,
for the economy of having them dyed when they were defaced.

I am as wakeful as the bird of Pallas.” p. 74.

Owls were sacred to the goddess of wisdom.

A garland fastened with a delicately-carved arrow.” p. 75.

Grecian lovers often chose this beautiful manner of complimenting
the object of their affections.

A humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly.” p. 79.

The name of Urania was applied to the Muse of Astronomy, as
well as to the Heavenly Venus.

Every human being has, like Socrates, an attendant
.” p. 86.

In the Phœdrus of Plato, Socrates is represented as saying,

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“When I was about to cross the river, a demoniacal and usual sign
was given me; and whenever this takes place, it always. prohibits
me from accomplishing what I was about to do. In the present
instance, I seemed to hear a voice, which would not suffer me to
depart till I had made an expiation; as if I had offended in some
particular a divine nature.”

By these expressions, the philosopher probably did not mean
conscience in the usual acceptation of that term; but rather the
inward voice, as believed in by the Mystics, and by the Society of

In ancient times, the word demon was not applied exclusively to
evil spirits. Hesiod says:

“Thrice ten thousand holy demons rove
This breathing world; the immortals sent by Jove.”

His statue stands among the Olympionicœ.” p. 89.

The victors at the Olympic Games had their statues placed in the
groves. These statues were called Olympionicæ.

Count me on the summer trees.” p. 95.

Part of the 14th Ode of Anacreon.

I heard one of the sophists.” p. 104.

Some of the sayings here attributed to the sophists are borrowed
from a source which I have forgotten. My recollections are so confused
that I cannot decide what portions are quoted and what are
not. I remember having read the remark concerning rhetoric's
being the noblest of the arts; and the anecdote of the man who
wished his son to learn to prove that right was wrong, or wrong was
right—only he wanted him to be carefully instructed always to use
this faculty in the right way.

As soon would I league myself with Odomantians.” p. 108.

The Odomantians of Thrace, near the river Strymon, had the
same grasping, avaricious character attributed to the Jews in modern

Concealed their frauds amid the flames of the Treasury.”
p. 109.

The Treasury in Athens was burned to the ground, by the Treasurers,
who took that method to avoid being called to account for the
money they had embezzled.

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When the lake is still they lose their labor.” p. 112.

This comparison is used by Aristophanes.

That comes of having the Helots among them.” p. 113.

The freemen of Sparta were forbidden the exercise of any mechanical
or laborious employment. All these duties devolved upon
the Helots; while their masters spent their time in dancing, feasting,
hunting, and fighting.

He approves the law forbidding masters to bestow
.” p. 113.

There was a Spartan law forbidding masters to emancipate their
slaves. About two thousand, who were enfranchised by a public
decree, for having bravely defended the country during the Peloponessian
war, soon after disappeared suddenly, and were supposed to
have been secretly murdered.

Whip them, merely to remind them of bondage.” p. 113.

The Helots were originally a brave people; but after they were
conquered by the Spartans, no pains were spared to render them
servile and degraded. Once a year they publicly received a severe
flagellation, merely to remind them that they were slaves. They
were never allowed to learn any liberal art, or to sing manly songs.
In order to expose them to greater contempt, they were often obliged
to perform indecent dances, and to get brutally drunk, that their master's
children might learn to despise such uncomely things.

Things as trifling as the turning of a shell.” p. 116.

This was an Athenian proverb, applied to things that were done
quickly, or changed easily.

You must indeed wrestle at Cynosarges.” p. 116.

This was a name of Hercules; and because he was illegitimate,
it was applied to a place near the Lyceum, where those of half
Athenian blood, were wont to exercise in gymnastic sports. Themistocles,
being partly of foreign extraction, induced the young Athenian
nobles to go there and wrestle with him, that the distinction might be
done away.

Festival Anthesteria.” p. 116.

In honor of Dionysus. The best drinker was rewarded with a

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golden crown and a cask of wine; and none but Athenians were
allowed to enter the theatre.

Chap. X. p. 118.

Scholars will say this trial ought to have been before the Areopagus.
But I was induced to choose popular assemblies, for the sake
of more freedom of description, and to avoid a repetition of what has
been so often described. There was a law in Athens, by which it
was decreed that all who taught new doctrines concerning the gods
were to be tried by the people; but of the date of this law, I am

Solon provided four assemblies. The First approved or rejected
magistrates, heard catalogues of confiscations and fines, and received
accusations from the thesmothetæ archons. The Second received
petitions relative to public and private concerns. The Third gave
audience to foreign powers. The Fourth managed religious matters.

Cleon arose.” p. 119.

Cleon was a tanner; a violent enemy of Pericles.

Which he inscribed Demus.” p. 125.

A phrase signifying the People, or the Democracy.

Pericles was zealously assisted by Clinias.” p. 127.

The Clinias here mentioned was not the father of Alcibiades;
though perhaps a relative.

Sing their welcome to Ornithiœ.” 129.

This name was applied to a wind that blew in the spring, at the
time when the birds began to return. It was a Grecian custom for
children to go about with garlands from door to door, singing a welcome
to the swallows, and receiving trifling presents in return.

The marble sent by Darius.” p. 130.

The Persians were so confident of victory that they brought with
them marble to erect a trophy on the plains of Marathon. From
this marble Phidias sculptured a statue of Vengeance, which was
called Rhamnusia.

Filled my pillow with fresh laurel leaves.” p. 137.

Phœbus was supposed to inspire dreams and prophecy; and the
laurel, which was sacred to him, was supposed to be endowed with
similar properties.

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Like one returned from the cave of Trophonius.”p. 141.

In this cave was a celebrated oracle. Those who entered it always
returned pale and dejected.

Psyche bending over the sleeping Eros.” p. 143.

This beautiful fable represents the union of the human soul with
immortal love. Psyche was warned that separation would be the
consequence, if she looked on the countenance of her divine lover.
She gazed on his features as he slept; and was left to sorrow alone.

Even the Diasia are no longer observed.” p. 148.

Festivals in honor of Zeus, because he delivered men from misfortunes
and dangers.

When the Muses and the Charities inhabit the same
.” p. 153.

Among the Greeks, the Graces were called the Charities. It
was a beautiful idea thus to deify the moral, rather than the outward
graces; and to represent innocent and loving nymphs, forever hand
in hand, presiding over kind and gentle actions. The Graces were
often worshipped in the same temple with the Muses.

Olive garlands suspended on the doors.” p. 77.

This was a common practice during the festival of Thargelia, in
honor of Phæbus.

Gently touched the back part of his head with a small
.” p. 194.

That the phenomena of animal magnetism were not entirely unknown
to the ancients, appears by what Clearchus relates of an experiment
tried in the presence of Aristotle. He speaks of a man
who, by means of “a soul-attracting wand,” let the soul out of a
sleeping lad, and left the body insensible. When the soul was
again led into the body, it related all that had happened to it.

The laws of the country made it impossible to accompany her
beloved husband
.” p. 198.

No woman was allowed to enter Olympia, during the celebration
of the games.

Deemed he had fallen by the dart of Phæbus Apollo.” p. 200.

Those who died very suddenly were supposed to have been
struck with the arrows of Phœbus, or his sister.

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Three days and three nights Paralus remained in complete
.” p. 200.

It is related of Cleonymus, the Athenian, that when laid out to be
buried, his mother thought she discovered faint symptoms of life.
He afterward revived, and told many wonderful things he had seen
and heard. There was likewise one Eurynous, who came to life
after he had been buried fifteen days.

Its best pleasures are like the gardens of Adonis.” p. 204.

When the annual procession formed to mourn the death of
Adonis, earth was placed in shells, and lettuce planted in it, in commemoration
of Adonis laid out on a bed of lettuces. These shells
were called the Gardens of Adonis. Their freshness soon withered,
on account of the shallowness of the earth.

Dressed in white, with a wreath of roses.” p. 218.

When persons of worth and character died, and when the young
departed, garlands were often used as emblems of joyfulness. An
old Greek poet says:

“Not that we less compassionate have grown,
Do we at funerals our temples crown,
Or with sweet essences adorn our hair,
And all the marks of pleasing transport wear;
'Tis that we're sure of that more happy state
To which friendly death doth their souls translate.”

With regard to the white garments, I have probably departed
from ancient customs, for the sake of investing death with cheerfulness.

Rather gain one prize from the Choragus than ten from the
.” p. 211.

The first presided over musical and literary competition; the last
over athletic games.

The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift.”) p. 218.

While Persephone was gathering flowers, she was seized by
Pluto, and carried to the regions of the dead, over which she presided.
Hence the hair of the deceased was consecrated to her, and
her name invoked at funerals.

Mibra sneezed aloud.” p. 219.

This was considered a lucky omen; particularly if the sound
came from the direction of the right hand.

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He will trust to Hermes to help him.” p. 231.

Hermes was the god of lies and fraud.

Have I told you all my flames.” p. 232.

Part of the 14th Ode of Anacreon.

Threatened to appeal to the magistrates for another
.” p. 217.

The Athenian slave laws were much more mild than modern
codes. If a servant complained of being abused, his master had no
power to retain him.

Build the wall of Hipparchus.” p. 241.

A wall built round the Academia by Hipparchus was so expensive
that it became a proverb applied to all costly undertakings.

One of the slaves whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted.”
p. 241.

Slaves that were either personally abused, or insulted, took refuge
in the Temple of Theseus, and could not be compelled to return to
those of whom they complained.

These brooks are Creusa's tears.” p. 244.

Ion was the son of Phæbus and Creusa. His mother, to avoid
her father's displeasure, concealed the birth of the infant, and hid
him in the grotto, which afterward bore her name. The child was
preserved, and brought up in the temple of Phæbus.

She does not speak like one brought up at the gates.” p. 245.

The lower classes of tradesmen were generally placed near the

One of the illustrious Pasargadæ.” p. 269.

These were the noblest familes in Persia.

In some unimportant matters, I have not adhered strictly to dates;
deeming this an allowable freedom in a work so purely romantic,
relating to times so ancient.

I am aware that the Christian spirit is sometimes infused into a
Grecian form; and in nothing is this more conspicuous than the
representation of love as a pure sentiment rather than a gross

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Greek names for the deities were used in preference to the Roman,
because the latter have become familiarized by common and
vulgar use.

If there be errors in the application of Greek names and phrases,
my excuse must be an entire want of knowledge in the classical
languages. But, like the ignoramus in the Old Drama, I can boast,
“Though I speak no Greek, I love the sound on't.”

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Child, Lydia Maria Francis, 1802-1880 [1836], Philothea (Otis, Broaders & Co., Boston) [word count] [eaf046].
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