THE HERMITS.
The life of man is a series of scenes, generally connected with each
other, often by the strong bond of cause and effect, but often linked
together by some fine accidental tie, having no reference to the
principal events. Each day may be considered as one act in life's
drama; and sleep comes with night to change the scenes, and give the
weary actors a moment of repose. Sometimes, however, there breaks in
among the rest--but detached from all those that surround it--a scene
in which we live, and act, and interest ourselves for a limited and
defined space of time, but which, when it is over, produces no effect
upon our general fate, acts as no cause in the complicated machinery
of our fortunes. Sometimes the scene maybe fair and sweet, a solitary
well in the desert, which cools our lip and quenches our thirst, but
supplies no river, waters no distant land. Sometimes it is terrible
and dangerous, a thunder-storm suddenly sweeping over the summer sky,
coming when all is brightness, reigning an hour in awful majesty, and
then passing away, and leaving the world as tranquil as it was before.
Theodore rode on, taking his way across the woods, and asking his
heart what was to come next; what, in all the vast, vague variety of
earthly chances, was the next thing that was to befall him on his
onward way. When, but a few short months before, he had stood upon the
mount of cypresses with those he loved, and had gazed over the calm
splendour of the Adriatic Sea, with life all before him, and hope to
lead him on, he had fancied that his fate would be as fair and bright
as the glowing scene beneath his eyes; his future had promised to be
as calm and unbroken by a storm as those tranquil waters, sleeping,
unruffled, beneath the setting sun. Had any one less than a prophet
then told him all that the next two months should behold, he would
have laughed the prediction to scorn, in the full confiding hope of
undisappointed youth. But now that for many a week every hour had
brought its change, that he had seen the expectations of to-day,
to-morrow trampled under foot, and the sunshine of the morning
darkened ere the evening's close, he had learned still to ask himself,
"What next?" with every day that rose, and every change of scene that
came upon him. That blessed reliance on the dear deluding tales of
hope, which is youth's peculiar power, had left him for ever; and
though the "What next?" might be asked, with the determination of
bearing all worthily, yet apprehension had always its share in the
question too.
The woods were wide and intricate; and, as Theodore and his companions
rode on, the trees and shrubs began to change their character:
enormous birches tossed about upon the rocks and rising grounds,
succeeded to the beech and oak; and after them again came the tender
larch, and the dark pine, as the road began to wind up into the
mountains. It was a sultry autumn day; and the misty haze that hung
about the world, with the close electric air of the forest, were
ominous of a thunderstorm; and at length the clouds, gathering round
the summits of the higher hills, burst upon the heads of Theodore and
his followers, just as they had reached a spot, where, from the top of
the first range of eminences, they could gaze over a wide extent of
forest ground. The rain poured down in torrents, the lightning
flickered through the sky; but neither of those would have prevented
Theodore from pursuing his way, had not the mountain paths they
followed become so slippery with the rain that his horse could not
advance, and even the lighter and more sure-footed beasts of the Huns
could make no progress.
They were debating as to where they could find shelter, when suddenly
they beheld, standing on the rock above, a tall thin human form,
scantily covered by its tattered robes from the wind or storm. He was
gazing down upon them without speaking; but Theodore, as soon as he
turned his eyes that way, recollected the enthusiast Mizetus, who had
attempted to persuade the people, during the earthquake in Dalmatia,
to stay and perish amidst the ruins of the falling palace. He had
heard long before that the enthusiast had wandered over many parts of
the earth, and had dwelt long in deserts and barren places as a
hermit, according to the prevailing superstitions of the day; and the
young Roman doubted not, that since he had been driven forth by the
partial destruction of Aspalathos, Mizetus had again returned to his
erratic life, and found his way to the frontiers of Pannonia. "Go up
to him, Cremera," said Theodore--"go up to him, and, telling him who
we are, ask him where we can find shelter, for he must surely have
some cave or hut wherein to dwell himself."
The Arab obeyed, leaving his horse below; but the enthusiast made him
no reply, gazing sternly, and even fiercely at him, till the freedman
used some angry words to drive him to an answer. He then exclaimed
aloud, "Get ye gone! get ye gone from me, ye miserable, worldly,
self-seeking generation! get ye gone! Ye shall not pollute my
dwelling. Farther on ye will find one who will give welcome alike to
the lustful Roman and the bloody, barbarous Hun. Get ye gone! I will
have naught to do with ye. On, on upon the path, I say: ye will find
shelter onward to cover your heads from the earthly storm, though not
from the tempest of God's indignation."
Cremera reported to his master the reply he had received, for the
thunder prevented it from reaching, at once, any ears but his own; and
Theodore, as the only course, slowly pursued the path along which
Mizetus had pointed, looking anxiously, as he proceeded over the wet
and slippery rocks, surrounded by precipices and impeded by scattered
fragments, for some sign of human habitation. It was long ere he
discovered any, however; and was indeed passing on, when Cremera
exclaimed, "There is a cave! there is a cave! and something standing
therein like the figure of a man."
Theodore hesitated not; but leading his horse towards the narrow mouth
of a cavern which he now beheld, ascended the steep path with risk and
difficulty. The Huns followed; and though, on entering, they
discovered that the object which Cremera had taken for a man was in
fact a large crucifix, they found seated within the cave one of those
many devout but enthusiastic beings, thousands of whom in that age
devoted their lives to solitude and privation, on a mistaken principle
of religion. Some subjected themselves to the most tremendous
inflictions, thinking thereby to please God; and the pillar and the
chain still find their place in history as illustrations of human
fanaticism. But the hermit here was of a different character: his
enthusiasm had taken a different form; and though not less wild,
perhaps we might say not less diseased, prompted him not to the
severer sufferings which were indispensable to obtain the reputation
of sanctity among the anchorites of the Thebais. He dwelt, it is true,
but in a cavern of the rock; but that cavern, high up on the mountain
side, was dry, and not unwholesome: his dress was indeed composed of
nothing but skins, yet the inhabitants of the country were principally
clothed with the same materials, though arranged in a more convenient
and agreeable form: his bed, which was raised high with rushes and
forest hay, was piled up above that with soft and warm skins; and the
contributions not only of some neighbouring villages on the other side
of the hills, but of many distant towns (for the whole land regarded
him as a holy being), supplied him plentifully with good and varied
food. His appearance, however, was venerable; and his countenance,
half covered as it was with a long white beard and a profusion of
silvery hair, was calm, peaceful, and mild, and well calculated to
obtain both reverence and love. There was, indeed, an occasional look
of worldly shrewdness seen upon those high but withered features,
which might have made many a suspicious man doubt the sincerity of his
vocation; but there came also from his eyes, from time to time, gleams
of quick uncertain light: whenever he approached particular subjects,
too, his whole air and manner changed, his colour mounted, his eye
flashed, his lip quivered; and Theodore could not gaze upon that
countenance, under all its frequent changes, without believing that
some slight touch of insanity had warped an intellect originally
fitted for high and noble things. When he rose to welcome the
strangers, his beard fell down below his girdle, and his long nails,
untrimmed for many a year, were exposed in all their deformity. His
manners, however, were noble, one might say courtly, for there was
grace as well as dignity, and polished terms as well as mild and
benevolent ideas. He asked no questions, neither whence the strangers
came nor whither they were going; but gladly gave them shelter from
the storm, and spread before them such viands as his cell contained,
pressing them to partake with hospitable care, and blessing, in the
name of God, the food to which he invited them. His eye, however,
rested upon Theodore; and though the youth had by this time adopted in
a great degree the dress of the Huns, yet his air and countenance were
not to be mistaken, and the hermit addressed him at once in Latin.
"There is a hermit from our native land," he said, after some
conversation upon other subjects, "living near, and doubtless a holy
and religious man he is; but the Almighty has not endued him with the
spirit of sufferance towards his fellow-creatures, and he thinks that
he cannot serve God without abhorring men. He was sent hither unto me
some months ago by Eugenius, bishop of Margus, to ask mine aid and
counsel in dealing with the Huns; but, when he had received his
answer, he would not depart, and has remained here ever since,
doubtless sent as another thorn in my flesh."
Theodore very well conceived how the wild enthusiast might become a
thorn in the flesh of any one less fanatical than himself, and he
replied, "He refused us shelter but now, reverend father; and sent us
on to thee in the midst of the storm, although I know him well. He
dwelt for some two years at Aspalathos, on the Illyrian coast, and
gained high repute for sanctity among the common people; but in the
terrible earthquake in which we had all nearly perished some five or
six months since, he strove to persuade the people to remain instead
of leaving the falling buildings, prophesying that the last day was
about to appear."
"He prophesy! my son," cried the hermit, with a wild look of scorn;
"no, no; the gift of prophecy has not fallen upon him. It is for that
he hates me: and because I impart, as I am directed, the knowledge of
those things that are revealed unto me to all who ask it, he abhors
and reviles me."
Theodore made no reply; for the spirit of prophecy was claimed by many
a one in those days: and though their predictions had often proved
false and worthless, yet that extraordinary endowment had been too
recently exercised and confirmed by facts for any one in that age to
say that the purpose was accomplished and the power withdrawn from the
children of men. Theodore had learned, however, to doubt; and,
therefore, he paused ere he gave credit to the gift which the hermit
evidently wished to insinuate that he possessed.
"During the whole of this day," continued the old man, when he saw
that the young Roman did not answer, "I have been waiting anxiously,
looking for the approach of some stranger from distant lands. There
has been a knowledge of the coming of some one upon me since the first
dawn of day; but it was not thee I expected, my son. It was some one
more powerful, some one more terrible, with whom I might have to
wrestle and contend. I know not--I cannot have deceived myself. Still,
it is now past the third hour, and no one has yet come."
"I should think," replied Theodore, "that it were not likely any one
would come; for all the great and powerful of the land are absent with
Attila, and we have made a long journey this morning without
encountering a living creature."
"But have you had no tidings of Attila's return?" demanded the hermit.
"Some messengers, who passed by this place but two days ago, spoke of
it as likely, and brought me presents from the king."
Theodore would not suffer himself to smile, although he thought that
the hermit, like many another man, might deceive himself in regard to
his own powers, and confound shrewd calculations with presages. The
old man had heard, it seemed, that Attila was likely to return; the
messengers might very probably have dropped some hint as to the time;
and the mind of the hermit himself having calculated the
probabilities, the impression that it would be as he anticipated had
become so strong that he looked upon that impression as a certain
presage; and, if fulfilled, would consider it thenceforth as a new
instance of his prophetical inspiration.
Theodore restrained all expression of such thoughts, however, and
merely replied, "Then, by his sending you presents, you already know
Attila, and are protected by him."
"I know him, my son," replied the old man, "but I am protected by a
higher king than he is. He rather may call himself protected by me,
or, at the least, _directed_, though he, as I am, is but an instrument
in the hands of God. The sins of those who call themselves Christians
have gone up on high," he continued, while a wild and wandering gleam
of light glistened in his eyes, and his pale cheek flushed--"the sins
of those who call themselves Christians have gone up on high, and the
vices of the east and the west have risen up to heaven as foul and
filthy as the smoke of a heathen sacrifice. They have called down
judgments upon the earth; lightnings, and tempests, and earthquakes,
and sickness, and pestilence, and warfare; and, lo! among the
visitations of God, I tell thee, young man, this Attila the King is
one of the greatest--an appointed instrument to punish the iniquities
of the land! So long as he shall do exactly the work assigned him, and
not disobey the word that is spoken, he shall prosper on his way, and
shall sweep the lands from the east to the west, and from the north to
the south: he shall stretch out one hand, and it shall touch the
Propontic Gulf; and he shall stretch out the other, and dip it in the
German Ocean; but neither the city of Romulus nor the palace of
Constantine shall he see or injure. He shall pull down the cities, he
shall destroy the nations, he shall trample under foot the yellow
corn, and the purple fig, and the sweet grape. Of their olive-trees he
shall light fires to warm him in the night; and with their flocks and
herds he shall feed the myriads that follow him to victory and spoil.
Armies shall not stand before him for an hour, and fenced cities shall
not keep him out; he shall destroy wherever he cometh, and behind him
he shall leave a bare plain; but the life of not one of those
appointed to be saved shall he take; and if he touch but a hair of
their heads, the power shall pass away from him, and he shall die a
death pitiful and despised. Lo! he comes, he comes!" and spreading
wide his arms, with a wild but striking gesture he advanced to the
mouth of the cavern, and gazed out upon the road below.
Theodore, who had also heard the sound of horses' feet apparently
approaching up from below, followed the hermit, and gazed forth
likewise. The thunder had ceased, and the rain was falling but slowly,
yet the ground was not less slippery and dangerous than when he
himself had passed. Nevertheless, coming almost at full speed was seen
a horseman, followed by two others at some short distance behind. Not
a false step, not a stumble did the charger make; and Theodore at once
perceived that the announcement of the hermit was correct, and that it
was Attila himself who approached to within a yard of the spot where
they stood. He came at the same headlong speed; and then, alighting
from his horse, he threw the bridle over its neck, and entered the
cavern with a slow, calm, and tranquil step. The monarch gazed at
Theodore for a moment, as if surprised at beholding him there; but no
slight emotions ever found their way to the countenance of Attila; and
his only observation was, "Ha! my son, art thou here?"
Theodore bent his head, and the monarch turned to the hermit, who
pronounced in his favour a singular prayer, one indeed which Theodore
imagined might give no light offence to the stern chieftain of the
Huns. "May God enlighten thine eyes," he said, "and purify thy spirit,
and soften thy hard heart, and make thee leave the abomination of
thine idols, so that thou mayst become a servant of the true God, and
not merely an instrument of his vengeance!"
But Attila merely bowed his head, saying, "May the truth shine upon
me, whatsoever it is!"
"Have I not told thee the truth?" demanded the hermit; "did I not tell
thee thou shouldst conquer? Did I not say that no one should be able
to oppose thee, if thou didst follow the words that were spoken unto
thee?"
"I did follow those words," said Attila: "I spared Margus, as thou
badest me, and I gave protection, as thou seest, to the first person
who crossed the river to meet me;" and he turned his eyes upon
Theodore.
"Ha!" cried the hermit, "and was this youth he? I spoke but the words
that were appointed me to speak," he added; "but I had fancied that
they had applied to another--not to him. God rules all these things
according to his own wise will. Say, where met you the youth?"
Ere Attila could reply, the sunshine, which was now beginning to pour
into the mouth of the cavern, was darkened by a tall form, which
advanced with wild gestures, and placed itself directly before the
monarch of the Huns. It was that of the enthusiastic Mizetus; who, in
the exalted and menacing tone in which he usually spoke, now addressed
the king, exclaiming, "Wo, wo unto the nations that thou wert ever
born! Wo, wo unto the world, far and near, oh son of Belial, that thou
didst ever see the light! Thou art died in blood, thou dost ride in
gore. The earthquake precedes thee; blue lightnings march with thy
host; famine goes forth on thy right hand, and pestilence on thy
left."
"Shall I slay him, oh mighty king?" cried one of the attendants of
Theodore, who had unsheathed his sword, and held it ready to strike
the enthusiast to the earth.
"Slay him not," said Attila, calmly, "slay him not; the man is mad,
and speaks the truth. What hast thou more to say, my brother? Thou
hast but said what is true."
"I have said what is true," continued the enthusiast, "and there is
more truth to be said. Wo unto thee if thou doest not the will of God!
I say, wo unto thee! for, if thou failest to do his will, all the
evils that thou pourest forth upon the nations shall, in return, be
poured forth upon thee; nor shalt thou raise thyself up in the pride
of thine heart and say, 'It is I who do all these things!' Neither
shalt thou suffer thyself to be puffed up by the praises of the weak
beings who now surround thee. Know that thou art no more than a sword
in the hands of the slayer; a rod in the hands of Him who is appointed
to chastise. Henceforth and forever cast away thy vain titles, and
abandon thine idle pretences. Thy name is THE SCOURGE OF GOD; and
through all nations, and unto all ages, by that name shalt thou be
known."
"I will fulfil thy words, and do accept the name," replied Attila,
calmly; "yes, I will be called the Scourge of God; and truly," he
added, with a dark smile, "I have already scourged the land from the
Danube to the sea. But now, my friend, hast thou more to say t for
though we reverence madmen, and those whose intellects the gods have
taken into their own keeping, still my time is precious, and I would
be alone."
"I am not mad, oh king," replied the enthusiast; "but I tell thee
truth, and yet I leave thee, having given thee a name by which to know
thyself, and by which thou shalt be known when thou and I shall have
gone to our separate places;" and thus saying he turned and left the
cave.[9]
---------------
[Footnote 9: It would appear, from various accounts, that the
tremendous title by which Attila was well pleased to be known, was
given to him as stated above, though some lay the scene of his
interview with the hermit in Gaul.]
---------------
"I will also go, oh king," said Theodore, "and will proceed upon the
way towards thy royal dwelling."
"Do so," said Attila: "go not too fast, and I will overtake you soon."
Theodore craved a blessing of the hermit, and then departed. The road
still mounted for some way; but by this time the rain was over, and,
as a drying wind rose up, the horses could better keep their feet upon
the steep and rocky ground. Passing over the ridge of the mountain,
the road, in about half an hour, began to descend through woody glens
and wild rocky ravines, similar to those which they had passed in
ascending; and as Theodore slowly pursued his way, he revolved in his
own mind that part of the conversation between the hermit and the
mighty monarch of the Huns which referred more particularly to
himself. It was not difficult to discover that, actuated by
superstitious feeling, Attila had, in consequence of some vague
warning of the hermit, spared the young Roman, not from any
prepossession in his favour, but solely because he thought it the
command of Heaven, and a condition on which the success of his
enterprise depended. Since those first events, however, the monarch
had shown him kindness of an extraordinary character; and either from
some vague notion of their fate being linked together by some
unexplained and mysterious tie, or from natural feeling of favour
towards him, had evinced an interest in his fate and happiness which
demanded gratitude. Theodore was not one to reason very nicely as to
how far the motives of a benefactor lessen the obligation imposed by
his kindness; and he only remembered that Attila had twice saved his
life, as well as spared him where any other Roman would have fallen,
when he intruded uncalled into the Dacian territory; that he had
rescued from worse than death those he most loved, and had shown a
kindly sympathy with feelings that few supposed him to possess. Thus,
though he revolved the means of learning more of what were the first
motives of the king in giving him such protection, he determined, as
he rode on with his followers, to seek every opportunity of showing
his just gratitude towards Attila.
They had not gone far, however, ere the sound of horses' feet was
heard echoing among the crags; and in a moment after Attila was by the
young Roman's side. A slight shade of triumphant pleasure--enough upon
the countenance of Attila to tell that he was moved internally by no
slight feelings of satisfaction--met the eye of Theodore as he turned
to answer the monarch's greeting.
"Art thou quite recovered, my son?" demanded the king. "We heard thou
hadst been ill, and likely to die; but the gods protect those whom
they love."
"I am now quite recovered," replied Theodore; "but I was very ill, and
should have died, had it not been for the care and tenderness of thy
brother's wife and children."
"Let the good acts of the wife," replied Attila, "counterpoise the bad
acts of the husband. But Bleda will not seek thy death now, I trust.
We have made war in company; we have conquered together; and he has
had a plentiful, a more than plentiful share of the spoil. It was me
he sought to injure more than thee; and now that his appetite for prey
and power seems satisfied, he may heed the suggestion of prudence, and
forget the ambition for which he has neither talent nor energy
sufficient."
Though the words of the king might have led to a fuller explanation of
the mysterious tie by which he seemed to feel himself bound to
Theodore, yet the young Roman was more strongly excited by the mention
of barbarian triumphs in his native land than by anything which could
personally affect himself; and he replied with an inquiring tone, "I
have heard nothing, oh Attila! of thy progress since I left thee. I
have received no tidings even of how the war has gone."
"War!" said Attila, proudly; "I call that war where brave men
encounter one another, and fight till one surrenders or dies: but such
is not that which the Romans have offered to Attila. Wouldst thou
know, youth, how my march through M[oe]sia and Thrace has gone? Thus
has it happened; but call it not a warfare, for warfare there has been
none. I have marched upon the necks of conquered enemies to the
[AE]gean Sea. H[oe]mus and Rhodope have not stayed me; seventy
fortified cities have fallen before me; and the last Roman army which
dared to look me in the face lies rotting in the Thracian Chersonese,
as thou dost call it, or feeds the vultures from Mount Ada. I found
the land a garden, and I left it a desert, even as I promised to do;
but I say unto the weak thing that sits upon the Eastern throne, 'Why
hast thou made me do this? Why hast thou called me to slay thy
subjects and lay waste thy cities? I slept in peace till I was wakened
by thine injustice. My sword grew unto its scabbard; my people kept
their flocks, and were turning tillers of the ground: the Danube
flowed between calm and peaceful banks, and my people held out the
hand of amity unto thine. I gave thee leave to trade within my land,
and at the first mart where thy subjects appeared they plundered mine,
and scoffed at the claims of justice. I demanded that he who, as I was
told, had concerted the deed with others, Eugenius, the bishop of
Margus, should be given up to me; or some one, proved to be the
robber, in his stead. Thou wouldst give me no justice, and I have
taken vengeance; but the deed is thine, oh weak man, for thou wert the
aggressor. Thou hast lighted the fire that has consumed thy land, and
the punishment is not yet complete.'"
"And did none resist thee?" demanded Theodore, sorrowfully. "Did none
show that the spirit of our fathers still lives at least in some of
the children?"
"Yes, yes," replied Attila. "There was one small city, called Azimus,
whose children showed me what ancient Romans may perhaps have been.
They were worthy to have fought beneath my standard, for they repelled
that standard from their walls. They fought as thou wouldst have
fought, my son, and they won the reverence and the love of Attila. I
found that they might be slain, but could not be conquered; and I
valued my own glory too much to risk it by crushing a race that I
acknowledged to be worthy of life. All the rest fought, if they did
fight, like cowards and like slaves, and I slew them without remorse;
but I would not have destroyed those Azimuntines to have saved my
right hand. Bear witness, youth, of what I tell you. My people have
been robbed and plundered by the creatures of Theodosius; I demanded
justice; it was refused; I took revenge. Thine emperor now seeks to
treat, because he thinks he can deceive Attila; thou shalt witness his
proceedings, and shall judge whether I strike again without just
cause. Attila slays not without cause; but thine is a lettered nation,
and they will transmit a false tale of these deeds unto after times.
We Huns write not our own histories."