“And why not leave laughter to the slaves?” asked Hermippus; “since anything more than a graceful smile distorts the beauty of the features? I suppose bright eyes would weep in Athens, should the cheeks of Alcibiades be seen puffed out with vulgar wind-instruments.”
“And can you expect the youth of Athens to be wiser than their gods?” rejoined Aspasia. “Pallas threw away her favorite flute, because Hera and Aphrodite laughed at her distored countenance while she played upon it. It was but a womanly trick in the virgin daughter of Zeus.”
Tithonus looked at the speaker with a slight expression of surprise; which Hermippus perceiving, he thus addressed him in a cool, ironical tone: “O Ethiopian stranger, it is evident you know little of Athens; or you would have perceived that a belief in the gods is more vulgar than flute-playing. Such trash is deemed fit for the imbecility of the aged, and the ignorance of the populace. With equestrians and philosophers, it is out of date. You must seek for it among those who sell fish at the gates; or with the sailors at Piræus and Phalerum.”
“I have visited the Temple of Poseidon, in the Piræus,” observed Aspasia; “and I saw there a multitude of offerings from those who had escaped ship-wreck.” She paused slightly, and added, with a significant smile, “but I perceived no paintings of those who had been wrecked, notwithstanding their supplications to the god.”
As she spoke, she observed that Pericles withdrew a rose from the garland wherewith his cup was crowned; and though the action was so slight as to pass unobserved by others, she instantly understood the caution he intended to convey by that emblem sacred to the god of silence.
At a signal from Plato, slaves filled the goblets with wine, and he rose to propose the usual libation to the gods. Every Grecian guest joined in the ceremony, singing in a recitative tone:
Dionysus, this to thee,
God of warm festivity!
Giver of the fruitful vine,
To thee we pour the rosy wine!
Music, from the adjoining room, struck in with the chorus, and continued for some moments after it had ceased.
For a short time, the conversation was confined to the courtesies of the table, as the guests partook of the delicious viands before them. Plato ate olives and bread only; and the water he drank was scarcely tinged with Lesbian wine. Alcibiades rallied him upon this abstemiousness; and Pericles reminded him that even his great pattern, Socrates, gave Dionysus his dues, while he worshipped the heaven-born Pallas.
The philosopher quietly replied, “I can worship the fiery God of Vintage only when married with Nymphs of the Fountain.”
“But tell me, O Anaxagoras and Plato,” exclaimed Tithonus, “if, as Hermippus hath said, the Grecian philosophers discard the theology of the poets? Do ye not believe in the gods?”
Plato would have smiled, had he not reverenced the simplicity that expected a frank and honest answer to a question so dangerous. Anaxagoras briefly replied, that the mind which did not believe in divine beings, must be cold and dark indeed.
“Even so,” replied Artaphernes devoutly; “blessed be Oromasdes, who sends Mithras to warm and enlighten the world! But what surprises me most is, that you Grecians import new divinities from other countries as freely as slaves, or papyrus, or marble. The sculptor of the gods will scarcely be able to fashion half their images.”
“If the custom continues,” rejoined Phidias, “it will indeed require a life-time as long as that conferred upon the namesake of Tithonus.”
“Thanks to the munificence of artists, every deity has a representative in my dwelling,” observed Aspasia.
“I have heard strangers express their surprise that the Athenians have never erected a statue to the principle of Modesty,” said Hermippus.
“So much the more need that we enshrine her image in our own hearts,” rejoined Plato.
The sarcastic comedian made no reply to this quiet rebuke. Looking toward Artaphernes, he continued: “Tell me, O servant of the great king, wherein the people of your country are more wise in worshipping the sun, than we who represent the same divinity in marble?”
“The principles of the Persian religion are simple, steady, and uniform,” replied Artaphernes; “but the Athenian are always changing. You not only adopt foreign gods, but sometimes create new ones, and admit them into your theology by solemn act of the great council. These circumstances have led me to suppose that you worship them as mere forms. The Persian Magi do indeed prostrate themselves before the rising Sun; but they do it in the name of Oromasdes, the universal Principle of Good, of whom that great luminary is the visible symbol. In our solemn processions, the chariot sacred to Oromasdes precedes the horse dedicated to Mithras; and there is deep meaning in the arrangement. The Sun and the Zodiac, the Balance and the Rule, are but emblems of truths, mysterious and eternal. As the garlands we throw on the sacred fire feed the flame, rather than extinguish it, so the sublime symbols of our religion are intended to preserve, not to conceal, the truths within them.”
“Though you disclaim all images of divinity,” rejoined Aspasia, “yet we hear of your Mithras pictured like a Persian King, trampling on a prostrate ox.”
With a smile, Artaphernes replied, “I see, lady, that you would fain gain admittance to the Mithraie cave; but its secrets, like those of your own Eleusis, are concealed from all save the initiated.”
“They tell us,” said Aspasia, “that those who are admitted to the Eleusinian mysteries die in peace, and go directly to the Elysian fields; while the uninitiated wander about in the infernal abyss.”
“Of course,” said Anaxagoras, “Alcibiades will go directly to Elysium, though Solon groped his way in darkness.”
The old philosopher uttered this with imperturbable gravity, as if unconscious of satirical meaning; but some of the guests could scarcely repress a smile, as they recollected the dissolute life of the young Athenian.
“If Alcibiades spoke his real sentiments,” said Aspasia, “I venture to say he would tell us that the mystic baskets of Demeter, covered with long purple veils, contain nothing half so much worth seeing, as the beautiful maidens who carry them.”
“She looked at Pericles, and saw that he again cautioned her, by raising the rose toward his face, as if inhaling its fragrance.
There was a brief pause; which Anaxagoras interrupted, by saying, “The wise can never reverence images merely as images. There is a mystical meaning in the Athenian manner of supplicating the gods with garlands on their heads, and bearing in their hands boughs of olive twined with wool. Pallas, at whose birth we are told gold rained upon the earth, was unquestionably a personification of wisdom. It is not to be supposed that the philosophers of any country consider the sun itself as anything more than a huge ball of fire; but the sight of that glorious orb leads the contemplative soul to the belief in one Pure Intelligence, one Universal Mind, which in manifesting itself produces order in the material world, and preserves the unconfused distinction of infinite varieties.”
“Such, no doubt, is the tendency of all reflecting minds,” said Phidias; “but in general, the mere forms are worshipped, apart from the sacred truths they represent. The gods we have introduced from Egypt are regarded by the priests of that learned land as emblems of certain divine truths brought down from ancient times. They are like the Hermæ at our doors, which outwardly appear to rest on inexpressive blocks of stone; but when opened, they are found to contain beautiful statues of the gods within them. It is not so with the new fables which the Greeks are continually mixing with their mythology. Pygmalion, as we all know, first departed from the rigid outline of ancient sculpture, and impressed life and motion upon marble. The poets, in praise of him, have told us that his ardent wishes warmed a statue into a lovely and breathing woman. The fable is fanciful and pleasing in itself; but will it not hereafter be believed as reality? Might not the same history be told of much that is believed? It is true,” added he, smiling, “that I might be excused for favoring a belief in images, since mortals are eve
r willing to have their own works adored.”
“What! does Plato respond to the inquiries of Phidias?” asked Artaphernes.
The philosopher replied: “Within the holy mysteries of our religion is preserved a pure and deep meaning, as the waters of Arethusa flow uncontaminated beneath the earth and the sea. I do not presume to decide whether all that is believed has the inward significancy. I have ever deemed such speculations unwise. If the chaste daughter of Latona always appears to my thoughts veiled in heavenly purity, it is comparatively unimportant whether I can prove that Acteon was torn by his dogs, for looking on the goddess with wanton eyes. Anaxagoras said wisely that material forms lead the contemplative mind to the worship of ideal good, which is in its nature immortal and divine. Homer tells us that the golden chain resting upon Olympus reaches even to the earth. Here we see but a few of the last links, and those imperfectly. We are like men in a subterranean cave, so chained that they can look only forward to the entrance. Far above and behind us is a glowing fire: and beautiful beings, of every form, are moving between the light and us poor fettered mortals. Some of these bright beings are speaking, and others are silent. We see only the shadows cast on the opposite wall of the cavern, by the reflection of the fire above; and if we hear the echo of voices, we suppose it belongs to those passing shadows. The soul, in its present condition, is an exile from the orb of light; its ignorance is forgetfulness; and whatever we can perceive of truth, or imagine of beauty, is but a reminiscence of our former more glorious state of being. He who reverences the gods, and subdues his own passions, returns at last to the blest condition from which he fell. But to talk, or think, about these things with proud impatience, or polluted morals, is like pouring pure water into a miry trench; he who does it disturbs the mud, and thus causes the clear water to become defiled. When Odysseus removed his armor from the walls, and carried it to an inner apartment, invisible Pallas moved before him with her golden lamp, and filled the place with radiance divine. Telemachus, seeing the light, exclaimed, ‘Surely, my father, some of the celestial gods are present.’ With deep wisdom, the king of Ithaca replied, ‘Be silent. Restrain your intellect, and speak not.’ ”
“I am rebuked, O Plato,” answered Phidias; “and from henceforth, when my mind is dark and doubtful, I will remember that transparent drops may fall into a turbid well. Nor will I forget that sometimes, when I have worked on my statues by torch-light, I could not perceive their real expression, because I was carving in the shadow of my own hand.”
“Little can be learned of the human soul, and its connection with the Universal Mind,” said Anaxagoras: “These sublime truths seem vague and remote, as Phæacia appeared to Odysseus like a vast shield floating on the surface of the distant ocean.
“The glimmering uncertainty attending all such speculations, has led me to attach myself to the Ionic sect, who devote themselves entirely to the study of outward nature.”
“And this is useful,” rejoined Plato: “The man who is to be led from a cave will more easily see what the heavens contain by looking to the light of the moon and the stars, than by gazing on the sun at noon-day.”
Here Hermippus interrupted the discourse, by saying, “The son of Clinias does not inform us what he thinks of the gods. While others have talked, he has eaten.”
“I am a citizen and a soldier—neither priest nor philosopher,” replied Alcibiades: “With a strong arm and a willing heart to fight for my country, I leave others to settle the attributes of her gods. Enough for me, that I regularly offer sacrifices in their temples, and pour libations upon their altars. I care very little whether there be Elysian fields, or not. I will make an Elysium for myself, as long as Aspasia permits me to be surrounded by forms so beautiful, and gives me nectar like this to drink.” He replaced the goblet, from which he had drunk deeply, and exclaimed, “By Dionysus! they quaff nothing better than this in voluptuous Ionia!”
“Methinks a citizen and a soldier might find a more worthy model in Spartan, than in Ionian manners,” said Anaxagoras; “but the latter truly suits better with the present condition of Athens.”
“A condition more glorious than that of any other people upon earth,” exclaimed Pericles, somewhat warmly: “The story of Athens, enthroned in her beauty and power, will thrill through generous hearts, long after other nations are forgotten.”
“She is like a torch sending forth its last bright blaze, before it is extinguished forever,” replied Anaxagoras, calmly: “Where idle demagogues control the revenues of industrious citizens, the government cannot long stand. It is a pyramid with the base uppermost.”
“You certainly would not blame the wisdom of Aristides, in allowing the poor, as well as the rich, the privilege of voting?” said Pericles.
“A moderate supply of wealth is usually the result of virtuous and industrious habits; and it should be respected merely for what it indicates,” rejoined Anaxagoras. “Aristides, and other wise men, in their efforts to satisfy the requirements of a restless people, have opened a sluice, without calculating how it would be enlarged by the rushing waters, until the very walls of the city are undermined by its power.”
“But can the safety of the state be secured by merely excluding the vicious poor?” said Plato. “Are there not among us vicious rich men, who would rashly vote for measures destructive of public good, if they could thereby increase their own wealth? He who exports figs to maintain personal splendor, when there is famine in Attica, has perhaps less public virtue than the beggar who steals them to avoid starvation.”
“But the vicious rich man will bribe the beggar to vote as he dictates,” replied Anaxagoras; “and thus his power of doing evil becomes two fold.”
“Your respect for permanent institutions makes you blind to the love of change, inherent and active in the human mind,” said Pericles. “If society be like the heaving ocean, those who would guide their vessels in safety, must obey the winds and the tides.”
“Nay, Pericles,” replied the old man, earnestly; “if society be a tumultuous ocean, government should be its everlasting shores. If the statesman watches wind and tide only that his own bark may ride through the storm in safety, while every fresh wave sweeps a landmark away, it is evident that, sooner or later, the deluge must come.”
The discourse was growing too serious to be agreeable to Pericles, who well knew that some of his best friends deemed he had injured the state, by availing himself too freely of the democratic tendencies of the people. Plato, perceiving this, said, “If it please you, Anaxagoras, we will leave these subjects to be discussed in the Prytaneum and the Agoras. Fair and glorious is the violet-crowned city, and let us trust the gods will long preserve it so.”
“Thou hast well spoken, son of Aristo,” replied Artaphernes: “Much as I had heard of the glory and beauty of Athens, it far surpasses my hopes. Perhaps I find myself lingering to gaze on the Odeum more frequently than on any other of your magnificent edifices; not for its more impressive beauty; but because it is in imitation of our Great King’s Pavilion.”
Hermippus looked up, and smiled with ill-natured significance; for Cratinus, the ribald, had openly declared in the theatre, that Pericles needed only to look in his mirror, to discover a model for the sloping roof of the Odeum. Athenian guests were indignant at being thus reminded of the gross allusion to a deformity conspicuous in the head of their illustrious statesman; but Artaphernes, quite unconscious of his meaning, continued: “The noble structure is worthy of him who planned it. Yet the unpretending beauty of some of your small temples makes me feel more as if I were in the presence of a god. I have often marvelled what it is in those fair white columns, that charms me so much more than the palaces of the East, refulgent with gems and gold.”
“The beauty that lies within has ever a mysterious power,” answered Plato. “An amethyst may beam in the eye of a statue; but what, save the soul itself, can give the expression of soul? The very spirit of harmony is embodied in the proportions of the Parthenon. It is marble
music. I sometimes think the whole visible beauty of creation is formed from the music of the Eternal; and that the various joys we feel are but the union of accordant notes in the great chorus of the universe. There is music in the airy dance; music in poetry; music in the glance of a beautiful woman; music in the involutions and inflexions of numbers; above all, there is music in light! And what Light is in this world, Truth is in that glorious world to which the mind of man returns after its long exile. Yes, there is music in light! Hence, Phæbus is god of the Sun and of the Lyre, and Memnon yields sweet sounds to welcome approaching day. For this reason, the disciples of Zoroaster and Pythagoras hail the rising sun with the melody of harps; and the birds pour forth their love of light in song. Perchance the order of the universe is revealed in the story of Thebes rising to the lyre of Amphion; and Ibycus might have spoken sublime truth, when he told of music in the motion of the everlasting stars.”
Philothea had listened so earnestly, that for a moment all other thoughts were expelled from her mind. She threw back her veil, and with her whole soul beaming from her face, she exclaimed, “O Plato, I once heard the music of the stars! Ibycus”—
The ardent gaze of Alcibiades restored her to painful consciousness; and, blushing deeply, she replaced her veil. Aspasia smiled; but Plato, with gentle reverence, asked, “What would Philothea say of the divine Ibycus?”
The timid maiden gave no reply; and the tears of innocent shame were seen falling fast upon her trembling arm.
With that ready skill, which ever knows how to adapt itself to the circumstances of the moment, Aspasia gave a signal to her attendants, and at once the mingled melody of voices and instruments burst upon the ear. It was one of the enchanting strains of Olympus the Mysian; and every heart yielded to its influence. A female slave noiselessly brought Aspasia’s silver harp, and placed before her guests citharas and lyres of ivory inlaid with gold. One by one, new voices and instruments joined in the song; and when the music ceased, there was a pause of deep and silent joy.
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