 
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 neighbouring 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 Milza 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 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 Magii, the Egyptian priests, and the Pythagoreans imbibed their reverence for light from one common source," rejoined Philothea. Anaxagoras was about to speak, when a deep but gentle voice, from some invisible person near them, said: "The unchangeable principles of Truth act 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." The listeners looked at each other in surprise, and Philothea was the first to say, "It is the voice of Plato!" "Even so, my friends," replied the philosopher, smiling, as he stood before them. The old man, in the sudden joy of his heart, attempted to rise and embrace him; but weakness prevented. The tears started to his eyes, as he said, "Welcome, most welcome, son of Aristo. You see that I am fast going where we hope the spirit is to learn its own mysteries." Plato, affected at the obvious change in his aged friend, silently grasped his hand, and turned to answer the salutation of Philothea. She too had changed; but she had never been more lovely. The colour on her cheek, which had always been delicate as the reflected hue of a rose, had become paler by frequent watchings; but her large dark eyes were more soft and serious, and her whole countenance beamed with the bright stillness of a spirit receiving the gift of prophecy. The skies were serene; the music of reeds came upon the ear, softened by distance; while the snowy fleece of sheep and lambs formed a beautiful contrast with the rich verdure of the landscape. "All things around you are tranquil," said Plato; "and thus I ever found it, even in corrupted Athens. Not the stillness of souls that sleep, but the quiet of life drawn from deep fountains." "How did you find our peaceful retreat?" inquired Philothea. "Did none guide you?" "Euago of Lampsacus told me what course to pursue," he replied; "and not far distant I again asked of a shepherd boy—well knowing that all the children 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 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, of heard him utter a complaint. The ungrateful people blame him for all their troubles, as if he had omnipotent power to avert evils. Cleon and Tolmides are triumphant. Pericles is deprived of office, and fined fifty drachmÆ." He looked at Philothea, and seeing her eyes fixed earnestly upon him, her lips parted, and an eager flush spread over her whole countenance, he said, in a tone of tender solemnity, "Daughter of Alcimenes, your heart reproaches me, that I forbear to speak of Paralus. That I have done so has not been from forgetfulness, but because I have, with vain and self-defeating prudence, sought for cheerful words to convey sad thoughts. Paralus breathes and moves, but is apparently unconscious of existence in this world. He is silent and abstracted, like one just returned from the cave of Trophonius. Yet, beautiful forms are ever with him, in infinite variety; for his quiescent soul has now undisturbed recollection of the divine archetypes in the ideal world, of which all earthly beauty is the shadow." "He is happy, then, though living in the midst of death," answered Philothea: "But does his memory retain no traces of his friends?" "One—and one only," he replied. "The name of Philothea was too deeply engraven to be washed away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom speaks; 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 eyelashes. 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 dwelling 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 re-united, 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 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." "How is Pericles affected by this visitation of the gods upon the best beloved of his children?" inquired Anaxagoras. "It has softened and subdued his ambitious soul," answered Plato; "and has probably helped him to endure the loss of political honours 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, and expressed earnest hopes that the gods would again restore you to Athens, to bless him with your wise counsels." The aged philosopher shook his head, as he replied, "They who would have a lamp should take care to supply it with oil. Had Philothea's affection been like that of Pericles, this old frame would have perished for want of food." "Nay, Anaxagoras," rejoined Plato, "you must not forget that this Peloponessian war, the noisy feuds in Athens, and afflictions in his own family, have involved him in continual distractions. He who gives his mind to politics, sails on a stormy sea, with a giddy pilot. Pericles has now sent you substantial proofs of his gratitude; and if his power equalled his wishes, I have no doubt he would make use of the alarmed state of public feeling to procure your recall." "You have as yet given us no tidings of Phidias and his household," said Philothea. "The form of Phidias sleeps," replied Plato: "His soul has returned to those sacred mysteries, once familiar to him; the recollection of which enabled him while on earth to mould magnificent images of supernal forms—images that awakened in all who gazed upon them some slumbering memory of ideal worlds; though few knew whence it came, or why their souls were stirred. The best of his works is the Olympian Zeus, made at Elis after his exile. It is far more sublime than the Pallas Parthenia. The Eleans consider the possession of it as a great triumph over ungrateful Athens." "Under whose protection is Eudora placed?" inquired Philothea. "I have heard that she remains at the house where 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 PandÆnus; but I have never heard of the marriage. PhilÆmon is supposed to be in Persia, instructing the sons of the wealthy satrap Megabyzus." "And where is the faithful Geta?" inquired Anaxagoras. "Geta is at Lampsacus; and I doubt not will hasten hither, as soon as he has taken care of certain small articles of merchandize that he brought with him. Phidias gave him his freedom the day they left Athens; and after his death, the people of Elis bestowed upon him fifty drachmÆ. He has established himself at Phalerum, where he tells me he has doubled this sum by the sale of anchovies. He was eager to attend upon me for the sake, as he said, of once more seeing his good old master Anaxagoras, and that maiden with mild eyes, who always spoke kind words to the poor; but I soon 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 Ionian 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." "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 PrytanÆum, 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, 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 Phoebus, Phoebe, 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. "As for the multitude, they consider all principles of right and wrong as things that may exist, or not exist, according to the vote of the Athenian people. Of ideas eternal in their nature, and therefore incapable of being created or changed by the will of a majority, they cannot conceive. When health is restored, they will return to the old worship of forms, as readily as they changed from Pericles to Cleon, and will again change from him to Pericles." The aged philosopher shook his head and smiled, as he said: "Ah, Plato! Plato! where will you find materials for your ideal republic?" "In an ideal Atlantis," replied the Athenian, smiling in return; "or perchance in the fabled groves of Argive Hera, where the wild beasts are tamed—the deer and the wolf lie down together—and the weak 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 splendour. "Philosophers would do well if they ceased to disturb themselves with the meaning of mythologic fables, and considered whether they have not within themselves a serpent possessing more folds than Typhon, and far more raging and fierce. When the wild beasts within the soul are destroyed, men will no longer have to contend against their visible forms." "But tell me, O admirable Plato!" said Anaxagoras, "what connection can there be between the inward allegorical serpent, and the created form thereof?" "One could not exist without the other," answered Plato, "because where there is no ideal, there can be no image. There are doubtless men in other parts of the universe better than we are, because they stand on a higher plane of existence, and approach nearer to the idea of man. The celestial lion is intellectual, but the sublunary irrational; for the former is nearer the idea of a lion. The lower planes of existence receive the influences of the higher, according to the purity 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 gladness. One little girl filled the hands of the old philosopher with tender leaves, that the beautiful 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." Milza was daily employed in fields not far distant, to tend a neighbour'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 labours. She was about to apply the shell to her lips, when she perceived the young Arcadian standing in the vine-covered arbour, with Geta, who had seized her by each cheek and was kissing her after the 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 labour 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 intreat 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 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:
"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 despised me for preferring philosophy to gold; and report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked and obtained from her a promise to protect Philothea when I am gone; but I will tell my child the wishes of Pericles, and leave her to the guidance of her own heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will be to him, as she has been to me, a blessing like the sunshine." |
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