PHYLIAS was a young Athenian, whom the precepts of Socrates had reared in the two great principles (or rather, perhaps, affections) which a State should encourage in her sons — the desire of Glory, and the worship of Virtue. He wished at once to be great and to be good. Unfortunately Phylias nourished a third wish, somewhat less elevated, but much more commonly entertained — the wish to be loved! He had a strong thirst for general popularity as well as esteem; and to an aspiring soul ho united a too-susceptible heart.
One day, as he was wandering amongst the olive-groves that border Cephisus, and indulging in those reveries on his future destiny which make the happiest prerogative of the young, his thoughts thus broke into words: —
“Yes, I will devote my life to the service of my countrymen: I will renounce luxury and ease. Not for me shall be the cooks of Sicily, or the garlands of Janus. My chambers shall not steam with frankincense, nor resound with the loud shouts of Ionic laughter. No; I will consecrate my youth to the pursuit of wisdom, and the practice of virtue; so shall I become great, and so beloved. For. when I have thus sacrificed my enjoyments to the welfare of others, shall they not all honour and esteem me? Will they not insist that I take the middle couch at the public festivals? and will not all the friends of my youth contend which shall repose upon my bosom? It is happy to be virtuous; but, O
Socrates, is it not even happier to be universally beloved for your virtue?”
While Phylias was thus soliloquizing, he heard a low sweet laugh beside him; and, somewhat startled at the sound — for he had fancied himself entirely alone — he turned hastily round, and beheld a figure of very singular appearance. It was a tall man, in the prime of life; but one side of the face and form was utterly different from the other: on one side the head was crowned with the festive wreath — the robes flowed loose and disordered — joy and self-complacency sparkled on the smiling countenance. You beheld a gaiety which you could not help liking; but an air of levity which you could not respect. Widely contrasted was the other half of this strange apparition: without crown or garland, after the fashion of a senator of the Areopagus, flowed the sober locks; the garb was costly, but decent and composed; and in the eye and brow the aspect was dignified and lofty, but somewhat pensive, and clouded either by thought or care: in the one half you beheld a boon companion, whom you would welcome and forget — in the other a lofty monitor, from whom you shrank in unacknowledged fear, and whom even in esteeming you were willing carefully to shun.
“And who art thou? And from what foreign country comest thou?” asked the Athenian, in astonishment and awe.
“I come from the land of the Invisibles,” answered the apparition: “and I am thy tutelary demon. Thou art now of that age, and hast attained to that height of mind, in which it is permitted me to warn and to advise thee. What vain dreams, O Phylias, have crept into thy mind! Dost thou not see that thou art asking two boons utterly incompatible with each other — universal fame and universal regard? Take thy choice of either; thou canst not combine both. Look well at the guise and garb in which I appear to thee; if thou wouldst be loved, thou seest in one half of me the model which thou shouldst imitate; ‘ if renowned, the other half presents thee also with an example.
But how canst thou hope to unite both? Look again; can any contrast be stronger? Can any opposites be more extreme? Waste not thy life in a chimera. Be above thy race, and be hated; be of their own level, and be loved. Thou hast thy choice!”
“False demon!” answered Phylias; “thou wouldst sicken me of life itself couldst thou compel me to be hated on the one hand, or worthy to be despised on the other. Thou knowest not my disposition. It hath in it nothing cynical or severe; neither should I presume upon any distinction I might attain. Why should men hate me merely for proving the sincerity of my affection to them? Away! thou utterest folly or fraud, and art not of that good race of demons of which Socrates was wont to speak.”
Once more the demon laughed. “Thou wilt know me better one of these days; and what now thou deemest folly, thou wilt then term experience. Thou resolvest, then, to seek for glory?”
“With my whole soul!” cried the Athenian.
“Be it so; and from time to time contrast thyself with Glaucus. Farewell!”
The apparition vanished: musing and bewildered Phylias returned home.
His resolutions were not shaken, nor his ambition damped. He resigned the common pleasures of his youth; he braced his limbs by hardihood and temperance, and fed the sources of his mind from the quiet fountain of wisdom.
The first essays of his ambition were natural to his period of life. He went through the preparatory exercises, and entered himself a candidate for the victoral crown at the Olympic Games. On the day preceding that on which the Games commenced, Phylias met amongst the crowd, which a ceremony of such brilliant attraction had gathered together at Olympia, a young man whom he had known from his childhood. Frank in his manner, and joyous in his disposition, Glaucus was the favourite of all who knew him.
Though possessed of considerable talents, no one envied him; for those talents were never exerted in order to distinguish himself — his ambition was to amuse others. He gave way to every caprice of his own or of his comrades, provided that it promised pleasure. Supple and versatile, even the sturdiest philosophers were charmed with his society; and the loosest profligates swore sincerely that they loved, because they were not driven to respect, him. His countenance never shamed them into a suspicion that their career was ignoble; and they did justice to his talents, because they could sympathize with his foibles.
“You do not contend for any of the prizes, I think,” said Phylias; “for I do not remember to have seen you at the preparatory exercises?”
“Not I, by Hercules,” answered Glaucus, gaily. “I play in the Games the part I play in Life — I am merely a spectator. Could I drink more deeply, or sleep more soundly, if my statue were set up in the sacred wood? Alas! no. Let my friends love Glaucus their comrade — not hate Glaucus their rival. And you?”
“I am a competitor in the chariot race.”
“Success to you! I shall offer up my sacrifice for your triumph; meanwhile I am going to hear Therycides read his new play. Farewell!”
“What a charming person is Glaucus!” thought Phylias.
Even Phylias liked Glaucus the better for knowing Glaucus was not to be his antagonist.
The morning rose — the hour of trial came on. With a flushed cheek, and a beating heart, Phylias mounted his chariot. He was successful: his locks were crowned with the olive-wreath. He returned to Athens amidst the loudest acclamations. His chariot rolled through the broken wall of his native city; the poets lauded him to the skies. Phylias had commenced the career of fame; and its first fruits were delicious. His parents wept with joy at his triumph; and the old men pointed him out as a model to their sons. Sons hate models; and the more Phylias was praised, the more his contemporaries disliked him. When the novelty of success was cooled, he began to feel’ that the olive-crown had its thorns. If he met his young friends in the street, they saluted him coldly: “We do not ask you to come to us,” said they; “you have weightier matters on hand than our society can afford. We are going to sup with Glaucus: while you are meditating, we suppose, the best way to eclipse Alcibiades.”
Meetings like these threw an embarrassment over the manner of Phylias himself. He thought that he was ill-treated, and retired into the chamber of pride. He became shy, and he was called supercilious.
The Olympic Games do not happen every day, and Phylias began to feel that he who is ambitious has no option between excitement and exhaustion. He therefore set about preparing himself for a nobler triumph than that of a charioteer; and from the government of horses aspired to the government of men. He fitted himself for the labours of public life, and the art of public speaking. He attended the popular assemblies — he rose into repute as an orator.
Every one knows that at that time Athens was torn by intestine divisions. Alternately caressing and quarrelling with the passionate Alcibiades, his countrymen now saw him a foe in Sparta, and now hailed him a saviour in Athens. Phylias, dreading the ambition of that unprincipled genius, and yet resisting the encroaching tyranny of the four hundred rulers, performed the duty of a patriot, and, pleading for liberty, displeased both parties. Nothing could be more disinterested than his conduct, or more admired than his speeches. He proved his virtue, and he established his fame; and wherever he went he was universally abuse.
He frequently met with Glaucus, who, taking no share in politics, was entertained by all parties, and the most popular man of Athens, because the most unobtrusive.
“You are become a great man now,” said Glaucus to him one day; “and you will doubtless soon arrive at the last honour Athens can confer upon her children. Your property will be confiscated, and your person will be exiled.”
“No!” said Phylias, with generous emotion; “truth is great, and must prevail. Misinterpretation and slander will soon die away, and my countrymen will do me justice.”
“The gods grant it!” said the flattering Glaucus. “No man merits it more.”
In the short intervals of repose that public life allowed to the Athenians, Phylias contrived to fall in love.
Chyllene was beautiful as a dream. She was full of all amiable qualities; but she was a human being, and fond of an agreeable life.
In his passion for Chyllene, Phylias, for the first time in his career, found a rival in Glaucus; for love was the only passion in which Glaucus did not shun to provoke the jealousy of the powerful. Chyllene was sorely perplexed which to choose: Phylias was so wise, but then Glaucus was so gay; Phylias was so distinguished, but then Glaucus was so popular; Phylias made excellent speeches, — but then how beautifully Glaucus sung!
Unfortunately, in the stern and manly pursuits of his life, Phylias had necessarily outgrown those little arts of pleasing which were so acceptable to the ladies of Athens. He dressed with a decorous dignity, but not with the studied, yet easy, graces of Glaucus. How, too, amidst all his occupations, could he find the time to deck the doors of his beloved with garlands, to renew the libations on her threshold, and to cover every wall in the city with her name added to the flattering epithet of ‘kale’. But none of these important ceremonies were neglected by Glaucus, in whom the art to please had been the sole study of life. Glaucus gained ground daily. — .
“I esteem you beyond all men,” Chyllene could say to Phylias without a blush. But she trembled, and said nothing, when Glaucus approached.
“I love you better than all things!” said Glaucus, passionately, one day to Chyllene.
“I love you better than all things, save my country,” said Phylias the same morning.
“Ah, Phylias is doubtless the best patriot,” thought Chyllene; “but Glaucus is certainly the best lover!”
The very weaknesses of Glaucus were charming, but his virtues gave Phylias a little of austerity. With Phylias Chyllene felt ashamed of her faults; with Glaucus she was only aware of her excellence.
Alcibiades was now the idol of Athens. He prepared to set out with a hundred ships for the Hellespont, to assist, the allies of Athens. Willing to rid the city of so vigilant a guard upon his actions as Phylias, he contrived that the latter should be appointed to a command in the fleet The rank of Glaucus obtained him a lesser but distinguished appointment Chyllene was in danger of losing both her lovers.
“Wilt thou desert me?” said she to Phylias. “Alas! my country demands it. I shall return to thee covered with laurels.”
“And thou, Glaucus?”
“Perish Alcibiades, and Greece herself, before I quit thee!” cried Glaucus, who, had there been no mistress in the case, would never willingly have renounced luxury for danger.
Phylias, with a new incentive to glory, and a full confidence in the sympathy of his beloved, set out for Andria. Glaucus was taken suddenly ill, remained at home, and a month afterwards his bride Chyllene was carried by torchlight to his house. It is true that every body at Athens detected the imposition; but every one laughed at it good-humouredly; “for Glaucus,” said they, “never set up for a paragon of virtue!” Thus his want of principle was the very excuse for wanting it.
The expedition to Andria failed — Alcibiades was banished again — and Phylias, though he had performed prodigies of valour, shared in the sentence of his leader. His fellow-citizens were too glad of an excuse to rid themselves of that unpleasant sensation which the superiority of another always inflicts on our self-love.
Years rolled away. Phylias had obtained all that his youth coveted of glory. Greece rang with his name; he was now aged, an exile, and a dependent at the Persian court. There, every one respected, but no one loved him. The majesty of his mien, the simplicity of his manners, the very splendour of his reputation, made the courtiers of Persepolis uneasy in his présence. He lived very much alone; and his only recreation was in walking at evening amongst the alleys of a wood, that reminded him of the groves of Athens, and meditating over the past adventures of his life.
It happened that at this time Glaucus, who had survived both his wife and his patrimony, had suffered himself, under the hope of repairing his broken fortunes, to be entrapped into a conspiracy to restore the Oligarchy, after the death of Conon, He was detected, and his popularity did not save him from banishment. He sought refuge at Persepolis: the elastic gaiety of his disposition still continued, and over his grey hairs yet glowed the festive chaplet of roses. The courtiers were delighted with his wit — the king could not feast without him: — they consulted Phylias, but they associated with Glaucus.
One evening as Phylias was musing in his favourite grove, and as afar off he heard the music and the merriment of a banquet, (held by the king in his’ summer-house, and with Glaucus at his right hand,) the melancholy exile found himself gently plucked by the hem of his garment. He turned hastily round, and once more beheld his genius.
“Thy last hour fast approaches,” said the demon; “again, then, I come to visit thee. At the morning of life I foretold that fate which should continue to its close: I bade thee despair of uniting celebrity and love. Thou hast attempted the union — what hath been thy success?”
“Mysterious visitor!” answered Phylias, “thy words were true, and my hope was formed in the foolishness of youth. I stand alone, honoured and unloved. But surely this is not the doom of all who have pursued a similar ambition.”—’
“Recollect thyself,” replied the phantom: “was not thy master Socrates persecuted unto death, and Aristides ostracised on account of his virtues? Canst thou name one great man who in life was not calumniated for his services? Thou standest not alone. To shine is to injure the self-love of others; and self-love is the most vindictive of human feelings.”
“Yet had I not been an Athenian,” murmured Phylias, “I might have received something of gratitude.”
“They call Athens ungrateful,” answered the spectre; “but every where, while time lasts, the ingratitude shall be the same. One state may exile her illustrious men, another merely defame them; but day is not more separate from night, than true fame from general popularity.”
“Alas! thou teachest a bitter lesson,” said Phylias, sighing; “better, then, to renounce the glory which separates us from the indulgent mercies of our kind. Has not my choice been an error, as well as a misfortune?”
The countenance of the genius became suddenly divine. Majesty sat upon his brow, and unspeakable wisdom shone from his piercing eyes, as he replied, “Hark! as thou askest of me thy unworthy question, the laugh of the hoary Glaucus breaks upon thy ear. The gods gave to him the privilege to be beloved — and despised. Wouldst thou, were the past at thy control, — wouldst thou live the life that he hath lived? wouldst thou, for the smiles of revellers, or for the heart of the mistress of thy manhood, feel that thy career had been worthless, and that thy sepulchre should be unknown? No; by the flush upon thy cheek, thou acknowledgest that to the great the pride of recollection is sufficient happiness in itself. Thy only error was in this, — the wish to obtain the fleeting breath of popular regard, as the reward for immortal labours. The illustrious should serve the world, unheeding of its frail applause. The whisper of their own hearts should convey to them a diviner music than the huzzas of crowds. Thou shouldst have sought only to be great, so would it never have grieved thee to find thyself unbeloved. The soul of the great should be as a river, rejoicing in its mighty course, and benefiting all — nor conscious of the fading garlands which perishable hands may scatter upon its tide.”
The corpse of Phylias was found that night in the wood by some of the revellers returning home. And the Persian king buried the body in a gorgeous sepulchre, and the citizens of Athens ordained a public mourning for his death. And to the name of Phylias a thousand bards promised immortality — and, save in this momentary record, the name of Phylias has perished from the earth!