Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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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 Heliodora 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
happines should be duly offered at the shrine of radiant Phoebus.

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 hand.

The day of departure at length arrived. All along the shore might be
seen smoke rising from the altars of Poseidon, AEolus, Castor and
Polydeuces, and the 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 harbour of
Phalerum, chosen in preference to the more crowded and diseased port of
the Piraeus. 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 earnestly, asked to see
Paralus without delay. Their long-cherished affection, the full
communion of soul 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 Milza 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 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 mysterious.

The silence remained unbroken, until Paralus asked for music. A cithara
being brought, Philothea played one of his favourite songs, accompanied
by her voice. 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 Piraeus, 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 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 Phoenarete, 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 Phoenarete. The robe of fine
Milesian texture, was saffron-coloured, 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-coloured 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.

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. Phoenarete 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 Callirhoee, with
which custom required 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. Phoenarete bestowed a ring, on which was
carved a dancing Oread; 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.

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 indication of returning health.
Geta and Milza, 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
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 son."

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."

CHAPTER XIV.

_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 Philaemon 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 minae. 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 Pterilaues. 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!'"

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