It was in the fourth year of the reign of the late Emperor Valerian, that
the followers of Epicurus, who were at that time numerous in Athens,
proceeded to the election of a person to fill the vacant chair of their
sect;—and, by the unanimous voice of the School, I was the individual
chosen for their Chief. I was just then entering on my twenty‐fourth year,
and no instance had ever before occurred, of a person so young being
selected for that office. Youth, however, and the personal advantages that
adorn it, were not, it may be supposed, among the least valid
recommendations, to a sect that included within its circle all the beauty
as well as wit of Athens, and which, though dignifying its pursuits with
the name of philosophy, was little else than a pretext for the more
refined cultivation of pleasure.
The character of the sect had, indeed, much changed, since the time of its
wise and virtuous founder, who, while he asserted that Pleasure is the
only Good, inculcated also that Good is the only source of Pleasure. The
purer part of this doctrine had long evaporated, and the temperate
Epicurus would have as little recognised his own sect in the assemblage of
refined voluptuaries who now usurped its name, as he would have known his
own quiet Garden in the luxurious groves and bowers among which the
meetings of the School were now held.
Many causes, besides the attractiveness of its doctrines, concurred, at
this period, to render our school the most popular of any that still
survived the glory of Greece. It may generally be observed, that the
prevalence, in one half of a community, of very rigid notions on the
subject of religion, produces the opposite extreme of laxity and
infidelity in the other; and this kind of re‐action it was that now mainly
contributed to render the doctrines of the Garden the most fashionable
philosophy of the day. The rapid progress of the Christian faith had
alarmed all those, who, either from piety or worldliness, were interested
in the continuance of the old established creed—all who believed in the
Deities of Olympus, and all who lived by them. The consequence was, a
considerable increase of zeal and activity, throughout the constituted
authorities and priesthood of the whole Heathen world. What was wanting in
sincerity of belief was made up in rigour;—the weakest parts of the
Mythology were those, of course, most angrily defended, and any
reflections, tending to bring Saturn, or his wife Ops, into contempt, were
punished with the utmost severity of the law.
In this state of affairs, between the alarmed bigotry of the declining
Faith, and the simple, sublime austerity of her rival, it was not
wonderful that those lovers of ease and pleasure, who had no interest,
reversionary or otherwise, in the old religion, and were too indolent to
enquire into the sanctions of the new, should take refuge from the
severities of both under the shelter of a luxurious philosophy, which,
leaving to others the task of disputing about the future, centered all its
wisdom in the full enjoyment of the present.
The sectaries of the Garden had, ever since the death of their founder,
been accustomed to dedicate to his memory the twentieth day of every
month. To these monthly rites had, for some time, been added a grand
annual Festival, in commemoration of his birth. The feasts, given on this
occasion by my predecessors in the Chair, had been invariably
distinguished for their taste and splendour; and it was my ambition, not
merely to imitate this example, but even to render the anniversary, now
celebrated under my auspices, so brilliant, as to efface the recollection
of all that went before it.
Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed such a scene. The grounds that formed
the original site of the Garden had, from time to time, received
considerable additions; and the whole extent was laid out with that
perfect taste, which knows how to wed Nature to Art, without sacrificing
her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, leading through wildernesses of
shade and fragrance—glades, opening, as if to afford a play‐ground for the
sunshine—temples, rising on the very spots where imagination herself would
have called them up, and fountains and lakes, in alternate motion and
repose, either wantonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its
embrace,—such was the variety of feature that diversified these fair
gardens; and, animated as they were on this occasion, by all the living
wit and loveliness of Athens, it afforded a scene such as my own youthful
fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxury and beauty, could hardly
have anticipated.
The ceremonies of the day began with the very dawn, when, according to the
form of simpler and better times, those among the disciples who had
apartments within the Garden, bore the image of our Founder in procession
from chamber to chamber, chanting verses in praise of—what had long ceased
to be objects of our imitation—his frugality and temperance.
Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of the garden, stood four white
Doric temples, in one of which was collected a library containing all the
flowers of Grecian literature; while, in the remaining three,
Conversation, the Song, and the Dance, held, uninterrupted by each other,
their respective rites. In the Library stood busts of all the most
illustrious Epicureans, both of Rome and Greece—Horace, Atticus, Pliny the
elder, the poet Lucretius, Lucian, and the biographer of the Philosophers,
lately lost to us, Diogenes Laertius. There were also the portraits, in
marble, of all the eminent female votaries of the school—Leontium and her
fair daughter Danae, Themista, Philænis, and others.
It was here that, in my capacity of Heresiarch, on the morning of the
Festival, I received the felicitations of the day from some of the fairest
lips of Athens; and, in pronouncing the customary oration to the memory of
our Master (in which it was usual to dwell on the doctrines he inculcated)
endeavoured to attain that art, so useful before such an audience, of
diffusing over the gravest subjects a charm, which secures them listeners
even among the simplest and most volatile.
Though study, as may easily be supposed, engrossed but little of the
mornings of the Garden, yet the lighter part of learning,—that portion of
its attic honey, for which the bee is not obliged to go very deep into the
flower—was zealously cultivated. Even here, however, the student had to
encounter distractions, which are, of all others, least favourable to
composure of thought; and, with more than one of my fair disciples, there
used to occur such scenes as the following, which a poet of the Garden,
taking his picture from the life, described:—
“As o’er the lake, in evening’s glow,
That temple threw its lengthening shade,
Upon the marble steps below,
There sate a fair Corinthian maid,
Gracefully o’er some volume bending;
While, by her side, the youthful Sage
Held back her ringlets, lest, descending,
They should o’er‐shadow all the page.”
But it was for the evening of that day, that the richest of our luxuries
were reserved. Every part of the Garden was illuminated, with the most
skilful variety of lustre; while over the Lake of the Temples were
scattered wreaths of flowers, through which boats, filled with beautiful
children, floated, as through a liquid parterre.
Between two of these boats a perpetual combat was maintained;—their
respective commanders, two blooming youths, being habited to represent
Eros and Anteros; the former, the Celestial Love of the Platonists, and
the latter, that more earthly spirit, which usurps the name of Love among
the Epicureans. Throughout the evening their conflict was carried on with
various success; the timid distance at which Eros kept from his more
lively antagonist being his only safeguard against those darts of fire,
with showers of which the other continually assailed him, but which,
luckily falling short of their mark upon the lake, only scorched the
flowers upon which they fell, and were extinguished.
In another part of the gardens, on a wide verdant glade, lighted only by
the moon, an imitation of the torch‐race of the Panathenæa was performed,
by young boys chosen for their fleetness, and arrayed with wings, like
Cupids; while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, with each a star on
her forehead, represented the movements of the planetary choir, and
embodied the dream of Pythagoras into real motion and song.
At every turning some new enchantment broke upon the ear or eye.
Sometimes, from the depth of a grove, from which a fountain at the same
time issued, there came a strain of music, which, mingling with the murmur
of the water, seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over its
flow;—while sometimes the strain rose breathing from among flowers; and,
again, would appear to come suddenly from under ground, as if the foot had
just touched some spring that set it in motion.
It seems strange that I should now dwell upon these minute descriptions;
but every thing connected with that memorable night—even its long‐repented
follies—must for ever live sacredly in my memory. The festival concluded
with a banquet, at which I, of course, presided; and, feeling myself to be
the ascendant spirit of the whole scene, gave life to all around me, and
saw my own happiness reflected in that of others.