Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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Aspasia, observing this, exclaimed, "Tell me, O Plato, how you knew that
wreath, above all the others, was woven for the grand-daughter of
Anaxagoras?"

"When I hear a note of music, can I not at once strike its chord?"
answered the philosopher: "Even as surely is there an everlasting
harmony between the soul of man and the visible forms of creation. If
there were no innocent hearts, there would be no white lilies."

A shadow passed over Aspasia's expressive countenance; for she was aware
that her own brilliant wreath contained not one purely white blossom.
But her features had been well-trained to conceal her sentiments; and
her usual vivacity instantly returned.

The remainder of the garlands were bestowed so rapidly, that there
seemed scarcely time for deliberate choice; yet Pericles wore the oak
leaves sacred to Zeus; and the laurel and olive of Phoebus rested on the
brow of Phidias.

A half mischievous smile played round Aspasia's lips, when she saw the
wreath of ivy and grape leaves placed on the head of Alcibiades. "Son of
Aristo," she exclaimed, "the Phoenician Magii have given you good skill
in divination. You have bestowed every garland appropriately."

"It needed little magic," replied Plato, "to know that the oaken leaves
belonged to one whose eloquence is so often called Olympian; or that the
laurel was due to him who fashioned Pallas Parthenia; and Alcibiades
would no doubt contend boldly with any man who professed to worship the
god of vineyards with more zeal than himself."

The gay Athenian answered this challenge by singing part of an
Anacreontic ode, often repeated during the festivities of the Dionysia:

"To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then--
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

For death may come with brow unpleasant--
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us--drink no more!"

This profane song was sung in a voice so clear and melodious, that
Tithonus exclaimed, "You err, O Plato, in saying the tuneful soul of
Marsyas has passed into the nightingale; for surely it remains with this
young Athenian. Son of Clinias, you must be well skilled in playing upon
the flute the divine airs of Mysian Olympus?"

"Not I, so help me Dionysus!" lisped Alcibiades. "My music master will
tell you that I ever went to my pipes reluctantly. I make ten sacrifices
to equestrian Poseidon, where I offer one gift to the Parnassian
chorus."

"Stranger, thou hast not yet learned the fashions of Athens," said
Anaxagoras, gravely. "Our young equestrians now busy themselves with
carved chariots, and Persian mantles of the newest mode. They vie with
each other in costly wines; train doves to shower luxuriant perfumes
from their wings; and upon the issue of a contest between fighting
quails, they stake sums large enough to endow a princess. To play upon
the silver-voiced flute is Theban-like and vulgar. They leave that to
their slaves."

"And why not leave laughter to the slaves?" asked Hermippus; "since
anything more than a graceful smile distorts the beauty of the features?
I suppose bright eyes would weep in Athens, should the cheeks of
Alcibiades be seen puffed out with vulgar wind-instruments."

"And can you expect the youth of Athens to be wiser than their gods?"
rejoined Aspasia. "Pallas threw away her favourite flute, because Hera
and Aphrodite laughed at her distorted countenance while she played upon
it. It was but a womanly trick in the virgin daughter of Zeus."

Tithonus looked at the speaker with a slight expression of surprise;
which Hermippus perceiving, he thus addressed him, in a cool, ironical
tone: "O Ethiopian stranger, it is evident you know little of Athens; or
you would have perceived that a belief in the gods is more vulgar than
flute-playing. Such trash is deemed fit for the imbecility of the aged,
and the ignorance of the populace. With equestrians and philosophers, it
is out of date. You must seek for it among those who sell fish at the
gates; or with the sailors at Piraeus and Phalerum."

"I have visited the Temple of Poseidon, in the Piraeus," observed
Aspasia; "and I saw there a multitude of offerings from those who had
escaped shipwreck." She paused slightly, and added, with a significant
smile, "But I perceived no paintings of those who had been wrecked,
notwithstanding their supplications to the god."

As she spoke, she observed that Pericles withdrew a rose from the
garland wherewith his cup was crowned; and though the action was so
slight as to pass unobserved by others, she instantly understood the
caution he intended to convey by that emblem sacred to the god of
silence.

At a signal from Plato, slaves filled the goblets with wine, and he rose
to propose the usual libation to the gods. Every Grecian guest joined in
the ceremony, singing in a recitative tone:

Dionysus, this to thee,
God of warm festivity!
Giver of the fruitful vine,
To thee we pour the rosy wine!

Music, from the adjoining room, struck in with the chorus, and continued
for some moments after it had ceased.

For a short time, the conversation was confined to the courtesies of the
table, as the guests partook of the delicious viands before them. Plato
ate olives and bread only; and the water he drank was scarcely tinged
with Lesbian wine. Alcibiades rallied him upon this abstemiousness; and
Pericles reminded him that even his great pattern, Socrates, gave
Dionysus his dues, while he worshipped the heaven-born Pallas.

The philosopher quietly replied, "I can worship the fiery God of Vintage
only when married with Nymphs of the Fountain."

"But tell me, O Anaxagoras and Plato," exclaimed Tithonus, "if, as
Hermippus hath said, the Grecian philosophers discard the theology of
the poets? Do ye not believe in the Gods?"

Plato would have smiled, had he not reverenced the simplicity that
expected a frank and honest answer to a question so dangerous.
Anaxagoras briefly replied, that the mind which did not believe in
divine beings, must be cold and dark indeed.

"Even so," replied Artiphernes, devoutly; "blessed be Oromasdes, who
sends Mithras to warm and enlighten the world! But what surprises me
most is, that you Grecians import new divinities from other countries,
as freely as slaves, or papyrus, or marble. The sculptor of the gods
will scarcely be able to fashion half their images."

"If the custom continues," rejoined Phidias, "it will indeed require a
life-time as long as that conferred upon the namesake of Tithonus."

"Thanks to the munificence of artists, every deity has a representative
in my dwelling," observed Aspasia.

"I have heard strangers express their surprise that the Athenians have
never erected a statue to the principle of _Modesty_" said Hermippus.

"So much the more need that we enshrine her image in our own hearts,"
rejoined Plato.

The sarcastic comedian made no reply to this quiet rebuke. Looking
toward Artaphernes, he continued: "Tell me, O servant of the great king,
wherein the people of your country are more wise in worshipping the sun,
than we who represent the same divinity in marble!"

"The principles of the Persian religion are simple, steady, and
uniform," replied Artaphernes; "but the Athenian are always changing.
You not only adopt foreign gods, but sometimes create new ones, and
admit them into your theology by solemn act of the great council. These
circumstances have led me to suppose that you worship them as mere
forms. The Persian Magii do indeed prostrate themselves before the
rising Sun; but they do it in the name of Oromasdes, the universal
Principle of Good, of whom that great luminary is the visible symbol. In
our solemn processions, the chariot sacred to Oromasdes precedes the
horse dedicated to Mithras; and there is deep meaning in the
arrangement. The Sun and Zodiac, the Balance and the Rule, are but
emblems of truths, mysterious and eternal. As the garlands we throw on
the sacred fire feed the flame, rather than extinguish it, so the
sublime symbols of our religion are intended to preserve, not to
conceal, the truths within them."

"Though you disclaim all images of divinity," rejoined Aspasia, "yet we
hear of your Mithras pictured like a Persian King, trampling on a
prostrate ox."

With a smile, Artaphernes replied, "I see, lady, that you would fain
gain admittance to the Mithraic cave; but its secrets, like those of
your own Eleusis, are concealed from all save the initiated."

"They tell us," said Aspasia, "that those who are admitted to the
Eleusinian mysteries die in peace, and go directly to the Elysian
fields; while the uninitiated wander about in the infernal abyss."

"Of course," said Anaxagoras, "Alcibiades will go directly to Elysium,
though Solon groped his way in darkness."

The old philosopher uttered this with imperturbable gravity, as if
unconscious of satirical meaning; but some of the guests could scarcely
repress a smile, as they recollected the dissolute life of the young
Athenian.

"If Alcibiades spoke his real sentiments," said Aspasia, "I venture to
say he would tell us that the mystic baskets of Demeter, covered with
long purple veils, contain nothing half so much worth seeing, as the
beautiful maidens who carry them."

She looked at Pericles, and saw that he again cautioned her, by raising
the rose toward his face, as if inhaling its fragrance.

There was a brief pause, which Anaxagoras interrupted, by saying, "The
wise can never reverence images merely as images. There is a mystical
meaning in the Athenian manner of supplicating the gods with garlands on
their heads, and bearing in their hands boughs of olive twined with
wool. Pallas, at whose birth we are told gold rained upon the earth, was
unquestionably a personification of wisdom. It is not to be supposed
that the philosophers of our country consider the sun itself as anything
more than a huge ball of fire; but the sight of that glorious orb leads
the contemplative soul to the belief in one Pure Intelligence, one
Universal Mind, which in manifesting itself produces order in the
material world, and preserves the unconfused distinction of infinite
varieties."

"Such, no doubt, is the tendency of all reflecting minds," said Phidias;
"but in general, the mere forms are worshipped, apart from the sacred
truths they represent. The gods we have introduced from Egypt are
regarded by the priests of that learned land as emblems of certain
divine truths brought down from ancient times. They are like the Hermae
at our doors, which outwardly appear to rest on inexpressive blocks of
stone; but when opened, they are found to contain beautiful statues of
the gods within them. It is not so with the new fables which the Greeks
are continually mixing with their mythology. Pygmalion, as we all know,
first departed from the rigid outline of ancient sculpture, and
impressed life and motion upon marble. The poets, in praise of him,
have told us that his ardent wishes warmed a statue into a lovely and
breathing woman. The fable is fanciful and pleasing in itself; but will
it not hereafter be believed as reality? Might not the same history be
told of much that is believed? It is true," added he, smiling, "that I
might be excused for favouring a belief in images, since mortals are
ever willing to have their own works adored."

"What! does Plato respond to the inquiries of Phidias?" asked
Artaphernes.

The philosopher replied: "Within the holy mysteries of our religion is
preserved a pure and deep meaning, as the waters of Arethusa flow
uncontaminated beneath the earth and the sea. I do not presume to decide
whether all that is believed has the inward significancy. I have ever
deemed such speculations unwise. If the chaste daughter of Latona always
appears to my thoughts veiled in heavenly purity, it is comparatively
unimportant whether I can prove that Acteon was torn by his dogs, for
looking on the goddess with wanton eyes. Anaxagoras, said wisely that
material forms lead the contemplative mind to the worship of ideal good,
which is in its nature immortal and divine. Homer tells us that the
golden chain resting upon Olympus reaches even to the earth. Here we see
but a few of the last links, and those imperfectly. We are like men in a
subterranean cave, so chained that they can look only forward to the
entrance. Far above and behind us is a glowing fire: and beautiful
beings, of every form, are moving between the light and us poor fettered
mortals. Some of these bright beings are speaking, and others are
silent. We see only the shadows cast on the opposite wall of the
cavern, by the reflection of the fire above; and if we hear the echo of
voices, we suppose it belongs to those passing shadows. The soul, in its
present condition, is an exile from the orb of light; its ignorance is
forgetfulness; and whatever we can perceive of truth, or imagine of
beauty, is but a reminiscence of our former more glorious state of
being. He who reverences the gods, and subdues his own passions, returns
at last to the blest condition from which he fell. But to talk, or
think, about these things with proud impatience, or polluted morals, is
like pouring pure water into a miry trench; he who does it disturbs the
mud, and thus causes the clear water to become defiled. When Odysseus
removed his armour from the walls, and carried it to an inner apartment,
invisible Pallas moved before him with her golden lamp, and filled the
place with radiance divine. Telemachus, seeing the light, exclaimed,
'Surely, my father, some of the celestial gods are present.' With deep
wisdom, the king of Ithaca replied, 'Be silent. Restrain your intellect,
and speak not.'"

"I am rebuked, O Plato," answered Phidias; "and from henceforth, when my
mind is dark and doubtful, I will remember that transparent drops may
fall into a turbid well. Nor will I forget that sometimes, when I have
worked on my statues by torch-light, I could not perceive their real
expression, because I was carving in the shadow of my own hand."

"Little can be learned of the human soul, and its connection with the
Universal Mind," said Anaxagoras: "These sublime truths seem vague and
remote, as Phoeacia appeared to Odysseus like a vast shield floating on
the surface of the distant ocean.

"The glimmering uncertainty attending all such speculations, has led me
to attach myself to the Ionic sect, who devote themselves entirely to
the study of outward nature."

"And this is useful," rejoined Plato: "The man who is to be led from a
cave will more easily see what the heavens contain by looking to the
light of the moon and the stars, than by gazing on the sun at noon-day."

Here Hermippus interrupted the discourse, by saying, "The son of Clinias
does not inform us what _he_ thinks of the gods. While others have
talked, he has eaten."

"I am a citizen and a soldier--neither priest nor philosopher," replied
Alcibiades: "With a strong arm and a willing heart to fight for my
country, I leave others to settle the attributes of her gods. Enough for
me, that I regularly offer sacrifices in their temples, and pour
libations upon their altars. I care very little whether there be Elysian
fields, or not. I will make an Elysium for myself, as long as Aspasia
permits me to be surrounded by forms so beautiful, and gives me nectar
like this to drink." He replaced the goblet, from which he had drunk
deeply, and exclaimed, "By Dionysus! they quaff nothing better than this
in voluptuous Ionia!"

"Methinks a citizen and a soldier might find a more worthy model in
Spartan, than in Ionian manners," said Anaxagoras; "but the latter truly
suits better with the present condition of Athens."

"A condition more glorious than that of any other people upon earth,"
exclaimed Pericles, somewhat warmly: "The story of Athens, enthroned in
her beauty and power, will thrill through generous hearts, long after
other nations are forgotten."

"She is like a torch sending forth its last bright blaze, before it is
extinguished forever," replied Anaxagoras, calmly: "Where idle
demagogues control the revenues of industrious citizens, the government
cannot long stand. It is a pyramid with the base uppermost."

"You certainly would not blame the wisdom of Aristides, in allowing the
poor as well as the rich, the privilege of voting?" said Pericles.

"A moderate supply of wealth is usually the result of virtuous and
industrious habits; and it should be respected merely for what it
indicates," rejoined Anaxagoras. "Aristides, and other wise men, in
their efforts to satisfy the requirements of a restless people, have
opened a sluice, without calculating how it would be enlarged by the
rushing waters, until the very walls of the city are undermined by its
power."

"But can the safety of the state be secured by merely excluding the
vicious poor?" said Plato. "Are there not among us vicious rich men, who
would rashly vote for measures destructive of public good, if they could
thereby increase their own wealth? He who exports figs to maintain
personal splendour, when there is famine in Attica, has perhaps less
public virtue than the beggar, who steals them to avoid starvation."

"But the vicious rich man will bribe the beggar to vote as he
dictates," replied Anaxagoras; "and thus his power of doing evil becomes
two fold."

"Your respect for permanent institutions makes you blind to the love of
change, inherent and active in the human mind," said Pericles. "If
society be like the heaving ocean, those who would guide their vessels
in safety, must obey the winds and the tides."

"Nay, Pericles," replied the old man, earnestly; "if society be a
tumultuous ocean, government should be its everlasting shores. If the
statesman watches wind and tide only that his own bark may ride through
the storm in safety, while every fresh wave sweeps a landmark away, it
is evident that, sooner or later, the deluge must come."

The discourse was growing too serious to be agreeable to Pericles, who
well knew that some of his best friends deemed he had injured the state,
by availing himself too freely of the democratic tendencies of the
people. Plato, perceiving this, said, "If it please you, Anaxagoras, we
will leave these subjects to be discussed in the Prytaneum and the
Agoras. Fair and glorious is the violet-crowned city, and let us trust
the gods will long preserve it so."

"Thou hast well spoken, son of Aristo," replied Artaphernes: "Much as I
had heard of the glory and beauty of Athens, it far surpasses my hopes.
Perhaps I find myself lingering to gaze on the Odeum more frequently
than on any other of your magnificent edifices; not for its more
impressive beauty; but because it is in imitation of our Great King's
Pavilion."

Hermippus looked up, and smiled with ill-natured significance; for
Cratinus, the ribald, had openly declared in the theatre, that Pericles
needed only to look in his mirror, to discover a model for the sloping
roof of the Odeum. Athenian guests were indignant at being thus reminded
of the gross allusion to a deformity conspicuous in the head of their
illustrious statesman; but Artaphernes, quite unconscious of his
meaning, continued: "The noble structure is worthy of him who planned
it. Yet the unpretending beauty of some of your small temples makes me
feel more as if I were in the presence of a god. I have often marvelled
what it is in those fair white columns, that charms me so much more than
the palaces of the East, refulgent with gems and gold."

"The beauty that lies _within_ has ever a mysterious power," answered
Plato. "An amethyst may beam in the eye of a statue; but what, save the
soul itself, can give the expression of soul? The very spirit of harmony
is embodied in the proportions of the Parthenon. It is marble music. I
sometimes think the whole visible beauty of creation is formed from the
music of the Infinite; and that the various joys we feel are but the
union of accordant notes in the great chorus of the universe. There is
music in the airy dance; music in poetry; music in the glance of a
beautiful woman; music in the involutions and inflexions of numbers;
above all, there is music in light! And what _Light_ is in this world,
_Truth_ is in that glorious world to which the mind of man returns after
its long exile. Yes, there is music in light! Hence, Phoebus is god of
the Sun and of the Lyre, and Memnon yields sweet sounds to welcome
approaching day. For this reason, the disciples of Zoroaster and
Pythagoras hail the rising sun with the melody of harps; and the birds
pour forth their love of light in song. Perchance the order of the
universe is revealed in the story of Thebes rising to the lyre of
Amphion; and Ibycus might have spoken sublime truth, when he told of
music in the motion of the everlasting stars."

Philothea had listened so earnestly, that for a moment all other
thoughts were expelled from her mind. She threw back her veil, and with
her whole soul beaming from her face, she exclaimed, "O Plato, I once
_heard_ the music of the stars! Ibycus"----

The ardent gaze of Alcibiades restored her to painful consciousness;
and, blushing deeply, she replaced her veil. Aspasia smiled; but Plato,
with gentle reverence, asked, "What would Philothea say of the divine
Ibycus?"

The timid maiden gave no reply; and the tears of innocent shame were
seen falling fast upon her trembling arm.

With that ready skill, which ever knows how to adapt itself to the
circumstances of the moment, Aspasia gave a signal to her attendants,
and at once the mingled melody of voices and instruments burst upon the
ear. It was one of the enchanting strains of Olympus the Mysian; and
every heart yielded to its influence. A female slave noiselessly brought
Aspasia's silver harp, and placed before her guests citharas and lyres,
of ivory inlaid with gold. One by one, new voices and instruments joined
in the song; and when the music ceased, there was a pause of deep and
silent joy.

"Shame to the feast, where the praises of Harmodius are not sung," said
Pericles, smiling, as he looked toward Eudora. With rapid fingers the
maiden touched her lyre, and sung the patriotic song of Callistratus:

"I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as brave Harmodius did,
And as Aristogeiton his avenging weapon hid;
When they slew the haughty tyrant and regained our liberty,
And, breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free.

"Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not surely dead,
But to some secluded sanctuary far away art fled;
With the swift-footed Achilleus, unmolested there to rest,
And to rove with Diomedes through the islands of the blest.

"I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as Aristogeiton did,
And as the brave Harmodius his avenging weapon hid;
When on Athenae's festival they aimed the glorious blow,
And calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low.

"Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages still shall brighten,
Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton;
Because your country's champions ye nobly dared to be,
And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free."

The exhilarating notes stirred every Grecian heart. Some waved their
garlands in triumph, while others joined in the music, and kept time
with branches of myrtle.

"By Phoebus! a glorious song and divinely sung," exclaimed Alcibiades:
"But the lovely minstrel brings danger to our hearts in those sweet
sounds, as Harmodius concealed his sword among myrtle leaves."

Hipparete blushed, and with a quick and nervous motion touched her
cithara. With a nod and a smile, Aspasia said, "Continue the music, I
pray you." The tune being left to her own choice, the young matron sang
Anacreon's Ode to the Grasshopper. Her voice was not unpleasing; but it
contrasted disadvantageously with the rich intonations of Eudora; and if
the truth must be told, that dark-haired damsel was quite too conscious
of the fact.

Tithonus expressed an earnest desire to hear one of Pindar's odes; and
Philothea, urged by Aspasia, began with a quivering hand to accompany
herself on the harp. Her voice was at first weak and trembling; and
Plato, to relieve her timidity, joined in the music, which soon gushed
forth, clear, deep, and melodious:

"Hail, celestial Poesy!
Fair enchantress of mankind!
Veiled in whose sweet majesty
Fables please the human mind.
But, as year rolls after year,
These fictitious charms decline;
Then, O man, with holy fear,
Write and speak of things divine.
Of the heavenly natures say
Nought unseemly, or profane--
Hearts that worship and obey,
Are preserved from guilty stain."

Oppressed with the grandeur of the music, and willing to evade the tacit
reproach conveyed in the words, Aspasia touched her lyre, and, with
mournful tenderness, sung Danae's Hymn to her Sleeping Infant. Then,
suddenly changing to a gayer measure, she sang, with remarkable
sweetness and flexibility of voice:

"While our rosy fillets shed
Blushes o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup, and many a smile,
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp impassioned flings
Tuneful rapture from the strings,
Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,
Through the dance luxuriant swims,
Waving in her snowy hand,
The leafy Dionysian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Shakes its tresses to her sighs.

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