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 analyze. 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. “Cleanthes 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 worshipped, 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 our ears; to those very senses whose testimony alone is without appeal in the garden!”
“Do you object to the testimony, young Corinthian?” said a voice, which Theon recognised 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 have heard you quoted as an able expounder of the philosophy of the garden.”
“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, approaching, 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 forbear from submitting their understandings, or torturing those of their neighbors.”
“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 demi-gods of old in search of adventure, prepared to encounter giants, to scale mountains, 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, disappoints us of all exploit and all notoriety; and our vanity turns but too often from the fair and open champaign, into error’s dark labyrinths, where we mistake mystery for wisdom, pedantry for knowledge, and prejudice for virtue.”