Then all was still. Presently I again heard a sound like the multitudinous waves of ocean, when it rises in a storm—and Amphiaraus said, slowly, ‘Count the pebbles on the seashore—yea, count them twice.’ Then I awoke; and having bathed in the fountain, I threw therein three pieces of gold and silver, and departed.”
The people demanded of Antiphon the meaning of these visions. “He replied: “The first portends calamity to Athens, either of war or pestilence. By the response of the oracle, I understand that the citizens are commanded to vote twice, before they take away life given by the gods.”
The wish to gain time had chiefly induced Pericles to request that Amphiaraus might be consulted. In the interval, his emissaries had been busy in softening the minds of the people; and it became universally known that, in case Aspasia’s sentence were reversed, she intended to offer sacrifices to Aphrodite, Poseidon, and Demeter; during the continuance of which, the citizens would be publicly feasted at her expense.
In these exertions, Pericles was zealously assisted by Clinias, a noble and wealthy Athenian, the friend of Anaxagoras and Phidias, and a munificent patron of the arts. He openly promised, if the lives of his friends were spared, to evince his gratitude to the gods, by offering a golden lamp to Pallas Parthenia, and placing in each of the agoras any statue or painting the people thought fit to propose.
Still, Pericles, aware of the bitterness of his enemies, increased by the late severe edict against those of foreign parentage, felt exceedingly fearful of the result of a second vote. A petition, signed by Pericles, Clinias, Ephialtes, Euripides, Socrates, Plato, Alcibiades, Paralus, and many other distinguished citizens, was sent into the Second Assembly of the people, begging that the accused might have another trial; and this petition was granted.
When the Fourth Assembly again met, strong efforts were made to fill the Prytaneum at a very early hour with the friends of Pericles.
The great orator secluded himself for three preceding days, and refrained from wine. During this time, he poured plentiful libations of milk and honey to Hermes, god of Eloquence, and sacrificed the tongues of nightingales to Pitho, goddess of Persuasion.
When he entered the Prytaneum, it was remarked that he had never before been seen to look so pale; and this circumstance, trifling as it was, excited the ready sympathies of the people. When the Epistates read the accusation against Anaxagoras, and proclaimed that any Athenian not disqualified by law, might speak, Pericles arose. For a moment he looked on the venerable countenance of the old philosopher, and seemed to struggle with his emotions. Then, with sudden impulse, he exclaimed, “Look on him, Athenians! and judge ye if he be one accursed of the gods!—He is charged with having said that the sun is a great ball of fire; and therein ye deem that the abstractions of philosophy have led him to profane the sacred name of the Phœbus. We are told that Zeus assumed the form of an eagle, a serpent and a golden shower; yet those forms do not affect our belief in the invisible god. If Phœbus appeared on earth in the disguise of a woman and a shepherd, is it unpardonable for a philosopher to suppose that the same deity may choose to reside within a ball of fire? In the garden of Anaxagoras you will find a statue of Pallas, carved from an olive tree. He brought it with him from Ionia; and those disciples who most frequent his house, can testify that sacrifices were ever duly offered upon her altar. Who among you ever received an injury from that kind old man? He was the descendant of princes,—yet gave up gold for philosophy, and forbore to govern mankind, that he might love them more perfectly. Ask the young noble, who has been to him as a father; and his response will be ‘Anaxagoras.’ Ask the poor fisherman at the gates, who has been to him as a brother; and he will answer ‘Anaxagoras.’ When the merry-hearted boys throng your doors to sing their welcome to Ornithæ, inquire from whom they receive the kindest word and the readiest gift; and they will tell you, ‘Anaxagoras.’ The Amphiaraus of Eschylus, says, ‘I do not wish to appear to be a good man, but I wish to be one.’ Ask any of the poets, what living man most resembles Amphiaraus in this sentiment; and his reply will surely be, ‘It is Anaxagoras.’
“Again I say Athenians, look upon his face, and judge ye if he be one accursed of the gods!”
The philosopher had leaned on his staff, and looked downward, while his illustrious pupil made this defence; and when he had concluded, a tear was seen slowly trickling down his aged cheek. His accusers again urged that he had taught the doctrine of one god, under the name of one Universal Mind; but the melodious voice and fluent tongue of Pericles had so wrought upon the citizens, that when the question was proposed, whether the old man were worthy of death, there arose a clamorous cry of “Exile! Exile!”
The successful orator did not venture to urge the plea of entire innocence; for he felt that he still had too much depending on the capricious favor of the populace.
The aged philosopher received his sentence with thanks; and calmly added, “Anaxagoras is not exiled from Athens; but Athens from Anaxagoras. Evil days are coming on this city; and those who are too distant to perceive the trophy at Salamis, will deem themselves most blessed. Pythagoras said, ‘When the tempest is rising, ’t is wise to worship the echo.”’
After the accusation against Phidias had been read, Pericles again rose and said: “Athenians! I shall speak briefly; for I appeal to what every citizen values more than his fortune or his name. I plead for the glory of Athens. When strangers from Ethiopia, Egypt, Phœnicia, and distant Taprobane, come to witness the far-famed beauty of the violet-crowned city, they will stand in mute worship before the Parthenon;—and when their wonder finds utterance, they will ask what the Athenians bestowed on an artist so divine. Who among you could look upon the image of virgin Pallas, resplendent in her heavenly majesty, and not blush to tell the barbarian stranger that death was the boon you bestowed on Phidias?
Go, gaze on the winged statue of Rhamnusia, where vengeance seems to breathe from the marble sent by Darius to erect his trophy on the plains of Marathon! Then turn and tell the proud Persian that the hand which wrought those fair proportions, lies cold and powerless, by vote of the Athenian people. No—ye could not say it; your hearts would choke your voices. Ye could not tell the barbarian that Athens thus destroyed one of the most gifted of her sons.”
The crowd answered in a thunder of applause; mingled with the cry of “Exile! Exile!” A few voices shouted, “A fine! A fine!” Then Cleon arose and said: “Miltiades asked for an olive crown; and a citizen answered, ‘When Miltiades conquers alone, let him be crowned alone.’ When Phidias can show that he built the Parthenon without the assistance of Ictinus, Myron, Callicrates, and others, then let him have the whole credit of the Parthenon.”
To this, Pericles replied, “We are certainly much indebted to those artists for many of the beautiful and graceful details of that sublime composition; but with regard to the majestic design of the Parthenon, Phidias conquered alone, and may therefore justly be crowned alone.”
A vote was taken on the question of exile, and the black pebbles predominated. The sculptor heard his sentence with a proud gesture, not unmingled with scorn; and calmly replied, “They can banish Phidias from Athens, more easily than I can take from them the fame of Phidias.”
When Pericles replied to the charges against Aspasia, his countenance became more pale, and his voice was agitated: “You all know,” said he, “That Aspasia is of Miletus. That city which poets call the laughing daughter of Earth and Heaven: where even the river smiles, as it winds along in graceful wanderings, eager to kiss every new blossom, and court the dalliance of every breeze. Do ye not find it easy to forgive a woman, born under these joyful skies, where beauty rests on the earth in a robe of sunbeams, and inspires the gayety which pours itself forth in playful words? Can ye judge harshly of one, who from her very childhood has received willing homage, as the favorite of Aphrodite, Phœbus, and the Muses? If she spoke irreverently, it was done in thoughtless mirth; and she has sought to atone for it by sacrifices and tears.
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p; Athenians! I have never boasted; and if I seem to do it now, it is humbly,—as befits one who seeks a precious boon. In your service I have spent many toilsome days and sleepless nights. That I have not enriched myself by it, is proved by the wellknown fact that my own son blames my frugality, and reproachfully calls me the slave of the Athenian people.”
He paused for a moment, and held his hand over Aspasia’s head, as he continued: “In the midst of perplexities and cares, here I have ever found a solace and a guide. Here are treasured up the affections of my heart. It is not for Aspasia, the gifted daughter of Axiochus, that I plead. It is for Aspasia, the beloved wife of Pericles.”
Tears choked his utterance; but stifling his emotion, he exclaimed, “Athenians! if ye would know what it is that thus unmans a soul capable of meeting death with calmness, behold, and judge for yourselves!”
As he spoke, he raised Aspasia’s veil. Her drapery had been studiously arranged to display her loveliness to the utmost advantage; and as she stood forth radiant in beauty, the building rung with the acclamations that were sent forth, peal after peal, by the multitude.
Pericles had not in vain calculated on the sympathies of a volatile and ardent people, passionately fond of the beautiful, in all its forms. Aspasia remained in Athens, triumphant over the laws of religion and morality.
Clinias desired leave to speak in behalf of Philothea, grandchild of Anaxagoras; and the populace, made good-humored by their own clemency, expressed a wish to hear. He proceeded as follows: “Philothea,— whom you all know was, not long since, one of the Canephoræ, and embroidered the splendid peplus exhibited at the last Panathenœa,—humbly begs of the Athenians, that Eudora, Dione, and Geta, slaves of Phidias, may remain under his protection, and not be confiscated with his household goods. A contribution would have been raised, to buy these individuals of the state, were it not deemed an insult to that proud and generous people, who fined a citizen for proposing marble as a cheaper material than ivory, for the statue of Pallas Parthenia.”
The request, thus aided by flattery, was almost unanimously granted. One black pebble alone appeared in the urn; and that was from the hand of Alcibiades.
Clinias expressed his thanks, and holding up the statue of Urania, he added: “In token of gratitude for this boon, and for the life of a beloved grandfather, Philothea consecrates to Pallas Athena this image of the star-worshipping muse; the gift of a munificent Ethiopian.”
The populace being in gracious mood, forthwith voted that the exiles had permission to carry with them any articles valued as the gift of friendship.
The Prytanes dismissed the assembly; and as they dispersed, Alcibiades scattered small coins among them. Aspasia immediately sent to the Prytaneum an ivory statue of Mnemosyne, smiling as she looked back on a group of Hours; a magnificent token that she would never forget the clemency of the Athenian people.
Hermippus took an early opportunity to proclaim the exhibition of a new comedy, called Hercules and Omphale; and the volatile citizens thronged the theatre to laugh at that infatuated tenderness, which in the Prytaneum had well nigh moved them to tears. The actor openly ridiculed them for having been so much influenced by their orator’s least-successful attempt at eloquence; but in the course of the same play, Cratinus raised a laugh at his expense, by saying facetiously: “Lo! Hermippus would speak like Pericles! Hear him, Athenians! Is he not as successful as Salmoneus, when he rolled his chariot over a brazen bridge, and hurled torches to imitate the thunder and lightning of Zeus?”
When the day of trial had passed, Pericles slept soundly; for his heart was relieved from a heavy pressure. But personal enemies and envious artists were still active; and it was soon buzzed abroad that the people repented of the vote they had given. The exiles had been allowed ten days to sacrifice to the gods, bid farewell to friends, and prepare for departure; but on the third day, at evening twilight, Pericles entered the dwelling of his revered old master. “My father,” said he, “I am troubled in spirit. I have just now returned from the Piræum, where I sought an interview with Clinias, who daily visits the Deigma, and has a better opportunity than I can have to hear the news of Athens. I found him crowned with garlands; for he had been offering sacrifices in the hall. He told me he had thus sought to allay the anxiety of his mind with regard to yourself and Phidias. He fears the capricious Athenians will reverse their decree.”
“Alas, Pericles,” replied the old man, “what can you expect of a people, when statesmen condescend to buy justice at their hands, by promised feasts, and scattered coin?”
“Nay, blame me not, Anaxagoras,” rejoined Pericles. “I cannot govern as I would. I found the people corrupted; and I must humor their disease. Your life must be saved; even if you reprove me for the means. At midnight, a boat will be in readiness to conduct you to Salamis, where lies a galley bound for Ionia. I hasten to warn Phidias to depart speedily for Elis.”
The parting interview between Philothea and her repentant friend was almost too painful for endurance. Poor Eudora felt that she was indeed called to drink the cup of affliction, to its last bitter drop. Her heart yearned to follow the household of Anaxagoras; but Philothea strengthened her own conviction that duty and gratitude both demanded she should remain with Phidias.
Geta and Mibra likewise had their sorrows—the harder to endure, because they were the first they had ever encountered. The little peasant was so young, and her lover so poor, that their friends thought a union had better be deferred. But Mibra was free; and Anaxagoras told her it depended on her own choice, to go with them, or follow Geta. The grateful Arcadian dropped on one knee, and kissing Philothea’s hand, while the tears flowed down her cheeks, said: “She has been a mother to orphan Mibra, and I will not leave her now. Geta says it would be wrong to leave her when she is in affliction.”
Philothea, with a gentle smile, put back the ringlets from her tearful eyes, and told her not to weep for her sake; for she should be resigned and cheerful, wheresoever the gods might place her; but Mibra saw that her smiles were sad.
At midnight, Pericles came, to accompany Anaxagoras to Salamis. They had been conversing much, and singing their favorite songs together, for the last time. The brow of the ambitious statesman became clouded, when he observed that his son had been in tears; he begged that preparations for departure might be hastened. The young man followed them to the Piræus; but Pericles requested him to go no further. The restraint of his presence prevented any parting less formal than that of friendship. But he stood watching the boat that conveyed them over the waters; and when the last ripple left in its wake had disappeared, he slowly returned to Athens.
The beautiful city stood before him, mantled in moonlight’s silvery veil. Yet all seemed cheerless; for the heart of Paralus was desolate. He looked toward the beloved mansion near the gate Diocharis; drew from his bosom a long lock of golden hair; and leaning against a statue of Hermes, bowed down his head and wept.
CHAPTER XI.
“How I love the mellow sage,
Smiling through the veil of age!
Age is on his temples hung,
But his heart—his heart is young!”
Anacreon
A few years passed away and saw Anaxagoras the contented resident of a small village near Lampsacus, in Ionia. That he still fondly cherished Athens in his heart was betrayed only by the frequent walks he took to a neighboring eminence, where he loved to sit and look toward the Ægean; but the feebleness of age gradually increased, until he could no longer take his customary exercise. Philothea watched over him with renewed tenderness; and the bright tranquillity he received from the world he was fast approaching shone with reflected light upon her innocent soul. At times, the maiden was so conscious of this holy influence, that all the earthly objects around her seemed like dreams of some strange foreign land.
One morning, after they had partaken their frugal repast, she said, in a cheerful tone, “Dear grandfather, I had last night a pleasant dream; and Mibra says it is proph
etic, because she had filled my pillow with fresh laurel leaves. I dreamed that a galley, with three banks of oars, and adorned with fillets, came to carry us back to Athens.”
With a faint smile, Anaxagoras replied, “Alas for unhappy Athens! If half we hear be true, her exiled children can hardly wish to be restored to her bosom. Atropos has decreed that I at least shall never again enter her walls. I am not disposed to murmur. Yet the voice of Plato would be pleasant to my ears, as music on the waters in the night-time. I pray you bring forth the writings of Pythagoras, and read me something that sublime philosopher has said concerning the nature of the soul, and the eternal principle of life. As my frail body approaches the Place of Sleep, I feel less and less inclined to study the outward images of things, the forms whereof perish; and my spirit thirsteth more and more to know its origin and its destiny. I have thought much of Plato’s mysterious ideas of light. Those ideas were doubtless brought from the East; for as that is the quarter where the sun rises, so we have thence derived many vital truths, which have kept a spark of life within the beautiful pageantry of Grecian mythology.”
“Paralus often said that the Persian Magi, the Egyptian priests, and the Pythagoreans imbibed their reverence for light from one common source,” rejoined Philothea.
Anaxagoras was about to speak, when a deep but gentle voice, from some invisible person near them, said:
“The unchangeable principles of Truth acts upon the soul like the sun upon the eye, when it turneth to him. But the one principle, better than intellect, from which all things flow, and to which all things tend, is Good. As the sun not only makes objects visible, but is the cause of their generation, nourishment, and increase, so the Good, through Truth, imparts being, and the power of being known, to every object of knowledge. For this cause, the Pythagoreans greet the sun with music and with reverence.”
The listeners looked at each other in surprise, and Philothea was the first to say, “It is the voice of Plato!”
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