During the Thasian Revolt about ten years ago, Mimnermus distinguished himself by bravery, but he confided to us that he did not relish the task of overseeing the Thacians tear down their walls at the command of the Athenians, for his brother-in-law, Polygnotus, was a native of Thasos. Mimnermus is now at Aegina helping to suppress a similar revolt.
And now I will tell you of Polygnotus. He and other artists adorned the interior of the Painted Porch with mural pictures of great beauty representing scenes from the myths and from recent history. Polygnotus married Eumetis, the daughter of Pasicles, and to this union were born three daughters, Corinna, Cleodice and Neobule. Pasicles resides with his daughter and her husband, but his wife, Cleodice, whose health failed rapidly after the death of her daughter, Corinna, died within a few years after that tragic event.
I know it will interest you to hear of Ladice and Lysimachus, both of whom spoke of you affectionately whenever we met while in Athens. Their son, Aristides, in whom they feel the usual pride common to parents of an only child, gives promise of exceptional ability along the lines of his grandfather, and if I may say so, his foster-grandparent.
Yesterday I stood at a newly made grave on the banks of a river which pours its waters into the African Sea. In the distance to the north stretched the wheat-bearing land of Gela. Before I could give my thoughts wholly to the honored dead, I gazed with pride and happiness upon the family with which I have been blessed. My eldest son Phales, stood by my side, stalwart of body and thoughtful of mind, not unlike his grandfather, Aeschylus. Persephone, our eldest daughter is very like her mother was at her age, so it is needless to mention here the pride I feel in her. My second son Masistius, at times reminds me of my father, Artaphernes, but the loving guidance of his mother has softened the severity that was his grandfather’s. The youngest child, a daughter, Protomache, stood upon this occasion with tears in her usually laughing eyes. She clung tightly to the hand of her mother whose eyes rested lovingly upon each member of the little group in turn.
Then in low tones and with head bent in a reverent attitude, Persephone my dear wife, read this epitaph which was engraved upon the tomb:
“This tomb the dust of Aeschylus doth hide—
Euphorion’s son and fruitful Gela’s pride;
How famed his valor Marathon may tell,
And long-haired Medes, who knew it all too well.”
As the last word trembled into a silence that seemed to permeate Nature all about us, a few lines that had been composed by Aeschylus on the subject of death, came to my mind, and I could not but repeat them upon this occasion: