“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, and ranked it among the libels of his enemies.”
“He has so written, and the fact is acknowledged by his friends.”
“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 such 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, before 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 Cleanthes were corroborated by the testimony of the public; but that testimony he had learned to despise. They were made after perusal of Epicurus’s writings; with these writings he was still unacquainted. Had they been misinterpreted? Cleanthes 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 interrupted. 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.