Philothea Part 20

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 hea.r.s.e, 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 grat.i.tude 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 Pterilaus 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 Pterilaus 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 Athenae, 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 Cyrenaean, 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 Pterilaus; "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 Pterilaus; "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 pa.s.sion, 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.'

"Speusippus, his sister's son, was such a careless, indecent, and boisterous youth, that his parents could not control him. They sent him to his uncle Plato, who received him in a friendly manner, and forbore to reproach him. Only in his own example he was always modest and placid. This so excited the admiration of Speusippus, that a love of philosophy was kindled within him. Some of his relatives blamed Plato, because he did not chastise the impertinent youth; but he replied, 'There is no reproof so severe as to show him, by the manner of my own life, the contrast between virtue and baseness.'--That is the Plato I want you to show me, when we are in Athens."

Proclus, perceiving a universal smile, modestly added, by way of explanation: "My son means him whom men call the divine Plato. He greatly desires to see that philosopher, of whom it is said Socrates dreamed, when he first received him as his pupil. In his dream he saw a swan without wings, that came and sat upon his bosom; and soon after, its wings grew, and it flew high up in the air, with melodious notes, alluring all who heard it."

Pericles laid his hand on the philosopher's shoulder, and smiling, answered, "My unbelieving friend, this is the teacher of Academus; this is the divine Plato; this is the soaring swan, whose melodious notes allure all that hear him."

Proclus was covered with confusion, but still seemed half incredulous.

"What would Melissa say," exclaimed he, "if she knew that her frolicsome little plaything, Zoila, had been rude enough to throw flowers at the divine Plato."

"Nay, my friend," replied the disciple of Socrates,--what better could a philosopher desire, than to be pelted with roses by childhood?"

Eudora looked up with an arch expression; and Philothea smiled as she said, "This is a new version of unknown Phoebus tending the flocks of Admetus."

Pterilaus seemed utterly confounded by a discovery so unexpected. It was long before he regained his usual freedom; and from time to time he was observed to fix a scrutinizing gaze on the countenance of Plato, as if seeking to read the mystery of his hidden greatness.

As the travellers approached Athens, they were met by a numerous procession of magistrates, citizens, and young men bearing garlands, which they heaped on the urn in such profusion that it resembled a pyramid of flowers. They pa.s.sed the chariots with their arms and ensigns of office all reversed; then turned and followed to the abode of Pericles, singing dirges as they went, and filling the air with the melancholy music of the Mysian flute.

The amiable character of the deceased, his genius, the peculiar circ.u.mstances attending his death, and the acc.u.mulated afflictions of his ill.u.s.trious parent, all combined to render it an impressive scene.

Even the gay selfishness of Alcibiades was subdued into reverence, as he carefully took the urn from the chariot, and gave it to attendants, who placed it beside the household altar.

Early the next morning, a procession again formed to convey the ashes of Paralus to the sepulchre of his fathers; called, in the beautiful language of the Greeks, a Place of Sleep.

When the urn was again brought forth, Philothea's long golden hair covered it, like a mantle of sunbeams. During his life-time, these shining tresses had been peculiarly dear to him; and in token of her love, she placed them on his grave. Her white robe was changed for coa.r.s.e black garments; and instead of flowery wreaths, a long black veil covered the beautiful head, from which its richest ornament had just been severed. She had rejoiced for his happy spirit, and now she mourned her own widowed lot.

At the sepulchre, Pericles p.r.o.nounced a funeral oration on the most gifted, and best-beloved of his children. In the evening, kindred and friends met at his house to partake a feast prepared for the occasion; and every guest had something to relate concerning the genius and the virtues of him who slept.

A similar feast was prepared in the apartments of the women, where Philothea remained silent and composed; a circ.u.mstance that excited no small degree of wonder and remark, among those who measured affection by the vehemence of grief.

As soon as all ceremonies were completed, she obtained leave to return to her early home, endeared by many happy scenes; and there, in the stillness of her own heart, she held communion with the dear departed.

CHAPTER XVII.

There await me till I die; prepare A mansion for me, as again with me To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid, In the same cedar, by thy side composed: For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.

EURIPIDES

It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in Philothea's health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens, still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.

A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, "Dearest Eudora, do you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the a.s.sistance of Areas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?"

"I remember it well," replied Eudora: "Dione told it to me when I was quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning, or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had perished with it."

Philothea answered, "Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read to me Hesiod's account of the Muses:

'Far round, the dusky earth Rings with their hymning voices; and beneath Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound Ariseth, as they take their onward way To their own father's presence.'

"I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those

'Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit In harmony; whose only thought is song.'

"There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth we _feel_, though we _know_ it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not long remain."

Eudora burst into a pa.s.sionate flood of tears. "Oh, dearest Philothea, do not speak thus," she said. "I shall indeed be left alone in the world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me when you are gone?"

Her friend endeavoured to calm these agitated feelings, by every soothing art her kindness could suggest.

"I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary pain," she replied, affectionately: "but I ought not to conceal from you that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it; but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather's ma.n.u.scripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the Dionysia, is returned to his father's house, let them be placed within it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the ivory lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his departed brother. In token of grat.i.tude for the parental care of Clinias and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my faithful Milza I have given all the garments and household goods suited to her condition. My grandfather's books have been divided, as he requested, between Plato and Philaemon; the silver harp and the ivory tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you, dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value least the ivory cup lined with silver, which Philaemon gave me when he departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with Philaemon."

With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, "Oh, Philothea! in the days of my pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I lost Philaemon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I should at this moment be his happy, honoured wife. The hope of his forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I hardly dare to cherish it."

Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, "Believe me, you will yet be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of another world: you will be united to Philaemon."

As she spoke, Milza, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed aloud. The sound was at Eudora's right hand, and she received the auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.

Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: "When we were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to Philaemon, in which I spoke of you as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it directly into Persia."