CHAPTER IV.

THE GROTTO OF PAN.

Far and wide in cloudless blue, the horizon of peace extended over Athens. Her fame was constantly increasing, and no rival seemed to desire to assail her power. Urged by a mighty impulse, the Athenians set to work to execute the plans of Pericles and Phidias, as hurriedly as if they were afraid of losing the right moment. Skilful and ambitious art-workers flocked from all parts of Greece. Many sculptors were needed to carve the decorative portions of the buildings on the Acropolis. No small number of colossal gods were to be executed for the pediment of the temple of Pallas, and a long succession of emblematic groups for the metopes and frieze. Besides, the wealthy Athenians vied with each other in ordering from the sculptors statues for offerings, to be erected at the time of the opening of the grand new temple on the Acropolis, and the artists themselves strove to produce their best and most beautiful work for the same time and purpose. Countless laborers and carpenters were occupied in building the great wrestling school and Odeium, others toiled at the structures on the Acropolis. There was redoubled activity in the quarries of Pentelicus. Carts, drawn by mules and oxen, constantly moved from thence to the city. The declivity of the Acropolis continually resounded with the shouts of the drivers of the beasts of burden, for it cost a great deal of trouble to get the huge blocks of marble up the mountain. The Athenians showed the same activity in mining their noble metals in Laurium, and obtaining the excellent potter’s earth in their native soil, as was apparent in quarrying the marble at Pentelicus. What they did not possess, the merchantmen brought across the sea—cypress wood and ebony, and many an ore, dyeing materials and ivory from the distant East. The stone and wood required hewing, the ores melting, the ivory needed to go through the hands of persons, who prepared it for the purposes of art, and even understood how to make it flexible. The embroiderers in gold and silver were fully occupied in making all sorts of gifts and decorations for the temple, the rope-makers were obliged to furnish the builders, carpenters, and teamsters with ropes of unusual strength, the road-makers had to smooth roads for the transportation of these goods; thus there was work everywhere and all were drawn into the seething whirlpool of business. Foreigners were also hired for the hardest manual labor on the buildings, and for this purpose the grave, silent, persevering, patient Egyptian surpassed all others. As in erecting his native pyramids, so he toiled unweariedly as a hireling in a foreign land, steadily piling block on block, with the endurance of a beast of burden. At this period, all Athens was one vast workshop.

But the airy summit of the Acropolis was the real hearth-stone, where the sacrificial flame of the new effort to please the gods blazed most brightly—at once an ancient sanctuary and a strong citadel of the Athenians, around whose foot houses had gradually been built, uniting the settlement with the city. The height was made a stronghold only by its natural cliffs, and the thick walls which protected its northern and southern sides.

The scene presented at this time on the height was no attractive one. The spacious plateau seemed desolate and dreary. Old rubbish was lying about, with remains of destroyed works, selected for fresh use. Towards the southern declivity the earth was partly excavated, and at the bottom appeared a massive foundation of masonry, principally erected on the remains of an ancient building. Nearly all the rest of the summit was strewn with blocks of marble, which were being hewn into shape. Heaps of earth, stones and sand were piled up, workshops of various kinds adjoined each other in the rear of the building-ground. Everywhere resounded the thud of hammers, the creaking of ropes, the dull thundering noise of moving stones and beams, and the shouts of the overseers directing and urging the army of laborers.

But on the Acropolis, amid this confused and restless haste of creating stood a venerable monument of ancient times, like a grey half-ruined tower on the sea-shore, around which dash the stormy waves, eager to undermine and wash it away with their surges. This monument was the temple of the oldest religious worship of the Athenians; the mysterious gloomy sanctuary of the serpent-footed Erechtheus, the Attic ancestral hero, and that of the sea-god Poseidon, Pandrosos, the daughter of Cecrops, and Athena Polias. It had been half destroyed in the Persian war and only partially restored.

Strange were the legends of Erechtheus, which had descended from the earliest days of the Attic country and people. Pallas Athena had confided the new-born serpent-footed child of doubtful origin, to the daughters of King Cecrops, then reigning on the Acropolis, strictly forbidding them to open the chest. These daughters—their names were Pandrosos, Agraulos and Herse—urged by curiosity, did open it, found the little boy, completely enwrapped by the folds of a horrible serpent, and driven mad with horror at the terrible sight, flung themselves over the cliffs of the Acropolis. But the serpent child, Erechtheus, grew up under King Cecrops’ guardianship, and became the mighty shield of the Athenians. The temple contained his grave, and the demigod’s tomb was still regarded as a secure protection and shield to the land. The old hero’s soul, according to the belief of the Athenian populace, lived on in the form of a serpent, which was always kept in the sanctuary. The creature was considered the mysterious guardian of the temple, and every month honey-cakes were offered to it as a sacrifice.

A sacred spring gushed up within the precincts of the sanctuary; its water was salt, as if it had some subterranean connection with the sea, and the Athenians said that when the south wind blew, the low roar of the waves could be heard in its depths. It was no wonder, for this spring, according to the Athenians, sprang forth at a blow dealt by Poseidon’s mighty trident on the rock of the Acropolis, when he was battling with Pallas Athena for the possession of the Attic country. The marks of the god’s trident still remain on the rock and any one can see them. But Pallas Athena caused an olive-tree to shoot up opposite to the spring, from which have descended all the other olive-trees, the pride and boast of the Attic country. Through this tree, the wise goddess Pallas Athena gained the victory over the mighty wielder of the trident, in their rivalry concerning the bestowal of blessings. This ancient olive-tree was also contained within the precincts of the temple. The Persians burned it down, but the next morning, by the power of the gods, it had again shot up yards high. But the most sacred relic in the Erechtheum was the ancient statue of Athena Polias, made of the wood of an olive-tree, carved by no human hands, but fallen from Heaven. Erechtheus himself set it up, and it was to remain unchanged—so taught the priests who ruled in the temple—in that spot forever. A lamp burned perpetually before it in the gloomy hall of the sanctuary, and strange gifts were also treasured there—a statue of Hermes carved from wood, entwined with myrtle boughs that were always green, though the plant was rootless, dating from the time of Cecrops; a chain of singular form, made in ancient times by Dædalus; and trophies from the Persian war, coats of mail and swords of conquered Persian leaders.

In the open air, before the temple, stood an altar consecrated to Zeus. No living creature could be sacrificed there, no libation of wine poured out; nothing but cakes were offered on it to the ruler of the gods. Such was the “House of Erechtheus,” mentioned in Homer’s song. Irregularly built, on uneven ground, it stood near the northern declivity of the mountain, just opposite to the site where the magnificent new temple of Pallas Athena was being erected, and contained several different rooms devoted to the worship of the divinities previously mentioned.

A sacred rite was just being performed before the entrance of the temple.

The ancient wooden statue of Athena, the guardian of the city, was cleaned and newly dressed from time to time, and this act was performed in the most solemn manner. A religious festival is like any other, and this festival was now taking place. The garments and ornaments had been removed from the statue and a veil spread over it, while the robes were entrusted to persons specially appointed to wash them. During this time a rope was stretched around the temple, that no one might enter uninvited.

The purification finished, the goddess was clothed again, her hair—for the statue had long hair—carefully combed and arranged, and the body once more adorned with wreaths, diadems, necklaces, and ear-rings.

The persons, who had taken part in the sacred ceremony withdrew, and only two men remained standing on the steps before the entrance of the temple, engaged in conversation. One of them was the priest of the Erechtheum, Diopeithes. His expression was gloomy, and he cast sullen glances at the throng of workmen, whose noise and bustle seemed to him a blasphemous disturbance of the sacred ceremony.

The race of Eteobutadæ, from which, from the remotest times, the priest of Erechtheum and the priestess of Athena Polias had descended, was the oldest and for a long period the most distinguished priestly family in all Attica. But more recently, the Eumolpidæ, the priests of Demeter at Eleusis, with whose service the great mysteries were connected, had risen, as chief priests of the mysterious rites of Eleusis, to a still higher rank in the Attic hierarchy, and it was not without much secret indignation, that the Eteobutadæ endured the slight. But it was not only wrath that darkened the mind of Diopeithes, the priest then presiding over the sanctuary of the Erechtheum.

Casting an indignant glance at the works of the Parthenon, he turned to the man, who stood beside him with the submissive mien of a confidant and assistant, and who was none other than Lampon, the prophet, who had been summoned to the house of Pericles to interpret the miracle of the one-horned ram.

“Peace,” he began, “has departed from this sacred height since yonder noisy throng employed by Phidias and Callicrates, pursue their work here. It would not surprise me if the gods themselves shrunk ere long from the tumult of this foolish and impious performance, for the work those people are commencing is foolish and unholy and can never please the Olympians. Instead of first restoring the ancient and sacred House of Erechtheus, which has only received the repairs absolutely necessary since the crime committed by the Persians, this Pericles and Phidias begin to rear a magnificent and useless temple, directly opposite the old sanctuary. My glance, which hitherto wandered unimpeded from this spot over the wide landscape, now meets this structure set like a wall before my eyes. Oh! I know these despisers of the gods! They seek to force this venerable temple and its gods into the background, they wish to root out the old stern worship, and with it all true piety; they desire to put in the place of the old temple and ancient gods only those which will allure the eye by empty pomp and idle splendor, but awake no feeling of real devotion in the heart. What is this Parthenon to be? A temple without priests, without service, a showy piece of display, merely a goal for the Panathenaic procession, and beside it—yet no, not beside it, but within its enclosure—oh! shame! a treasury, a place for the preservation of the gold the Athenians gather by fair or foul means. Only as guardian of this gold do they place the goddess in the temple. And what a goddess! What is the purpose of this superb statue of gold and ivory? It will be a masterpiece of human hands. The ancient wooden statue, contained by this insignificant temple, was made from no mortal’s thirst for fame—its origin was divine, and through the favor of the gods it became the property of the Athenians.”

“These are presumptuous times,” assented Lampon. “Many no longer revere what is simple, ancient and sacred, and soon the human race will dimly aspire to rise above the gods.”

“But Pericles and Phidias, who have persuaded the Athenians into the new course, do not know one thing, of which we priests of Erechtheus are aware, and dwelling on this height are in a position to know before other mortals,” replied Diopeithes in a low, mysterious tone. “That very spot yonder, where they mean to erect the carved pediment, and main entrance of their new temple, is one of the places that people say, ‘belong to the nether world,’ the places where no bird ever alights, or if it does, falls dying, as if struck by a poisonous breath. Let the upstarts build on that unhallowed spot; they will receive no blessing, only a curse. It is the heritage of the men of Athens, to act imprudently. Few know why, but we Eteobutadæ do—Poseidon, conquered in the conflict with Pallas Athena, and furious at his repulse, decreed unwise counsel to the Athenians forever.”

“They are unwise,” replied Lampon, “and so are their leaders, because they listen to the teachings of those, who call themselves philosophers and friends of truth. The Athenian nation follows Pericles, but Pericles himself obeys Anaxagoras, the Clazomenian, who investigates nature, and because he thinks he can ascribe everything to natural causes, considers the gods unnecessary. A short time ago I was summoned to the house of Pericles to interpret a miracle that had occurred there. A ram with only one horn, which grew in the middle of its forehead, had been born on the statesman’s country estate. I did what I was asked to do, according to the rules of my art, and Pericles might well have been satisfied with my prediction. But I received little thanks, for Pericles remained perfectly silent, and Anaxagoras, who chanced to be with him, smiled as if my conduct was absurd and my words were foolish.”

“I know him,” replied Diopeithes, a gloomy fire flashing in his eyes. “I know the Clazomenian well; some time ago, on the road to the Piræeus, I entered into a conversation with him about the gods and divine things, and soon perceived that his wisdom was of the pernicious sort. Such men ought not to be tolerated in our community. Or have matters gone so far, that the laws of Athens are powerless against those who deny the gods. No, most of the Athenians still shudder at that name.”

Such were Diopeithes’ words, then glancing towards the right with his keen eyes, he pointed to some men, who engaged in eager conversation, were coming up the only path leading over the western side of the mountain to the summit of the Acropolis. “It seems to me,” said the priest, “that I see yonder the unwise counsellor of the Athenians, the friend and patron of Anaxagoras. By his side, if my eyes do not deceive me, is one of the new-fashioned play-writers, who fancy they have vanquished the venerable Æschylus. But who is the third person, the delicate supple youth, walking on the other side of Pericles?”

“Probably the young cithara-player from Miletus, to whom Pericles, I hear, has taken a great fancy, and who is now seen with him everywhere.”

“A young cithara-player from Miletus?” said Diopeithes, scanning the graceful figure of the Milesian youth, “hitherto I have only known that Pericles was an admirer and lover of the other sex; I now see that he understands how to appreciate beauty everywhere. This youth, by the gods, is worthy to serve as cup-bearer not only to the so-called Olympian, Pericles, but the supreme Ruler of Olympus, Zeus himself. I only marvel that the dignified Pericles has no scruple about showing himself with his chosen favorites, before the eyes of the Athenians.”

While the priest of Erechtheus was scanning the youth walking beside Pericles, with looks of mingled disapproval and longing, the trio came nearer, and the youthful figure Lampon had pointed out to Diopeithes as a cithara-player from Miletus, appeared still more charming. The tragic poet, who also accompanied Pericles, often cast a beaming glance at the lovely vision, and addressed himself by preference to the Milesian. This poet himself was a handsome stately man, whose pure brow seemed steeped in a bright, etherial light.

Callicrates, the admirable master entrusted with the actual execution of what Phidias and Ictinus had designed in seclusion, now stepped out of the throng of laborers to greet the new-comers. This man plainly showed that his business was to walk constantly to and fro in the scorching sun, amid the blocks of stone and the crowds of perspiring workmen on the summit of the Acropolis. His face was sunburnt, its hue scarcely distinguishable from the dark beard that framed it. The piercing, sparkling eyes, no less dark in hue, seemed as it were to have fairly absorbed the sunlight. His garments differed very slightly from the dress of those who surrounded him. The piece of cloth he called his chiton, which had become very doubtful in color, hung negligently about his bronzed limbs. Even as he now passed to and fro amid the throng of workmen on the Acropolis, he had previously walked for many a year about the long central wall, which he had recently finished, to the delight of Pericles.

The latter asked Callicrates several questions in reference to the progress of the work, and Callicrates pointed with satisfaction to the now completed foundation, made of huge blocks of stone. “You see,” said he, “the bottom is finished, with the three huge marble steps that surround it. Look how it extends along nearly the whole southern side of the mountain. The spaces between the pillars are already marked out, as well as the outlines of the inner walls, the room for the statue of the goddess, the rear building for the treasure. Everything will of course first be hewn in the rough; for the more delicate work will not be added till the whole building is fitted together, and you can form no idea of it from its present appearance. You must have patience, for Ictinus is a loiterer and Phidias too—”

“I can easily imagine,” said Pericles, “that Ictinus would never do enough himself—”

“And Phidias too,” replied Callicrates almost angrily. “They sit whispering together for days with their written pages and tablets before them, calculating and measuring, discussing the proper intervals, curves, and inclinations of the pillars, and the proportions of the cornice and capitals. Then they go down to the temple of Theseus and measure the columns and entablature, and even then are not satisfied, because they find the entablature too heavy, the spaces between the pillars a little too wide, and say we must do better here. Then they calculate again, and perhaps quarrel a little, and make sketches to try how much larger the pillars at the corner should be made than the others, and how much less the distance must be between the corner pillars and those adjoining, than the space that divides the rest, and how much must be borrowed here from the Doric and yonder the Ionic order, and how many lines smaller and larger this entablature or that cornice or capital or frieze must be made, that the whole may harmonize most beautifully and gracefully, in a manner never seen before.”

“Who would not envy an Ictinus his trained artist-eye!” cried Pericles.

“It’s a falcon’s eye!” said Callicrates. “You can’t imagine how wonderfully increased and developed is this man’s perception. He always carries a rule in his hand, but has little need of it, for he can measure and calculate at sight. The innate surveying power of his eye is so amazing, that he accurately distinguishes effects, of which unskilled persons have scarcely an idea, scarcely a vague impression. He sees, so to speak, with feeling eyes, and feels with seeing fingers. And it’s just the same with Phidias. He is in the habit of saying, and you have doubtless heard the words from his lips: ‘Give me a lion’s claw, and I’ll restore the whole animal.’ Thus keen and well-trained is Phidias’ observation of things and appreciation of everything we call form, shape, and harmony.”

“Why should not the Hellene’s eye become as sensitive as his ear?” said the poet. “We poets and musicians”—he glanced at the young cithara-player as he spoke—“feel the most trifling subtleties and differences of rhyme, and hear half tones lost on the ears of laymen.”

“It is very praiseworthy of Ictinus and Phidias,” continued Callicrates smiling, “to plan everything so thoroughly and then put it into lines and figures on the papyrus. But just consider that all this delicately-devised work, which these men invent and sketch on the papyrus, must be executed—executed in massive, refractory material. There is the tablet on which Ictinus has marked for me the measures and calculations, as he desires to have them—and these I must now realize in stone, on a colossal scale, and yet exactly retaining all the elegancies of the design, as if I had carved them with a delicate knife out of ebony.”

“It is easy to understand the labor it must require, to fix all the delicate proportions and straight lines of this sketch in the gigantic characters of masonry,” said the poet.

“Straight lines, do you call them?” cried Callicrates, with an almost scornful laugh. “Straight lines! Would to the gods they were! Any bungler could accomplish straight lines. But there are no such things in the proportions of Phidias and Ictinus. Do you know what Ictinus says? To appear straight, the lines in large proportions must never really be so. Look at the foundations yonder, and the steps leading to its upper surface. You probably suppose, that this surface really runs as straight as it appears to your eye? You are mistaken. The line rises towards the centre, in a slight curve, imperceptible to the eye, yet intended to produce a certain effect upon it. Later you will find this same slight, imperceptible curve in the entablature, though in a smaller degree, nay Ictinus desires to have it carried out everywhere, in the whole external architecture of the temple, and as from pediment to foundation there must be nothing really horizontal, so too he will tolerate nothing absolutely perpendicular, and the lines slightly curved outward are equally inclined within. Without this play of slight curves, calculated upon the laws of vision and the refractions of light, Ictinus says that the whole building would appear destitute of aspiration, and instead of seeming to soar upward freely and easily, would look as if it were sinking into the ground. Value as you choose these and similar art-secrets of the two masters, but consider—to mention only one thing—how I am to contrive that, in spite of these slight curves outward, and imperceptible inclinations inward, the various blocks of stone and capitals of the columns, each differently calculated and carved according to these delicate proportions, are yet to be joined exactly, neatly, and firmly?”

“You will accomplish it, worthy Callicrates,” said Pericles eagerly; “I know you! Let us leave Phidias and Ictinus to measure and calculate with their keen eyes; there is really a secret, divinely-inspired vision, which these men follow in their proportions and calculations. The gods have placed it in their minds, to perceive by what ways and means they can enable us to enjoy the spectacle, of which they have had as it were a mental foretaste.”

“So long as one stone here remains upon another,” said the poet, “the sight that divinely-inspired men, like these two, have first beheld with the eyes of their souls, and then grasped and fixed in numbers and proportions, will master the heart and senses of the observer.”

“But not the heart and senses of yonder watcher,” rejoined Callicrates smiling, after gazing keenly at the priest of Erechtheus and his companion, who still stood, looking and listening, at the entrance of the Erechtheum.

“He constantly watches our work with furious eyes,” continued Callicrates, “but I have no scruple about returning the glance. We irritate each other, and there is an open feud between my laborers and his temple-servants.”

“We ought not to wonder if the priest of Erechtheus is angry,” said Pericles. “Instead of restoring his ancient sanctuary, we are building a new one before his eyes. But who would venture to alter the venerable mystery of that gloomy temple?”

“Yes,” said Callicrates, “better let the owls continue to build their nests there. They perch under the old roof day and night. The men yonder wish to know nothing about Phidias’ new statues of the gods. They want no new divinities, but wash and comb the old ones, put on fresh finery, and think they might go on so forever. These people would rather see Pallas Athena still represented with the owl’s face.”

“There come Phidias and Ictinus,” said the poet, looking the other way. “We will now hear what they themselves—”

“You won’t hear much,” replied Callicrates. “Phidias is taciturn, as you know, and Ictinus grows angry with anyone who tries to make him talk about his artistic endeavors. Both men are loquacious only to each other, but to no one else in the world.”

Meantime Phidias and Ictinus approached. The latter was an insignificant little man, with a somewhat bowed figure. His features were flabby, his face yellow, and his eyes dull, as if from much watching and thought. Yet in his gait there was a restless haste, which betokened excitability and a mobile soul.

Phidias shook hands with Pericles and the poet, and cast a somewhat peculiar glance at the handsome cithara-player with the youthful, rounded limbs. He seemed to recognize him, and yet not to desire to do so. Ictinus wore the appearance of a man who rarely desires to meet others, and seemed disposed to continue his walk with Phidias.

But the poet wished to test the truth of what Callicrates had said, and therefore turned to the busy, hurrying man with the question: “Master Ictinus, will not you as an expert, decide a question which occupied Pericles, myself, and this young cithara-player a short time ago. We were talking of the motives which may probably induce you architects not to let the architrave rest directly upon the shafts of the columns, but interpose a somewhat broader piece, either in the form of the Doric capital or Ionic spiral? Some maintained it was done to give the appearance of having the weight of the entablature press the bulk of the pillars asunder—crush them out broader on the top as it were—”

Ictinus laughed. “So the columns are made of clay, dough or butter?” he cried sarcastically. “Fine columns those—columns of clay, that allow themselves to be crushed broader, ha—ha, ha—fine columns!”

“Do you jeer at the interpreter?” cried the poet. “Then tell us yourself why you do so?”

“Because the contrary would be ugly, hideous, insufferable.”

Ictinus uttered these words curtly, cast a hasty glance from his grey eyes at the questioner, and slipped away.

The men laughed.

“I see,” said Pericles, turning to Phidias, “that the work goes on bravely. That is delightful. We must toil quickly and with zeal, avail ourselves of the favorable times, which may perhaps never return. The outbreak of a great war would stop everything, and we might soon lack means to complete what we had begun.”

“Already the huge groups for the pediment, as well as the carvings for the frieze and metopes, are being eagerly executed in the workshops from sketches and clay models,” answered Phidias.

“Don’t you intend to engage the assistance of Polygnotus,” asked Pericles, “that here as well as in the Theseum, brush and chisel may both take part in the execution of the designs on the metopes? I remember you do not think most favorably of the sister art of the brush, which certainly limps a little clumsily behind the giant strides of the chisel.”

“When a youth, I myself tried the brush,” replied Phidias, “but it did not satisfy me. I wanted to produce what I secretly beheld, in full, round, pure outlines, and that I could do only with the chisel.”

“Very well,” said Pericles; “then let only the purest art have a place in the new temple of Pallas, that it may be a monument of the best we can do. We will seek to make Polygnotus amends on some other occasion. Afterwards we will try what can be done for the ancient sanctuary of yon angry priest, and also for the half-completed temple of Wingless Victory, planted so boldly on the highest ledge of rock! I would fain, when I quit this world, leave nothing for any Athenian to desire. To know that so many are still dissatisfied with me is a painful thought. Do you smile? True, the grave, stern Phidias desires only to satisfy himself—”

“That is just the hardest thing!” interrupted Phidias.

“Do you fear no enemies?” continued Pericles. “Beware, we have no lack of them. You too are envied, and what you create does not please all.”

“Pallas Athena never suffers me to tremble,” replied Phidias in the words of Homer, pointing to the huge bronze statue of the goddess, towering sublimely into the pure, clear air amid the confusion of old and new rubbish on the Acropolis, and then turned away to seek Ictinus.

Pericles, the tragic poet, and the youth from Miletus continued their walk across the summit of the hill.

The poet, himself a master in the use of stringed instruments, was engaged in pleasant conversation with the young musician. The youth expressed himself with so much subtlety and penetration, that the other at last said in astonishment:

“I knew the Milesians were considered very agreeable, but did not know they were so wise.”

“And I,” replied the youth, “always supposed the tragic poets of Athens to be wise, but did not imagine they could also be so agreeable. I drew my inference of the poets prematurely from their works. How happens it that your tragic poetry has hitherto taken so little account of the gentler emotions of the human heart? Everything is magnificent, sublime, frequently awe-inspiring, but you do not give the tenderest, yet mightiest passion love, the place it deserves. Anacreon and Sappho, the former gay, and the latter melancholy, both say this of you; why have the tragic poets alone hitherto disdained, while aspiring to the grand and superhuman, to touch the notes of this tender, human emotion.”

“My young friend,” said the poet smiling, “the winged god could have found no one more worthy to espouse his cause than you. A few days ago the idea passed through my mind of a tragedy, in which room might be given to the divinity, whose advocate you have made yourself. I don’t know whether the fleeting thought would have returned; but it is fortunate that I am reminded of it in this way. I now really intend to write that tragedy, so greatly have your words, and still more your sparkling eyes, kindled my enthusiasm in behalf of the cause you represent.”

“Admirable!” replied the youth; “I would have the most fragrant garlands ready to crown you on the day your tragedy won the victory.”

“A wreath of red roses!” exclaimed the poet, “because I intend to praise all-conquering Eros.”

“Certainly. Look, the grateful winged god seems to wish me to gather the roses for the garland at once.” So saying, the supple, active youth swung himself up on a projecting rock, in whose cleft grew a huge bush, perhaps a century old, covered with blossoming roses.

“Take care, my young friend,” said the poet, “you know not on what an unlucky spot you stand! From the top of that rock the Athenian king threw himself into the sea, because his noble son, returning from his conflict with the monster, neglected on sighting Athens, to have white sails hoisted as a sign of life and victory. The foot can touch no spot on this hallowed height, where sparks from the past do not flash from the earth beneath the tread, and ancient legends whisper to the pilgrim.”

“Yet while the foot is trampling on the dust of the past,” said Pericles, “the glance can wander freely from this height, and revel in all the beauty and freshness of the present. You, my Milesian friend, who are so bold and active, follow us across the rock to the broad stone platform, into which the mighty wall of the Acropolis here expands.”

The youth laughed, hurried on in advance, and the three were soon standing upon the lofty outlook.

“Listen,” said Pericles, “to what the beautiful curve of this Attic coast, the radiant gulf, the islands, lifting their mountain peaks from the blue sea into the air, may have to tell you. Yonder, from the waves of the Saronic Gulf rises Ægina, whose riven cliffs concealed the wild ‘ant-men’ of ancient times; but to-day the temple of the Panhellenic Zeus, assembling our people to one of their most beautiful festivals, towers on the loftiest mountain of the island in woodland solitude. Nearer, on the right, Salamis, the cradle of heroes, blooms amid the same waves. But need their latest descendants blush before the shades of those immortal warriors, who sailed thence for Ilium? Did we not fight the most famous of all naval battles in yonder glittering strait, which now looks so peaceful? Northward, where Cithæron, Pentelicus, and Parnes lie like ramparts before Attica, stretching from the east to where Hymettus extends a hand on the south, the legends of our ancestors relate tales of lions, that lurked in the wooded ravines. But our fathers strangled the lions and ate their hearts roasted in the fire, that they might bequeath leonine strength and courage to their descendants. Perhaps it was through the lion’s courage thus inherited, that directly behind those heights, on the plains of Marathon, the most brilliant of all victories on land was added to the grandest victory on the sea. The lions and wolves of those ravines are slaughtered, the barbarians driven away forever from that wall of Attica, we peacefully quarry the magnificent Pentelican marble on the scene of the ancient lion hunts, and gather the honey of the famous bees of Hymettus. Yonder, behind Acrocorinthus, the vast mountain chain of Cyllene stands steeped in silvery mist, and if the veil of haze could be torn from the western horizon, the battlements of Corinth and the gleaming blue waters of the straits would doubtless be visible. But let us not forget the dignified greeting the Peloponnesus sends across Ægina and Salamis. Do you see that deeply-indented coast, with the rugged heights of Argolis, and behind them the mountains of Arcadia? Whenever I gaze across the monuments and scenes of Athenian renown, towards those mountains of the Peloponnesus, a strange impulse always seizes upon me and I feel as if I ought to grasp the hilt of a sword—it seems as if gloomy Lacedæmon stretched himself over the heights and glanced menacingly hither—”

“The eyes of statesmen and generals always wander thus into the distance,” interrupted the poet. “Should we not, instead of gazing at the far-off peaks of the Peloponnesus, first enjoy what is lying close before our eyes? Youth, don’t suffer yourself to be allured towards the Peloponnesus and its threatening mountains. Behold the bright picture of the undulating, sun-illumined interior, where countless boundary stones of the Attic districts stand in the fields, and everywhere glimmer the white villas of the Athenian, who, never weary of journeying, goes daily, if possible, from the city to inspect his fruit-trees and grain fields, and see how the slaves tend his cattle, lambs, and goats. How gracefully the roads wind in all directions through the villas, fields, olive-groves, public altars of the gods and stone monuments. Here they run to the Piræeus, yonder to Rhamnus and Marathon. But the finest of all is the road, bordered by silver poplars, olive and fig-trees, leading westward between countless gleaming white sanctuaries, to Eleusis, the holy city of mysteries. How radiant the city itself looks below us, stretching from the Ilissus to the Cephissus, crystal clear, but certainly short-lived little streams; they rise in the neighboring mountains and don’t even reach the sea, but content themselves with sprinkling the flower-gardens of the Athenians in rippling waves or spray, or squandering their young lives by dancing in a thousand fountains. Gardens planted by human hands flourish on the shores of the Ilissus; but a garden of nature, a lovely oasis of shade in the sunny land of Attica, are the valleys where the bright waves of the Cephissus glitter from amid the green foliage of the olive-trees. I proudly praise this region, for it is my native district, the province of Colonus. Your warlike friend Pericles would tell you, that in this district the finest steeds are raised, and it was for the magnificent wild foals of Colonus that the sea-god, in ancient times, invented reins; I say that in the valley of Cephissus no rude winds ever blow, the fig and grape flourish, fed by the purest dew, the narcissus, violet and yellow crocus bloom, and the twining ivy—”

The poet’s features glowed with animation, as gazing into the youth’s sparkling eyes, he praised the charms of his birthplace. At last he seized his hand, exclaiming: “Come yourself once into our beautiful province, or, still better, accompany me there, and spend the day at my country-house on the bank of the Cephissus; I’ll show you my citharas and lyres, and, if agreeable to you, we will make trial of each other’s skill in the use of stringed instruments and song, after the manner of the Arcadian shepherds.”

The young musician smiled, and Pericles, after a short pause, answered: “Some day I will myself act as a guide, and conduct Aspasios to your country house. You will need some one to act as umpire during your contest in music and singing.”

“Is the youth called Aspasios?” cried the poet; “the name reminds me of a beautiful Milesian, of whom I have heard lately.”

The cithara-player blushed.

This flush perplexed the poet, who was still holding the hand he had clasped to bid the youth farewell, and at the same time he became aware of a feeling, which he had doubtless had before, though unconsciously.

He suddenly felt distinctly that the young Milesian’s hand was very delicate, warm, and soft. A moment after, he was even positive that it was too dainty, warm, and soft to belong to a man’s arm, were he ever so youthful.

One half of the beautiful secret he read in crimson characters on the musician’s cheeks, the other half he held, so to speak, in his hand—

He was not mistaken. The hand he clasped was the fair Aspasia’s.

Pericles and the Milesian had met again during the month which had elapsed since their interview in Phidias’ house; first at the dwelling of the good-natured reveller, Hipponicus, who was a friend of Pericles, and afterwards very frequently, until at last they would gladly have been inseparable. Aspasia sometimes put on masculine attire, and accompanied her friend under the mask of “the cithara-player from Miletus.” She had gone with him in this manner to the Acropolis, and the tragic poet joined them on the way. A strange emotion had seized upon this most open and susceptible of all Greek souls. The poet had found himself ensnared by some charm, that was a mystery even to his own mind. The enigma was now solved. In his confusion he let the delicate hand fall, but quickly grasped it again, and turning with a significant smile to his friend Pericles, said:

“I see Apollo, the god of prophets and poets, still favors me. He has spared me the long journey to Delphi, and not even waited for my nightly slumber to appear before me in a dream with revelations, but suddenly bestowed upon me the gift of unerringly reading the hand, and especially determining from it sex, no matter how anxious the person may be to conceal it—”

“You were always a favorite of the gods,” said Pericles, “the Olympians have no secrets from you—”

“And they do well,” replied the poet. “I reckon among them the Olympian Pericles—”

“Whatever your chiromantic art may have betrayed to you concerning the sex of the cithara-player,” said Pericles, “it is certain that the Milesian has a right to wear masculine garb and assume a masculine name. It is woman’s nature to be always passive and receptive. This musician, on the contrary, has a thoroughly active and fruitful one, and you cannot approach without having it influence you and leave a germ in your soul.”

“I can attest that,” said the poet, “for with a few chance words uttered carelessly, as if in sport, he has just fanned a poetic spark into bright flames. Marvellous is the power of wise thoughts spoken by beautiful lips! How tempting it would be to expose oneself longer to such desirable influences! But the sun is sinking behind the heights of Acrocorinthus, and a nightingale, which I verily believe flew from Colonus to remind me to return home, is singing in yonder bush. It is a tolerably long distance, from the highest outlook of the Acropolis to yonder villa I see gleaming amid the olive-trees, on the slope of the little hill girded by the waves of the Cephissus. So I will take leave of you, and spite of the transformations that have occurred, which are more charming than all those our myths relate, I repeat my words: ‘Come to the province of Colonus!’ Flee thither, when the companionship of men grows wearisome, and spend a day in that beautiful solitude.”

“We will remember your words!” replied Pericles. “Meantime, let the Muse follow you to your solitude. In this rivalry of all the arts, tragic poetry must also aspire to the highest goal. You have conducted it from the harsh severity of your predecessors, to gentleness and pure humanity. Let your new work be worthy of the author of ‘Electra,’ that we may soon enjoy praising it as the mildest and ripest fruit of the genius of Sophocles.”

“Only let the spirit of this cithara-player hover over me,” replied the poet; “though I have never heard a note from his instrument, he has already bewitched me. It seems he has chosen the hearts of statesmen and poets, for the strings on which to play his melodies—”

So saying, the man with the clear brow and bright, sparkling, kindly eyes, pressed his friend’s hand, bowed to the disguised Milesian, turned and walked slowly down the Acropolis, but not without occasionally casting a glance behind.

“Fear nothing from this sharer of our secret!” said Pericles to Aspasia.

“I was just about to say the same thing to you,” replied Aspasia smiling.

“Did you see through this noble poet-soul so quickly?” asked Pericles.

“It is as bright and clear to the inmost depths, as the waves of the Cephissus,” replied Aspasia.

“But let us go down now,” she continued, “I feel as if I had absorbed all the heat of the summer afternoon, and my lips thirst for some refreshing drink.”

“Come!” said Pericles; “we need only turn a few paces to the right, outside the wall, and we shall have before us the Grotto of Pan, with its much-praised spring, which will afford your lips the desired refreshment.”

They descended a number of steps hewn in the rock, and reached the grotto with its spring, that bubbled from the earth before it.

It was the fountain of Clepsydra, whose waters sometimes entirely vanished, then suddenly appeared again.

Aspasia dipped some water in the hollow of her hand and drank, then filled her palm again and with sportive grace offered the clear, refreshing fluid to Pericles.

The statesman smiled and quaffed it.

“No Persian king,” said he, “ever drank from so precious a cup. Only it is so small, I was almost afraid of swallowing it with the draught.”

Aspasia laughed, and was about to answer the jest, but started in terror, for at that very moment she suddenly perceived a face peering out upon her with a sort of good-natured, boorish grin, from the back of the dusky grotto. Approaching nearer, she found a somewhat rudely carved statue of the god Pan, to whom it was sacred.

“Fear nothing!” said Pericles; “the shepherd god has a kindly nature.”

“But sometimes a touch of malice,” she replied; “the shepherds’ stories about him are very different.”

“At least he treated our courier, Pheidippides, very kindly in the mountain region of Argolis and Arcadia, where he dwells. The youth was running to Sparta, to summon the Lacedemonians to join the war against the Persians. Pan was pleased because, out of love for his native land, he rushed so breathlessly across the Argolian mountains, and obtained a good opinion of the Athenians, about whom he had not formerly troubled himself much. He came himself to aid us at Marathon.”

“Pan may be as good-natured as he chooses,” said Aspasia, “but this grotto is too pleasant for the peasant and shepherd god.”

“You are right,” replied Pericles, “even more so than you imagine, if the old legend is true that this very grotto was the scene of the most important bridal ever solemnized in the Hellenic world. Here, in the pleasant dusk of the grotto, Apollo, the God of Light, is said to have wooed Creusa, the rosy daughter of Erechtheus, and the token of their love was Ion, the ancestor of our Ionic race.”

“What?” cried Aspasia, in a half jesting, half earnest tone, “is this the cradle of the noblest Greek race, that which dwells in the provinces of Attica and on the strand of my home? And the virgins of Athens do not hang the walls of this grotto, day after day, with garlands of roses and lilies? Instead of the radiant god Apollo the rude Arcadian, a stranger from the gloomy, hostile mountains of the Peloponnesus, stands here with his broad, grinning face?”

“Why do you inveigh so warmly against the god of the forest and mountain solitudes?” replied Pericles smiling. “I know of none under whose protection a loving pair could meet more familiarly, than that of the giver of idyllic peace and joy—”

“Well,” interrupted Aspasia, “I am grateful to him for one thing at least, the cool shade he bestows upon me in his grotto.”

So saying, she removed the Thessalian hat from her head, and placed it on the brow of the shepherd god. Her beautiful, golden-brown locks fell over her shoulders.

“Oh, if I could only offer the cithara-player’s whole costume, like this head-covering, to honest Pan!” she continued. “It really burdens me. How long must I submit to this constraint? Oh, you men of Athens, when will you permit women to be women? Admit, Pericles, that you Athenians are not the most estimable of the sons of Ion, who owed his existence to this grotto. You have absorbed too much of the Doric character. You ought to bow before the descendants of the emigrants of your own race, who have developed on the coasts of Asia a purer, freer, more fiery—”

“Do we not do so?” said Pericles, with a significant smile, placing himself beside Aspasia, who had sat down to rest on a moss-covered stone in the grotto. “Do we not?” he repeated, drawing her head, crowned with perfumed waving locks, down on his breast.

“Pan is malicious!” replied Aspasia, “he promised refreshment in his grotto, but seems to be secretly increasing the sultriness of the evening with his breath—”

“Yes,” said Pericles, “the breezes laden with the perfume of thyme and wild roses waft an almost intoxicating fragrance.”

While the two companions were conversing, the blue sky had changed to glowing crimson, and Hymettus was completely steeped in rosy light. The sun had slowly sunk behind the mountains of Arcadia, and a faint flash of lightning quivered from time to time through the sultry air, out of the vaporous clouds floating above the slopes of Brilessus.

“Aspasia!” cried Pericles, “the message you, as a Greek woman, bring to the Greeks from bright Ionia, is flashing, like that summer lightning, full of blessings, into my soul, and through every mind in Attica! It must be realized; in the narrowest circles by you and myself, in the widest by the whole Athenian nation. We all feel a new strength, a new fire, and shall see Hellenic life soar upward to its highest goal.”

With these words Pericles imprinted a burning kiss on Aspasia’s lips. It was the same ardor, the same mighty impulse, the same bloom and beauty of life, which animated the hands of the warriors of Marathon, the chisel of Phidias, the stylus of Sophocles, the thunder of Pericles’ oratory on the Pnyx, and the impassioned kiss upon the lips of the fairest of Hellenic women.

When a pair like this, in whom is developed the purest, most luxuriant, and noblest flower of human existence, kiss each other, it is the festival and completion of the highest life, and a thrill of joy secretly quivers through the heart of the world from pole to pole—as the lightning flashed from the thunder-clouds above the slopes of Brilessus.

Souls meet like clouds charged with electricity.

But the clouds discharge their contents—souls cherish their ardor.

Pericles’ heart was full as he walked down from the Acropolis with Aspasia, by the glittering light of the stars. He drew the beautiful woman gently to his side, and glancing back at the gigantic statue of Phidias’ goddess, illumined by the moonbeams, said:

“Oh, Pallas Athena, lay aside your brazen helmet and let the nightingales from the valleys of the Cephissus build their nests in it.”