expense of geography, I should heartily prefer the unpainted narrative,
for how is it that travellers love the wonderful so much, and delight to
make the storms more dangerous, the mountains higher, and the valleys
greener than nature ever made them?”
“Such Sulpicius, is not my meaning,” rejoined Marcus, “but only that one
so competent to color nature as she should be colored, should perform
the task, and who, if he but wave the gay wand of fancy, may bring
before you every hill in its greenness, and temple in its sculptured
whiteness, so that you might almost believe you saw them on the
painter’s easel, or starting up in beautiful reality at your feet.”
“Stop Marcus, the subject of this undeserved eulogy is present, and if
you say another word I shall hesitate whether to begin, since our
friends may form expectations which cannot be realised.”
With this he described the whole course of our voyage, from our
embarkation at Constantinople to our landing at Berytus, its perils and
its pleasures: the countries we saw, the cities we visited, in that full
and flowing style for which he is so celebrated. At one moment he would
bring so faithfully to our eye, the terrors of that night on which we
were so near engulphed, that the shudder of fancied danger shot through
our veins, and the billows almost seemed to toss us, so vividly can a
master’s hand summon up an image of those horrors one has but lately
passed through. Indeed at one part of the recital, Fortunatus who was
present, uttered a smothered cry to the sailors, as if he was again
acting the part of a commander upon his ship. At this strange
ejaculation, notwithstanding the exciting story, we could not repress
our laughter; Lactantius himself joining in the general merriment. When
he began to describe the different cities we had entered, he used
considerable action, and so clearly did he bring the representation to
our view that in pointing, as if to the real object, we instinctively
followed with our eyes the motion of his fingers, as it were, in
expectation that the rising walls of some palace, or the rich scenery of
some wooded valley, would meet our gaze. Such is that silent homage
which we unknowingly pay to eloquent genius.
When he had finished, some expression of pleasure or admiration burst
from every tongue, and Sulpicius ordered us to fill our glasses to
Lactantius, accompanying this token of friendship with other marks of
high wrought satisfaction, such as he displays only on those occasions,
when his feelings are strongly enlisted in the object of them.
“Lactantius,” he remarked, “having always at my elbow a ready scribe,
who, committing to parchment with the most wonderful facility all that
falls from the lips of those distinguished men from Rome,
Constantinople, or other great cities, who in their travels may chance
to honor me with a visit, I have been enabled to accumulate a rich
collection, over which, whether as memorials of genius or of friendship,
I linger, whenever I peruse them, with fresh delight. This day’s
conversation, as it fell from your lips, is already deposited on the
precious pile.”
Here I perceived an uneasy play upon the features of my friend; as I
quickly traced the cause, for it was none other than his retiring
diffidence, I felt anxious to change the topic of our conversation. The
announcement of a stranger’s name, repeated, however, in so low a tone
that I did not hear it, diverted the attention of the company. Entering,
he walked toward the couch of Sulpicius, and we were all struck, at the
first glance, with his commanding air and dignified deportment. An ample
forehead, dark and piercing eye, and venerable beard, that sported with
by a passing wind, carelessly floated about the graceful folds of his
tunic, elicited instantaneous respect.
“I come,” he said, addressing himself to Sulpicius, “to seek the great
Lactantius, and understanding he was present, took the liberty of
entering without ceremony.” Sulpicius with this, rose, kindly welcomed
and invited him to join us at the tables, but politely refusing, he
continued,—“I come to consult him upon a subject which I hold to be
entitled to the friendly countenance of every lover of generosity and
toleration, be he of whatever faith.”
With this Lactantius arose and joined him, and as he clasped his hand,
there seemed so much Christian sincerity in his manner, that a tear
sparkled in the eye of the stranger, but it passed away, and his settled
demeanor was resumed. When they had left, a hundred conjectures sprang
up, as to what might be the object of this interview. But Sulpicius
informed us he was an eminent citizen of Berytus, that he had held a
responsible office under one of the last Emperors, embracing, however,
the creed of that new sect called Christians, he fell into disgrace, and
stood in jeopardy of his life, but was saved through the earnest
intercession of an influential friend residing at Baalbec, and a solemn
promise to retire into distant and perpetual banishment. Upon the death
of the Emperor he returned from exile, and would have been re-instated
in all his former dignities, but tiring of the turmoil of public life he
preferred the quiet of retirement, and the peaceful enjoyment of
domestic bliss. But you have not given us, observed Valerius, your
conjecture of the object of his visit, nor the name of that worthy
citizen whose intervention was so happy in its results. The object of
the interview is doubtless to arouse the feelings, or invoke the
powerful aid of Lactantius in the establishment of a Christian Colony,
or perhaps in the building of some Christian temple, since Constantine
has proved so munificent in the erection of the most gorgeous edifices
to the Christian’s God. The name of the citizen whose good offices were
so fortunate, was Æmelianus of Heliopolis. When this name was mentioned,
I noticed that the countenance of Lucretia became pale, and her lip was
compressed, as if in the suppression of some hidden emotion, but its
cause I was not able to divine.
The sun upon the following day shining through the windows’ tapestry,
awoke me by his reddening beams, and warned me to rise and behold the
grandeur at my feet. Throwing the lattice open, I beheld a panorama
unequalled in sublimity and beauty by any thing I had ever seen. Berytus
stretched away below me, sparkling with shining domes, glistening house
tops, and here and there arose some marble monumental pillar, or an
obelisk, commemorative of some signal event, which, peeping from their
encircling grove, appeared to rest upon its summit like flakes of
freshly fallen snow. Beyond the city lay the ocean, with many a sail,
but dimly visible upon its heaving bosom; behind me rose, towering and
precipitous, eternal Lebanon, bathed in a flood of various lights, like
a vestment dyed with many colors, and the pines which crown its heights,
spreading their fringy leaves against the clouds, borrowed all their
hues.
With nature clothed in gladness, and the scented freshness of the
morning air, filled with the warbling of birds, you may entertain
surprise when I tell you, that my feelings were those of sadness, for I
reflected that this great city must, in its turn, as other cities have,
either sink into insignificance, or become much diminished in splendor,
and its thousands of busy people, with the unerring certainty of the
rising sun, be gathered generation after generation, to their fathers,
while the hoary mountain at whose base it lay, would through all time
raise its head in haughty glory. How vain to boast of immortality, how
vain to live solely for ambition’s sake, when the fame of the hero rests
upon the mercy of a parchment, or the treacherous reliance of tradition.
A convulsion of the earth may overthrow a temple, the pride of
centuries, the boast of a nation—a spark consume a city, and time’s
wasting finger in the interval of but a few years, destroy the golden
record of genius, however perpetuated, so that the celebrity of the
orator, and the works of the poet, shall have but a flickering
existence, and finally shall perish from the recollection of their
countrymen.
The morning of our departure being now at hand, we began our journey
from Berytus, through Baalbec to Damascus, and as it lay through a rocky
region, we knew it would be rough and wearisome, but when we remembered
the grandeur of nature, the mountains, valleys, forests, temples,
palaces, we should behold, we trusted we would be able to drive away
fatigue.
Among those who performed the journey with us, were Lactantius, Marcus,
and Valerius; also Cornelia, and Placidia, the daughter of Lucius
Sergius, and their kinswoman Lucretia.
Lucius having purchased a chariot, the ladies accompanied him by another
route, the rest of us having bought chargers at the market place of
Berytus, well accustomed to the rocky pathway, determined to travel by
the _via Antoniana_, cut at some spots into the solid rock, through the
liberality of Antoninus, who has left in this country endless works of
art, which I hope may remain imperishable monuments to his genius,
generosity, and enterprise. The journey from Berytus to Baalbec by this
route is of more than a day—arduous and perilous—but as I said, the
traveller finds an ample return for all his toil, in the awful sublimity
of countless rocky peaks, which cap these hoary mountains with an
imperishable crown. Rising into the clouds, they seem to bear the fleecy
vapors upon their broad summits, while their terrible height obscures
the morning sun, and for the while hides their base in impenetrable
darkness, and even throws a gloom upon the troubled bosom of the ocean,
which occasionally lashes their everlasting foundations in its fury.
Ocean always in motion, mountains ever at rest, both as thou wert a
thousand years ago—unchangeable! what a fruitful comment upon the
perishable creations of man’s feeble arm.
Crossing the river Lycus, which having its birth among the purest
fountains, and finding its channel in the hollow of a deep cleft of the
mountains, shoots beneath your feet with impetuous dashings, we after a
space arrived at the banks of the purple Adonis. You may remember it was
near this river, that he, from whom it derives its name, came to his
end. Many temples have been dedicated in these wild regions to the
memory of Adonis, and to her who the poets tell us mourned so bitterly
for his loss. Having passed over Lebanon, we fell upon luxuriant
gardens; endless groves of olive trees; purpled vineyards; hill sides
clad with trees laden with ripe fruit, that shining from their dark
surrounding foliage, were bright with every tint of heaven, from the
richest golden to the deeply blushing red. Such was this enchanting
prospect, heightening in its beauty at each succeeding step, and when at
last we came in full view of the great Baalbec, or as some call
Heliopolis of Phenicia or of Assyria, built upon the level of a broad
and verdant plain, and starting from among deep embosoming thickets, our
admiration was irrepressible. High and conspicuous above the city walls
rose that greatest temple of the world, the Temple of the Sun, now lit
with his departing beams; and we could plainly trace its portico, its
courts, and surrounding temples. In one spot a monument or an obelisk
upreared itself, or the gilded dome of some Palace, shining like a
Pharos above the dark enshrouding groves.
Having approached the northern gate of the city, we were obliged to pass
through established ceremonies ere we secured an entrance. This enabled
me to examine the beautiful architecture of this noble portal. Four
Corinthian pillars upon an elevated basement, supported a heavy
architrave, with niches between their intercolumniations, filled with
two statues, one representing the founder of the city, King Solomon in
royal robes, the other Sheba. In the centre hung a lofty brazen gate,
covered with massive mouldings cast in brass, one I recollect much
resembling that upon the great shield in the temple of Mars at
Constantinople. So weighty was this structure, that it must have proved
a labor of years to construct it, as it surely would one almost of
months to batter it down. It looked impenetrable. On beholding this
gate, I could not but fancy it opened into some new region, that when
drawn aside, I should be presented with a scene novel and wonderful.
Directly the immense mass began to yield, and the harsh rattling of its
bars and chains, and the low rumbling of its enormous hinges, reminded
me of distant, deep mouthed thunder. Its ponderous folds were now fully
opened to admit us, and the issue realised what fancy had portrayed, for
an exhibition of the gayest kind was passing before us. Young and ardent
charioteers in streaming and many colored robes, and mounted upon
chariots, richly inlaid with sparkling gems and gold, were driving their
highly mettled coursers in various directions, through the broad and
noble avenues, some of which seemed to terminate at this northern gate.
So rapid and complicated were the movements of these young votaries,
that it was matter of wonder to me they did not come in dreadful
conflict. Others on prancing steeds were displaying their gallant
horsemanship. Here you saw a gathering group of youthful citizens at
some athletic sport, and there a little knot of philosophers, who may be
readily distinguished by their long mantles, grave countenances, and
earnest conversation, as if in the hot discussion of some exciting
topic. You may have noticed after an attendance at the theatre for
hours, with nothing to fix your wandering gaze, except the curtain of
the Proscenium, how gladly you have hailed the lifting of it, revealing
the actors in full dress, and all the dazzling arrangements of the
Drama. Such were my sensations at this moment. Asking for the house of a
kinsman of Sergius, some friendly citizen informed us he had just left
him at the baths, but that he had perhaps returned, and he would conduct
us to his mansion. Arriving there, we found the owner at his hall of
entrance, when instantly recognising Sergius, he pressed us immediately
to dismount, else, as he alleged, we would violate the customs of
Heliopolis. Not choosing at the very first, to violate so hospitable a
custom, we cheerfully entered the splendid mansion, and as gladly were
we received. Having assembled in the Hall, after the freshening
influences of the bath, we were greeted by a number of distinguished
citizens, who, were invited to meet us, as eminent Romans upon our
journey through Syria. Under such _favorable auspices_ though wholly
undeserved as they respect your friend Servilius, it was not long ere we
cemented a friendship. “Highly welcome!” exclaimed Mobilius, (for this
was his title,) upon his first acquaintance, for on such good terms did
he seem to be with himself and those around him. “Highly welcome to
Baalbec, but this you will not find a very Christian spot, while these
priests of Heliopolitan Jove are so numerous: Is it true,” he continued
in the same breath, “and you must bring the latest news, that
Constantine intends to close our temples, and convert them into others,
for the observance of the rites of this new sect called Christians?”
“There was such a rumor my friend,” replied Lactantius, “but of its
truth I cannot speak, would it were correct.”
At this, his eye flashed and I plainly saw, he was a true convert to the
worship of the sun.
“You would not speak thus,” he said, “had you ever witnessed the
splendid ceremonies of our religion,” and whispering to him as if
bestowing a peculiar mark of confidence, “you shall if you wish from a
secret undiscoverable nook, see all,” and darting a quick enquiring
glance, he added in the same low whisper, though distinct enough to be
heard by me, “you may be a convert.”
“I will behold the spectacle,” was Lactantius’ brief reply. I doubted
not but that this great warrior in a self denying cause, had in this
ready compliance, some wise purpose, possibly, to persuade this youthful
votary of the danger of his faith, or to convert him to his own: and
such I believed was partly Mobilius’ design, so I felt there would be no
difficulty in securing a share of this undiscoverable nook, for I was
eager to witness these strange ceremonies. But I have exhausted my
parchment, and I fear your patience, so I shall reserve my account until
the next epistle, which I hope may find you as I trust this does in
continued prosperity and health. Farewell.
Philadelphia, December, 1840.
* * * * *
THINE—ONLY THINE.
BY MRS. CATHARINE H. W. ESLING.
Thine—only thine,
The bland winds whisper it at every breath,
And thou art mine—
Mine thro’ all changes—mine alone till death.
Years will pass by,
And write their records upon either’s brow,
Will dim the eye,
But alter not one heart pulse beating now.
Changes will come,
And the light foot, less lightly tread the ground,
The gentle hum
Of voices, will have lost their softest sound.
And clinging ties
Will be dissever’d—from the household band
Some may arise
To the bright mansions in the “Happy Land.”
In all their youth,
The sunny gladness of their early years,
To realms of truth
Their spotless souls soar from “the vale of tears.”
Strong links may break,
Links that are twined around the inmost heart,
And dreamers, wake
To see their sand-built fabrics slowly part.
But thou wilt be,
Even as the oak, in all thy strength and pride,
An unscath’d tree,
While I, the Ivy, cling thy form beside.
And when we leave
The sunny paths of youth, where flowers grew bright
We will not grieve
That our brief morning hid its beams in night.
Edging each cloud,
Hope’s silver ray shall light us near and far,
No darken’d shroud
Can hide from us love’s ever-burning star.
Like noon’s sweet close
Before the shades of eve grow dim and dark,
When flowers repose,
And angels’ eyes day’s slow departure mark.
Like that, shall seem
Our parting from this world of earthly bloom,
And life’s calm stream,
Shall gently lave us as we near the tomb.
Thine—only thine,
The bland winds whisper it at every breath,
And thou art mine—
Mine thro’ all changes—mine alone till death.
Philadelphia, December, 1840.
* * * * *
CLARA FLETCHER.
OR, FIRST AND LAST LOVE.
“What a beautiful creature Clara Fletcher is!” exclaimed Mr. Tressayle.
“Beautiful!” replied the lady by whom he stood, tossing her head
disdainfully, “why la!” and she raised her glass to her eye, “_I_ think
she’s positively plain looking.”
“Beautiful indeed!” echoed her mamma, a fat, vulgar looking woman, the
flaunting colors of whose dress, betrayed her character at once, “why
now, I do say, Mr. Tressayle, it’s astonishing—it is—how a gentleman
of such _tone_ as you, should think that pert Miss Fletcher any thing
but common-like. Why do look at her hair now, I’d be bound she done it
up herself—and then her dress, why that stuff,” said she, with a
contemptuous curl of her lip, “couldn’t have cost a dollar a yard. Do
you think it could, Araminta, my dear?”
Mr. Tressayle was decidedly the most fashionable man at Saratoga. With a
fine person, a handsome countenance, the most courtly manners, and more
than all supposed to be possessed of a fortune as extensive as his
establishment was fashionable, he was looked up to by all as _the_ match
of the season. The Belvilles, therefore, with whom he was now
conversing, were not a little flattered by the attentions which he paid
them. True they were the wealthiest family at the Springs; but then Mr.
Belville had made his princely fortune as a distiller. Originally the
keeper of a green-grocer’s shop, he had risen afterward into an obscure
tavern-keeper, and from thence by slow gradations, he had become a
wine-merchant, a distiller, a usurer, and a millionaire. Latterly, his
lady, discarding the shop, and affecting to despise tradesmen’s wives,
had set up for a woman of fashion, and nothing gave her, in her eyes,
more importance than the attentions obviously paid by Mr. Tressayle to
her only child, Araminta Melvina Belville, a long, scraggy young lady of
about two-and-twenty, but who affected the manners of “sweet sixteen.”
The devotion of Tressayle to such a being was indeed surprising to all
who did not know how involved was his fortune.
What reply might have been made by Tressayle to this remark we know not,
for his answer was cut short by the appearance of no less a personage
than Mr. Belville.
“How are you, Tressayle, fine girls here, eh!” said this gentleman,
slapping the young man somewhat familiarly on the shoulder, “deuced
handsome gal that, just come in, and has fell heiress to a cool three
hundred thousand. By Jove she’s a lucky thing to get the hunk of money
old Snarler made in the East India trade.”
“Clara Fletcher heiress to Mr. Snarler!—you surprise me,” said
Tressayle, “I thought he had sworn to cut off her mother, who was his
sister, you know, and all her family with a shilling, merely for
marrying Mr. Fletcher, who, though poor, was in every respect a
gentleman.”
“Ay, so he did—so he did, but he died at last—d’ye see?—without a
will,—and so Clara Fletcher, the only daughter of his only sister, cuts
into his fortune fat.”
“It’s singular I never heard of this before,” said Tressayle, half
musingly.
“Mamma, la! if I don’t think Mr. Tressayle has seen Miss Fletcher
before,” whispered the daughter behind her fan; and then raising her
voice and simpering and blushing as Tressayle looked down on overhearing
her, she continued, “dear me, you haven’t been listening all the while,
have you? But do tell, Mr. Tressayle, who is that young man talking with
her?”
“I believe it is Mr. Rowley.”
“Gad is _he_ the feller,” broke in Mr. Belville, “that published the
poems so many people are cracking up? Why he isn’t much after all I
guess. For my part I don’t see why some people get praised for writing
poetry—it’s nothing—I could do it myself if I’d try,” said he, with a
sneer. “I don’t think this Mr. Rowley a man of talent; no poet is.” And
finishing his sentence with a supercilious look at the subject of his
remarks, the ci-devant green-grocer, inflated with the consciousness of
his wealth, thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, and marched
off to join another group.
“Why, my dear Miss Fletcher, how d’ye do?” said the shrill voice of Mrs.
Belville, at this moment, as Mr. Rowley led his beautiful partner to a
seat near the pretender to ton, “how _have_ you been this age? Why how
well you are looking. Laws me, and so you know Mr. Tressayle. Well now I
do say how quiet you’ve all kept it.”
It was as Mrs. Belville said. Clara Fletcher had scarcely replied to the
vulgar address of her neighbor by a distant though polite inclination of
her head, before she caught the eyes of Tressayle fixed upon her with a
look of mingled inquiry and delight, and as he bowed and stepped forward
a slight blush passed over her beautiful cheek, and a scarcely
perceptible tremor of the voice might have been detected in replying to
his salutation.
That night mother and daughter held a long consultation, the result of
which was, that Miss Fletcher might prove a formidable rival, and that
therefore no arts were to be omitted to detach the fashionable and
wealthy Mr. Tressayle from her suite.
Meanwhile, Tressayle reached his room, and throwing himself abstractedly
into a large _fautieul_, sat for nearly an hour, with his face leaning
on his hand. At length he started up, and pacing the room rapidly,
exclaimed, as if continuing a train of thought,