"Yes," replied Eudora; "but the very circumstance that I was bought with his money embitters it all. I do not thank him that I have been taught all which becomes an Athenian maiden; for I can never be an Athenian. The spirit and the gifts of freedom ill assort with the condition of a slave. I wish he had left me to tend goats and bear burdens, as other slaves do; to be beaten as they are beaten; starved as they are starved; and die as they die. I should not then have known my degradation. I would have made friends with the birds and the flowers, and never had a heart-wound from a proud Athenian fool."

Philothea laid her hand gently on her friend's arm, and gazing on her excited countenance, she said, "Eudora, some evil demon vexes you strangely to-night. Did I not know the whole tenor of your blameless life, I should fear you were not at peace with your own conscience."

Eudora blushed deeply, and busily caressed the dog with her foot.

In a mild, clear voice, Philothea continued: "What now prevents you from making friendship with the birds and the flowers! And why do you cherish a pride so easily wounded? Yes, it is pride, Eudora. It is useless disguise to call it by another name. The haughtiness of others can never make us angry, if we ourselves are humble. Besides, it is very possible that you are unjust to Hipparete. She might very naturally have spoken of her slave's carelessness, without meaning to remind you of bondage."

"She did mean it," replied Eudora, with angry emphasis. "She is always describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am excluded from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud heart humbled."

"Nay, Eudora," said Philothea, turning mournfully away: "Your feelings are strangely embittered; the calm light of reason is totally obscured by the wild torch-dance of your passions. Methinks hatred itself need wish Hipparete no worse fate than to be the wife of so bold and bad a man as Alcibiades."

"Oh, Philothea! I wonder you can call him bold," rejoined Eudora. "He looks steadily at no one; his eyelashes ever rest on his face, like those of a modest maiden."

"Aye, Eudora—but it is not the expression of a sinless heart, timidly retiring within the shrine of its own purity; it is the shrinking of a conscience that has something to conceal. Little as we know about the evils of the world, we have heard enough of Alcibiades, to be aware that Hipparete has much need to seek the protection of her patron goddess."

"She had better worship in the temple of Helen, at Therapne," answered Eudora, sharply: "The journey might not prove altogether hopeless; for that temple is said to confer beauty on the ugliest woman that ever entered it." As the peevish damsel said this, she gave a proud glance at her own lovely person, in the mirror, before which a lamp was burning.

Philothea had often seen her friend in petulant moods; but she had never before known her to evince so much bitterness, or so long resist the soothing influence of kindness. Unwilling to contend with passions she could not subdue, and would not flatter, she remained for some moments in serious silence.

The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's quick feelings; and she said, in an humble tone, "I know I am doing wrong, Philothea, but I cannot help it."

Her friend calmly replied, "If you believe you cannot help it, you deceive yourself; and if you do not believe it, you had better not have said it."

"Now you are angry with me," exclaimed the sensitive maiden; and she burst into tears.

Philothea passed her arm affectionately round her waist, saying, "I am not angry with you, Eudora; but while I love you, I cannot and ought not to love the bad feelings you cherish. Believe me, my dear friend, the insults of others can never make us wretched, or resentful, if all is right within our own hearts. The viper that stings us is always nourished within us. Moreover, I believe, dearest Eudora, that half your wrongs are in your own imagination. I too am a foreigner; but I have been very happy within the walls of Athens."

"Because you have never been a slave," retorted her companion; "and you have shared privileges that strangers are seldom allowed to share. You have been one of the Canephorae; you have walked in the grand procession of the Panathenaea: and your statue in pure Pentelic marble, upholds the canopy over the sacred olive-tree. I know that your skilful fingers, and your surpassing beauty have deserved these honours; but you must pardon me, if I do not like the proud Athenians quite so well as you do."

"I gratefully acknowledge the part I have been allowed to take in the sacred service of Pallas," replied the maiden; "but I owe it neither to my beauty, nor my skill in embroidery. It was a tribute to that wise and good old man, my grandfather."

"And I," said Eudora, in a tone of deep melancholy, "have neither grandfather, parent, or brother to care for me."

"Who could have proved a better protector than Phidias has been?" inquired her gentle friend.

"Philothea, I cannot forget that I am his slave. What I said just now in anger, I repeat in sober sadness; it would be better for me to have a slave's mind with a slave's destiny."

"I have no doubt," replied Philothea, "that Phidias continues to be your master merely that he may retain lawful power to protect you, until you are the wife of Philaemon."

"Some slaves have been publicly registered as adopted children," said Eudora.

"But in order to do that," rejoined her friend, "it is necessary to swear to their parentage; and yours is unknown. If it were not for this circumstance, I believe Phidias would be most willing to adopt you."

"No, Philothea—Phidias would do no such thing. He is good and kind. I know that I have spoken of him as I ought not to have spoken. But he is a proud man. He would not adopt a nameless orphan, found with a poor goatherd of Phelle. Had I descended from any of the princes conquered by Grecian valour, or were I even remotely allied with any of the illustrious men that Athens has ostracised, then indeed I might be the adopted daughter of Phidias," After a short pause, she added, "If he enfranchised me without adoption, I think I should have no difficulty in finding a protector;" and again the maiden gave a triumphant glance at her mirror.

"I am aware that your marriage with Philaemon has only awaited the termination of these unfortunate law-suits," replied Philothea: "Though he is not rich, it cannot be very long before he is able to take you under his protection; and as soon as he has the power, he will have the disposition."

"Will he, indeed!" exclaimed Eudora; and she trotted her little foot impatiently.

"You are altogether mysterious to-night," said Philothea: "Has any disagreement arisen between you and Philaemon, during my absence?"

"He is proud, and jealous; and wishes me to be influenced by every whim of his," answered the offended beauty.

"The fetters of love are a flowery bondage," rejoined Philothea: "Blossoms do not more easily unfold themselves to the sunshine, than woman obeys the object of her affections. Don't you remember the little boy we found piping so sweetly, under the great plane-tree by the fountain of Callirhoee? When my grandfather asked him where he learned to play so well, he answered; with a look of wondering simplicity, that it 'piped itself.' Methinks this would be the reply of a loving woman, to one who inquired how her heart had learned submission. But what has Philaemon required, that you consider so unreasonable?"

"He dislikes to have me visit Aspasia; and was angry because I danced with Alcibiades."

"And did you tell him that you went to Aspasia's house, in conformity with the express directions of Phidias?" inquired Philothea.

"Why don't you say of my master?" interrupted Eudora, contemptuously.

Without noticing the peevishness of this remark, her friend continued: "Are you quite sure that you have not been more frequently than you would have been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience to the will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philaemon is offended at your dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly a practice, so boldly at variance with the customs of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly."

"It is enough to be one man's slave," replied Eudora. "I will dance with whom I please. Alcibiades is the handsomest, and the most graceful, and the most agreeable man in Athens—at least every body says so. I don't know why I should offend him to please Philaemon."

"I thought there was a very satisfactory reason," observed Philothea, quietly: "Alcibiades is the husband of Hipparete, and you are the promised wife of Philaemon. I would not have believed the person who told me that Eudora seriously called Alcibiades the handsomest and most agreeable man in Athens."

"The sculptors think him pre-eminently beautiful," answered Eudora; "or they would not so often copy his statue in the sacred images of Hermes. Socrates applied Anacreon's eloquent praise of Bathyllus to him, and said he saw in his lips 'Persuasion sleeping upon roses.'"

"That must have been in the days of youthful innocence," replied Philothea: "Surely his countenance has now nothing divine in its expression; though I grant the colouring rich, and the features regular. He reminds me of the Alexandrian coin; outwardly pleasing to the eye but inwardly made of base metal. Urania alone confers the beauty-giving zone. The temple of Aphrodite in the Piraeus is a fitting place for the portrait of Alcibiades; and no doubt he is well pleased that the people go there in throngs to see him represented leaning on the shoulder of the shameless Nemea."

"If Aristophon chose to paint him side by side with the beautiful Nemea, it is no fault of his," said Eudora.

"The artist would not have dared so to represent Plato, or Philaemon, or Paralus," rejoined Philothea; "nor would Alcibiades allow his picture thus to minister to the corruption of the Athenians, if he had any perception of what is really beautiful. I confess, Eudora, it pained me to see you listen to his idle flattery. He worships every handsome woman, who will allow herself to be polluted by his incense. Like Anacreon, his heart is a nest for wanton loves. He is never without a brood of them—some trying their wings, some in the egg, and some just breaking the shell."

With slight resentment in her manner, Eudora answered: "Anacreon is the most beautiful of poets; and I think you speak too harshly of the son of Clinias."

"I am sorry for you, if you can perceive the beautiful where the pure is wanting," rejoined Philothea; "You have changed, since my residence in the Acropolis. The cherub Innocence, that was once the ever-present deity in your soul, has already retired deeper within the shrine, and veils his face in presence of the vain thoughts you have introduced there. I fear Aspasia has made you believe that a passion for distinction is but another name for love of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Eudora, if this false man has flattered you, believe me, he is always ready to bestow the same upon others. He has told me that I was the loveliest of earthly objects; no doubt he has told you the same; but both cannot be true."

"You!" exclaimed her companion: "Where could he find opportunity to address such language to you?"

"Where a better man would have had better thoughts," replied Philothea: "It was during the sacred festival of the Panathenaea. A short time before midnight, it was my duty to receive the sacred basket from the hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the cave, beneath the Temple of Urania, in the gardens. Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended me, carrying a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I held the torch while she took up the other sacred basket, which was there in readiness to be conveyed to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple, so clear and strong, that I could distinctly see the sacred doves, among the multitude of fragrant roses—some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others fluttering from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles, frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the centre of the gardens, stood Myron's statue of the heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her temple by a garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression of the human soul, when it dwells in love and peace. In this holy atmosphere we paused for a moment in silent reverence. A smiling band of infant hours came clustering round my memory, and softly folded themselves about my heart. I thought of those early days, when, hand in hand with Paralus, I walked forth in the spring-time, welcoming the swallows to our shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees. We did not then know that bees and young hearts need none to take thought for their joy, but best gather their own sweet nourishment in sunlight and freedom. I remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to my care. When we dressed the little creature in wreaths, we mourned that flowers would not grow in garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts to see them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus took one of them in his hand; and when we had admired its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and returned it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring of a heart brimful of love for all things pure and simple. Paralus ever lived in affectionate communion with the birds and the flowers. Firm in principle, but gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in whose bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so motherly and safe, where she might brood over her young hopes in quiet joy."

The maiden's heart had unconsciously followed her own innocent recollections, like the dove led by a garland; and for a few moments she remained silent in thoughtful tenderness.

Eudora's changeful and perturbed spirit had been soothed by the serene influence of her friend; and she too was silent for awhile. But the giddy images that had of late been reeling their wild dance through her brain, soon came back in glittering fantasy.

"Philothea!" she exclaimed, abruptly, "you have not told me where you met Alcibiades?"

The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant startled from sweet dreams by some rude noise. Recovering from her surprise, she smiled, and said, "Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected and unwelcome presence in the sacred gardens. I told you that we stood by that quiet lake in meek reverence; worshipping,—not the marble image before us,—but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through the universe, breathing the invisible through visible forms, in such mysterious harmony. Suddenly Eucoline touched my arm with a quick and timid motion. I turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us. Our veils, which had been thrown back while we looked at the statue, were instantly dropped, and we hastily retraced our steps. The stranger followed us, until we passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight of the Propylaea. He then knelt, and attempting to hold me by the robe, poured forth the wildest protestations of love. I called aloud for protection; and my voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in and out of the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the festival. The young man suddenly disappeared; but he was one of the equestrians that shared in the solemnities of the night, and I again saw him as I took my place in the procession. I had then never seen Alcibiades; but when I met him to-night, I immediately recognized the stranger who spoke so rudely in the olive-grove."

"You must forgive me," said Eudora, "if I am not much disposed to blame mortal man for wishing to look upon your face a second time. Even Plato does homage to woman's beauty."

"True, Eudora; but there is reverence mingled with his homage. The very atmosphere around Alcibiades seemed unholy. I never before met such a glance; and the gods grant I may never meet such another. I should not have mentioned the occurrence, even to you, had I not wished to warn you how lightly this volatile Athenian can make love."

"I heard something of this before," rejoined Eudora; "but I did not know the particulars."

"How could you have heard of it?" inquired Philothea, with an accent of strong surprise.

"Alcibiades had a more eager curiosity than yourself," replied Eudora. "He soon ascertained the name of the lovely Canephorae that he saw in the Gardens of Urania; and he has never ceased importuning Aspasia, until you were persuaded to visit her house."

The face, neck, and arms of the modest maiden were flushed with indignant crimson. "Was it for this purpose," she said, "that I was induced to yield my own sense of propriety to the solicitations of Pericles? It is ever thus, when we disobey the gods, to please mortals. How could I believe that any motive so harmless as idle curiosity induced that seductive and dangerous woman to urge me into her unhallowed presence?"

"I marvelled at your courage in talking to her as you did," said Eudora.

"Something within impelled me," replied Philothea, reverently;—"I did not speak from myself."

Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to have me inquire?"

The maiden replied: "As I sat at my grandfather's feet, near the statue of Phoebus in the portico, at early dawn, I heard music, of soft and various sounds, floating in the air; and I thought perchance it was the farewell hymn of the stars, or the harps of the Pleiades, mourning for their lost sister.—I had never spoken of it; but to-night I forgot the presence of all save Plato, when I heard him discourse so eloquently of music."

"And were you as unhappy as you expected to be during this visit?" inquired her friend.

"Some portions of the evening I enjoyed exceedingly," replied Philothea. "I could have listened to Plato and Tithonus, until I grew old in their presence. Their souls seem to move in glowing moonlight, as if surrounded by bright beings from a better world."

Eudora looked thoughtfully in her friend's face. "It is strange," she said, "how closely you associate all earthly objects with things divine. I have heard Anaxagoras say that when you were a little child, you chased the fleeting sunshine through the fields, and called it the glittering wings of Phoebus Apollo, as he flew over the verdant earth. And still, dearest Philothea, your heart speaks the same language. Wherever you look, you see the shining of god-like wings. Just so you talked of the moonlight, the other evening. To Hipparete, that solemn radiance would have suggested no thought except that lamp-light was more favourable to the complexion; and Hermippus would merely have rejoiced in it, because it saved him the expense of an attendant and a torch, as he reeled home from his midnight revels. I seldom think of sacred subjects, except when I am listening to you; but they then seem so bright, so golden, so divine, that I marvel they ever appear to me like cold, dim shadows."

"The flowers of the field are unlike, but each has a beauty of its own; and thus it is with human souls," replied Philothea.

For a brief space there was silence. But Eudora, true to the restless vivacity of her character, soon seized her lyre, and carelessly touching the strings, she hummed one of Sappho's ardent songs:

"More happy than the gods is he, Who soft reclining sits by thee; His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles, His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles. This, this, alas! alarmed my breast, And robbed me of my golden rest."

Philothea interrupted her, by saying, "I should much rather hear something from the pure and tender-hearted Simonides."

But the giddy damsel, instead of heeding her request, abruptly exclaimed, "Did you observe the sandals of Artaphernes sparkle as he walked? How richly Tithonus was dressed! Was it not a magnificent costume?"

Philothea, smiling at her childish prattle, replied, "It was gorgeous, and well fancied; but I preferred Plato's simple robe, distinguished only by the fineness of its materials, and the tasteful adjustment of its folds."

"I never saw a philosopher that dressed so well as Plato," said Eudora.

"It is because he loves the beautiful, even in its minutest forms," rejoined Philothea; "in that respect he is unlike the great master he reverences so highly."

"Yes—men say it is a rare thing to meet either Socrates or his robe lately returned from the bath," observed Eudora; "yet, in those three beautiful statues, which Pericles has caused to be placed in the Propylaea, the philosopher has carved admirable drapery. He has clothed the Graces, though the Graces never clothed him. I wonder Aristophanes never thought of that jest. Notwithstanding his willingness to please the populace with the coarse wit current in the Agoras, I think it gratifies his equestrian pride to sneer at those who are too frugal to buy coloured robes, and fill the air with delicious perfumes as they pass. I know you seldom like the comic writers. What did you think of Hermippus?"

"His countenance and his voice troubled me, like the presence of evil," answered Philothea. "I rejoiced that my grandfather withdrew with us, as soon as the goblet of the Good Genius passed round, and before he began to dance the indecent cordax."

"He has a sarcastic, suspicious glance, that might sour the ripest grapes in Chios," rejoined Eudora. "The comic writers are over-jealous of Aspasia's preference to the tragic poets; and I suppose she permitted this visit to bribe his enmity; as ghosts are said to pacify Cerberus with a cake. But hark! I hear Geta unlocking the outer gate. Phidias has returned; and he likes to have no lamp burn later than his own. We must quickly prepare for rest; though I am as wakeful as the bird of Pallas."

She began to unclasp her girdle, as she spoke, and something dropped upon the floor.

Philothea was stooping to unlace her sandal, and she immediately picked it up.

It was a beautiful cameo of Alcibiades, with the quiver and bow of Eros.

Eudora took it with a deep blush, saying, "Aspasia gave it to me."

Her friend looked very earnestly in her face for a moment, and sighed as she turned away. It was the first time she had ever doubted Eudora's truth.



CHAPTER V.

"Two several gates Transmit those airy phantoms. One of horn, And of sawn ivory one. Such dreams as pass The gate of ivory, prove empty sounds; While others, through the polished horn effused, Whose eye soe'er they visit, never fail." HOMER.

The dwellings of Anaxagoras and Phidias were separated by a garden entirely sheltered from public observation. On three sides it was protected by the buildings, so as to form a hollow square; the remainder was screened by a high stone wall. This garden was adorned with statues and urns, among which bloomed many choice shrubs and flowers. The entire side of Anaxagoras' house was covered with a luxuriant grape-vine, which stretched itself out on the roof, as if enjoying the sunshine. The women's apartments communicated by a private avenue, which enabled the friends to see each other as conveniently as if they had formed one household.

The morning after the conversation we have mentioned, Philothea rose early, and returned to her own dwelling. As she passed through the avenue, she looked into the garden, and smiled to see, suspended by a small cord thrown over the wall, a garland, fastened with a delicately-carved arrow, bearing the inscription—"To Eudora, the most beautiful, most beloved."

Glad to assist in the work of reconciliation, she separated the wreath from the string, and carried it to her for whom it was intended. "Behold the offering of Philaemon!" she exclaimed, joyfully: "Dearest Eudora, beware how you estrange so true a heart."

The handsome maiden received her flowers with evident delight, not unmingled with confusion; for she suspected that they came from a greater flatterer than Philaemon.

Philothea returned to her usual avocations, with anxiety somewhat lessened by this trifling incident.

Living in almost complete seclusion, the simple-hearted maiden was quite unconscious that the new customs, introduced by Aspasia, had rendered industry and frugality mere vulgar virtues, But the restraint of public opinion was unnecessary to keep her within the privacy of domestic life; for it was her own chosen home. She loved to prepare her grandfather's frugal repast of bread and grapes, and wild honey; to take care of his garments; to copy his manuscripts; and to direct the operations of Milza, a little Arcadian peasant girl, who was her only attendant. These duties, performed with cheerful alacrity, gave a fresh charm to the music and embroidery with which she employed her leisure hours.

Anaxagoras was extremely attached to his lovely grandchild; and her great intellectual gifts, accompanied as they were by uncommon purity of character, had procured from him and his friends a degree of respect not usually bestowed upon women of that period. She was a most welcome auditor to the philosophers, poets, and artists, who were ever fond of gathering round the good old man; and when it was either necessary or proper to remain in her own apartment, there was the treasured wisdom of Thales, Pythagoras, Hesiod, Homer, Simonides, Ibycus, and Pindar. More than one of these precious volumes were transcribed entirely by her own hand.

In the midst of such communion, her spirit drank freely from the fountains of sublime knowledge; which, "like the purest waters of the earth, can be obtained only by digging deep,—but when they are found, they rise up to meet us."

The intense love of the beautiful, thus acquired, far from making the common occupations of life distasteful, threw over them a sort of poetic interest, as a richly painted window casts its own glowing colours on mere boards and stones. The higher regions of her mind were never obscured by the clouds of daily care; but thence descended perpetual sunshine, to gild the vapour.

On this day, however, Philothea's mind was less serene than usual. The unaccountable change in Eudora's character perplexed and troubled her. When she parted from her to go into the Acropolis, she had left her as innocent and contented as a little child; and so proud and satisfied in Philaemon's love, that she deemed herself the happiest of all happy beings: at the close of six short months, she found her transformed into a vain, restless, ambitious woman, wild for distinction, and impatient of restraint.

All this Philothea was disposed to pity and forgive; for she felt that frequent intercourse with Aspasia might have dazzled even a stronger mind, and changed a less susceptible heart. Her own diminished influence, she regarded as the inevitable result of her friend's present views and feelings; and she only regretted it because it lessened her power of doing good where she was most desirous to be useful.

Several times, in the course of the day, her heart yearned toward the favourite of her childhood; and she was strongly impelled to go to her and confess all her anxieties. But Eudora came not, as she had ever been wont to do, in the intervals of household occupation; and this obvious neglect drove Philothea's kind impulses back upon her heart.

Hylax, as he ran round the garden, barking and jumping at the birds in the air, instantly knew her voice, and came capering in, bounding up at her side, and licking her hand. The tears came to Philothea's eyes, as she stooped to caress the affectionate animal: "Poor Hylax," said she, "you have not changed." She gathered some flowers, and twined them round the dog's neck, thinking this simple artifice might bring a visit from her friend.

But the sun went down, and still she had not caught a glimpse of Eudora, even in the garden. Her affectionate anxiety was almost deepening into sadness, when Anaxagoras returned, accompanied by the Ethiopian boy.

"I bring an offering from the munificent Tithonus," said the philosopher: "He came with my disciples to-day, and we have had much discourse together. To-morrow he departs from Athens; and he bade me say that he hoped his farewell gift would not be unacceptable to her whose voice made even Pindar's strains more majestic and divine."

The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms, and with low obeisance presented it to Philothea. It was a small statue of Urania, wrought in ivory and gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if regarding the heavens with quiet contemplation. A crown of golden planets encircled the head, and the scarf, enamelled with deep and vivid azure, likewise glowed with stars.

Philothea smiled, as she glanced round the apartment, and said, "It is a humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly."

"Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for the gods, than mere marble and gold," replied the philosopher.

As a small indication of respect and gratitude, the maiden sent Tithonus a roll of papyrus, on which she had neatly copied Pindar's Odes; and the boy, haying received a few oboli for his trouble, returned charged with thanks and good wishes for his master.

Philothea, spontaneously yielding to the old habit of enjoying everything with her friend, took the statue in her arms, and went directly to her room. Eudora was kind and cheerful, but strangely fluttered. She praised the beautiful image in the excessive terms of one who feels little, and is therefore afraid of not saying enough. Her mind was evidently disturbed with thoughts quite foreign to the subject of her conversation; but, making an effort at self-possession, she said, "I too have had a present: Artaphernes sent it because my voice reminded him of one he loved in his youth." She unfolded a roll of perfumed papyrus, and displayed a Persian veil of gold and silver tissue. Philothea pronounced it fit for the toilette of a queen; but frankly confessed that it was too gorgeous to suit her taste.

At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment for the night. The maiden refused, under the pretext of illness; but when her friend offered to remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be much better alone.

As Philothea passed through the sheltered avenue, she saw Milza apparently assisting Geta in cleansing some marbles; and thinking Phidias would be pleased with the statue, she asked Geta to convey it to his room. He replied, "My master has gone to visit a friend at Salamis, and will not return until morning." The maiden was much surprised that her friend had made no allusion to this circumstance; but she forbore to return and ask an explanation.

Another subject attracted her attention and occupied some share of her thoughts. She had observed that Geta and Milza appeared much confused when she spoke to them. When she inquired what Geta had been saying, the pretty Arcadian, with an averted face, replied, "He called me to see a marble dog, barking as if he had life in him; only he did not make any noise."

"Was that all Geta talked of?" said Philothea.

"He asked me if I liked white kids," answered the blushing peasant.

"And what did you tell him?" inquired the maiden.

With a bashful mixture of simplicity and archness, the young damsel answered, "I told him I liked white kids very much."

Philothea smiled, and asked no more questions. When she repeated this brief conversation to Anaxagoras, he heard it with affectionate interest in Milza's welfare, and promised to have a friendly talk with honest-hearted Geta.

The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding night had been quite at variance with the tranquil regularity of Philothea's habits; and the slight repose, which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that Paralus was with him, and wished to see her a few moments, before they went out to the Piraeus together. Being therefore unusually weary, both in body and mind, the maiden early retired to her couch; and with mingled thoughts of her lover and her friend, she soon fell into a profound sleep.

She dreamed of being with Paralus in an olive grove, over the deep verdure of which shining white blossoms were spread, like a silver veil. Her lover played upon his flute, while she leaned against a tree and listened. Soon, the air was filled with a multitude of doves, flocking from every side; and the flapping of their wings kept time to the music.

Then, suddenly, the scene changed to the garden of Phidias. The statues seemed to smile upon her, and the flowers looked up bright and cheerful, in an atmosphere more mild than the day, but warmer than the moon. Presently, one of the smiling statues became a living likeness of Eudora, and with delighted expression gazed earnestly on the ground. Philothea looked to see what excited her admiration—and lo! a large serpent, shining with green and gold, twisted itself among the flowers in manifold involutions; and wheresoever the beautiful viper glided, the blossoms became crisped and blackened, as if fire had passed over them. With a sudden spring the venomous creature coiled itself about Eudora's form, and its poisoned tongue seemed just ready to glance into her heart; yet still the maiden laughed merrily, heedless of her danger.

Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful to realize that it was all a dream, she murmured a brief prayer, turned upon her couch, and soon yielded to the influence of extreme drowsiness.

In her sleep, she seemed to be working at her embroidery; and Hylax came and tugged at her robe, until she followed him into the garden. There Eudora stood smiling, and the glittering serpent was again dancing before her.

Disturbed by the recurrence of this unpleasant dream, the maiden remained awake for a considerable time, listening to the voices of her grandfather and his guests, which still came up with a murmuring sound from the room below. Gradually her senses were lulled into slumber; and again the same dream recurred to distress and waken her.

Unable longer to resist the strength of her impressions, Philothea arose, and descending a few of the steps, which led to the lower part of the house, she looked into the garden, through one of the apertures that had been left in the wall for the admission of light. Behind a statue of Erato, she was sure that she saw coloured drapery floating in the moonlight. Moving on to the next aperture, she distinctly perceived Eudora standing by the statue; and instead of the graceful serpent, Alcibiades knelt before her. His attitude and gesture were impassioned; and though the expression of Eudora's countenance could not be seen, she was evidently giving him no ungracious audience.

Philothea put her hand to her heart, which throbbed violently with painful emotion. Her first thought was to end this interview at all hazards; but she was of a timid nature; and when she had folded her robe and veil about her, her courage failed. Again she looked through the aperture and saw that the arm of Alcibiades rested on the shoulder of her misguided friend.

Without taking time for a second thought, she sprang down the remaining steps, darted through the private avenue into the garden, and standing directly before the deluded girl, she exclaimed, in a tone of earnest expostulation, "Eudora!"

With a half-suppressed scream, the maiden disappeared. Alcibiades, with characteristic boldness, seized Philothea's robe, exclaiming, "What have we here? So help me Aphrodite! it is the lovely Canephora of the gardens! Now Eros forsake me if I lose this chance to look on her heavenly face again."

He attempted to raise the veil, which the terrified maiden grasped convulsively, as she tried to extricate herself from his hold.

At that instant, a stern voice sounded from the opposite wall; and Philothea, profiting by the sudden surprise into which Alcibiades was thrown, darted through the avenue, bolted the door, and in an instant after was within the sanctuary of her own chamber.

Here the tumult of mingled emotion subsided in a flood of tears. She mourned over the shameful infatuation of Eudora, and she acutely felt the degradation attached to her own accidental share in the scene. With these thoughts was mingled deep pity for the pure-minded and excellent Philaemon. She was sure that it was his voice she had heard from the wall; and she rightly conjectured that, after his prolonged interview with Anaxagoras, he had partly ascended the ladder leading to the house-top, and looked through the fluttering grape-leaves at the dwelling of his beloved.

The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of sleep. Again and again she looked out anxiously. All was hushed and motionless. The garden reposed in the moonbeams, like truths, which receive no warmth from the heart—seen only in the clear, cold light of reason. The plants were visible, but colourless; and the statues stood immovable in their silent, lifeless beauty.



CHAPTER VI.

Persuasive is the voice of Vice, That spreads the insidious snare. AESCHYLUS.

Early the next morning, painful as the task was, Philothea went to Eudora's room; for she felt that if she ever hoped to save her, she must gain influence now.

The maiden had risen from her couch, and was leaning her head on her hand, in an attitude of deep thought. She raised her eyes as Philothea entered, and her face was instantly suffused with the crimson flush of shame. She made no reply to the usual salutations of the morning, but with evident agitation twisted and untwisted some shreds that had fallen from her embroidery.

For a moment her friend stood irresolute. She felt a strong impulse to put her arm around Eudora's neck and conjure her, even for her own sake, to be frank and confiding; but the scene in the garden returned to her memory, and she recoiled from her beloved companion, as from something polluted.

Still ignorant how far the deluded girl was involved, she felt that the manner in which she deported herself toward her, might perhaps fix her destiny for good or evil. With a kind, but trembling voice, she said, "Eudora, will you tell me whether the interview I witnessed last night was an appointed one?"

Eudora persevered in silence, but her agitation obviously increased.

Her friend looked earnestly in her excited countenance for a moment, and then said, "Eudora, I do entreat you to tell me the whole truth in this matter."

"I have not yet learned what right you have to inquire," replied the misguided maiden.

Philothea's eyes were filled with tears, as she said, "Does the love we have felt for each other from our earliest childhood, give me no claim to your confidence? Had we ever a cake, or a bunch of grapes, of which one did not reserve for the other the largest and best portion? I well remember the day when you broke the little marble kid Phidias had given you. You fairly sobbed yourself to sleep in my lap, while I smoothed back the silky curls all wet with your tears, and sung my childish songs to please you. You came to me with all your infant troubles—and in our maturer years, have we not shared all our thoughts? Oh, still trust to the affection that never deceived you. Believe me, dear Eudora, you would not wish to conceal your purposes and actions from your earliest and best friend, unless you had an inward consciousness of something wrong. Every human being has, like Socrates, an attendant spirit; and wise are they who obey its signals. If it does not always tell us what to do, it always cautions us what not to do. Have you not of late struggled against the warnings of this friendly spirit? Is it safe to contend with him, till his voice recedes, like music in the distance, and is heard no more?"

She looked earnestly in Eudora's face for a moment, and perceiving that her feelings were somewhat softened, she added, "I will not again ask whether the meeting of last night was an appointed one; for you surely would repel the suspicion, if you could do so with truth. It is too evident that this insinuating man has fascinated you, as he already has done hundreds of others; and for the sake of his transient flattery, you have thrown away Philaemon's pure and constant love. Yet the passing notice of Alcibiades is a distinction you will share with half the maidens of Athens. When another new face attracts his fancy, you will be forgotten; but you cannot so easily forget your own folly. The friends you cast from you can never be regained; tranquillity of mind will return no more; conscious innocence, which makes the human countenance a tablet for the gods to write upon, can never be restored. And for what will you lose all this? Think for a moment what is the destiny of those women, who, following the steps of Aspasia, seek happiness in the homage paid to triumphant beauty—youth wasted in restless excitement, and old age embittered by the consciousness of deserved contempt. For this, are you willing to relinquish the happiness that attends a quiet discharge of duty, and the cheerful intercourse of true affection?"

In a tone of offended pride, Eudora answered: "Philothea, if I were what you seem to believe me, your words would be appropriate; but I have never had any other thought than that of being the acknowledged wife of Alcibiades."

"Has he then made you believe that he would divorce Hipparete?"

"Yes—he has solemnly sworn it. Such a transaction would have nothing remarkable in it. Each revolving moon sees similar events occur in Athens. The wife of Pericles had a destiny like that of her namesake; of whom the poets write that she was beloved for awhile by Olympian Zeus, and afterward changed into a quail. Pericles promised Aspasia that he would divorce Asteria and marry her; and he has kept his word. Hipparete is not so very beautiful or gifted, as to make it improbable that Alcibiades might follow his example."

"It is a relief to my heart," said Philothea, "to find that you have been deluded with hopes, which, however deceitful, render you comparatively innocent. But believe me, Eudora, Alcibiades will never divorce Hipparete. If he should do so, the law would compel him to return her magnificent dowry. Her connections have wealth and influence; and her brother Callias has promised that she shall be his heir. The paternal fortune of Alcibiades has all been expended, except his estate near Erchia; and this he knows full well is quite insufficient to support his luxury and pride."

Eudora answered warmly, "If you knew Alcibiades, you would not suspect him of such sordid motives. He would throw money into the sea like dust, if it stood in the way of his affections."

"I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness, when he wishes to purchase popularity by lavish expenditure," replied Philothea. "But Alcibiades has found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy with drachmae, what he can so easily obtain by flattery. Your own heart, I believe, is not really touched. Your imagination is dazzled with his splendid chariots of ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden armour which he loves to display at festivals; his richly-coloured garments, fresh from the looms of Sardis, and redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are proud of his notice, because you see that other maidens are flattered by it; because his statue stands among the Olympionicae, in the sacred groves of Zeus, and because all Athens rings with the praises of his beauty, his gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity."

"I am not so weak as your words imply," rejoined Eudora. "I believe that I love Alcibiades better than I ever loved Philaemon; and if the consent of Phidias can be obtained, I cannot see why you should object to our marriage."

For a few moments, Philothea remained in hopeless silence; then, in a tone of tender expostulation, she continued: "Eudora, I would the power were given me to open your eyes before it is too late! If Hipparete be not beautiful, she certainly is not unpleasing; her connections have high rank and great wealth; she is virtuous and affectionate, and the mother of his children. If, with all these claims, she can be so lightly turned away for the sake of a lovelier face, what can you expect, when your beauty no longer has the charm of novelty? You, who have neither wealth nor powerful connections, to serve the purposes of that ambitious man? And think for yourself, Eudora, if Alcibiades means as he says, why does he seek stolen interviews at midnight, in the absence of Phidias?"

"It is because he knows that Phidias has an uncommon regard for Philaemon," replied Eudora; "but he thinks he can, in time, persuade him to consult our wishes. I know, better than you possibly can, what reasons I have to trust the strength of his affection. Aspasia says she has never seen him so deeply in love as he is now."

"It is as I feared," said Philothea; "the voice of that siren is luring you to destruction."

Eudora answered, in an angry tone, "I love Aspasia; and it offends me to hear her spoken of in this manner. If you are content to be a slave, like the other Grecian women, who bring water and grind corn for their masters, I have no objection. I have a spirit within me that demands a wider field of action, and I enjoy the freedom that reigns in Aspasia's house. Alcibiades says he does not blame women for not liking to be shut up within four walls all their life-time, ashamed to show their faces like other mortals."

Quietly, but sadly, Philothea replied: "Farewell, Eudora. May the powers that guide our destiny, preserve you from any real cause for shame. You are now living in Calypso's island; and divine beings alone can save you from the power of her enchantments."

Eudora made no response, and did not even raise her eyes, as her companion left the apartment.

As Philothea passed through the garden, she saw Milza standing in the shadow of the vines, feeding a kid with some flowers she held in her hand, while Geta was fastening a crimson cord about its neck. A glad influence passed from this innocent group into the maiden's heart, like the glance of a sunbeam over a dreary landscape.

"Is the kid yours, Milza?" she asked, with an affectionate smile.

The happy little peasant raised her eyes with an arch expression, but instantly lowered them again, covered with blushes. It was a look that told all the secrets of her young heart more eloquently than language.

Philothea had drank freely from those abundant fountains of joy in the human soul, which remain hidden till love reveals their existence, as secret springs are said to be discovered by a magic wand. With affectionate sympathy she placed her hand gently on Milza's head, and said, "Be good—and the gods will ever provide friends for you."

The humble lovers gazed after her with a blessing in their eyes; and in the consciousness of this, her meek spirit found a solace for the wounds Eudora had given.



CHAPTER VII.

O Zeus! why hast thou given us certain proof To know adulterate gold, but stamped no mark, Where it is needed most, on man's base metal? EURIPIDES.

When Philothea returned to her grandfather's apartment, she found the good old man with an open tablet before him, and the remainder of a rich cluster of grapes lying on a shell by his side.

"I have wanted you, my child," said he, "Have you heard the news all Athens is talking of, that you sought your friend so early in the day? You are not wont to be so eager to carry tidings."

"I have not heard the rumours whereof you speak," replied Philothea. "What is it, my father?"

"Hipparete went from Aspasia's house to her brother Callias, instead of the dwelling of her husband," rejoined Anaxagoras: "by his advice she refused to return; and she yesterday appealed to the archons for a divorce from Alcibiades, on the plea of his notorious profligacy. Alcibiades, hearing of this, rushed into the assembly, with his usual boldness, seized his wife in his arms, carried her through the crowd, and locked her up in her own apartment. No man ventured to interfere with this lawful exercise of his authority. It is rumoured that Hipparete particularly accused him of promising marriage to Electra the Corinthian, and Eudora, of the household of Phidias."

For the first time in her life, Philothea turned away her face, to conceal its expression, while she inquired in a tremulous tone whether these facts had been told to Philaemon, the preceding evening.

"Some of the guests were speaking of it when he entered," replied Anaxagoras; "but no one alluded to it in his presence. Perhaps he had heard the rumour, for he seemed sad and disquieted, and joined little in the conversation."

Embarrassed by the questions which her grandfather was naturally disposed to ask, Philothea briefly confessed that a singular change had taken place in Eudora's character, and begged permission to silent on a subject so painful to her feelings. She felt strongly inclined to return immediately to her deluded friend; but the hopelessness induced by her recent conversation, combined with the necessity of superintending Milza in some of her household occupations, occasioned a few hours' delay.

As she attempted to cross the garden for that purpose, she saw Eudora enter hastily by the private gate, and pass to her own apartment. Philothea instantly followed her, and found that she had thrown herself on the couch, sobbing violently. She put her arms about her neck, and affectionately inquired the cause of her distress.

For a long time the poor girl resisted every soothing effort, and continued to weep bitterly. At last, in a voice stifled with sobs, she said, "I was indeed deceived; and you, Philothea, was my truest friend; as you have always been."

The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon her hand, and asked whether it was Hipparete's appeal to the archons, that had so suddenly convinced her of the falsehood of Alcibiades.

"I have heard it all," replied Eudora, with a deep blush; "and I have heard my name coupled with epithets never to be repeated to your pure ears. I was so infatuated that, after you left me this morning, I sought the counsels of Aspasia, to strengthen me in the course I had determined to pursue. As I approached her apartment, the voice of Alcibiades met my ear. I stopped and listened. I heard him exult in his triumph over Hipparete; I heard my name joined with Electra, the wanton Corinthian. I heard him boast how easily our affections had been won; I heard—"

She paused for a few moments, with a look of intense shame, and the tears fell fast upon her robe.

In gentle tones Philothea said, "These are precious tears, Eudora. They will prove like spring-showers, bringing forth fragrant blossoms."

With sudden impulse, the contrite maiden threw her arms around her neck, saying, in a subdued voice, "You must not be so kind to me—it will break my heart."

By degrees the placid influence of her friend calmed her perturbed spirit. "Philothea," she said, "I promise with solemn earnestness to tell you every action of my life, and every thought of my soul; but never ask me to repeat all I heard at Aspasia's dwelling. The words went through my heart like poisoned arrows."

"Nay," replied Philothea, smiling; "they have healed, not poisoned."

Eudora sighed, as she added, "When I came away, in anger and in shame, I heard that false man singing in mockery:

"Count me on the summer trees Every leaf that courts the breeze; Count me on the foamy deep Every wave that sinks to sleep; Then when you have numbered these, Billowy tides and leafy trees, Count me all the flames I prove, All the gentle nymphs I love."

Philothea, how could you, who are so pure yourself, see so much clearer than I did the treachery of that bad man?"

The maiden replied, "Mortals, without the aid of experience, would always be aware of the presence of evil, if they sought to put away the love of it in their own hearts, and in silent obedience listened to the voice of their guiding spirit. Flowers feel the approach of storms, and birds need none to teach them the enmity of serpents. This knowledge is given to them as perpetually as the sunshine; and they receive it fully, because their little lives are all obedience and love."

"Then, dearest Philothea, you may well know when evil approaches. By some mysterious power you have ever known my heart better than I myself have known it. I now perceive that you told me the truth when you said I was not blinded by love, but by foolish pride. If it were not so, my feelings could not so easily have turned to hatred. I have more than once tried to deceive you, but you will feel that I am not now speaking falsely. The interview you witnessed was the first and only one I ever granted to Alcibiades."

Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion, and her joy that the real character of the graceful hypocrite had so soon been made manifest. Her thoughts turned towards Philaemon; but certain recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They were both silent for a few moments; and Eudora's countenance was troubled. She looked up earnestly in her friend's face, but instantly turned away her eyes, and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and timid voice, "Do you think Philaemon can ever love me again?"

Philothea felt painfully embarrassed; for when she recollected how deeply Philaemon was enamoured of purity in women, she dared not answer in the language of hope.

While she yet hesitated, Dione came to say that her master required the attendance of Eudora alone in his apartment.

Phidias had always exacted implicit obedience from his household, and Eudora's gratitude towards him had ever been mingled with fear. The consciousness of recent misconduct filled her with extreme dread. Her countenance became deadly pale, as she turned toward her friend, and said, "Oh, Philothea, go with me."

The firm-hearted maiden took her arm gently within her own, and whispered, "Speak the truth, and trust in the Divine Powers."



CHAPTER VIII.

Thus it is; I have made those Averse to me whom nature formed my friends; Those, who from me deserved no ill, to win Thy grace, I gave just cause to be my foes; And thou, most vile of men, thou hast betrayed me. EURIPIDES.

Phidias was alone, with a large unfinished drawing before him, on a waxen tablet. Various groups of statues were about the room; among which was conspicuous the beautiful workmanship of Myron, representing a kneeling Paris offering the golden apple to Aphrodite; and by a mode of flattery common with Athenian artists, the graceful youth bore the features of Alcibiades. Near this group was Hera and Pallas, from the hand of Phidias; characterized by a severe majesty of expression, as they looked toward Paris and his voluptuous goddess in quiet scorn.

Stern displeasure was visible in the countenance of the great sculptor. As the maidens entered, with their faces covered, he looked up, and said coldly, "I bade that daughter of unknown parents come into my presence unattended."

Eudora keenly felt the reproach implied by the suppression of her name, which Phidias deemed she had dishonoured; and the tremulous motion of her veil betrayed her agitation.

Philothea spoke in a mild, but firm voice: "Son of Charmides, by the friendship of my father, I conjure you do not require me to forsake Eudora in this hour of great distress."

In a softened tone, Phidias replied: "The daughter of Alcimenes knows that for his sake, and for the sake of her own gentle nature, I can refuse her nothing."

"I give thee thanks," rejoined the maiden, "and relying on this assurance, I will venture to plead for this helpless orphan, whom the gods committed to thy charge. The counsels of Aspasia have led her into error; and is the son of Charmides blameless, for bringing one so young within the influence of that seductive woman?"

After a short pause, Phidias answered: "Philothea, it is true that my pride in her gift of sweet sounds first brought her into the presence of that bad and dangerous man; it was contrary to Philaemon's wishes, too; and in this I have erred. If that giddy damsel can tell me the meeting in the garden was not by her own consent, I will again restore her to my confidence. Eudora, can you with truth give me this assurance?"

Eudora made no reply; but she trembled so violently, that she would have sunk, had she not leaned on the arm of her friend.

Philothea, pitying her distress, said, "Son of Charmides, I do not believe Eudora can truly give the answer you wish to receive; but remember in her favour that she does not seek to excuse herself by falsehood. Alcibiades has had no other interview than that one, of which the divine Phoebus sent a messenger to warn me in my sleep. For that fault, the deluded maiden has already suffered a bitter portion of shame and grief."

After a short silence, Phidias spoke: "Eudora, when I called you hither, it was with the determination of sending you to the temple of Castor and Polydeuces, there to be offered for sale to your paramour, who has already tried, in a secret way, to purchase you, by the negociation of powerful friends; but Philothea has not pleaded for you in vain. I will not punish your fault so severely as Alcibiades ventured to hope. You shall remain under my protection. But from henceforth you must never leave your own apartment, without my express permission, which will not soon be granted. I dare not trust your sudden repentance; and shall therefore order a mastiff to be chained to your door. Dione will bring you bread and water only. If you fail in obedience, the fate I first intended will assuredly be yours, without time given for expostulation. Now go to the room that opens into the garden; and there remain, till I send Dione to conduct you to your own apartment."

Eudora was so completely humbled, that these harsh words aroused no feeling of offended pride. Her heart was too full for utterance; and her eyes so blinded with tears, that, as she turned to leave the apartment, she frequently stumbled over the scattered fragments of marble.

It was a day of severe trials for the poor maiden. They had remained but a short time waiting for Dione, when Philaemon entered, conducted by Phidias, who immediately left the apartment. Eudora instantly bowed her head upon the couch, and covered her face with her hands.

In a voice tremulous with emotion, the young man said, "Eudora, notwithstanding the bitter recollection of where I last saw you, I have earnestly wished to see you once more—to hear from your own lips whether the interview I witnessed in the garden was by your own appointment. Although many things in your late conduct have surprised and grieved me, I am slow to believe that you could have taken a step so unmaidenly; particularly at this time, when it has pleased the gods to load me with misfortunes. By the affection I once cherished, I entreat you to tell me whether that meeting was unexpected."

He waited in vain for any other answer than audible sobs. After a slight pause, he continued: "Eudora, I wait for a reply more positive than silence. Let me hear from your own lips the words that must decide my destiny. Perchance it is the last favour I shall ever ask."

The repentant maiden, without looking up, answered, in broken accents, "Philaemon, I will not add deceit to other wrongs, I must speak the truth, if my heart is broken. I did consent to that interview."

The young man bowed his head in silent anguish against one of the pillars—his breast heaved, and his lips quivered. After a hard struggle with himself, he said, "Farewell, Eudora. I shall never again intrude upon your presence. Many will flatter you; but none will love you as I have loved."

With a faint shriek, Eudora sprung forward, and threw herself at his feet. She would have clasped his knees, but he involuntarily recoiled from her touch, and gathered the folds of his robe about him.

Then the arrow entered deeply into her heart, She rested her burning forehead against the marble pillar, and said, in tones of agonized entreaty, "I never met him but once."

Philothea, who during this scene had wept like an infant, laid her hand beseechingly on his arm, and added, "Son of Chaerilaues, remember that was the only interview."

Philaemon shook his head mournfully, as he replied, "But I cannot forget that it was an appointed one.—We can never meet again."

He turned hastily to leave the room; but lingered on the threshold, and looked back upon Eudora with an expression of unutterable sadness.

Philothea perceived the countenance of her unhappy friend grow rigid beneath his gaze. She hastened to raise her from the ground whereon she knelt, and received her senseless in her arms.



CHAPTER IX.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid! My soul,—its fondest hopes betrayed, Betrayed, perfidious girl, by thee,— Is now on wing for liberty. I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, Since thou hast ceased to love me here. ANACREON.

Not long after the parting interview with Eudora, Philaemon, sad and solitary, slowly wended his way from Athens. As he passed along the banks of the Illyssus, he paused for a moment, and stood with folded arms, before the chaste and beautiful little temple of Agrotera, the huntress with the unerring bow.

The temple was shaded by lofty plane trees, and thickly intertwined willows, among which transparent rivulets glided in quiet beauty; while the marble nymphs, with which the grove was adorned, looked modestly down upon the sparkling waters, as if awe-stricken by the presence of their sylvan goddess.

A well-known voice said, "Enter Philaemon. It is a beautiful retreat. The soft verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like and sonorous sound. Enter, my son."

"Thanks, Anaxagoras," replied Philaemon, as he moved forward to give and receive the cordial salutation of his friend: "I have scarcely travelled far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is indeed refreshing."

"Whither leads your path, my son?" inquired the good old man. "I perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you, like one who travels afar."

"I seek Mount Hymettus, my father," replied Philaemon: "There I shall stop to-night, to take my last look of Athens. To-morrow, I join a company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles."

"And would you have left Athens without my blessing?" inquired Anaxagoras.

"In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting," rejoined Philaemon. "Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever."

The aged philosopher endeavoured to speak, but his voice was tremulous with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philaemon's, and said, "My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted."

The young man spoke of the wearisome walk; and reminded him that Ibycus, the beloved of the gods, was murdered while returning to the city after twilight. But the philosopher replied, "My old limbs are used to fatigue, and everybody knows that the plain robe of Anaxagoras conceals no gold."

As they passed along through the smiling fields of Agra, the cheerfulness of the scene redoubled the despondency of the exile. Troops of laughing girls were returning from the vineyards with baskets full of grapes; women were grinding corn, singing merrily, as they toiled; groups of boys were throwing quoits, or seated on the grass eagerly playing at dice, and anon filling the air with their shouts; in one place was a rural procession in honour of Dionysus; in another, loads of pure Pentelic marble were on their way from the quarry, to increase the architectural glory of Athens.

"I could almost envy that senseless stone!" exclaimed Philaemon. "It goes where I have spent many a happy hour, and where I shall never enter more. It is destined for the Temple of the Muses, which Plato is causing to be built among the olive-groves of Academus. The model is more beautifully simple than anything I have ever seen."

"The grove of Academus is one of the few places now remaining where virtue is really taught and encouraged," rejoined Anaxagoras. "As for these new teachers, misnamed philosophers, they are rapidly hastening the decay of a state whose diseases produced them."

"A few days since, I heard one of the sophists talking to crowds of people in the old Agora," said Philaemon; "and truly his doctrines formed a strange contrast with the severe simplicity of virtue expressed in the countenances of Solon, Aristides, and the other god-like statues that stood around him. He told the populace that it was unquestionably a great blessing to commit an injury with impunity; but as there was more evil in suffering an injury than there was good in committing one, it was necessary to have the subject regulated by laws: that justice, correctly defined, meant nothing more than the interest of the strongest; that a just man always fared worse than the unjust, because he neglected to aggrandize himself by dishonest actions, and thus became unpopular among his acquaintances; while those who were less scrupulous, grew rich and were flattered. He said the weak very naturally considered justice as a common right; but he who had power, if he had likewise courage, would never submit to any such agreement: that they who praised virtue, did it because they had some object to gain from those who had less philosophy than themselves; and these pretended worthies, if they could act invisibly, would soon be found in the same path with the villain. He called rhetoric the noblest of the arts, because it enabled an ignorant man to appear to know as much as one who was thoroughly master of his subject. Some of the people demanded what he had to say of the gods, since he had spoken so ably of men. With an unpleasant mixture of derision and feigned humility, the sophist replied, that he left such vast subjects to be discussed by the immortal Socrates. He forthwith left the Agora, and many a loud laugh and profane jest followed his departure. When such doctrines can be uttered without exciting indignation, it is easy to foresee the destinies of the state."

"Thucydides speaks truly," rejoined Anaxagoras: "In the history he is writing, he says,—The Athenian people are beginning to be more fond of calling dishonest men able, than simple men honest; and that statesmen begin to be ashamed of the more worthy title, while they take pride in the other: thus sincerity, of which there is much in generous natures, will be laughed down; while wickedness and hypocrisy are everywhere triumphant."

"But evil grows weary of wearing a mask in reluctant homage to good," replied Philaemon; "she is ever seeking to push it aside, with the hope that men may become accustomed to her face, and find more beauty therein, than in the disguise she wears. The hidden thought at last struggles forth into expression, and cherished passions assume a form in action. One of the sophists has already given notice that he can teach any young man how to prove that right is wrong, or wrong is right. It is said that Xanthippus has sent his son to benefit by these instructions, with a request that he may learn the art thoroughly, but be taught to use it only in the right way."

"Your words are truth, my son," answered the philosopher; "and the blame should rest on those who taint the stream at its source, rather than with them who thoughtlessly drink of it in its wanderings. The great and the gifted of Athens, instead of yielding reverent obedience to the unchangeable principle of truth, have sought to make it the servant of their own purposes. Forgetful of its eternal nature, they strive to change it into arbitrary forms of their own creating; and then marvel because other minds present it in forms more gross and disgusting than their own. They do not ask what is just or unjust, true or untrue, but content themselves with recommending virtue, as far as it advances interest, or contributes to popularity; and when virtue ceases to be fashionable, the multitude can no longer find a satisfactory reason for adhering to it. But when the teachers of the populace hear their vulgar pupils boldly declare that vice is as good as virtue, provided a man can follow it with success, pride prevents them from seeing that this maxim is one of their own doctrines stripped of its equestrian robes, and shown in democratic plainness. They did not venture to deride the gods, or even to assert that they took no cognizance of human affairs; but they declared that offences against divine beings might be easily atoned for by a trifling portion of their own gifts—a sheep, a basket of fruit, or a few grains of salt, offered at stated seasons, with becoming decorum; and then when alone together, they smiled that such concessions were necessary to satisfy the superstitions of the vulgar. But disbelief in divine beings, and the eternal nature of truth, cannot long be concealed by pouring the usual libations, or maintaining a cautious reserve. The whispered opinions of false philosophers will soon be loudly echoed by the popular voice, which is less timid, because it is more honest. Even thus did Midas laboriously conceal the deformity of his head; but his barber, who saw him without disguise, whispered his secret in the earth, and when the winds arose, the voices of a thousand reeds proclaimed to the world, 'King Midas hath ass's ears.'"

"The secret has already been whispered to the ground," answered Philaemon, smiling: "If it were not so, the comic writers would not be able to give with impunity such grotesque and disgusting representations of the gods."

"And yet," rejoined the old man, "I hear that Hermippus, who has himself personified Hera on the stage, as an angry woman attempting to strike infuriated Zeus, is about to arraign me before the public tribunal, because I said the sun was merely a great ball of fire. This he construes into blasphemy against the life-giving Phoebus."

"The accusation may be thus worded," said Philaemon; "but your real crime is that you stay away from political assemblies, and are therefore suspected of being unfriendly to democratic institutions. Demos reluctantly admits that the right to hold such opinions is an inherent part of liberty. Soothe the vanity of the dicasts by humble acknowledgments, and gratify their avarice by a plentiful distribution of drachmae; flatter the self-conceit of the Athenians, by assurances that they are the greatest, most glorious, and most consistent people upon earth; be careful that Cleon the tanner, and Thearion the baker, and Theophrastus the maker of lyres, are supplicated and praised in due form—and, take my word for it, the gods will be left to punish you for whatever offences you commit against them. They will receive no assistance from the violet-crowned city."

"And you, my son," replied the philosopher, "would never have been exiled from Athens, if you had debated in the porticos with young citizens, who love to exhibit their own skill in deciding whether the true cause of the Trojan war were Helen, or the ship that carried her away, or the man that built the ship, or the wood whereof it was made; if in your style you had imitated the swelling pomp of Isagoras, where one solitary idea is rolled over and over in an ocean of words, like a small pearl tossed about in the AEgean; if you had supped with Hyperbolus, or been seen in the agoras, walking arm in arm with Cleon. With such a man as you to head their party, Pericles could not always retain the ascendancy, by a more adroit use of their own weapons."

"As soon would I league myself with the Odomantians of Thrace!" exclaimed Philaemon, with an expression of strong disgust. "It is such men who destroy the innocence of a republic, and cause that sacred name to become a mockery among tyrants. The mean-souled wretches! Men who take from the poor daily interest for a drachma, and spend it in debauchery. Citizens who applauded Pericles because he gave them an obolus for a vote, and are now willing to see him superseded by any man that will give two oboli instead of one! No, my father—I could unite with none but an honest party—men who love the state and forget themselves; and such are not now found in Athens. The few that exist dare not form a barrier against the powerful current that would inevitably drive them to destruction."

"You speak truth, Philaemon," rejoined Anaxagoras: "Pallas Athenae seems to have deserted her chosen people. The proud Spartans openly laugh at our approaching downfall, while the smooth Persians watch for a favourable moment to destroy the freedom already rendered so weak by its own insanity."

"The fault will be attributed to democratic principles," said Philaemon; "but the real difficulty exists in that love of power which hides itself beneath the mask of Democracy, until a corrupted public can endure its undisguised features without execration. No one can believe that Pericles lessened the power of the Areopagus from a sincere conviction that it was for the good of the people. It was done to obtain personal influence, by purchasing the favour of those who had sufficient reasons for desiring a less equitable tribunal. Nor could he have ever supposed that the interests of the republic would be advanced by men whom the gift of an obolus could induce to vote. The Athenians have been spoiled by ambitious demagogues, who now try to surfeit them with flattery, as nurses seek to pacify noisy children with sponges dipped in honey. They strive to drown the din of domestic discord in boasts of foreign conquests; and seek to hide corruption in a blaze of glory, as they concealed their frauds amid the flames of the treasury."

"Pericles no doubt owes his great popularity to skill in availing himself of existing circumstances," replied Anaxagoras; "and I am afraid that the same motives for corrupting, and the same willingness to be corrupted, will always be found in democratic institutions."

"It has always been matter of surprise to me," said Philaemon, "that one so humble and frugal as yourself, and so zealous for the equal rights of all men, even the meanest citizens, should yet be so little friendly to that popular idol which the Athenians call Demos."

The philosopher rejoined: "When I was young, I heard it said of Lycurgus, that being asked why he, who was such a friend to equality, did not bestow a democratic government upon Sparta, he answered: "Go and try a democracy in your own house." The reply pleased me; and a long residence in Athens has not yet taught me to believe that a man who is governed by ten thousand masters has more freedom than he who is governed by one."

"If kings had the same natural affection for their subjects that parents have for their children, the comparison of Lycurgus would be just," answered Philaemon.

"And what think you of the paternal kindness of this republican decree whereby five thousand citizens have been sold into slavery, because the unjust confiscation of their estates rendered them unable to pay their debts?" said Anaxagoras.

"Such an edict was passed because Athens is not a republic," replied Philaemon. "All things are under the control of Pericles; and Aspasia rules him. When she heard that I remonstrated against his shameful marriage, she said she would sooner or later bring a Trojan horse into my house. She has fulfilled her threat by the same means that enabled Pericles to destroy the political power of some of his most influential enemies."

"Pericles has indeed obtained unbounded influence," rejoined Anaxagoras; "but he did it by counterfeiting the very principle that needed to be checked; and this is so easily counterfeited, that democracy is always in danger of becoming tyranny in disguise. The Athenians are as servile to their popular idol, as the Persians to their hereditary one; but the popular idol seeks to sustain his power by ministering to that love of change, which allows nothing to remain sacred and established. Hence, two opposite evils are combined in action—the reality of despotism with the form of democracy; the power of a tyrant with the irresponsibility of a multitude. But, in judging of Pericles, you, my son, should strive to guard against political enmity, as I do against personal affection. It cannot be denied that he has often made good use of his influence. When Cimon brought the remains of Theseus to Athens, and a temple was erected over them in obedience to the oracle, it was he who suggested to the people that a hero celebrated for relieving the oppressed could not be honoured more appropriately than by making his temple a refuge for abused slaves."

"Friendly as I am to a government truly republican," answered Philaemon, "it is indeed difficult to forgive the man who seduces a democracy to the commission of suicide, for his own advancement. His great abilities would receive my admiration, if they were not employed in the service of ambition. As for this new edict, it will prove a rebounding arrow, striking him who sent it. He will find ten enemies for one in the kindred of the banished."

"While we have been talking thus sadly," said the old philosopher, "the fragrant thyme and murmuring bees give cheerful notice that we are approaching Mount Hymettus. I see the worthy peasant, Tellus, from whom I have often received refreshment of bread and grapes; and if it please you we will share his bounty now."

The peasant respectfully returned their friendly greeting, and readily furnished clusters from his luxuriant vineyard. As the travellers seated themselves beneath the shelter of the vines, Tellus asked, "What news from Athens?"

"None of importance," replied Anaxagoras, "excepting rumours of approaching war, and this new edict, by which so many citizens are suddenly reduced to poverty."

"There are always those in Athens who are like the eel-catchers, that choose to have the waters troubled," observed the peasant. "When the lake is still, they lose their labour; but when the mud is well stirred, they take eels in plenty. My son says he gets twelve oboli for a conger-eel, in the Athenian markets; and that is a goodly price."

The travellers smiled, and contented themselves with praising his grapes, without further allusion to the politics of Athens. But Tellus resumed the discourse, by saying, "So, I hear my old neighbour, Philargus, has been tried for idleness."

"Even so," rejoined Anaxagoras; "and his condemnation has proved the best luck he ever had. The severe sentence of death was changed into a heavy fine; and Lysidas, the Spartan, immediately begged to be introduced to him, as the only gentleman he had seen or heard of in Athens. He has paid the fine for him, and invited him to Lacedaemon; that he may show his proud countrymen one Athenian who does not disgrace himself by industry."

"That comes of having the Helots among them," said Tellus. "My boy married a Spartan wife, and I can assure you she is a woman that looks lightning, and speaks mustard. When my son first told her to take the fish from his basket, she answered angrily, that she was no Helot."

"I heard this same Lysidas, the other day," said Philaemon, "boasting that the Spartans were the only real freemen; and Lacedaemon the only place where courage and virtue always found a sure reward. I asked him what reward the Helots had for bravery or virtue. 'They are not scourged; and that is sufficient reward for the base hounds,' was his contemptuous reply. He approves the law forbidding masters to bestow freedom on their slaves; and likes the custom which permits boys to whip them, merely to remind them of their bondage. He ridicules the idea that injustice will weaken the strength of Sparta, because the gods are enemies to injustice. He says the sun of liberty shines brighter with the dark atmosphere of slavery around it; as temperance seems more lovely to the Spartan youth, after they have seen the Helots made beastly drunk for their amusement. He seems to forget that the passions are the same in every human breast; and that it is never wise in any state to create natural enemies at her own doors. But the Lacedaemonians make it a rule never to speak of danger from their slaves. They remind me of the citizens of Amyclae, who, having been called from their occupations by frequent rumours of war, passed a vote that no man should be allowed, under heavy penalties, to believe any report of intended invasion. When the enemy really came, no man dared to speak of their approach, and Amyclae was easily conquered. Lysidas boasted of salutary cruelty; and in the same breath told me the Helots loved their masters."

"As the Spartan boys love Orthia, at whose altar they yearly receive a bloody whipping," said Tellus, laughing.

"There is one great mistake in Lacedaemonian institutions," observed Anaxagoras: "They seek to avoid the degrading love of money, by placing every citizen above the necessity of laborious occupation; but they forget that the love of tyranny may prove an evil still more dangerous to the state."

"You speak justly, my father," answered Philaemon: "The Athenian law, which condemns any man for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbour's trade, is most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of her young equestrians begin to think it unbecoming to bring home provisions for their own dinner from the agoras."

"Alcibiades, for instance!" exclaimed the philosopher: "He would consider himself disgraced by any other burthen than his fighting quails, which he carries out to take the air."

Philaemon started up suddenly—for the name of Alcibiades stung him like a serpent. Immediately recovering his composure, he turned to recompense the hospitality of the honest peasant, and to bid him a friendly farewell.

But Tellus answered bluntly; "No, young Athenian; I like your sentiments, and will not touch your coin. The gods bless you."

The travellers having heartily returned his parting benediction, slowly ascended Mount Hymettus. When they paused to rest upon its summit, a glorious prospect lay stretched out before them. On the north, were Megara, Eleusis, and the cynosure of Marathon; in the south, numerous islands, like a flock of birds, reposed on the bright bosom of the Aegean; to the west, was the broad Piraeus with its thousand ships, and Athens in all her magnificence of beauty; while the stately buildings of distant Corinth mingled with the cloudless sky. The declining sun threw his refulgent mantle over the lovely scene, and temples, towers, and villas glowed in the purple light.

The travellers stood for a few moments in perfect silence—Philaemon with folded arms, and Anaxagoras leaning on his staff. At length, in tones of deep emotion, the young man exclaimed, "Oh, Athens, how I have loved thee! Thy glorious existence has been a part of my own being! For thy prosperity how freely would I have poured out my blood! The gods bless thee, and save thee from thyself!"

"Who could look upon her and not bless her in his heart?" said the old philosopher: "There she stands, fair as the heaven-born Pallas, in all her virgin majesty! But alas for Athens, when every man boasts of his own freedom, and no man respects the freedom of his neighbour. Peaceful, she seems, in her glorious beauty; but the volcano is heaving within, and already begins to throw forth its showers of smoke and stones."

"Would that the gods had permitted me to share her dangers—to die and mingle with her beloved soil!" exclaimed Philaemon.

The venerable philosopher looked up, and saw intense wretchedness in the countenance of his youthful friend. He laid his hand kindly upon Philaemon's arm; "Nay, my son," said he; "You must not take this unjust decree so much to heart. Of Athens nothing can be so certainly predicted as change. Things as trifling as the turning of a shell may restore you to your rights. You can even now return, if you will submit to be a mere sojourner in Athens. After all, what vast privileges do you lose with your citizenship. You must indeed wrestle at Cynosarges, instead of the Lyceum or the Academia; but in this, the great Themistocles has given you honourable example. You will not be allowed to enter the theatre while the Athenians keep the second day of their festival Anthesteria; but to balance this privation, you are forbidden to vote, and are thus freed from all blame belonging to unjust and capricious laws."

"My father, playful words cannot cure the wound," replied the exile, seriously: "The cherished recollections of years cannot be so easily torn from the heart. Athens, with all her faults, is still my own, my beautiful, my beloved land. They might have killed me, if they would, if I had but died an Athenian citizen."

He spoke with a voice deeply agitated; but after a few moments of forced composure, he continued more cheerfully: "Let us speak of other subjects. We are standing here, on the self-same spot where Aristo and Perictione laid the infant Plato, while they sacrificed to the life-giving Phoebus. It was here the bees clustered about his infant mouth, and his mother hailed the omen of his future eloquence. Commend me to that admirable man, and tell him I shall vainly seek throughout the world to find another Plato.

"Commend me likewise to the Persian Artaphernes. To his bounty I am much indebted. Lest he should hope that I carry away feelings hostile to Athens, and favourable to her enemies, say to the kind old man, that Philaemon will never forget his country or his friends. I have left a long letter to Paralus, in which my full heart has but feebly expressed its long-cherished friendship. When you return, you will find a trifling token of remembrance for yourself and Philothea. May Pallas shower her richest blessings upon that pure and gifted maiden."

With some hesitation, Anaxagoras said, "You make no mention of Eudora; and I perceive that both you and Philothea are reserved when her name is mentioned. Do not believe every idle rumour, my son. The gayety of a light-hearted maiden is often unmixed with boldness, or crime. Do not cast her from you too lightly."

Philaemon averted his face for a moment, and struggled hard with his feelings. Then turning abruptly, he pressed the old man's hand, and said, "Bid Philothea, guide and cherish her deluded friend, for my sake. And now, farewell, Anaxagoras! Farewell, forever! my kind, my good old master. May the gods bless the wise counsels and virtuous example you have given me."

The venerable philosopher stretched forth his arms to embrace him. The young man threw himself upon that friendly bosom, and overcome by a variety of conflicting emotions, sobbed aloud.

As they parted, Anaxagoras again pressed Philaemon to his heart, and said, "May that God, whose numerous attributes the Grecians worship, forever bless thee, my dear son."



CHAPTER X.

Courage, Orestes! if the lots hit right, If the black pebbles don't exceed the white, You're safe. EURIPIDES.

Pericles sought to please the populace by openly using his influence to diminish the power of the Areopagus; and a decree had been passed that those who denied the existence of the gods, or introduced new opinions about celestial things, should be tried by the people. This event proved fortunate for some of his personal friends; for Hermippus soon laid before the Thesmothetae Archons an accusation of blasphemy against Anaxagoras, Phidias, and Aspasia. The case was tried before the fourth Assembly of the people; and the fame of the accused, together with the well-known friendship of Pericles, attracted an immense crowd; insomuch that the Prytaneum was crowded to overflowing. The prisoners came in, attended by the Phylarchi of their different wards. Anaxagoras retained his usual bland expression and meek dignity. Phidias walked with a haughtier tread, and carried his head more proudly. Aspasia was veiled; but as she glided along, gracefully as a swan on the bosom of still waters, loud murmurs of approbation were heard from the crowd. Pericles seated himself near them, with deep sadness on his brow. The moon had not completed its revolution since he had seen Phidias arraigned before the Second Assembly of the people, charged by Menon, one of his own pupils, with having defrauded the state of gold appropriated to the statue of Pallas. Fortunately, the sculptor had arranged the precious metal so that it could be taken off and weighed; and thus his innocence was easily made manifest. But the great statesman had seen, by many indications, that the blow was in part aimed at himself through his friends; and that his enemies were thus trying to ascertain how far the people could be induced to act in opposition to his well-known wishes. The cause had been hurried before the assembly, and he perceived that his opponents were there in great numbers. As soon as the Epistates began to read the accusation, Pericles leaned forward, and burying his face in his robe, remained motionless.

Anaxagoras was charged with not having offered victims to the gods; and with having blasphemed the divine Phoebus, by saying the sun was only a huge ball of fire. Being called upon to answer whether he were guilty of this offence, he replied: "Living victims I have never sacrificed to the gods; because, like the Pythagoreans, I object to the shedding of blood; but, like the disciples of their sublime philosopher, I have duly offered on their altars small goats and rams made of wax. I did say I believed the sun to be a great ball of fire; and deemed not that in so doing I had blasphemed the divine Phoebus."

When he had finished, it was proclaimed aloud that any Athenian, not disqualified by law, might speak. Cleon arose, and said it was well known to the disciples of Anaxagoras, that he taught the existence of but one God. Euripides, Pericles, and others who had been his pupils, were separately called to bear testimony; and all said he taught One Universal Mind, of which all other divinities were the attributes; even as Homer represented the inferior deities subordinate to Zeus.

When the philosopher was asked whether he believed in the gods, he answered, "I do: but I believe in them as the representatives of various attributes in One Universal Mind." He was then required to swear by all the gods, and by the dreaded Erinnys, that he had spoken truly.

The Prytanes informed the assembly that their vote must decide whether this avowed doctrine r endered Anaxagoras of Clazomenae worthy of death. A brazen urn was carried round, in which every citizen deposited a pebble. When counted, the black pebbles predominated over the white, and Anaxagoras was condemned to die.

The old man heard it very calmly, and replied: "Nature pronounced that sentence upon me before I was born. Do what you will, Athenians, ye can only injure the outward case of Anaxagoras; the real, immortal Anaxagoras is beyond your power."

Phidias was next arraigned, and accused of blasphemy, in having carved the likeness of himself and Pericles on the shield of heaven-born Pallas; and of having said that he approved the worship of the gods, merely because he wished to have his own works adored. The sculptor proudly replied, "I never declared that my own likeness, or that of Pericles, was on the shield of heaven-born Pallas; nor can any Athenian prove that I ever intended to place them there. I am not answerable for offences which have their origin in the eyes of the multitude. If their quick discernment be the test, crimes may be found written even on the glowing embers of our household altars. I never said I approved the worship of the gods because I wished to have my own works adored; for I should have deemed it irreverent thus to speak of divine beings. Some learned and illustrious guests, who were at the symposium in Aspasia's house, discoursed concerning the worship of images, apart from the idea of any divine attributes, which they represented. I said I approved not of this; and playfully added, that if it were otherwise, I might perchance be excused for sanctioning the worship of mere images, since mortals were ever willing to have their own works adored." The testimony of Pericles, Alcibiades, and Plato, confirmed the truth of his words.

Cleon declared it was commonly believed that Phidias decoyed the maids and matrons of Athens to his house, under the pretence of seeing sculpture; but in reality to minister to the profligacy of Pericles. The sculptor denied the charge; and required that proof should be given of one Athenian woman, who had visited his house, unattended by her husband or her father. The enemies of Pericles could easily have procured such evidence with gold; but when Cleon sought again to speak, the Prytanes commanded silence; and briefly reminded the people that the Fourth Assembly had power to decide concerning religious matters only. Hermippus, in a speech of considerable length, urged that Phidias seldom sacrificed to the gods; and that he must have intended likenesses on the shield of Pallas, because even Athenian children recognized them.

The brazen urn was again passed round, and the black pebbles were more numerous than they had been when the fate of Anaxagoras was decided. When Phidias heard the sentence, he raised himself to his full stature, and waving his right arm over the crowd, said, in a loud voice: "Phidias can never die! Athens herself will live in the fame of Charmides' son." His majestic figure and haughty bearing awed the multitude; and some, repenting of the vote they had given, said, "Surely, invisible Phoebus is with him!"