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 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS, 
 
 BEING 
 
 THE TRANSLATION 
 
 OF 
 
 A GREEK MANUSCRIPT, 
 
 DISCOVERED IN HERCULANEUM. 
 
 BY FRANCES WRIGHT, 
 
 Author of ** Popular Lectures" §c. 
 
 — joining bliss to virtue, the g-lad ease 
 Of Epicurus, seldom understood." 
 
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A 
 
 FEW DAYS IN ATHENS, 
 
 BEINQ 
 
 THE TRANSLATION 
 
 OP 
 
 A GREEK MANUSCEIPT, 
 
 DISCOVERED IN HERCCLANEUM. 
 
 BY FRANCES WRIGHT, 
 
 Author of "Popular Lectures'", Sjc. 
 
 " joining- bliss to virtue, the glad ease 
 
 Of Epicurus, seldom understood." 
 
 Thomson's Liberty. 
 
 REPRINTED FROM THE AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 J. WATSON, 3, QUEEN'S HEAD PASSAGE, 
 
 PATEHNOSTEa ROW. 
 
 1853 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 \ 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/fewdaysinatliensbOOwrig 
 

 TO \ 
 
 JEREMY BENTHAM,\ 
 
 AS A TESTIMONY 
 
 OF 
 
 HER ADMIRATION OF HIS ENLIGHTENED SENTIMENTS, 
 
 USEFUL LABOURS, 
 
 AND ACTIVE PHILANTHROPY, 
 
 AND 
 
 OF HER GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 ^I)is moxk 
 
 IS 
 RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBKD, 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES WRIGHT. 
 
 London, 
 March 12th, 1822. 
 
 The head of Epicurus, on the frontispiece is copied from a Portrait given 
 in the sixth volume of the " Historic Gallery," and is believed to be 
 authentic. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 That I may not obtain credit for more learning than I po>-sess, I beg to 
 ackuouleilge llje assistance 1 have received in my version of the curious 
 rehct ot antiquity now ottered to tlie public from llie biuutilul Italian MaS. 
 of tlie erudite I'rol'essor of Greek in tlie university of •****. I 
 hesitate to desiguaLe more clearly the illustrious Hellenist, whose labours 
 have brought to light this curious Iragment. Since the establishment of 
 the saintly domination of the Vandals tliroughout the territories of the 
 rebellious and heterodox Italy, and jjarticulariy in consequence of the 
 ordonuance of his most orthodox, most legitimate, and most Austrian 
 Majesty, bearing that his dominions being in want of good subjects, his 
 colleges are forbidden to send forth good scholars,* it has become necessary 
 fur the gownsmen of the classic peninsula to banish all profane learning 
 from their lectures and their libr.u-ies, and to evince a holy abhorrence of 
 the sciences and arts which they erst professed. The listot the class-books 
 now employed in the transalpine schools is exceedingly curious ; 1 regret 
 that I have mislaid the one lately supplied to me by an illustrious Italian 
 exile. My memory recalls to me only that in the school of rhetoric, the 
 oiationsof Cicero are superseded by those of the Marquis of Londonderry, 
 and the philppics of Demosthenes by those of M. de f eyronett ; that the 
 professors of history have banished the decades of Livy for the martyrs of 
 Mons. de Chateaubriand; and that tiie students of Greek, in place of the 
 Odes of Pindar, and the retreat ol tlie ten thousand from tJunaxa, construe 
 the hexameters of the English Laureate, and the advance of Louis the 
 XVIIL upon Ghent. I:i this state of the It;dian world of letters, it is not 
 surprising that the scholar, to whose perseverance, ingenuity, and learning, 
 the public are indebted for the following fragment, should object to lay 
 claim to the honour which is his due. 
 
 'Ihe original MS. fell into the hands of my erudite correspondent in the 
 autvunn of the year lbI7. From that period until the commencement of 
 last winter, all his leisure hours were devoted to the arduous task of 
 unrolling the leaves, and decyphering the half-defaced characters. The 
 imperfect condition of the MS. soon obliged him to forego his first intention 
 of transcribing the original Greek; he had recourse, therefore, to an Italian 
 version, supplying the chasms, consisting sometimes of a word, sometimes 
 of a line, and occasionally of a phrase, with a careful and. laborious study 
 of the context. ^Vhile this version was printing in Florence, a MS. copy 
 was transmitted to me in Faiis, with a request that I would forthwith see 
 It translated into the English and French languages. The former version 
 I undertook myself, and can assure the reader that it possesses the merit 
 of fidelity. Tue hrst erudite translator has not Conceived it necessary to 
 encumber the volume with marginal notes; nor have I found either the 
 inclination or the ability to supply them. Those who should wish to refer 
 to the allusions scattered through the whole classics to the characters and 
 systems here treated of, will find much assistance from the m.irginal au- 
 tnoiities of the eloquent and ingenious Bayle. 
 
 I have only to add, that the present volume comprises little more than a 
 third of the original Mt.; it v\ili be sufficient, however, to enable the pub- 
 lic to form an estimate of the probable value of the whole. 
 
 • Je neveux pas de sat^aTis dans mes etat8,je veux de 6o/w suje/s, was the 
 dictum of the Austrian Autocrat to an Italian Frofessor.j 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 <« Oh monstrous," cried the young Theon, as he came from the 
 portico of Zeno. *' Ye Gods ! and will ye suiFer your names 
 to be thus blasphemed ? How do ye not strike with thunder 
 the actor and teacher of such enormities ? What ! will ye suffer 
 our youth, and the youth of after ages, to be seduced by this 
 shameless Gargettian ? Shall the Stoic portico be forsaken for 
 the garden of Epicurus ? Minerva, shield thy city ! Shut the 
 ears of thy sons against the voice of this deceiver !" 
 
 Thus did Theon give vent to the indignation which the words 
 of Timocrates had worked up within him. Timocrates had 
 been a disciple of the new school ; but, quarrelling with his 
 master, had fled to the followers of Zeno ; and to make the 
 greater merit of his apostacy, and better to gain the hearts of 
 his new friends, poured forth daily execrations on his former 
 teacher, painting him and his disciples in the blackest colours 
 of deformity ; revealing, with a countenance distorted as with 
 horror, and a voice hurried and suppressed as from the agonies 
 of dreadful recollections, the secrets of those midnight orgies, 
 where, in the midst of his pupils, the philosopher of Gargetiium 
 officiated as master of the cursed ceremonies of riot and impiety. 
 
 Full of these nocturnal horrors, the young Theon traversed 
 with hasty steps the streets of Athens, and issuing from tlie 
 city, without perceiving that he did so, took the road to the 
 Piraeus. The noise of the harbour roused him to recollection, 
 and, feeling it out of tune with his thoughts, he turned up the 
 more peaceful banks of the Cephisus, and, seating himself on 
 the stump of a v^ithered olive, his feet almost washed by the 
 water, he fell back again into his reverie. How long he had 
 sat he knew not, when the sound of gently approaching foot- 
 steps once more recalled him. He turned his head, and, after 
 a start and gaze of astonishment, bent with veneration tr the 
 figure before him. It was of the middle size, and robed in 
 white, pure as the vestments of the Pythia. The shape, the 
 attitude, the foldings of the garment, were such as the chisel of 
 Phidias would have given to the God of Elocution. The head 
 accorded with the rest of the figure ; it sat upon the shoulders 
 with a grace that a painter would have paused to contemplate 
 — elevated, yet somewhat inclining forward, as if habituated 
 gently to seek and benevolently to yield attention. The face 
 
6 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 a poet would have gazed upon, and thought he beheld in it 
 one of the images of his fancy embodied. The leaturus were 
 not cast for the statuary ; they were noble, but not regular. 
 Wisdom beamed mildly from the eye, and candour was on the 
 broad forehead, the mouth reposed in a soft, almost impercep- 
 tible smile, that did not curl the lips or disturb the cheeks, 
 and was seen only in the serene and holy benignity that shone 
 over the whole physiognomy: it was a gluam of sunshine 
 sleeping on a lucid lake. The first lines of age were traced on 
 the brow and round the chin, but so gently as to mellow rather 
 than deepen expression : the hair indeed seemed prematurely 
 touched by time, for it was of a pure silver, thi'own back from 
 the forehead, and fringing the throat behind with short curls. 
 He received benignly the salutation of the youth, and gently 
 with his hand returning il — "Let me not break your medi- 
 tations; I would rather share than disturb tneni." If the 
 stranger's appearance had enchanted Theon, his voice did now 
 more so ; never had a sound so sweet, so musical, struck upon 
 his ear. 
 
 "Surely I behold and hear a divinity," he cried, stepping 
 backwards, and half-stooping his knee with veneration. 
 
 " From the groves of the academy, I see," said the sage, 
 advancing, and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder. 
 
 Theon looked up with a modest blush, and, encouraged by 
 the sweet aspect of the sage, replied, "No; from the portico." 
 
 "Ah! I had not thought Zeno could send forth such a 
 dreamer. You are in a good school," he continued, observing 
 the youth confused by his remark, " a school of real virtue ; 
 and, if I read faces well, as I tliink I do, I see a pupil that will 
 not disgrace its doctrmes." 
 
 Theon's spirit returned; the stranger had that look, and 
 voice, and manner, which instantly give security to the timid, 
 and draw love from the feeling heart. "If you be man, you 
 exert more than human influence over the souls of your fel- 
 lows. I have seen you but one moment, and that moment has 
 laid me at your feet." 
 
 " Not quite so low, I hope," returned the sage, wdth a smile; 
 " I had always rather be the companion than the master." 
 
 "Either, both," said the eager youth, and, seizing the half- 
 extended hand of the sage, pressed it respectfully to his lips. 
 
 " You are an enthusiast, I see. Beware, my young Iriend ! 
 such as you must be the best or the worst of men." 
 
 " Th(.u, had I you for a guide, I should be the best." 
 
 " Wi;at ! do you, a stoic, ask a guide?" 
 
 " I, a stoic! Oh, would I were; I yet stand but on the 
 threshold of the temple." 
 
 "Eut, standing there, you have at least looked within and 
 seen the glories, and will not that encourage you to advance ? 
 Who that hath seen virtue doth not love her, and pant after 
 her possession?" 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 7 
 
 " True, true ; I have seen virtue in her noblest form — alas ! 
 so noble, that my eyes have been dazzled by the contemplation. 
 I have looked upon Zeno with admiration and despair." 
 
 " Learn rather to look with love. He who but admires vir- 
 tue, yields her but half her due. She asks to be approached, 
 to be embraced — not with fear, but with confidence — not with 
 awe, but with rapture." 
 
 *' Yet who can gaze on Zeno, and ever hope to rival him ?" 
 
 '• You, my young friend : Why should you not ? Y''ou have 
 innocence ; you have sensibility ; you have enthusiasm ; you 
 have ambition. With what better promise could Zeno begin 
 his career. Courage ! courage ! my son ! stopping, for they 
 had insensibly walked towards the city during the dialogue, 
 and laying his hand on Theon's head, " we want but the will 
 to be as great as Zeno." 
 
 Theon had di-awn his breath for a sigh, but this action and 
 the look that accompanied it, changed the sigh to a smile. 
 ' You would make me vain." 
 
 " No ; but I would make you confident. Without confidence 
 Homer had never written his Iliad. No, nor would Zeno now 
 be worshipped in his portico." 
 
 "Do you then think confidence would make all men Homers 
 and Zenos !" 
 
 " Not all ; but a good many. I believe thousands to have 
 the seeds of excellence in them, who never discover the pos- 
 session. But we were not speaking of poetry and philosophy, 
 only of virtue — all men certainly cannot be poets or philoso- 
 phers, but all men may be virtuous." 
 
 "I believe," returned the youth with a modest blush, "if I 
 might walk with you each day on the borders of Cephisus, I 
 should sometimes play truant at the portico." 
 
 *' Ye gods forbid," exclaimed the sage, playfully, " that I 
 should steal a proselyte ! From Zeno, too ? It might cost me 
 dear. — What are you thinking of?" he resumed, after a pause. 
 
 " I was thinking," replied Theon, " what a loss for man that 
 you are not teacher in the gardens in place of the son of 
 Neocles." 
 
 " Do you know the son of Neocles ?" asked the sage. 
 
 *' The gods forbid that I should know him more than by re- 
 port ! No, venerable stranger ; wrong me not so much as to 
 think I have entered the gardens of Epicurus. It is not long 
 that I have been in Athens, but I hope, if I should hcncetorth 
 live my life here, I shall never be seduced by the advocate of 
 vice." 
 
 " From my soul I hope the same. But you say you have not 
 long been in Athens. You are come here to study philosophy." 
 
 •' Yes ; my father was a scholar of Xenocrates ; but when he 
 sent me from Corinth, he bade me attend all the schools, and 
 fix with that which should give me the highest views of virtue." 
 
 " And you have found it to be that of Zeno." 
 
8 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 " I think I have : but I was one day nearly gained by a 
 young Pythagorean, and have been often in danger of becoming 
 one of the academy." 
 
 ** You need not say in danger : for, though I think you choose 
 well in standing mainly by Zeno, I would have you attend all 
 the schools, and that with a willing ear. There is some risk 
 in following one particular sect, even the most perfect, lest the 
 mind become warped and the heart contracted. Yes, young 
 mau ! it is possible that this should happen even in the portico. 
 No sect without its prejudices and its predilections." 
 
 "I believe you say true." 
 
 "I know I say true," returned the sage, in a tone of play- 
 fulness he had more than once used ; I knoio I say true ; and 
 had I before needed evidence to confirm my opinion, this our 
 present conversation would have afforded it." 
 
 "How so !" 
 
 " Nay, were I to explain, you would not now credit me ; no 
 man can see his own prejudices ; no, though a philosopher 
 shovdd point at them. But patience, patience ! Time and 
 opportunity shall right all things. Why, you did not think," 
 he resumed, after a short pause, *' you did not really think you 
 were without prejudices ? Eighteen, not more, if I may judge 
 by complexion, and without prejudices ! Why, I should hardly 
 dare to assert I was myself without them, and I believe I have 
 fought harder and somewhat longer against them than you can 
 have done." 
 
 "What would you have me do !" asked the youth timidly. 
 
 " Have you do ? Why, I would have you do a very odd thing. 
 No other than to take a turn or two in Epicurus' garden." 
 
 " Epicurus' garden ! Oh, Jupiter !" 
 
 " Very true, by Juno." 
 
 " What! To hear the laws of virtue confounded and denied? 
 To hear vice exculpated, advocated, panegyrised ? Impiety and 
 atheism professed and inculcated? To witness the nocturnal 
 orgies of vice and debauchery ? Ye gods, what horrors has 
 Timocrates revealed !" 
 
 "Horrors, in truth, somewhat appalling, my young friend ; 
 but I should apprehend Timocrates to be a little mistaken. 
 That the laws of virtue were ever confounded and denied, or 
 vice advocated and panegyrised, by any professed teacher, I 
 incline to doubt. And were I really to hear such things, I 
 should simply conclude the speaker mad, or otherwise that he 
 was amusing himself by shifting the meaning of words, and that 
 by the term virtue, he understood vice, and so by the contrary. 
 As to the inculcating of impiety and atheism, this may be 
 exaggerated or misunderstood. Many are called impious not 
 for having a worse, but a different religion from their neigh- 
 bours ; and many atheistical, not for the denying of God, but 
 for thinking somewhat peculiarly concerning him. Upon the 
 nocturnal orgies of vice and debauchery I can say nothing ; I 
 
A FEW DATS IN ATHENS. 9 
 
 am too profoundly ignorant of these matter!-, either to exculpate 
 or condemn them. Such things may be, and I never hear of 
 them. All things are possible. Yes," turning his benignant 
 iace full upon the youth, " even that Timocvates should lie." 
 
 *' This possibility had indeed not occurred to me." 
 
 '* No, my young friend ; and shall I tell you why ? Because 
 he told you absurdities. Let an impostor keep to probability, 
 and he will hardly impose. By dealing in the marvellous, he 
 tickles the imagination, and carries away the judgment ; and, 
 judgment once gone, what shall save even a wise man from 
 folly?" 
 
 " I should truly rejoice to find the Gargettian's doctrines 
 less monstrous than I have hitherto thought them. I say less 
 nwnstrous, for you would not wish me to think them good." 
 
 ♦' I would wish you to think nothing good, or bad either, 
 upon my decision. The first and the last thing I would say to 
 man is, think for yourself. It is a bad sentence of the Pytha- 
 goreans, 'The master said so.' If the young disciple you 
 mentioned should ever succeed in your conversion, believe in 
 the metempsychosis for some other reason than that Pythagoras 
 •taught it.'" 
 
 " But if I may ask, do you think well of Epicurus ?" 
 
 *' I meant not to make an apology for Epicurus, only to give 
 a caution against Timocrates — but see, we are in the city ; and, 
 fortunately so, for it is pretty nigh dark. I have a party of 
 young friends awaiting me, and, but that you may be appre- 
 hensive of nocturnal orgies, I would ask you to join us." 
 
 "I shall not fear them where I have such a conductor," 
 replied the youth, laughing. 
 
 "I do not think it quite so impossible, however, as you 
 seem to do," said the sage, laughing, in his turn, with much 
 humour, and entering a house as he spoke ; then throwing 
 open with one arm a door, and with the other gently drawing 
 the youth along with him, " I am Epicurus." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The astonished, the affrighted Theon, started from the arm of 
 the sage, and, staggering backwards, Avas saved, probably from 
 falling, by a statue that stood against the wall on one side of 
 the door ; he leaned against it, pale and almost fainting. He 
 knew not what to do, scarcely what to feel, and was totally 
 blind to all the objects around him. His conductor, who had 
 possibly expected his confusion, did not turn to observe it, but 
 advanced in such a manner as to cover him from the view of 
 the company, and, still to give time for recollection, stood 
 receiving and returning salutations. 
 
 " Well met, my sons ! and I suppose you say well met, also 
 
10 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 Are you starving, or am I to be starved ? Have you eat up the 
 Bupper, or only sat longing for it, cursing my delay ?" 
 
 "The latter, only the latter," cried a lively youth, hurrying 
 to meet his master. Another and another advanced, and in a 
 moment he was locked in a close circle. 
 
 *' Mercy ! mercy !" cried the philosopher, *' drive me a step 
 further, and you will overturn a couple of statues." Then, 
 looking over his shoulder, '• I have brought you, if he has not 
 run away, a very pleasant young Corinthian, for whom, until 
 he gain his own tongue, I shall demand reception." He held 
 out his hand Avith a look of bewitching encouragement, and 
 the yet faultering Theon advanced. The mist had now passed 
 from his eyes, and the singing from his ears, and both room 
 and company stood revealed before him. Perhaps, had it not 
 been for this motion, and still more this look of the sage, he 
 had just now made a retreat instead of an advance. " In the 
 hall of Epicurus — in that hall where Timocrates had beheld" 
 oh, horrid imagination! "And he a disciple of Zeno, the 
 friend of Cleanthes — the son of a follower of Plato — had he 
 crossed the threshold of vice, the threshold of the impious 
 Gargettian;" Yes; he had certainly Hed, but for that ex- 
 tended hand, and that bewitching smile. These however con- 
 quered. He advanced, and, with an effort at composure, met 
 the offered hand. The circle made way, and Epicurus pre- 
 sented ' a friend.' " His name you must learn from himself, 
 I am only acquainted with his heart, and that on a knowledge 
 of two hours, I pronounce myself in love with." 
 
 " Then he shall be my brother," cried the lively youth who 
 had before spoken, and he ran to the embrace of Theon. 
 
 "When shall we use our own eyes, ears, and understand- 
 ings r" said the sage, gently stroking his scholar's head. " See 
 our new faiend knows not how to meet your prematiu-e affec- 
 tion." 
 
 "He waits," returned the youth archly, "to receive the 
 same commendation of me that I have of him. Let the master 
 say he is in love with my heart, and he too will open his arms 
 to a brother." 
 
 " 1 hope he is not such a fool," gaily replied the sage. Then, 
 with an accent more serious, but still sw^eeter, " I hope he will 
 judge ail things, and all people, with his own understanding, 
 and not with that of Epicurus, or yet of a wiser man. "When 
 may I hope this of Sofron?" smiling and shaking his head; 
 " can Sofron tell me ?" 
 
 "No, indeed he cannot," rejoined the scholar, smiling and 
 shaking his head also, as in mimicry of his master. 
 
 " Go, go, you rogue ! and show us to our supper : I more 
 than half suspect you have devoured it." He turned, and' 
 familiarly takmg Theon by the shoulder, walked up the room, 
 or rather gallery, and entered a spacious rotunda. 
 
 A lamp, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, lighted a 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 11 
 
 table spread beneath it, with, a simple but elegant repast. 
 E-ound the walls, in niches at equal distances, stood twelve 
 statues, the work of the best masters ; on either hand of these 
 burnt a lamp on a small tripod. Beside one of the lamps, a 
 female ligure was reclining on a couch, reading with earnest 
 study from a book that lay upon her knee. Her head was so 
 much bowed forward as to conceal her face, besides that it was 
 shadowed by her hand, which, the elbow supported on an arm 
 of the couch, was spread above her brows as a relief from the 
 glare of the light. At her feet was seated a young girl by 
 whose side lay a small cithara, silent and forgotten by its 
 mistress. Crete might have lent those eyes their sparkling jet, 
 but all the soul of tenderness that breathed from them was 
 pure Ionian. The full and ruddy lips, half parted, showed two 
 rows of pearls, which Thetis might have envied. Still a vulgar 
 eye would not have rested on the countenance : the features 
 wanted the Doric harmony, and the complexion was tinged as 
 by an Afric sun. Theon, however, saw not this, as his eyes fell 
 on those of the girl, uplifted to the countenance of her studious 
 companion. Never was a book read more earnestly than was 
 that face by the fond and gentle eyes which seemed to worship 
 as they gazed. The sound of approaching feet caught the ear 
 of the maiden. She rose, blushed, half returned the salute of 
 the master, and timidly drew back some paces. The student 
 was still intent upon the scroll over which she hung, when the 
 sage advanced towards her and laying a finger on her shoulder, 
 "What read you my daughter ?" She dropt her hand, and 
 looked up in his face. What a countenance was then revealed ! 
 It was not the beauty of blooming, blushing youth, courting 
 love and desire. It was the self-possessed dignity of ripened 
 womanhood, and the noble majesty of mind, that asked respect 
 and promised delight and instruction. The features were not 
 those of Venus, but Minerva. The eyes looked deep and steady 
 from beneath two even brows, that sense, not years, had slightly 
 knit in centre of the forehead, which else was uniformly smooth, 
 and polished as marble. The nose was rather E-oman thaa 
 Grecian, yet perfectly regular, and, though not masculine, 
 would have been severe in expression, but for a mouth where 
 all that was lovely and graceful habited. The chin was elegantly 
 rounded, and turned in the Greek manner. The colour of the 
 cheeks was of the softest and palest rose, so pale, indeed, as 
 scarcely to be discernible until deepened by emotion. It was 
 so at this moment : startled by the address of the sage, a bright 
 flush passed over her face. She rolled up the book, dropt it 
 on the couch, and rose. Her stature was much above the 
 female standard, but every limb and every motion was sym- 
 metry and harmony. "A treatise of Theophrastus ; — eloquent, 
 ingenious, and chimerical. I have a fancy to answer it." Her 
 voice was lull and deep, like the tones of a harp, when its 
 chords are struck by the hands of a master. 
 
12 A FLW DAYS IN ATHLNS. 
 
 " No one could do it better," replied the sage. But I should 
 have guessed the aged Peripatetic already silenced by the most 
 acute, elegant, and subtle pen of Athens." She bowed to the 
 compliment. 
 
 *• Is that then the famous Leontium?" muttered Theon. 
 ••Timocrates must be a liar." 
 
 ♦'I know not," resumed Leontium, "that I should this 
 evening have so frequently thouijht Theophrastus wrong, if he 
 had not made me so continually feel that he thought himself 
 right. Must 1 seek the cause of this in the writer's or the 
 reader's vanity?" 
 
 *' Perhaps," said the master, smiling, " you will find that it 
 lies in both." 
 
 *'I believe you have it," returned Leontium. "Theophras- 
 tus, in betraying his self-love, hurt mine. He who is about to 
 prove that his own way of thinking is right, must bear in mind, 
 that he is about also to prove, that all other ways of thinking 
 are wrong. And if this should make him slow to enter on the 
 undertaking, it should make him yet more caretul, when he 
 does enter on it, to do it with becoming modesty. We are 
 surely imperiously called upon to make a sacrifice of our own 
 vanity, before we call upon others to make a sacrifice of theirs. 
 But I would not particularise Theophrastus for sometimes 
 forgetting this, as I have never known but one who always 
 remembers it. Gentleness and modesty are qualities at once 
 the most indispensable to a teacher, and the most rarely possessed 
 by him. It was these that won the ears of the Athenian youth 
 to Socrates, and it is these," inclining to the master, " that will 
 secure them to Epicurus." 
 
 " Could I accept your praise, my daughter, I should have 
 no doubt of the truth of your prophecy. For, indeed, the 
 mode of delivering a truth makes, for the most part, as much 
 impression on the mind of the listener, as the truth itself. It 
 is as hard to receive the words of wisdom from the ungentle, 
 as it is to love, or even to recognize virtue in the austere." ] 
 He drew near the table as he spoke. Often during supper were 
 the eyes of Theon riveted on the face of this female disciple. 
 Such grace ! such majesty ! More than all such intellect ! And 
 this — this was the Leontium Timocrates had called a prostitute 
 without shame or measure ! And this was the Epicurus he had 
 blasted with names too vile and horrible to repeat even in 
 thought ! And these — continuing his inward soliloquy as he 
 looked round the board — these were the devoted victims of the 
 vice of an impious master. 
 
 " You arrived most seasonably this evening," cried Sofron, 
 addressing the philosopher ; " most seasonably for the lungs of 
 two of your scholars." 
 
 "And for the ears of a third," interrupted Leontium. "I 
 was fairly driven into exile." 
 
 "What was the subject?" asked Epicurus. 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 13 
 
 " Whether the vicious were more justly objects of indignation 
 or of contempt : Metrodorus argued for the first, and I for the 
 latter. Let the master decide." 
 
 " He will give his opinion certainly ; but that is not decision." 
 
 *' Well : and your opinion is that of ." 
 
 "Neither." 
 
 " Neither ! I had no idea the question had more than two 
 sides." 
 
 •' It has yet a third ; and I hardly ever heard a question that 
 had not. Had I regarded the vicious with indignation, I had 
 never gained one to virtue. Had I viewed them with con- 
 tempt, I had never sought to gain one." 
 
 " How is it," said Leontium, ** that the scholars are so little 
 familiar with the temper of their master ? When did Epicurus 
 look on the vicious with other than compassion ?") 
 
 "True," said Metrodorus. "I know not how I forgot this, 
 when perhaps it is the only point which I have, more than 
 once, presumed to argue with him ; and upon which I have 
 persisted in retaining a different opinion." 
 
 " Talk not of presumption, my son. Who has not a right 
 to think for himself? Or, who is he whose voice is infallible, 
 and worthy to silence those of his fellow men ? And remember, 
 that your remaining unconvinced by my argument on one 
 occasion, can only tend to make your conviction more flattering 
 to me upon others. Yet, on the point in question, were I 
 anxious to bring you over to my opinion I know one, whose 
 argument, better and more forcible than mine, will ere long 
 most effectually do so." 
 *' Who mean you ?" 
 
 "No other than old hoary Time," said the master, "who, 
 as he leads us gently onwards in the path of life, demonstrates 
 to us many truths that we never heard in the schools, and some 
 that, hearing there, we found hard to receive. Our knowledge 
 of human life must be acquired by our passage through it ; the 
 lessons of the sage are not sufficient to impart it. Our know- 
 ledge of men must be acquired by our own study of them ; 
 the report of others will never convince us. When you, my 
 son, have seen more of life, and studied more men, you will 
 find, or, at least, I think you will find, that the judgment is not 
 false which makes us lenient to the failings — yea ! even to the 
 crimes of our fellows. In youth, we act on the impulse of 
 feeling, and we feel without pausing to judge. An action, 
 vicious in itself, or that is so merely in our estimation, fills us 
 with horror, and we turn from its agent without waiting to listen 
 to the plea which his ignorance could make to our mercy. In 
 our ripened yeai's, supposing our judgment to have ripened 
 also, when all the insidious temptations that misguided him, 
 and all the disadvantages that he has laboured under, perhaps- 
 from his birth, are apparent to us — it is then, and not till then, 
 that our inaignation at the crime is lost in our pity of the man." \ 
 
14 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 "I am the last," said Metrodorus, a crimson blush spreading 
 over his face, " Avho should object to my master his clemency 
 towards the offending. But there are vices, different from those 
 he saved me from, which, if not more unworthy, are perhaps 
 more unpardonable, because committed with less temptation ; 
 and more revolting, as springing less from thoughtless igno- 
 rance than calculating depravity." 
 
 " Are we not prone," said the sage, ** to extenuate our foibles, 
 even while condemning them ? And does it not flatter our self- 
 love, to weigh our own vices against those of more erring 
 neighbours?" 
 
 The scholar leaned forwards, and stooping his face towards 
 the hand of his master, where it rested on the table, laid the 
 deepening crimsons of his cheek upon it. *' I mean not to 
 exculpate the early vices of Metrodorus. I love to consider 
 them in all their enormity ; for the more heinous the vices of 
 his youth, the greater is the debt of gratitude his manhood has 
 to repay to thee. But tell me," he added, and lifted his eyes 
 to the benignant face of the sage, " tell me, oh, my friend and 
 guide ! was the soul of Metrodorus found base or deceitftd ; or 
 has his heart proved false to gratitude and affection ?" 
 
 "Xo, my son, no," said Epicurus, his face beaming with 
 goodness, and a tear glistening in his eye. " No ! Vice never 
 choked the warm feelings ot thy heart, nor clouded the fair 
 ingenuousness of thy soul. But, my son, a few years later — a 
 few years later, and who shall say what might have been ! 
 Trust me, none can drink of the cup of vice with impunity.'^ 
 But you will say, that there are qualities of so mean or so 
 horrible a nature, as to place the man that is governed by them 
 out of the pale of communion with the virtuous. Malice, 
 cruelty, deceit, ingratitude — crimes such as these, should, you 
 think, draw down upon those convicted of them, no feelings 
 more mild than abhorrence, execration, and scorn. And yet, 
 perhaps, these were not always natm-al to the heart they now 
 sway. Fatal impressions, vicious example, operating on the 
 plastic frame of childhood, may have perverted all tlie fair gifts 
 of nature, may have distorted the tender plant from the seed- 
 ling, and crushed all tlie blossoms of virtue in the germ. Say, 
 shall we not compassionate the moral disease of our brother, 
 and try our skill to restore him to health? But is the evil 
 beyond cure ? Is the mind strained into changeless deformity, 
 and the hearv. corrupted in the core ? Greater, then, much greater 
 will be our compassion. For is not his wretchedness complete, 
 ■when his errors are without hope of correction ? Oh, my sons ! 
 tlie wicked may work mischief to others, but they never can 
 inflict a pang such as they endure themselves. I am satisfied, 
 that of all the miseries that tear the heart of man. none may 
 compare with those it feels beneath the sway of baleful pas- 
 sions." 
 
 " Oh," cried Theon, turning with a timid blush towards 
 
A FEW DAYS IX ATHENS. 15 
 
 Epicurus, "I have long owned the power of virtue, but surely 
 till this night I never felt its persuasion." 
 
 " I see you were not born for a stoic," said the master, smiling. 
 ** Why, my son, what made you fall in love with Zeno r" 
 
 *' His virtues," said the youth, proudly. 
 
 "His fine face and fine talking," returned the philosopher, 
 with a tone of playful irony. '*Nay! don't be ofiended;" 
 and he stretched his hand to Theon's shoulder, who reclined 
 on the sofa next him. "I admire your master very much, 
 and go to hear him very often." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "Indeed? Yes, indeed. Is it so wonderful?" 
 
 "You were not there." — Theon stopt and looked down in 
 confusion. 
 
 " To-day, you mean ? Yes, I was ; and heard a description 
 of myself that might match in pleasantry with that in ' The 
 Clouds'* of old Socrates. Pray don't you find it very like?" 
 He leaned over the side of the couch, and looked in Theon's face. 
 
 " I — I" — The youth stammered and looked down. " Think 
 it is," said the sage, as if concluding the sentence for him. 
 
 " No, think it is not ; swear it is not," burst forth the eager 
 youth, and looked as he would have thrown himself at the 
 philosopher's feet. " Oh ! why did you not stand forth and 
 silence the liar?" 
 
 " Truly, my son, the liar was too pleasant to be angry with, 
 and too absurd to be answered." 
 
 " And yet he was believed?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " But why then not answer him ?" 
 
 " And so I do. I answer him in my life. The only way in 
 which a philosopher should ever answer a fool, or, as in this ^ 
 case, a knave." ) 
 
 " I am really bewildered," cried Theon, gazing m the philo- 
 sopher's and then in Leontium's countenance, and then throw- 
 ing a glance round the circle. "I am really bewildered with 
 astonishment and shame," he continued, casting down his 
 eyes, " that I should have listened to that liar 'limocrates ! 
 What a fool you must think me !" 
 
 " No more of a fool than Zeno," said the sage, laughing, 
 " What a philosopher listened to, I cannot much blame a 
 scholar for believing." 
 
 " Oh, that Zeno knew you !" 
 
 " And then he would certainly hate me." 
 
 "You joke." 
 
 " Quite serious. Don't you know that who quarrels with 
 your doctrine, must always quarrel with your practice ? No- 
 thing is so provoking as that a man should preach viciously 
 and act virtuously." , 
 
 * Alluding to the comedy of Aristophanes, in which Socrates was inde- 
 cently ridiculed. 
 
16 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 "But you do not preach viciously." 
 
 •' I hope not. But those will call it so, aye ! and in honest 
 heart think it so, who preach a different, it need not be a better, 
 doctrine." 
 
 " But Zcno mistakes your doctrine." 
 
 •• I have no doubt he expounds it wrong." 
 
 " lie mistakes it altogether. He believes that you own no 
 other law — no other principle of action — than pleasure." 
 
 " He believes right." 
 
 " Right ? Impossible ! That you teach men to laugh at 
 virtue, and to riot in luxury and vice." 
 
 " There he believes wrong." 
 
 Theon looked as he felt, curious and uncertain. He gazed 
 first on the philosopher, and, when he did not proceed, timidly 
 round the circle. Every face had a smile on it. 
 
 " The orgies are concluded," said Epicurus, rising, and 
 turning with affected gravity to the young Corinthian. " You 
 have seen the horrors of the night ; if they have left any curi- 
 osity for the mysteries of the day, seek our garden to-morrow 
 at sun-rise, and you shall be initiated." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The steeds of the sun had not mounted the horizon when Theou 
 took the road to the gardens. He found the gate open. The 
 path he entered on was broad and even, and shaded on either 
 side by rows of cork, lime, oak, and other the finest trees of the 
 forest : pursuing this for some way, he suddenly opened on a 
 fair and varied lawn, through which the Illissus, now of the 
 whitest silver in the pale twilight, stole with a gentle and noise- 
 less course. Crossing the lawn, he struck into a close thicket : 
 the orange, the laurel, and the myrtle, hung over his head, 
 whose flowers, slowly opening to the breeze and light of 
 morning, dropt de^^•s and perfumes. A luxurious indolence 
 crept over his soul ; he breathed the airs, and felt the bliss of 
 Elysium. With slow and measiu-ed steps he threaded the 
 maze, till he entered suddenly on a small open plot of ver- 
 dure, in face of a beautiful temple. The place was three parts 
 encircled with a wood of flowenng shrubs, the rest was girded 
 by the winding Illissus, over which the eye wandered to 
 glades and softly swelling hills, whose bosoms now glowed 
 beneath the dyes of Aurora. The building was small and cir- 
 cular ; Doiic, and of the marble of Paros : an open portico, 
 supported by twenty pillars, ran round the edifice : the roof 
 rose in a dome. The roseate tints of the east fell on the polished 
 columns, like the blush of love on the cheek of Diana, when, 
 she stood before her Endymion. 
 Theon stopt : the scene was heavenly. Long had he gazed 
 
A FEW DAYS IN Al HENS. 17 
 
 in silent and calm delight, when his eye was attracted by the 
 waving of a garment on one side of the temple. He advanced, 
 and beheld a figure leaning against one of the pillars. The 
 sun at that moment shot his first beam above the hills : it fell 
 full upon the face of the son of Neocles : it was raised, and the 
 eyes were fixed as in deep meditation. The features reposed 
 in the calm of wisdom : the arms were folded, and the drapery 
 fell in masses to the feet. Theon flew towards him, then sud- 
 denly stopt, fearing to break upon his thoughts. At the sound, 
 the sage turned his head — " Welcome, my son," he said, ad- 
 vancing to meet him, " welcome to the gardens of pleasure; 
 may you find it the abode of peace, of wisdom, and of vir- 
 tue." 
 
 Theon bowed his head upon the hand of the master. "Teach 
 me, guide me, make me what you will — my soul is in your 
 hand." 
 
 " It is yet tender, yet pure," said the Gargettian ; *• years 
 shall strengthen it. Oh ! let them not sully it ! See to that 
 luminary ! lovely and glorious in the dawn, he gathers strength 
 and beauty to his meridian, and passes in peace and grandeur 
 to his rest. So do thou, my son. Open your ears and your 
 eyes ; know, and choose what is good ; enter the path of vir- 
 tue, and thou shalt follow it, for you shall find it sweet. 
 Thorns are not in it, nor is it difficult or steep : like the garden 
 you have now entered, all there is pleasui-e and repose." 
 
 " Ah !" cried Theon, "how different is virtue in your mouth 
 and in Zeno's." 
 
 "The doctrine of Zeno," replied the sage, "is sublime: 
 many great men shall come from his school ; an amiable world, 
 from mine. Zeno has his eye on man — I, mine on men : none 
 but philosophers can be stoics ; Epicureans all may be." 
 
 "But," asked Theon, "is there more than one virtue?" 
 
 "No, but men clothe h.-r differently; some in clouds and 
 thunders ; some in smiles and pleasures. Doctors, my son, 
 quarrel more about words than things, and more about the 
 means than the end. In the Portico, in the Lyceum, in the 
 Academy, in the school of Pythagoras, in the Tub of Diogenes, 
 the teacher points you to virtue ; in the garden he points you 
 to happiness. Now open your eyes, my son, and examine the 
 two Deities. Say, are they not the same ? virtue is it not 
 happiness? and is not happiness, virtue?" 
 
 " Is this, then, the secret of your doctrine ?" 
 
 " No other." 
 
 "But — but — where then is the dispute? Truly, as you have 
 said, in words, not things." 
 
 " Yes, in a great measure, yet not all together : we are all tho 
 wooers of virtue, but we are wooers of a different character." 
 
 " A.nd may she not then favour one more than another ?" 
 
 "That is a question," replied the Gargettian, playfully. 
 " that each will answer in his own favour. If you ask me,' 
 
 3 
 
IB A FEW DATS IN ATHENS. 
 
 he continued, -with one of his sweetest tones and smi.lcs, "I 
 shall say, that I feel myself virtuous, because my soul is at 
 rest." 
 
 " If this he your criterion, you should with the stoics deny 
 that paui is an evil." 
 
 <' By no means : so much the contrary, I hold it the greatest 
 of all evils, and the whole aim of my life, and of my philoso- 
 phv, is to escape from it. To deny that pain is an evil, is such 
 another quibble as the Elean's denial of motion : that must 
 exist to man which exists to his senses ; and as to existence or 
 non existence abstracted from them, though it may afford an 
 idle argument for an idle hour, it can never enter as a truth, 
 from which to draw conclusions, in the practical lessons of a 
 master. To deny that pain is an evil, seems more absurd than 
 to deny its existence, which has also been done, for its existence 
 is only apparent from its effect upon our senses ; how then 
 shall we admit the existence, and deny the effect, which alone 
 forces that admittance? But we will leave these matters to the 
 dialecticians of the Portico. I feel myself virtuous because my 
 soul is at rest. With evil passions I should be disturbed and 
 imeasy ; with uncontrolled appetites I should be' disordered in 
 body as well as mind — for this reason, and for this reason only, 
 I avoid both." 
 
 " Only !" 
 
 " Only : virtue is pleasure ; were it not so, I should not fol- 
 low it." 
 
 Theon was about to break, forth in indignant astonishment : 
 the sage softly laid a hand upon his arm, and, with a smile and 
 bend of the head demanding attention, proceeded; "The mas- 
 ters Avho would have us to follow virtue for her own sake, inde- 
 pendent of any pleasure or advantage that we may find in the 
 pursuit, are sublime visionaries, who build a theory without 
 examining the ground on which they build it, who advance 
 doctrines without examining principles. Why do I gaze on 
 the Cupid of Praxiteles ? because it is beautiful ; because it 
 gives me pleasurable sensations. If it gave me no pleasurable 
 sensations, should I find it beautiful? should I gaze upon it? 
 or would you call me wise if then I gave a drachma for its pos- 
 session? What other means have we of judging of things than 
 by the eft'ect they produce upon our senses ? Our senses then 
 being the judges of all things, the aim of all men is to gratify 
 their senses ; in other words, their aim is pleasure or happiness : 
 and if virtue were not found to conduce to this, men would do 
 well to shun her, as they now do well to shun vice." 
 
 " You own then no pleasure but virtue, and no misery but 
 vice?" 
 
 "Not at all: I think virtue only the highest pleasure, and 
 vice, or un governed passions and appetites, the worst misery. 
 Other pleasures are requisite to form a state of perfect ease, 
 which is happiness ; and other miseries are capable of troubling, 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS, 19 
 
 perhaps destroying, the peace of the most virtuous and the 
 wisest man." 
 
 " I begin to see more reason in your doctrine," said the 
 youth, looking up with a timid blush in the face of the philo- 
 sopher. 
 
 " xVnd less monstrous depravity," replied the Gargettian, 
 laughing, "My young friend," he continued, more seriously, 
 " learn henceforth to form your judgments upon knowledge, 
 not report. Credulity is always a ridiculous, often a dangerous 
 failing : it has made of many a clever man, a fool ; and of many 
 a good man, a knave. But have you nothing to urge against 
 me ? You say you see more reason in my doctrine, which 
 implies, that you think me less wrong, but not right." 
 
 "I am a young disputant," answered Theon, " and veiy 
 unfit to engage with such a master." 
 
 "That does not follow; a bad logician may have a good 
 understanding; and a young mind may be an acute one. If 
 my argument have truth in it, less than a philosopher will see 
 it ; and if it have not, less than a logician may refute it." 
 
 "I think I could urge some objections," replied Theon; 
 " but they are so confused and indistinct, I almost fear to bring 
 them forth." 
 
 *' I dare say I could forestal the most of them," said the 
 master. " But I had rather leave your mind to its own exer- 
 cise. Think over the matter at leisure, and you shall start 
 your questions some evening or morning among my scholars. 
 Knowledge is better imparted in a dialogue than a lecture ; 
 and a dialogue is not the worse for having more than two in- 
 terlocutors. So ! our walk has well ended with our subject. 
 Let us see what friends are here. There are surely voices." 
 
 Their route had been circular, and had brought them again 
 in front of the temple. " This is a favourite lodgment of mine," 
 said the sage, ascending the noble flight of steps and entering 
 the open door. The apartment, spacious, vaulted, and circular, 
 occupied the whole of the bviilding. The walls were adorned 
 with fine copies of the best pieces of Zeuxis and Parrhasius, 
 and some beautiful originals of Apelles. A statue, the only 
 one in the apartment, was raised on a pedestal in the centre. 
 It was a Venus Urania, by the hand of liysippus, well chosen 
 as the presiding deity in the gardens of virtuous pleasure. The 
 ceiling, rising into a noble dome, represented the heavens — a 
 ground of deep blue ; the stars, sun, and planets, in raised 
 gold. But two living figures soon fixed the attention of Theon. 
 In one he recognized Metrodorus, though he had not the even- 
 ing before much observed his countenance. He stood at a 
 painter's easel. His figure was more graceful than dignified, 
 his face more expressive than handsome. The eyes, dark, 
 piercing, and brilliant, were bent in a painter's earnest gaze on 
 his living study. Tlie forehead was short, raised much at the 
 temples, and singularly over the brows. The hair of a dark 
 
 B 2 
 
20 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 glossy brown, short and curled. The cheeks at the moment 
 deeply flushed with the eagerness, and, perhaps, the impatience 
 of an artist. The mouth curled voluptuously, yet not without 
 a mixture of satire ; the chin curved upwards, slightly Grecian, 
 assisted this expression. His study was Leontium. She stood, 
 rather than leaned, against a pilaster of the wall ; one arm sup- 
 ported on a slab of marble, an unrolled book half lying on the 
 same, and half in her opened hand. The other arm, partly 
 hid in the drapery, dropped loosely by her side. Her fine face 
 turned a little over the left shoulder, to meet the eye of the 
 painter. Not a muscle played ; the lips seemed not to breathe : 
 60 calm, so pale, so motionless — she looked a statue ; so noble, 
 so severely beautiful — she looked the Minerva of Phidias. 
 
 •' I cannot do it !" cried Metrodorus, flinging down his 
 pencil. "I had need be Apelles, to take that face." He 
 pushed back his easel in disgust. 
 
 "What!" said Leontium, her fine features relaxing into a 
 heavenly smile, *' and is all my patience to go for nothing?" 
 
 " I am a blmidering, blind Boeotian ! a savage Spartan !" 
 continued the disappointed artist. "There!" and seizing a 
 brush, was about to demolish his work. 
 
 "For your life!" cried Leontium; and starting forward, 
 pulled aside his hand. " Oh, the mad ill-temper of a genius ! 
 Why, friend, if my face were half so fine as that, Juno would 
 be jealous of it." 
 
 " And who knows that she is not ? A daub ! a vile daub !" 
 still muttered the impatient scholar, yet his face gradually 
 relaxing its anger, as in spite of itself, till it turned to meet 
 Leontium's with a smile. 
 
 "And there stand the master and the young Corinthian 
 laughing at you," said Leontium. 
 
 They approached. "Are you a judge?" asked Metrodorus 
 of Theou. 
 
 " I am afraid not, though the confession will mar my com- 
 pliments." 
 
 "But I am," said the Gargettian, humorously: " and though 
 I have all the inclination in the world, yet I cannot quarrel 
 with the performance. Well oiitlined and finely coloured. 
 The attitude and air hit exactly. The features too. Perhaps 
 — the only possible perhaps my ill-nature can stumble on — - 
 perhaps the expression is too blooming, and less mental than 
 that of the original." 
 
 "Why there — there it is!" cried the scholar, his face re- 
 suming all its vexation. "The look of an idiot instead of a 
 genius." 
 
 "Not quite that either: only of a Hebe instead of a Juno. 
 More like our Hedeia." 
 
 " Like a monster !" muttered the angry artist. 
 
 " Oh Hercules, oh Hercules !" cried the sage. "What it is 
 to rub a sore place ! Better break a man's leg than blow a 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 21 
 
 feather on his razed shin. Had I (turning to Theon) told him 
 he had drawn a hump-backed Thersites he would have blessed 
 me, rather than for this pretty compliment of a blooming-faced 
 Hebe." 
 
 "I might as well have done one as the other; they were 
 equally like the original." 
 
 "I must bow to that compliment," said Leontium, laying 
 her hand on her breast, and inclining with affected gravity to 
 the painter. 
 
 He tried in vain to resist the laugh : then looking to the 
 master — "What would you have me turn it to?" 
 
 "As you object to a Hebe, to a philosopher by all means. 
 Silver the head a little, it may be an admirable Epicurus." 
 
 "Nay! don't make the madman furious," said Leontium, 
 placing her hand on Metrodorus's shoulder ; then addressing 
 Theon, " Pray, young man, if you want to be a philosopher, 
 never find an eye for painting, a finger for music, or a brain for 
 poetry. Any one of these will keep a man from wisdom." 
 
 "But not a woman, I suppose," retorted Metrodorus, "as 
 you have all three." 
 
 " Ready at compliments this morning : but if you wanted a 
 bow for this, you should have given it with a more gracious 
 face. But come, my poor friend; we will try and put you in 
 good humour — nothing like a little flattery for this. Here, my 
 young Corinthian ! (walking to the other side of the room to 
 a newly finished picture that stood against the wall, and beckon- 
 ing Theon towards her,) you may without skill perceive the 
 beauty of this work, and the excellence of the likeness." 
 
 It was indeed striking. "Admirable!" cried Theon, after 
 a long gaze of admiration, and then turning to compare it with 
 the original. 
 
 "A little flattered, and more than a little, I fear," said 
 Epicurus with a smile, as he moved towards them. 
 
 "Flattered!" exclaimed Metrodorus; a Parrhasius could 
 not flatter such an original." 
 
 "You see how my scholars spoil me," said the Gargettian 
 to Theon. 
 
 " But you think," continued Metrodorus, " that I have done 
 it common justice." 
 
 " Much more than common : — It is your Master's self. The 
 dignity of his figure, the grace of his attitude, the nobility of 
 his features, the divine benignity of his expression. Had we 
 not the original to worship, we might worship your copy." 
 
 They were interrupted by the entrance of a crowd of dis- 
 ciples, in the midst of whose salutations young Sofron rushed 
 in, breathless with rimning and convulsed with laughter. 
 
22 A FEW DA^YS IN ATHENS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Prepare yourselves ! prepare yourselves !" cried the panting 
 scholar. "Oh, Pollux, such a couple ! The contrast might 
 convulse a Scythian." 
 
 " Wliat is it ? What is the matter ? cried a dozen voices. 
 "I'll explain directly — give me breath — and yet I must be 
 quick, for they are close on my heels. Gryphus, the cynic- 
 some of you must have seen him. Well he's coming side by 
 side with young Lycaon." 
 
 " Coming here," said the master, smiling. " What can have 
 procured me the honour of such a visit r" 
 " O, your fame of course." 
 
 "I suspect you are making a fool of the old Cynic," said 
 Epicurus. 
 
 " Nay, if he be a fool, he is one without my assistance : 
 Lvcaon and I were standing on the steps of the Prytaneum, 
 disputing about something, I forget what, when by came Gry- 
 phus, and stopping short at bottom of the steps, 'Are you 
 disciples of Epicurus, of Gargettium ? ' We are,' answered I, 
 for Lycaon only stood staring in amazement. ' You may show 
 me the way to him then.' ' With all my heart,' I again replying, 
 Lycaon not yet finding his tongue. ' We are at present for the 
 gardens, and shall hold it an honour to be conductors to so 
 extraordinary a personage.' I wanted to put him between us, 
 but Lycaon seemed unambitious of his share in this distinction, 
 for, stepping back, he slipt round to my other side. Oh, Jupi- 
 ter ! I shall never forget the contrast between my two com- 
 panions. The pale, dirty, hairy cynic on my right hand, and 
 the fine, smooth, delicate, pretty Aristippian cm my left. We 
 brought the whole street at our h<eels. Lycaon would have 
 slunk away, but I held him tight by the sleeve. When we 
 were fairly in the gardens, I gave them the slip at a cross- 
 path, and run on before to give timely notice, as you see. But 
 lo ! behold !" 
 
 The two figures now appeared at the door. The contrast 
 Avas not much less singular than the scholar had represented ; 
 and there was a sort of a faint prelude to a universal laugh, 
 which, however, a timely look from the master instantly quelled. 
 Lycaon, from the lightness of his figure, and delicacy of his 
 features and complexion, might have been mistaken for a female ; 
 his skin had the whiteness of the lily, and the blushing red of 
 the rose ; his lips the vermil of coral : his hair soft and flowing ; 
 in texture, silk ; in colour, gold : his dress was chosen with 
 studied nicety, and disposed with studied elegance : the tunic of 
 the whitest and finest linen, fastened at the shoulder with a beau- 
 tiful onyx : the sash of exquisite embroidery, and the robe of 
 the richest Tyrian, falling in luxuriant folds from the shoulders, 
 and over the right arm which gracefully sustained its length, 
 for the greater convenience in walking : the sandals purple, 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 23 
 
 Avith buttons of gold. Gryphus, short, square, and muscular ; 
 his tunic of the coarsest aiid not the cleanest woollen, in some 
 places worn threadbare, and with one open rent of considerable 
 magnitude, that proved the skin to be as well engrained as its 
 covering : his girdle, a rope : his cloak, or rather rag, had the 
 appearance of a sail taken from the ureck of an old trader : 
 liis feet bare, and thickly powdered with dust : of his face, 
 little more might be distinguished than the nose ; the lower 
 part being obscured by a bushy and wide-spreading beard, and 
 the upper", by a profusion of long, tangled, and gri^^ly hair. The 
 wondering disciples opened a passage for this singular intruder, 
 who, without looking to the right or the left, walked on, and 
 stopt before Epicurus. 
 
 "I suppose you are the master, by the needless trouble I see 
 you take, in coming to meet me." 
 
 "When Gryphus has possibly walked a mile to meet Epicu- 
 rus, Epicurus' may without much trouble walk a step to meet 
 Gryphus." 
 
 " In my walk of a mile," returned the cynic, " there was no 
 trouble : I took it for my own pleasure." 
 
 " And my walk of a step I also took for mine." 
 
 " Aye, the pleasvire of ceremony \" 
 
 "I may hope then this your visit is from something more 
 than ceremony — perhaps a feeling of real friendship, or as a 
 mark of your good opinion." 
 
 "I hate useless words," returned the cynic, "and am not 
 come here either to make any, or hearken to any. I have heard 
 you much talked of lately. Our streets and our porticos buzz 
 eternally with your name, till now all wise men are weary of 
 it. I come to tell you this, and to advise yovi to shut the gates 
 of your gardens forthwith, and to cease the harangues of a 
 master, since you only pass for a philosopher among fools, and 
 for a fool among philosophers." 
 
 " I thank you for your honest advice and information, friend ; 
 but as the object oi a master is not to teach the wise, but only 
 the unwise, do you not think I may still harangue among fools 
 to some little purpose, though Gryphus, and all sages, will of 
 course justly hold me in contempt ?" 
 
 "And so that fools may be made wise, the wise are to be 
 plagued with folly r" 
 
 " Nay, you would surely cease to think that folly which 
 could make a fool wise." 
 
 " A fool wise ! And who but a fool would think that possible "' 
 
 " I grant it were diihcult ; but may it not also sometimes be 
 difficult to discover who is a fool, and who not ? Among my 
 scholars there, some doubtless may be fools, and some possibly 
 may not be fools." 
 
 " Xo, interrupted the cynic, "or they would not be your 
 scholars." 
 
 "Ah ! '^ being a fool myself. Well reminded ! I had forgot 
 
24 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 that was one of our premises. But then, I being a fool, and all 
 my scholars being fools, I do not see how much harm can be 
 done, either by my talking folly or their hearkening to it." 
 
 "No, if wise men were not forced to hearken also. I tell 
 you, that our streets and our porticos buzz with your name and 
 your nonsense. Keep all the fools of Athens in your gardens, 
 and lock the gates, and you may preach folly as long and as 
 loud as you please." 
 
 ♦' I have but one objection to this, namely, that my gardens 
 would not hold all the fools of Athens. Suppose, therefore, 
 the wise men, being a smaller body, were shut into a garden, 
 and the city and the rest of Attica left for the fools." 
 
 " I told you," cried the cynic, in a voice of anger, " that I 
 hated useless words." 
 
 " Nay, friend, why then walk a mile to speak advice to me ? 
 No words so useless as those thrown at a fool." 
 
 '• Very true, very true ;" and so saying, the stranger turned 
 his back and quitted the temple. 
 
 "There," said the son of Neocles to his smiling disciples, 
 " is a good warning to any, or aU of us, who would be philo- 
 sophers." 
 
 "Nay, master," cried Sofron, " do you think us in danger 
 of following the pleasant example of this savage ? Do you, 
 indeed, expect to see Lycaon there, with beard, head, and 
 clothing, after the fashion of Gryphus ?" 
 
 " Not beard, head, and clothing, perhaps," answered the 
 Gargottian ? " pride, vanity, and ambition, may take less 
 fearful coverings than these." 
 
 " Pride, vanity, and ambition ? I should rather suspect 
 Gryphus of the want of all three." 
 
 " Nay, my son, believe me, all those three qiialities were 
 concerned in the carving of those three frightful appendages of 
 our cynic's person. Pride need not always lead a man to cut 
 mount Athos in two, like Xerxes ; nor ambition, to conquer a 
 world, and weep that there is yet not another to conquer, like 
 Alexander ; nor vanity, to look in a stream at his own face till 
 he fall in love with it, like Naicissus. When we cannot cut an 
 Athos, we may leave uncut our beard ; when we cannot mount 
 a throne, we may crawl into a tub; and when we have no 
 beauty, we may increase our ugliness. If a man of small, or 
 even of moderate talents, be smitten with a great desire of 
 distinction, there is nothing too absurd, perhaps nothing too 
 mischievous, for him too commit. Our friend, the cynic, 
 happily for himself and his neighbours, seems disposed to rest 
 with the absurd. Erostratus took to the mischievous — to 
 eternize his name destroying that temple, by the building of 
 which Etesiphon immortalized his. Be it our care to keep 
 equally clear of the one as the other." 
 
 " Do you then," asked Theon, " think a desire of distinc- 
 tion a vicious desire f" 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 25 
 
 " I think it is often a dangerous desire, and very often an 
 linhappy one." 
 
 "But surely very often a fortunate one," said Leontium. 
 •' Without it, would there ever have been a hero r" 
 
 "And perhaps," returned the sage, with a smile, "the 
 world might have been as happy if there had not." 
 
 " Well, without arguing for an Achilles, would there have 
 been a Homer?" 
 
 " I agree with you," replied the master, more seriously. 
 "The desire of distinction, though often a dangerous, and 
 often an unhappy desire, is likewise often, though I believe 
 here sometimes were a better word, a fortunate one. It is dan- 
 gerous in the head of a fool ; unhappy, in that of a man of 
 moderate abilities, or unfavourable situation, who can conceive 
 a noble aim, but lacks the talent or the means necessary for its 
 attainment. It is fortunate only in the head of a genius, the 
 heart of a sage, and in a situation convenient for its develop- 
 ment and gratification. These three things you will allow do 
 not often meet in one person." 
 
 "Yet," said Theon, "how many great men has Athens 
 produced." 
 
 " But it is not a consequent that they were happy." 
 
 "Happy or not happy, who would refuse their fate ?" 
 
 "I like that feeling," replied the Gargettian ; "nor Jo I 
 dissent from it. The fate of greatness will always be enviable, 
 even when the darkest storms trouble its course. Well-meritea 
 fame has in itself a pleasure so much above all pleasures, that 
 it may weigh in the balance against all the accumulated evils of 
 mortality. Grant, then, our great men to have been fortunate ; 
 are they, as you say, so many ? Alas ! my son, we may count 
 them on our fingers. A generation, the most brilliant in genius, 
 leaves out of its thousands and millions but three or four, or a 
 dozen, to the worship, even to the knowledge of futurity." 
 
 "And these, only these three, four, or a dozen, have a right 
 to the desire of distinction ?" 
 
 " As to the right," replied the sage playfully, " I mean not 
 to dispute that. The right lies with all men in our democracy 
 to sit in a tub, or to walk in a dirty tunic." 
 
 "But you will allow of no end in ambition but an absurd 
 one." 
 
 " I have not expressed myself well, or you have not under- 
 stood me well, if you draw that conclusion. I surely have 
 granted our great men to have had great ends of ambition." 
 
 " But is it only great men, or men destined to be great, that 
 may have such ends ?" 
 
 " I allowed that others might ; I only said that they would 
 be unhappy in consequence. The perfection of wisdom, and 
 the end of true philosophy, is to proportion our wants to our 
 pf ssessions, our ambitions to our capacities." 
 
 "Then," cried Metrodorus, "I have substantially proved 
 
26 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 myself this morning to be no philosopher, Avhcn I chose a 
 study beyond the reach of my pencil." 
 
 " No," Slid Lcontium, playfully tapping his shoulder, "the 
 master will make a distinction between what is beyond the reach 
 of our capacity, and what beyond the reach of our practice. 
 Erostratus might never have planned the edifice he destroyed ; 
 Ctesiphon could not always have planned it." The smile that 
 accompanied these words, lighted one yet more brilliant in the 
 face of Metrodorus. Theon guessed that he felt more than 
 admiration and more than friendship, for this female disciple. 
 
 "Your remark was well timed and well pointed," said the 
 master, " and has saved me some talking." 
 
 "I am not sure of that," cried Sofron, stepping forwards; 
 " for though Lcontium has so nicely worded the distinction 
 between want of capacity and want of practice in the general, 
 I should like to be told, how a man is to make this distinction 
 between his own in particular ? For instance, I have a fancy 
 to turn philosopher, and supersede my master ; how am I to 
 tell, at my first non-plus in logic or invention, whether the 
 defect be in my capacity or my practice." 
 
 "If it be only in the last, I apprehend you will easily per- 
 ceive it ; if in the first, not so readily. A man, if he set about 
 the search, will quickly discover his talents ; he may continue 
 it to his death without discoVering his deficiencies. The reason 
 is plain : the one hurts our self-love, the other flatters it." 
 
 " And yet," interrupted Theon, " I think, in my first inter- 
 view with the philosopher of Gargettium, he remarked, that 
 thousands had the seeds of excellence in them, who never 
 found them out." 
 
 " I see you have a good memory," returned the master. " I 
 did say so, and I think it still. Many might have been heroes, 
 and many philosophers, had they had a desire to be either ; had 
 accident or ambition made them look into themselves, and 
 inquire into their powers ; but though jewels be hid in a sack 
 of oats, they will never be found, unless the oats be shaken. 
 Ilemember, however, we are now speaking of one class of men 
 only — the ambitious ; and the ambitious Avill never have any 
 seeds in them, bad or good, that will not generate and produce 
 their proper fruit. Ambition is the spur, and the necessary 
 spur of a great mind to great action ; when acting upon a weak 
 mind it impels it to absurdity, or sours it with discontent." 
 
 " Nay, then," said Sofron, " 'tis but a dangerous inmate, as 
 minds go ; and I, for one, had better have none of it, for I 
 doubt I am not born to be an Epicurus, and I am certain I 
 have no inclination to be a Gryphus." 
 
 " Well," said the master, " we have at least to thank Gr}'phus 
 for our morning's dialogue. If any of us wish to prosecute it 
 farther, we may do it over our repast — the sun has reached his 
 noon, so let us to the bath." 
 
 They left the temple, and crossing the gardens in a)i opposite 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 27 
 
 direction from that by which Theon had entered, soon reached 
 a sate, Avhich, to his surprise, opened on a court at the back of 
 the Gargettian's house, the same in which he had supped the 
 preceding evening. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tin; fervours of the day had declined, when Theon issued to 
 the street from the house of Epicurus : at that instant he met 
 in the face his friend Cleanthes : he ran to his embrace ; but 
 the young stoic, receding with mingled astonishment and hor- 
 ror — " Ye gods ! from the house of Epicurus ?" 
 
 "I do not marvel at your surprise," returned Theon, '* nor, 
 if I recall my own feelings of yesterday, at your indignation." 
 
 "Answer me quickly," interrupted Cleanthes; "is Theon 
 yet my friend?" 
 
 "And does Cleanthes do\ibt it?" 
 
 " What may I not doubt, when I see you come from such a 
 mansion?" 
 
 "Nay, my brother," said Theon, kindly throwing his arm 
 round the neck of his friend, and drawing him onwards, "I 
 have been in no mansion of vice, or of folly." 
 
 "I do not imderstand you," returned the stoic, but half 
 yielding to his kindness : " I do not know what to think or 
 what to fear." 
 
 "Fear nothing, and think only good," said the Corinthian. 
 "True, I come from the gardens of pleasure, where I have 
 heard very little of pleasure, and a very great deal of virtue." 
 
 " I see how it is," returned the other, " you have lost your 
 principles, and I, my friend." 
 
 "I do not think I have lost the first, and I am very sure you 
 have not lost the last." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Cleanthes; "but I tell you, yes;" and 
 his cheeks flushed, and his eyes flashed with indignation: "I 
 have lost my friend, and you have lost yours. Go !" he con- 
 tinued, and drew himself from the arm of Theon ? " Go ! 
 Cleanthes has no fellowship with an apostate and libertine." 
 
 "You wrong me, and you wrong Epicurus," said his friend, 
 in a tone of more reproach than anger. "But I cannot blame 
 you ; yesterday I had myself been equally unjust. You must 
 see him, you must hear him, Cleanthes. This alone can un- 
 deceive you — can convince you ; convince you of my innocence 
 and Epicurus' virtue." 
 
 "Epicurus' virtue? your innocence? "What is Epicurus to 
 me ? What is he, or should he be to you ? Your innocence ? 
 And is this fastened to the mantle of Epicurus ? See him to be 
 convinced of your innocence ?" 
 
 "Yes, and of your own injustice. Oh, Cleanthes, what a 
 
28 A FEW DAVS IN ATHENS. 
 
 fool do I now know myself to have been ! To have listened to 
 the lies of Tiraocrates ! To have believed all his absurdities ! 
 Come, my friend ! come with me, and behold the face of the 
 master he blasphemes !" 
 
 "Theon, one master, and but one master, is mine. To me, 
 whether Timocrates exaggerate or even lie, it matters nothing." 
 
 "It does, or it should," said the Corinthian. "Will a dis- 
 ciple of Zeno not open his eyes to truth ? Not see an error, 
 and atone for it, by acknowledging it ? I do not ask you to be 
 the disciple of Epicurus — I only ask you to be just to him, and 
 that for your own sake, more than mine, or even his." 
 
 "I see you are seduced — I see you are lost," cried the stoic, 
 fixing on him a look, in which sorrow struggled with indigna- 
 tion. "I thought myself a stoic, but I feel the weakness of a 
 woman in my eyes. Thou wert as my brother, Theon ; and 
 thou — thou also art beguiled by the Syren — left virtue for plea* 
 sure, Zeno for Epicurus." 
 
 " I have not left Zeno." 
 
 "You cannot follow both — you cannot be in the day and 
 under the night at one and the same time." 
 
 " I tell you, there is no night in the gardens of Epicurus." 
 
 "Is there no pleasure there," cried the stoic, his mouth and 
 brows curling with irony. 
 
 "Yes, there is pleasure there: the pleasure of wisdom and 
 virtue." 
 
 " Ah ! have you learnt the Gargettian subtleties so soon ? 
 You have doubtless already worshipped virtue under the form 
 of the courtezan Leontium ; and wisdom under that of her 
 master and paramour, the son of Neocles." 
 
 " How little you know of either," returned Theon ! " But 
 I knew as little yesterday." 
 
 Cleanthes stopped. They were before the stoic portico. 
 " Farewell ! Return to your gardens ! Farewell !" 
 
 "We do not yet part," said Theon: Zeon is still my mas- 
 ter." He followed his friend up the steps. A crowd of 
 disciples were assembled, waiting the arrival of their master. 
 Some, crowded into groups, listened to the harangues of an 
 elder or more able scholar : others walking in parties of six or 
 a dozen, reasoning, debating, and disputing : while innumer- 
 able single figures, undisturbed by the buzz around them, 
 leaned against the pillars, studying each from a manuscript, 
 or stood upon the steps with arms folded, and heads dropt on 
 their bosoms, wrapt in silent meditations. At the entrance of 
 Cleanthes, the favoured pupil of their master, the scholars 
 made way, and the loud hum slowly hushed into silence. He 
 advanced to the centre, and the floating crowd gathered and 
 compressed into a wide and deep circle. All eyes bent on the 
 youth in expectant curiosity, for his countenance was disturbed, 
 and his manner abrupt. 
 
 Cleanthes was of the middle size : so slender, that you won- 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 29 
 
 dered at the erectness of his gait and activity of his motion. 
 His neck was small ; his shoulders falling ; his head elegantly- 
 formed ; the hair smooth and close cut ; the forehead narrow, 
 and somewhat deeply lined for one so young : the eye-brows 
 marked and even, save a slight bend upwards as by a frown, 
 above the nose. The eyes blue : but their gaze was too ear- 
 nest, and their spirit too clear, to leave any of the melting soft- 
 ness so usual with that colour : — and yet there were moments 
 when this would appear in them ; and when it did, it went to 
 the soul of him who observed it ; but such moments were short 
 and rare. The nose was finely and perhaps too delicately 
 turned : the mouth, mild and always in repose. The cheeks 
 were thin, and though slightly flushed, the face had a look of 
 paleness till enthusiasm awoke, and deepened all its dyes. The 
 whole expression had more spirituality and variety, and the 
 manner more agitation, than you would have looked for in the 
 first and favourite pupil of Zeno. The youth turned a rapid 
 glance round the circle : he threw out his right arm ; the 
 mantle dropt from his shoulder, and in a varied, piercing, and 
 yet melodious voice, he began — 
 
 *' My friends ! my brothers ! disciples of Zeno and of virtue ! 
 Give me your ears, and awake your faculties ! How shall I tell 
 the dangers that surround you ? How shall I paint the demon 
 that would ensnare you ? Timocrates hath escaped from his 
 enchantments, and told us that riot and revelling were in his 
 halls, that impiety was in his mouth ; vice in his practice ; 
 deformity in his aspect : and we thought that none but souls 
 born for error, already steeped in infamy, or sunk in effeminacy, 
 could be taken in his toils and seduced by his example. But 
 behold ! he hath changed his countenance — he hath changed 
 his tongue : amid his revels he hath put on the garb of decency: 
 in his riot he talks of innocence ; in his licentiousness of virtue ! 
 Behold the youth ! they run to him with greedy ears — they 
 throng his gardens and his porticoes. Athens, Attica, Greece, 
 all are the Gargettian's. Asia, Italy, the burning Afric and the 
 frozen Scythia — all, all send ready pupils to his feet. Oh ! 
 what shall we say ? Oh ! how shall we stem the torrent ! Oh ! 
 how shall we fence our hearts— how our ears from the song of 
 the Syren. To what mast shall we bind ourselves, to what pilot 
 shall we trust, that we may pass the shores in safety without 
 dashing on the rocks ? But why do I speak? Why do I inquire? 
 Why do I exhort: Is not the contagion already among us? In 
 the school of Zeno — in this portico — in this circle are there not 
 wavcrers? Yea, are there not apostates?" Emotion choked his 
 utterance : he paused, and glanced his kindled eyes round upon 
 the audience. Every breath was held in expectation ; each 
 looked on the other in doubt, dismay, and inquiry. Theon's 
 heart beat quick and high : he advanced one step', and raised 
 his arm to speak : but Cleanthes, gathering his breath, again 
 in a rapid voice continued. 
 
30 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 **Does this silence speak conscious guilt, or startled inno- 
 cence ? The last : I will believe the last. Praise be to the gods ! 
 praise to our guardian, Minerva ! praise to our great, our glo- 
 rious master, there are yet some sons left to Athens and to 
 Greece, who shall respect, follow, and attain to virtue ! Some 
 choice and disciplined souls, who sliall stand forth the light 
 and ornament of their age, and whose names shall be in honour 
 with those yet unborn. liouse, rouse up your energies ! Oh, 
 be tirm, to Zeno, and to virtue ! I tell you not — Zeno tells you 
 not, that virtue is founded in pleasure and repose. Resistance, 
 energy, watchfulness, patience, and endurance — these, these 
 must bo your practice, must be your habit, ere you can reach 
 the perfection of your nature. The ascent is steep, is long, is 
 ardvious. To-day you must ascend a step, and to-morrow a 
 step, and to-morrow, and to-morrow — and yet shall you be far 
 from the summit, from rest, and from security. Does this 
 appal you ? Does this disgust you ? Go then to the gardens. 
 Go to the man of Gargettium — he who calls himself philoso- 
 pher, and who loves and teaches folly ! Go, go to him, and he 
 shall encourage and soothe you. He shall end your pursuit, 
 and give you your ambition ! lie shall show you virtue robed 
 in pleasures, and lolling in ease ! lie shall teach you Avisdom 
 in a song, and happiness in impiety ! But I am told, that 
 Timocrates has lied ; that Epicurus is not a libertine ; nor 
 Leontium a prostitute ; nor the youth of the garden the ministers 
 to their lusts. Be it so. Timocrates must answer to himself, 
 whether his tale be the outpovivings of indignant truth, or the 
 subtle inventions of malevolence : with his OM'n conscience be 
 the secret : to us it matters nothing. AV'e, who have nought 
 to do with the doctrines of Epicurus, have nought to do with 
 his practice. Let him who would vindicate the or.e, vindicate 
 the other : let him come forth and say, that the master in the 
 gardens is not only pure in action, but perfect in theory. Let 
 him say, that he worships virtue as virtue, and shuns vice as vice. 
 Let him say, that he arms the soul witli fortitude, ennobles it with 
 magnanimity, chastens it with temperance, enlarges it with 
 beneficence, perfects it with justice : — and let him moreover 
 say, that he does this, not that the soul so schooled and invigo- 
 rated may lie in the repose of virtue, but that it may exult in 
 its honour, and be fitted for its activity. Eie on that virtue 
 Avhich prudence alone directs ! Which teaches to. be just that 
 the laws may not punish, or our neighbours revenge : to be 
 enduring — because complainings were useless, and weakness 
 would bring on us insult and contempt : — to be temperate — that 
 our body may keep its vigour, our appetites retain their acutc- 
 ness, and our gratifications and sensualities their zest : — to 
 serve our friends — that they may serve us ; — our country — 
 because its defence and well-being comprehends our own. 
 Why, all this is well — but is there nothing more ? Is it our 
 ease alone we shall study, and not our dignity ? Though all 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 31 
 
 my fellow-men -were swept away, and not a mortal nor im- 
 mortal eye were left to approve or condemn— should I not here 
 — within this breast, have a judge to dread, and a friend to 
 conciliate ? Prudence and pleasure ! AVas it from such prin- 
 ciples as these, that the virtue of Solon, of Miltiades, of 
 Aristides, of Socrates, of Plato, of Xenophon, of all our heroes 
 and all our sages, had its spring and its nourishment ? Was it 
 such virtue as this that in Lycurgus put by the offered crown? 
 that in Leonidas stood at Thermopylae? that in the dying 
 Pericles gloried that he had never caused a citizen to mourn ? 
 Was it such virtue as this, that !-poke in Socrates before his 
 judges ? that sustained him in his prison, and when the door 
 was open, and the sails of the ready ship unfurled, made him 
 prefer death to flight ; his dignity to his existence ?" 
 
 Again the young orator paused, but his indignant soul seemed 
 still to speak from his flashing eyes. His cheeks glowed as 
 fire, and the big drops rolled from his forehead. At this mo- 
 ment the circle behind him gave way, and Zeno advanced into 
 the midst : he stood by the head and shoulders above the 
 crowd : his breast, broad and manly ; his limbs, cast in strength 
 and symmetry : his gait, erect, calm, and dignified: his features, 
 large, grand, and regular, seemed sculptured by the chisel for a 
 colossal divinity: the forehead, broad and serene, was marked 
 with the even lines of wisdom and age ; but no harsh wrinkles 
 nor playing muscles disturbed the repose of his cheeks, nor 
 had sixty years toixchecl with one thread of silver his close 
 black hair : the eyes, dark, and full, fringed with long strait 
 lashes, looked in severe and steady wisdom from under their 
 correct and finely arched brows : the nose came from the fore- 
 head, strait and even : the mouth and chin were firm and 
 silent. Wisdom undisturbable, fortitude unshakeable, self- 
 respect, self-possession, and self-knowledge perfected, were in 
 his face, his carriage, and his tread. 
 
 He stopt before the youth, who had turned at his approach. 
 "My son," fixing his calm gaze on the v.-orking countenance 
 of his pupil, "what hath disturbed thy soul?"' Cleanthes 
 laid a hand on his labouring breast : he made one violent effort 
 for composure and speech : it failed. The hot blood forsook 
 his cheeks : it rushed again : again it fled : ho gasped, and 
 dropt fainting at the feet of his master. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Theon rushed forward : he knelt ; he raised the head of his 
 friend : breathless, agitated, terrified, he called his name with 
 the piercing cry of agony and despair. All was commotion 
 and confusion. The scholar's pressed foTAvard tumultuously ; 
 but Zeno, raising his arm, and looking steadily round, cried 
 
32 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 ♦* Silence !" The crowd fell back, and the stillness of night 
 succeeded. Then motioning the circle towards the street, to 
 give way and admit the air, he stooped and assisted Theon to 
 support his reviving pupil. Cleanihes raised his head, ttirned 
 his eyes wildly around, and then fixed them on his master. 
 
 ♦' 6ently," said Zeno, as the 3'outh struggled in their arms 
 for recollection, "gently, my son." But he made the effort: 
 he gained his feet, and throwing out his arm to a pillar neat 
 him, turned his head aside, and for some moments combatted 
 •with his weakness in silence. His limbs still trembled, and 
 his face had yet the hues of death, when, pressing his hand with 
 convulsive strength against the pillar, he proudly drew up his 
 form, turned his eyes again upon his master, and mustering his 
 broken respiration — "Blame me, but do not despise me." 
 
 '* I shall do neither, my son : the Weakness was in the body, 
 not the mind." 
 
 "There has been want of command in. both. I ask not to 
 be excused." Then turning round to his companions, " I may 
 be a warning, if not an example. The Spartans expose the 
 drunkenness of their Helots to confirm their youth in sobriety : 
 let the weakness of Cleanthes teach the sons of Zeno equani- 
 mity ; and let them say, — if in the portico weakness be found, 
 what shall it be in the gardens ? But," he continued, address- 
 ing his master, " will Zeno pardon the scholar, who, while 
 enforcing his nervous doctrines on others, has swerved from, 
 them himself?" 
 
 " Thou judgest thy fault as thou shouldst judge it," returned 
 Zeno ; " but comfort, my son ! He who knows, and knowing 
 can acknowledge his deficiency, though his foot be not on the 
 summit, yet hath he his eye there. But say the cause, and 
 surely it must be a great one, that could disturb the self-pos- 
 session of my disciple." 
 
 " The cause was indeed a great one ; 110 less than the apos- 
 tacy of a scholar from Zeno to Epicurus." 
 
 Zeno turned his eyes round the circle : there was no additional 
 severity in them, and no change in his manner, or in his deep 
 sonorous voice, when, addressing them, he said, " If one, or 
 more, or all of my disciples, be wearied of virtue, let them 
 depart. Let them not fear upbraidings or exhortations ; the 
 one were useless to you, the other unworthy of me. He who 
 sighs for pleasure, the voice of wisdom can never reach, nor the 
 power of virtue touch. In this portico truth will never bo 
 softened to win a sickly ear ; nor the severity of virtue, will it 
 ever be veiled to win a feeble heart. He who obeys in act and 
 not in thought ; he who disciplines his body and not his mind ; 
 he who hath his foot in the portico, and his heart in the gardens ; 
 he hath no more to do with Zeno, than a wretch sunk in all the 
 effeminacy of a Median, or the gross debauchery of a Scythian. 
 There is no mid-way in virtue ; no halting place for the soul 
 but perfection. You must be all, or you may be nothing. 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 33 
 
 iTou must determine to proceed to the utmost, or I encourage 
 ye not to begin. I say to ye, one and all, give me your ears, 
 your understandings, your souls, and your energies, ox depart!" 
 Again he looked round upon his scholars. A long and deep 
 silence succeeded: when young Theon, breaking through his 
 awe and his timidity, advanced into the centre, and craving 
 sufferance with his hand, addressed the assembly. 
 
 ** Though I should forfeit the esteem of Zeno and the love of 
 his disciples, I have no choice but to speak. Honour and 
 justice demand this of me: first to remove suspicion from this 
 assembly; next, to vindicate the character of a sage, whom the 
 tongue of a liar hath traduced ; and, lastly, to conciliate my 
 own esteem, which I value beyond even the esteem of the ve- 
 nerated Zeno, and of my beloved Cleanthes." He paused, and 
 turning to Zeno — "With permission of the master, I would 
 speak." 
 
 " Speak, my son : we attend." Zeno retreated among his 
 disciples ; and Cleanthes, anxious and agitated for his friend, 
 placed himself behind the screen of a pillar. With a varying 
 cheek and tremulous voice, the youth began : 
 
 " In addressing an assembly accustomed to the manly elocu- 
 tion of a Zeno, and the glowing eloquence of a Cleanthes, I 
 know I shall be forgiven by my companions, and I hope even 
 by my severe master, the blushes and hesitations of timidity 
 and inexperience. I open my mouth for the first time in puh- 
 lic ; and in what a p^iblic is it ? Let not, therefore, my con- 
 fusion be. thought the confusion of guilt ; but, as it truly is, of 
 bashful inexperience. First, to remove suspicion from this as- 
 sembly : — let not the scholars look with doubt on each other ; 
 let not the master look with doubt on his scholars. I am 
 he who have communed with the son of Neocles ; I am he 
 who have entered the gardens of pleasure ; I am he whom 
 Cleanthes hath pointed at as the apostate from Zeno to Epicu- 
 rus." A tumult arose among the scholars. Surprise, indig- 
 nation, and scorn, variously looked from their faces, and mur- 
 mured from their tongues. 
 
 " Silence !" cried Zeno, casting his severe glance round the 
 circle. "Young man, proceed." 
 
 This burst of his audience rather invigorated than dashed 
 the youth. He freely threw forth his arm ; his eyes lighted 
 with fire, and the ready words iiowed from his lips. " I merit 
 not the hiss of scorn, nor the burst of indignation. Desist, m.y 
 brothers, till my artless talc be told ; till you have heard, not 
 my apology, but my justification. Yesterday, at this hour, I 
 left the portico, heated to fury by the philippic of Timocrates 
 against Epicurus and his disciples ; indignant at the city that 
 did not drive such a teacher from its walls ; against the gods, 
 who did not strike him with their thunders. Thus venting my 
 feelings in soliloquy, after a long ramble I seated myself on the 
 banlts of Cephisus, and was awakened from a reverie by the 
 
 c 
 
34 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 approadi of a stranger : his aspect had the wisdom of a sage, 
 and the benignity ot a divinity. I yielded him the homage of 
 youtlifiil respect and admiration : he condescended to address 
 me. He gave me the precepts of virtue with the gentle and 
 honied tongue of kindness and persuasion. I listened, I ad- 
 mired, and I loved. We did not conclude our walk until sun- 
 set : he bade me to his supper. I entered his house, and he 
 told mc I beheld Epicurus. C'ould I have drawn back ? Shotdd 
 I have drawn back ? No : my heart answers, no. Your suf- 
 ferance my friends ! Do not interrupt me ! Do not call me an 
 apostate ! In the presence of the gods ; in the presence of my 
 master, whom I fear as them ; in the presence of my own con- 
 science, which I fear more than both, I swear that I am not 
 so ! I mean not to explain or to justify the philosophy of Epi- 
 curus : I know but little of it. I only know — I only affirm, 
 that his tongue has given new warmth to my love of virtue, 
 and new vigour to my pursuit of it. I only affirm, that per- 
 suasion, simple, ungarnished persuasion, is on his lips ; bene- 
 volence in his aspect ; urbanity in his manners ; generosity, 
 truth, and candour, in his sentiments ; I only affirm, that order, 
 innocence, and content, are in his halls and his gardens ; peace 
 and brotherly love with his disciples ; and that, in the midst 
 of these, he is himself the philosopher, the parent, and the 
 friend. I see the sneer of contempt upon your lips, my brothers ; 
 alas ! even on the unpeturbed countenance of my master I read 
 displeasure." 
 
 " No, my son," said Zeno, "thou dost not. Continue thy 
 artless tale. If there be error, it lies with the deceiver, not the 
 deceived. And you, my sons and disciples, banish from your 
 faces and your breasts every expression and every thought un- 
 worthy of your honest companion, and your upright sect. 
 For remember, if to ablior falsehood and vice be noble, to dis- 
 trust truth and innocence is mean. My son, proceed." 
 
 " Thanks for your noble confidence, my master: it makes me 
 proud, for I deserve it. Yes ! even should I, as I perceive you 
 apprehend, be deceived, I feel that this open confession of my 
 present perfect conviction is honourable both to myself and to 
 Zeno. It proves that in his school I have learnt candour, 
 though I have yet to learn discernment. And yet, methinks, 
 however imperfect my youthful discernment, it is not now in 
 error. If ever I saw simple, unadorned goodness ; if ever I 
 lieard simple, unadorned truth, it is in, it is from Epicurus. 
 Again your sufferance, my friends ! Again your sufferance, my 
 master ! I am not — I wish not to be, a disciple of the gardens : 
 virtue may be in them — excuse me, virtue is in them ; but there 
 is a virtue in the portico which I shall worship to my latest 
 hour. Here, here I first learned — here I first saw to what a 
 glorious height of greatness a mortal might ascend — how inde- 
 pendent he might be of fortune ; how triumphant over fate ! 
 \oung, innocent, and inexperienced, I came to Athens in search 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. bO 
 
 of wisdom and virtue. * Attend all the schools, and fix with that 
 which shall give you the noblest aims,' said my father, when 
 he gave me his partinp; blessing. He being an academician, I 
 had, of course, somewhat imbibed the principles of Plato, and 
 conceived a love for his school. On first hearing Crates, there- 
 fore, I thought my.- elf satisfied. Accident made me acquainted 
 with a young Pythagorean: I listened to his simple precepts ; I 
 loved his virtues, and almost fell into his superstitions. From 
 these Theophrastes awakened me ; and I was nearly fixed as a 
 Peripatetic, when I met the eloquent, enthusiastic Cleanthes. 
 He brought me to the portico, where I found all the virtues of 
 all the schools united, and crowned with perfection. But when 
 I preferred Zeno, I did not despise my former masters. I still 
 sometimes visit the lyceum and the academy, and still the young 
 Pythagoraen is my friend. A pure mind should, I think, re- 
 spect virtue wherever it be found : and if then in the lyceura 
 and the academy, why not in the gardens ? Zeno, in teaching 
 austerity, does not teach intolerance ; much less, I am sure, 
 does he teach ingratitude : and if I did not feel for the sage of 
 Gargettium both respect and love, I were the most ungrateful 
 soul in Athens ; and if, feeling both, I feared to acknowledge 
 both, I were the meanest. And now, my brothers, ask your- 
 selves what would be your indignation at the youth, who for hig 
 vices being driven from this portico, should run to the lyceum, 
 and accuse, to the sons of Aristotle, our great Zeno of that 
 sensuality and wickedness which had here wrought his own 
 disgrace, and his own banishment? Would ye not hate such a 
 wretch? Would ye not loathe him ? Would ye not curse him ? 
 My brothers ! this day have I learned such a wretch to be 
 Timocrates. Is he here? I hope he is. I hope he hears me 
 denounce him for a defamer and an ingrate." 
 
 *"Tis false!" cried Timocrates, bursting in fury from the 
 crowd. " 'Tis false ! I swear" — 
 
 "Beware of perjury !" said a clear, silver voice, from with- 
 out the circle. " Give way, Athenians ! 'Tis for me to take up 
 this quarrel." 
 
 The crowd divided. Every eye turned towards the opening. 
 Theon shouted with triumph ; Timocrates stood blank with 
 dismay — for they recognized the voice and the form of the son 
 of Neocles. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 The sage advanced towards Theon : he laid a hand on either 
 of his shoulders, and kissed his glowing forehead. " Thanks 
 to my generous defender. Your artless tale, my son, if it have 
 not gained the ear of Zeno, hath fixed the heart of Epicurus. 
 Oh, ever keep this candour and this innocence !" He turned 
 his benign face round the circle : "Athenians ! I am Epicurus. ' 
 
3G A FEW DATS IN ATHENS. 
 
 This name, so despised and execrated, did it not raise a tumult 
 in the assembly ? No ; every tongue was chained, every breath 
 suspended, every eye rivettcd with wonder and admiration. 
 Thcon had said the truth : it was the apsect of a sage and a 
 divinity. The face was a serene mirror of a serene mind : ita 
 expression spoke like music to the soul, Zeno's v,as not more 
 calm and unruffled ; but here was no severity, no authority, no 
 reserve, no unapproachable majesty, no repelling superiority : 
 all was benevolence, mildness, openness, and soothing encou- 
 ragement. To sec, was to love ; and to hear, was to trust. 
 Timocratcs shrunk from the eye of his master : it fell upon him 
 with a fixeJ and deep gaze, that struck more agony into his 
 guilty soul, than had the flash of a Cleanthes, or the glance of a 
 Zeno. The wretch sunk beneath it : he trembled ; he crouched ; 
 he looked as if he would have supplicated mercy ; but his tongue 
 cleaved to his palate, and shame withheld him from quite 
 dropping on his knees. *• Go ! I will spare thee. Give way 
 Athenians !" The scholars opened a passage : again the sage 
 waved his hand, and the criminal slunk away. 
 
 " Your pardon, Zino," said the Gargettian ; " I know the 
 youth : he is not worthy to stand in the portico." 
 
 " I thank you," returned the master, *' and my disciples 
 thank you. The gods forbid that we should harbour vice, or 
 distrust virtue. I see, and I recant my error : henceforth, if 
 I cannot respect the teacher, I shall respect the man." 
 
 " I respect both," said Epicurus, reclining his head to the 
 stoic. " I have long known and admired Zeno : I have often 
 mixed with the crowd in his portico, and felt the might of his 
 eloquence. I do not expect a similar return from him, nor do I 
 wish to allure his scholars to my gardens. I know the severity 
 of their master, and the austerity, may I say, the intolerance of 
 liis rules. But for one," and he laid his hand upon the head 
 of Theon, " for this one, I would bespeak clemency. Let not 
 that be imputed to him as a crime, which has been the work 
 of accident and of Epicurus : and let me also say for him, as 
 well as for myself — he has lost in the gardens no virtues, if a 
 few prejudices." 
 
 " Son of Neocles," said Zeno, " I feared yon yesterday, but 
 I fear you doubly to-day. Your doctrines are in themselves 
 enticing, but coming from such lips, I fear they are irresistible. 
 Methinks, I cast a prophet's eye on the map of futurity, and I 
 see the sage of Gargettium standing on the pinnacle of fame, 
 and a world at his feet. The world is prepared for this : the 
 Macedonian, when he marched our legions to the conquest of 
 Persia, struck the death-blow at Greece. Persian luxury and 
 Persian effeminacy, which before crept, now come with strides 
 upon us. Our youth, dandled on the lap of indulgence, shall 
 tnrn with sickened ears from the severe moral of Zeno, and 
 greedily suck in the honied philosophy of Epicurus. You will 
 tell me that you too teach virtue. It may be so. I do not see 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. ^ 37 
 
 it ; but it may be so. I do not conceive how there can be two 
 virtues, nor yet how two roads to the same. This, however, I 
 shall not argue. I will grant that in your system, as elucidated 
 by your practice, there may be something to admire, and much 
 to love ; but when your practice shall be dead, and your system 
 alone shall survive, where then shall be the security of its inno- 
 cence ; where the antidote ot its poison ? Think not that men 
 shall take the good and not the evil ; soon they shall take the 
 evil and leave the good. They shall do more ; they shall pervert 
 the very nature of the good, and make of the whole, evil 
 unmixed. Soon, in the shelter of your bowers, all that is vicious 
 shall find a refuge. Effeminacy shall steal in under the name 
 of ease ; sensuality and debauchery in the place of innocence 
 and refinement ; the pleasures of the body instead of those of 
 the mind. Whatever may be your virtues, they are but the 
 virtues of temperament, not of discipline ; and such of your 
 loJowers as shall be like you in temperament, may be like you 
 ia practice: but let them have boiling passions and urgent 
 appetites, and your doctrines shall set no fence against the 
 torrent; shall ring no alarm to the offender. Tell us not that 
 that is right which admits of evil construction — that that is 
 virtue which leaves an open gate to vice. I said, that with a 
 prophet's eye I saw your future fame ; but such fame as I foresee 
 can but ill satisfy the ambition of a sage. Your gardens shall 
 be crowded, but they shall be disgraced ; your name shall be in 
 every mouth, but every mouth shall be unworthy that speaks 
 it ; nations shall have you in honour, but ere it is so, they shall 
 be in ruin : our degenerated country shall worship you, and 
 expire at your feet. Zeno, meantime, may be neglected, but 
 he shall never be slandered ; the portico may be forsaken, but 
 shall never be disgraced; its doctrines may be discarded, but 
 shall never be misconstrued. I am not deceived by my present 
 popularity. No school now in such repute as mine ; but I know 
 this will not last. The iron and the golden ages are run ; youth 
 and manhood are departed ; and the weakness of old age steals 
 upon the world. But, O son of Neocles ! in this gloomy pros- 
 pect, a proud comfort is mine : I have raised the last bulwark 
 to the fainting virtue of man, and the departing glory of natiuus: 
 — I have done more: When thevirtue and glory of nations shall 
 be dead, and when in their depraved generations some solitary 
 souls, born for better things, shall see and mourn the vices around 
 them, here, in the abandoned portico, shall they find a refuge ; 
 here, shutting their eyes upon the world, they shall learn to be 
 a world to themselves ; here, steeled in fortitude, shall they look 
 down in high, unruffled majesty, on the slaves and the tyrants of 
 the earth. Epicurus ! when thou canst say this of the gardens, 
 then, and not till then, c;dl thyself a sage and a man of virtue." 
 He ceased ; but his full tones seemed yet to sound in the ears of 
 his listening auditors. There was a long pause, when the Garget- 
 tian in notes like the breathing flutes of Arcadia, began his reply: 
 
38 ^ A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 *' Zeno, in his present speech, has rested much of the truth of 
 his system on its expediency ; I, therefore, shall do the same by 
 mine. The door ot my gardens is ever open, and my books are 
 in the hands of the public ; to enter, therefore, here, into the 
 detail or the expounding of the principles of my philosophy, 
 were equally out of place and out of season. ' Tell us not that 
 that is right which admits of evil construction ; that that is vir- 
 tue which leaves an open gate to vice.' This is the thrust which 
 Zeno now makes at Epicurus ; and did it hit, I grant it were a 
 mortal one. From the liavour, we pronounce of the fruit ; from 
 the beauty and the fragrance, of the flower ; and in a system 
 of morals, or of philosophy, or of whatever else, what tends to 
 produce good we pronounce to be good, what to produce evil, 
 we pronounce to be evil. I might indeed support the argument, 
 that our opinion with regard to the first principles of morals has 
 nought to do with our practice ; — that whether I stand my virtue 
 upon prudence, or propriety, or justice, or benevolence, or self- 
 love, that my virtue is still one and the same ; that the dispute 
 is not about the end, but the origin ; that of all the thousands 
 who have yielded homage to vu-tue, hardly one has thought of 
 inspecting the pedestal she stands upon ; that as the mariner is 
 guided by the tides, though ignorant of their causes, so does a 
 man obey the rules of virtue, though ignorant of the principles 
 on which those rules are founded : and that the knowledge of 
 those principles would affect the conduct of the man, no more 
 than acquaintance with the causes of the tides would affect the 
 conduct of the mariner. But this I shall not argue ; in doing 
 so I miglit seem but to fight you flying. I shall meet your 
 objection in the face. And I say — that allowing the most 
 powerful effects to spring from the first grounds of a moral 
 system ; — the worst or the best, — that mine, if the best, is to be 
 80 judged by the good it does and the evil it prevents, must be 
 ranked among the best. If, as you say, and I partly believe, 
 the iron and the golden ages are past, the youth and the man- 
 hood of the world, and that the weakness of old age is creeping 
 on us — then, as you also say, our youth, dandled on the lap of 
 indulgence, shall turn with sickened ears from the severe moral 
 of Zeno ; and then I say, that in the gardens, and in the gardens 
 only, shall they find a food, innocent, yet adapted to their sickly 
 palates ; an armour, not of iron fortitude, but of silken persua- 
 sion, that shall resist the progress of their degeneracy, or throw 
 a beauty even over their ruin. But, perhaps, though Zeno 
 should allow this last effect of my philosophy to be probable, 
 he M ill not approve it : his severe eye looks with scorn, not 
 pity on the follies and vices of the world. He would annihilate 
 them, change them to their opposite virtues, or he would leave 
 them to their full and natural sweep. ' Be perfect, or be as you 
 are. I allow of no degrees of virtue, so care not for the degrees 
 of vice. Your ruin, if it must be, let it be in all its horrors, iu 
 all its vileness ; let it attract no pity, no sympathy ; let it be 
 
A FEW DA-JS IN ATHENS. 39 
 
 seen in all its naked deformity, and excite th.e full measure of 
 its merited abhorrence and disgust.' Tiius says the sublime 
 ,Zeno, who sees only man as lie should be. Thus says the mild 
 
 (Epicurus, who sees man as he is : — With all his weakness, all) 
 his errors, all his sins, still owning fellowship with him, still 
 rejoicing in his welfare, and sighing over his misfortunes; I 
 call from my gardens to the thoughtless, the headstrong, and the 
 idle—' Where do ye wander, and what do ye seek ? Is it plea- 
 sure ? 13ehold it here. Is it ease ? Enter and repose.' Thus do | 
 I court them from the table of drunkenness and the bed of 
 licentiousness : I gently awaken their sleeping faculties, and 
 draw the veil from their understandings : — ' My sons ! do you 
 seek i^lcasure? I seek her also. Let us make the search to- 
 gether. You have tried wine, you have tried love ; you have 
 sought amusement in revelling, and forgetfulness in indolence. 
 
 ( You tell me you are disappointed : that your passions grew, 
 even while you gratified them ; your weariness increased even 
 while you slept. Let us try again. Let us quiet our passions, 
 not by gratifying, but subduing them; let us conquer our 
 weariness, not by rest, but by exertion.' Thus do I win their \ 
 ears and their confidence. Step by step I lead them on. I 
 lay open the mysteries of science ; I expose the beauties of 
 art ; I call the graces and the muses to my aid ; the song, the 
 lyre, and the dance. Temperance presides at the repast ; in- 
 nocence at the festival ; disgust is changed to satisfaction ; 
 listlessness to curiosity ; brutality to elegance ; lust gives place 
 to love ; Bacchanalian hilarity to friendship. Tell me not, 
 Zeno, that the teacher is vicious who washes depravity from, 
 the youthful heart ; who lays the storm of its passions, and 
 turns all its sensibilities to good. I grant that I do not look 
 to make men great, but to make men happy. To teach them, 
 that in the discharge of their duties as sons, as husbands, as 
 fathers, as citizens, lies their pleasure and their interest ; — 
 and when the sublime motives of Zeno shall cease to affect an 
 enervated generation, the gentle persuasions of Epicurus shall 
 still be heard and obeyed. But you warn me that I shall be 
 slandered, my doctrines misinterpreted, and my school and my 
 name disgraced. I doubt it not. What teacher is safe from 
 malevolence, what system from misconstruction? And does 
 Zeno really think himself and his doctrines secure ? He knows 
 not, then man's ignorance and man's folly. Some few gene- 
 rations, when the amiable virtues of Epicurus, and the sublime 
 excellence of Zeno, shall live no longer in remembrance or tra- 
 dition, the fierce or ambitious bigots of some new sect may alike 
 calumniate both ; proclaim the one for a libertine, and the 
 other for a hypocrite. But I will allow that I am more open 
 to detraction than Zeno : that while your school shall be 
 abandoned, mine shall more probably be disgraced. But it 
 will be the same cause that produces the two effects. It will 
 be equally the degeneracy of man that shall cause the discarding 
 
40 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS 
 
 of your doctrines, and the perversion of mine. Why then 
 should the pro»i)cct of the future disturb Epicurus more than 
 Zeno ? The fault will not lie with me any more than you : but 
 with the vices of my followers, and the ignorance of my judges. 
 I follow my course, guided by what I believe to be wisdom ; 
 with the good of man at my heart, adapting my advice to hia 
 situation, his disposition, and his capacities. My efiforts may be 
 unsuccessful, my intentions maybe calumniated; but as I know 
 these to be benevolent, so I shiill continue those, unterrified and 
 unruffled by reproaches, unchilled by occasional ingratitude 
 and frequent disappointment." He ceased, and again laying his 
 hand on the shoulder of Theon, led him to his master. " t ask 
 not Zeno to admire me as a teacher, but let him not blame this 
 scholar for loving me as a man." 
 
 " I shall not blame him," said the stoic, *'but I wish that I 
 may not soon distrust him. I wish he may not soon forget 
 Zeno, and forsake the portico." 
 
 The shades of evening now fell on the city, and the assembly 
 divided. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The sun was in its fervour, when Theon issued from one of the 
 public baths. He was not disposed for rest, yet the heat of the 
 streets was insufferable. " I will seek the gardens," he thought, 
 ** and loiter in their cool shades until the master join me."^ 
 Reaching the house of the Gargettian, and the entrance to the 
 gardens being shorter through it than by the public gate, he 
 entered, and sought the passage he had before traversed. He 
 however took a wrong one, and after wandering for some time, 
 opened a door, and found himself in a library. Epicurus was 
 sitting in deep study, with his tablets before him ; his pen in 
 one hand, his forehead supported on the other. Metrodorus, 
 on the opposite side of the room was engaged in transcribing. 
 
 Theon stopped, and, making a short apology, hastily retired. 
 ** Stay !" cried the master. Theon again entered, but did not 
 advance much within the threshold. 
 
 " When I bade you stay, I did not mean to fix you as door- 
 keeper. Come in, and shut the door behind you." Theon 
 joyfully obeyed, and hurried to seize the extended hand of the 
 sage. " Since you have intruded on the sanctuary, I shall not 
 drive you out." He motioned the youth to a place on his 
 couch. *' And now, what pretty things am I to say to you for 
 your yesterday's defence of the wicked Gargettian ? You should 
 have come home with me last night, when we were both hot from 
 the combat, and then I could have made you an eloquent com- 
 pliment in full assembly at the Symposium, and you would as 
 eloquently have disclaimed it with one of your modest blushes." 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 41 
 
 "Then, truly, if the master had such an intention, I am very- 
 glad I did not follow him. But I passed the evening at my 
 own lodgings, with my friend Cloanthes." 
 
 ♦' Trying to talk him into good humour and charity, was it?" 
 
 •' Something so." 
 
 " And you succeeded ?" 
 
 " Vvliy, I don't know ; he did not leave me in worse humour 
 than he came." 
 
 " Nay, then it must have been in better. Explanation always 
 approaches or widens the differences between friends." 
 
 *' Yes, but we also entered into argument." 
 
 "Dangerous ground that, to be sure. And your fight, of 
 course, ended in a drawn battle." 
 
 " Yon pay me more than a merited compliment, in con- 
 cluding that to be a thing of course." 
 
 " Nay, your pardon ! I pay you any thing but a compliment. 
 It is not that I conclude your rhetoric and your logic equal, 
 but your obstinacy and your vanity." 
 
 "Do you know, I don't think myself either obstinate or 
 vain," said Theon, smiling. 
 
 " Had I supposed you did, I might not have seen occasion 
 to give you the information." 
 
 " But on what grounds do you think me obstinate and vain ?" 
 
 •'Your years; your years. And do you think there is a 
 man under twenty that is not both ?" 
 
 " WTiy, I should think an old man, at least, more obstinate 
 than a young one." 
 
 "I grant you, when he is obstinate, which is pretty often, 
 but not quite always ; and when he is vain, the same. But 
 whilst many old men have vanity and obstinacy in the super- 
 lative degree, all young men have those qualities in the posi- 
 tive. I believe your share to be tolerably moderate, but do not 
 suppose that j-ou have no share at all. Well, and now tell me, 
 was it not a drawn battle?" 
 
 " I confess it was. At least, we neither of us convinced the 
 other." 
 
 " My son, it would have added one more to the seven won- 
 ders if you had. I incline to doubt, if two men, in the course 
 of an olympiad, enter on an argument from the honest and 
 single desire of coming at the truth, or if, in the course of a 
 century, one man comes from an argument convinced by his 
 opponent." 
 
 " AVell, then, if you will allow me no credit for not being 
 convinced, you may at least for my not being silenced, I, so 
 young an arguer, and Cleanthes so practised a one !" 
 
 "You broke the ice beforehand yesterday in the portico," 
 said the philosopher, tapping his shoulder. "After that gene- 
 rous instance of confidence, I shall not marvel if you now find 
 a tongue upon all proper occasions. And trust me, the break- 
 ing of the ice is a very important matter. Many an orator has 
 
42 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 made but one spring to the land, and his legs, after he Ivad 
 taken courage to make the first stroke. Cleanthes himself 
 found this. You know his history ? He first appeared in Athens 
 as a wrestler, a stranger to philosophy and learning of all kinds. 
 In our streets, however, the buzz of it could not fail to reach 
 him. He ran full speed into the school of Crates. His cu- 
 riosity, joined to his complete ignorance, gave him so singular 
 an appearance, and produced from him so many simple ques- 
 tions, and blundering replies, that he received from his fellow 
 disciples the nickname of the Ass. But the ass persevered, 
 and soon after entering the portico, he applied with such in- 
 tense diligence to the unravelling the mysteries of Zeno's phi- 
 losophy, that he speedily secured the esteem of his master, and 
 the respect of his companions. But his timidity was for some 
 time extreme, and probably nothing but a sudden excitenieut 
 could have enabled him to break through it. This, however, 
 accidentally occurred, and he is now the ready and powerful 
 orator that you know him." 
 
 •* I have often heard," said Theon, ** and really not without 
 some scepticism, the change that a few years have wrought in 
 Cleanthes ; — a braiC7iy xvrestler ! who could believe it r and a 
 dull, ignorant Barbarian !" 
 
 ** The world always adds marvel to the marvellous. A 
 brawny wrestler he never was, though certainly something 
 stouter and squarer in person than he is now ; and though 
 ignorant, he was not dull. Intense application, and, some say, 
 the fasting of poverty, as well as temperance, rapidly reduced 
 his body, and spiritualized his mind." 
 
 •'The fasting of poverty," cried Theon, "do you believe 
 this?" 
 
 *' I fear it is possible," returned the master. " At least it is 
 asserted, that he possessed but four drachmas when he left the 
 school of wrestling for that of philosophy ; and it does not 
 well appear that he now follows any other trade than that of a 
 scholar ; one which certainly brings very little nourishment to 
 the body, whatever it may do to the mind." 
 
 *' But his master ; do you think Zeno would suffer him to 
 want the necessaries of life?" 
 
 "The actual necessaries, somehow or other, he certainly 
 has ; but I can believe he will make very few serve, and pro- 
 cure those few with some difficulty, rather than be indebted 
 even to his master." 
 
 •• Or his friend," said Theon. 
 
 " Nay, remember, you are not a friend of very long standing, 
 and something his junior in years." 
 
 " But should that prevent him from giving me his confidence 
 on such an occasion ?" 
 
 "Perhaps not, but allow something to the stoic pride." 
 
 "I can allow nothing to it here." 
 
 " No, because it touches your own. ♦ Thus do I tread on the 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 43 
 
 pride of Plato,'' said Diogenes, setting his foot on the robe of 
 the academic. * Yes, with the greater pride of Diogenes,' re- 
 turned Plato. But I have made you grave, which was not my 
 intention. Metrodorus, how go you on ?" 
 
 "Writing the last word,— There !— And now, "rising and 
 advancing towards Theon, "let me embrace the youth who so 
 nobly took up the vindication of my insulted master. Perhaps 
 you 'may not know how peculiarly I am indebted to you. 
 Timocrates is the brother of Metrodorus." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 •' I blush to own it." 
 
 "You need not blush, my loved son, you have done more 
 than a brother's duty towards him, and more than a disciple's 
 duty towards me. I suppose," turning to Theon, "as you are 
 a stoic, you have not read the able treatises of Metrodorus in 
 support of my doctrines, and defence of my character. In the 
 last, indeed, he has done more than I wished." 
 
 " I own I have not, but I will read them." 
 
 " What ! in the face of Zeno ?" 
 
 " Aye, and of the whole portico." 
 
 " We need not doubt the young Corinthian's courage," said 
 Metrodorus, " after his noble confidence yesterday." 
 
 " I see the master has not been silent," returned Theon, 
 " and that he has given me more praise than is my due." 
 
 "Metrodorus can tell you that is not my custom," said the 
 Gargettian. " By Pollux ! if you continue your visits to the 
 garden, you must look to be handled very roughly. I aim the 
 blow at every fault I see ; and I have a very acute pair of 
 eyes. I find out the most secret sins — turn the souls of my 
 scholars inside out ; so be warned in time !" 
 
 " I do not fear you," returned the Corinthian. 
 
 " Not fear me, you rogue ?" 
 
 " No, I love you too well ; but," continued Theon, " let me 
 now make my acknowledgments to the master for his coming 
 forward so seasonably yesterday, and giving me the victory. 
 How you astonished me ! I almost took you a second time for 
 a divinity." 
 
 "I will tell you how it happened," returned Epicurus: 
 " Chancing to be called into the street yesterday, just after you 
 left the house, I saw your meeting with Cleanthes; and guess- 
 ing from his first address, that you would have to stand a 
 seige, I followed you to the portico, and took my place, un- 
 noticed, among the crowd, ready, if occasion should require, to 
 offer my succour." 
 
 " And you heard then all that passed ?'* 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "I beg your pardon for the digression," said Theon : " but 
 I think you have more forbearance and more candour than any 
 man I ever heard of." 
 
 " If it be so, these useful qualities have not been attained 
 
44 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 w'ithout much study and discipline ; for Zeno is mistaken in 
 thinking all my virtues the children of temperament. I very 
 early perceived candour to be the quality the most indispensable 
 in the composition of a philosopher, and therefore very early 
 set my whole efforts to the attaining of it. And when once I 
 fairly engaged in the work, I did not find it either long or 
 difficult. I had naturally a mild temper, and a sensitive heart, 
 and these gifts were here of inconceivable use to me. Feeling 
 kindly towards my fellow creatures, I could the easier learn to 
 pity rather than hate their faults ; to smile, rather than frown 
 at their follies. This was a great step gained, but the next was 
 more difficult — to be slow in pronouncing what is a fault, and 
 what is a folly. Our superstition would haunt with the furies 
 the man who should take his sister to wife, while the customs 
 of Egypt wovdd commend them. How has the astronomer 
 been laughed at, who made the earth revolve round the stationary 
 sun ; and yet who can say but the age may come, when this 
 shall be established as a truth? Prejudices, when once seen aa 
 prejudices are easily yielded. The difficulty is, to come at the 
 knowledge of them. A thousand lectures had I read to myself, 
 ere I could calmly say, upon all occasions, it does not follow 
 that the thing is, because I think it is ; and till I could say this, 
 I never presumed to call myself a philosopher. When I had 
 schooled myself into candour, I found I was possessed of for- 
 bearance ; for, indeed, it is hardly possible to possess the ono 
 without the other." 
 
 " I cannot understand," said Theon, *' how with your mild- 
 ness, your candour, and your good humour, you have so many 
 enemies." 
 
 "Am I not the founder of a new sect?" 
 "Yes, but so have been many others." 
 " And y(»u think I have more enemies than any ? If it be so, 
 perhaps in those peaceable qualities you have enumerated, you 
 may seek the cause. Remember the cynics and stoics, (and 
 I believe most of my enemies are either among them, or of 
 their making,) do you think any of those three unpresuming 
 virtues would secure their approbation ? They do not love to 
 see a man take the place of a philosopher, without the airs of 
 one, and, as you may perceive, I want these most entirely. 
 Then you must remember also my popularity ; for of course my 
 mildness, candour, and good humour, along with other agree- 
 able virtues which shall be nameless, help to secure me a 
 thousand friends ; and he who has many friends, must have 
 many enemies, for you know he must be the mark of env)', 
 jealousy, and spleen." 
 
 " I cannot endure to think that it should be so," said Theon. 
 "Much less can I," said Metrodorus. 
 
 "My sons, never pity the man who can count more than a 
 friend for every enemy, and I do believe that I can do this. 
 Yes, my young stoic, Zeno may have fewer enemies, and as 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 45 
 
 many disciples, but I doubt if he have so many devoted chil- 
 dren as Epicurus." 
 
 " I know he has not," cried Metrodorus, curling his lip in 
 provid scorn. 
 
 " You need not look so fierce upon your knowledge," said 
 the master smiling. 
 
 " You are too mild, too candid," returned the scholar, " and 
 that is your only fault." 
 
 ♦' Then I am a mo*t faultless person, and I only wish I 
 could return the compliment to Metrodorus, but his lip curls 
 too much, and his cheeks are too apt to kindle." 
 "I know it, I know it," said the scholar. 
 '* Then why not mend it ?" 
 
 " Because I am not at all sure, but that it is better un- 
 mended. If you would but turn more fiercely upon your 
 enemies, or let me do so for you, they would respect you more, 
 for they would fear you more." 
 
 *' But as I am not a god, nor a king, nor a soldier, I have no 
 claim to fear ; and as I am a philosopher, I have no wish for 
 it. Then, as to respect, do you really think yourself more 
 worthy of it than your master." 
 
 "Nay," said Metrodorus, blushing, "that is too severe a 
 rub." 
 
 " Grant that it was merited. No, no, my son, we will con- 
 vince all we can, we will silence as few as possible, and we 
 will terrify none." 
 
 " Remember the exit of Timocrates," said Theon, " was not 
 that made in terror ?" 
 
 " Yes : but it was the work of his conscience, not of my eyes ; 
 if the first had been silent, I imagine he would have stood the 
 last very well." 
 
 " Do not name the wretch," cried Metrodorus, indignantly. 
 *♦ Oh, my young Corinthian, did you know all the patience and 
 forbearance that his master had shown towards him, all the 
 pains he took with him, the gentleness with which he admo- 
 nished him, the seriousness with which he warned him, the 
 thousand times that he forgave him ; and then, at last, when he 
 dared to insult his master's adopted child, the lovely Hedeia, 
 and the indignant disciples thrust him from the f>;ardens, ho 
 goes to our enemies, the enemies of his master, and feeds their 
 malice ^\ith infernal lies. Curses of the furies on the wretch 1" 
 " Fie ! how darest thou ?' ' said Epicurus, thrusting his scholar 
 indignantly from him. " Thy anger is unworthy of a man, 
 how much then of a brother ? Go, and recollect thyself, my 
 son !" softening his voice, as he saw a tear in Metrodorus's 
 eye. "The Corinthian will accompany you to the gardens; 
 I will join you when I have concluded this treatise." 
 
 Metrodorus took the arm of Theon, and they left the apart- 
 ment. 
 
4G A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Do not !" said Metrodorus to Theon, "take me as the best 
 sample of the pupils of Epicurus. We are not all so hot-brained 
 and hot-tongued." 
 
 " Nay !" returned his companion, " I am too young in phi- 
 losophy to blame your warmth. In your place, 5 should have 
 been as hot myself." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. I like you the better for the senti- 
 ment. But the sun scorches dreadfully, let us seek shelter." 
 
 They turned into a thicket, and proceeding some way, caught 
 on the still air the notes of a flute. They advanced, and came 
 to a beautiful bank of verdure, bordered by the river, and 
 shadowed by a group of thick and wide-spreading oaks. "It 
 is Leontium," said Metrodorus. "No other in Attica, can 
 breathe the flute so sweetly." They turned one of the trunks, 
 and found her lying on the tiirf ; her shoulder leaning against 
 a tree, and her figure raised on one elbow. Beside her was 
 seated the black-eyed girl, whom Theon had before seen ; her 
 taper fingers twining into a wreath the scented flowers, which 
 vi-ere lightly thrown into her lap by the gay Sofron, who stood 
 at some distance among the shrubs. 
 
 "Enough ! Enough!" said the gentle voice of the girl, as 
 the youth shook down in show'ers the leaves aiid nectareous 
 odours of the over-ripe blossoms. "Enough! enough! stay 
 thy hand, thou heedless ravager !" 
 
 "Thank thee for thy words, although they chide me," said 
 the boy, letting go the bough which he had jusrt seii,ed, with a 
 bound, light as that of the shrub Avhen it sprung upward from 
 his hand. " Thou hast but one feeling in thy soul, Boidion ; 
 and thy nature belies the sunny clime which saw its birth. 
 Friendship is all to thee, and that friendship is but for one." 
 
 " In truth, thou repayest his cares but coldly," said Leon- 
 tium, taking the pipe from her mouth, and smiling on the dark- 
 haired maiden. 
 
 "But I repay not thine coldly," said Boidion, kissing the 
 hand of her friend. 
 
 " 1 am well punished for the neglect of my morning's lec- 
 ture," said Soiron, impatiently, as he snatched his book from 
 the ground, and turned away. 
 
 " Part not in anger, brother !" exclaimed Boidion. But the 
 youth had vanished, and in his place Metrodorus and Theon 
 stood before her. 
 
 The startled girl was about to rise, when Leontium, laying 
 her hand on her arm, "Rest thee, thou timid fawn," and the 
 maiden resumed her seat. 
 
 "I rejoice," said Theon, as he placed himself with Metro- 
 dorus by the side of Leontium, and took up the pipe which 
 had fallen from her hand ; " I rejoice to find this little instru- 
 ment restored to Athens." 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 47 
 
 *• Say not restored to Athens," returned Leontium, "only 
 admitted into the garden. I doubt our vain youth still remem- 
 ber the curse of Alcibiades, and looking in their mirror, vow 
 that none but fools would play on it." 
 
 "This recalls to me," saidTheon, "that I have heard among 
 the various reports concerning the gardens current in the mouths 
 of the Athenians, very contradictory ones as to the place allowed 
 in it to the sciences and liberal arts, and to music in particular." 
 
 "I suppose," said Metrodorus, " that you heard our Avhole 
 employment was eating, drinking, and rioting in all licen- 
 tiousness. I 
 
 " True, I did hear so ; and I fear I must confess, half believed 
 it. But I also heard your licentiousness described in various 
 ways : sometimes as grossly sensual, enlivened by no elegances 
 of art; veiled, adorned, if I may use the expression, by no 
 refinement. In short, that Epicurus laughed as well at the fine 
 arts as the grave sciences. From others, again, I learnt that 
 music, dancing, poetry, and painting, were pressed into the 
 service of his philosophy ; that Leontium strung the lyre, Me- 
 trodorus the harp, Hedeia moved in the dance, Boidion raised 
 the song to Venus ; that his halls were covered with voluptuous 
 pictures, the walks of his garden lined with indecent statues." 
 
 " And you may now perceive the truth," replied Metrodorus, 
 "with your own eyes and ears." 
 
 "But," said Leontium, "the young Corinthian may be 
 curious to know the sentiments of our master, and his advice 
 regarding the pursuit of the sciences and the liberal arts. I 
 can readily perceive," addressing herself to Theon, " the origin 
 of the two contradictory reports you have just mentioned. The 
 first you would hear from the followers of Aristippus, who, 
 though not acknowleding the name, follow the tenets of his 
 philosophy, and have long been very numerous in our degene- 
 rate city. These, because Epicurus recommends but a moderate 
 culture of those arts, which by them are too often made the 
 elegant incentives to licentious pleasure, accuse him of neglect- 
 ing them altogether. The cynics, and other austere sects, who 
 condemn all that ministers to the luxury, ease, or recreation of 
 man, exaggerate his moderate use of these arts into a vicious 
 encouragement of voluptuousness and effeminacy. You will 
 perceive, therefore, that between the two reports lies the truth. 
 Every innocent recreation is permitted in the garden. It is 
 not poetry, but licentious poetry, that Epicurus condemns ; 
 not music, but voluptuous music ; not painting, but licentious 
 pictures ; not daucin?, but loose gestures. Yet thus he dis- 
 pleases alike the profligate and the austere ; for these he is too 
 moderate, and for those too severe. "With regard to the sciences, 
 if it be said, that they are neglected among us, I do not say that 
 our master, though himself versed in them, as in all other 
 branches of knowledge, greatly recommends them to our study 
 but that they are not unknown, let Polyoenus be evidenc©. 
 
48 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 He, one of the most amiable men of our school, and one mo=!t 
 highly favoured by our master, you must have heai-d mentioned 
 throughout Greece as a profound geometrician." 
 
 "Yes," replied Theon, "but I have also heard, that since 
 entering the garden, he has ceased to respect his science." 
 
 " I am not aware of that," said Leontium, " though I believe 
 he no longer devotes to it all his time, and all his faculties. 
 Epicurus called him from his diagrams, to open to him the 
 secrets of physics, and the beauties of ethics ; to show him the 
 springs of human action, and lead him to the study of the human 
 mind. He taught him, that any single study, however useful 
 and noble in itself, was yet unworthy the entire employ of a 
 curious and powerful intellect ; that the man who pursued one 
 line of knowledge, to the exclusion of others, though he should 
 follow it up to its very head, would never be either learned or 
 wise ; that he who pursues knowledge, should think no branch 
 of it unworthy attention ; least of all, should he confine it to 
 those which are unconnected with the business, and add no- 
 thing to the pleasures of life ; that further not our acquaintance 
 with ourselves, nor our fellows ; that tend not to enlarge the 
 sphere of our affections, to multiply our ideas and sensations, 
 nor extend the scope of our inquiries. On this ground, he 
 blamed the devotion of Polyoenus to a science that leads to other 
 truths than those of virtue, to other study than that of man." 
 
 "I am obliged to you for the explanation," said Theon; 
 " not because I could any longer have given credit to the absurd 
 reports of your master's enemies ; but because, whatever opens 
 to me the character and opinions of such a man, interests and 
 improves me." 
 
 "You will find this," said Metrodorus, " the more you con- 
 sider them. The life of Epicurus is a lesson of wisdom. It is 
 by example, even more than precept, that he guides his disciples. 
 Without issuing commands, he rules despotically. His wishes 
 are divined, and obeyed as laws ; his opinions are repeated as 
 oracles ; his doctrines adopted as demonstrated truths. All is 
 unanimity in the garden. We are a family of brothers, of which 
 Epicurus is the father. And I say not this in praise of the 
 scholars, but the master. Many of us have had bad habits, 
 many of us evil propensities, many of us violent passions. That 
 our habits are corrected, our propensities changed, our passions 
 restrained, lies all with Epicurus. What I myself owe him, 
 none but myself know. The giddy follower of licentious plea- 
 sure, the headstrong victim of my passions, he has made me 
 taste of the sweets of innocence, and brought me into the calm 
 of philosophy. It is thus— thus, by rendering us happy, that 
 he lays us at his feet — thus that he gains, and holds the empire 
 of our minds — thus that by proving himself our friend, he secures 
 our respect, our submission, and our love. He cannot but 
 know his power, yet he exerts it in no other way, than to mend 
 our lives, or to keep them innocent. In argument, as you may 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 49 
 
 have observed, he always seeks to convince rather than sway. 
 He is as free from arrogance as from duplicity ; he would neither 
 force an opinion on the mind, nor conceal from it a truth. Ask 
 his advice, and it is ever ready — his opinion, and he gives it 
 clearly. Free from prejudice himself, he is tender to that of 
 others ; yet no feai of censure, or desire of popularity, ever 
 leads him to humour it, either in his lessons or his writings. 
 Candour, as you have already remarked, is the prominent 
 feature of his mind ; it is the crown of his perfect character. I 
 say this, my young Corinthian, who know him. His soul, in- 
 deed, is open to all ; but I have approached very near it, and 
 considered its inmo t recesses. Yes, I am proud to say it — I 
 am one of those he has drawn most closely into his intimacy. 
 With all my imperfections and errors, he has adopted me as a 
 son ; and, inferior as I am in years, wisdom and virtue, he 
 deigns to call me his friend." 
 
 Tears here filled the eyes of the scholar ; he seemed about to 
 resume, when a slight sound made the party turn their heads, 
 and they saw the master at thefr side. " Do not rise, my 
 children, I will seat myself among you." Theon perceived he 
 had heard the closing sentence of Metrodorus, for the water 
 glistened in his eyes as he fixed them tenderly upon him. 
 •* Thanks, my son, for this tribute of thy gratitude ; I have 
 heard thy eulogy, and I accept it joyfully. Let all men,'' and 
 he turned his eye upon Theon, " be above flattery ; but let not 
 a sage be above praise. He that is so is either arrogant or 
 insincere. For myself, I own that the commendations of my 
 fi-iends fills me with triumph, as the assurance of their affection 
 does with satisfaction. The approbation of our familiars, who 
 are with us in our secret hours, hear our private converse, know 
 the habits of our lives, and the bent of our dispositions, is, or 
 should be to us, far more pleasing and triumphant than the 
 shouts of a multitude, or the worship of the world." 
 
 There was a pause of some minutes, when Leontium took up 
 the word. '* I have been explaining, though very shortly and 
 imperfectly, your views concerning the studies most proper to 
 be pursued by men. I believe the Corinthian has some curiosity 
 on this point." 
 
 Theon assented. 
 . *' Knowledge," said the master, ** is the best riches that man 
 tan possess. Without it, he is a brute, with it, he is a god. 
 But like happiness, he often pursues it without finding it ; or, 
 at best, obtains of it but an imperfect glimpse. It is not that 
 the road to it is either dark or difficult, but that he takes a wrong 
 one ; or if he enters on the right, he does so unprepared for the 
 journey. Now he thinks knowledge one with erudition, and 
 shutting himself up in his closet, he cons all the lore of antiquity; 
 he fathoms the sciences, heaps up in his memory all the sayings 
 of the dead, and reckoning the value of his acquisitions by the 
 aneasure of the time and labour he hath expended on them, he 
 
50 A FEW DATS IN ATHENS. 
 
 is satisfied he hath reached his end, and from his retirement, 
 lookiDg down upon his more ignorant, because less learned , 
 brethren, he calls them children and barbarians. But alas ! ' 
 learning is not wisdom, nor will books give understanding. 
 Again, he takes a more inviting road : he rushes into the crowd ; 
 he rolls down the stream of pleasure ; he courts the breath of 
 popularity : he unravels or weaves the riddles of intrigue ; he 
 iiumours the passions of his fellows, and rises upon them to 
 name and power. Then, laughing at the credulity, ignorance, 
 and vice, he hath set his throne upon, he says, that to know the 
 ivorld is the only knowledge, and to see to dupe it, is to be wise. 
 Yet knowledge of the world is not knowledgf^ of man, nor to 
 triumph in the passions of others, is not to triumph over our 
 own. No, my sons, that only is real, is sterling knowledge, 
 which goes to make us better and happier men, and which fits 
 us to assist the virtue and happiness of others. All learning is 
 useful, all the sciences are curious, all the arts are beautiful ; 
 but more useful, more curious, and more beautiful, is the perfect 
 knowledge and perfect government of ourselves. Though a 
 man should read the heavens, unravel their laws and their 
 revolutions ; though he should dive into the mysteries of matter, 
 and expound the phenomena of earth and air ; though he should 
 be conversant with all the writings, and the sayings, and the 
 actions of the dead ; though he should hold the pencil of Parr- 
 hasius, the chisel of Polycletes, or the lyre of Pindar ; though 
 he should do one or all of these things, yet know not the secret 
 springs of his own mind, the foundation of his opinions, the 
 motives of his actions ; if he hold not the rein over his passions ; 
 if he have not cleared the mist of all prejudices from his under- 
 standing ; if he have not rubbed off all intolerance from his 
 judgments ; if he know not to weigh his own actions, and the 
 actions of others, in the balance of justice — that man hath not 
 knowledge ; nor, though he be a man of science, a man of 
 learning, or an artist, he is not a sage. He must yet sit down, 
 patient, at the feet of philosophy. With all his learning, he 
 hath yet to learn, and, perhaps, a harder task, he hath to unlearn." 
 
 The master here paused, but the ears of Theon still hung 
 upon his lips. " Do not cease," he exclaimed ; " I could listen 
 to you through eternity." 
 
 "I cannot promise to declaim quite so long," returned the 
 sage, smiling. " But if you wish it, we will follow out the 
 topic when we have joined our other friends." 
 
 They rose, and bent their steps to the public walk. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Epicurus stood in the midst of the expectant scholars." '* My 
 sons " V»e said, " why do you enter the gardens ? Is it to seek 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 51 
 
 happiness, or to seek virtue and knowledge ? Attend, and I 
 •will show you that in finding one, you shall find the three. To 
 be happy, we must be virtuous ; and when we are virtuous, we 
 are wise. Let us then begin : and first, let us for a while hush 
 our passions into slumber, forget our prejudices, and cast away 
 our vanity and our pride. Thus patient and modest, let us come 
 to the feet of philosophy ; let us say to her, 'Behold us scholars 
 and children, gifted by nature with faculties, aff'ections, and 
 passions. Teach us their use and their guidance. Show us 
 how to turn them to account — how best to make them conduce 
 to our ease, and minister to our enjoyment.' 
 
 " ' Sons of earth," says the Deity, " you have spoken wisely ; 
 you feel that you are gifted by nature with faculties, affections, 
 and passions ; and you perceive that on the right exertion and 
 direction of these depends your well-being. It does so. Your 
 affections both of soul and body may be shortly reduced to two, 
 pleasure and pain ; the one troublesome, and the other agreeable. 
 It is natural and befitting, therefore, that you shun pain, and 
 desire and follow after pleasure. Set forth then on the pursuit ; 
 but ere you start, be sure that it is in the right road, and that 
 you have your eye on the true object. Perfect pleasure, which 
 IS happiness, you will have attained when you have brought 
 your bodies and souls into a state of satisfied tranquillity. To 
 arrive at this, much previous exertion is requisite ; yet exertion, 
 not violent, only constant and even. And first, the body, with, 
 its passions and appetites, demands gratification and indulgence. 
 But beware ! for here are the hidden rocks which may shipwreck 
 your bark on its passage, and shut you out for ever from the 
 haven of repose. Provide yourselves then with a skilled pilot, 
 who may steer you through the Scylla and Charybdis of your 
 carnal affections, and point the steady helm through the deep 
 •waters of your passions. Behold her ! it is Prudence, the mother 
 of the virtues, and the handmaid of wisdom. Ask, and she will 
 tell you, that gratification will give new edge to the hunger of 
 your appetites, and that the storm of the passions shall kindle 
 with indulgence. Ask, and she will tell you, that sensual 
 pleasure is pain covered with the mask of happiness. Behold 
 she strips it from her face, and reveals the features of disease, 
 disquietude, and remorse. Ask, and she will tell you, that 
 happiness is not found in tumult, but tranquillity ; and that, not 
 the tranquillity of indolence and inaction, but of a healthy con- 
 tentment of soul and body. Ask, and she will tell you, that a 
 happy life is like neither to a roaring torrent., nor a stagnant 
 pool, but to a placid and crystal stream, that flows gently and 
 silently along. And now Prudence shall bring to you the 
 lovely train of the virtues. Temperance, throwing a bridle on 
 your desires, shall gradually subdue and annihilate those whose 
 present indulgence would only bring future evil ; and others 
 more necessary and more innocent, she shall yet bring down to . 
 Buch besoming moderation, as shall prevent all disquiet to the \ 
 
 D 2 
 
52 A FETV DATS IX ATIIEXS. 
 
 soul, and nry to the body. Fortitude shall strent^then you 
 lo bear those diseases which even tt.'mperance may not be 
 efficient to prevent ; those afHictions which fate may level at 
 vuu ; those persecutions which the folly or malice of man may 
 invent. It shall fit you to bear all thing-;, to conquer fear, and 
 to meet death. Justice shall give you security among your 
 fellows, and satisfaction in your own breasts. Generosity shall 
 endear you to others, and sweeten your own nature to yourselves. 
 Gentleness shall take the sting from the malice of your enemies, 
 and make you extract double sweet from the kindness of friends* 
 Gratitude shall lighten the burden of obligation, or render it 
 even pleasant to bear. Friendship shall put the crown on your 
 security and your joy. With these, and yet more virtues, shall 
 prudence surround you. And, thus attended, hold on your 
 course in confidence, and moor your barks in the haven ol 
 repose.' " 
 
 "Thus says Philosophy, my sons, and says she not wisely? 
 Tell us, ye who have tried the slippery paths of licentiousness, 
 who have given the rein to your passions, and sought pleasure 
 in the lap of voluptuousness ; tell us, did ye find her there ? 
 No, ye did not, or ye would not now inquire of her from 
 Epicurus. Come, then, Philosophy hath shown ye the way. 
 Throw off your old habits, wash impurity from your hearts ; 
 take up the bridle of your passions ; govern your minds, and 
 be bapjjy. And ye, my sons, to whom all things are yet new ; 
 whose passions yet in the bud, have never led you to pain and 
 regret ; ye who have yet to begin your career, come ye also ! 
 Philosophy hath shown ye the way. Keep your hearts innocent, 
 hold the bridle of your passions, govern your minds, and be 
 happy. But, my sons, methinks I hear you say, ' You have 
 shown us the virtues rather as modifiers and correctors of evil, 
 than as the givers of actual and perfect good. Happiness, you 
 tell us, consists in ease of body and mind ; yet temperance can- 
 not secure the former from disease, nor can all the virtues united 
 award affliction Irom the latter.' True, my children, Philosophy 
 cannot change the laws of nature ; but she may teach us to 
 accommodate ourselves to them. She cannot annul pain ; but 
 she can arm us to bear it. And though the evils of fate be 
 many, are not the evils of man's coining more ! Nature afflicts 
 us with disease ; but for once that it is the infliction of nature, 
 ninety-nine times it is the consequence of our own folly. Na- 
 ture levels us with death ; but how mild is the death of nature, 
 with Philosophy to spread the pillow, and friendship to take 
 the last sigh, to the protracted agonies of debauchery, subdu- 
 ing the body by inches, while Philosophy is not there to give 
 strength, nor friendship consolation, but while the flames of 
 fever are heated by impatience, and the stings of pain envenom 
 ed by remorse ! And tell me, my sons, when the body of the 
 sage is stretched on the couch of pain, hath he not his mind to 
 minister delight to him ? Hath he not conscience whispering 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 53 
 
 that h.is present evil is not chargeable to his own past folly, but 
 to the laws of nature, which no effort or foresight of his could 
 liave prevented ? Hath he not memory to bring to him past 
 pleasures, the pleasures of a well -spent life, on which he may 
 feed even while pain racks his members, and fever consumes 
 his vitals ? Or, what if agony overpijwer his frame, and cripple 
 his faculties, is there not death at hand to reach him deliver- 
 ance Here, then is death, that giant of terror, acting as a 
 friend. But does he interrupt our enjoyments as well as our 
 sufferings ? And is it for this we fear him ? Ought we not rather 
 to rejoice, seeing that the day of life has its bright and its clouded 
 hours, that we are laid to sleep while the sun of joy yet shines, 
 before the storm of fate has broken our tranquillity or the evening 
 of age bedimmed our prospect ? Death, then, is never our foe. 
 When not a friend, he cannot be worse than indifferent. Fur 
 while we are, death is not ; and when death is, we are not. To 
 be wise, then, death is nothing. Examine the ills of life ; are 
 they not of our own creation, or take they not their darkest 
 hues from our passions or our ignorance ? What is poverty, if 
 "we have temperance, and can be satisfied with a crust, and a 
 draught from the spring ? — if we have modesty, and can wear a 
 woollen garment as gladly as a tyrian robe ? What is slander, 
 if we have no vanity that it can wound, and no anger that it can 
 kindle? What is neglect, if we have no ambition that it can dis- 
 appoint, and no pride that it can mortify ? What is persecution, 
 if we have our own bosoms in which to retire, and a spot of 
 earth to sit down and rest upon ? What is death, when without 
 superstition to clothe him with terrors, we can cover our heads, 
 and go to sleep in his arms ? What a list of human calamities 
 are here expunged — poverty, slander, neglect, disappointment, 
 persecution, death. What yet remains ? Disease ? That, too, 
 we have shown temperance can often shun, and Philosophy can 
 always alleviate. But there is yet a pain, which the wisest 
 and the best of men cannot escape; thatallof us, my sons,havo 
 felt, or have to feel. Do not your hearts whisper it ? Do you 
 not tell me, that in death there is yet a sting ? That ere he aim 
 at us, he may level the beloved of our soul ? The father, whose 
 tender care hath reared our infant minds — the brother, whom 
 the same breast hath nourished, and the same roof sheltered, 
 with whom, side by side, we have grown like two plants by a 
 river, sucking life from the same fountain and strength from the 
 same sun — the child whose gay prattle delights our ears, or 
 whose opening understanding fixes our hopes — the friend of 
 our choice, with whom we have exchanged hear is, and shared 
 all our pains and pleasures, whose eye hath reflected the tear 
 of sympathy, whose hand hath smoothed the couch of sickness. 
 Ah ! my sons, here indeed is a pain — a pain that cuts into the 
 Boul. There are masters that will tell you otherwise ; who will 
 tell you that it is unworthy of a man to mourn even here. But 
 euch, my sons, speak not the truth of experience or philosophy, 
 
54 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS . 
 
 but the subtleties of sophistry and pride. He who feels not the 
 loss, hath never felt the possession. He who knows not the 
 grief, hath never known the joy. See the price of a friend in 
 the duties Ave render him, and the sacriiices we make to him, 
 and wliicli, in making, Ave count not sacrifices, but pleaeures. 
 AVe sorroAV for his sorrow ; we supply his wants, or, if we can- 
 not, Ave share them. We follow him to exile. We close our- 
 selves in his prison ; Ave soothe him in sickness ; Ave strengthen 
 liim in death : nay, if it be possible, we throAV down our life for 
 his. Oh ! Avhat a treasure is that for which we do so much I 
 And is it forbidden to us to mourn its loss ? If it be, the power 
 is not Avith us to obey. Should we, then, to avoid the evil, 
 forego the good ? Shall we shut love from our hearts, that we 
 may not feel the pain of his departure ? No ; happiness forbids 
 it. Experience forbids it. Let him who hath laid on the pyre 
 the dearest of his soul, who hath washed the urn with the bit- 
 terest tears of grief — let him say if his heart hath ever formed 
 the wish that it had never shrined within it him whom he now 
 deplores. Let him say if the pleasures of the sweet commimion 
 of his former days doth not still live in his remembrance. If he 
 love not to recall the image of the departed, the tones of his 
 voice, the words of his discourse, the deeds of his kindness, the 
 amiable virtues of his life. If, while he weeps the loss of his 
 friend, he smiles not to think that he once possessed him. He 
 who knoAvs not friendship, knows not the purest pleasure of 
 earth. Yet if fate deprive us of it, though we grieve, we do 
 not sink ; Philosophy is still at hand, and she upholds us Avith 
 fortitude. And think, my sons, perhaps in the very evil we 
 dread, there is a good ; perhaps the very uncertainty of the 
 tenure gives it value in our eyes ; perhaps all our pleasures take 
 lluir zebt from the known possibility of their interruption. 
 What were the glories of the sun, if we knew not the gloom of 
 darkness. What the refreshing breezes of morning and evening, 
 if we felt not the fervours of noon ? Should we value the lovely- 
 flower, if it bloomed eternally ; or the luscious fruit, if it hung 
 ahvays on the bough ? Are not the smiles of the heavens more 
 beautiful in contrast with their frowns, and the delights of the 
 seasons more grateful from their vicissitudes ? Let us then be 
 sloAv to blame nature, for perhaps in her apparent errors there 
 is hidden Avisdom. Let us not quarrel with fate, for perhaps 
 in our evils lie the seeds of our good. Were our body never 
 subject to sickness, we might be insensible to the joy of health. 
 Were our life eternal, our tranquillity might sink into inaction. 
 Were our friendship not threatened with interruption, it might 
 Avant much of its tenderness. This, then, my sons, is our duty, 
 for this is our interest and our happiness ; to seek our pleasures 
 from the hands of the virtues, and for the pain which may 
 befall us, to submit to it with patience, or bear up against it 
 with fortitude. 3b walk, in short, throxigh life innocently and 
 tranquilly i and to look on death as its gentle terminationy uhich 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 55 
 
 tt becomes us to meet tvith ready minds, neither regretting the 
 past, nor anxious for the future." 
 
 The sage had scarcely ceased, when a scholar advanced from 
 the crowd, and bowing his head with reverence, stooped and 
 touched the knees of his master. " Refuse not my homage," 
 he said, "nor call the expression of it presumptuous." Epicurus 
 raised him in his arms. " Colotes, I am more proud of the 
 homage of thy young mind, than I should be of that of the 
 assembled crowds of Olympia. May thy master, my son, never 
 lose his power over it, as I feel that he will never abuse it. ' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The sun had far declined from his meridian, yet no cool breeze 
 tempered the fervours of the heat. The air was chained in op- 
 pressive stillness, when suddenly a bustling wind shook the 
 trees, and a low growling reverberated round the horizon. The 
 scholars retired before the threatening storm; but Theon, his ear 
 still filled with the musical voice of the sage, and his heart 
 imbued with his gentle precepts, lingered to feed alone upon 
 the thoughts they had awakened in him. •♦ How mad is the 
 folly of man," he said, as he threw his back against a tree. 
 " Professing to admire wisdom and love virtue, and yet ever 
 persecuting and slandering both. How vain is it to look for 
 credit by teaching truth, or to seek fame by the road of virtue !" 
 *' Thy regret is idle, my son," said a well known voice in 
 his ear. 
 
 *' Oh! my guardian spirit!" cried the startled youth — *' Is 
 it you ?" 
 
 "I linger," said the Gargettian, "to watch the approach of 
 the storm, and I suppose you do the same." 
 
 "No," returned the youth; "I hardly heeded the heavens." 
 "They are singular, hoAvever, at this moment." Theon 
 looked where the sage pointed ; a dark mass of vapours was 
 piled upon the head of Hymettus, from which two columns, 
 shooting forth like the branches of some giant oak, spread 
 themselves over the sky. The opposing sun, fast travelling to 
 the horizon, looked red through the heated atmosphere, and 
 flashed a deep glare on their murky sides. Soon half the land- 
 scape was blackened with the sinking clouds, that each moment 
 increasing in bulk and density, seemed to touch the bosom of 
 the earth. The western half glowed with a brilliant light, like 
 molten gold. The distant outline was marked with a pencil 
 of fire, while the gardens and villas that speckled the plain, 
 seemed illuminated in jubilee. 
 
 " See," said the sage, stretching his hand towards the gilded 
 scene ; " see the image of that fame which is not founded in 
 
56 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 virtue. Thus bright may it shine for a moment, but the cloud 
 of oblivion or infamy comes fast to cover its glory." 
 
 *' Is it so?" said Theon. "Do not the vile of the earth fill 
 the tongues of men, and are not the noble forgotten ? Does not 
 the titled murderer inscribe his name on the tablets of eternity, 
 ■with the sword which is dipped in the blood of his fellows ? 
 And dops not the man who has spent his youth, and manhood, 
 and age, in the courts of wisdom — who has planted peace at 
 the hearth, and given truth to the rising age, does he not go 
 down to the grave in silence, his bones unhonoxired, and his 
 name forgotten ?" 
 
 ♦' Possibly his name ; but, if he have planted peace at the 
 hearth, and' given truth to the rising age, surely not his better 
 part — his virtues. Do not confound noise with fame. The 
 man who is remembered, is not always honoured ; and reflect, 
 Avhat a man toils for, that probably will he win. The titled 
 murderer, who weaves his fate with that of empires, will with 
 them go down to posterity. The sage, who does his work in 
 the silence of retirement, unobserved in his own generation, 
 will pass into the silence of the grave, unknown to the future." 
 
 "But suppose he be known. How few worshippers should 
 crowd to his shrine, and what millions to that of the other I" 
 
 "And those few, my son, who are they? The wise of the 
 earth, the enlightened patriot, the discerning philosopher. And 
 who are the millions ? The ignorant, the prejudiced, and the 
 idle. Nor yet, let us so wrong the reason of our species, as to 
 say, that they always give honour to the mischievous rather than 
 the useful — gratitude to their oppressors, rather than their be- 
 nefactor. In in stances they may be blind, but in the gross they 
 are just. The splendour of action, the daring of enterprise, or 
 the glitter of majesty, may seize their imagination, and so drown 
 their judgment ; but never is it the tyranny of power, the wan- 
 tonness of cruelty, the brutality of vice, which they adore, any 
 more than it is the innocence and usefulness of virtue, which 
 they despise. The united experience of mankind has pronounced 
 virtue to be the great good : nay, so universal is the conviction, 
 that even those who insult her in their practice, bow to her in 
 their understanding. Man is for the most part m(»re fool than 
 knave, more weak than depraved in action, more ignorant than 
 vicious in judgment ; and seldom is he so weak and so ignorant, 
 as not to see his own interest, and value him who promotes it. 
 But say, that he often slanders the virtuous, and persecutes the 
 wise ; he does it more in error than from depravity. He is 
 credulous, and on the report of malice, takes virtue for hypo- 
 crisy ; — he is superstitious, and some of the truths of wisdom 
 appear to him jjrot'ane. Say he does homage to vice — you will 
 find w^hen he does it, he believes her to be virtue. Hypocrisy 
 has masked her deformity, or talent decked her with beauty. 
 Is here, then, subject for wrath i Rather, surely, for compassion. 
 Is here matter for disgust ? Rather, surely, for exertion. The 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 5/ 
 
 darker the ignorance, the more praise to the sage who dispels 
 it; — the deeper the prejudice, more fame to the courage which 
 braves it. But may the courage be vain ? May the sage fall 
 the victim of the ignorance he combats? He may ; he oftea has. 
 But ere he engage, knows he not the risk ? The risk is to him- 
 self; the profit to mankind. To a benevolent soul, the odds is 
 worth the throw ; and though it be against him at tlic present, 
 he may win it in the future. The sage, whose vision is cleared 
 from the mists of prejudice, can stretch it over the existing age, 
 to the kindling horizon of the succeeding, and see, perhaps, 
 unborn generations weeping the injustice of their fathers, and 
 worshipping those truths which they condemned. Or is it 
 otherwise? Lives he in the old age of the world, and does he 
 see the stream of time flowing through a soil yet more rank 
 with prejudice and evil? Say then — were the praise of such a 
 world a lit object of his ambition, or shall he be jealous of the 
 fame which ignorance yields to the unworthy? But any way, 
 my son, it is not the voice of fame that we should seek in the 
 practice of virtue, but the peace of self-satisfaction. The object 
 of the sage is to make himself independent of all that he cannot 
 command within himself. Yet, when I speak of independence, 
 I mean not indifference ; while we make ourselves sufficient for 
 ourselves, we need not forget the crowd about us. We are not 
 wise in the contempt of others but in calm approbation of 
 ourselves." 
 
 ** Still dost thou droop thy head, my son ?" said the gentle 
 philosopher, laying a hand on the shoulder of his young friend. 
 
 "Your words sink deep into my soul," replied Theon ; " yet 
 they have not chased the melancholy they found there. I have 
 not such a world in myself as to be independent of that about 
 me, nor can I forgive the offences of my fellows, merely be- 
 cause they commit them from ignorance. Nay, is not their 
 very ignorance often a crime, when the voice of truth is 
 whispering in their ear ?" 
 
 "And if they do not hear her whisper in the one ear, it is 
 because prejudice is crying aloud into the other." 
 
 *' Prejudice ! I hate prejudice," said Theon. 
 
 "And so do I," said the master. 
 
 " Yes, but I am provoked with it." 
 
 " I suspect that will not remove the evil." . 
 
 " Nothing will remove it. It is inherent in men's nature." t 
 
 "Then as we are men, it may be inherent in ours. Trust 
 me, my son, it is better to correct ourselves, than to find fault 
 with our neighbours." 
 
 " But is it not allowed to do both ? Can we help seeing the 
 errors of the world in which we live, and seeing, can we help 
 being angry at them ?" 
 
 " Certainly not the seeing them, but I hope, very possibly, 
 the being angry with them. He that loses temper with the 
 folly of others, shows that he has folly himself. In which case 
 
58 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 they have as much right to complain of his, as he of theirs. 
 And have I not been trying to show you, that when you are 
 wise you will be independent of all that you cannot command 
 within yourself? You say you are not so now. I admit it, 
 but when you are wise you will be so. And till you are wise, 
 you have surely no title to quarrel with another's ignorance." 
 
 '• I can never be independent of my friends," returned Theon. 
 **I must ever feel the injustice done to them though I might 
 be regardless of that which affected merely myself." 
 
 •' Why so ? What would enable you to disregard that done 
 to yourself?" 
 
 '* Conscious innocence. Pride, if you will. Contempt of 
 the folly and ignorance of my judges." 
 
 ** Well, and are you less conscious of the innocence of your 
 friend ? If you are, where is your indignation ? And if you 
 are not, have you less pride for him than for yourself? Do 
 you respect that folly and ignorance in his judges, that you 
 despise in your own." 
 
 ♦' I believe it will not stand argument," said Theon. "But 
 you must forgive me if, when I contemplate Epicurus, I feel 
 indignant at the slander which dares to breathe upon his purity." 
 
 ♦'And do you think you were yourself an object of indigna- 
 tion, when you spoke of him as a monster of vice ?" 
 
 " Yes, I feel I was." 
 
 '♦ But he felt otherwise," said the master, ** and which, think 
 you, is likely to feel most wisely ?" 
 
 "Ah ! 1 hope it is Epicurus," said the youth, snatching his 
 instructor's hand. This conversation was here interrupted by 
 the bursting of the storm. The lire flashed round the horizon, 
 the thunder cracked over the zenith, and the first big drops 
 fell from the burdened clouds. •• We are near the Temple," 
 said the sage, let us seek shelter under its portico. "We may 
 ■watch the storm there, without a wet skin." They had hardly 
 gained it, when the rain poured down in torrents. Ilisus, 
 whom the burning sun had of late faded into a feeble rill, soon 
 filled and overflowed his bed ; wave after wave, in sudden swell, 
 came roaring down, as if he now first burst to life from the 
 womb of his parent mountain. But the violence of the storm 
 soon spent its strength. Already the thunder broke with lon- 
 ger intervals, and a faint light, like the opening of morning, 
 gleamed over the western heavens. At length the sun cleared 
 his barrier of clouds. He stood on the verge of the waves, and 
 shot his level rays over the blazing Salamis and the glistening 
 earth. The sage stood with his young friend in silent admira- 
 tion, when the eye of the latter was attracted by a horseman, 
 who came full gallop over the plain, directly towards them. 
 The object of his attention had nearly reached* the river, when 
 he perceived the rider to be a female. The synh feet of the 
 steed now touched the opposing bank. " Great Jove, he will 
 not attempt the passage," exclaimed the youth, as he sprung 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 59 
 
 towards the river. " Stop, stop," he cried. She checked the 
 rein, but too late. The animal, accustomed to the passage, 
 and blinded by speed, plunged into the flood. Theon tore his 
 robe from his shoulders, and was about to make the plunge on 
 his side, when he was grasped by Epicurus. 
 
 •* Be not rash. The horse is strong, and the rider skilfuL" 
 The voice that uttered these words was calm and distinct, but 
 its wonted music was changed into the deep tone of suppressed 
 horror. Even at that moment, the accent struck Theon' s ear. 
 
 "Do you know her ? Is she your friend ? Is she dear to you ? 
 If so" — he made another effort to throw himself forward, but 
 was still restrained by Epicurus. He looked into the philoso- 
 pher's face. There was no motion in it, save a quivering round 
 the mouth, while the eyes were fixed in aching gaze on the 
 struggling animal. He breasted the water midway, when 
 seemingly frightened at the rapidity of the current, he tried to 
 turn. The rider saw the danger, she curbed the rein, she tried 
 with voice and effort to urge him to the conflict. Theon looked 
 again at the sage. He saw he had loosened his mantle, and 
 was prepared to try the flood. •* I conjure you, by the gods !" 
 said the youth, "what is my life to yours f" He grasped the 
 sage in his turn. *' Let me save her ! I will save her— I swear 
 it." They both struggled a moment for the leap. ** I swear," 
 continued Theon, with furious energy, "that if you go I will 
 follow." He made another eff'ort, and dashed from the hold 
 of Epicurus into the river. Naturally strong, he was doubly so 
 at this moment. He felt not fear, he saw not danger. In a 
 moment he was in the centre of the current — another stroke, 
 and he had seized the mane of the steed. But the terrified 
 animal even then gave way to the stream. The rider still 
 struggled for her seat. But her strength fast failed, she stretched 
 out her hand with a feeble cry of despair. Theon shot forward 
 yet swifter than the tide ; he drove with a shock against the horse, 
 and caught with one arm the expiring girl. Then, half yielding 
 to the current, he parted with the other the roaring waters, and 
 with effort almost superhuman, grappled with their fury. 
 Panting, choking, bewildered, yet never relaxing, he reached, 
 but he knew not how, the land. When he recovered recollec- 
 tion, he found himself lying on a couch, in the arms of Epicurus. 
 "Where am I," he said, " and where is the lovely girl?" 
 
 " Safe, safe, as her generous deliverer. 01;, my son ! now 
 indeed my son, when I owe to thee my Hedeia." 
 
 " Was it your adopted child, then," cried the youth, with a 
 shout of delirious joy, as he threw himself on the breast of the 
 sage. "But tell me," he said, rising and looking round on 
 Metrodorus, who, with two other scholars, stood beside the 
 couch, "how came I here?" 
 
 " I believe," said Metrodorus, "the master swam to your aid — 
 at least we found him lifting you and Hedeia from the water." 
 
 "I watched your strength, my son, and reserved mine tiU it 
 
60 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 should fail; when I observed it do so, I came to your assist- 
 ance. Now, compose yourself awhile, and I will go and put 
 myself into a dry tunic." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Theon, risini,^ recruited from the warm bath, and his limbs 
 being well rubbed with ointments, joined the party at supper 
 in health and spirits. It consisted of the master, Leontium, 
 Metrodorus, and two other scholars, whose persons were new 
 to him. There was something in the gentle manners of one, 
 not unmixed with a little awkwardness, the grave repose of his 
 features, the abstract thought that lined his forehead, and fixed 
 his mild eye, that led him to guess it was Polyocnus. The other, 
 whose gait had the dignity of manhood, and the polish of art; 
 whose face, without being handsome, had that beauty which 
 refined sentiment and a well stored mind always throw more or 
 less into the features ; whose whole appearance showed at once 
 the fine scholar and the amiable man, fixed instantly Theon's 
 attention and curiosity. All received the youth with congra- 
 tulations, and Metrodorus, as he held him in his embrace, 
 jokingly upbraided him as a greedy and barbarous invader, 
 who was carrying off, in his single person, the whole love and 
 lionour of the garden. "But yet," he added, "have a care ; 
 for I doubt you have secured the envy also." 
 
 '•I believe it," said Theon. "At least I know I should envy 
 you, or any of your fraternity, who had risked his life, aye, or 
 lost it, in service of your master, or any your master loved." 
 
 "Well said, my dear youth," said the stranger, taking his 
 hand; "and when you have seen more of the nymph you so 
 gallantly rescued, you will perhaps think the man a :io less 
 object of envy, who should ri>k his life for her, or any i^he loved." 
 
 They moved to the table, when Leontium wliispered Theon, 
 "Hermachus of Mytelene, the bosom friend of Epicurus." 
 
 "I thank you," replied Theon, "you have well read my 
 curiosity." 
 
 The party were about to place themselves when a sound in 
 the passage turned all eyes to the door. " Yes, nurse, you may 
 just peaceably let me take my own way. Go, go, I am quite 
 well, quite warm, and quite active. I tell you, you have 
 rubbed my skin off" — would you rub away my fle^h too ?" And 
 in came, with the light foot of a nymph of Dian, the young 
 Hedeia. A white garment, carelessly adjusted, fell with 
 inimitable grace, over her airy form ; in equal negligence, her 
 long hair, still moist from the recent waves, and dishevelled 
 by the anxious rubbing of her careful attendant, hung down 
 her shoulders to her zone. Her face, though pale from late 
 alarm and fatigue, beaming with life and joy. Her full dark 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 61 
 
 eyes sparkling with intelligence, and her lips, though their 
 coral was slightly faded, lovely with smiles. In one hand she 
 held a goblet, in the other a chaplet of myrtle. " Which is my 
 hero ?" she asked in a voice more sweet than the evening 
 zephyr, as she looked round the board- "Am I right?" ap- 
 proaching Theon. The youth, as he gazed on the lovely face, 
 forgot to answer. " Nay, is it a statue ?" leaning forward, and 
 gazing in her turn, as if in curious inspection. 
 
 **No, a slave," said Theon, half smiling, half blushing, as 
 he stooped his knee, while she placed the garland on his head. 
 " I come to pledge you," she said, putting the cup to her 
 lips, " and to bid you pledge me," presenting it with bewitching 
 grace to the youth. He took it in speechless ecstasy from her 
 taper fingers, and turning that side to his mouth which had 
 received the touch of her's, quaffed at once the draught of 
 wine and love." 
 
 *' Beware," said a voice in his ear : *' it is the cup of Circe." 
 He turned, Polyocnus stood behind him ; but when he saw hig 
 motionless features, he could hardly believe the whisper had 
 been uttered by him. 
 
 "I know," continued the fair one, pointing to the table, 
 " there is but cold beverage here for a drowned man. My wise 
 father mav know to give comfort to the mind, but come to my 
 good nurse, when you want the comfort of the body. She is 
 the most skilful compounder of elixirs, philters, and every 
 palateable medicine, that you might haply find in all Greece, 
 all Asia, aye, or all the earth. And now make way," putting 
 back the surrounding company, and leading Theon by the arm 
 to the upper end of the table. " Behold the king of the feast." 
 *' That is, if you are the queen," said the intoxicated youth. 
 " Oh, certainly," placing herself by his side, " I never refuse 
 consequence, whenever I can get it." 
 
 ** Whenever you can take it, you mean," said the master, 
 laughing. 
 
 "And is not that everywhere?" said Hermachus, bowing to 
 the fair girl. 
 
 " Yes, I believe it is. A pretty face, my friends, may pre- 
 sume much; a wilful nature may carry all things. I have 
 both to perfection ; have I not ?" 
 
 " Praise to Venus, and the Graces," said Leontium ; " our 
 sister has brought a heart as gay from the college of Pythagoras, 
 as she took into it." 
 
 "To be sure; and did you expect otherwise? Psha ! you 
 philosophers know nothing of human nature. I could have told 
 you before this last experiment, that humour lies in contrast, 
 and that a wag will find more suljject in a synod of grave sages 
 than a crew of laughing wits. You must know," turning to 
 Theon, " I have been on a visit to a wise man, arery wise man, 
 who has followed from his youth up the whim, and all very wise 
 men have whims, of restoring the neglected school of Pythagoras 
 
62 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 to its pristine greatness. Accordingly, he has collected and 
 brought up some dozen submissive youths to his full satisfac- 
 tion ; for not one of them dare know his right hand from his 
 left, but on his master's authority, doubly baeked by that of 
 the great founder. They have, in short, no purse of their own, 
 no time of their own, no tongue of their own, no will of their 
 own, and no thought of their own. You cannot conceive a 
 more perfect community. One more virtuously insipid, more 
 scientifically absurd, or more wisely ignorant." 
 
 "Fie, fie you giddy girl," said the master, smiling, while he 
 tried to Irovvn. 
 
 *' Giddy, not at all. I am delivering a grave matter of fact 
 story." 
 
 "And we are all here," said Hermachus, "so pray let us 
 have the whole of it." 
 
 " The whole ? nay, you have it already. An abode of the 
 blessed ; a house with twelve bodies iu it, and one brain to 
 serve them all." 
 
 " Why," replied Hermachus, " I believe you have at home 
 some hundred bodies in the same predicament." 
 
 "To be sure; and so I told the sage Pythagorean, when he 
 looked so complacently on his eleven pieces of mechanism, and 
 assured him that were it not for me, there would not be a single 
 original in the garden, save the master. I assure you, father, I 
 gave just as matter of fact a description of your household, as I 
 now do of the old Pythagorean's. And, a most singular coinci- 
 dence, I remember he cried, 'Fie, fie,' just as you did now. 
 Once more, it was a most perfect household ; with the men, all 
 peace, method, virtue, learning and absurdity ; with the women, 
 all silence, order, ignorance, modesty, and stupidity." 
 
 "And pray, sister," said Metrodorus, " what made you leave 
 a society that aiforded such rich food to your satire ?" 
 
 " Because, brother, the richest food cloys the fastest. I 
 passed three days to my perfect satisfaction ; a fourth would 
 have killed me." 
 
 "And your friends too," said the philosopher, shaking his 
 head. 
 
 " Killed them. They never knew they had life, till I found 
 it out for them. No, no, I left sore hearts behind me. The 
 master indeed — ah, the master ! poor man, shall I confess it ? 
 Before I left the house, he caught one of his pupils looking into 
 a mirror with a candle, heard that another had stirred the fire 
 ■with a sword, and oh ! more dreadful than all, that a third had 
 swallowed a bean.* If I could but have stayed three days 
 longer, I might have wound my girdle round the necks of the 
 •whole dozen, brought them on my back, and laid them at the 
 feet of Epicurus." 
 
 "And what said the master, all this time ?" said Leontium. 
 
 * Alluding' to the whimsical superstitions of Pythagoras, or, perhaps it 
 were more just to say, of his followers. • 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 63 
 
 "Said he? what said he? umph ! I never heard what he 
 gaid, for I was reading what he felt." 
 
 " And what felt he ?" asked Hermachus. 
 
 '•Just what you have felt — and you too," looking at Polyoenus. 
 **Aye, and you also, very sage philosopher;" and turning 
 short round to Theon, *' what you have to feel, if you have not 
 yet felt — that I was vastly witty, vastly amusing, and vastly 
 beautiful.'' 
 
 '• And do you think," said the Gargettian, " when we feel all 
 this, we can't be angry with you?" 
 
 '• Nay, what do you think ? But no, no, I know you all better 
 than you know yourselves. And I think you cannot, or if you 
 can, 'tis as the poet, who curses the muse he burns to propitiate. 
 Oh philosophy ! philosophy ! thou usest hard maxims and 
 showest a grave face, yet thy maxims are but words, and thy 
 face but a mask. A skilful histrion, who, when the buskin is 
 off, paint, plaster, and garment thrown aside, stands no higher, 
 no fairer, and no more mighty, than the youngest, poorest, and 
 simplest of thy gaping worshippers. Ah, friends ! laugh and 
 frown ; but show me the man, the wisest, the gravest, or the 
 sourest, that a bright pair of eyes can't make a fool of." 
 
 "Ah, you proud girl," said Hermachus, "tremble! remem- 
 ber, the blue-eyed Sappho died at last for a Phaon " 
 
 " Well, if such be my fate, I must submit. I do not deny, 
 because I have been wise hitherto, that I may not turn fool 
 with the philosophers before I die." 
 
 "What an excellent school for the rearing of youth," said 
 the master, " the old Pythagorean must think mine." 
 
 " Judging from me as a specimen, you mean. And trust me 
 now, father, I am the best. Do I not practise what you preach ? 
 What you show the way to, do I not possess ? Look at my light 
 foot, look in my laughing eye, read my gay heart, and tell — if 
 pleasure be not mine. Confess, then, that I take a shorter cut 
 to the goal than your wiser scholars, aye than your wisest self. 
 You study, you lecture, you argue, you exhort. And what is 
 it all for ? as if you could not be good without so much learning, 
 and happy without so much talking. Here am I — I think I 
 am very good, and I am quite sure I am very happy ; yet I 
 never wrote a treatise in my life, and can hardly listen to one 
 ■without a yawn." 
 
 "Theon," said Epicurus, smiling, " you see now the priestess 
 of our midnight orgies." 
 
 '* Ah ! poor youth, you must have found the garden but a 
 dull place in my absence. But have patience, it will be better 
 in future." 
 
 " More dangerous," said Polyoenus. 
 
 *' Never mind him," whispered Hedeia, in the Corinthian's 
 ear — "he is not the grave man that a bright pair of eyes can- 
 not make a fool of. This is very odd," she continued, looking 
 round the board. "Here am I, the stranger, and one too half 
 
64 A Fi:\V DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 drowned, chavged with the entertaining of this whole learned 
 society." 
 
 "Nay, my girl," said the master, "thou hadst need to be 
 ■whole drowned, ere your friends might secure the happiness of 
 being listened to." 
 
 " Indeed, I believe it's true ; and considering that the greatest 
 pleasure of life is the being listened to, I wonder how any one 
 was found to pick me out of the water. The Corinthian, to be 
 sure, did not know what he saved ; but that the master should 
 wet his tunic in my service is a very unaccountable circum- 
 stance. Is there any reason for it in philosophy r" 
 
 " I am afraid none." 
 
 " Or in mathematics r" turning to Polya?nus. "Now, just 
 see there a proof of my argument. Can any man look more 
 like wisdom, or less like happiness ? This comes of diagrams 
 and ethics. My young Corinthian, take warning." 
 
 " I wish we could fix you to a diagram," said Leontium. 
 
 " The Graces forfend ! and why should you wish it ? Think 
 you it would make me wiser ? Let PolycEUus be judge, if I am 
 not wiser than he. I admire the different prescriptions that are 
 given by different doctors. The wife of the good Pythagorean 
 recommended me a distaff." 
 
 " Well," said Hermachus, "that might do equally." 
 
 "Pray, why don't you take one yourself?" 
 ; "I, you see, am busy with philosophy." 
 
 " And so am I, with laughina; at it. Ah, my sage brother, 
 every man thinks that perfection, that he is himself — that the 
 only knowledge that he possesses — and that the only pleasure 
 that he pursues. Trust me, there are as many ways of living as 
 there are men, and one is no more fit to lead another, than a 
 bird to lead a fish, or a fish a quadruped." 
 
 " You would make a strange world, were you the queen of 
 it," said Hermachus, laughing. 
 
 " Just as strange, and no stranger, than it is at present. For 
 "why ? I should take it as I found it, and leave it as I found it. 
 'Tis your philosophers, who would rub and twist, and plague 
 and doctor it, and fret your souls out, to bring all its heteroge- 
 neous parts, fools, wits, knaves, simpletons, grave, gay, light, 
 heavy, long-faced, and short-faced, black, white, brown, straight 
 and crooked, tall, short, thin and fat, tofittogether, andpatiently 
 reflect each other, like the acorns of an oak, or the modest 
 •wives and helpless daughters of the good citizens of Athens i 
 'tis you, I say, who would make a strange world, were you 
 kings of it — you who would shorten and lengthen, clip, pull, 
 and carve men's minds to fit your systems, as the tyrant did 
 men's bodies to fit his bed." 
 
 "I grant there's some truth, my girl, in thy nonsense," said 
 the master. 
 
 " And I grant that there is not a philosopher in Athens, who 
 would have granted as much, save thyself. You will find my 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 65 
 
 young hero," turning to Theon, •* that my father philosophizes 
 more sense, that is, less absurdity, than any man since the seven 
 sages ; nay ! even than the seven sages philosophized themselves. 
 He only lacks to be a perfectly wise man" 
 
 "To burn," said the master, "his books of philosophy, and 
 to sing a tune to thy lyre." 
 
 " No, it shall do to let me sing a time to it myself." She 
 bounded from the couch and the room, and returned in a 
 moment, with the instrument in her hand. "Fear not," she 
 said, nodding to the sage, as she lightly swept the chords, " I 
 shall not m'Oo my own lover, but your mistress." 
 
 •• Come, Goddess! come 1 not in thy power. 
 
 With gait and garb austere, 
 
 And threatning brow severe, 
 Like stern Olympus in the judgment hour; 
 
 But come with looks the heart assuring. 
 
 Come with smiling eyes alluring. 
 
 Moving soft to Lydian measures, 
 
 Girt with graces, loves, and pleasures. 
 
 Bound with Bazilea's zone. 
 
 Come, Virtue; come! in joyous tone 
 
 We bid thee welcome to our heartti. 
 
 For well we know that thou alone 
 
 Canst give the purest bliss of earth." 
 
 ** No thanks, no thanks. I shall take my own reward," and 
 stealing behind Epicurus, she threw her white arms around his 
 neck, and laid her cheek on his lips. Then rising, " Good 
 dreams be with you," and waving round her hand, and throwing 
 a smile on Theon, vanished in an instant. The youth saw and 
 heard no more, but sat as in a dream, until the party divided. 
 
 "Have a care," whispered the master, as he followed him 
 into the vestibule. "Cupid is a knavish god; he can pierce \\ 
 the hearts of others, and hold a shield before his own." h 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Night's refreshing airs fanned the cheeks of Theon, and rustled 
 the myrtle on his brow ; but the subtle fever of love which swept 
 through his veins, and throbbed in his heart and temples, was 
 beyond their cooling influence. The noisy business of life had 
 now given place in the streets to noisy merriment. The song 
 and the dance sounded from the open portals ; and the jonng 
 votaries of Bacchus, in all the frenzy of the god, rushed from 
 the evening banquet, to the haunts of midnight excess, while 
 the trembling lover glided past to the stolen interview, shrinking 
 even from the light of Day's pale sister. Theon turned abruptly 
 from the crowd, and sought instinctively a public walk, at this 
 hour always private, where he had often mused on the mysteries 
 of philosophy, and taxed his immature judgment to hold the 
 balance between the doctrines of her contending schools. No 
 
66 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 tlioughts so deep and high now filled his youthful fancy. He 
 wandered on, his senses steeped in delirium not less potent 
 than that of wine, until his steps were suddenly arrested by a 
 somewhat rude encounter wiih a human figure, advancing with 
 a pace more deliberate than his own. He started backwards 
 and his eyes met those of Cleanthes. The stoic paused a 
 moment, then moved to pass on. But Theon, however little he 
 might have desired such a companion at such a moment, hailed 
 him by name, and placed himself at his side. Again Cleanthes 
 gazed on him in silence ; when Theon, following the direction 
 of his glance, raised a hand to his temples, and removed, with 
 a conscious blush, the offending garland. He held it for a 
 moment ; then, placing it in his bosom — "You misjudge this 
 innocent token ; — a pledge of acknowledgment for a life re- 
 deemed from the waves." 
 
 " Would that I might receive a pledge of the redemption of 
 thy virtue, Theon, from the flood of destruction ! For thy sake 
 I have opened the '/olumes of this smooth deceiver. And shall 
 a few fair words and a fairer countenance shield such doctrines 
 from opprobrium ? Shall he who robs virtue of her sublimity, 
 the gods of their power, man of his immortality, and creation 
 of its providence, pass for a teacher of truth, and expounder of 
 the laws of nature ? Where is thy reason, Theon ? where thy 
 moral sense? to see, in doctrines such as these, aught but 
 impiety and crime, or to imagine, that he, who advocates them, 
 can merit aught but the scorn of the wise, and the opprobrium 
 of the good?" 
 
 "I know not such to be the doctrines of Epicurus," said the 
 youth, " and you will excuse my farther reply, until I shall 
 have examined the philosophy you so bitterly, and apparently 
 so justly condemn." 
 
 " The philosophy ? honour it not with the name " 
 
 "Nay," returned Theon with a smile, "There are so many 
 absurdities honoured with that appellative, in Athens, that the 
 compliment might pass unchallenged, although applied to one 
 less worthy than, in my eyes, appears the sage of Gargettium. 
 But," preventing the angry interruption of the stoic, "my 
 slo\n'iess to judge and to censure offends your enthusiasm. The 
 experience of three days has taught me this caution. My 
 acquaintance, as yet, is rather with the philosopher than the 
 philosphy ; my prejudices at first were equally strong against 
 both. Having discovered my error with respect to one, ought 
 I not to read, listen, and examine, before I condemn the other. 
 And, the rather, as all that I have heard in the garden has 
 hitherto convinced my reason, and awakened my admiration 
 and love." 
 
 "Permit me the question," said Cleanthes, stopping short, 
 and fixing his piercing glance on the countenance of his com- 
 panion — "Honour ye the Gods, and believe ye in a creating 
 cuase, and a superintending Providence ?" 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 6/ 
 
 "Surely I do," said Theon. 
 
 " How, then, venerate ye the man who proclaims his doubt 
 of both?" 
 
 ** So, in my hearing, has never the son of Neocles." 
 
 " But he has and does in the hearing of the world." 
 
 "I have so heard, ai\d ranked it among the libels of his 
 enemies." 
 
 ** He has so written, and the fact is acknowledged by his 
 fi-iends." 
 
 "I will read his works," said Theon, "and question the 
 writer. A mind more candid, whatever be its errors, exists 
 not, I am persuaded, than that of Epicurus ; I should have 
 said also, a mind more free of errors. But he has taught me 
 to think no mind, however wise, infallible." 
 
 *' Call ye guch doctrines, errors ? I should rather term them 
 crimes." 
 
 •' I object not to the word," said Theon. '* I will examine 
 into this. The Gods have ye in their keeping ! Good night." 
 They entered the city, and the friends divided. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Uneasy thoughts bred unquiet slumbers ; and Theon rose from 
 a restless couch, beiore the first blush of Aurora tinged the 
 forehead of the sky. He trod the paths of the garden, and 
 waited with impatience, for the first time not unmixed with 
 apprehension, the appearance of the Master. The assertions of 
 Cleaiithes were corroborated by the testimony of the public ; 
 but that testimony he had learned to despise. They were made 
 after perusal of Epicurus' writings ; with these writings he was 
 still unacquainted. Had they been misinterpreted? Cleanthes i 
 was no Timocrates. If prejudiced, he was incapable of wilful ' 
 misrepresentation ; and he was too familiar with the science of 
 philosophy, so grossly to misunderstand a reasoner, as lucid as 
 appeared to be Epicurus. These musings were soon interrrupted. 
 The morning star still glowed in the kindling east, when he 
 heard approaching footsteps, and turning from the shades upon 
 a small open lawn where a crystal fountain flowed from the 
 inverted urn of a recumbent naiad, he was greeted by the Sage. 
 
 '* Oh no," exclaimed Theon half audibly, as he gazed on the 
 serene countenance before him, " this man is not an Atheist." 
 
 '* What thoughts are with you, my Son, this morning?" said 
 the philosopher, with kind solicitude. "I doubt your plunge 
 in Ilyssus disturbed your dreams. Did the image of a fair 
 nymph, or of a river God flit round your couch, and drive 
 sleep from your eyelids ? 
 
 " I was in some danger from the first," said the youth, half 
 Bmiling, half blushing, " until a visitant of a dilfereiu character, 
 
 E 2 
 
68 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 and one, I imagine, more wont to soothe than to disturb the 
 mind, brought to my imagination a host of doubts and fears, 
 "wliich your presence alone has dispelled." 
 
 "And who played the part of your Incubus?'* demanded 
 the Sage. 
 
 •' Even yourself, most benign and indulgent of men." 
 
 *' Truly, I grieve to have acted so ill by thee, my Son. It 
 shall be well, however, if having inflicted the disease, I may be 
 its physician." 
 
 ** On leaving you, last night," said Theon, •* I encountered 
 Cleanthes. He came from the perusal of your writings, and 
 brought charges against them which I was unprepared to 
 answer." 
 
 / *' Let us hear them, my Son ; perhaps, until you shall have 
 perused them yourself, we may assist your difficulty." 
 
 "First, that they deny the existence of the gods." 
 
 •*I see but one other assertion that could equal that in folly," 
 said Epicurus. 
 
 "I knew it," exclaimed Theon, triumphantly ; "I knew it 
 was impossible. But where will not prejudice lead men, when 
 even the upright Cleanthes is capable of slander !" 
 
 " He is utterly incapable of it," said the Master ; " and the 
 inaccuracy, in this case, I rather suspect to rest with you than 
 with him. To deny the existence of the gods would indeed be 
 presumption in a philosopher ; a presumption equalled only by 
 that of him who should assert their existence." 
 
 "How!" exclaimed the youth, with a countenance in which 
 astonishment seemed to suspend every other expression. 
 
 "As I never saw the gods, my son," calmly continued the 
 [ Sage, "I cannot assert their existence; and, that I never saw 
 them, is no reason for my denying it." 
 
 "But do we believe nothing except that of which we have 
 occular demonstration?" 
 
 "Nothing, at least, for which we have not the evidence of 
 one or more of our senses ; that is, when we believe on just 
 grounds, which, I grant, taking men collectively, is very seldom." 
 
 "But where would this spirit lead us? To impiety! — to 
 Atheism ! — to all, against which I felt confidence in defending 
 the character and philosophy of Epicurus !" 
 
 " We will examine presently, niy Son, into the meaning of 
 the terms you have employed. But as respects your defence 
 of my philosophy, I am sorry that you presumed so much, 
 where you knew so little. Let this serve for another caution 
 against pronouncing before you examine, and asserting before 
 you enquire. It is my usual custom," continued the Master, 
 " with the youth who frequent my school, to defer the dis- 
 cussion of all important questions, until they are naturally, in 
 the course of events, suggested to their own minds. Their 
 ciu'iosity once excited, it is my endeavour, so far as in me lies, 
 to satisfy it. When you first entered the garden your mind 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 69 
 
 was unfit for the examination of the subject you have now 
 started : it is no longer so ; and we will therefore enter upon 
 the enquiry, and pursue it in order." 
 
 '* Forgive me if I express — if I acknowledge," said the youth, 
 slightly recoiling from his instructor, " some reluctance to enter 
 on the discussion of truths, whose very discussion would seem 
 to argue a doubt, — and" 
 
 " And what then r" 
 . " That very doubt were a crime." 
 
 "It is there that I wished to lead you ; and with the exami- 
 nation of this point we shall rest, until time and circumstances 
 lead you to push the investigation farther. I have in me little 
 of the spirit of proselytism. A mere abstract opinion, supposing 
 it not to affect the conduct or disposition of him who holds it, 
 would be in my eyes of very minor importance. And it is only 
 in so far as I believe that all our opinions, however apparently 
 removed from any practical consequences, do always more or less 
 affect one or the other — our conduct or our dispositions — that 
 I am at the pains to correct in my scholars, those which appear 
 to me erroneous. I understand you to say, that to enter upon 
 the discussion of certain opinions, which you consider as sacred 
 truths, would appear to argue a doubt of those truths, and that 
 a doubt would here constitute a crime. Now as I think such 
 a belief inconsistent with candour and charity — two feelings, 
 indispensable both for the enjoyment of happiness ourselves, 
 and for its distribution to others, I shall challenge its investi- 
 gation. If the doubt of any truth shall constitute a crime, then 
 the belief of the same truth should constitute a virtue." 
 
 " Perhaps a duty would rather express it." 
 
 " When you charge the neglect of any duty as a crime, or 
 account its fulfilment a virtue, you suppose the existence of a 
 power to neglect or fulfil ; and it is the exercise of this power, 
 in the one way or the other, which constitutes the merit or 
 demerit. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 '* Does the human mind possess the power to believe or dis- 
 believe, at pleasure, any truths whatsoever ?" 
 
 "I am not prepared to answer: but I think it does, since it 
 possesses always the power of investigation." 
 
 "But, possibly, not the will to exercise the power. Take 
 care lest I beat you with your own weapons. I thought this 
 very investigation appeared to you a crime." 
 
 "Your logic is too subtle," said the youth, "for my inex- 
 perience." 
 
 " Say rather, my reasoning too close. Did I bear you down 
 with sounding words and weighty authorities, and confound 
 your understanding with hair-drawn distinctions, you would 
 be right to retreat from the battery." 
 
 " i have nothing to object to the fairness of your deductions, 
 said Theon, "But would not the doctrine be dangerous that 
 
70 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 should establish our inability to help our belief; and might we 
 not stretch the principle, until we asserted our inability to 
 help our actions?" 
 
 " We might, and with reason. But we will not now traverse 
 the ethical po7is asinorum of necessity — the most simple and 
 evident of moral truths, and the most darkened, tortured, and 
 belaboured by moral teachers. You enquire if the doctrine 
 ■vve have essayed to establish, be not dangerous. I reply — not, 
 if it be true. Nothing is so dangerous as error, — nothing so 
 safe as truth. A dangerous truth would be a contradiction in 
 terms, and an anomaly in things." 
 "But what is a truth ?" said Theon. 
 
 •' It is pertinently asked. A truth I consider to be an ascer- 
 tained fact ; -which truth would be changed into an error, the 
 moment the fact, on which it rested, was disproved." 
 "I see, then, no fixed basis for truth." 
 
 "It surely has the most fixed of all — the nature of things. 
 And it is only an imperfect insight into that nature, which 
 occasions all our erroneous conclusions, whether in physics or 
 morals." 
 
 " But where, if we discard the gods, and their will, as engra- 
 ven on our hearts, are our guides ia the search after truth ?" 
 
 " Our senses and our faculties as developed in and by the 
 exercise of our senses, are the only guides with which I am 
 acquainted. And I do not see why, even admitting a belief in 
 the gods, and in a superintending providence, the senses shotdd 
 not be viewed as the guides, provided by them, for our direction 
 and instruction. But here is the evil attendant on an un- 
 grounded belief, whatever be its nature. The moment we 
 take one thing for granted, we take other things for granted : 
 we are started in a wrong road, and it is seldom that we can 
 gain the right one, until we have trodden back our steps 
 to the starting place. I know but of one thing, that a philo- 
 sopher should take for granted ; and that only because he 
 is forced to it by an irresistible impulse of his nature ; and 
 becaufe, without doing so, neither truth nor falsehood could 
 exist for him. He must take for granted the evidence of his 
 senses ; in other words, he must believe in the existence of 
 things, as they exist to his senses. I knoic of no other existence, 
 and can therefore believe in no other: although, reasoning from 
 analogy, I may imagine other existences to be. This, for in 
 stance, I do as respects the gods. I see around me, in the world 
 I inhabit, an infinite variety in the arrangement of matter ; — a 
 multitude of sentient beings, possessing diff"erent kinds, and 
 varying grades of power and intelligence, — from the worm that 
 crawls in the dust, to the eagle that soars to the sun, and man 
 who marks to the sun its course. It is possible, it is moreover 
 probable, that, in the worlds which I see not, — in the boundless 
 infinitude and eternal duration of matter, beings may exist, of 
 every countless variety, and varying grades of intelligence. 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 71 
 
 inferior and superior to our own, until we descend to a minimum, 
 and rise to a maximum, to which the range of our observation 
 affords no parallel, and of which our senses are inadequate to 
 the conception. Thus far, my young friend, I believe in the 
 gods, or in what you will of existences removed from the sphere 
 of my knowledge. That you should believe, with positiveness, 
 in one unseen existence or another, appears to me no crime, 
 although it may appear to me unreasonable: and so, my doubt 
 of the same should appear to you no moral offence, although 
 you might account it erroneous. I fear to fatigue your atten- 
 tion, and will, therefore, dismiss, for the present, these abstruse 
 subjects." 
 
 But we shall both be amply repaid for their discussion, ii 
 this truth remain with you — that an opinion, right or wrong, 
 can never constitute a moral offence, nor be in itself a moral 
 obligation. It may be mistaken ; it may involve an absurdity, 
 or a contradiction. It is a truth ; or it is an error : it can never 
 be a crime or a virtue." ' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Theon remained transfixed to the same spot of earth on which 
 the sage left him. A confused train of thoughts travelled through 
 his brain, which his reason sought in vain to arrest, or to analyse. 
 At one moment it seemed as if a ray of light had dawned upon 
 his mind, opening to it a world of discovery as interesting as it 
 was novel. Then suddenly he started as from the brink of a 
 precipice, whose depths were concealed in darkness." *' Clean- 
 thes then had justly expounded the doctrines of the garden. — 
 But did these doctrines involve the delinquency which he had 
 hitherto supposed ? Were they inconsistent with reason, and 
 irreconcilable with virtue? If so, I shall be able to detect their 
 fallacy," said the youth, pursuing his soliloquy aloud. *' It were 
 a poor compliment to the truths I have hitherto vtorshipped, 
 did I shrink from their investigation. And yet, to question the 
 power of the gods ! To question their very existence ! To refuse 
 the knee of homage to that great first cause of all things, that 
 speaks, and breathes, and shines resplendent throughout all 
 animated nature ! To dispute I know not what — of truths, as 
 self-evident as they are sacred ; which speak to our eyes and 
 to our ears : to those very senses whose testimony alone is with- 
 out appeal in the garden !" 
 
 *' Do you object to the testimony, young Corinthian?" said 
 a voice, which Theon recognized as that of Metrodorus. 
 
 *' You arrive opportunely," said Theon, "that is, if you will 
 listen to the questions of my doubting and embarrassed mind." 
 
 •• Say rather, if I can answer them." 
 
 "I attribute to you the ability," said Theon, *' since I Lave 
 
72 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 heard you quoted as an able expounder of the philosophy of 
 the s^irden." 
 
 "In the absence of our Zeno," said the scholar with a smile, 
 ** I sometimes play the part of his Cleanthes. And though you 
 may find me less eloquent than my brother of the porch, I will 
 promise equal fidelity to the text of my original. But here is 
 one, who can expound the doctrine in the letter and the spirit; 
 and, with such an assistant, I should not fear to engage all the 
 scholars and all the masters in Athens." 
 
 •' Nay, boast rather of thy cause than of thy assistant," said 
 Leontium, appoaching, and playfully tapping the shoulder of 
 Metrodorus: "nor yet belie thy own talents, my brother. The 
 Corinthian will smile at thy false modesty, when he shall have 
 studied thy writings, and listened to thy logical discourses. I 
 imagine," she continued, turning her placid gaze on the youth, 
 "that you have hitherto listened to more declamation than 
 reasoning. I might also say, to more sophistry, seeing that 
 you have walked and talked in the Lyceum." 
 
 " Say rather, walked and listened." 
 
 " In truth and I believe it," she returned with a smile, " and 
 would that your good sense in this, were more common ; and 
 that men would rest content with straining their ears, and for- 
 bear from submitting their understandings, or torturing those 
 of their neighbours." 
 
 " It might seem strange," said Metrodorus, " that the pedantry 
 of Aristotle should find so many imitators, and his dark sayings 
 so many believers, in a city, too, now graced and enlightened 
 by the simple language, and simple doctrines of an Epicurus. — 
 But the language of truth is too simple for inexperienced ears. 
 We start in search of knowledge, like the demigods of old in 
 search of adventure, prepared to encounter giants, to scale 
 m.ountains, to pierce into Tartarean gulfs, and to carry off our 
 prize from the gripe of some dark enchanter, invulnerable to all 
 save to charmed weapons and deity-gifted assailants. To find 
 none of all these things, but, in their stead, a smooth road 
 through a pleasant country, with a familiar guide to direct our 
 curiosity, and point out the beauties of the landscape, dis- 
 appoints us of all exploit and all notoriety ; and our vanity 
 turns but too often from the fair and open champaigne, into 
 error's dark labyrinths, where we mistake mystery for wisdom, 
 pedantry for knowledge, and prejudice for virtue." 
 
 "I admit the truth of the metaphor," said Theon. "But 
 may we not simplify too much as well as too little ? May we 
 not push investigation beyond the limits assigned to human 
 reason, and, with a boldness approaching to profanity, tear, 
 without removing, the veil which enwraps the mysteries of 
 creation from our scrutiny?" 
 
 ""Without challenging the meaning of the terms you have 
 employed," said Metrodorus, "I would observe, that there is 
 little danger of our pushing investigation too far. Unhappily 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 73 
 
 the limits prescribed to us by our few and imperfect senses 
 must ever cramp the sphere of our observation, as compared to 
 the boundless range of things ; and that even when we shall 
 have strained and improved our senses to the uttermost. We 
 trace an eifect to a cause, and that cause to another cause, and 
 so on, till we hold some few links of a chain, whose extent like 
 the charmed circle, is without beginning as without end." 
 
 "I apprehend the difficulties," observed Leontium, "which 
 embarrass the mind of our young friend. Like most aspirants 
 after knowledge, he has a vague and incorrect idea of what he 
 is pursuing, and still more, of what may be attained. In the 
 schools you have hitherto frequented," she continued, address- 
 ing the youth, "certain images of virtue, vice, truth, knowledge, 
 are presented to the imagination, and these abstract qualities, 
 or we may call them, figurative beings, are made at once the 
 objects of speculation and adoration. A law is laid down, and 
 the feelings and opinions of men are predicated upon it ; a theory 
 is built, and all animate and inanimate nature is made to speak 
 in its support ; an hypothesis is advanced, and all the mysteries 
 of nature are treated as explained. You have heard of, and 
 studied various systems of philosophy ; but real philosophy is 
 opposed to all systems. Her whole business is observation ; 
 and the results of that observation constitute all her knowledge. 
 She receives no truths, until she has testsd them by experience ; 
 she advances no opinions, unsupported by the testimony of 
 facts ; she acknowledges no virtue, but that involved in bene- 
 ficial actions ; no vice, but that involved in actions hurtful to 
 ourselves or to others. Above all, she advances no dogmas, — 
 is slow to assert what is, — and calls nothing impossible. The 
 science of philosophy is simply a science of observation, both 
 as regards the world without us, and the world within ; and, to 
 advance in it, are requisite only sound senses, well developed 
 and exercised faculties, and a mind free of prejudice. The 
 objects she has in view, as regards the external world, are, first, 
 to see things as they are, and secondly, to examine their struc- 
 ture, to ascertain their properties, and to observe their relations 
 one to the other. — As respects the world within, or the philoso- 
 phy of mind, she has in view, first, to examine our sensations, 
 or the impressions of external things on our senses ; which ope • 
 ration involves, and is involved in, the examination of those ex- 
 ternal things themselves : secondly, to trace back to our sensa- 
 tions, the first development of all our faculties ; and again, from 
 these sensations, and the exercise of our difierent faculties as 
 developed b}' them, to trace the gradual formation of our moral 
 feelings, and of all our other emotions : thirdly, to analyse aP 
 these our sensations, thoughts, and emotions, — that is, to ex 
 amine the qualities of our own internal, sentient matter, witJ 
 the same, and yet more, closeness of scrutiny, than we have aj 
 plied to the examination of the matter that is without us 
 finally, to investigate the justness of our moral feelings, and to 
 
74 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 weigh the merit and demerit of human actions ; which is, in 
 other words, to judge of their tendency to produce good or evil, 
 — to excite pleasurable or painful feelings in ourselves or others. 
 You will observe, therefore, that, both as regards the philoso- 
 phy of physics, and the philosophy of mind, all is simply a 
 process of investigation. It is a j ourney of discovery, in which, 
 in the one case, we commission our senses to examine the quali- 
 ties of that matter, which is around us, and, in the other, en- 
 deavour, by attention to the varieties of our consciousness, to 
 gain a knowledge of those qualities of matter which constitute 
 our susceptibilities of thought and feeling." 
 
 " This explanation is new to me," observed Theon, ** and I will 
 confess, startling to my imagination. It is pure materialism !" 
 
 " You may so call it," rejoined Leontiurn, " But when you 
 have so called it — what then ? The question remains : is it 
 true ? or is it false ?" 
 
 *' I should be disposed to say — false, since it confounds all 
 my preconceived notions of truth and error, of right and wrong." 
 
 " Of truth and error, of right and wrong, in the sense of 
 correct or incorrect is, I presume, your meaning," said Leon- 
 tium. *' You do not involve moral rectitude or the contrary in 
 a matter of opinion?" 
 
 " If the opinion have a moral or immoral tendency I do," 
 said the youth. 
 
 " A- simple matter of fact can have no such tendency or 
 ought not, if we are rational creatures." 
 
 *' And would not, if we were always reasoning beings," said 
 Metrodorus ; "but as the ignorance and superstition which 
 surround our infancy and youth, favour the development of 
 the imagination at the expense of the judgment, we are ever 
 employed in the coining of chimeras, rather than in the dis- 
 covery of truths ; and if ever the poor judgment make an effort 
 to dispel these fancies of the brain, she is reptilsed, like a 
 Bacrilegious intruder into religious mysteries." 
 
 " Until our opinions are made to rest on facts," said Leon- 
 tium, " the error of our young friend — the most dangerous of 
 all errors, being one of principle and involving many — must 
 ever pervade the world. And it was because I suspected this 
 leading misconception of the very nature — of the very end and 
 aim of the science he is pursuing, that I attempted an explanation 
 of what should be sought, and of what can alone be attained. 
 In philosophy — that is, in knowledge — inquiry is every thing ; 
 theory and hypothesis are worse than nothing. Truth is but 
 approved facts. Truth, then, is one with the knowledge of 
 these facts. To shrink from inquiry, is to shrink from know- 
 ledge. And to prejudge an opinion as true or false, because it 
 interferes with some preconceived abstraction we call vice or 
 virtue, is as if we were to draw the picture of a man we had 
 never seen, and then, upon seeing him, were to dispute his 
 being the man in question, because unlike our picture." 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 75 
 
 " But if this opinion interfered with another, of whose truth 
 we imagined ourselves certain." 
 
 "Then clearly, in one or the other, we are mistaken ; and 
 the only way to settle the difficulty is to examine and compare 
 the evidences of both." 
 
 "But are there not some truths self-evident?" 
 
 *' There are a few which we may so call. That is to say, 
 there are some facts, which we admit upon the evidence of a 
 simple sensation ; as, for instance, that a whole is greater than 
 its part ; that two are more than one ; which we receive imme- 
 diately upon the testimony of our sense of sight or of touch." 
 
 **But are there no moral truths of the same nature ?" 
 
 " I am not aware of any. Moral truth, resting entirely upon 
 the ascertained consequences of actions, supposes a process of 
 observation and reasoning." 
 
 "What call you, then, a belief in a presiding providence, \ 
 and a great first cause ?" -^ 
 
 ** A belief resting upon testimony ; which belief will be true 
 or false, according to the correctness or incorrectness of that 
 testimony." 
 
 "Is it not rather a self-evident moral truth ?" 
 
 " In my answer, I shall have to divide your question into 
 two. First, it cannot be a moral truth, since it is not deduced 
 from the consequences of human action. It can be simply a 
 truth, that is, a fact. Secondly, it is not a self-evident truth, 
 since it is not evident to all minds, and frequently becomes less 
 and less evident, the more it is examined." 
 
 " But is not the existence of a first or creating cause demon- 
 strated to our senses, by all we see, and hear, and feel ?" 
 
 " The existence of all that we see and hear and feel is demon- 
 strated to our senses ; and the belief we yield to this existence 
 is immediate and irresistible, that is, intuitive. — The existence 
 of the creating cause, that you speak of, is not demonstrated to 
 our senses ; and therefore the belief in it cannot be immediate 
 and irresistible. I prefer the expression * creating' to ' first' 
 cause, because it seems to present a more intelligible meaning. 
 "When you shall have examined farther into the phenomena of 
 nature, you will see, that there can be as little a first as a last 
 cause." 
 
 "But there must be always a cause, producing an efiect." 
 
 " Certainly ; and so your cause, — creating all that we see 
 and hear and feel — must itself have a producing cause, other- 
 wise you are in the same difficulty as before." 
 
 " I suppose it a Being unchangeable and eternal, itself uji- 
 produced, and producing all things." j 
 
 " Unchangeable it may be, — eternal it must be — since every 
 thing is eternal.'' i 
 
 " Every tiling eternal ?" 
 
 "Yes ; that is, the elements composing all substances are, so 
 far as we know and can reason, eternal, and in their nature 
 
76 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 uncliangeable ; and it is apparently only the different disposition 
 of these eternal and unchangeable atoms that produces all the 
 varieties in the substances constituting the great material whole, 
 of which we form a part. Those particles, whose peculiar 
 agglomeration or arrangement, we call a vegetable to-day, pass 
 into, and form part of an animal to-morrow ; and that animal 
 again, by the falling asunder of its constituent atoms, and the 
 different approximation and agglomeration of the same, — or, of 
 the same with other atoms, — is transformed into some other 
 substance presenting a new assemblage of qualities. To this 
 simple exposition of the phenomena of nature (which, you will 
 observe, is not explaining their wonders, for that is impossible, 
 but only observing them, ) we are led by the exercise of our senses. 
 In studying the existences which surround us, it is clearly our 
 business to use our eyes, and not our imaginations. To see 
 things as they are, is all we should attempt, and is all that is 
 possible to be done. Unfortunately, we can do but little even 
 here, as our eyes serve us to see but a very little way. But, 
 were our eyes better — were they so good as to enable us to ob- 
 serve all the arcana of matter, we could never acquire any other 
 knowledge of them, than that they are as they are ; — and, in 
 knowing this, that is, in seeing every link in the chain of occur- 
 rences, we should know all that even an omniscient being could 
 know. One astronomer traces the course of the sun round the 
 earth, another imagines that of the earth round the sun. Some 
 future improvements in science may enable us to ascertain 
 which conjecture is the true one. We shall then have ascer- 
 tained a fact, which fact may lead to the discovery of other 
 facts, and so on. Until this plain and simple view of the nature 
 of all science be generally received, all the advances we may 
 make in it are comparatively as nothing. Until we occupy our- 
 selves in examining, observing, and ascertaining, and not in 
 ex2)Iaining, we are idly and childishly employed. — With every 
 truth we may discover we shall mix a thousand errors ; and, for 
 one matter of fact, we shall charge our brain witli a thousand 
 fancies. To this leading misconception of the real, and only pos- 
 sible object of philosophical inquiry, I incline to attribute all the 
 modes and forms of human superstition. The vague idea that 
 some mysterious cause not merely precedes but produces the 
 effect we behold, occasions us to wander from the real object in 
 search ot an imaginary one. We see the sun rise in the east : 
 instead of confining our curiosity to the discovery of the time 
 and manner of its rising, and of its course in the heavens, we 
 ask also — why does it rise ? What makes it move ? The more 
 ignorant immediately conceive some Being spurring it through 
 the heavens, with fiery steeds, on wheels of gold, while the more 
 learned tell us of laws of motion, decreed by an almighty fiat, 
 and sustained by an almighty will. Imagine the truth of both 
 suppositions : in the one case, we should see the application of 
 what we call physical power in the driver and the steeds followed 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. TJ 
 
 by the motion of the sun, and in the other, an almighty volition 
 followed by the motion of the sun. But, in either case, should 
 we understand why the sun moved ? — why or how its motion 
 followed what we call the impulse of the propelling power, or 
 the propelling volition ? All that we could then know, more 
 than we 7iow know, would be, that the occurrence of the motion 
 of the sun was preceded by another occurrence ; and if we 
 afterwards frequently observed the same sequence of occurrences, 
 they would become associated in our mind as necessary prece- 
 dent and c(>nsequent — as cause and effect : and we might give 
 to them the appellation of law of nature, or any other appel- 
 lation ; but they would still constitute merely a truth — that is 
 Si. fact, and envelope no other mystery, than that involved in 
 every occurrence and every existence." 
 
 *' But, according to this doctrine," saidTheon, '* there would ) 
 be no less reason in attributing the beautifiil arrangement of 
 the material world to the motion of a horse, than to the voli- 
 tion of an almighty mind.'' 
 
 " If I saw the motion of a horse followed by the effect you 
 speak of, I should believe in some relation between them ; and 
 if I saw it follow the volition of an almighty mind — the same." 
 
 *' But the cause would be inadequate to the effect." 
 
 " It could not be so, if it were the cause. For what constitutes 
 the adequacy of which you speak? Clearly only the contact, or 
 immediate proximity of the two occurrences. If any sequence 
 could in fact be more wonderful than another, it should rather 
 seem to be for the consequent to impart grandeur to the prece- 
 dent — the effect to the cause, — than for the cause to impart 
 grandeur to the effect. But in reality all sequences are equally 
 wonderful. That light should follow the appearance of the sun, 
 is just as wonderful, and no more so, as if it were to follow the 
 appearance of any other body — and did light follow the appear- 
 ance of a black stone it would excite astonishment simply 
 because we never saw light follow such an appearance before. 
 Accustomed, as we now are, to see light when the sunrises, our 
 wonder would be, if we did not see light when he rose : but 
 were light regularly to attend the appearance of any other body, 
 our wonder at such a sequence would, after a time, cease ; and 
 we should then say, as we now say, there is a light because such 
 a body has risen ; and imagine then, as we imagine now, that 
 we understand why light is." 
 
 " In like manner all existences are equally wonderful. An 
 African lion is in himself nothing more extraordinary than a 
 Grecian horse ; although the whole people of Athens will 
 assemble to gaze on the lion, and exclaim how wonderful ! 
 while no man observes the horse." 
 
 "True — but this is the wondering of ignorance." 
 
 " I reply — true again, but so is all wondering. ** If, indeed, 
 we should consider it in this and in all other cases as simply an 
 emotion of pleasurable surprise, acknowledging the presence 
 
78 A FF.W DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 of a novel object, the feeling is perfectly rational ; but if it 
 imagine any thing more intrinsically marvellous in the novel 
 existence, than in the familiar one, it is then clearly the idle — 
 that is, the unreasoned and unreflecting marvelling of ignorance. 
 There is but one real wonder to the thinking mind : it is the 
 existence of all things ; that is the existence of matter. And 
 the only rational ground of this one great wonder is, that the 
 existence of matter is the last link in the chain of cause and 
 effect at which we can arrive. You imagine yet another link — 
 the existence of a power creating that matter. — My only objec- 
 tions to this additional link, or superadded cause, are, that it is 
 imagined, and that it leaves the wonder as before ; unless, 
 indeed, we should say that it has superadded other wonders, 
 since it supposes a power, or rather, an existence possessing a 
 power, of which we never saw an example." 
 
 *' How so ? Does not even man possess a species of creating 
 power ? And do you not suppose, in your inert matter, that 
 very property which others attribute, with more reason it 
 appears to me, to some superior and unknown existence?'" 
 
 "By no means. No existence, that we know of, possesses 
 creating power, in the sense you suppose. Neither the existence 
 we call a man, nor any other of the existences comprised under 
 the generic names of matter, physical world, nature, &c., pos- 
 sesses the power of calling into being its own constituent ele- 
 ments, nor the constituent elements of any other substance. It 
 can change one substance into another substance, by altering 
 the position of its particles, or intermingling them with others : 
 but it cannot call into being, any more than it can annihilate, 
 those particles themselves. The hand of man causes to approach 
 particles of earth and of water, and, by their approximation 
 produces clay ; to which clay it gives a regular form, and, by 
 the application of fire, produces the vessel we call a vase. You 
 may say that the hand of man creates the vase, but it does not 
 create the earth, or the water, or the fire ; neither has the admix- 
 ture of these substances added to, or subtracted from, the sum 
 of their elementary atoms. Observe, therefore, there is no 
 analogy between the power inherent in matter, of changing its 
 appearance and qualities, by a simple change in the position of 
 its particles, and that which you attribute to some unseen ex- 
 istence, who by a simple volition, should have called into being 
 matter itself, with all its wonder Ivil properties. An existence 
 possessing such a power I have never seen ; and though this says 
 nothing against the possibility of such an existence, it says every 
 thing against my belief in it. And farther, the power which 
 you attribute to this existence — that of willing every thing 
 out of nothing, — being, not only what I have never seen, but. 
 that of which I cannot with any distinctness conceive — it must 
 appear to me the greatest of all improbabilities." 
 
 "Our young friend," observed Metrodorus, "lately made 
 use of an expression, the error involved in which, seems to be 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 79 
 
 at the root of his difficulty. In speaking of matter," he con- 1 
 tinned, turning to Theon, ** you employed the epithet inert. \ 
 What is your meaning ? And what matter do you here designate ?" 
 
 "All matter surely is, in itself, inert." 
 
 "All matter surely is, in itself, as it is," said Metrodorus 
 with a smile ; " and that, I should say, is living and active. 
 Again, what is matter?" 
 
 "All that is evident to our senses," replied Theon, "and 
 which stands opposed to mind." 
 
 " All matter then is inert which is devoid of mind. "What 
 then do you understand by mind?" 
 
 "I conceive some error in my definition," said Theon, 
 smiling. "Should I say — thought — you would ask if every 
 existence devoid of thought was inert, or if every existence, 
 possessing life, possessed thought." 
 
 "I should so have asked. Mind or thought I consider a 
 quality of that matter constituting the existence we call a man, 
 which quality we find in a varying degree in other existences ; 
 many, perhaps all animals, possessing it. Life is another 
 quality, or combination of qualities, of matter, inherent in — we 
 know not how many existences. We find it in vegetables ; we 
 might perceive it even in stones, could we watch their forma- 
 tion, growth, and decay. We may call that active principle, 
 pervading the elements of all things, which approaches and 
 separates the component particles of the everchanging, and yet 
 everenduring world — life. Until you discover some substance, 
 which undergoes no change, you cannot speak of inert matter : 
 it can only be so, at least, relatively, — that is, as compared 
 with other substances." 
 
 "The classing of thought and life among the qualities of 
 matter is new to me." 
 
 " What is in a substance cannot be separate from it. And is 
 not all matter a compound of qualities ? Hardness, extension, 
 form, colour, motion, rest — take away all these, and where is 
 matter ? To conceive of mind independent of matter, is as if we 
 should conceive of colour independent of a substance coloured : 
 What is form, if not a body of a particular shape ? What is the ught, 
 if not something which thinks ? Destroy the substance, and you 
 destroy its properties ; and so equally — destroy the properties, 
 and you destroy the substance. To suppose the possibility of 
 retaining the one, without the other, is an evident absurdity." 
 
 "The error of conceiving a quality in the abstract often 
 offended me in the Lyceum," returned the youth, " but I never 
 considered the error as extending to mind and life, any more 
 than to vice and virtue." 
 
 "You stopped short with many others," said Leontium. 
 " It is indeed surprising how many acute minds will apply a 
 logical train of reasoning in one case, and invert the process 
 in another exactly similar." 
 
 " To return, and if you will, to conclude our discussion," 
 
So A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 said Metrodorus, " I will observe that no real advances can be 
 made in the philosophy of mind, without a deep scrutiny into 
 the operations of nature, or material existences. Mind being 
 only a quality of matter, the study we call the philosophy of 
 mind, is necessarily only a branch of general physics, or the 
 Study of a particular part of the philosophy of matter." 
 
 "I am indebted to your patience," said the youth, "and 
 would fain intrude farther on it. I will confine myself at 
 present, however, to one observation. The general view of 
 things, Avliich you present to my mind, the simplicity of which 
 I will confess to be yet more fascinating than its novelty, is 
 evidently unfavourable to religion, — and, if so, unfavourable 
 to virtue." 
 
 " An opportunity will, to-day, be afforded you," said Leon- 
 tium, " of examining this important question in detail. At 
 the request of some of our youth, the Master will himself give 
 his views on the subject." 
 
 **I am all curiosity," said Theon. "Other teachers have 
 commanded my respect, inflamed my imagination, and, I be- 
 lieve, often controlled my reason. The son of Neocles in- 
 spires me with love, and wins me to confidence, by encouraging 
 me to exercise my own judgment, in scanning his arguments, 
 and examining the groundwork of his own opinions. With 
 such a teacher, and in such a school, I feel suspicion to be 
 wholly misplaced ; and I shall now start in the road of inquiry, 
 anxious only to discover truth, and willing to part with 
 every erroneous opinion, the moment it shall be proved to be 
 erroneous." 
 
 NcTE, BY THE TRANSLATOR. — How beautifully have the 
 modern discoveries in chemistry and natural philosophy, and 
 the more accvirate analysis of the human mind — sciences un- 
 known to the ancient world — substantiated the leading prin- 
 ciples of the Epicurean ethics and physics — the only ancient 
 school of either, really deserving the name. 
 
 To what have all our ingenious inventions and contrivances, 
 for the analysis of material substances, led us, but to the atoms 
 of Epicurus ? To what, our accurate observation of the decom- 
 position of substances, and the arresting and weighing of their 
 most subtle and invisible elements, but to the eternal and un- 
 changeable nature of those atoms ? We have, in the course of 
 our scrutiny, superadded to the wonderful qualities of matter 
 with which he was acquainted, those which we call attraction, 
 repulsion, electricity, magnetism, &c. How do these discoveries 
 midtiply and magnify the living powers inherent in the simple 
 elements of all existences, and point our admiration to the 
 sagacity of that intellect which 2,000 years ago, started in the 
 tiaie road of inquiry ; while, at tliis day, thousands of teachers, 
 and millions of scholars are stumbling in the paths of error ! 
 
 If we look to our mental philosophy, to w^hat has our scrutiny 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 81 
 
 led, but to the leading principles of Epicurean ethics. In the 
 pleasiire, — utility, — propriety of hvunan action — whatever word 
 we employ, the meaning is the same — in the consequences of 
 liuman actions, that is, in their tendency to promote our good 
 or our evil, we must ever find the only test of their intrinsic 
 merit or demerit. 
 
 It might seem strange that, while the truth of the leading 
 principles of the Epicurean philosophy have been long admitted 
 by all sound reasoners, the abuse of the school and of its founder 
 is continued to this day : this might and would seem strange 
 and incomprehensible, did we not, on every subject find the 
 same cowardly fear effacing, openly and honestly, the prejudices 
 of men. Teachers, aware of the ignorance of those they teach, 
 develope their doctrines in language intelligible only to the few ; 
 or, where they hazard a more distinct exposition of truth, shelter 
 themselves from obloquy, by echoing the vulgar censure against 
 those who have taught the same truth, with more explicitness, 
 before them. The mass, even of what is called the educated 
 world, know nothing of the principles they decry, or of the 
 characters they abuse. It is easy, therefore, by joining in the 
 abuse against the one, to encourage a belief that we cannot be 
 advocatitig the other. This desire of standing fair with the wise, 
 without incurring the enmity of the ignorant, may suit vnth 
 the object of those who acquire knowledge only for its display, 
 or for the gratification of mere curiosity. 15ut they whose 
 nobler aim, and higher gift it is, lo advance the human mind 
 in the discovery of truth, must stand proof equally to censure 
 and to praise. That such lips and such pens should employ 
 equivocation, or other artifice, to turn aside the wrath of 
 ignorance, is degrading to themselves and mortifying to their 
 admirers. The late amiable and enlightened teacher, Thomas 
 Brown, of Edinburgh, whose masterly exposition of old and 
 new truths, and exposure of modern as well as ancient errors, 
 has so advanced the science he professed, is yet chargeable 
 with this weakness. After inculcating the leading principles 
 of the Epicurean philosophy, and building upon those princi- 
 ples, the whole of his beautiful system, he condescends to 
 soothe the prejudices which all his arguments have tended to 
 uproot, by passing a sweeping censure on the school, Avhose 
 doctrines he has borrowed and taught. We might say — how 
 unworthy of such a mind ! But we will rather say — how is it 
 to be lamented that such a mind bears not within itself the 
 conviction, that all truths are important to all men ; and that 
 to employ deception with the ignorant, is to defeat our own 
 purpose ; which is, surely, not to open the eyes of those who 
 already see, but to enlighten the blind ! 
 
82 A FEW DAYS IX ArUI-.NS. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A MORE than usual crowd attended the ins;tructions of the 
 sago. The gay, and the curious, the learned, and the idle, of 
 all ages, and of either sex, from the restless population of the 
 city ; many citizens of note, collected from various parts of 
 Attica ; and no inconsiderable portion of strangers from foreign 
 states and countries. 
 
 They were assembled on the lawn, surrounding the temple 
 already freqiiently mentioned. The contracting waters of Ilyssus 
 tloAved nearly in their accustomed bed ; and earth and air, 
 refreshed by the storm of the preceding night, resisted the 
 rays of the uncurtained sun, now climbing high in the hea- 
 vens. A crowd of recollections rushed on the young mind of 
 Theon, as he entered the beautiful inclosure, and gazed on the 
 stream which formed one of its boundaries. His thoughts 
 again played truant to philosophy, and his rapid glance sought 
 another and a fairer form than any it foiind there, when the 
 approach of Epicurus divided the throng, and hushed the loud 
 mui'mur of tongues into silence. The sage passed on, and it 
 was not till he ascended the marble steps, and turned to ad- 
 dress the assembly, that Theon perceived he had been followed 
 by the beautiftd being who ruled his fancy. The hues of Hebe 
 now dyed her lips and her cheeks ; but the laughing smiles of 
 the preceding evening were changed for the composure of 
 respectful attention. Her eye caught that of Theon. She 
 gave a blush and a smile of recognition. Then, seating her- 
 self at the base of a column to the right of her father, her 
 fiice resumed its composure, and her full dark eyes fastened 
 on the countenance of the sage, in a gaze of mingled admira- 
 tion and filial love. 
 
 "Fellow-citizens, and fellow-men! We purpose, this day, 
 to examine a question of vital importance to human kind : no 
 less a one than the relations we bear to all the existences that 
 surround us ; the position we hold in this beaiitiful material 
 world? the origin, the object, and the end of our being ; the 
 source from which we proceed, and the goal to which Ave tend. — 
 This question embraces many. It embraces all most interest- 
 ing to our curiosity, and influential over our happiness. Its 
 correct or incorrect solution must ever regulate, as it now 
 regulates, our rvile of conduct, our conceptions of right and 
 wrong ; must start us on the road of true or false inquu'y, and 
 either open our minds to such a knowledge of the wonders 
 working in and around us, as our senses and faculties can. 
 attain, or close them for ever mth the bands of superstition, 
 leaving us a prey to fear, the slaves of our uugoverned imagi- 
 nations, wondering and trembling at every occurrence in 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 83 
 
 natttre, and making our own existence and destiny sources of 
 dread .ind mystery." 
 
 ♦' Ere we come to this important inquiry, it behoves us to 
 Bee that we come with willing minds ; that we say not, * so far 
 mil we go and no farther; we will make one step, but not 
 two ; we will examine, but only so long as the result of our 
 examination shall confirm our preconceived opinions.' In our '■ 
 search after truth, we must equally discard presumption and | 
 fear. We must come with our eyes and our ears, our hearts ' 
 and our understandings open; anxious, not to find ourselves 
 right, but to discover what is right ; asserting nothing which, 
 we cannot prove ; believing nothing which we have not ex- 
 amined ; and examining all things fearlessly, dispassionately, 
 perse veringly. " 
 
 " In our preceding discourses, and, for such as have not 
 attended these, in our writings, we have endeavoured to ex- 
 plain the real object of philosophical inquiry ; we have di- 
 rected you to the investigation of nature, to all that you see 
 of existences and occui-rences around you ; and we have shown 
 that, in these existences and occurrences, all that can be kno^^Tl, 
 and all that there is to be known, lies hid. AVe have exhorted 
 you to use your eyes, and yovir judgments, never your imagi- 
 nations ; to abstain from theory, and rest with facts ; and to 
 luiderstand that in the accumulation of facts, as regards the 
 nature and properties of substances, the order of occurrences, 
 and the consequences of actions, lies the whole science of 
 philosophy, physical and moral. We have seen, in the course 
 of our inquiry, that in matter itself, exist all causes and 
 effects ; that the eternal particles, composing all substances, 
 form the first and last links in the chain of occurrences, or of 
 cause and effect, at which we can arrive ; that the qualities, 
 inherent in these particles, produce, or are followed by cer- 
 tain effects ; that the changes, in position, of these particles, 
 produce or are followed by certain other qualities and effects ; 
 that the sun appears, and that light follows his appearance ; 
 that we throw a pearl into vinegar, and that the pearl vanishes 
 from our eyes, to assume the form or fonns of more subtile, 
 but not less real substances ; that the component particles of 
 a human being fall asunder, and that, instead of a man, we 
 find a variety of other substances or existences, presenting 
 new appearances, and new properties or powers ; that a burn- 
 ing coal touches our hand, that the sensation of pain follows 
 the contact, that the desire to end this sensation is the next 
 effect in succession, and that the muscular motion of with- 
 drawing the hand, following the desire, is another. Tliat in 
 all this succession of existences and events, there is nothing 
 but what we see, or what we could see, if we had better eyes ; 
 that there is no mystery in nature, but that involved in the 
 very existence of all things ; and that things being as they are, 
 
 F 2 
 
84 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS 
 
 is no more wonderful, than it would be, if they were different. 
 That an analagous course of events, or chain of causes and 
 effects, takes place in morals as in physics ; that is to say, in 
 examining those qualities, of the matter composing our o^vn 
 bodies, Avhich we call mind, we can only trace a train of oc- 
 currences, in like manner as we do in the external world ; 
 that our sensations, thoughts, and emotions, are simply effects 
 following causes, a series of consecutive phenomena, mutually 
 producing and produced." 
 
 " When we have taken this view of things, observe how all 
 abstruse questions disappear ; how all science is simplified ; 
 all knowledge rendered easy and familiar to the mind ! Once 
 started in this only true road of inquiry, everj' step we make 
 is one in advance. To whatever science we apply, that is, to 
 whatever part of matter, or to whichever of its qualities, we 
 direct our attention, we shall, in all probability, make import- 
 ant, because true, discoveries. It is the philosophy of nature 
 in general, or any one of tVose subdivisions of it, which we 
 call the philosophy of Mind, Ethics, Medicine, Astronomy, 
 Geometry, &c., the moment we occupy ourselves in observing 
 and arranging in order the facts, which are discovered in the 
 course of observation, we acquire positive knowledge, and may 
 safely undertake to develop it to others." 
 
 *' The ascertaining the nature of existences, the order of oc- 
 currences, and the consequences of human actions constituting, 
 therefore, the whole of knowledge, what is there to prevent 
 each jmd all of us from extending our discoveries to the full 
 limits prescribed by the nature of our facilities and diiration 
 of our existence ? AMiat nobler employment can we invent } 
 What pleasm-e so pure, so little liable to disappointment? 
 What is there to hold us back ? AVhat is there not to spur us 
 forward ? Does our ignorance staort from the very simplicity 
 of knowledge ? Do we fear to open our eyes lest we should 
 see the light ? Does the very truth we seek alarm us in its 
 attainment? — How is it that, placed in this world as on a 
 theatre of observation, surrounded by wonders and endowed 
 with faculties wherewith to scan these wonders, we know so 
 little of what is, and imagine so much t)f what is not ? Other 
 animals, to whom man accounts himself superior, exercise 
 the faculties they possess, trust their testimony, follow the 
 impulses of their nature, and enjoy the happmess of which 
 they are capable. Man alone, the most gifted of all known 
 existences, doubts the evidence of his superior senses, per- 
 verts the natxu-e and uses of his multiplied faculties, controls 
 Ids most innocent, as well as his noblest imptdses, and t\ims 
 to poison all the sources of his happiness. To what are we to 
 trace this fatal error, this cruel self-martyrdom, this perver- 
 sion of things from their natural bent ? In the over-develop 
 ment of one faculty and neglect of another, we must seek the 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 85 
 
 cause. In the imagination, that source of ovir most beautiful 
 pleasiores, when under the control of judgment, we find the 
 source of our worst afflictions." ) 
 
 " From an early age, I have made the nature and condition ' 
 of man my study. I have found him in many countries of 
 the earth, under the influence of all varieties of climate and 
 circumstance ; I have found him the savage lord of the forest, 
 clothed in the rough skins of animals less rude than himself, 
 sheltered in the crevices of the mountains and caves of the 
 earth from the blasts of winter and heats of the summer sxm ; 
 I have found him the slave of masters debased as himself, 
 crouching to the foot that spurns him, and showing no signs 
 of miscalled civilisation but its sloth and its sensualities , I 
 have found him the lord over millions, clothed in purple and 
 treading courts of marble ; the cruel destroyer of his species, 
 marching through blood and rapine, to thrones of extended 
 dominion ; the iron-hearted tyrant, feasting on the agonies of 
 his victims, and wringing his treasure from the hard-earned 
 m.ite of industry ; I have found him the harmless but igno- 
 rant tiller of the soil, eating the simple fruits of his labour, 
 sinking to rest only to rise again to toil, toiling to live and 
 living only to die ; I have found him the polished courtier, 
 the accomplished scholar, the gifted artist, the creating ge- 
 nius ; the fool and the knave ; rich and a beggar ; spuming 
 rnd spurned.'' 
 " Under all these forms and varieties of the external and 
 ' internal man, still, with hardly an exception, I have found him 
 ijnhappy. With more capacity for enjoyment than any other 
 creature, I have seen him surpassing the rest of existences only 
 in suifering and crime. "Why is this and from whence ? A\Tiat 
 master error, for some there must be, leads to results so fatal 
 — so opposed to the apparent nature and promise of things? 
 liOng have I sought this error — this main- spring of human 
 folly and hiunan crime. I have traced, through all their 
 lengthened train of consequents and causes, human practice 
 and human theory ; I have threaded the labyrinth to its dark 
 beginning ; I have found the first link in the chain of evil ; I 
 have found it— in all countries— among all tribes and tongues 
 and nations ; I have found it, — fellow-men, I have found it in 
 — Religion !" 
 
 A low murm.ur here rose from one part of the assembly. A 
 deep and breathless silenee succeeded. The sage turned his 
 gaze slowly around, and with a countenance, pure and serene 
 as the skies which shone above him, proceeded. 
 ■' " We have named the leading error of the human mind, — 
 the bane of human happiness— the perverter of human virtue ! 
 It is Religion— that dark coinage of trembling ignorance ! It is 
 Religion —that prisoner of human felicity ! It is Religion— that 
 blind guide of hiiman reason I It is Religion — that dcthroner 
 
8G A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 of human virtue ! -which lies at the root of all the evil and all 
 the misery that pervade the world !" 
 
 "Not hastily formed, still less hastily expressed, has been 
 the opinion you hear this day. A long train of reflection led 
 to the discarding of religion as an error, a Ufe of observation 
 to the denouncing it as an evil. In considering it as devoid of 
 truth, I am but one of many. Few have looked deeply and 
 steadily into the nature of things, and not called in question 
 belief in existences unseen and causes unkno\\Ti. But whUe 
 smiling at the credulity of their fellow-beings, philosophers 
 have thought reason good only for themselves. They have 
 argued that rehgion, however childish a chimera in itself, was 
 useful in its tendencies : that, if it rested upon nothing, it 
 supported all things ; that it was the stay of virtue, and the 
 soiuce of happiness. However, opposed to every rtde in phi- 
 losophy, physical and moral ; however apparently in contra- 
 diction to reason and common sense, that a thing untrue covdd 
 be useful ; that a belief m facts disproved or unproved could 
 afford a sustaining prop to a just rule of practice ; the asser- 
 tion came supported by so tmiversal a testimony of mankind, 
 and by individual names of such authority in practical "vnsdom 
 and virtue, that I hesitated to call it mistaken. And as human 
 happiness appeared to me the great desideratxun, and its pro- 
 motion the only object consistent with the views of a teacher 
 of men, I forbore from all expression of opinion, until I had 
 fully substantiated, to my own conviction, both its truth and 
 its tendency. The truth of my opinion is substantiated, as we 
 have seen, by an examination into the nature of things ; that 
 is, into the properties of matter, which are alone siifficient to 
 produce all the chances and changes that we behold. Its 
 tendency is discovered by an examination into the moral con- . 
 dition of man." 
 
 " The belief in supernatural existences, and the expectation 
 of a futiu-e life, are said to be sources of happiness, and stimuli 
 to virtue. How, and in what way ? Is it proved by experi- 
 ence ? Look abroad over the earth ; everywhere the song of 
 praise, the prayer of supplication, the smoke of incense, the 
 blow of sacrifice, arise fi-om forest, and lawTi, from cottage, 
 palace, and temple, to the gods of human idolatry. Religion, 
 is fiprcad over the earth. If she be the parent of vii'tue and 
 happiness, they too should cover the earth. Do they so? 
 Head the annals of human tradition ! Go forth and observe 
 the actions of men ! Who shall speak of virtue — who of hap- 
 piness, that liath eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts to 
 feel? No ! experieuce is against the assertion. The world is 
 full of religion, and full of misery and crime." 
 
 " Can the assertion be sustained by argmnent, by any train 
 of reasoning whatsoever ? Imagiire a Deity under any jfashioa 
 of existence ; how are our drtams couceruing him in an imagi- 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 87 
 
 nary heaven to affect our happiness or our conduct on a tan- 
 gible earth ? Affect it indeed they may for evil, but how for 
 good? The idea of an unseen Being, ever at work around 
 and about us, may afHict the human intellect with idle terrors, 
 but can never guide the human practice to what is rational and 
 consistent with our nature. Grant that, by any possibility, 
 we could ascertain the existence of one god, or of a million of 1 
 gods : we see them not, we hear them not, we feel them not. I 
 Unless they were submitted to our observation, were fashioned 
 like unto us, had similar desire?, similar faculties, a similar 
 organization, how could their mode of existence afford a guide 
 for oTirs ? As well should the butterfly take pattern from the 
 lion, or the lion from the eagle, as man from a god. To say 
 nothing of the inconsistency of the attributes, with which all 
 gods are decked, it is enough that none of them are ours. We 
 are men ; they are gods. .They inhabit other worlds ; we in- 
 habit the earth. Let them enjoy their felicity; and let us, my 
 friends, seek ours.'* 
 
 "But it is not that religion is merely useless, it is mis- 
 chievous. It is mischievous by its idle terrors ; it is mischiev- 
 ous by its false morality ; it is mischievous by its hj-pocrisy ; 
 by its fanaticism ; by its dogmatism ; by its threats ; by its 
 hopes ; by its promises. Consider it under its mildest and 
 most amiable form, it is still mischievous, as inspiring false 
 motives of action, as holding the human mind in bondage, 
 and diverting the attention fi-om things useful, to things use- 
 less. The essence of religion is fear, as its source is ignorance. 
 In a certain stage of human knowledge, the hiunan mind must 
 of necessity, in its ignorance of the properties of matter, and 
 its dark insight into the chain of phenomena arising out of 
 those properties — must of necessity reason falsely on every 
 occurrence and existence in nature ; it must of necessity, in 
 the absence of fact, give the rem to fancy, see a miracle in 
 every uncommon event, and imagine unseen agents as pro- 
 ducing all that it beholds. In proportion as the range of our 
 observation is enlarged, and that we learn to connect and 
 arrange the phenomena of nature, we curtail our list of mira- 
 cles, and the number of our sixpernatural agents. An eclipse 
 is alarming to the vulgar, as denoting the MTath of offended 
 deities ; to the man of science it is a simple occiu-rence, as 
 easily traced to its cause, as any the most familiar to our 
 observation. The knowledge of one generation is the igno- 
 rance of the next. Our superstitions decrease as our attain- 
 ments multiply ; and the fervour of our religion declines as 
 we di"aw nearer to the conclusion which destroys it entirely. 
 That conclusion, based upon accumulated facts, is as we have 
 seen, that matter alone is at once the thing acting, and the 
 thing acted upon, — eternal in duration, infinitely various and 
 varying in appearance : never diminishing in quantity, and 
 
88 A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 always changing in form. Without some knowledge of what 
 is styled natural philosophy, or physics, no individual can 
 attain this conclusion. And in a certai?i stage of that know- 
 ledge, more or less advanced according to the acuteness of the 
 intellect, it will be impossible for any individual, not mentally 
 obtuse, to shun that conclusion. This truth is one of infinite 
 /Importance. The moment we consider the hostility directed 
 against what is called Atheism, as the natural result of deficient 
 information, the mind must be diseased which could resent 
 that hostility. And perhaps a simple statement of the truth 
 would best lead to examination of the subject, and to the con- 
 version of mankind. 
 
 *' Imagine this conversion, my friends ! Imagine the crea- 
 ture man in the full exercise of all his faculties ; not shrinking 
 from knowledge, but eager in its pursuit ; not bending the 
 knee of ad\ilation to visionary beings armed by fear for his 
 destruction, but standing erect in calm contemplation of the 
 beautiful face of nature ; discarding prejudice, and admitting 
 truth without fear of consequences ; acknowledging no judge 
 but reason, no censor but that in his own breast ! Thus con- 
 sidered, he is transformed into the god of his present idolatry, 
 or rather into a far nobler being, possessing all the attributes 
 consistent with virtue and reason, and none opposed to either. 
 How great a contrast with his actual state ! His best faculties 
 dormant ; his judgment unawakened within him ; his very 
 senses misemployed ; all his energies misdirected ; trembling 
 before the coinage of his own idle fancy ; seeing over all crea- 
 tion a hand of tyranny extended ; and instead of following 
 virtue, worshipping power ! Monstrous creation of ignorance ! 
 monstrous degradation of the noblest of known existences! 
 Man, boasting of superior reason, of moral discrimination, 
 imagines a being at once unjust, cruel, and inconsistent ; then, 
 kissing the dust, calls himself its slave! ''This world is," 
 says the theist, " therefore it was made." — By whom? — "By 
 a being more powerful than I." Grant this infantine reason- 
 ing, what follows as the conclusion? "That we must fear 
 liim," says the theist. — And why? Is his power directed 
 against our happiness? Does your god amuse himself by 
 awakening the terrors of more helpless beings ? Fear him 
 then indeed we may ; and, let our conduct be what it will, 
 fear him we must. "He is good as well as powerful," says» 
 the theist ; "therefore the object of love," — How do we ascer- 
 tain his goodness ? 1 see indeed a beautiful and curious world ; 
 but I see it full of moral evils, and presenting many physical 
 imperfections. Is he all-powerful? perfect good or perfect 
 evil might exist. Is he all-powerful cmcl all-good ? perfect 
 good mtist exist. Of the sentient beings comprised in the in- 
 finity of matter I know but those which I behold. I set no 
 limits to the number of those which I behold not ; no bouaids 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHKNS. 89 
 
 to their power. One or many, may have given directions to 
 the elementary atoms, and may have fashioned this earth as 
 the potter fashions its clay. Beings possessing such power 
 may exist, and may have exercised it. All-powerful still they 
 are not, or being so they are wicked : evil exists. I know 
 not what may be — but this my moral sense tells me can- 
 not be — a fashioner of the world I inhabit, in his nature 
 all-good and all-powerful. I see yet another impossibility ; 
 a fashioner of this world in his nature all-good and fore-knoW' 
 ing. Granting the possibility of the attributes, their united 
 existence were an impossible supposition in the architect of 
 pur earth." 
 
 : " Let us accord his goodness the most pleasing and valu- 
 able attribute. Your god is then the object of our love, and 
 of our pity. Of our love, because being benevolent in his 
 own nature, he must have intended to produce happiness 
 in forming ours ; of our pity, because we see that he has failed 
 in his intention. I cannot conceive a condition more un- 
 fortunate than that of a deity contemplating this world of 
 his creation. Is he the author of some — say, of much happi- 
 ness ? of what untold misery is he not equally the author? I 
 cannot conceive a being more desperately — more hopelessly 
 •wretched than that we have now pictured. The worst of 
 human miseries shrink into comparative insignificancy before 
 those of their author. How must every sigh drawn from 
 tlie bosom of man rend the heart of his god ! How must 
 every violence committed on earth convulse the peace of 
 heaven ! unable to alter what he had fashioned, how must 
 he equally curse his power and his impotence ! And in 
 bewailing our existence, how must he burn to annihilate his 
 own !" 
 
 ** We will now suppose his power without limit ; and his 
 knowledge extending to the future, as to the past. How 
 monstrous the conception ! What demon drawn from the 
 fevered brain of insanity, ever surpassed this deity in malig- 
 nity ! Able to make perfection, he hath sown through all 
 nature the seed of evil. The lion pursues the lamb; the 
 vulture, in his rage, tears the dove from her nest. Man, the 
 universal enemy, triumphs even in the sufferings of his 
 fellow-beings ; in their pain finds his own joy ; in their loss, 
 his gain ; in the frenzy of his violence, working out his 
 own destruction; in the folly of hi- ignorance, cursing his 
 own race, and blessing its cruel author ! Your deity is the 
 author of evil, and you call him good ; the inventor ot misery, 
 and you call him happy ! What virtuous mind shall yield 
 homage to such a Being? Who shall say, that homage, if 
 Tendered, degrades not the worshipper ? Or, who shall say, 
 that homage, when rendered, shall pacify the idol? Will 
 abjectness in the slave ensure mercy in the tyrant? Or, if 
 
DO 4 FEW PAYS IN ATHENS. 
 
 it should, my friends, Avhich of us would be the abject? Are 
 men found bold to resist earthly oppression, and shall they 
 bow before injustice, because she speak from heaven r Does 
 the name of Ilarmodius inspire our songs ? Do cro^vns of 
 laurel bind the temples of Aristogiton ? Let our courage 
 rise higher than theirs, my friends; and, if worthy of ambi- 
 tion, our fame ! Dethrone, not the tyrant of Athens, but 
 the t)Tant of the earth ! — not the oppressor of Athenians 
 but the oppressor of mankind ! Stand forth ! Stand erect ! 
 Say to this god, ' if you made us in malice, we will not 
 worship you in fear. We «ill judge of you by your works : 
 and judge your works with our reason. It evil pervade 
 them, you are chargeable with it, as their author. We care 
 not to conciliate your injustice, any more than to strive with 
 your power. We judge of the future from the past. And as 
 you have disposed of us in this world, so, if it please you to 
 continue our being, must you dispose of us in another. It 
 would be idle to strive with Omnipotence, or to provide against 
 the decrees of Omniscience. We will not torment ourselves 
 by imagining your intentions ; nor debase ourselves by ex- 
 postulations. Should you punish, in us, the evil you have 
 made, you will punish it as unjustly as you made it maliciously. 
 Should you reward in us the good, you will reward it absurdly, 
 as it was equally your work, and not ours.' " 
 
 "Let us now concede in argument the union of all the 
 enumerated attributes. Let us accord the existence of a being 
 perfect in goodness, wisdom, and power, who shall have made 
 all things by his volition, and decreed all occurrences in his 
 wisdom. Such a being must command our admiration and 
 approval : he can command no more. As he is good and 
 wise, he is superior to all praise ; as he is great and happy, 
 he is independent of all praise. As he is the author of 
 our happiness, he has ensured our love ; but as he is our 
 creator, he may command from us no duties. Supposing a 
 god, all duties rest with him. If he has made us, he is bound 
 to make us happy ; and failing in the duty, he must be an 
 object of just abhorrence to all his sentient creation. Kind- 
 ness received must necessarily inspire affection. This kindness, 
 in a divine creator, as in an earthly parent, is a solemn duty, 
 — a sacred obligation, — the nonperformance of which were 
 the most atrocious of crimes. When performed, love from 
 the creature, as from the child, is a necessary consequence, 
 und an all-sufficient reward." 
 
 'Allowing then to the theist his god, we stand to him 
 in no relation that can inspire fear, or involve duty. He can 
 give us no happiness that he was not bound to bestow : he 
 can cherish us with no tenderness, that he was not bound 
 to yield. It is for him to gratify all our desires, — or, if they 
 be erroneous, to correct them. It is for us to demand 
 
A FEW DAYS IN ATHENS. 91 
 
 every good in his power to grant, or in ours to enjoy. Let 
 then, the theologist banish fear and duty from his creed. 
 It is love — love alone that can be claimed by gods or yielded 
 by men." 
 
 " Have we said enough ? Surely the absurdity of all the 
 doctrines of religion, and the iniquity of many, are suffi- 
 ciently evident. To fear a being on account of his power, 
 is degrading ; to fear him if he be good, ridiculous. Prove 
 to us his existence, and prove to us his perfections ; prove 
 to us his parental care ; love springs up in our bosoms, 
 and repays his bounty. If he care not to show us his 
 existence, he desires not the payment of our love, and 
 finds in the contemplation of his own works, their re- 
 ward." 
 
 ♦' But, says the theist, his existence is evident — and, not 1 
 to acknowledge it, a crime. It is not so to me, my friends. 1 
 I see no sufficient evidence of his existence : and to reason \ 
 of its possibility, I hold to be an idle speculation. To doubt \ 
 that which is evident is not in our power. To believe that 
 which is not evident, is equally impossible to us. Theist ! 
 thou makest of thy god a being more weak, more silly, 
 than thyself. He punisheth as a crime the doubt of his 
 existence ! Why, then, let him declare his existence, and 
 we doubt no more. Should the wandering tribes of Scythia 
 doubt the existence of Epicurus, should Epicurus be angry ? 
 What vanity — what absurdity — what silliness, O theisis ! do 
 ye not suppose in your God ! Let him exist, tliis god, iu 
 all the perfection of a poet's imagery ; I lift to him a fore- 
 head assured and serene. *I see thee, O God ! in thy power, 
 and admire thee : I see thee in thy goodness, and approve 
 thee. Such homage only is worthy of thee to receive, or 
 of me to render.' And what does he reply ? ' Thou art 
 right, creature of my fashioning ! Thou canst not add to, 
 nor take away from the sum of my felicity. I made thee to 
 enjoy thy own, not to wonder at mine. I have placed thee 
 amid objects of desire, I have given thee means of enjoy- 
 ment. Enjoy, then ! Be happy ! It was for that I made 
 thee.' " 
 
 ♦•Hearken, then, my children! hearken to your teacher! 
 Let it be a god or a philosopher who speaks, the injunction 
 is the same : Enjoy, and be happy ! Is life short ? It is an s i 
 evil : but render life happy, its shortness is the only evil. *■ 
 I call to you, as, if he exist, God must call to you from 
 heaven: Enjoy, and be happy! Do you doubt the way? 
 Let Epicurus be your guide. The source of every enjoy- 
 ment is within yourselves. Good and evil lie before you. . 
 The good is — all which can yield you pleasure : the evil — 
 what must bring you pain. Here is no paradox, no dark 
 saying, no moral hid in tables." 
 
S2 A FEW DATS IN ATHENS. 
 
 "We have considered the unsound fabric of religion. It 
 remains to consider that, equally unsound, of morals. Tlie 
 virtue of man is false as his faith. What folly invented, 
 knavery supports. Let us arise in our strength, examine, 
 judge, and be free !" 
 
 The teacher here paused. The crowd stood, as if yet lis- 
 tening. 
 
 "At a convenient season, my children, we will examine 
 farther into the nature of man, and the science of life." 
 
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