She bathed his head with cool perfumed waters, and watched him with love that knew no weariness.
Proclus and Melissa deemed he had fallen by the dart of Phœbus Apollo; and fearing the god was angry for some unknown cause, they suspended branches of rhamn and laurel on the doors, to keep off evil demons.
For three days and three nights, Paralus remained in complete oblivion. On the morning of the fourth, a pleasant change was observed in his countenance; and he sometimes smiled so sweetly, and so rationally, that his friends still dared to hope his health might be fully restored.
At noon, he awoke; and looking at his wife with an expression full of tenderness, said: “Dearest Philothea, you are with me. I saw you no more, after the gate had closed. I believe it must have been a dream; but it was very distinct.” He glanced around the room, as if his recollections were confused; but his eyes no longer retained the fixed and awful expression of one who walks in his sleep.
Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, he continued: “It could not be a dream. I was in the temple of the most ancient god. The roof was heaven’s pure gold, which seemed to have a light within it, like the splendor of the sun. All around the temple were gardens full of bloom. I heard soft, murmuring sounds, like the cooing of doves; and I saw the immortal Oreades and the Naiades pouring water from golden urns. Anaxagoras stood beside me; and he said we were living in the age of innocence, when mortals could gaze on divine beings unveiled, and yet preserve their reason. They spoke another language than the Greeks; but we had no need to learn it; we seemed to breathe it in the air. The Oreades had music written on scrolls, in all the colors of the rainbow. When I asked the meaning of this, they showed me a triangle. At the top was crimson, at the right hand blue, and at the left hand yellow. And they said, ‘Know ye not that all life is threefold?’ It was a dark saying; but I then thought I faintly comprehended what Pythagoras has written concerning the mysterious signification of One and Three. Many other things I saw and heard, but was forbidden to relate. The gate of the temple was an arch, supported by two figures with heavy drapery, eyes closed, and arms folded. They told me these were Sleep and Death. Over the gate was written in large letters, ‘The Entrance of Mortals.’ Beyond it, I saw you standing with outstretched arms, as if you sought to come to me, but could not. The air was filled with voices, that sung:
Come! join thy kindred spirit, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain—
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
I tried to meet you; but as I passed through the gate, a cold air blew upon me, and all beyond was in the glimmering darkness of twilight. I would have returned, but the gate had closed; and I heard behind me the sound of harps and of voices, singing:
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!”
Philothea kissed his hand, and her face beamed with joy. She had earnestly desired some promise of their future union; and now she felt the prayer was answered.
“Could it be a dream?” said Paralus: “Methinks I hear the music now.”
Philothea smiled affectionately, as she replied: “When sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain.”
As she gazed upon him, she observed that the supernatural expression of his eyes had changed; and that his countenance now wore its familiar, household smile. Still she feared to cherish the hope springing in her heart, until he looked toward the place where her attendant sat, motionless and silent, and said, “Mibra, will you bring me the lyre?”
The affectionate peasant looked earnestly at Philothea, and wept as she placed it in his hand.
Making an effort to rise, he seemed surprised at his own weakness. They gently raised him, bolstered him with pillows, and told him he had long been ill.
“I have not known it,” he replied. “It seems to me I have returned from a far country.”
He touched the lyre, and easily recalled the tune which he said he had learned in the Land of Dreams. It was a wild, unearthly strain, with sounds of solemn gladness, that deeply affected Philothea’s soul.
Pericles had not visited his son since his return to perfect consciousness. When he came, Paralus looked upon him with a smile of recognition, and said, “My father!”
Mibra had been sent to call the heart-stricken parent, and prepare him for some favorable change; but when he heard those welcome words, he dropped suddenly upon his knees, buried his face in the drapery of the couch, and his whole frame shook with emotion.
The invalid continued: “They tell me I have been very ill, dear father; but it appears to me that I have only travelled. I have seen Anaxagoras often—Plato sometimes—and Philothea almost constantly; but I have never seen you since I thought you were dying of the plague at Athens,”
Pericles replied, “You have indeed been ill, my son. You are to me as the dead restored to life. But you must be quiet now, and seek repose.”
For some time after the interview with his father, Paralus remain ed very wakeful. His eyes sparkled, and a feverish flush was on his cheek. Philothea took her cithara, and played his favorite tunes. This seemed to tranquillize him; and as the music grew more slow and plaintive, he became drowsy, and at length sunk into a gentle slumber.
After more than two hours of deep repose he was awakened by the merry shouts of little Zoila, who had run out to meet Plato, as he came from Olympia. Philothea feared, lest the shrill noise had given him pain; but he smiled, and said, “The voice of childhood is pleasant.”
He expressed a wish to see his favorite philosopher; and their kindred souls held long and sweet communion together. When Plato retired from the couch, he said to Philothea, “I have learned more from this dear wanderer, than philosophers or poets have ever written. I am confirmed in my belief that no impelling truth is ever learned in this world; but that all is received directly from the Divine Ideal, flowing into the soul of man when his reason is obedient and still.”
A basket of grapes, tastefully ornamented with flowers, was presented to the invalied; and in answer to his inquiries, he was informed that they were prepared by Eudora. He immediately desired that she might be called; and when she came, he received her with the most cordial affection. He alluded to past events with great clearness of memory, and asked his father several questions concerning the condition of Athens. When Philothea arranged his pillows, and bathed his head, he pressed her hand affectionately, and said, “It almost seems as if you were my wife.”
Pericles, deeply affected, replied, “My dear son, she is your wife. She forgot all my pride, and consented to marry you, that she might become your nurse, when we all feared that you would be restored to us no more.”
Paralus looked up with a bright expression of gratitude, and said, “I thank you, father. This was very kind. Now you will be her father, when I am gone.”
Perceiving that Pericles and Eudora wept, he added: “Do not mourn because I am soon to depart. Why would ye detain my soul in this world? Its best pleasures are like the shallow gardens of Adonis, fresh and fair in the morning, and perishing at noon.”
He then repeated his last vision, and asked for the lyre, that they might hear the music he had learned from immortal voices.
There was melancholy beauty in the sight of one so pale and thin, touching the lyre with an inspired countenance, and thus revealing to mortal ears the melodies of Heaven.
One by one his friends withdrew; being tenderly solicitous that he should not become exhausted by interviews prolonged beyond his strength. He was left alone with Philothea; and many precious words were spoken, that sunk deep into her heart, never to be forgotten.
But sleep departed from his eyes; and it soon became evident that the soul, in returning to its union with the body, brought with it a consciousness of corporeal suffering. This became more and more intense; and though he uttered no complaint, he
said to those who asked him, that bodily pain seemed at times too powerful for endurance.
Pericles had for several days remained under the same roof, to watch the progress of recovery; but at midnight, he was called to witness convulsive struggles, that indicated approaching death.
During intervals of comparative ease, Paralus recognized his afflicted parent, and conjured him to think less of the fleeting honors of this world, which often eluded the grasp, and were always worthless in the possession.
He held Philothea’s hand continually, and often spoke to her in words of consolation. Immediately after an acute spasm of pain had subsided, he asked to be turned upon his right side, that he might see her face more distinctly. As she leaned over him, he smiled faintly, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. He remained tranquil, with his eyes fixed upon hers; and a voice within impelled her to sing:
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
He looked upward, with a radiant expression, and feebly pressed her hand. Not long after, his eyelids closed, and sleep seemed to cover his features with her heavy veil.
Suddenly his countenance shone with a strange and impressive beauty. The soul had departed to return to earth no more.
In all his troubles, Pericles had never shed a tear; but now he rent the air with his groans, and sobbed, like a mother bereft of her child.
Philothea, though deeply bowed down in spirit, was more composed: for she heard angelic voices singing:
When Sleep hath passed, thy dreams remain—
What he hath brought, Death brings again.
Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!
CHAPTER XVI.
Thus a poor father, helpless and undone,
Mourns o’er the ashes of an only son;
Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn,
And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn.
Homer
Of the immense concourse collected together at Olympia, each one pursued his pleasure, or his interest, in the way best suited to his taste. Alcibiades was proud of giving a feast corresponding in magnificence to the chariots he had brought into the course. Crowds of parasites flattered him and the other victors, to receive invitations in return; while a generous few sympathized with the vanquished. Merchants were busy forming plans for profitable negociation, and statesmen were eagerly watching every symptom of jealousy between rival states and contending parties.
One, amid that mass of human hearts, felt so little interest in all the world could offer, that she seemed already removed beyond its influence. Philothea had herself closed the eyes of her husband, and imprinted her last kiss upon his lips. Bathed in pure water, and perfumed with ointment, the lifeless form of Paralus lay wrapped in the robe he had been accustomed to wear. A wreath of parsley encircled his head, and flowers were strewn around him in profusion.
In one hand was placed an obolus, to pay the ferryman that rowed him across the river of death; and in the other, a cake made of honey and flour, to appease the triple-headed dog, which guarded the entrance to the world of souls.
The bereaved wife sat by his side, and occasionally renewed the garlands, with a quiet and serene expression, as if she still found happiness in being occupied for him who had given her his heart in the innocence and freshness of its childhood.
The food prepared by Mibra’s active kindness was scarcely tasted; except when she observed the tears of her faithful attendant, and sought to soothe her feelings with characteristic tenderness.
The event soon became universally known; for the hair of the deceased, consecrated to Persephone, and a vase of water at the threshold, proclaimed tidings of death within the dwelling.
Many of the assembled multitude chose to remain until the funeral solemnities were past; some from personal affection for Paralus, others from respect to the son of Pericles.
Plato sent two large vases, filled with wine and honey; Eudora provided ointments and perfumes; Alcibiades presented a white cloak, richly embroidered with silver; and the young men of Athens, present at the games, gave a silver urn, on which were sculptured weeping genii, with their torches turned downward.
Enveloped in his glittering mantle, and covered with flowers, the form of Paralus remained until the third day. The procession, which was to attend the body to the funeral pile, formed at morning twilight; for such was the custom with regard to those who died in their youth. Philothea followed the bier, dressed in white, with a wreath of roses and myrtle around her head, and a garland about the waist. She chose this beautiful manner to express her joy that his pure spirit had passed into Elysium.
At the door of the house, the nearest relatives addressed the inanimate form, so soon to be removed from the sight of mortals. In tones of anguish, almost amounting to despair, Pericles exclaimed: “Oh, my son! my son! Why didst thou leave us? Why wast thou, so richly gifted of the gods, to be taken from us in thy youth? Oh, my son, why was I left to mourn for thee?”
Instead of the usual shrieks and lamentations of Grecian women, Philothea said, in sad, heart-moving accents: “Paralus, farewell! Husband of my youth, beloved of my heart, farewell!”
Then the dead was carried out; and the procession moved forward, to the sound of many voices and many instruments, mingled in a loud and solemn dirge. The body of Paralus was reverently laid upon the funeral pile, with the garments he had been accustomed to wear; his lyre and Phrygian flute; and vases filled with oil and perfumes.
Plentiful libations of wine, honey, and milk were poured upon the ground, and the mourners smote the earth with their feet, while they uttered supplications to Hermes, Hecate and Pluto. Pericles applied the torch to the pile, first invoking the aid of Boreas and Zephyrus, that it might consume quickly. As the flames rose, the procession walked slowly three times around the pile, moving toward the left hand. The solemn dirge was resumed, and continued until the last flickering tongue of fire was extinguished with wine. Then those who had borne the silver urn in front of the hearse, approached. Pericles, with tender reverence, gathered the whitened bones, sprinkled them with wine and perfumes, placed them within the urn, and covered it with a purple pall, inwrought with gold; which Philothea’s prophetic love had prepared for the occasion.
The procession again moved forward, with torches turned downward; and the remains of Paralus were deposited in the Temple of Persephone, until his friends returned to Athens.
In token of gratitude for kind attentions bestowed by the household of Proclus, Pericles invited his family to visit the far-famed wonders of the violet-crowned city; and the eager solicitations of young Pterilaüs induced the father to accept this invitation for himself and son. As an inhabitant of consecrated Elis, without wealth, and unknown to fame, it was deemed that he might return in safety, even after hostilities were renewed between the Peloponessian states. Eudora likewise obtained permission to accompany her friend; and her sad farewell was cheered by an indefinite hope that future times would restore her to that quiet home. The virtuous Melissa parted from them with many blessings and tears. Zoila was in an agony of childish sorrow; but she wiped her eyes with the corner of her robe, and listened, well pleased, to Eudora’s parting promise of sending her a flock of marble sheep, with a painted wooden shepherd.
The women travelled together in a chariot, in front of which reposed the silver urn, covered with its purple pall. Thus sadly did Philothea return through the same scenes she had lately traversed with hopes, which, in the light of memory, now seemed like positive enjoyment. Pericles indeed treated her with truly parental tenderness; and no soothing attention, that respect or affection could suggest, was omitted by her friends. But he, of whose mysterious existence her own seemed a necessary portion, had gone to return no more; and had it not been for the presence of Eudora, she would have felt that every bond of sympathy with this world of forms had ceased forever.
At Corinth, the travellers again turned aside to
the Fountain of Poseidon, that the curiosity of Pterilaüs might be satisfied with a view of the statues by which it was surrounded.
“When we are in Athens, I will show you something more beautiful than these,” said Pericles. “You shall see the Pallas Athenæ, carved by Phidias.”
“Men say it is not so grand as the statue of Zeus, that we have at Olympia,” replied the boy.
“Had you rather witness the sports of the gymnasia than the works of artists?” inquired Plato.
The youth answered very promptly, “Ah, no indeed. I would rather gain one prize from the Choragus, than ten from the Gymnasiarch. Anniceris, the Cyrenæan, proudly displayed his skill in chariot-driving, by riding several times around the Academia, each time preserving the exact orbit of his wheels. The spectators applauded loudly; but Plato said, ‘He who has bestowed such diligence to acquire trifling and useless things, must have neglected those that are truly admirable.’ Of all sights in Athens, I most wish to see the philosophers; and none so much as Plato.”
The company smiled, and the philosopher answered, “I am Plato.”
“You told us that your name was Aristocles,” returned Pterilaüs; “and we always called you so. Once I heard that Athenian lady call you Plato; and I could not understand why she did so.”
“I was named Aristocles, for my grandfather,” answered the philosopher; “and when I grew older, men called me Plato.”
“But you cannot be the Plato that I mean,” said Pterilaüs; “for you carried my little sister Zoila on your shoulders—and played peep with her among the vines; and when I chased you through the fields, you ran so fast that I could not catch you.”
The philosopher smiled, as he replied, “Nevertheless, I am Plato; and they call me by that name, because my shoulders are broad enough to carry little children.”
The boy still insisted that he alluded to another Plato. “I mean the philosopher, who teaches in the groves of Academus,” continued he. “I knew a freedman of his, who said he never allowed himself to be angry, or to speak in a loud voice. He never but once raised his hand to strike him; and that was because he had mischievously upset a poor old woman’s basket of figs; feeling that he was in a passion, he suddenly checked himself, and stood perfectly still. A friend coming in asked him what he was doing; and the philosopher replied, ‘I am punishing an angry man.’
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