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 honor 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 Philæmon. “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 themselves.”
“A few days since, I heard one of the sophists talking to crowds of people in the old Agora,” said Philæmon; “and truly his doctrines formed a strange contrast with the severe simplicity of virtue expressed in the countenances of Solon, Aristides, and the other godlike 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 reluc tant homage to good,” replied Philaæmon; “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 Philæmon, 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 Phœbus.”
“The accusation may be thus worded,” said Philæmon “but your real crime is that you stay away from political assemblies, and are therefore suspected of being unfriendly to democratic institutions. Demus 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 drachmæ; 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 Ægean; 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 Philæmon, 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, Philæmon,” rejoined Anaxagoras: “Pallas Athena seems to have deserted her chosen people. The proud Spartans openly laugh at our approaching downfall, while the smooth Persians watch for a favorable moment to destroy the freedom already rendered so weak by its own insanity.”
“The fault will be attributed to democratic principles,” said Philæmon; “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 favor 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 conquest; 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 Philæmon, “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 Demus.”
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 Philæmon.
“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 Philæmon.” “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 own 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 irresponsiblity 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 honored more appropriately than by making his temple a refuge for abused slaves.”
“Friendly as I am to a government truly republican,” answered Philæmon, “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 rumors 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 labor; 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 neighbor, 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 Lacedæmon; 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 Philæmon, “boasting that the Spartans were the only real freemen; and Lacedæmon 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 dru
nk 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 Lacedæmonians make it a rule never to speak of danger from their slaves. They remind me of the citizens of Amyclæ, who, having been called from their occupations, by frequent rumors 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 Amyclæ 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 Lacedæmonian 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 a love of tyranny may prove an evil still more dangerous to the state.”
“You speak justly, my father,” answered Philamon: “The Athenian law, which condemns any man for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbor’s trade, is most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of her young equestrains 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.”
Philæmon started up suddenly—for 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.”
Philothea Page 9