Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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A few years passed away, and saw Anaxagoras the contented resident of a
small village near Lampsacus, in Ionia. That he still fondly cherished
Athens in his heart was betrayed only by the frequent walks he took to a
neighbouring eminence, where he loved to sit and look toward the AEgean;
but the feebleness of age gradually increased, until he could no longer
take his customary exercise. Philothea watched over him with renewed
tenderness; and the bright tranquillity he received from the world he
was fast approaching, shone with reflected light upon her innocent soul.
At times, the maiden was so conscious of this holy influence, that all
the earthly objects around her seemed like dreams of some strange
foreign land.

One morning, after they had partaken their frugal repast, she said, in a
cheerful tone, "Dear grandfather, I had last night a pleasant dream; and
Milza says it is prophetic, because she had filled my pillow with fresh
laurel leaves. I dreamed that a galley, with three banks of oars, and
adorned with fillets, came to carry us back to Athens."

With a faint smile, Anaxagoras replied, "Alas for unhappy Athens! If
half we hear be true, her exiled children can hardly wish to be restored
to her bosom. Atropos has decreed that I at least shall never again
enter her walls. I am not disposed to murmur. Yet the voice of Plato
would be pleasant to my ears, as music on the waters in the night-time.
I pray you bring forth the writings of Pythagoras, and read me something
that sublime philosopher has said concerning the nature of the soul, and
the eternal principle of life. As my frail body approaches the Place of
Sleep, I feel less and less inclined to study the outward images of
things, the forms whereof perish; and my spirit thirsteth more and more
to know its origin and its destiny. I have thought much of Plato's
mysterious ideas of light. Those ideas were doubtless brought from the
East; for as that is the quarter where the sun rises, so we have thence
derived many vital truths, which have kept a spark of life within the
beautiful pageantry of Grecian mythology."

"Paralus often said that the Persian Magii, the Egyptian priests, and
the Pythagoreans imbibed their reverence for light from one common
source," rejoined Philothea.

Anaxagoras was about to speak, when a deep but gentle voice, from some
invisible person near them, said:

"The unchangeable principles of Truth act upon the soul like the sun
upon the eye, when it turneth to him. But the _one_ principle, better
than intellect, from which all things flow, and to which all things
tend, is Good. As the sun not only makes objects visible, but is the
cause of their generation, nourishment, and increase, so the Good,
through Truth, imparts being, and the power of being known, to every
object of knowledge. For this cause, the Pythagoreans greet the sun with
music and with reverence."

The listeners looked at each other in surprise, and Philothea was the
first to say, "It is the voice of Plato!"

"Even so, my friends," replied the philosopher, smiling, as he stood
before them.

The old man, in the sudden joy of his heart, attempted to rise and
embrace him; but weakness prevented. The tears started to his eyes, as
he said, "Welcome, most welcome, son of Aristo. You see that I am fast
going where we hope the spirit is to learn its own mysteries."

Plato, affected at the obvious change in his aged friend, silently
grasped his hand, and turned to answer the salutation of Philothea. She
too had changed; but she had never been more lovely. The colour on her
cheek, which had always been delicate as the reflected hue of a rose,
had become paler by frequent watchings; but her large dark eyes were
more soft and serious, and her whole countenance beamed with the bright
stillness of a spirit receiving the gift of prophecy.

The skies were serene; the music of reeds came upon the ear, softened by
distance; while the snowy fleece of sheep and lambs formed a beautiful
contrast with the rich verdure of the landscape.

"All things around you are tranquil," said Plato; "and thus I ever found
it, even in corrupted Athens. Not the stillness of souls that sleep, but
the quiet of life drawn from deep fountains."

"How did you find our peaceful retreat?" inquired Philothea. "Did none
guide you?"

"Euago of Lampsacus told me what course to pursue," he replied; "and not
far distant I again asked of a shepherd boy--well knowing that all the
children would find out Anaxagoras as readily as bees are guided to the
flowers. As I approached nearer I saw at every step new tokens of my
friends. The clepsydra, in the little brook, dropping its pebbles to
mark the hours; the arytaena placed on the rock for thirsty travellers;
the door loaded with garlands, placed there by glad-hearted boys; the
tablet covered with mathematical lines, lying on the wooden bench,
sheltered by grape-vines trained in the Athenian fashion, with a distaff
among the foliage; all these spoke to me of souls that unite the wisdom
of age with the innocence of childhood."

"Though we live in indolent Ionia, we still believe Hesiod's maxim, that
industry is the guardian of virtue," rejoined Anaxagoras. "Philothea
plies her distaff as busily as Lachesis spinning the thread of mortal
life." He looked upon his beautiful grandchild, with an expression full
of tenderness, as he added, "And she does indeed spin the thread of the
old man's life; for her diligent fingers gain my bread. But what news
bring you from unhappy Athens? Is Pericles yet alive?"

"She is indeed unhappy Athens," answered Plato. "The pestilence is still
raging; a manifested form of that inward corruption, which, finding a
home in the will of man, clothed itself in thought, and now completes
its circle in his corporeal nature. The dream at the cave of Amphiaraus
is literally fulfilled. Men fall down senseless in the street, and the
Piraeus has been heaped with unburied dead. All the children of Clinias
are in the Place of Sleep. Hipparete is dead, with two of her little
ones. Pericles himself was one of the first sufferers; but he was
recovered by the skill of Hippocrates, the learned physician from Cos.
His former wife is dead, and so is Xanthippus his son. You know that
that proud young man and his extravagant wife could never forgive the
frugality of Pericles. Even in his dying moments he refused to call him
father, and made no answer to his affectionate inquiries. Pericles has
borne all his misfortunes with the dignity of an immortal. No one has
seen him shed a tear, of heard him utter a complaint. The ungrateful
people blame him for all their troubles, as if he had omnipotent power
to avert evils. Cleon and Tolmides are triumphant. Pericles is deprived
of office, and fined fifty drachmae."

He looked at Philothea, and seeing her eyes fixed earnestly upon him,
her lips parted, and an eager flush spread over her whole countenance,
he said, in a tone of tender solemnity, "Daughter of Alcimenes, your
heart reproaches me, that I forbear to speak of Paralus. That I have
done so has not been from forgetfulness, but because I have, with vain
and self-defeating prudence, sought for cheerful words to convey sad
thoughts. Paralus breathes and moves, but is apparently unconscious of
existence in this world. He is silent and abstracted, like one just
returned from the cave of Trophonius. Yet, beautiful forms are ever with
him, in infinite variety; for his quiescent soul has now undisturbed
recollection of the divine archetypes in the ideal world, of which all
earthly beauty is the shadow."

"He is happy, then, though living in the midst of death," answered
Philothea: "But does his memory retain no traces of his friends?"

"One--and one only," he replied. "The name of Philothea was too deeply
engraven to be washed away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom speaks;
but when he does, you are ever in his visions. The sound of a female
voice accompanying the lyre is the only thing that makes him smile; and
nothing moves him to tears save the farewell song of Orpheus to
Eurydice. In his drawings there is more of majesty and beauty than
Phidias or Myron ever conceived; and one figure is always there--the
Pythia, the Muse, the Grace, or something combining all these, more
spiritual than either."

As the maiden listened, tears started from fountains long sealed, and
rested like dew-drops on her dark eyelashes.

Farewell to Eurydice! Oh, how many thoughts were wakened by those words!
They were the last she heard sung by Paralus, the night Anaxagoras
departed from Athens. Often had the shepherds of Ionia heard the
melancholy notes float on the evening breeze; and as the sounds died
away, they spoke to each other in whispers, and said, "They come from
the dwelling of the divinely-inspired one!"

Plato perceived that the contemplative maiden was busy with memories of
the past. In a tone of gentle reverence, he added, "What I have told you
proves that your souls were one, before it wandered from the divine
home; and it gives hope that they will be re-united, when they return
thither after their weary exile in the world of shadows."

"And has this strange pestilence produced such an effect on Paralus
only?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"Many in Athens have recovered health without any memory of the images
of things," replied Plato; "but I have known no other instance where
recollections of the ideal world remained more bright and unimpaired,
than they possibly can be while disturbed by the presence of the
visible. Tithonus formerly told me of similar cases that occurred when
the plague raged in Ethiopia and Egypt; and Artaphernes says he has seen
a learned Magus, residing among the mountains that overlook Taoces, who
recovered from the plague with a perpetual oblivion of all outward
forms, while he often had knowledge of the thoughts passing in the minds
of those around him. If an unknown scroll were placed before him, he
would read it, though a brazen shield were interposed between him and
the parchment; and if figures were drawn on the water, he at once
recognized the forms, of which no visible trace remained."

"Marvellous, indeed, is the mystery of our being," exclaimed Anaxagoras.

"It involves the highest of all mysteries," rejoined Plato; "for if man
did not contain within himself a type of all that is,--from the highest
to the lowest plane of existence,--he could not enter the human form. At
times, I have thought glimpses of these eternal truths were revealed to
me; but I lost them almost as soon as they were perceived, because my
soul dwelt so much with the images of things. Thus have I stood before
the thick veil which conceals the shrine of Isis, while the narrow
streak of brilliant light around its edges gave indication of unrevealed
glories, and inspired the eager but fruitless hope that the massive
folds would float away, like a cloud before the sun. There are indeed
times when I lose the light entirely, and cannot even perceive the veil
that hides it from me. This is because my soul, like Psyche bending over
the sleeping Eros, is too curious to examine, by its own feeble taper,
the lineaments of the divinity whereby it hath been blessed."

"How is Pericles affected by this visitation of the gods upon the best
beloved of his children?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"It has softened and subdued his ambitious soul," answered Plato; "and
has probably helped him to endure the loss of political honours with
composure. I have often observed that affliction renders the heart of
man like the heart of a little child; and of this I was reminded when I
parted from Pericles at Salamis, whence the galley sailed for Ionia. You
doubtless remember the little mound, called Cynos-sema? There lies the
faithful dog, that died in consequence of swimming after the ship which
carried the father of Pericles, when the Athenians were all leaving
their beloved city by advice of Themistocles. The illustrious statesman
has not been known to shed a tear amid the universal wreck of his
popularity, his family, and his friends; but standing by this little
mound, the recollections of childhood came over him, and he wept as an
infant weeps for its lost mother."

There was a tremulous motion about the lips of the old man, as he
replied, "Perchance he was comparing the constancy of that affectionate
animal with the friendship of men, and the happy unconsciousness of his
boyhood with the anxious cares that wait on greatness. Pericles had a
soft heart in his youth; and none knew this better than the forgotten
old man, whom he once called his friend."

Plato perceived his emotion, and answered, in a soothing voice, "He has
since been wedded to political ambition, which never brought any man
nearer to his divine home; but Anaxagoras is not forgotten. Pericles has
of late often visited the shades of Academus, where he has talked much
of you and Philothea, and expressed earnest hopes that the gods would
again restore you to Athens, to bless him with your wise counsels."

The aged philosopher shook his head, as he replied, "They who would have
a lamp should take care to supply it with oil. Had Philothea's affection
been like that of Pericles, this old frame would have perished for want
of food."

"Nay, Anaxagoras," rejoined Plato, "you must not forget that this
Peloponessian war, the noisy feuds in Athens, and afflictions in his own
family, have involved him in continual distractions. He who gives his
mind to politics, sails on a stormy sea, with a giddy pilot. Pericles
has now sent you substantial proofs of his gratitude; and if his power
equalled his wishes, I have no doubt he would make use of the alarmed
state of public feeling to procure your recall."

"You have as yet given us no tidings of Phidias and his household," said
Philothea.

"The form of Phidias sleeps," replied Plato: "His soul has returned to
those sacred mysteries, once familiar to him; the recollection of which
enabled him while on earth to mould magnificent images of supernal
forms--images that awakened in all who gazed upon them some slumbering
memory of ideal worlds; though few knew whence it came, or why their
souls were stirred. The best of his works is the Olympian Zeus, made at
Elis after his exile. It is far more sublime than the Pallas Parthenia.
The Eleans consider the possession of it as a great triumph over
ungrateful Athens."

"Under whose protection is Eudora placed?" inquired Philothea.

"I have heard that she remains at the house where Phidias died,"
rejoined Plato. "The Eleans have given her the yearly revenues of a
farm, in consideration of the affectionate care bestowed on her
illustrious benefactor.--Report says that Phidias wished to see her
united to his nephew Pandaenus; but I have never heard of the marriage.
Philaemon is supposed to be in Persia, instructing the sons of the
wealthy satrap Megabyzus."

"And where is the faithful Geta?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"Geta is at Lampsacus; and I doubt not will hasten hither, as soon as he
has taken care of certain small articles of merchandize that he brought
with him. Phidias gave him his freedom the day they left Athens; and
after his death, the people of Elis bestowed upon him fifty drachmae. He
has established himself at Phalerum, where he tells me he has doubled
this sum by the sale of anchovies. He was eager to attend upon me for
the sake, as he said, of once more seeing his good old master
Anaxagoras, and that maiden with mild eyes, who always spoke kind words
to the poor; but I soon discovered there was a stronger reason for his
desire to visit Lampsacus. From what we had heard, we expected to find
you in the city. Geta looked very sorrowful, when told that you were
fifty stadia farther from the sea."

"When we first landed on the Ionian shore,"'replied Anaxagoras, "I took
up my abode two stadia from Lampsacus, and sometimes went thither to
lecture in the porticos. But when I did this, I seemed to breathe an
impure air; and idle young men so often followed me home, that the
maidens were deprived of the innocent freedom I wished them to enjoy.
Here I feel, more than I have ever felt, the immediate presence of
divinity."

"I know not whether it be good or bad," said Plato; "but philosophy has
wrought in me a dislike of conversing with many persons. I do not
imitate the Pythagoreans, who close their gates; for I perceive that
truth never ought to be a sealed fountain; but I cannot go into the
Prytanaeum, the agoras, and the workshops, and jest, like Socrates, to
captivate the attention of young men. When I thus seek to impart hidden
treasures, I lose without receiving; and few perceive the value of what
is offered. I feel the breath of life taken away from me by the
multitude. Their praises cause me to fear, lest, according to Ibycus, I
should offend the gods, but acquire glory among men. For these reasons,
I have resolved never to abide in cities."

"The name of Socrates recalls Alcibiades to my mind," rejoined
Anaxagoras. "Is he still popular with the Athenians?"

"He is; and will remain so," replied Plato, "so long as he feasts them
at his own expense, and drinks three cotylae of wine at a draught. I
know not of what materials he is made; unless it be of Carpasian flax,
which above all things burns and consumes not."

"Has this fearful pestilence no power to restrain the appetites and
passions of the people?" inquired the old man.

"It has but given them more unbridled license,'" rejoined Plato. "Even
when the unburied dead lay heaped in piles, and the best of our
equestrians were gasping in the streets, robbers took possession of
their dwellings, drinking wine from their golden vessels, and singing
impure songs in the presence of their household gods. Men seek to obtain
oblivion of danger by reducing themselves to the condition of beasts,
which have no perception above the immediate wants of the senses. All
pursuits that serve to connect the soul with the world whence it came
are rejected. The Odeum is shut; there is no more lecturing in the
porticos; the temples are entirely forsaken, and even the Diasia are no
longer observed. Some of the better sort of citizens, weary of fruitless
prayers and sacrifices to Phoebus, Phoebe, Pallas, and the Erinnys. have
erected an altar to the Unknown God; and this altar only is heaped with
garlands, and branches of olive twined with wool."

"A short time ago, he who had dared to propose the erection of such an
altar would have been put to death," said Anaxagoras. "The pestilence
has not been sent in vain, if the faith in images is shaken, and the
Athenians have been led to reverence One great Principle of Order, even
though they call it unknown."

"It is fear, unmingled with reverence, in the minds of many," replied
the philosopher of Academus. "As for the multitude, they consider all
principles of right and wrong as things that may exist, or not exist,
according to the vote of the Athenian people. Of ideas eternal in their
nature, and therefore incapable of being created or changed by the will
of a majority, they cannot conceive. When health is restored, they will
return to the old worship of forms, as readily as they changed from
Pericles to Cleon, and will again change from him to Pericles."

The aged philosopher shook his head and smiled, as he said: "Ah, Plato!
Plato! where will you find materials for your ideal republic?"

"In an ideal Atlantis," replied the Athenian, smiling in return; "or
perchance in the fabled groves of Argive Hera, where the wild beasts are
tamed--the deer and the wolf lie down together--and the weak animal
finds refuge from his powerful pursuer. But the principle of a republic
is none the less true, because mortals make themselves unworthy to
receive it. The best doctrines become the worst, when they are used for
evil purposes. Where a love of power is the ruling object, the tendency
is corruption; and the only difference between Persia and Athens is,
that in one place power is received by birth, in the other obtained by
cunning.

"Thus it will ever be; while men grope in the darkness of their outward
nature; which receives no light from the inward, because they will not
open the doors of the temple, where a shrine is placed, from which it
ever beams forth with occult and venerable splendour.

"Philosophers would do well if they ceased to disturb themselves with
the meaning of mythologic fables, and considered whether they have not
within themselves a serpent possessing more folds than Typhon, and far
more raging and fierce. When the wild beasts within the soul are
destroyed, men will no longer have to contend against their visible
forms."

"But tell me, O admirable Plato!" said Anaxagoras, "what connection can
there be between the inward allegorical serpent, and the created form
thereof?"

"One could not exist without the other," answered Plato, "because where
there is no ideal, there can be no image. There are doubtless men in
other parts of the universe better than we are, because they stand on a
higher plane of existence, and approach nearer to the _idea_ of man. The
celestial lion is intellectual, but the sublunary irrational; for the
former is nearer the _idea_ of a lion. The lower planes of existence
receive the influences of the higher, according to the purity and
stillness of the will. If this be restless and turbid, the waters from a
pure fountain become corrupted, and the corruption flows down to lower
planes of existence, until it at last manifests itself in corporeal
forms. The sympathy thus produced between things earthly and celestial
is the origin of imagination; by which men have power to trace the
images of supernal forms, invisible to mortal eyes. Every man can be
elevated to a higher plane by quiescence of the will; and thus may
become a prophet. But none are perfect ones; because all have a tendency
to look downward to the opinions of men in the same existence with
themselves: and this brings them upon a lower plane, where the prophetic
light glimmers and dies. The Pythia at Delphi, and the priestess in
Dodona, have been the cause of very trifling benefits, when in a
cautious, prudent state; but when agitated by a divine mania, they have
produced many advantages, both public and private, to the Greeks."

The conversation was interrupted by the merry shouts of children; and
presently a troop of boys and girls appeared, leading two lambs decked
with garlands. They were twin lambs of a ewe that had died; and they had
been trained to suck from a pipe placed in a vessel of milk. This day,
for the first time, the young ram had placed his budding horns under the
throat of his sister lamb, and pushed away her head that he might take
possession of the pipe himself. The children were greatly delighted with
this exploit, and hastened to exhibit it before their old friend
Anaxagoras, who always entered into their sports with a cheerful heart.
Philothea replenished the vessel of milk; and the gambols of the young
lambs, with the joyful laughter of the children, diffused a universal
spirit of gladness. One little girl filled the hands of the old
philosopher with tender leaves, that the beautiful animals might come
and eat; while another climbed his knees, and put her little fingers on
his venerable head, saying, "Your hair is as white as the lamb's; will
Philothea spin it, father?"

The maiden, who had been gazing at the little group with looks full of
tenderness, timidly raised her eyes to Plato, and said, "Son of Aristo,
these have not wandered so far from their divine home as we have!"

The philosopher had before observed the peculiar radiance of Philothea's
expression, when she raised her downcast eyes; but it never before
appeared to him so much like light suddenly revealed from the inner
shrine of a temple.

With a feeling approaching to worship, he replied, "Maiden, your own
spirit has always remained near its early glories."

When the glad troop of children departed, Plato followed them to see
their father's flocks, and play quoits with the larger boys. Anaxagoras
looked after him with a pleased expression, as he said, "He will delight
their minds, as he has elevated ours. Assuredly, his soul is like the
Homeric, chain of gold, one end of which rests on earth, and the other
terminates in Heaven."

Milza was daily employed in fields not far distant, to tend a
neighbour's goats, and Philothea, wishing to impart the welcome tidings,
took up the shell with which she was accustomed to summon her to her
evening labours. She was about to apply the shell to her lips, when she
perceived the young Arcadian standing in the vine-covered arbour, with
Geta, who had seized her by each cheek and was kissing her after the
fashion of the Grecian peasantry. With a smile and a blush, the maiden
turned away hastily, lest the humble lovers should perceive they were
discovered.

The frugal supper waited long on the table before Plato returned. As he
entered, Anaxagoras pointed to the board, which rested on rude sticks
cut from the trees, and said, "Son of Aristo, all I have to offer you
are dried grapes, bread, wild honey, and water from the brook."

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