WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS
KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.
Damascus.
Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:
I hope you will not deem me tedious, my friend, if I endeavor to
describe to you the manner in which Lactantius maintained the truth of
that faith of which he is one of the most illustrious advocates. But you
should have heard him, to have felt yourself in the presence of one of
the greatest of men. As the day was mild, Septimus ordered the couches
to be disposed along the level roof, as affording much the most
delightful place to hold a conversation, for so harmless is the air of
this climate, that you may even take your midnight repose under the open
sky; and this they inform us is the reason why this land is so noted for
those who are skilled in the map of the heavens. This, you may truly
say, should be no matter of surprise, for it may be held impossible that
one the least inclined to meditation should behold, night after night,
without being fired with the spirit of investigation, that overspreading
canopy unbounded and far reaching as eternity, but bright with wheeling
stars, that rise at their own fixed moment, and set behind some
well-known peak, and thus, year after year, traverse the same unvarying
and harmonious circle, without collision with their sister
orbs—glorious and imperishable.
The sun, last sinking toward Cyprus, robbed of his exhausting heats, was
mildly burning above Lebanon. The city lay on every side. In one
direction rose the pillar of Antonine; in another the amphitheatre; and
you might, with steady observation, see the wild beasts pacing to and
fro, with impatient step, their well-barred cages, kept now more for
curiosity than sport. In another quarter the accustomed grove relieved
the wilderness of marble, like a clump of palms which often starts out
so refreshingly against the whitened sands.
But, what was most beautiful to behold from this elevated site, was the
far receding valley in which this city is built, sheltered on either
hand by an eternal battlement of rocks, cultivated to the utmost stretch
of industry, clothed with its fruitful vines, and glistening with its
hundred gardens, temples and villas, wherever you might look. Through
its centre ran the mazy Leontes, shining from among its tufted banks,
and catching ever and anon the parting glories of the sun while on its
bosom, or suddenly emerging from some green shade, the eye detected, by
the sparkling of the oar, the gaily colored galley, freighted with many
a light heart. Thus raised above the bustle of the crowded
thoroughfares, and soothed by the Cyprian breeze, we felt the inspiring
influence of all we saw.
Lactantius was the first to speak.
“I hesitate not to avow,” said he, “that I feel a deep solicitude in
behalf of my friend Mobilius. Would that I had the power to expound to
him the unsatisfactory reliance of his faith, the feebleness of its
supports, and the terms of its delusions. As the shivering reed trembles
on the first assault of the rude wind, so does this perishable belief
upon the first advance of swift-footed adversity; forsaking you when you
most require the aid of ready guidance and bright-eyed consolation.
“Brought from Egypt by the crafty priest, that land of science, but of
superstition, he planted it in a soil where he was certain it would
thrive, and to make success more sure he mingled with it the gaudy
ceremonies of Chaldea. Strange that so noxious a plant should flourish
as well as in its native soil, and so near the walls of Bethlehem.
“They burn an offering of perpetual fires to the king of day—what a
sorry imitation of his light when but a struggling ray shall quench it!
They behold his blinding brightness, they feel his piercing heats, they
see nature bloom beneath his smiles, and they forget he sprang from
something. They look not beyond. Will the sun rescue us from affliction,
and heal us in the hour of sickness? How,” he exclaimed, warming as he
spoke, and felt the influence of rapt attention—“How shall glittering
rites propitiate that which can neither feel nor see, which was created
to rule the day, divide the light from darkness, and mark the rolling
seasons, but has no power to save, to heal or vanquish? The throbbing
pulse, the glistening eye, the kindly sympathy we feel in another’s
anguish speaks to us of a soul, declares to us we sprang from some
sublime and all wise original. Behold,” said he, rising from his couch
with a commanding attitude, “yon temple, the boast of Syria, what
symmetry, what grandeur!—as wise would it be to say it sprang from
nothing, as that sun, which from time almost incalculable, has risen in
the east and set beneath those mountains. It must have been the
instrument of an all wise purpose. Then why not adore the source through
whose command it blazed into existence?
“How is it, Mobilius, that the faithful follower in our faith, worn out
by agonising pain, or hastening, hour after hour, toward certain
dissolution, every thing, the bright skies, the anxious faces of those
that gather round him, exposing to his fading eye—how is it he is yet
more cheerful as his shattered frame sinks into increasing weakness—so
that neither the stake, with its tortures, the amphitheatre, with its
jeers and cruel glances, nor the silent chamber, where the last enemy of
the good man approaches with slower step, and where he does not find the
support or triumph of a martyrdom, shall shake his confidence?”
Here Mobilius seemed oppressed with affliction.
“What is it, my good friend,” said Lactantius, “that grieves you?”
“I will tell you: your words shoot anguish through my soul, but it is
for memories that are past. My sister, she on whom I lavished every
thought, and all that I possessed, was snatched from me in the midst of
mutual happiness. She lingered, and was buoyed up by some sweet and
hidden consolation she appeared anxious to impart, but the flickering
flame of life burnt too feebly in the lamp. It was, it must have been
this; would I had known it, that I might have whispered into her ear I
knew it. Her last look was cast upon the blue depths of heaven, as if in
earnest contemplation of some glorious spectacle, and she died with a
sweet smile upon her features, as if listening to sweet music.
‘Mobilius,’ she said, pointing upward, ‘Mobilius, my dear brother,
behold the—’ but the trembling syllables died into a whisper—she had
fled! There were to me sweet smiles no longer to cheer the vigor of my
desolation—I was alone in the world.”
“Console yourself,” replied Lactantius, “this was an evidence your
sister died in peace. Trouble not yourself on this account, you may meet
her again.”
At this communication his countenance, dull and heavy with grief,
brightened as the sun through showers. You have seen a piece of marble
carved into a coarse resemblance of the face. You have come again. The
chisel of a master spirit has been busy in its god-like lineaments. It
almost speaks; the dull, cold marble almost warms into a smile—such was
the change. Mobilius, gathering his mantle about him, abruptly left us,
nor did I see him again throughout that day.
The stars began to glimmer as the sunlight waned, and we felt in all its
bounteous fulness the care-dispelling influence of this clime. The
conversation was prolonged, and I found that Lactantius was as well
skilled in the policy of existing governments, as in the peculiarities
of all the prevailing theologies, in short, as competent for the duties
of a statesman as a bishop; and it grieves me not a little that so many
should be raised to this eminent station in the church so far inferior
to Lactantius, while he, blessed with every natural gift, endowed with
the quickest of intellects—enriched with all the learning—polished,
fiery and overwhelming in speech, or if it please him, mild and winning
as the softest Lydian measure, the Christian and the philosopher, should
be thrust aside. This age will be signalised upon the page of the
historian, as much because it gave birth to a Constantine as that on it
there flourished a Lactantius.
We now descended, and the evening passed in the enjoyments of those
rational pleasures which are always sought with an increasing relish.
To turn to another topic, shall I propose a subject for thy solution?
What is that which may be likened to the gleam that struggles through
the dark and overhanging mists, driving away in its scattering
brightness the gloom of the weeping clouds? Yes, and I have known it
prove stronger than the precepts of philosophy, or the examples of
heroic ardor, kindling dying courage, inspiring god-like resolution, and
confessing a manly port and look which seemed to herald victory ere it
was achieved. More enlivening than the wine of Chios, let it but beam
upon you, and the mist of bewilderment flies, and in its place you find
that joy the poets so sweetly picture. What is it, you say, has induced
Servilius to wander from the thread of his narrative? Of a certainty you
cannot hesitate a moment—a woman’s smile! You whisper the boy Cupid,
and that no other than one assailed by his dart, could invest with such
rosy hues that which one sees and feels every hour of the day.
But let me pause. I am writing to a philosopher, and one who may chide
me when he remembers the discussions we have had upon this matter, and
in which I took the sterner part. But I recant, I renounce my errors.
You have influence, Cornelius, at Athens. Place the good of all that is
left to us below upon a loftier pedestal. Woman should be looked up to
with admiration, and not down upon with contempt. What, as yourself must
admit, so softens the rigors of existence as the winning influence of
woman, and why should they be treated as so insignificant a portion of
the state? Be persuaded that that nation, which by its laws most
elevates the character of woman, which pays the most profound obeisance
to their gentle virtues, is nearest the standard of true happiness, and
surest in the certainty of its duration.
These were my reflections, when who other should approach, as wearied
and heated from exposure to the sun, I had thrown myself upon a couch
beside a fountain in the hall of Septimus, both unperceiving and
unperceived until too late to retreat, than Placidia and Lucretia. They
seemed to hesitate and blush, but instantly arising, I invited them to
stay.
“You came, I know, to seek the coolness of this airy hall, and you must
permit me to retire.”
“No!” they exclaimed, “that we must not do.”
“You look wearied,” Lucretia added.
“Yes, I have been pacing the crowded streets of this proud city in
search of amusement and instruction.”
“How is it?” she asked, “that you youth of Rome who travel, take such
pleasure in beholding a pile of marble variously disposed. Having seen
one handsome temple, I am sure all the rest are like it, though
perchance they may be somewhat larger or smaller, or have an additional
column or so. Is it a taste which is natural or does it come of
cultivation?” and thus she dashed on in the same gay strain, as if
undetermined whether to speak with lightness or with seriousness.
Placidia now began a skilful attack upon my adversary, nor could the
best disciple of the schools have made a more effectual sally.
“It was but yesterday, Lucretia, I heard you discourse so prettily about
the great buildings in the city, with choice of language, and glow of
thought that any poet might have envied. There were the flowery
capitals—the happy arrangement—the beautiful designs—the—but I
cannot remember the learned phrases which you used. I have it—you spoke
but to draw our friend into an argument, in order that he might show
wherein you are in error.”
Lucretia stood silent, half-smiling, half-angry, as if to say, tarry
until a more fitting opportunity—wait until we are alone my sweet
Placidia, and I will amply revenge myself for these unreserved
communications.
“I must acknowledge, Placidia,” I replied, “the kindness of your
interposition. But the inquiry of Lucretia has been fully answered by
the unfortunate Longinus, a copy of whose immortal works I have now in
my possessions, and it would be a source of pleasure to study them with
you.”
“We embrace the proposition with delight,” she answered, but then, as if
fearing she had been too eager, she replied, “but Mobilius must be of
the number.”
“Placidia,” said Lucretia, “do you know then that Septimus and all his
friends are alarmed at the absence of Mobilius: he has not been seen
since he left us last night?” This was uttered in a tone which led me to
believe her previous gaiety was but assumed.
“Is it possible?” replied Placidia with emotion.
“I must go and assist my friends in their search,” I replied.
“But you are not acquainted with the streets of Heliopolis, and what
service could you render?”—
“Friendship, Placidia—” but she interrupted me as if in anticipation of
what I was about to say.
“Go—hasten,” at the same time whispering in my ear as she turned, and
deeply blushing, “let me see you on your return—I have something to
confide to you which hangs heavily upon my spirits.”
“I see how it is,” and the fire of jealousy shot through my veins, “she
loves Mobilius;” but such ungenerous thoughts were soon driven from my
mind, when I remembered the uncertainty of the fate of my friend. At
this moment I heard the name of Septimus cried aloud.
“Where is Septimus?” exclaimed one of the slaves as he rushed into the
hall; “a lion has escaped from the amphitheatre—” he said, and trembled
with fear.
“And has been chasing you, or you are frightened,” I replied. “Why
hesitate? the door is closed.” He looked up, as if imploring my
patience.
“Worse, worse,—Mobilius was found on the road that leads to the temple
of Venus, upon Lebanon, mangled,—” here he was completely overpowered.
Indeed, it was dreadful news, and I asked the man no further questions.
Placidia sank senseless upon a couch, while Lucretia, greatly affected,
endeavored to support her tottering frame. As soon as she was partially
restored, I departed, and meeting Lactantius, who had been more active
in his enquiries, he cheered me by a most agreeable piece of news, as
compared with the hopeless story I had heard. It was only the mantle of
Mobilius that had been found, and there was no blood upon it. I hastened
to relieve the anxieties of my friends, and was ushered into the
presence of Placidia, by her maid, who stood waiting for me under the
portico.
I hastily told her what I had heard. After expressing her joy, she broke
to me her story. “Servilius, my friend, for you must permit me to call
you such, from your many acts of kindness I shall never be able to
repay—”
“_You_ cannot _repay_,” I whispered to myself, “oh! cruel Placidia.”
“There is something, which greatly troubles me, and some hidden prompter
seems to tell me that by unburdening to you the cause of my sorrow, I
shall find the speediest relief.”
My heart now beat high with expectation, “dare I hope?” I said to
myself.
“It cannot be a dream,” she said, with her eyes fixed, and half-musing,
as if for the moment unconscious of my presence. “It cannot be a
dream—but I no sooner beheld the face of Mobilius, than the
recollection of youth rushed upon my memory, and I thought of my brother
and my sister, who have long slept with the perished. They were wrecked
upon the coast of Africa, and none escaped to bear to mourning friends
the brief story of their fate, but one, who, floating on a fragment of
the vessel, was taken up as he was on the point of relinquishing his
hold, from utter weakness, by a Syrian galley. Messengers were
despatched, and my uncle himself undertook the risk and toil of a
journey on our behalf. But all was in vain.”
“There is still an expectation to be cherished,” I said.
“Do you give hope?” said she, faintly smiling through her tears,
“affection once clung to the feeblest support, but it has long since
despaired.”
“It shall not despair,” I answered, with an energy that startled, her,
hurrying out of the apartment.