Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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Come! join thy kindred spirit, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain--
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

I tried to meet you; but as I passed through the gate, a cold air blew
upon me, and all beyond was in the glimmering darkness of twilight. I
would have returned, but the gate had closed; and I heard behind me the
sound of harps and of voices, singing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!"

Philothea kissed his hand, and her face beamed with joy. She had
earnestly desired some promise of their future union; and now she felt
the prayer was answered.

"Could it be a dream?" said Paralus: "Methinks I hear the music now."

Philothea smiled affectionately, as she replied: "When sleep hath
passed, thy dreams remain."

As she gazed upon him, she observed that the supernatural expression of
his eyes had changed; and that his countenence now wore its familiar,
household smile. Still she feared to cherish the hope springing in her
heart, until he looked toward the place where her attendant sat,
motionless and silent, and said, "Milza, will you bring me the lyre?"

The affectionate peasant looked earnestly at Philothea, and wept as she
placed it in his hand.

Making an effort to rise, he seemed surprised at his own weakness. They
gently raised him, bolstered him with pillows, and told him he had long
been ill.

"I have not known it," he replied. "It seems to me I have returned from
a far country."

He touched the lyre, and easily recalled the tune which he said he had
learned in the Land of Dreams. It was a wild, unearthly strain, with
sounds of solemn gladness, that deeply affected Philothea's soul.

Pericles had not visited his son since his return to perfect
consciousness. When he came, Paralus looked upon him with a smile of
recognition, and said, "My father!"

Milza had been sent to call the heart-stricken parent, and prepare him
for some favourable change; but when he heard those welcome words, he
dropped suddenly upon his knees, buried his face in the drapery of the
couch, and his whole frame shook with emotion.

The invalid continued: "They tell me I have been very ill, dear father;
but it appears to me that I have only travelled. I have seen Anaxagoras
often--Plato sometimes--and Philothea almost constantly; but I have
never seen you, since I thought you were dying of the plague at Athens."

Pericles replied, "You have indeed been ill, my son. You are to me as
the dead restored to life. But you must be quiet now, and seek repose."

For some time after the interview with his father, Paralus remained very
wakeful. His eyes sparkled, and a feverish flush was on his cheek.
Philothea took her cithara, and played his favourite tunes. This seemed
to tranquilize him; and as the music grew more slow and plaintive, he
became drowsy, and at length sunk into a gentle slumber.

After more than two hours of deep repose, he was awakened by the merry
shouts of little Zoila, who had run out to meet Plato, as he came from
Olympia. Philothea feared, lest the shrill noise had given him pain;
but he smiled; and said, "The voice of childhood is pleasant."

He expressed a wish to see his favourite philosopher; and their kindred
souls held long and sweet communion together. When Plato retired from
the couch, he said to Philothea, "I have learned more from this dear
wanderer, than philosophers or poets have ever written. I am confirmed
in my belief that no impelling truth is ever learned in this world; but
that all is received directly from the Divine Ideal, flowing into the
soul of man when his reason is obedient and still."

A basket of grapes, tastefully ornamented with flowers, was presented to
the invalid; and in answer to his inquiries, he was informed that they
were prepared by Eudora. He immediately desired that she might be
called; and when she came, he received her with the most cordial
affection. He alluded to past events with great clearness of memory, and
asked his father several questions concerning the condition of Athens.
When Philothea arranged his pillows and bathed his head, he pressed her
hand affectionately, and said, "It almost seems as if you were my wife."

Pericles, deeply affected, replied, "My dear son, she is your wife. She
forgot all my pride, and consented to marry you, that she might become
your nurse, when we all feared that you would be restored to us no
more."

Paralus looked up with a bright expression of gratitude, and said, "I
thank you, father. This was very kind. Now you will be her father, when
I am gone."

Perceiving that Pericles and Eudora wept, he added: "Do not mourn
because I am soon to depart. Why would ye detain my soul in this world?
Its best pleasures are like the shallow gardens of Adonis, fresh and
fair in the morning, and perishing at noon."

He then repeated his last vision, and asked for the lyre, that they
might hear the music he had learned from immortal voices.

There was melancholy beauty in the sight of one so pale and thin,
touching the lyre with an inspired countenance, and thus revealing to
mortal ears the melodies of Heaven.

One by one his friends withdrew; being tenderly solicitous that he
should not become exhausted by interviews prolonged beyond his strength.
He was left alone with Philothea; and many precious words were spoken,
that sunk deep into her heart, never to be forgotten.

But sleep departed from his eyes; and it soon became evident that the
soul, in returning to its union with the body, brought with it a
consciousness of corporeal suffering. This became more and more intense;
and though he uttered no complaint, he said to those who asked him, that
bodily pain seemed at times too powerful for endurance.

Pericles had for several days remained under the same roof, to watch the
progress of recovery; but at midnight, he was called to witness
convulsive struggles, that indicated approaching death.

During intervals of comparative ease, Paralus recognized his afflicted
parent, and conjured him to think less of the fleeting honours of this
world, which often eluded the grasp, and were always worthless in the
possession.

He held Philothea's hand continually, and often spoke to her in words of
consolation. Immediately after an acute spasm of pain had subsided, he
asked to be turned upon his right side, that he might see her face more
distinctly. As she leaned over him, he smiled faintly, and imprinted a
kiss upon her lips. He remained tranquil, with his eyes fixed upon hers;
and a voice within impelled her to sing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

He looked upward with a radiant expression, and feebly pressed her hand.
Not long after, his eyelids closed, and sleep seemed to cover his
features with her heavy veil.

Suddenly his countenance shone with a strange and impressive beauty. The
soul had departed to return to earth no more.

In all his troubles, Pericles had never shed a tear; but now he rent the
air with his groans, and sobbed, like a mother bereft of her child.

Philothea, though deeply bowed down in spirit, was more composed: for
she heard angelic voices singing:

When sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain--
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!

CHAPTER XVI.

Thus a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son;
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn.
HOMER

Of the immense concourse collected together at Olympia, each one pursued
his pleasure, or his interest, in the way best suited to his taste.
Alcibiades was proud of giving a feast corresponding in magnificence to
the chariots he had brought into the course. Crowds of parasites
flattered him and the other victors, to receive invitations in return;
while a generous few sympathized with the vanquished. Merchants were
busy forming plans for profitable negociation, and statesmen were
eagerly watching every symptom of jealousy between rival states and
contending parties.

One, amid that mass of human hearts, felt so little interest in all the
world could offer, that she seemed already removed beyond its influence.
Philothea had herself closed the eyes of her husband, and imprinted her
last kiss upon his lips. Bathed in pure water, and perfumed with
ointment, the lifeless form of Paralus lay wrapped in the robe he had
been accustomed to wear. A wreath of parsley encircled his head, and
flowers were strewn around him in profusion.

In one hand was placed an obolus, to pay the ferryman that rowed him
across the river of death; and in the other, a cake made of honey and
flour, to appease the triple-headed dog, which guarded the entrance to
the world of souls.

The bereaved wife sat by his side, and occasionally renewed the
garlands, with a quiet and serene expression, as if she still found
happiness in being occupied for him who had given her his heart in the
innocence and freshness of its childhood.

The food prepared by Milza's active kindness was scarcely tasted; except
when she observed the tears of her faithful attendant, and sought to
soothe her feelings with characterestic tenderness.

The event soon became universally known; for the hair of the deceased,
consecrated to Persephone, and a vase of water at the threshold,
proclaimed tidings of death within the dwelling.

Many of the assembled multitude chose to remain until the funeral
solemnities were past; some from personal affection for Paralus, others
from respect to the son of Pericles.

Plato sent two large vases, filled with wine and honey; Eudora provided
ointments and perfumes; Alcibiades presented a white cloak, richly
embroidered with silver; and the young men of Athens, present at the
games, gave a silver urn, on which were sculptured weeping genii, with
their torches turned downward.

Enveloped in his glittering mantle, and covered with flowers, the form
of Paralus remained until the third day. The procession, which was to
attend the body to the funeral pile, formed at morning twilight; for
such was the custom with regard to those who died in their youth.
Philothea followed the bier, dressed in white, with a wreath of roses
and myrtle around her head, and a garland about the waist. She chose
this beautiful manner to express her joy that his pure spirit had passed
into Elysium.

At the door of the house, the nearest relatives addressed the inanimate
form, so soon to be removed from the sight of mortals. In tones of
anguish, almost amounting to despair, Pericles exclaimed: "Oh, my son!
my son! Why didst thou leave us? Why wast thou, so richly gifted of the
gods, to be taken from us in thy youth? Oh, my son, why was I left to
mourn for thee?"

Instead of the usual shrieks and lamentations of Grecian women,
Philothea said, in sad, heart-moving accents: "Paralus, farewell!
Husband of my youth, beloved of my heart, farewell!"

Then the dead was carried out; and the procession moved forward, to the
sound of many voices and many instruments, mingled in a loud and solemn
dirge. The body of Paralus was reverently laid upon the funeral pile,
with the garments he had been accustomed to wear; his lyre and Phrygian
flute; and vases filled with oil and perfumes.

Plentiful libations of wine, honey, and milk were poured upon the
ground, and the mourners smote the earth with their feet, while they
uttered supplications to Hermes, Hecate, and Pluto. Pericles applied the
torch to the pile, first invoking the aid of Boreas and Zephyrus, that
it might consume quickly. As the flames rose, the procession walked
slowly three times around the pile, moving toward the left hand. The
solemn dirge was resumed, and continued until the last flickering tongue
of fire was extinguished with wine. Then those who had borne the silver
urn in front of the hearse, approached. Pericles, with tender
reverence, gathered the whitened bones, sprinkled them with wine and
perfumes, placed them within the urn, and covered it with a purple pall,
inwrought with gold; which Philothea's prophetic love had prepared for
the occasion.

The procession again moved forward, with torches turned downward; and
the remains of Paralus were deposited in the Temple of Persephone, until
his friends returned to Athens.

In token of gratitude for kind attentions bestowed by the household of
Proclus, Pericles invited his family to visit the far-famed wonders of
the violet-crowned city; and the eager solicitations of young Pterilaues
induced the father to accept this invitation for himself and son. As an
inhabitant of consecrated Elis, without wealth, and unknown to fame, it
was deemed that he might return in safety, even after hostilities were
renewed between the Peloponessian states. Eudora likewise obtained
permission to accompany her friend; and her sad farewell was cheered by
an indefinite hope that future times would restore her to that quiet
home. The virtuous Melissa parted from them with many blessings and
tears. Zoila was in an agony of childish sorrow; but she wiped her eyes
with the corner of her robe, and listened, well pleased, to Eudora's
parting promise of sending her a flock of marble sheep, with a painted
wooden shepherd.

The women travelled together in a chariot, in front of which reposed the
silver urn, covered with its purple pall. Thus sadly did Philothea
return through the same scenes she had lately traversed with hopes,
which, in the light of memory, now seemed like positive enjoyment.
Pericles indeed treated her with truly parental tenderness; and no
soothing attention, that respect or affection could suggest, was omitted
by her friends. But he, of whose mysterious existence her own seemed a
necessary portion, had gone to return no more; and had it not been for
the presence of Eudora, she would have felt that every bond of sympathy
with this world of forms had ceased forever.

At Corinth, the travellers again turned aside to the Fountain of
Poseidon, that the curiosity of Pterilaues might be satisfied with a view
of the statues by which it was surrounded.

"When we are in Athens, I will show you something more beautiful than
these," said Pericles. "You shall see the Pallas Athenae, carved by
Phidias."

"Men say it is not so grand as the statue of Zeus, that we have at
Olympia," replied the boy.

"Had you rather witness the sports of the gymnasia than the works of
artists?" inquired Plato.

The youth answered very promptly, "Ah, no indeed. I would rather gain
one prize from the Choragus, than ten from the Gymnasiarch. Anniceris,
the Cyrenaean, proudly displayed his skill in chariot-driving, by riding
several times around the Academia, each time preserving the exact orbit
of his wheels. The spectators applauded loudly; but Plato said, 'He who
has bestowed such diligence to acquire trifling and useless things, must
have neglected those that are truly admirable.' Of all sights in
Athens, I most wish to see the philosophers; and none so much as Plato."

The company smiled, and the philosopher answered, "I am Plato."

"You told us that your name was Aristocles," returned Pterilaues; "and we
always called you so. Once I heard that Athenian lady call you Plato;
and I could not understand why she did so."

"I was named Aristocles for my grandfather," answered the philosopher;
"and when I grew older, men called me Plato."

"But you cannot be the Plato that I mean," said Pterilaues; "for you
carried my little sister Zoila on your shoulders--and played peep with
her among the vines; and when I chased you through the fields, you ran
so fast that I could not catch you." The philosopher smiled, as he
replied, "Nevertheless, I am Plato; and they call me by that name,
because my shoulders are broad enough to carry little children."

The boy still insisted that he alluded to another Plato. "I mean the
philosopher, who teaches in the groves of Academus," continued he. "I
knew a freedman of his, who said he never allowed himself to be angry,
or to speak in a loud voice. He never but once raised his hand to strike
him; and that was because he had mischievously upset a poor old woman's
basket of figs; feeling that he was in a passion, he suddenly checked
himself, and stood perfectly still. A friend coming in asked him what he
was doing; and the philosopher replied, 'I am punishing an angry man.'

"Speusippus, his sister's son, was such a careless, indecent, and
boisterous youth, that his parents could not control him. They sent him
to his uncle Plato, who received him in a friendly manner, and forbore
to reproach him. Only in his own example he was always modest and
placid. This so excited the admiration of Speusippus, that a love of
philosophy was kindled within him. Some of his relatives blamed Plato,
because he did not chastise the impertinent youth; but he replied,
'There is no reproof so severe as to show him, by the manner of my own
life, the contrast between virtue and baseness.'--That is the Plato I
want you to show me, when we are in Athens."

Proclus, perceiving a universal smile, modestly added, by way of
explanation: "My son means him whom men call the divine Plato. He
greatly desires to see that philosopher, of whom it is said Socrates
dreamed, when he first received him as his pupil. In his dream he saw a
swan without wings, that came and sat upon his bosom; and soon after,
its wings grew, and it flew high up in the air, with melodious notes,
alluring all who heard it."

Pericles laid his hand on the philosopher's shoulder, and smiling,
answered, "My unbelieving friend, this is the teacher of Academus; this
is the divine Plato; this is the soaring swan, whose melodious notes
allure all that hear him."

Proclus was covered with confusion, but still seemed half incredulous.
"What would Melissa say," exclaimed he, "if she knew that her frolicsome
little plaything, Zoila, had been rude enough to throw flowers at the
divine Plato."

"Nay, my friend," replied the disciple of Socrates,--what better could
a philosopher desire, than to be pelted with roses by childhood?"

Eudora looked up with an arch expression; and Philothea smiled as she
said, "This is a new version of unknown Phoebus tending the flocks of
Admetus."

Pterilaues seemed utterly confounded by a discovery so unexpected. It was
long before he regained his usual freedom; and from time to time he was
observed to fix a scrutinizing gaze on the countenance of Plato, as if
seeking to read the mystery of his hidden greatness.

As the travellers approached Athens, they were met by a numerous
procession of magistrates, citizens, and young men bearing garlands,
which they heaped on the urn in such profusion that it resembled a
pyramid of flowers. They passed the chariots with their arms and ensigns
of office all reversed; then turned and followed to the abode of
Pericles, singing dirges as they went, and filling the air with the
melancholy music of the Mysian flute.

The amiable character of the deceased, his genius, the peculiar
circumstances attending his death, and the accumulated afflictions of
his illustrious parent, all combined to render it an impressive scene.
Even the gay selfishness of Alcibiades was subdued into reverence, as he
carefully took the urn from the chariot, and gave it to attendants, who
placed it beside the household altar.

Early the next morning, a procession again formed to convey the ashes of
Paralus to the sepulchre of his fathers; called, in the beautiful
language of the Greeks, a Place of Sleep.

When the urn was again brought forth, Philothea's long golden hair
covered it, like a mantle of sunbeams. During his life-time, these
shining tresses had been peculiarly dear to him; and in token of her
love, she placed them on his grave. Her white robe was changed for
coarse black garments; and instead of flowery wreaths, a long black veil
covered the beautiful head, from which its richest ornament had just
been severed. She had rejoiced for his happy spirit, and now she mourned
her own widowed lot.

At the sepulchre, Pericles pronounced a funeral oration on the most
gifted, and best-beloved of his children. In the evening, kindred and
friends met at his house to partake a feast prepared for the occasion;
and every guest had something to relate concerning the genius and the
virtues of him who slept.

A similar feast was prepared in the apartments of the women, where
Philothea remained silent and composed; a circumstance that excited no
small degree of wonder and remark, among those who measured affection by
the vehemence of grief.

As soon as all ceremonies were completed, she obtained leave to return
to her early home, endeared by many happy scenes; and there, in the
stillness of her own heart, she held communion with the dear departed.

CHAPTER XVII.

There await me till I die; prepare
A mansion for me, as again with me
To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,
In the same cedar, by thy side composed:
For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.
EURIPIDES

It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in
Philothea's health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens,
still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the
death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a
strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a
painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was
something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than
the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew
thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining
its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most
affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely
strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.

A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, "Dearest Eudora, do
you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the assistance
of Areas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree
over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?"

"I remember it well," replied Eudora: "Dione told it to me when I was
quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning,
or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a
shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had
perished with it."

Philothea answered, "Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read
to me Hesiod's account of the Muses:

'Far round, the dusky earth
Rings with their hymning voices; and beneath
Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound
Ariseth, as they take their onward way
To their own father's presence.'

"I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy
hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those

'Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit
In harmony; whose only thought is song.'

"There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every
hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All
earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth
we _feel_, though we _know_ it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the
Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose
existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not
long remain."

Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Oh, dearest Philothea,
do not speak thus," she said. "I shall indeed be left alone in the
world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me when you
are gone?"

Her friend endeavoured to calm these agitated feelings, by every
soothing art her kindness could suggest.

"I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary
pain," she replied, affectionately: "but I ought not to conceal from you
that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall
not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find
my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those
for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it;
but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be
disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather's
manuscripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in
Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which
Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the
Dionysia, is returned to his father's house, let them be placed within
it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the ivory
lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful
Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his
departed brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of Clinias
and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from
Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to
Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for
you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my
faithful Milza I have given all the garments and household goods suited
to her condition. My grandfather's books have been divided, as he
requested, between Plato and Philaemon; the silver harp and the ivory
tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you,
dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value
least the ivory cup lined with silver, which Philaemon gave me when he
departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros
in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with Philaemon."

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