CHAPTER XI.

SAMOS.

“I shouldn’t have thought it,” cried old Callippides, standing in the midst of one of the numerous groups of Athenians, who assembled in the great market-place of the Piræeus, were eagerly conversing together—“I wouldn’t have believed it, for when I passed the statue of Athena on the Acropolis a short time ago, I saw the goddess’ spear covered with chirping crickets. That means peace, I said to myself. To be sure, the next day a weasel ran across the Pnyx, just before the popular assembly—”

“Do you mean to croak misfortune, old man?” cried the others.

“Samos may lead other allies to revolt,” replied the old man, “rebellion may be stirred up against us, Sparta may interfere, a general Hellenic war may arise. A great deal of tinder is stored up, as people say. After all, what is it to us whether the Samians or the Milesians possess Priene?”

“The dignity of Athens must be maintained!” cried a youth impetuously, extending his hand and raising his head proudly. “Samos and Miletus, as members of the league, must lay their disputes before Athens, the head of the alliance. Samos refuses to do this, and therefore Pericles is enraged against the Samians—”

“And in his wrath has requested the popular assembly to give him the gentle Sophocles for a fellow-general!” said one of the men smiling.

“On account of Antigone!” cried others. “He has done right. Long live Sophocles.”

“You know nothing about it!” said Sporgilus, the barber, whom curiosity and the excitement of the times had urged to the harbor. “You know nothing about the matter, you don’t even know how this Samian affair originated, and who really contrived it.”

“Long live Sporgilus!” shouted several. “Hear Sporgilus. He’s one of the people, who always know in the morning just what Zeus has said to Hera during the night.”

“May a boil as big as my fist come out on my nose,” cried Sporgilus, “if what I am telling you isn’t the exact truth. Aspasia has persuaded Pericles. I am sure of it—just listen to me. The day after the Milesian embassy arrived here, I was standing in the market-place, when the ambassadors passed, looking about them as if they wanted to ask something. At last one came up to me, and said: ‘Here, my Athenian friend, can’t you show us where the young Milesian, Aspasia, lives.’ The men evidently supposed I didn’t know them—but I did. I should have recognized them by their smooth manners and costly dress, if I hadn’t seen them elsewhere. I directed them as courteously as I could, described the Milesian’s house and the way to it, for which they thanked me most cordially and walked straight towards it. It was already dark. They slipped into the Milesian’s house. Do you mark it? The ambassadors, I tell you, have secretly bargained with the Milesian; then she coaxed Pericles and inspired him with great indignation against the Samians—”

“There it is!” cried one of the listeners. “Sporgilus really does know what Hera has said to Zeus. But—there is Pericles with his companion Sophocles—no doubt he is training him for his new office.”

In fact the two men were now walking in a somewhat deserted spot, absorbed in confidential conversation.

“You will astonish the Athenians,” said Sophocles; “they would have expected Pericles to be inclined to anything at this moment, rather than that. He seemed completely absorbed, in the works of peace, the promotion of internal prosperity, and—love for the beautiful Aspasia.”

“My friend!” replied Pericles smiling, “is it any marvel, that the strategus is unwilling to leave all the laurels to those who are working with trowel, chisel and stylus? I confess I have long felt secretly troubled and restless. I seemed idle amid all this activity, and the soft fetters of roses which bound me, sometimes appeared almost humiliating.”

“What?” replied Sophocles, “do you count it nothing, that you are always the busiest of the busy, that everything which has been done and created, has only been rendered possible, promoted, and helped forward to a prosperous end, by your exertions?”

“It does not satisfy the expectations which may be formed of us!” replied Pericles. “I don’t wish to be merely a helper, I want to accomplish something myself, and therefore, as a strategus, can only seize the sword again. Why should I alone remain untouched by the beautiful fire of ambition burning all around me?”

“And yet you desire to share your martial renown with me?” asked the poet after a short pause.

“Rather than—the favor of a charming woman!” replied Pericles, looking his friend sharply in the eye.

The latter started. “An idea suddenly begins to dawn upon me, a strange light is thrown upon the real cause of my election as strategus.”

“Everything that happens in the world, dearest friend,” replied Pericles smiling, “has a hundred causes, not one. Who can say which is the most important.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to leave me behind and take Aspasia with you to Samos?” asked the poet.

Pericles smiled again. “Be comforted,” he said at last, “we shall merely take a little pleasure-trip, a sea-voyage of a few weeks; for any serious resistance by the Samians to the might of Athens is not to be thought of. Samos is a beautiful city, you will be charmed with it; Melissus, the commander of the Samian squadron is, as you know, a philosopher of the Eleatian school, whose acquaintance you will perhaps have the pleasure of making; and if we sail past Chios, we will visit your fellow-poet, Ion, the tragedian, who dwells there in delightful leisure.”

“You intend to visit Ion?” cried Sophocles; “remember he bears you no good-will, since you were his rival with the fair Chrysilla.”

“My treatment of a person,” replied Pericles, “will never be influenced by his regard for me, but by mine for him. Ion is a worthy man. He will entertain us with the best of his native Chian, though you have been his rival in tragedy—”

“And you, I repeat,” interrupted Sophocles, “his rival with the beautiful Chrysilla, who now, to the best of my knowledge, lives with him in Chios.”

“Never mind Chrysilla!” said Pericles.

The poet gaily submitted to his fate, and Pericles began to instruct him in the duties of his new profession.

If at that time a sheet covered with writing was seen in Sophocles’ hand, it was no sketch of a tragedy, choral song, or hymn to Eros or Dionysus, but lists of the seaworthy crews he had collected, or the rich citizens he must invite to command certain ships as trierarchs and defray part of the cost of their equipment. He now found himself dragged by Pericles away from the charming solitude of the green valley of Cephissus, to the armories and military havens of Zea and Munychia, to the tumult of the Piræeus, where the dreaded sea-dragons of the Athenian navy were drawn into the sea, the bustle of the arsenals, where there was a perpetual scraping, planing, hammering, nailing and creaking. At first it was almost horrible to the beauty-loving poet to hear the outcries of the oarsmen and sailors, among whom, being still idle, there were constant quarrels about the flute-players, sometimes ending in broken heads. His ears rang with the shrill whistle of the boatswains, the shouts of the oarsmen; for the trierarchs daily raced in the Gulf with the triremes already equipped, to try which vessel was the best and sailed fastest.

When the day of departure arrived, the high-decked ships with sharply-pointed keels, triple banks of oars rising one above another, towering prow, and stern shaped like a swan’s neck, gaily painted and ornamented with statues of Pallas and other emblems, floated boldly in well-ordered ranks on the blue waves. At the blast of a trumpet a solemn silence ensued, during which the herald, standing on the deck of the admiral’s galley, uttered a prayer, repeated by all on board the different ships, and in which the people on shore joined; the smoke of sacrifice rose into the blue morning air, the whole army poured libations from gold and silver goblets, and began to sing a pæan, the sails were unfurled to the wind, the fleet moved, the sea foamed under the strokes of countless oars, and accompanied by the blessings of the spectators, the long train of vessels passed out of the harbor in to the open sea. Now the poet Sophocles became a strategus heart and soul, and his own hero Ajax could not have set forth from Salamis for Troy more proudly, than he himself now left Colonus for Samos.

At the end of a few weeks, a swift vessel arrived at the Piræeus, bringing reports from Pericles to the council and popular assembly. The commander of the ship that conveyed this news, secretly delivered, not as trierarch, but as a personal friend of Pericles, a letter not intended for the public. It was written by the latter to Aspasia.

The lines ran as follows:

“I know not how it happened, that my breast scarcely ever heaved more proudly than at the moment I left the harbor of Athens with the fleet, and again felt the open sea beneath me. As I stood on the ship’s deck, and the winds of the Ægean fanned my brow, it seemed as if a breath of freedom touched me and I had regained myself. Regained? A foolish word! Had I lost myself? I don’t know—unless it were to you, Aspasia. For a moment it really seemed as if, during the last few weeks, I had stretched myself a little too luxuriously on the rose-couch of love. I was almost angry with you about it. But when I recollected myself, I was forced to acknowledge that I was doing you the greatest injustice, and that, on the contrary, it was precisely the influence emanating from you, never enervating, but always inspiring, that had sent me forth from quiet Athens to the field of action.

“So I no longer feel ashamed of my love for you, nor the ardent yearning I have to see you again, though it almost wrought me evil.

“I found the Samians ill prepared for battle, and surprised them when only half ready. I was almost ashamed of so easy a conquest. There seemed to be nothing more to do, so I was making arrangements to return to Athens, hoping that the rapidity of the victory would secure me some renown. Did the wish to regain what I had left at home have some share in this speedy return? I am not aware of it, but shall not venture to deny the possibility. At any rate, the haste with which I wished to return did not prove so profitable, as that I had shown in setting out. I learned that we advance rapidly to the field of battle, but must be cautious in retiring.

“But why should I tell you of things, which are probably already in the mouths of the whole populace of Athens? Our fleet is burning with the longing to retrieve the lost naval battle; even the gentle Sophocles is glowing at this moment with the fire of Ares. I have sent him to Chios and Lesbos to bring the ships of the allies; other reënforcements are on the way.

“Send me news of yourself and my friends in Athens, by the same trierarch who delivered this letter, and be assured I am no less anxious to hear from you than you are to have tidings from me. Tell Phidias he must not allow himself to be disturbed in his creations by the noise of war. It will be the greatest joy of our return, if the lofty columns of the temple on the Acropolis, far advanced towards completion, gleam before us.”

Such were the contents of the letter Pericles sent Aspasia. The Milesian answered as follows:

“I am glad you so quickly resigned the thought, that the bold Pericles’ nature had of late been made effeminate by Aspasia. On the contrary, must I not reproach myself for having, by my intercession for my countrymen, helped urge you to the field of action, as you call it?

“A short separation did not seem to me wholly unprofitable; for you appeared to be growing a little weary of peace, pleasure, and love for Aspasia. Now you no longer feel ashamed of the desire to see me and your friends once more. The longing to behold a dear one is always strongest, directly after the person has been left or lost. I fear you will be able to endure the separation more and more easily the longer it lasts, until finally, like Agamemnon before Troy, you will be content to lie off Samos ten years, if necessary.

“My longing to see you, on the contrary, cannot be weakened by time, for it is nourished by inactivity and solitude. You have left me almost as lonely as if I were your wife; you have taken cheerful Sophocles with you, and sent brilliant Protagoras, in charge of a colony, to a distant land. Only Socrates remains, and he sometimes seeks my society; but whether from distrust of me, himself, or you, never except accompanied by some other person, and always appears with a man almost as eccentric as himself. This man is the tragic poet Euripides, a younger rival of our Sophocles. He and Socrates are inseparable, and it is even rumored that the latter helps him with his tragedies, because they are so rich in thoughtful sayings. But this is foolish. They are so much alike, that I don’t know what one need borrow from the other. Both are dripping with wisdom. What Socrates is among thinkers, Euripides is among poets: hypercritical and eccentric. A book-worm too: he has collected a vast number of volumes, and is completely devoted to the Muses. For the rest, he looks like all poets—a prematurely-old face on an ever-youthful, active body. He is reserved, sullen, and rude in character, and associates only with Socrates and the Sophists. Socrates, however, influenced him so far, that he became curious to see me.

“‘This man,’ said Socrates, when he introduced him, ‘is the admirable tragic poet, Euripides, whom I hope you will doubly admire, when you hear that his father, Mnesarchus, was a tavern-keeper, and his mother, Cleito, a huckster of vegetables. You must know too, that he was born on the island of Salamis, on the very day of the great Persian battle.’

“‘A great omen!’ said I.

“‘That is possible,’ replied Euripides, ‘but what the gods originally intended I should be is not yet perfectly clear.’

“Then he told me in detail—for after he once began to talk, he became tolerably loquacious—how his father, in a dream, received a promise that his new-born son would emerge victorious from famous contests. His father, like a true Hellene, interpreted this to mean victories at Olympia or Nemea, and had him carefully instructed in gymnastic arts; indeed, when a boy, he really won a prize at the Panathenaic festival; but he gradually developed more taste for books than for wrestling or throwing the discus, and finally, instead of a garlanded Olympian athlete, became a candidate for the prize of tragic poetry.

“‘How does it happen,’ I asked, ‘that in all your tragedies you interweave remarks against women, and are universally called a misogynist?’

“‘I am married!’ he replied.

“‘Is that a reason for hating all women, even those to whom you are not bound by ties of this nature?’

“‘Socrates brought me to you,’ he answered, ‘to cure me of my misogyny. I now esteem but one woman on earth; my mother, Cleito, the former vegetable-huckster—I say former, for I have now prevailed upon her to give up the business and manage a little country-estate I own.’

“I expressed a wish to make this woman’s acquaintance.

“‘If it will not bore you to hear the story of my birth in a grotto on the shore of Salamis, during the great battle—for she spares no one who approaches her—it will be an easy matter to gratify you,’ he said.

“A few days after, accompanied by a female slave, I visited the secluded, modest country-house where mother Cleito reigns—its stillness is only interrupted by the resounding lines of her poetic son, when he retires to this rural solitude to be entirely undisturbed—found the worthy woman among her hens, ducks, and sucking-pigs, and told her I wished to hear the story of her son’s birth at Salamis during the great naval battle.

“Sincerely delighted, the little mother said with evident pride:

“‘That is a tale, lady, I have told even the great Themistocles.’

“Then, after driving away the hens and doves, she invited me to sit down on a grassy bank in the garden.

“‘Oh, child,’ she said, ‘it was a day of horror, when the Persian troops burst into our sacred Athens, burned everything, slew the people at the altars, and shot lighted arrows, dipped in pitch, from the Hill of Ares to the Acropolis, until all the temples were in flames, and the immense volume of smoke floated in black clouds over the sea. But while the city was burning, the men vowed that they would die with arms in their hands under the smoking ruins, the women wailed, and measureless lamentations arose because Athens, sacred Athens, would be burned, effaced from the earth, Themistocles, the naval hero, came forward and extending his hand towards the sea and fleet, shouted: ‘There is Athens!’ and urged all the men to go on board the ships. Beside him stood the long-bearded priest from the temple of Erechtheus, who announced that a highly-significant miracle had happened—the sacred serpent had disappeared of his own accord from the burning temple, a sign that the protecting divinity of the city, Pallas Athena, and all the gods had left it, and the Athenians’ native land at this moment was on the sea, on the ships of Themistocles’ navy.

“‘While the men all went on board the ships, it was pitiful to see the women, children, and old men rush into the boats, which were ready on the coast and by the ford of Salamis,—many upset, because they were unable to hold the crowd of fugitives.

“‘Not even the dogs would stay in the deserted city; they plunged into the sea and swam beside their masters’ ships as long as they could. You must know, child, that this was just before the birth of my son; but I succeeded with a throng of others, in safely reaching the shore of Salamis, where several women and children, among them I myself, sought shelter for the night in a cave in the rocks. It was a very unquiet night, for all the Greek ships had gathered around Salamis, and shouts rang from galley to galley all night long, so that it would have been impossible for even those free from care to close an eye. Besides, it also chanced to be the time of the festival of Iacchus, when, as night is waning, the statue of the god is borne by torch-light across the sea in a great festal procession, from Ægina to Eleusis. Themistocles did not wish this celebration to be omitted from fear of the Persians, so just as the Greeks were arranging their ships in battle array, the beautifully-decorated vessel bearing the sacred statues of the Æacides came across from Ægina, and the whole bay glowed in the light shed by the torches, so that all the Greeks on the galleys were animated with still greater courage, because they saw that the native gods still ruled. When morning came and I dragged myself to the shore with other women, the ships of the Hellenes were already drawn up for battle, the whole Euripus was swarming, and the great Persian fleet, stretching farther than the eye could reach, was sailing slowly from Phalerum.

“‘My strength failed and I was obliged to return to the grotto, where I lay deserted on my bed of sea-weed, for the women, who had shared the shelter with me during the night, ran away. All the women and children at Salamis had husbands and fathers on the ships, and were standing crowded together on the cliffs, gazing at the galleys, wringing their hands and praying to the gods. I now heard a shrill flourish of trumpets, then a pæan sung by thousands of voices—though the sounds were subdued by the distance ere they reached my ears. Then it seemed like a terrible hurricane rushing through a dense olive wood, with thousands of tree-tops crashing—but it was the crash of the ships striking against each other, intermingled with the war-cries of our own troops and the Barbarians, echoing faintly from the distance. How long this lasted I know not, and I can tell you nothing about the battle, daughter, for I didn’t see it; I was tossing helplessly all day on my couch, longing for some refreshment, and at last fell fainting into a slumber which might well have been my last. Suddenly, amid my death-like sleep, I heard loud shouts of joy from the women, recovered my consciousness and remembered that I was in Salamis. Many a sudden outburst of lamentation mingled with the exulting shouts, for not only were countless fragments of galleys washed up on the strand, but dead bodies, among which many of the women recognized a son or husband. Many of those wounded in the battle, and many of the crews of the shattered ships, who were nearer the shore of Salamis than the Athenian coast on the opposite side, escaped to the island, bringing the message that the Persians had been defeated and were flying across the sea, leaving the smoking ruins of Athens, and we might return to our rescued city that very day. Just think, child, how I felt, when my husband, Mnesarchus, who was among those that had landed, came rushing into the grotto as unexpectedly as if the gods themselves had guided him, shouting: ‘Athens is free again, Athens is ours again!’ He was about to rush on with the joyful tidings, when he suddenly caught sight of me and the new-born babe. Imagine the scene! He could not speak, only seized the little fellow, lifted him in his arms and fairly danced about with him, in his twofold joy as conqueror and father. Then he dashed away to bring me water and other refreshments, until at last, though slowly, I recovered from the death-like exhaustion into which I had sunk.

“‘The next day a great festival was celebrated on the island in honor of the victory. Youths, crowned with garlands, danced around the trophies, while the Persian was flying with the remnant of his hordes to the distant East. Mnesarchus, with his new-born son in his arms, went through the crowd, showing the child to all the Greeks and telling them it was born on the day of the battle. When Themistocles himself came up and heard the tale, he said: ‘Praised be the Athenian mothers, who give us new citizens during the battle, to make amends for those who have fallen in defence of their native land,’ and gave orders that a hundred drachmæ should be paid to Mnesarchus. So everything passed off happily, and Mnesarchus called the boy Euripides, in memory of the fact that he was born on the day of victory in the Euripus, the sea-ford of Salamis.’

“This was the story worthy mother Cleito told me, precisely as I have written it for you.”

A few days after Aspasia’s letter had been sent to Pericles, news of victory came from Samos, and with it another missive for Aspasia.

“You are matchless, Aspasia, and always wholly yourself. Was it accident, or by some secret design, that you told me in your letter about that mother at Salamis. When your lines arrived with the reënforcements from Athens, my fleet was already drawn up in line of battle before the Samian ships. I read the story of Cleito and, full of enthusiasm, gave the signal of attack.

“We conquered. But I shall avoid giving you a description of the battle. How could I, in presence of the memory you have so vividly conjured up of the heroic deeds of Salamis, boast of my petty Samian success, by which their fleet has been rendered harmless, though the resistance of the city itself is not yet broken. We are besieging it by land and water. This Samos is a powerful city, and very magnificent in its appearance; but her greatest and most famous temple, as you know, is dedicated to Hera, goddess of marriage, and in this temple are reared whole flocks of the bird sacred to this divinity, but hateful to us both.

“Sophocles too, has read your letter, with great delight in the story of Cleito. As he was among the youths and boys, who danced around the trophies at the festival in honor of the victory, of which Cleito speaks, while Æschylus was among the warriors, these tragic poets all have their share in the honors of Salamis—though Euripides’ is surely the least, since he merely chanced to be born.

“I have questioned Sophocles about Euripides, and asked him what he thought of the latter’s hatred of women. Sophocles replied that Euripides only hated women, because he loved them. If he didn’t care for them and could do without them, he wouldn’t trouble himself about them, would not speak of them, it would be a matter of indifference to him whether they were good or bad. So says Sophocles, therefore I think the renown of curing Euripides of his misogyny will be a very trifling victory for you.”

Aspasia answered this letter in the following manner:

“Your victory before Samos has given the Athenians great cause for rejoicing, in which I secretly joined with all my heart; only you have clouded my share of the common joy by the modesty with which, in your letter, you withheld the description of your naval battle. I am generally content if you do not fill your pages with public or military affairs, but confine yourself to what concerns your own person; yet it is said that this very battle shows you in the full splendor of your rule and influence, that you personally destroyed the hostile commander’s ship. It is not these things that are important to me, but you yourself, the clear idea of your nature, which reveals itself to me in them, so that I seem to behold you with my bodily eyes.

“The building of the Parthenon is progressing with almost incredible rapidity. It is certainly desirable to build with full coffers, as Callicrates used to say.

“A few days ago an accident happened on the Acropolis, which created a great deal of excitement. A workman fell from the scaffolding and was mortally wounded; and as this occurred in the very spot to which Diopeithes had given an ill name, as ‘belonging to the nether world,’ the minds and tongues of the Athenians were powerfully stirred. The implacable priest of Erechtheus points proudly to the fulfilment of his prophecy, and predicts further misfortune. May the gods avert it!

“He still looks gloomily from the threshold of his ancient temple at the cheerful Callicrates, and wishes him a sun-stroke. But Apollo’s warmest shafts recoil from the brow of this indefatigable man. Pallas Athena holds her shield over him. He banters his foe whenever he can, and if the hostile looks grow too disagreeable, manages to have his workmen raise a cloud of dust near the Erechtheum, which compels the priest, rubbing his eyes, to retire within the sanctuary.

“A mule has now become involved in the quarrel between the two men. Among the animals, which have been occupied for several years in daily trotting up and down the Acropolis, bearing stone and other burdens to the summit, was one, that partly from age, partly from an injury received, became unfit for work. Its driver wanted to spare it and leave it behind in the stable. But the good beast wasn’t content with that, and even blows could not prevent it from doing the labor to which it had been so long accustomed, and trotting up and down with its companions, though it carried no load. This it now does faithfully every day, and everybody knows ‘Callicrates’ mule,’ as it is called, because the latter has taken the useless but willing animal under his special protection. The creature moves idly about on the Acropolis, and in its strolls sometimes comes too near the Erechtheum, nay, has even ventured to snuff with its unhallowed muzzle the sacred herbs planted near the walls, so Diopeithes hates this most trusty of all the laborers on the Acropolis, even more than he does Callicrates, and it is impossible to foresee what complications may yet arise out of the matter.

“Farewell, my hero, and don’t think always of Cleito’s tale, Salamis, and Themistocles, but sometimes of your Aspasia. Neither Hera, nor all the peacocks of Salamis, should keep me from hastening to you, if you desired it.”

Not long after, Aspasia received the following lines:

“Are you angry with me for withholding the description of my naval battle? You don’t wish to wholly give up seeing me command before Samos. In and of itself a naval battle is better worth beholding than any other spectacle, and I confess, that whenever I have been obliged to cope with an enemy at sea, much as my duties claimed my attention, I always found time to gaze admiringly at the beauty and grandeur of the scene afforded by a conflict between the winged colossi on the open sea. Fortunately mother Cleito only gave you the minor details of the battle of Salamis, but could not describe the contest itself, so I will venture to briefly relate the history of the fight before Samos; but on condition that this story of military affairs shall be the only one you will lure from me during the campaign.

“I met the Samian fleet coming from Miletus at the island of Tragia. [3] Expecting my attack, they occupied a circular position to prevent my doing what I always attempt in a naval engagement—assaulting the enemy’s ships unexpectedly from one side. I sent out several bold sailers to circle around the enemy, and by means of pretended attacks and feigned flight here and there lure a vessel from its place in the hostile ranks. A tolerably strong wind also sprang up, which by raising a heavy sea, contributed to break the close circle of the Samian fleet.

“Our ships were drawn up with wings curving towards the enemy’s flank, ready to attack any ship that might venture out of the hostile line.

“Meantime the Samian commander, while his vanguard was engaged in battle, succeeded in forming the rear of the shaken and half-destroyed circle into a straight line, with which, while at his command the vanguard retired, he dashed forward in close order.

“For a moment the shock of this phalanx threw our front rank into confusion. The broad Samian vessels, with their beak-shaped prows and countless oars, looked like monsters creeping towards us on a thousand feet—only this creeping was swift as the wind. After a few minutes, during which I too hastily brought up my scattered galleys in order, our phalanx confronted the Samian one in an equally close, firm line.

“The real battle now raged fiercely. Rushing forward with loud shouts, the Samian galleys and our own dashed impetuously into each others ranks, so that every Attic ship attacked, every Samian one defended itself, on both sides. If the Samian vessels resembled menacing swine’s snouts, ours looked like sea-serpents, nimbly winding between these snouts and dealing fatal bites on the right and left. In the closer order, the terrible engines of war began to play from ship to ship, catapults and scorpions [4] hurling missiles, and the horrible dolphins, long beams tipped with blocks of metal, which raised above the hostile vessel, by a well-calculated fall shattered the mast or crushed the deck, and holding the ship like an iron grapple, made it the prey of the assailant. While the attention of the crew of a hostile galley was occupied by a shower of arrows that covered its deck, light boats swarmed around it below, whose crews shattered its oars with axes.

“When, at last, keel pressed still nearer to keel, and the lofty decks of our own galleys and those of the foe touched, their united surfaces soon formed a battle-field, where the heavily-armed troops fought with sword and lance, hand to hand. The boldest could not be restrained from leaping from their own ship into the nearest hostile galley. Some of our men succeeded here and there in cutting down the crew, taking the trierarch prisoner, getting possession of the helm, and forcing the defenceless oarsmen to row the captured vessel out of the Samian line into the Athenian ranks.

“However praiseworthy heroic courage may be in such hazards, I disapproved of too impetuous an exercise of personal bravery, always endeavoring in a naval battle to spare the blood of the combatants as far as possible and let the ships fight, rather than the men. Why should the latter destroy each other, when the former, with bold, swift, skilful manœuvres, can decide the conflict? I passed between the ships of the fleet, shouting to the trierarchs to fight more with the beaks of their vessels and iron-tipped beams than with swords and lances, and to consider their ships a weapon rather than a citadel. They understood me, and as the Samians had withdrawn numerous disabled ships from the ranks, while the others pressed closer together, it became easier for the galleys of our out-stretched wings to dash against their flanks.

“The universal aim was now to sink the enemy’s ships. It had really become a battle of the ships themselves. Besides the weight of their beaks, and the strength of the iron-tipped beams on their keels, we used in this battle a contrivance invented by myself, the ‘iron hands,’ which seized and held many a Samian vessel in an indissoluble embrace. The dull roar of the ships’ beams crashing against each other mingled with the light crackle of snapping oars, when, with swift, well-calculated course, a ship, grazing close by a hostile galley, crushed its projecting oars like dry branches.

“The Samians wavered and were thrown into disorder, but did not fly. Enraged by this obstinacy, weary of the long conflict, I was on the point of giving orders to have some transport ships, loaded with tow and brushwood, lighted and sent into the hostile ranks to burn the rest of the refractory fleet, when suddenly a huge block of stone whirled towards the mast of my own vessel, but missing it struck the steersman, who fell from his seat with his head crushed. In rolling down, the block also shattered the helm and everything near it. The stone had been hurled from the galley of the Samian admiral, by which I perceived that the latter wished to have a personal battle with me. But in the state of my rudderless ship resistance was impossible. Unnoticed by the enemy, I hastily descended a ladder from the stern of the ship to a boat, and quickly stood on the deck of another galley, the ‘Parthenos.’ While the admiral was attacking the rudderless prey to capture me, supposing me to be still on board, I dashed on the Parthenos with the speed of an arrow, against the side of the Samian galley, which pierced with a large hole, began to take in water, lurched sideways and sank. The admiral himself was one of the few, that amid a rain of arrows from our men, who raised a loud shout of victory, escaped with great difficulty by swimming. The Samians now yielded, and the victory was ours.

“On the evening of that very day, the Samian commander, Melissus, came on board my vessel under a safe-conduct, to arrange terms of peace, but offered such conditions that people would have supposed I was the conquered party, had I accepted them. He said that the Samian fleet was vanquished, but the city was ready to stand a long siege. Besides, Phœnician reënforcements were on their way, and moneyed assistance had been offered by the Persian satrap at Sardis. During the whole conversation, Melissus showed tenacity and obstinacy, such as only a philosopher can develop. He is a tall man, somewhat advanced in years, and the stamp of a profound thinker is so plainly impressed upon his brow, that it seemed almost incredible that I saw in him the man who had just commanded a fleet, and whom I had beheld swimming with the agility of a youth, through waves filled with the fragments of vessels. I soon perceived in him only the philosopher of the school of Parmenides, so renowned throughout all Hellas. I can’t exactly say how it happened, but our conversation gradually became a philosophical one. The fact is, that he was at last eagerly explaining to me that if anything was, it was eternal, but the eternal was unlimited in extent, that real existence was one and infinite, comprising everything in itself, for if there were two or several infinites, they must limit each other and therefore were no longer infinite, and the universe must be homogeneous, for if there were dissimilar qualities, it would no longer be one, but many things, and that could not be, for diversity existed only in appearance, related only to the perception of the senses, not the thoughtful contemplation of the mind—

“As if by accident several other strategi and trierarchs, who had been anticipating with great curiosity the result of our discussion of terms of peace, now came forward; but when they heard that the Samian commander and I had been talking about the boundlessness of the universe and the infinitude of existence, they were utterly bewildered, and we ourselves could not help laughing on perceiving that we, who a short time before had been fighting furiously with ships’ beaks and deadly missiles, were now engaged in an argument of such a nature. Having frequently heard the propositions uttered by Melissus from the lips of Zeno in Athens, and being much interested in these Eleatic controversies, I was at no loss to find answers to Melissus, and our conversation had really almost assumed the shape of a philosophical argument.

“‘How much better it would be,’ I said to Melissus, as we shook hands with each other in parting, ‘if we Hellenes, as far as our language extends through the coasts and isles, could be united by one mental aspiration, nay, even into one political community.’

“The gloomy Samian’s grey eyes flashed with anger.

“‘You doubtless hope Athens will lure all the Hellenes into her precincts, and willing or not, unite them in one community,’ he said with a bitter, scornful smile.

“I understood and honored the feelings of the man, who was fighting for the independence of his island.

“It is the fate of all well-meant thoughts and intentions to be thwarted by the opposition of petty interests, really intended to be merged in greater ones. We are poorly rewarded for forming the idea of one grand whole, and striving to realize it. If I exhort the Hellenes to unity, they perceive in my words only the Athenian love of conquest, or even designs of personal ambition. So in the best wishes and labors, one feels driven back and limited to the customary, narrow domain. Thus at times all external acts and efforts seem worthless, and I then take refuge in the pure sphere of thought, where the mind may indulge in a boundless flight. When in the quiet night I stand on the deck of the motionless vessel with the star-sown sky above—the masts towering into the vast infinitude of the ether—nothing audible save the low, dreamy plashing of the waves against the vessel’s keel, amid the breath of the night-wind, I remember Melissus and no longer merely think, but feel the infinite, original unity of all existence.

“More frequently than you may believe, I think of you, of my friends at Athens, and the work which under their hands is approaching completion. Now that the hardest labor here has apparently been performed, and a possibly long and wearisome siege condemns me to a quietude that almost resembles inaction, I may perhaps venture to confess my longing for Athens, without being ashamed of it.

“The mishap that befell the workman on the Parthenon, by which Diopeithes profits in so malicious a fashion, has greatly troubled me. I have sent to request Hippocrates to take charge of the unfortunate man, if he is still alive, and if we succeed in saving him and confounding Diopeithes, I vow to have an altar erected on the Acropolis to Pallas Hygieia, in token of my gratitude.

“As for Callicrates’ worthy mule, I am of the opinion that it should be considered a creature whose assiduity has rendered it worthy of belonging to the Athenian community, and to guard against the peril of Diopeithes’ enmity, I have obtained for it the privilege of being permitted to graze wherever it chooses, and all property it appropriates or injures will be made good to the owners at the public expense.”

Before Aspasia had found an opportunity to answer this letter, she received a few more lines confirming the tidings of the misfortune which had befallen the Athenian camp before Samos, while Pericles went to meet the Phœnician fleet.

Pericles merely alluded to these things in a few words. Then he continued:

“Will you believe it possible, that an event could happen among Hellenes such as befell me, when I went among the soldiers besieging Samos from the land side, who had also suffered not a little from the attacks of the Samians. Loud lamentations greeted me, as I entered the camp. The priests were engaged in offering a sacrifice to Zeus, the deliverer. In the circle formed around the altar and the priests, I saw fifty Samian prisoners standing with fettered hands. I asked what these people were doing, and learned that the prophet who was assigned to the army by the government, had announced that it was the will of Zeus that the fifty Samian prisoners should be solemnly offered up to him as victims. They were just ready to execute the sentence of the seer. I approached the priest and prophet, declared in the presence of the whole army it was a lie that the Hellenic gods desired a human sacrifice, and contented myself with stamping the foreheads of the fifty Samians with the mark of a hog’s snout like the prows of the Samian vessels, in revenge for the insult they had shortly before offered our prisoners, by branding them with the owl.

“We shall now besiege the city again and attack it from the land side with battering rams and catapults.

“The letters I receive from Telesippe, are full of complaints of Alcibiades.”

Aspasia answered Pericles as follows:

“Your two last letters, my dear Pericles, have brought me a great deal of important news—over much of which I could joyfully exult, and other things that could not fail to inspire anxiety, though but a passing fear. But why should I too deeply lament the change of external events, when this mutation only makes the changelessness of your beloved self the more clearly apparent? You have done what I desired, unintentionally described yourself. How poor are words, how much more warmly a kiss imprinted on your brow would tell you what I feel! The day swiftly passes in thinking of you, and singing Sappho’s songs to the accompaniment of my lute.

“Phidias and his assistants are unwearied. Absorbed in their task, as if inspired by some demoniac power, they only half listen to what is happening in the world outside of their work. Forgive them, for they are toiling also for you and the renown of your name throughout all futurity.

“I too hear a great deal about the boy Alcibiades; for he is beginning to attract the attention of the Athenians. Many throng around him in the wrestling-ring, or wherever he appears. But he cares for no one except Socrates, possibly because the latter does not flatter him. A short time ago, while he was crossing the street with his pedagogue, carrying in his breast a quail, his favorite pet, a large crowd again pressed upon him. While compelled to notice these people the quail escaped, and as the lad became greatly excited, half Athens started in pursuit of the bird. That’s the way with the Athenians. Yet if they caress Alcibiades, it is partly because he is the ward of Pericles, the great Pericles, who after the victory of Tragia is more than ever the hero of the day.

“Diopeithes is secretly hostile to you, so too is Elpinice, and your wife, Telesippe. With them are the old-fashioned fellows, with fringed woollen robes and hair tied up over their heads, the vain old conquerors of Marathon, grumbling, peevish men, and the Spartan fops—who wear long hair, practise gymnastics, starve, never wash, and rattle their gnarled staves on the stones in the street—together with many of the wiseacres who go about barefooted in ragged cloaks, but raise their eyebrows, bury their noses in their uncombed moustaches, and carry their chins in the roll of skin puffed out beneath them as if it were a bag. All these people, in your absence, mean, according to the old proverb, ‘to gather unwatched wine.’

“Theodota, I hear, continues to swear that the sword-fish, Pericles, will yet struggle in her net. Secret threads appear to be constantly woven between this woman and our enemies. Elpinice runs her feet sore to stir up all her friends against me. I am openly persecuted by her and your wife; they see I am helpless and defenceless, and think me a certain and easy prey.

“Euripides seems to wish to belie what your companion Sophocles said of him. He is always grave, gloomy, and sullen. Yet, in Socrates’ presence, he made me the confidante of his conjugal destiny, and gave me a description of his wife, which I need not repeat, for the poet’s spouse is the faithful counterpart of Telesippe. But now hear what resolution Euripides has formed, to release himself from this insufferable companion. He intends to send the woman away and form a better tie, in accordance with the dictates of his heart. Pericles, my beloved hero, what say you to this manly determination?”

After some delay, Pericles wrote:

“I know not whether I deserve the praise for generosity you lavish upon me. I am full of bitter indignation against these stubborn Samians, and when the time comes shall make them atone for their obstinacy.

“During these days of inaction and impatience, noble, cheerful Sophocles, who also proves an admirable fellow-strategus, is a doubly desirable companion. He is always employed with the best success, especially on peaceful embassies. As mediator, he works as if he were in possession of some magic spell, which does not surprise me, for his nature is so winning that he is universally beloved. He stands loyally by my side, to work against the rebellious spirit, which in a long campaign so easily steals into the minds of soldiers. Sometimes the laws of humanity are to be supported, sometimes a vexatious prejudice must be dispelled. You know how much yet remains to be done in this respect, even among our Athenian populace.

“If a thunder-storm comes up and a flash of lightning strikes our camp, or the steersman of my ship loses his head during a solar eclipse, I am obliged to recall all I have learned from Anaxagoras concerning the natural origin of such phenomena, to soothe the terrified fellow.

“But I am telling you about my industry in uprooting the prejudices of others, forgetful that you sometimes blame me for being addicted to similar ones. You ask Telesippe’s husband what he thinks of Euripides’ bold resolve? I will tell you verbally, when I return to Athens.”

For nine months the stubborn island city resisted, and many a letter passed between Samos and Athens, bringing fresh tidings to Pericles and Aspasia.

At last the Athenian commander wrote to his Milesian friend.

“Samos has been taken by storm, the obstinacy of Melissus is broken, peace concluded. The Samians will deliver up their ships, and pull down their walls.

“Yet it is impossible for me to return immediately to Athens. I must proceed under sail to Miletus, where many things are to be settled.

“The delay, however, will be brief, and we shall meet again in a few weeks.

“Joy reigns throughout the fleet, and some of the trierarchs are celebrating the victory in the company of their friends, several of whom came from Athens to Samos during the tiresome siege. These fair ones have vowed, after the conquest of Samos, to build at their own expense, in the city of the famous temple of Hera, a temple to the god of love. They seem determined to fulfil this vow. Theodota arrived here a few days ago, at the request of Hipponicus, who is a patriot as well as a man of the world, and would not allow himself to be represented by another on the ship, whose command fell to him, but joined the naval expedition in person.

“Farewell! In Miletus, your native city, I shall always think of you.”

When Aspasia had read Pericles’ letter she grew thoughtful, then formed a hasty resolution.

One day later she went to the Piræeus with a female slave, and entered a vessel which was just ready to sail from the harbor of Athens to the Ionian coast.