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

EURIPIDES.

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.

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; 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 she 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 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 labours of the husbandmen, and the smiling fields yielded pasturage to numerous horses, which Phoebus 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 neighbourhood 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 Eudora.

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 PterilaÜs. 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 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 Olympia.

When Geta and Milza 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 full"—--

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."

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 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, Milza 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 sieve 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 Milza's untutored mind the mysterious 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 awoke.

"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 Eudora.

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 degress I learned to fear him less and love him deeply."

"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 Elians bestowed gifts on all his servants; endowed me with the yearly revenues of a farm; and appointed his nephew PandÆnus to the honourable office of preserving the statue of Olympian Zeus."

"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 Elians 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 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 made 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 well-known 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 love.

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 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 us!"

"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 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.