CHAPTER IV.

THE ARCADIAN GIRL.

Several years had passed. Aspasia had battled bravely, but could not boast of having conquered. The stormy scene in the Thesmophorian temple had become known throughout the city, and she was compelled to endure the mortification, that under all circumstances, is connected with defeat. Some few persons clung to her, but the greater part of her sex, through envy, blindness, and the malicious reports disseminated by her enemies, had become enraged against her.

A feeling of melancholy sometimes overmastered Pericles. He thought of the unclouded happiness he had enjoyed with the Milesian during their brief, but blissful seclusion on the strand of Ionia. It seemed at times as if he must again tear himself away from his daily anxieties, fly from noisy Athens, where his best happiness was destroyed by the many-tongued expressions of animosity buzzing like a swarm of bees about his head.

When the news reached Athens, that Phidias had completed in Elis his gold and ivory statue of the Olympic Zeus, the most sublime and magnificent of all his works, what a tempting opportunity it seemed to Pericles to take a short excursion to the land of the Dorians. But the journey through the mountain region of Argos and Arcadia appeared too toilsome for Aspasia, and the idea of such an expedition, when first mentioned between the two, was only regarded as a pleasant jest.

The Athenian nation had gradually taken that sort of aversion to Aspasia, with which beautiful, influential women, whose fate is connected with that of a man in high position, always have to contend. They continued to attribute Pericles’ plans and enterprises to her secret influence, and assert that she was inciting him to make himself ruler of all Hellas. The gay authors of comedies, at their head Cratinus, the friend of Polygnotus, who had been enraged against the Milesian at Hipponicus’ banquet, put sharper and sharper points to the arrows directed against her. The Attic Muse resembled the bee-hive—it dripped with virgin honey, but carried a sharp sting.

Pericles became indignant, and attempted to restrain the insolence of the comedy.

Every one attributed the effort to Aspasia’s influence.

“Do they take me for an old lion, whose teeth have dropped out and who can only drivel?” said Cratinus.

In his next comedy, he fearlessly hurled an insulting epithet at Aspasia before the assembled Athenians.

Cratinus’ invective was unboundedly insolent, terribly wounding, almost crushing. In it culminated the ill-will of Aspasia’s secret and open enemies. The mirth-loving crowd seized upon and repeated it. The soil of Athens was beginning to burn under the Milesian’s feet.

From that day the journey to Elis was a settled fact between Pericles and Aspasia. It now seemed less difficult to the angry pair, to tread the rough ground of the peninsula of Pelops, than to linger on the glowing soil of Athens.

In Athens the Milesian’s life was divided among many, who basked in the light of her intellect and beauty. In the still, quiet meadows of Argos, on the idyllic heights of Arcadia, even amid the tumult of Olympia, they would again live wholly for themselves and their own happiness.

The preparations for the journey were quickly made, and soon Cimon’s sister, who was first to know everything that happened, could tell loquacious Athens that Pericles was about to go to Olympia, and the effeminate hero could not do without his beloved Aspasia, who however did wisely to escape from the disgrace that covered her in Athens. There were many, who jested about the inseparableness of the pair. There were many also, who secretly envied them.

A light carriage conveyed the two inseparables to the Isthmus. Slaves and mules had been sent forward to Corinth, to be used on the journey over the rough paths of the Peloponnesus.

What a sigh of relief both uttered, when they had left Athens, once so beloved, behind them.—They knew not, that in flying from the city they did not retard, but hastened the fate appointed.

From the magnificent, ever-changing views of land and sea constantly presented to their eyes, down to the monuments along the roads, the statues of Hermes and altars of Hecate at the cross-roads, everything was charming and significant to the pair, who had once more regained their happiness.

They found the broad road from Eleusis full of travellers. Devout and philanthropic people were placing fruits and other food before the statues and temples of the way-side gods, that poor and starving wanderers might refresh themselves. Here and there trees were planted by the side of the road, whose fruit was also common property to all who were thirsty. Nor was there any lack of shelter.

“We Hellenes are fond of travelling,” said Pericles to Aspasia. “Generous hospitality and joyous festivals lure us from place to place. And as you see, provision is made for the wanderer.”

Many a spring leaped from the mountain slopes along the road, and many a traveller resting beside the huge trunks of the poplars that shaded them, had carved, in token of his gratitude, a proverb or a verse, or hung an offering on them.

Flourishing cities and hamlets, adorned with temples and columns, attracted the eyes of the wedded pair. First Eleusis, the sacred city of the mysteries, where at Pericles’ suggestion a superb new temple for the celebration was rising under Ictinus’ hands. Then Megara, the Dorian city, which awakened unpleasant memories in Aspasia’s mind. Her fair face clouded; she was silent, but unforgotten sorrow and unavenged disgrace forced tears from her eyes. Pericles understood her and said:

“Be comforted. Your enemies are mine. Megara will atone for her crime.”

On reaching crowded Corinth, Pericles went to the house of his friend Amynias, who received him and his wife with great honors.

The height of Acrocorinthus, the Acropolis of the city of Corinth, a cliff densely overgrown with flowers and plants, sloping abruptly down towards the city, a watch-tower of Hellas, beckoned alluringly to the new comers. On its summit gleamed the famous temple of the goddess of love. As intellectual Athens was under the protection of reflecting Pallas Athena, the rich, pleasure-loving commercial city placed herself under the guardianship of joy-giving Aphrodite. Like Pallas Athena in Athens, Aphrodite was here the ruler of the citadel, and stood armed within her sanctuary. From the highest peak the pinnacles of her temple shone far over the sea, she too was a sign to mariners. A thousand hieroduli, servants of the goddess, charming and complaisant daughters of pleasure, dwelt within the temple precincts on the mountain height, which by terraces, porticos, gardens, groves and baths had been transformed into a doubly charming Eden.

From this height, standing in the centre of the Hellenic countries and seas, Pericles and Aspasia overlooked all the oddly-shaped peaks, glowing in a peculiar magic of tints. In the north they beheld the snow-capped summit of Parnassus, farther eastward Helicon, greeted the mountains of Attica, and with no little pleasure even saw the familiar cliff of the Athenian Acropolis glimmering through the pure air in the distance. Towards the south their eyes wandered over the heights of Northern Arcadia. Amid the countless mountains and valleys they saw the sparkling bays and coasts, the sea-islands—either green or with glittering white cliffs, all steeped in the charm of a peerless atmosphere.

Pericles and Aspasia were somewhat disturbed in their enjoyment of this lovely scene, by the crowd of hieroduli wandering through the porticos and groves near the temple precincts.

“You have no such worship in Athens,” said the Corinthian host, who had accompanied the pair, to Pericles, “and are perhaps not disposed to see in these priestesses sacred persons. With us such a priesthood has long been held in high and honorable esteem. These gay, hospitable girls, who, presiding over the service of Aphrodite, strive towards the spirit of the mother of love, are present at the sacrifices and other religious ceremonies, take part in the festal processions of the citizens, and while so doing sing the pæan to Aphrodite. We apply to them for their intercession with the goddess, the guardian divinity of our city. You smile? Well, you Athenians may think you owe more to Pallas Athena. With you the community is rich and powerful, with us it is the individual citizen. Each is a Crœsus, a king in himself, and enjoys the good things of life, obtained by trade and commerce. We do not strive for power and wealth in Greece; we do not lavish our treasures on building fortifications or navies and similar things, but live comfortably, and believe that after all only the individual exists, the community is a mere idea. Be this as it may, even though you Athenians still look down upon us so scornfully, you have entered the path that brings us nearer to each other. You love and foster the beautiful, with which a love for the pleasant things of life always makes its appearance.”

The Corinthian’s words made a deep impression on Pericles, though he did not seem to heed them. He gazed across at the mountains of the Peloponnesus, and after a pause, turned with a fleeting smile to Aspasia, saying:

“It is significant that here, on the threshold of the grave, stern Peloponnesus, we meet Hellenic life developed to the climax of luxuriousness. Who would imagine, on coming from bright, art-loving, intellectual Athens, or standing in joyous Corinth on the summit crowned by Aphrodite’s temple, surrounded by throngs of hieroduli, that so short a distance away, on the other side of the isthmus and yonder gloomy mountains, unspoiled shepherd folk live in primitive simplicity on the heights of Arcadia, that opposite to these abodes of beautiful, delightful leisure, on the farther side of those mountains, the rude Spartan and morose Messenian, like the fierce lions and wolves, destroy each other in savage conflicts amid the horrible ravines or dark forests. What a wrestling ground of fierce, heroic power that region behind the lofty mountains has been from ancient times. From citadels reared of rocks piled one above another, the Argive princes went forth against Ilium. Along the paths of the Peloponnesus, Heracles and Perseus went their heroic way, strangled lions, battled with the brood of serpents in the marshes, and the flocks of noxious birds in the air. Even at the present day, does not manly vigor strive for the prize on the meadows, on the isthmus at Nemea, at Olympia? Do not men, longing for the laurel that crowns heroic strength, flock thither from all Hellas? This Peloponnesus seems gloomy, rude, and threatening, and the waters of the Styx do not wash its dark mountain shores in vain. But we will defy its terrors, we will venture into the lions’ dens, and if we have grown too effeminate, steel ourselves with fresh strength in these harsher airs.”

“Since when has Pericles admired, nay even envied the rude and simple men on the other side of the isthmus?” asked Aspasia, smiling. “Cheer up, my friend! Let them strive and fight as they choose. The victorious light of Pallas Athena does not shine on their mountain peaks, as on the Acropolis of Athens.”

The travellers left Corinth the next morning with a large escort, and set out in high spirits for the journey across the Argolian mountains into the land of the Dorians. Aspasia usually disdained the litter Pericles, with affectionate solicitude, had had prepared for her use, and which could be carried by slaves or mules across the most rugged portion of the hilly region. She preferred to ride on a mule by her husband’s side. Thus, engaged in familiar conversation, they travelled through the rustling mountain forests, following the course of the streams that rushed through the ravines, passing over steep ascents and wooded peaks to broad open plateaus, then through narrow passes and valleys, where the oleander and wild pear-tree intertwined their shady branches over the dark path.

In such gloomy ravines, Aspasia cast many an anxious glance into the bushes, in search of the dark form of some lurking robber. Pericles smiled, and glancing at the troop of well-armed men, familiar with every path, whom he had obtained for an escort through the mountains, said:

“Fear nothing, Aspasia! The savage giants long since vanished from these defiles, even the malicious tyrant Sinis, the pine-bender. We need only guard against the serpents that infest these hills and valleys; for you doubtless remember, what happened close by the Nemean plain, when the nurse laid the little boy down to fetch a drink of water, at request of the seven passing towards Thebes.”

After a toilsome day’s journey, the travellers reached the threshold of the plain of Inachus, and saw between the grey mountain peaks Agamemnon’s city, famed in legend, the ancient guardian of this mountain road, the citadel of Mycenæ, lying watchfully in its rocky nook—“in the corner of Argos,” according to the words of the Homeric song. At the right rose the bare cone-shaped mountain, with the ancient citadel of Larisa, the Acropolis of the city of Argos, which extended over a wide portion of the plain at the foot of the mountain, still flourishing and no less densely populated than Athens. Beyond the long sea-beach sparkled the blue waves of the bay of Nauplia; mountain-chains, steeped in sunset hues, here towered in jagged peaks towards the sky, and yonder ran in sweeping curves to the sea. On the opposite side of the glittering gulf appeared the dim outlines of mighty mountains.

A strange emotion took possession of the travellers. Their eyes rested on the grey height of Mycenæ, seeking some traces of the royal palace of the Pelopidæ, and all the other indestructible remains of the Cyclopian treasuries, graves, walls, and arches of former days.

When they reached Mycenæ itself, darkness had closed in. They stood on the rocky height, where the grey masonry, built of huge but regularly-hewn blocks of stone, and overgrown with moss and ivy, produced a dismal, almost ghastly impression in the gloom. Yet they scorned to go down to the houses of the few Mycenæans, who still lived in the ruined, deserted city of the Atridæ. Pericles and Aspasia determined to spend the warm summer night in a tent near this venerable relic of the past. But the moon rose, flooding with her white, radiant light the masonry, the height itself, all the mountain peaks of Argos and the plain between to the distant sea. Though weary, Pericles and Aspasia could not resist the temptation of this bewitching moonlight, and drew fresh strength from the strange excitement of their minds. A few days ago noisy Athens surrounded them, and now, in the starry night, they stood thrilled with awe on the ruins of Mycenæ, amid the death-like stillness of the Argolian mountains. The spirit of Homer seized upon them. In the sighing of the wind, the rustling of the tree-tops, they heard a faint echo of the immortal heroic song. The full moonlight, shining upon the peaks of the mountains of Argos, reminded them of the fire that had once flashed from one summit to another, bearing the message of the Greek conquest of Troy over sea and mountain to Agamemnon’s citadel, where the fierce Clytemnestra, secretly sharpening the murderous steel, with her lover Ægisthus by her side, awaited the return of the victorious Greek commander. And within the deserted ruins that lay before them, in the silent, night-shrouded solitude, that dagger flashed. Behind those walls echoed the death-rattle of the ruler.

Pericles and Aspasia walked along the mighty wall, which, with many turns and angles, followed the edge of the rugged mountain. They reached the famed lion-gate, the ancient entrance to the citadel of the Atridæ, above which rose the oldest piece of sculpture in the world. Through this gate-way they entered the stronghold, and stood before the inner walls, behind which the Atridæ lived in security; but only the foundations showed them the position of the royal apartments. They continued their walk, and farther on, not on the summit of the mountain, but its slope, reached the venerable, still uninjured circular building, which was at once a treasury and the tomb of the Pelopidæ.

As Pericles and Aspasia approached this building, they were startled by the figure of a gigantic man lying before the door, who raised himself to a sitting posture as the strangers came up. He recalled the huge forms of Homer, that hurled blocks of stone, whose weight the men of later generations could not have raised from the ground. Pericles accosted him, and after a short conversation perceived that he had encountered one of the beggars wandering through the mountains of Argos. His limbs were scantily covered with rags; his bronzed face seemed worn by wind and weather. So perhaps looked the patient wanderer Ulysses, when he escaped from his wrecked ship to land, after struggling with the waves for days, while the salt tide gnawed his limbs.

The weird, gigantic, gray-haired beggar said that he was guarding the treasure of Atreus, and no one should approach the door of the treasury without his consent. Then he began to babble of vast stores of gold, which still lay concealed in these rock-chambers, and would make the finder the richest of all mortals, a leader and king in Hellas, the heir and successor of the Hellenic prince Agamemnon.

Pericles smiled and said to Aspasia: “Mycenæ was famed in ancient times as the richest of the Hellenic cities; but I think her gold has long since flowed to Athens, and we need not seek it here. Yet this wonderful rock-tomb irresistibly allures me.”

“Guide us into the treasury, you guard,” he continued, turning to the giant. “We are Athenians, and have come into the mountains of Argos, to show our reverence for the dust of the divine Atridæ.”

He then ordered several slaves to light torches. The beggar, over whom Pericles’ manner seemed to exert a certain influence, silently prepared to act as guide. Exerting his gigantic strength, he pushed aside with his strong hand a piece of rock that lay before the entrance, completely barring it. Even then it was not easy to make their way over the rubbish and stones, that almost choked the door, into the vault, which extended far into the earth.

Through the entrance, formed of huge blocks of stone, Pericles and Aspasia reached the lofty, gloomy vault, whose walls were not erected in the usual manner—the layers of stone were placed one above another in ever-narrowing circles, and finished with a conical arch. Traces of a metal lining were on the walls, a favorite ornament in the days of which Homer writes. How the smooth, polished metal walls of the royal apartments must have sparkled in the light of blazing torches! But here the metal plates had been violently torn away, and the gray stone masses of the huge circles, piled one above another, stared nakedly down upon the spectators.

Pericles and Aspasia passed from the circular room, through a narrow door, into a chamber hewn in a square form from the solid rock.

They stood absorbed in thought. The dim light of the burning torches feebly illumined the gloomy stone vault.

“It would be a bold idea,” said Pericles, “to take shelter for the night in this stone vault, which seems pervaded with a strange horror.”

Aspasia shuddered, but the next instant smiled, and could not resist the spell exerted by the terrible, yet tempting thought of spending a night in the tomb of the Pelopidæ, which had endured a thousand years, resting above the dust of Atreus and Agamemnon.

Many objections were raised, but at last they resolved to execute the daring idea. The slaves spread carpets and prepared a couch on the stone floor of the smaller rock-chamber. The gigantic beggar stretched himself out in the vaulted room to sleep, the servants lay around the outer entrance.

Pericles and Aspasia now found themselves alone in the awful, rock-hewn chamber. The uncertain light of the torch, fastened on the floor, flickered with a ghostly glimmer over the gray, windowless walls. A death-like stillness reigned. The repose of a sepulchre surrounded them.

“On this night and in this place,” said Pericles, “the thought of corruption and annihilation confronts me almost in bodily form, with Titanic power. How delicate, variable and perishing every living thing appears, and how stubbornly and tenaciously that, which we are accustomed to call dead, defies the teeth of time. Atreus and Agamemnon perished long ago, and we are perhaps inhaling the invisible atoms of their dust with every breath we draw. But the lifeless walls, which towered above those men, surround us now, and will perhaps rise over those who will absorb our dust a thousand years hence.”

“I do not think, like you, Pericles,” replied Aspasia, “that this fleeting human existence has any reason to envy the indestructible life of the dead. The falling block of stone buries the flowers, but they return with every spring and twine their shoots about the rock, which after centuries crumbles away, but the flowers are always here. So life lies buried under the ruins of cities, but secretly creeps forth again and surrounds the masonry that boasts of its duration: its shoots even grow through and burst the rock, and thus at last only what is apparently fleeting and perishable becomes eternal.”

“You are right,” said Pericles, “life would soon become weary and disgusted with itself, if allotted the changelessness of the dead. Changelessness is synonymous with death, and change is life.”

“Is not the heroic soul of Agamemnon renewed in a thousand heroes?” said Aspasia. “Does not the love of Paris and Helen live on forever in a thousand lovers?”

“Yes, life comes and goes,” replied Pericles, “and returns in perpetual transformations. But are we sure, that in this coming and going some portion of its original strength is not at last lost? Must not the grandeur in the world slightly resemble the stone circles in the arch of this vault, which it is true repeat themselves towards the top, but constantly grow smaller? Agamemnon’s heroic spirit seems to have returned, and we have defeated the Persians, but it seems to me we have shrivelled a little in comparison with Homer’s heroes.”

“Many things may become weaker in returning,” answered Aspasia, “but do you not perceive, that many are still more vigorous and beautiful? The art that perished with these ruins has returned, and carved the sculptured marble ornaments of the Parthenon!”

“But,” said Pericles, “when these sculptured marble ornaments have also some day crumbled into ruins—if perhaps Pallas’ magnificent team of four horses, falling from the pediment of the Parthenon, is shattered with a thundering crash upon the rocky slope, are you sure that art will only return in a more glorious form? Or will a time come, whose glory will merely exist upon the reflection from the immortal ruins?”

“Let later generations trouble themselves about that,” replied Aspasia.

“You have also spoken of the love of the handsomest couple of ancient times,” continued Pericles, “and how it is revived in countless pairs.”

“Do you doubt it?” said Aspasia.

“No,” cried Pericles, “and I believe that love, and love alone, always returns with the same power, the same freshness, the same bliss.”

“Love and pleasure!” said Aspasia smiling.

“Even so!” repeated Pericles. “True, I must wander through this place with shame, and perhaps am not worthy to rest even one night above the dust of Homeric heroes. But if, with sorrowful envy, I must renounce the heroic fame of Achilles, I share the happiness of Paris—the possession of the fairest Hellenic woman.”

The expression with which Pericles said this, was not wholly in harmony with the words themselves. He looked as if he doubted whether it was seemly for a man to renounce the fame of Achilles, and be content with the happiness of Paris.

But Aspasia understood how to soothe the thoughts stirring in Pericles’ mind, by exerting the spell at the command of the most beautiful woman in Greece. Her eyes shed a magical light through the gloomy rock-chamber, the rose-hue on her cheek seemed diffused through the whole vault. The torch, which but now had flickered so dimly, perhaps like those that had once burned here at the interment of the buried Agamemnon, suddenly appeared to blaze up cheerily like a hymeneal taper. The light of beauty, shining in the gloomy tomb, seemed to transform the dark vault to a bridal-chamber, and the eternal freshness of life and love gained the mastery over the horror of death and corruption, the dust of the Atridæ that had lain mouldering for a thousand years.

When Pericles and Aspasia left the sepulchre and emerged from the rock-hewn vault, the dewy light of morning was shining on all the fields and slopes. Yet, even in the brilliant radiance of day, the ruins of the citadel of the Atridæ were no less lonely and silent. Only a vulture, with outspread pinions, hovered high in the blue air above Mycenæ.

While the travellers breakfasted on the provisions brought with them, and some wine carried by a slave in a skin, Pericles asked Aspasia if she had had no dream during her slumber in the tomb of the Atridæ.

“Yes,” replied Aspasia, “a dream really did transport me to the camp before Ilium. I saw Achilles in bodily form, and he still hovers before my eyes—a youthful figure, fiercely beautiful, of almost unearthly aspect, tall and slender, the face of the purest oval, framed by dark waving locks, the eyes, black as coals and almost circular in shape, which, despite the nobility of the features, gave the face a somewhat Gorgan-like, terrible expression; the mouth was unusually small, but the lips wore an impress of power; everywhere youthful beauty was blended with fierce, almost superhuman, heroic strength. So I saw him standing on the ship, his battle shout alone spreading terror within the walls of Ilium.”

“A dream bore me also into the Homeric world,” said Pericles, “but strangely enough, not among the heroes. I saw Penelope, yet stranger still, not as Homer describes her, the faithful wife waiting for Ulysses, but as the youthful bride in the light of a legend, which charms me more than all Homer has sung of her. You surely know the story of Ulysses’ courtship—how the Spartan king Icarius consented to give his daughter to Ulysses, hoping to induce the latter to settle in Lacedæmon, but when he did not succeed in this, sought to estrange his beloved child from the suitor; nay when Ulysses took away his bride to Ithaca, followed the carriage with his paternal pleadings, until Ulysses asked the maiden to say whether she accompanied him willingly, or would rather return to Sparta with her father. Penelope made no reply, but timidly veiled her face; upon which Icarius let her go and erected a statue of virgin modesty in the spot where this occurred. What a charming picture is this silent, blushing Penelope, veiling her face in maidenly embarrassment. And in that virginal form I saw her last night in my dream.”

Thus Pericles and Aspasia related the visions that had fallen to their lot, while resting on the dust of the Atridæ, and wondered half in jest, half in earnest, whether they concealed any omen or secret meaning.

Casting one more glance from the ruined citadel of Mycenæ upon the plain of Inachus and ancient Argos, they continued their journey, and began to cross the Argolian mountains into the Arcadian chain.

Pericles and Aspasia enjoyed walking for long distances over the paths of the wooded heights, engaged in familiar conversation.

Aspasia had hitherto been accustomed to rest only on cushions and carpets; she now learned that it was possible to recline on green turf, moss, herbs, and pine needles. Sometimes, when they sat down in a pleasant spot, a slave, at a sign from Pericles, brought one of the rolls of MS., containing Homer’s poetry, and Aspasia, at her husband’s request, read aloud to him in her clear, sweet voice. They had not wished to visit the remains of the ancient kingdom of the Atridæ without the poet, and indeed, since seeing these ruins, the bard appeared to them in all his reality.

From time to time a passing difference of opinion arose, when Pericles praised the patriarchal heroic days too enthusiastically, while Aspasia preferred to seek the ideal of human life in the present or even the future.

“I find a remarkable lesson in Homer,” Pericles said—“namely that men were once animals, and gradually became human beings. We see in his writings, especially in the Odyssey, how the transformation gradually took place. Everywhere he lays special stress upon the victory of humanity over what is rude and animal. Everywhere we see this struggle of humanity against the still unconquered remnants of brutishness. He shows us in the savage Læstrygones and Cyclopes, what we once were. He describes these fierce barbarians in contrast with noble human feelings, compares the cannibals with the hospitable Phæacians, and to guard mankind from any relapse into brutishness, associates it as closely as possible with the divine nature. Pallas Athena, the goddess of wise human judgment, energy ennobled by humanity, is the constant companion and guide of his heroes. Humanity is what he preaches, humanity in contrast with brutishness. With him pure humanity is coined into pure poesy. Every object floats in a pure, clear atmosphere. Lofty simplicity never spoke more eloquently from any lips.”

Here Aspasia interrupted Pericles’ praise.

“Pardon me,” she said, “a word has escaped you, which I cannot let pass, and you perhaps will gladly retract. Homer is neither plain nor simple, at least not in the sense that some of the sculptors were, who preceded Phidias. With Homer, to use an old comparison, poetry sprang fully matured from the brain of Zeus. His language is broad, rich, sonorous. His descriptions are sometimes as pompous as they are vivid, and there are passages in the Iliad and Odyssey whose rhetorical magnificence of expression no later poet will surpass. And his eloquence! Are not the speeches with which the angry Achilles is persuaded to return to the battle, and the answer he makes, masterpieces? Not merely in consequence of their vigor; by their arrangement and striking force of demonstration they will remain models of perfect oratory.”

“What you say is true!” said Pericles. “Yet Homer, in a certain sense, possesses what I call sublime simplicity. Perhaps it is the secret of the highest art, to permit this lofty simplicity to echo through the cultivated magnificence of style, and blend primeval freshness with the maturity of the present.”

After a journey of several days, the travellers found themselves in the midst of the rough mountainous portion of Arcadia. They were accompanied through the hilly region by native shepherds, who not only acted as guides but, armed with clubs and spears, served also for guards. Amid the solitude of the mountains they saw eagles circling in the clouds above them, beheld other birds with sharp talons and crooked beaks fighting and screaming on the jagged rocks, saw flocks of cranes, starlings, and daws flying before the hawks that darted down upon them from the peaks. Here and there the blows of axes and the crash of ancient trees, falling under the hands of wood-cutters, resounded from the forest depths. Not one of the carnivorous animals, which usually only emerge from their dens at night, crossed their path, but they found the ground in the Arcadian woods covered with bright-eyed tortoises, creeping clumsily among the plants and stones, or basking in the sun.

Thus Pericles and Aspasia wandered through the quiet country, and while supposing that they calmly regarded everything new and strange as a temporary and chance event, all these things had a momentous secret influence, fitted into their lives like a previously-ordained link, and without perceiving or suspecting it, they were going forward to meet changes, transformations, decisions in their future destiny.

Passing over lofty plateaus near the clouds, the travellers often obtained wonderful views of Hellas, and sometimes saw the peaks of snow-clad mountains glittering on the most distant horizons. One day they set out before dawn, and traversed summits still veiled in darkness.

“Are you shivering in the chill mountain air?” Pericles asked the shuddering Aspasia.

“No, I am trembling in the presence of this dark, dreary, mountain solitude,” she replied. “It seems as if we were no longer on Hellenic soil, and had been deserted by all the Hellenic gods.”

At this moment Pericles’ eye rested on a tiny golden cloud visible in the extreme north. He directed Aspasia’s attention to it. The cloud grew larger, but remained in the same spot and stood forth in wonderful relief against the monotonous grey of the rest of the night sky. Gradually the upper surface gained remarkable distinctness and firmness of outline, which no longer resembled a cloud. It looked like a far golden meadow, where happy gods wandered. Indeed, when morning dawned and the lines of more distant mountain ranges appeared, this light spread downward, and the travellers perceived that they had beheld no motionless cloud, but the snow-clad peak of a distant mountain in the north, illumined by the rays of the still invisible sun.

“That, I believe, is the summit of the Thracian Olympus, the mountain of the gods!” said Pericles gaily. “Do you see, the Hellenic gods have not abandoned us. From the spot, where they sit throned in endless bliss, they send through a cleft in the mountain a greeting to this cheerless solitude.”

“They want to tell us not to forget them and all other beauty in the gloomy Dorian country!” replied Aspasia smiling.

The travellers soon passed from the bare lofty plateaus into the tree-shaded western portion of Arcadia, filled with bubbling springs. Here countless little streams, now dashing swiftly, now murmuring gently, flowed down from the wooded slopes. Even in the heat of summer, the luxuriant vegetation on the meadows was always fresh and unscorched. Elms, beeches, plane-trees and oaks towered towards the sky. The valleys resounded with the lowing of cattle. Everywhere the travellers perceived that they were in the domain of the rude god, who flung about his shoulders the red skin of the lynx, and to whom on all these heights, the sacrificial blood foamed from the shaggy breasts of rams.

Everywhere his statue, carved from the wood of the elm-tree, was erected; everywhere traces of him appeared. Here they saw a shaggy wild boar skin, hung on a plane-tree in his honor, yonder the antler of a stag, nailed to a beech-tree, in token of gratitude. Beside the springs were statues of nymphs, erected by the shepherds: offerings hung near them.

Pericles and Aspasia wandered through lofty oak forests, flooded with golden light by the rising or setting sun. Sometimes a sunbeam glowed through the boughs of a tree like a carbuncle, scattering around it long shafts of light, that seemed as if they might be grasped in the hands. All this was new and strange to them; they had never seen anything like it.

One day the pilgrims, while passing through a forest that shaded their path for miles, noticed an unusually loud rustling in the branches.

“I remember having heard of an Arcadian oak forest called Pelagos, the sea, on account of the loud rustling of its countless tree-tops, which resembled the surges of the ocean,” said Pericles. “Perhaps it is the very wood through which we are walking.”

But the native guides replied, that this rustling in the heart of the forest was unusual, and predicted a storm, at the same time pointing to the sky, which a short time before had been perfectly clear, but had now grown lustreless, like tarnished steel. The travellers quickened their pace to reach the spot where they intended to spend the night, before the tempest burst. But the rustling of the trees soon changed into a wild roar, and the tops began to crack. A few small black clouds, heavy with rain and lashed by the wind, swept over the misty gray sky. The sun, a short time before so radiant in its golden light, stood like a sulphurous yellow ball above the mountains, whose peaks ever and anon were illumined by a livid glare. The hurricane bowed the trees almost to the ground, sweeping leaves, sand, and little twigs whirling before it. Single drops began to fall, and a few minutes after a torrent of rain, mixed at first with hailstones, came pouring down. The travellers hastily took refuge under the branches of a mighty oak. Suddenly a peal of thunder shook the mountains, flash followed flash, clap followed clap, and the winds from all quarters of the heavens seemed to meet. The blue flashes of lightning appeared to cross each other over the heads of the terrified travellers, and the thunder found an echo in a hundred valleys and ravines. Meanwhile the rain poured incessantly, the wind raved, birds of prey shrieked, and from the distance the howl of a wolf was heard.

The travellers gazed anxiously from their shelter under the leafy roof of the oak out into the tempest surrounding them on all sides.

Suddenly a flash of lightning, darting from a black cloud that hung over the crest of a jagged mountain, struck one of the tallest trees in the forest. In terrible splendor, the giant trunk burst into a red blaze, and in an instant was wrapped in flames from top to bottom; a shower of sparks flew from the crackling boughs, and a smell of sulphur pervaded the air. From the burning oak the flames leaped to other trees, and already threatened the travellers’ shelter. The Arcadians promised to guide the fugitives to the nearest settlement, where they could spend the night, and hurrying over the pathless ground, they followed them downward.

After a time the force of the rain abated; but they heard the dull roar of the swollen torrents rushing from the heights into the valleys. Pebbles, sand, broken boughs, and fragments of rock were washed away by the waters and hurried down into the depths.

Meantime evening had closed in, but while the travellers hastened through the wooded region, the storm ceased. The clouds were soon dispersed by the wind, and the moon smiled calmly above the forest, where the fierce battle of the elements had just raged.

The fugitives now reached a large opening in the trees, a hill covered with vegetation, stretching down over a gentle slope. A singular panorama was disclosed in the stillness of the night. On every side the jagged mountain peaks towered upward in the light of the moon, which sometimes shone brightly from the clear sky, sometimes dimly through floating clouds. The eye had a wide prospect to grasp, and the weary pilgrims walked on as if in a waking dream. In the centre of the clearing were the enclosures and buildings of a shepherd’s farm. As the travellers approached an armed man, dressed in skins, who evidently guarded the premises against the attacks of wild beasts, came forward to meet them. Two huge dogs ran barking by his side.

The Arcadian guides quickly explained matters to him, and asked hospitality for the Athenian travellers. The watchman, driving away the barking dogs by throwing stones at them, led the strangers behind a wall, protected by a hawthorn hedge, which enclosing the farm-house formed a spacious court-yard, where a fire was burning. The owner of the farm, a simple shepherd, came out, welcomed the guests without asking their origin, names, or the goal of their journey, and ordered a wether to be killed and roasted for their entertainment.

After thus refreshing the travellers, he gave the slaves quarters for the night in the barns, but he and his wife resigned their own chamber to Pericles and Aspasia, preparing a fresh couch for them by strewing small branches and dried herbs on the floor, and spreading soft fleeces over them. For coverlids he gave them several goat-skins, and his own cloak.

The changing incidents, little adventures, and even the discomfort of a journey increase instead of lessening the enjoyment of travellers. The mere change of scenes and occurrences charms, and the pure breezes of heaven bestow on the weary not only strength and refreshment, but cheerful spirits.

Pericles never felt happier than in the shepherd’s hut, before the wretched couch. Aspasia’s silvery laughter blended strangely with the idyllic lowing of the cattle from the stalls.

“How many wonderful things the gods, in whom we trust while travelling, bestow!” said Pericles. “A few days ago we had an ancient royal sepulchre for a sleeping room, and to-day it seems as if we were about to experience the adventures of Ulysses. Homer’s spirit has hovered around us since we crossed the isthmus; I believe we shall become transformed during our wanderings, and when we return never suit the refined, almost effeminate Athenians!”

When Pericles and Aspasia, roused by the barking of the dogs and the prolonged lowing of the cattle, rose from their couch and went out into the spacious court-yard, they saw the rude shepherd lads going to the stalls. A large shaggy dog was playing with a tortoise he had found in the wet grass. Barking and leaping, he seized it sometimes by the paw and sometimes by the snout, and dragged it around until it lay dead. Another dog was fighting or rather playing with a ram. The ram struck at him with his horns, but the dog snapped at the ram’s beard or tried to bite his muzzle. A naked child sat by the spring, throwing pebbles at the sun’s disk, reflected in the water.

The herds of cattle now came out of the stalls; first, rejoicing in their strength, the draught oxen; the calves bounded bleating around their mothers. Two men, bearing crooked shepherds’ staffs, followed them, accompanied by two powerful dogs. Then, driven by boys, came the bleating goats. A shepherd caught the he-goat at the head by its long beard, and caressed it. “This good fellow,” he said to Pericles and Aspasia, “always gives warning on dark nights when a wolf or lynx creeps into the farm-yard, even if the dogs are asleep and neglect to drive the creature away.”

The lambs gathered around a brown-skinned girl, whose face was shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, and who held a crook in her hand. There was something about this maiden, which even at the first glance attracted attention, produced an impression which could not instantly be understood. But on looking more closely, scanning her figure and the miserable dress in which she was clad, she seemed like a shepherdess, scarcely distinguishable from any other, save by her braids of fair hair and the strange expression of her eyes. They were remarkably deep and dreamy, and seemed to be gazing, with a sort of childish surprise, even at the familiar world which surrounded her.

The lambs pressed bleating around and leaped upon her. One of the youngest, a snow-white little creature, licked the young girl’s out-stretched hand.

When the flock of lambs, led by the girl, had passed out through the gate of the court-yard, the hospitable shepherd approached Pericles and Aspasia, who learned from him that she was his daughter, his only child, and was named Cora. Then, assisted by his wife, Glycaina, he set before them various provisions from his country store.

Pericles asked his host if he would allow him and his party to remain a day in his house, as they greatly needed rest after the exertions of the last week.

The shepherd gladly consented, ran to his wife and said mysteriously:

“Glycaina, I shall always believe that the two strangers, who have come to our farm, are no common mortals. In their dignity and beauty of form, they seem like gods in disguise, as the divinities have often come to poor shepherds. Besides, they scarcely touch the food set before them.”

“And the slaves,” said Glycaina, “do you take them for gods too?”

“No,” replied her husband, “they eat and drink like human beings. But those two—well, no matter! Only entertain them as well as you can.”

The shepherd returned to his guests, led them about everywhere, showed them his stables, his store-rooms for fruit, his smoothly-polished milk-pails, bowls filled to the brim with whey, and hampers bursting with cheeses. Then he took them to see the white-toothed sows and sucking-pigs, praised their flesh, and fed them with acorns and cornels. When Aspasia looked as if she were tired and would like to sit down, the shepherd was instantly at hand to spread a spotted chamois-skin on the ground for her, smiling slily meanwhile, as if he wanted them to perceive he knew what treatment disguised goddesses expected from mortals.

Skins and heads of slaughtered wild beasts hung on the enclosure of the court-yard and the trees surrounding it, and after Pericles and Aspasia had looked at these, they went out into the open country and were left to themselves, breathing more freely in the spicy air of the hill-side. The mountains glittered in their robes of green, as if washed clean by the rain. The dewy blades of grass sparkled in the sun like polished swords. A flock of crows flew over the meadows as if absorbed in business, alighted on a solitary tree, and in a few minutes hastily rose again and were lost in the blue air. Shepherds with their flocks were seen wandering over the distant mountains. The valleys between were filled with white mist and vaporous fog, that floated like the waves of the sea, and in which the flocks descending from the heights seemed to plunge and vanish. Lambs and cattle were grazing in all the low-lands, and nimble goats climbed the rocky slopes. Ever and anon the music of reed-pipes and song, the shepherd’s pastime, echoed from the distance. The two loiterers heard from a certain spot sounds whose sweetness allured them. They turned in that direction, and found a group of shepherds listening to the best performer on the shepherd’s flute. But soon some one emerged from the circle of listeners to cope with him. As Pericles and Aspasia approached, the rival musicians took the reed-pipes from their mouths and almost dropped them, while all the shepherds looked amazed at the appearance of strangers. But when Pericles kindly invited them to continue their contest, and told them that he and his wife were Athenians, detained by a violent thunderstorm on their way to Elis, the shepherds resumed their contest with still greater zeal, and begged the Athenian and his wife to act as umpire.

Pericles and Aspasia were delighted with the music of the shepherds’ flutes, and wondered that among such rude, untaught people as these mountaineers, any art, however insignificant, could have been cultivated to such perfection.

Aspasia asked the shepherds if they did not understand how to vie with each other in pantomimic dances. They pointed to the youngest, a slender boy, who, at Pericles’ request, came forward, and with blended drollery and grace executed a rural dance, in which he imitated various occupations of country life.

“Couldn’t you try a dance in pairs?” asked Aspasia.

“If Cora would,”—he answered almost sadly, gazing mournfully into the distance.

“Cora?” cried the other shepherds laughing. “Foolish boy! Why do you talk of Cora? Cora cares nothing for you.”

The boy sighed and slipped away.

Walking farther on, Pericles and Aspasia reached the lambs’ pasture, a pleasant forest meadow surrounded with trees. Here they found Cora sitting among her flock. Some of the little white-fleeced ones forgot to graze, and preferred to rest, with their heads lying on her lap. Cora herself sat with bowed head, absorbed in gazing at a tortoise, which lay on her knee and seemed to answer the glance of the girl’s beautiful eyes.

“Where did you find that creature?” asked Pericles, who had approached with Aspasia. The girl had been so absorbed in her dreamy reverie, that she did not notice the two strangers until they stood before her. Then she looked up, measured them with a glance from her round, childlike eyes, and said:

“These creatures come creeping up to me of their own accord from the neighboring woods. This one, in particular, always returns, and has so little fear, that instead of hiding its neck and head when I touch them, it stretches them out as far as possible, and looks at me with its bright eyes. Old Baubo says Pan sometimes conceals himself under the form of a tortoise. I think,” the girl softly continued—“there is something mysterious about this one, for since it has constantly come out of the forest and spent the day with me and the lambs, the herd increases and thrives in a wonderful way.”

After being induced to talk, the Arcadian girl was easily led, by Aspasia’s questions, to continue her strange, childlike prattle. Charming to hear was her story of Pan, the woodland and shepherd god, how wonderfully the music of his flute echoed from the distance in the lonely mountains, how he was sometimes gracious, sometimes malicious. She also told of the goat-footed satyrs, who wandered through the woods, teasing with their mischievous pranks not only the nymphs, but the shepherdesses. One of them had once laid in wait for her, but she drove him away with a brand snatched from the watch-fire lighted in the forest. Then she spoke of the nymphs, who like the satyrs lived in the forest, and sometimes met mortals in the moonlight, which was a great misfortune, for whoever met a nymph in the depths of the woods was seized with madness, and could never be cured.

The young girl’s mind was filled with the marvellous legends and tales of her Arcadian native land. She spoke of wild swamps and horrible ravines, lakes cursed by the gods, in whose waters no fish thrived, of caves where evil spirits lurked, of strange sanctuaries of Pan on lonely mountain heights. The more horrible the girl’s stories became, the wider she opened her childlike, frightened eyes.

“In Stymphalus,” she said, “under the temple roof, hang the dead Stymphalian birds the hero Heracles slew. My father has seen them himself. And behind the temple stand marble statues of maidens with birds’ feet. The dead Stymphalian birds are as large as cranes, and when they were alive flew at men, hacked their heads with their beaks, and eat them. Their beaks were so strong that they could bite metal.”

From the lakes cursed by the gods, in which no fish could live, and into which even the birds that chanced to fly over them fell dead, Cora went on to the horrible waters of the Styx, which drip from desolate rocks in the most terrible mountain ravine of Arcadia. From the dreadful waters she spoke of the wild beasts in the mountain forests, and the hunts of the Arcadians for them. Then her eyes lost their timid, childlike expression, and a brave spirit sparkled in their depths. She told them how the shepherds, when a wild beast appeared near the farm, were compelled to watch out of doors through many a rainy night, how bright fires were kept burning in the yards, how the hungry roars of the beasts were heard from the forest in the stillness of the night, how all set out to follow its trail, or lurked in some hiding-place, and when it tried to leap over the wall of the enclosure, suddenly rushed out upon it with spears, fragments of rock, and firebrands until it succumbed, overpowered by the number of its assailants. Pericles and Aspasia were surprised at the expression of daring courage, that flashed in the shepherdess’ eyes while relating these tales, though her mind seemed to have no room for anything beyond the legend-fostered superstitions of her native land.

“It seems as if you yourself would not be unwilling to take part in such conflicts!” said Aspasia.

“Oh! I would do so gladly!” cried Cora. “Besides the malicious satyr, I have twice driven away with firebrands a wolf, that endeavored to approach my flock.”

“This girl reminds me,” said Pericles, “as she stands before us at this moment, of that famous daughter of Arcadia, Atalanta, who cast off by her father when a child, because he wanted sons only, was nursed by a she-wolf, reared by hunters and then, armed with spear and bow, lived in the Arcadian woods, a terror to wild beasts, a bold virginal huntress, who would yield to no tender emotion.”

“Are you always alone here with the lambs?” asked Aspasia. “Is there nothing you love, and would gladly have with you always?”

“Oh! Yes indeed,” said Cora, looking into her questioner’s face with the old expression of childlike wonder in her eyes. “I love the tortoise, that always gazes at me with its bright glance, and will perhaps suddenly be transformed and speak to me, for I sometimes dream of it at night, and then it always talks. I love the lambs too, and these well-known rustling trees, to whose murmur I listen for hours. I love the sunshine; but I also like the rain that comes plashing on the leaves, and the thunder that rolls so beautifully among the mountains. I love the birds, the larger ones, the eagles and cranes that fly over my head, as well as the smaller which sing among the branches. But most of all I love the mountains, especially in the evening when they glow with crimson hues, or at night when all is still, perfectly still, and their peaks stand so calmly in the white light.”

Pericles and Aspasia smiled. “We were mistaken,” said the former, “in supposing a shepherd maiden, who loves so many things, incapable of all tender emotions.”

Aspasia drew him aside, saying:

“How this simple Arcadian girl, who sits with the tortoise in her lap, waiting for it to change into the god Pan, would stare if she were suddenly transported to Athens. How drolly she would behave, if I placed her with the two young maidens I have adopted, and whom the Athenians have already begin to call my school.”

“She would appear like a raven among doves!” replied Pericles.

Yet they were both attracted by the girl’s prattle, which revealed an unusual degree of imagination and a peculiar phase of feeling. But Aspasia soon began to change places with the Arcadian, becoming narrator, instead of listener. She began to tell the shepherd girl about Athens, until Pericles broke off the conversation by asking her to continue their walk. They soon lost themselves in the forest. Noonday had come, the sun had dried the morning dampness and warming the depths of the woods, released all their spicy odors. In the meadows and clearings stood tall blooming plants, whose fragrance, blending with the aroma of the resin, made the mountain air refreshing, almost intoxicating. Cicadas chirped in the thickets under the scorching sun.

When they sat down to rest in the seclusion of the forest, the tortoises Cora loved crept up to them also; the large birds flew over their heads, and the smaller ones sang in the branches, the rustle of the leaves to which Cora listened for hours, murmured above, and Cora’s beloved sunshine played around them.

“The deep rustle of these Arcadian mountain forests,” said Pericles, “which seem to come from an infinite distance and die away again in endless space, fills me with strange awe. I never felt anything like it. I have never listened to the voices of a forest, carelessly passed by things which now suddenly seem to wish to say something to me. Look at the delicate threads shining in the sunlight, stretched from the tip of the wild-oats to the top of the blue bell-flower; have you noticed the wondrously fine silvery work of the spider? This Arcadian girl teaches us, that we can admire and learn to love things usually scarcely noticed, and which we enjoy unconsciously and therefore ungratefully, as we breathe.”

“Your mind opens too easily to new impressions, Pericles,” replied Aspasia. “An Arcadian child has infected you with a novel and unprecedented kind of love, a love for trees, passing clouds, and flying birds, and the perfume of the Arcadian mountain herbs perhaps already seems sweeter, than the fragrance of the Milesian rose-hedges.”

“Only admit,” said Pericles, “that this aromatic forest fragrance invigorates the heart, but amid the heavy odor of roses the mind at last becomes enfeebled. I really feel a breath of renewed life. When we once stood in the grotto of Pan on the Acropolis, and you despised the shepherd god, we did not suspect he would afterwards receive us so kindly as his guests, entertain us so hospitably. Peaceful happiness surrounds us here, and when I mentally transport myself from this primeval solitude to noisy Athens, the impetuous haste and restlessness of its citizens seem almost frivolous, compared with the divine repose of these shepherds on their lovely mountain slopes.”

“I only half share your enjoyment of the pleasures prepared for us by the hospitality of the shepherd god,” replied Aspasia. “These people are plain and coarse, the distant snow-capped peaks of the mountains chill me, and the nearer ones make me timid, as if they were about to fall upon me. The solemn, monotonous rustling of these lofty firs affects me unpleasantly, and seems adapted to awaken a gloomy, thoughtful, fanatical spirit in the human mind. I love open sunny plains, blooming meadows, shores with a wide view of the sea. I like the places where a cheerful spirit develops in beautiful maturity. You would apparently like to stay here with these shepherds, I on the contrary would fain take them all away with me, to make men of them. Well, do as Apollo did, when he once took a fancy to join the shepherds and tend flocks. Stay here! You can live like a cicada: be wise, passionless, bloodless. If you sometimes long for activity, you can weave snares for crickets, or push lime-twigs through the trees to catch birds, or drive the starlings and cranes from the grain fields, with stones hurled from a sling. Or, you can watch the lambs for Cora, who will accompany me to Athens.”

Pericles smiled. “So you really mean to take Cora away with you.”

“Of course I do,” replied Aspasia, “and hope you will not refuse your consent.”

Pericles was surprised. “My consent will not be withheld. But what is your object in the matter?”

“A jest,” replied Aspasia. “This comical Arcadian will serve to amuse me. It makes me laugh, whenever I look into her big, round, timid eyes.”

It was precisely as Aspasia said. She wanted to amuse herself with the young girl, see how oddly the superstitious, inexperienced shepherd maiden would behave, if suddenly transported into the midst of the super-refined life of Athens.

The illness of one of his slaves induced Pericles to remain the shepherd’s guest another day.

This was spent principally in the society of the brown-skinned shepherdess. Again Cora prattled, told shepherd tales, nay even sang some strange childish songs, composed by herself, like the following:

Down from the cliff the little brook, Plunges in merry play, Casting the while a laughing look, Where the deer, grazing, stray.

Sprinkling the flowers with its foam, The beasts it doth entice To slake their thirst. Let winter come, And it is pure, clear ice.

She also related the story of the love-sick Daphne, who pined away in sorrow and melancholy, and for whom all the animals mourned. But the sad tale did not find favor with Aspasia; she listened with a scornful smile on her rosy lips.

If in walking they came to one of the springs, surrounded by luxuriant herbage, which formed a clear crystal basin, and Aspasia wanted to look in, Cora anxiously pulled her back, saying that a person who looked into a spring sometimes saw the reflection of another image, that of a nymph, looking over her shoulder, and was then hopelessly lost.

When the sun stood in the zenith, and the notes of a reed-pipe were heard in the brooding noontide stillness, Cora said: “Pan will be angry again; he doesn’t like to be roused from slumber at noon, when he is resting, by the sound of a pipe or other instruments.” The music came from the shepherd lad, who requested by Pericles and Aspasia, had performed a rural dance the day before. He was well aware that Pan did not like the notes of a pipe at noon, yet always played when he saw Cora near, because he hoped to please her. But she reproached the poor fellow. Still, she had a kind heart, for she compassionately rescued a cicada, that had become entangled in a spider’s web.

The young girl listened earnestly, when Aspasia began to tell her about Athens.

During the conversations the former held with Cora, she intentionally described the life of the Athenian city in the most tempting colors. She disturbed the peace of this idyllic nature, awakened discord in the harmonious world of the child’s heart. Finally she invited her to accompany her to Athens. Cora made no reply, but seemed absorbed in thought.

Aspasia appealed to Cora’s estimable parents, and told them she would take their daughter to Athens, where she might expect a happy fate.

“If it please the gods!” said the honest shepherd. “If it please the gods!” replied the shepherdess. But they did not say yes. No matter how often Aspasia renewed her request for their consent, they only said:

“If it please the gods!”

The father and mother could not easily resolve to part from their only child, even if she had the happiest fate.

On the evening of the same day, Cora was suddenly missed after returning with her flock of lambs, and they searched for her a long time in vain. At last Pericles and Aspasia, who were standing near the entrance of the court-yard, saw the young girl coming up the slope. Her attitude and bearing were very singular, for she held both hands pressed firmly over her ears. A group of Pericles’ slaves stood outside the court-yard at some distance. When the girl had approached very near them, she suddenly removed her hands from her ears, seemed to be listening to their words, then started back, pressed her hand on her breast, and stood as if rooted to the earth.

The Athenians approached and asked the cause of her confusion.

“I asked Pan, whether it was the will of the gods that I should go with you to Athens,” she replied.

“How did you do that?” both inquired.

“Down in the valley,” said the girl, “is a grotto-sanctuary of Pan. The god’s statue, carved from oak, stands in the cave. All the shepherds go there, when they want to ask anything secret. They whisper the question in the god’s ear, cover their own with their hands until they come near people who are talking together, and then suddenly remove them. The first word heard is Pan’s reply, the god’s answer to the question whispered in his ear.”

“And what word did you hear first among those slaves?” asked Aspasia.

“Athens!” replied Cora, trembling with excitement.

“So it is Pan’s will, that I shall go to Athens,” she continued sighing.

“He will permit you to take your favorite tortoise,” said Aspasia smiling.

Cora’s parents came up.

“Pan wills that I shall go to Athens!” said the young girl in a sorrowful, but resolute tone. And she repeated the story of the oracle, for which she had gone to Pan’s grotto.

The shepherd and shepherdess heard the tale, looked at each other in perplexity, and then repeated, no less sadly than the young girl:

“Pan wills, that Cora shall go with the strangers to Athens.”

Then they went up to the weeping girl and kissed her.

“Cora will be rewarded for her obedience to the god!” said Aspasia. “She will often send messengers to bring you news and gifts, and when you have grown old, summon you to spend the rest of your days with her.”

“An omen happened in the house yesterday,” said the shepherd, “a snake that stole into the swallow’s nest on the roof, fell down on the hearth through the vent-hole for the smoke.”

Aspasia continued to speak encouraging, consoling words, and the father and mother at last yielded to the will of the gods, though with sore distress.

Mournfully the notes of the shepherd lover’s pipe echoed from the distance, while the shadows gathered more deeply around the quiet paths across the country.

All went into the court-yard together, to spend the night, which to Pericles and Aspasia was their last among the Arcadian mountains. They intended to set out at daybreak and continue their journey to Elis, where more important events awaited them, than in the quiet country of the shepherds.