Fare thee well, perfidious maid!
My soul,--its fondest hopes betrayed,
Betrayed, perfidious girl, by thee,--
Is now on wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceased to love me here.
ANACREON.
Not long after the parting interview with Eudora, Philæmon, sad and
solitary, slowly wended his way from Athens. As he passed along the
banks of the Illyssus, he paused for a moment, and stood with folded
arms, before the chaste and beautiful little temple of Agrotera, the
huntress with the unerring bow.
The temple was shaded by lofty plane trees, and thickly intertwined
willows, among which transparent rivulets glided in quiet beauty; while
the marble nymphs, with which the grove was adorned, looked modestly
down upon the sparkling waters, as if awe-stricken by the presence of
their sylvan goddess.
A well-known voice said, "Enter Philæmon. It is a beautiful retreat. The
soft verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance
from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like
and sonorous sound. Enter, my son."
"Thanks, Anaxagoras," replied Philæmon, as he moved forward to give and
receive the cordial salutation of his friend: "I have scarcely travelled
far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is
indeed refreshing."
"Whither leads your path, my son?" inquired the good old man. "I
perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when
you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you,
like one who travels afar."
"I seek Mount Hymettus, my father," replied Philæmon: "There I shall
stop to-night, to take my last look of Athens. To-morrow, I join a
company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is
eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles."
"And would you have left Athens without my blessing?" inquired
Anaxagoras.
"In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting," rejoined
Philæmon. "Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless
outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever."
The aged philosopher endeavoured to speak, but his voice was tremulous
with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philæmon's, and
said, "My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back
to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted."
The young man spoke of the wearisome walk; and reminded him that Ibycus,
the beloved of the gods, was murdered while returning to the city after
twilight. But the philosopher replied, "My old limbs are used to
fatigue, and everybody knows that the plain robe of Anaxagoras conceals
no gold."
As they passed along through the smiling fields of Agra, the
cheerfulness of the scene redoubled the despondency of the exile. Troops
of laughing girls were returning from the vineyards with baskets full
of grapes; women were grinding corn, singing merrily, as they toiled;
groups of boys were throwing quoits, or seated on the grass eagerly
playing at dice, and anon filling the air with their shouts; in one
place was a rural procession in honour of Dionysus; in another, loads of
pure Pentelic marble were on their way from the quarry, to increase the
architectural glory of Athens.
"I could almost envy that senseless stone!" exclaimed Philæmon. "It goes
where I have spent many a happy hour, and where I shall never enter
more. It is destined for the Temple of the Muses, which Plato is causing
to be built among the olive-groves of Academus. The model is more
beautifully simple than anything I have ever seen."
"The grove of Academus is one of the few places now remaining where
virtue is really taught and encouraged," rejoined Anaxagoras. "As for
these new teachers, misnamed philosophers, they are rapidly hastening
the decay of a state whose diseases produced them."
"A few days since, I heard one of the sophists talking to crowds of
people in the old Agora," said Philæmon; "and truly his doctrines
formed a strange contrast with the severe simplicity of virtue expressed
in the countenances of Solon, Aristides, and the other god-like statues
that stood around him. He told the populace that it was unquestionably a
great blessing to commit an injury with impunity; but as there was more
evil in suffering an injury than there was good in committing one, it
was necessary to have the subject regulated by laws: that justice,
correctly defined, meant nothing more than the interest of the
strongest; that a just man always fared worse than the unjust, because
he neglected to aggrandize himself by dishonest actions, and thus became
unpopular among his acquaintances; while those who were less scrupulous,
grew rich and were flattered. He said the weak very naturally considered
justice as a common right; but he who had power, if he had likewise
courage, would never submit to any such agreement: that they who praised
virtue, did it because they had some object to gain from those who had
less philosophy than themselves; and these pretended worthies, if they
could act invisibly, would soon be found in the same path with the
villain. He called rhetoric the noblest of the arts, because it enabled
an ignorant man to appear to know as much as one who was thoroughly
master of his subject. Some of the people demanded what he had to say of
the gods, since he had spoken so ably of men. With an unpleasant mixture
of derision and feigned humility, the sophist replied, that he left such
vast subjects to be discussed by the immortal Socrates. He forthwith
left the Agora, and many a loud laugh and profane jest followed his
departure. When such doctrines can be uttered without exciting
indignation, it is easy to foresee the destinies of the state."
"Thucydides speaks truly," rejoined Anaxagoras: "In the history he is
writing, he says,--The Athenian people are beginning to be more fond of
calling dishonest men able, than simple men honest; and that statesmen
begin to be ashamed of the more worthy title, while they take pride in
the other: thus sincerity, of which there is much in generous natures,
will be laughed down; while wickedness and hypocrisy are everywhere
triumphant."
"But evil grows weary of wearing a mask in reluctant homage to good,"
replied Philæmon; "she is ever seeking to push it aside, with the hope
that men may become accustomed to her face, and find more beauty
therein, than in the disguise she wears. The hidden thought at last
struggles forth into expression, and cherished passions assume a form in
action. One of the sophists has already given notice that he can teach
any young man how to prove that right is wrong, or wrong is right. It is
said that Xanthippus has sent his son to benefit by these instructions,
with a request that he may learn the art thoroughly, but be taught to
use it only in the right way."
"Your words are truth, my son," answered the philosopher; "and the blame
should rest on those who taint the stream at its source, rather than
with them who thoughtlessly drink of it in its wanderings. The great and
the gifted of Athens, instead of yielding reverent obedience to the
unchangeable principle of truth, have sought to make it the servant of
their own purposes. Forgetful of its eternal nature, they strive to
change it into arbitrary forms of their own creating; and then marvel
because other minds present it in forms more gross and disgusting than
their own. They do not ask what is just or unjust, true or untrue, but
content themselves with recommending virtue, as far as it advances
interest, or contributes to popularity; and when virtue ceases to be
fashionable, the multitude can no longer find a satisfactory reason for
adhering to it. But when the teachers of the populace hear their vulgar
pupils boldly declare that vice is as good as virtue, provided a man can
follow it with success, pride prevents them from seeing that this maxim
is one of their own doctrines stripped of its equestrian robes, and
shown in democratic plainness. They did not venture to deride the gods,
or even to assert that they took no cognizance of human affairs; but
they declared that offences against divine beings might be easily atoned
for by a trifling portion of their own gifts--a sheep, a basket of
fruit, or a few grains of salt, offered at stated seasons, with becoming
decorum; and then when alone together, they smiled that such concessions
were necessary to satisfy the superstitions of the vulgar. But disbelief
in divine beings, and the eternal nature of truth, cannot long be
concealed by pouring the usual libations, or maintaining a cautious
reserve. The whispered opinions of false philosophers will soon be
loudly echoed by the popular voice, which is less timid, because it is
more honest. Even thus did Midas laboriously conceal the deformity of
his head; but his barber, who saw him without disguise, whispered his
secret in the earth, and when the winds arose, the voices of a thousand
reeds proclaimed to the world, 'King Midas hath ass's ears.'"
"The secret has already been whispered to the ground," answered
Philæmon, smiling: "If it were not so, the comic writers would not be
able to give with impunity such grotesque and disgusting representations
of the gods."
"And yet," rejoined the old man, "I hear that Hermippus, who has himself
personified Hera on the stage, as an angry woman attempting to strike
infuriated Zeus, is about to arraign me before the public tribunal,
because I said the sun was merely a great ball of fire. This he
construes into blasphemy against the life-giving Phoebus."
"The accusation may be thus worded," said Philæmon; "but your real crime
is that you stay away from political assemblies, and are therefore
suspected of being unfriendly to democratic institutions. Demos
reluctantly admits that the right to hold such opinions is an inherent
part of liberty. Soothe the vanity of the dicasts by humble
acknowledgments, and gratify their avarice by a plentiful distribution
of drachmæ; flatter the self-conceit of the Athenians, by assurances
that they are the greatest, most glorious, and most consistent people
upon earth; be careful that Cleon the tanner, and Thearion the baker,
and Theophrastus the maker of lyres, are supplicated and praised in due
form--and, take my word for it, the gods will be left to punish you for
whatever offences you commit against them. They will receive no
assistance from the violet-crowned city."
"And you, my son," replied the philosopher, "would never have been
exiled from Athens, if you had debated in the porticos with young
citizens, who love to exhibit their own skill in deciding whether the
true cause of the Trojan war were Helen, or the ship that carried her
away, or the man that built the ship, or the wood whereof it was made;
if in your style you had imitated the swelling pomp of Isagoras, where
one solitary idea is rolled over and over in an ocean of words, like a
small pearl tossed about in the Ægean; if you had supped with
Hyperbolus, or been seen in the agoras, walking arm in arm with Cleon.
With such a man as you to head their party, Pericles could not always
retain the ascendancy, by a more adroit use of their own weapons."
"As soon would I league myself with the Odomantians of Thrace!"
exclaimed Philæmon, with an expression of strong disgust. "It is such
men who destroy the innocence of a republic, and cause that sacred name
to become a mockery among tyrants. The mean-souled wretches! Men who
take from the poor daily interest for a drachma, and spend it in
debauchery. Citizens who applauded Pericles because he gave them an
obolus for a vote, and are now willing to see him superseded by any man
that will give two oboli instead of one! No, my father--I could unite
with none but an honest party--men who love the state and forget
themselves; and such are not now found in Athens. The few that exist
dare not form a barrier against the powerful current that would
inevitably drive them to destruction."
"You speak truth, Philæmon," rejoined Anaxagoras: "Pallas Athenæ seems
to have deserted her chosen people. The proud Spartans openly laugh at
our approaching downfall, while the smooth Persians watch for a
favourable moment to destroy the freedom already rendered so weak by its
own insanity."
"The fault will be attributed to democratic principles," said Philæmon;
"but the real difficulty exists in that love of power which hides itself
beneath the mask of Democracy, until a corrupted public can endure its
undisguised features without execration. No one can believe that
Pericles lessened the power of the Areopagus from a sincere conviction
that it was for the good of the people. It was done to obtain personal
influence, by purchasing the favour of those who had sufficient reasons
for desiring a less equitable tribunal. Nor could he have ever supposed
that the interests of the republic would be advanced by men whom the
gift of an obolus could induce to vote. The Athenians have been spoiled
by ambitious demagogues, who now try to surfeit them with flattery, as
nurses seek to pacify noisy children with sponges dipped in honey. They
strive to drown the din of domestic discord in boasts of foreign
conquests; and seek to hide corruption in a blaze of glory, as they
concealed their frauds amid the flames of the treasury."
"Pericles no doubt owes his great popularity to skill in availing
himself of existing circumstances," replied Anaxagoras; "and I am afraid
that the same motives for corrupting, and the same willingness to be
corrupted, will always be found in democratic institutions."
"It has always been matter of surprise to me," said Philæmon, "that one
so humble and frugal as yourself, and so zealous for the equal rights of
all men, even the meanest citizens, should yet be so little friendly to
that popular idol which the Athenians call Demos."
The philosopher rejoined: "When I was young, I heard it said of
Lycurgus, that being asked why he, who was such a friend to equality,
did not bestow a democratic government upon Sparta, he answered: "Go and
try a democracy in your own house." The reply pleased me; and a long
residence in Athens has not yet taught me to believe that a man who is
governed by ten thousand masters has more freedom than he who is
governed by one."
"If kings had the same natural affection for their subjects that parents
have for their children, the comparison of Lycurgus would be just,"
answered Philæmon.
"And what think you of the paternal kindness of this republican decree
whereby five thousand citizens have been sold into slavery, because the
unjust confiscation of their estates rendered them unable to pay their
debts?" said Anaxagoras.
"Such an edict was passed because Athens is _not_ a republic," replied
Philæmon. "All things are under the control of Pericles; and Aspasia
rules him. When she heard that I remonstrated against his shameful
marriage, she said she would sooner or later bring a Trojan horse into
my house. She has fulfilled her threat by the same means that enabled
Pericles to destroy the political power of some of his most influential
enemies."
"Pericles has indeed obtained unbounded influence," rejoined Anaxagoras;
"but he did it by counterfeiting the very principle that needed to be
checked; and this is so easily counterfeited, that democracy is always
in danger of becoming tyranny in disguise. The Athenians are as servile
to their popular idol, as the Persians to their hereditary one; but the
popular idol seeks to sustain his power by ministering to that love of
change, which allows nothing to remain sacred and established. Hence,
two opposite evils are combined in action--the reality of despotism
with the form of democracy; the power of a tyrant with the
irresponsibility of a multitude. But, in judging of Pericles, you, my
son, should strive to guard against political enmity, as I do against
personal affection. It cannot be denied that he has often made good use
of his influence. When Cimon brought the remains of Theseus to Athens,
and a temple was erected over them in obedience to the oracle, it was he
who suggested to the people that a hero celebrated for relieving the
oppressed could not be honoured more appropriately than by making his
temple a refuge for abused slaves."
"Friendly as I am to a government truly republican," answered Philæmon,
"it is indeed difficult to forgive the man who seduces a democracy to
the commission of suicide, for his own advancement. His great abilities
would receive my admiration, if they were not employed in the service of
ambition. As for this new edict, it will prove a rebounding arrow,
striking him who sent it. He will find ten enemies for one in the
kindred of the banished."
"While we have been talking thus sadly," said the old philosopher, "the
fragrant thyme and murmuring bees give cheerful notice that we are
approaching Mount Hymettus. I see the worthy peasant, Tellus, from whom
I have often received refreshment of bread and grapes; and if it please
you we will share his bounty now."
The peasant respectfully returned their friendly greeting, and readily
furnished clusters from his luxuriant vineyard. As the travellers seated
themselves beneath the shelter of the vines, Tellus asked, "What news
from Athens?"
"None of importance," replied Anaxagoras, "excepting rumours of
approaching war, and this new edict, by which so many citizens are
suddenly reduced to poverty."
"There are always those in Athens who are like the eel-catchers, that
choose to have the waters troubled," observed the peasant. "When the lake
is still, they lose their labour; but when the mud is well stirred, they
take eels in plenty. My son says he gets twelve oboli for a conger-eel,
in the Athenian markets; and that is a goodly price."
The travellers smiled, and contented themselves with praising his
grapes, without further allusion to the politics of Athens. But Tellus
resumed the discourse, by saying, "So, I hear my old neighbour,
Philargus, has been tried for idleness."
"Even so," rejoined Anaxagoras; "and his condemnation has proved the
best luck he ever had. The severe sentence of death was changed into a
heavy fine; and Lysidas, the Spartan, immediately begged to be
introduced to him, as the only gentleman he had seen or heard of in
Athens. He has paid the fine for him, and invited him to Lacedæmon;
that he may show his proud countrymen one Athenian who does not disgrace
himself by industry."
"That comes of having the Helots among them," said Tellus. "My boy
married a Spartan wife, and I can assure you she is a woman that looks
lightning, and speaks mustard. When my son first told her to take the
fish from his basket, she answered angrily, that she was no Helot."
"I heard this same Lysidas, the other day," said Philæmon, "boasting
that the Spartans were the only real freemen; and Lacedæmon the only
place where courage and virtue always found a sure reward. I asked him
what reward the Helots had for bravery or virtue. 'They are not
scourged; and that is sufficient reward for the base hounds,' was his
contemptuous reply. He approves the law forbidding masters to bestow
freedom on their slaves; and likes the custom which permits boys to whip
them, merely to remind them of their bondage. He ridicules the idea that
injustice will weaken the strength of Sparta, because the gods are
enemies to injustice. He says the sun of liberty shines brighter with
the dark atmosphere of slavery around it; as temperance seems more
lovely to the Spartan youth, after they have seen the Helots made
beastly drunk for their amusement. He seems to forget that the passions
are the same in every human breast; and that it is never wise in any
state to create natural enemies at her own doors. But the Lacedæmonians
make it a rule never to speak of danger from their slaves. They remind
me of the citizens of Amyclæ, who, having been called from their
occupations by frequent rumours of war, passed a vote that no man should
be allowed, under heavy penalties, to believe any report of intended
invasion. When the enemy really came, no man dared to speak of their
approach, and Amyclæ was easily conquered. Lysidas boasted of salutary
cruelty; and in the same breath told me the Helots loved their masters."
"As the Spartan boys love Orthia, at whose altar they yearly receive a
bloody whipping," said Tellus, laughing.
"There is one great mistake in Lacedæmonian institutions," observed
Anaxagoras: "They seek to avoid the degrading love of money, by placing
every citizen above the necessity of laborious occupation; but they
forget that the love of tyranny may prove an evil still more dangerous
to the state."
"You speak justly, my father," answered Philæmon: "The Athenian law,
which condemns any man for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbour's
trade, is most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of her young
equestrians begin to think it unbecoming to bring home provisions for
their own dinner from the agoras."
"Alcibiades, for instance!" exclaimed the philosopher: "He would
consider himself disgraced by any other burthen than his fighting
quails, which he carries out to take the air."
Philæmon started up suddenly--for the name of Alcibiades stung him like
a serpent. Immediately recovering his composure, he turned to recompense
the hospitality of the honest peasant, and to bid him a friendly
farewell.
But Tellus answered bluntly; "No, young Athenian; I like your
sentiments, and will not touch your coin. The gods bless you."
The travellers having heartily returned his parting benediction, slowly
ascended Mount Hymettus. When they paused to rest upon its summit, a
glorious prospect lay stretched out before them. On the north, were
Megara, Eleusis, and the cynosure of Marathon; in the south, numerous
islands, like a flock of birds, reposed on the bright bosom of the
Aegean; to the west, was the broad Piræus with its thousand ships, and
Athens in all her magnificence of beauty; while the stately buildings of
distant Corinth mingled with the cloudless sky. The declining sun threw
his refulgent mantle over the lovely scene, and temples, towers, and
villas glowed in the purple light.
The travellers stood for a few moments in perfect silence--Philæmon
with folded arms, and Anaxagoras leaning on his staff. At length, in
tones of deep emotion, the young man exclaimed, "Oh, Athens, how I have
loved thee! Thy glorious existence has been a part of my own being! For
thy prosperity how freely would I have poured out my blood! The gods
bless thee, and save thee from thyself!"
"Who could look upon her and not bless her in his heart?" said the old
philosopher: "There she stands, fair as the heaven-born Pallas, in all
her virgin majesty! But alas for Athens, when every man boasts of his
own freedom, and no man respects the freedom of his neighbour. Peaceful,
she seems, in her glorious beauty; but the volcano is heaving within,
and already begins to throw forth its showers of smoke and stones."
"Would that the gods had permitted me to share her dangers--to die and
mingle with her beloved soil!" exclaimed Philæmon.
The venerable philosopher looked up, and saw intense wretchedness in the
countenance of his youthful friend. He laid his hand kindly upon
Philæmon's arm; "Nay, my son," said he; "You must not take this unjust
decree so much to heart. Of Athens nothing can be so certainly predicted
as change. Things as trifling as the turning of a shell may restore you
to your rights. You can even now return, if you will submit to be a mere
sojourner in Athens. After all, what vast privileges do you lose with
your citizenship. You must indeed wrestle at Cynosarges, instead of the
Lyceum or the Academia; but in this, the great Themistocles has given
you honourable example. You will not be allowed to enter the theatre
while the Athenians keep the second day of their festival Anthesteria;
but to balance this privation, you are forbidden to vote, and are thus
freed from all blame belonging to unjust and capricious laws."
"My father, playful words cannot cure the wound," replied the exile,
seriously: "The cherished recollections of years cannot be so easily
torn from the heart. Athens, with all her faults, is still my own, my
beautiful, my beloved land. They might have killed me, if they would, if
I had but died an Athenian citizen."
He spoke with a voice deeply agitated; but after a few moments of forced
composure, he continued more cheerfully: "Let us speak of other
subjects. We are standing here, on the self-same spot where Aristo and
Perictione laid the infant Plato, while they sacrificed to the
life-giving Phoebus. It was here the bees clustered about his infant
mouth, and his mother hailed the omen of his future eloquence. Commend
me to that admirable man, and tell him I shall vainly seek throughout
the world to find another Plato.
"Commend me likewise to the Persian Artaphernes. To his bounty I am much
indebted. Lest he should hope that I carry away feelings hostile to
Athens, and favourable to her enemies, say to the kind old man, that
Philæmon will never forget his country or his friends. I have left a
long letter to Paralus, in which my full heart has but feebly expressed
its long-cherished friendship. When you return, you will find a trifling
token of remembrance for yourself and Philothea. May Pallas shower her
richest blessings upon that pure and gifted maiden."
With some hesitation, Anaxagoras said, "You make no mention of Eudora;
and I perceive that both you and Philothea are reserved when her name is
mentioned. Do not believe every idle rumour, my son. The gayety of a
light-hearted maiden is often unmixed with boldness, or crime. Do not
cast her from you too lightly."
Philæmon averted his face for a moment, and struggled hard with his
feelings. Then turning abruptly, he pressed the old man's hand, and
said, "Bid Philothea, guide and cherish her deluded friend, for my sake.
And now, farewell, Anaxagoras! Farewell, forever! my kind, my good old
master. May the gods bless the wise counsels and virtuous example you
have given me."
The venerable philosopher stretched forth his arms to embrace him. The
young man threw himself upon that friendly bosom, and overcome by a
variety of conflicting emotions, sobbed aloud.
As they parted, Anaxagoras again pressed Philæmon to his heart, and
said, "May that God, whose numerous attributes the Grecians worship,
forever bless thee, my dear son."