“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: “Zeno is still my master.” 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 innumerable 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 dropped on their bosoms, wrapped in silent meditations. At the entrance of Cleanthes, the favored 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 wondered 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 eyebrows marked and even, save a slight bend upwards, as by a frown, above the nose. The eyes blue; but their gaze was too earnest, and their spirit too clear, to leave any of the melting softness so usual with that color:—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 favorite pupil of Zeno. The youth turned a rapid glance round the circle: he threw out his right arm; the mantle dropped 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 Africa 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 enquire? 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 waverers—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:—