"You speak justly, my father," answered Philæmon: "The Athenian law, which condemns any man for speaking disrespectfully of his neighbour's trade, is most wise; and it augurs ill for Athens that some of her young equestrians begin to think it unbecoming to bring home provisions for their own dinner from the agoras."
"Alcibiades, for instance!" exclaimed the philosopher: "He would consider himself disgraced by any other burthen than his fighting quails, which he carries out to take the air."
Philæmon started up suddenly—for the name of Alcibiades stung him like a serpent. Immediately recovering his composure, he turned to recompense the hospitality of the honest peasant, and to bid him a friendly farewell.
But Tellus answered bluntly; "No, young Athenian; I like your sentiments, and will not touch your coin. The gods bless you."
The travellers having heartily returned his parting benediction, slowly ascended Mount Hymettus. When they paused to rest upon its summit, a glorious prospect lay stretched out before them. On the north, were Megara, Eleusis, and the cynosure of Marathon; in the south, numerous islands, like a flock of birds, reposed on the bright bosom of the Aegean; to the west, was the broad Piræus with its thousand ships, and Athens in all her magnificence of beauty; while the stately buildings of distant Corinth mingled with the cloudless sky. The declining sun threw his refulgent mantle over the lovely scene, and temples, towers, and villas glowed in the purple light.
The travellers stood for a few moments in perfect silence—Philæmon with folded arms, and Anaxagoras leaning on his staff. At length, in tones of deep emotion, the young man exclaimed, "Oh, Athens, how I have loved thee! Thy glorious existence has been a part of my own being! For thy prosperity how freely would I have poured out my blood! The gods bless thee, and save thee from thyself!"
"Who could look upon her and not bless her in his heart?" said the old philosopher: "There she stands, fair as the heaven-born Pallas, in all her virgin majesty! But alas for Athens, when every man boasts of his own freedom, and no man respects the freedom of his neighbour. Peaceful, she seems, in her glorious beauty; but the volcano is heaving within, and already begins to throw forth its showers of smoke and stones."
"Would that the gods had permitted me to share her dangers—to die and mingle with her beloved soil!" exclaimed Philæmon.
The venerable philosopher looked up, and saw intense wretchedness in the countenance of his youthful friend. He laid his hand kindly upon Philæmon's arm; "Nay, my son," said he; "You must not take this unjust decree so much to heart. Of Athens nothing can be so certainly predicted as change. Things as trifling as the turning of a shell may restore you to your rights. You can even now return, if you will submit to be a mere sojourner in Athens. After all, what vast privileges do you lose with your citizenship. You must indeed wrestle at Cynosarges, instead of the Lyceum or the Academia; but in this, the great Themistocles has given you honourable example. You will not be allowed to enter the theatre while the Athenians keep the second day of their festival Anthesteria; but to balance this privation, you are forbidden to vote, and are thus freed from all blame belonging to unjust and capricious laws."
"My father, playful words cannot cure the wound," replied the exile, seriously: "The cherished recollections of years cannot be so easily torn from the heart. Athens, with all her faults, is still my own, my beautiful, my beloved land. They might have killed me, if they would, if I had but died an Athenian citizen."