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  PHILOTHEA. A ROMANCE. The intelligible forms of ancient poets,

  The fair humanities of old religion,

  The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,

  That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,

  Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,

  Or chasms and wat’ry depths; all these have vanished—

  They live no longer in the faith of Reason!

  But still, the heart doth need a language—still

  Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.

  Coleridge. A Spirit hung,

  Beautiful region! o’er thy towns and farms,

  Statues, and temples, and memorial tombs;

  And emanations were perceived.

  Wordsworth. BY MRS. CHILD. Author of ‘The Mother’s Book,’ &c. BOSTON: OTIS, BROADERS & CO. NEW-YORK: GEORGE DEARBORN. 1836. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by PARK BENJAMIN. in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. Abbott Press. D. K. Hitchcock, 9 Cornhill.

  TO MY BROTHER,

  THE REVEREND CONVERS FRANCIS, OF WATERTOWN, MASS. TO WHOSE EARLY INFLUENCE I OWE MY LOVE OF LITERATURE, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY

  INSCRIBED.

  PREFACE.

  This volume is purely romance; and most readers will consider it romance of the wildest kind. A few kindred spirits, prone to people space “with life and mystical predominance,” will perceive a light within the Grecian Temple.

  For such I have written it. To minds of different mould, who may think an apology necessary for what they will deem so utterly useless, I have nothing better to offer than the simple fact that I found delight in doing it.

  The work has been four or five years in its progress; for the practical tendencies of the age, and particularly of the country in which I lived, have so continually forced me into the actual, that my mind has seldom obtained freedom to rise into the ideal.

  The hope of extended usefulness has hitherto induced a strong effort to throw myself into the spirit of the times; which is prone to neglect beautiful and fragrant flowers, unless their roots answer for vegetables, and their leaves for herbs. But there have been seasons when my soul felt restless in this bondage,—like the Pegasus of German fable, chained to a plodding ox, and offered in the market; and as that rash steed, when he caught a glimpse of the far blue sky, snapped the chain that bound him, spread his wings, and left the earth beneath him—so I, for a while, bid adieu to the substantial fields of utility, to float on the clouds of romance.

  The state of mind produced by the alternation of thoughts, in their nature so opposite, was oddly pictured by the following dream, which came before me in my sleep, with all the distinctness of reality, soon after I began to write this work.

  I dreamed that I arose early in the morning, and went into my garden, eager to see if the crocus had yet ventured to peep above the ground. To my astonishment, that little spot, which the day before had worn the dreary aspect of winter, was now filled with flowers of every form and hue! With enthusiastic joy I clapped my hands, and called aloud to my husband to come and view the wonders of the garden. He came; and we passed from flower to flower, admiring their marvellous beauty. Then, with a sudden bound, I said, “Now come and see the sunshine on the water!”

  We passed to the side of the house, where the full sea presented itself, in all the radiance of morning. And as we looked, lo! there appeared a multitude of boats, with sails like the wings of butterflies—which now opened wide, and reposed on the surface of the water; and now closed, like the motions of weary insects in July;—and ever as they moved, the gorgeous colors glittered in the sunshine.

  I exclaimed, “These must have come from fairy land!” As I spoke, suddenly we saw among the boats a multitude of statues, that seemed to be endowed with life; some large and majestic, some of beautiful feminine proportions, and an almost infinite variety of lovely little cherubs. Some were diving, some floating, and some undulating on the surface of the sea; and ever as they rose up, the water-drops glittered like gems on the pure white marble.

  We could find no words to express our rapture, while gazing on a scene thus clothed with the beauty of other worlds. As we stood absorbed in the intensity of delight, I heard a noise behind me, and turning round, saw an old woman with a checked apron, who made an awkward courtesy, and said, “Ma’am, I can’t afford to let you have that brisket for eight pence a pound.”

  When I related this dream to my husband, he smiled and said, “The first part of it was dreamed by Philothea; the last, by the Frugal Housewife.”

  PHILOTHEA. CHAPTER I.

  Here: let us seek Athenæ’s towers,

  The cradle of old Cecrops’ race,

  The world’s chief ornament and grace;

  Here mystic fanes and rites divine,

  And lamps in sacred splendor shine;

  Here the gods dwell in marble domes,

  Feasted with costly hecatombs,

  That round their votive statues blaze,

  Whilst crowded temples ring with praise;

  And pompous sacrifices here

  Make holidays throughout the year.

  Aristophanes

  The moon was moving through the heavens in silent glory—and Athens, with all her beautiful variety of villas, altars, statues, and temples, rejoiced in the hallowed light.

  The white columns of the lofty Parthenon stood in distinct relief against the clear blue sky; the crest and spear of Pallas Promachos glittered in the refulgent atmosphere, a beacon to the distant mariner; the line of brazen tripods, leading from the Theatre of Dionysus, glowed like urns of fire; and the waters of the Illyssus glanced right joyfully, as they moved onward to the ocean. The earth was like a slumbering babe, smiling in its sleep, because it dreams of Heaven.

  In the most ancient and quiet part of the city, not far from the gate Diocharis, was the modest mansion of Anaxagoras; and at this tranquil hour, the granddaughter of the philosopher, with her beloved companion Eudora, stood on the roof, enjoying the radiant landscape, and the balmy air.

  Philothea’s tall figure was a lovely union of majesty and grace. The golden hair, which she inherited from a Laconian mother, was tastefully arranged on the top of her head, in a braided crown, over the sides of which the bright curls fell, like tendrils of grapes from the edge of a basket. The mild brilliancy of her large dark eyes formed a beautiful contrast to a complexion fair even to transparency. Her expression had the innocence of infancy; but it was tinged with something elevated and holy, which made it seem like infancy in Heaven.

  Eudora had more sparkling eyes, lips more richly colored, and a form more slender and flexile. Her complexion might have seemed dark, had it not been relieved by a profusion of glossy black hair, a portion of which was fastened with a silver arrow, while the remainder shaded her forehead, and fell over her shoulders.

  As they stood side by side, with their arms twined around each other, they were as lovely a sight as the moon ever shone upon. Totally unlike each other, but both excellent in beauty. One might have been a model for the seraphs of Christian faith, the other an Olympian deity.

  For a few moments Philothea stood in earnest silence, gazing upon the bright planet of evening—then, in a tone of deep enthusiasm, she exclaimed: “It is a night to feel the presence of the gods! Virgin sister of Phœbus, how calm thou art in thy glorious beauty! Thou art filling the world with music, silent to the ear, but audible to the heart! Phidias has embodied the unbreathing harmony in stone, and we worship the fair proportions as an emanation from the gods. The birds feel it—and wonder at the tune that makes no noise. The whole earth is lulled by its influence. All is motionless; save the Naiades of the stream, moving in wreathed dance to the voiceless melody. Se
e how their shining hair sparkles on the surface of the waters! Surely there is music in this light! Eudora, what is it within us that listens where there is no sound? Is it thus we shall hear in Elysium?”

  In a subdued and troubled voice, her companion answered, “Oh, Philothea, when you talk thus, my spirit is in fear—and now too, all is so still and bright, that it seems as if the gods themselves were listening to our speech.”

  “The same mysterious influence impresses me with awe,” replied the contemplative maiden: “In such an hour as this, Plato must have received the sublime thought, ‘God is truth—and light is his shadow.’ ”

  Eudora drew more closely to her friend, and said, timidly: “Oh, Philothea, do not talk of the gods. Such discourse has a strange and fearful power when the radiant daughter of Zeus is looking down upon us in all her heavenly majesty. Even the midnight procession of the Panathenaia affected me less deeply.”

  After a few moments of serious silence, she continued: “I saw it last night, for the first time since my childhood; for you know I was very ill when the festival was last celebrated. It was truly a beautiful and majestic scene! The virgins all clothed in white; the heifers decorated with garlands; the venerable old men bearing branches of olive; the glittering chariots; the noble white horses, obeying the curb with such proud impatience; the consecrated image of Pallas carried aloft on its bed of flowers; the sacred ship blazing with gems and gold; all moving in the light of a thousand torches! Then the music, so loud and harmonious! It seemed as if all Athens joined in the mighty sound. I distinguished you in the procession; and I almost envied you the privilege of embroidering the sacred peplus, and being six long months in the service of Pallas Athenæ. I have had so much to say since you returned, and Phidias has so many guests, that I have found little time to ask concerning the magnificent sights you saw within the Acropolis.”

  “The night would wear away, ere I could describe all I witnessed within the walls of the Parthenon alone,” rejoined her companion: “There is the silver-footed throne, on which Xerxes sat, while he watched the battle of Salamis; the scimitar of Mardonius, captured at Platea; a beautiful ivory Persephone on a pedestal of pure gold; and a Methymnean lyre, said to have belonged to Terpander himself, who you know was the first that used seven strings. Victorious wreaths, coins, rings, and goblets of shining gold, are there without number; and Persian couches, and Egyptian sphynxes, and—”

  “What do you find so interesting beyond the walls?” asked Eudora, smiling at the earnestness with which her friend gazed in the distance: “Do the slaves, bringing water from the Fountain of Callirhöë, look so very beautiful in the moonlight?”

  “I marvel that you can speak so lightly,” replied Philothea. “We have as yet heard no tidings concerning the decision in the Court of Cynosarges, on which the fate of Philæmon depends; and you know how severely his high spirit will suffer, if an unfavorable sentence is awarded. Neither of us have alluded to this painful topic. But why have we thus lingered on the housetop, if it were not to watch for the group, which, if I mistake not, are now approaching, on their return from Cynosarges?”

  “Then it is for Philæmon’s sake that you have so long been looking wistfully toward the Illyssus?” said Eudora, playfully.

  “I will not deny that Paralus has had the largest share of my thoughts,” replied the simple-hearted maiden; “but for Philæmon, as your bethrothed lover, and the favorite pupil of my grandfather, I feel an interest strong enough to keep me on the watch during a less delightful evening than this. I think it must be Paralus who walks in the centre of the group; we have been separated many months; and courtesy to the numerous strangers under his father’s roof has prevented our having much discourse to-day. For his sake, I am glad once more to be in my own happy home. He is none the less dear to me because I know that he can never be my husband.”

  “And why should he not?” exclaimed Eudora: “The blood of princes flowed in the veins of your ancestors. If Anaxagoras is poor, it is because he has preferred wisdom to gold.”

  With a faint sigh, Philothea answered, “Had the good old man preferred gold to wisdom, I should have loved him less; nor would his instructions have made me such a wife as Paralus deserves; yet Pericles would have better liked the union. He has obtained from his son a solemn promise never to speak to me of marriage. The precaution was unnecessary; for since this new law has passed, I would not marry Paralus, even with his father’s consent. I would never be the means of bringing degradation and losses upon him.”

  “If you still love Paralus, I wonder you can be so quiet and cheerful,” said Eudora.

  “I wished him to make the required promise, because obedience to parents is our first duty,” replied Philothea; “and had I thought otherwise, the laws compel it. But the liberty of loving Paralus, no power can take from me; and in that I find sufficient happiness. I am bound to him by ties stronger than usually bind the hearts of women. My kind grandfather has given me an education seldom bestowed on daughters; and from our childhood, Paralus and I have shared the same books, the same music, and the same thoughts, until our souls seem to be one. When I am very happy, I always see a peculiar brightness on his countenance; and when I am powerfully impressed by any of the fair sights of this beautiful world, or by those radiant deities who live among the stars, often, before I can speak my thoughts, he utters my very words. I sometimes think the gods have united human beings by some mysterious principle, like the according notes of music. Or is it as Plato has supposed, that souls originally one, have been divided, and each seeks the half it has lost? Eudora, if you consider how generally maidens are bestowed in marriage without consulting their affections, you must confess that you have reason to feel deeply grateful for your own lot.”

  “Yet this new law against those of foreign parentage, renders marriage with me as dishonorable as with you,” rejoined the maiden: “Nay, it is much more so; for I am a slave, though, by courtesy, they do not call me one.”

  “But Philæmon has no parents to forbid his choice,” said Philothea; “and if the court decide against him, he will incur no fine by a marriage with you; for he himself will then be a sojourner in Athens. The loss of his paternal estates will indeed leave him poor; but he has friends to assist his own energies, and in all probability, your union will not be long delayed. Ah, now I am certain that Anaxagoras approaches, with Paralus and Philæmon. They perceive us; but Paralus does not wave his hand as he promised to do, if they brought good tidings.”

  Without appearing to share her anxiety, Eudora carelessly inquired, “Did you witness the Festival of Torches, while you were within the Acropolis? The swiftness of the runners, moving in the light of their own torches, making statues and temples ruddy with the glow as they passed, was truly a beautiful sight. I suppose you heard that Alcibiades gained the prize? With what graceful celerity he darted through the course! I was at Aspasia’s house that evening. It is so near the goal, that we could plainly see his counteance flushed with excitement and exercise, as he stood waving his unextinguished torch in triumph.”

  “I am sorry Phidias considers improvement in music of sufficient consequence to encourage your visits to that dangerous woman,” answered Philothea: “It was an unpropitious day for Athens when she came here to invest vice with all the allurements of beauty and eloquence.”

  “I think women should judge kindly of Aspasia’s faults, and remember that they are greatly exaggerated by her enemies,” rejoined Eudora; “for she proves that they are fit for something better than mere domestic slaves. Her house is the only one in all Greece where women are allowed to be present at entertainments. What is the use of a beautiful face, if one must be shut up in her own apartment forever? And what avails skill in music, if there is no chance to display it? I confess that I like the customs Aspasia is trying to introduce.”

  “And I should like them, if I believed they would make the Grecian women something better than mere domestic slaves,” said Philothea; “but such as Aspasi
a will never raise women out of the bondage in which they are placed by the impurity and selfishness of man. Your own confessions, Eudora, do not speak well for her instructions. Why should a true-hearted woman wish to display her beautiful face, or her skill in music, to any but those on whom her affections are bestowed?”

  “It is natural to wish for admiration,” replied the handsome maiden: “The goddesses themselves contended for it. You, at least, ought not to judge Aspasia harshly; for she has the idea that you are some deity in disguise; and she has the most extravagant desire to see you.”

  “Flattery to ourselves does not change the nature of what is wrong,” answered Philothea. “Pericles has more than once mentioned Aspasia’s wish that I should visit her; but nothing short of my grandfather’s express command will ever induce me to do it. Our friends are now entering the gate. Let us go to welcome them.”

  Eudora hastily excused herself under the plea of duties at home; and Philothea, supposing it might be painful to meet her unfortunate lover in the presence of others, forebore to urge it.

  A paternal blessing beamed from the countenance of Anaxagoras the moment Philothea appeared. Paralus greeted her as a brother welcomes a cherished sister; but in the earnest kindness of his glance was expressed something more deep and heart-stirring than his words implied.

  Philæmon, though more thoughtful than usual, received his own and Eudora’s friend, with cheerful cordiality. His countenance had the frank and smiling expression of one who truly wishes well to all men, and therefore sees everything reflected in forms of joy. His figure was athletic, while his step and bearing indicated the promptitude and decision of a man who acts spontaneously from his own convictions.

  Paralus, far from being effeminate, was distinguished for his dexterity and skill in all the manly sports of the gymnasium; but the purity of his complexion, and the peculiarly spiritual expression of his face, would have been deemed beautiful, even in a woman. The first he probably derived from his mode of life; for, being a strict Pythagorean, he never partook of animal food. The last was the transparent medium of innocence, through which thoughts and affections continually showed their changing forms of life.