The rising of the Moon, slow and majestic, as if conscious of the honours
that awaited her upon earth, was welcomed with a loud acclaim from every
eminence, where multitudes stood watching for her first light. And seldom
had she risen upon a scene more beautiful. Memphis,—still grand, though no
longer the unrivalled Memphis, that had borne away from Thebes the crown
of supremacy, and worn it undisputed through so many centuries,—now,
softened by the moonlight that harmonised with her decline, shone forth
among her lakes, her pyramids, and her shrines, like a dream of glory that
was soon to pass away. Ruin, even now, was but too visible around her. The
sands of the Libyan desert gained upon her like a sea; and, among solitary
columns and sphinxes, already half sunk from sight, Time seemed to stand
waiting, till all, that now flourished around, should fall beneath his
desolating hand, like the rest.
On the waters all was life and gaiety. As far as eye could reach, the
lights of innumerable boats were seen, studding, like rubies, the surface
of the stream. Vessels of all kinds,—from the light coracle, built for
shooting down the cataracts, to the large yacht that glides to the sound
of flutes,—all were afloat for this sacred festival, filled with crowds of
the young and the gay, not only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities
still farther removed from the scene.
As I approached the island, I could see, glittering through the trees on
the bank, the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to the ceremony. Landing in
the direction which those lights pointed out, I soon joined the crowd;
and, passing through a long alley of sphinxes, whose spangling marble
shone out from the dark sycamores around them, in a short time reached the
grand vestibule of the temple, where I found the ceremonies of the evening
already commenced.
In this vast hall, which was surrounded by a double range of columns, and
lay open over‐head to the stars of heaven, I saw a group of young maidens,
moving in a sort of measured step, between walk and dance, round a small
shrine, upon which stood one of those sacred birds, that, on account of
the variegated colour of their wings, are dedicated to the moon. The
vestibule was dimly lighted,—there being but one lamp of naptha on each of
the great pillars that encircled it. But, having taken my station beside
one of those pillars, I had a distinct view of the young dancers, as in
succession they passed me.
Their long, graceful drapery was as white as snow; and each wore loosely,
beneath the rounded bosom, a dark‐blue zone, or bandelet, studded, like
the skies at midnight, with little silver stars. Through their dark locks
was wreathed the white lily of the Nile,—that flower being accounted as
welcome to the moon, as the golden blossoms of the bean‐flower are to the
sun. As they passed under the lamp, a gleam of light flashed from their
bosoms, which, I could perceive, was the reflection of a small mirror,
that, in the manner of the women of the East, each wore beneath her left
shoulder.
There was no music to regulate their steps; but, as they gracefully went
round the bird on the shrine, some, by the beat of the castanet, some, by
the shrill ring of the sistrum,—which they held uplifted in the attitude
of their own divine Isis,—harmoniously timed the cadence of their feet;
while others, at every step, shook a small chain of silver, whose sound,
mingling with those of the castanets and sistrums, produced a wild, but
not an unpleasing harmony.
They seemed all lovely; but there was one—whose face the light had not yet
reached, so downcast she held it,—who attracted, and, at length, riveted
all my attention. I knew not why, but there was a something in those half‐
seen features,—a charm in the very shadow, that hung over their imagined
beauty,—which took me more than all the out‐shining loveliness of her
companions. So enchained was my fancy by this coy mystery, that her alone,
of all the group, could I either see or think of—her alone I watched, as,
with the same downcast brow, she glided round the altar, gently and
aërially, as if her presence, like that of a spirit, was something to be
felt, not seen.
Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash of a thousand cymbals was
heard;—the massy gates of the Temple flew open, as if by magic, and a
flood of radiance from the illuminated aisle filled the whole vestibule;
while, at the same instant, as if the light and the sounds were born
together, a peal of rich harmony came mingling with the radiance.
It was then,—by that light, which shone full upon the young maiden’s
features, as, starting at the blaze, she raised her eyes to the portal,
and, as suddenly, let fall their lids again,—it was then I beheld, what
even my own ardent imagination, in its most vivid dreams of beauty, had
never pictured. Not Psyche herself, when pausing on the threshold of
heaven, while its first glories fell on her dazzled lids, could have
looked more beautiful, or blushed with a more innocent shame. Often as I
had felt the power of looks, none had ever entered into my soul so far. It
was a new feeling—a new sense—coming as suddenly as that radiance into the
vestibule, and, at once, filling my whole being;—and had that vision but
lingered another moment before my eyes, I should have wholly forgotten who
I was and where, and thrown myself, in prostrate adoration, at her feet.
But scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard, when the sacred bird,
which had, till now, stood motionless as an image, expanded his wings, and
flew into the Temple; while his graceful young worshippers, with a
fleetness like his own, followed,—and she, who had left a dream in my
heart never to be forgotten, vanished with the rest. As she went rapidly
past the pillar against which I leaned, the ivy that encircled it caught
in her drapery, and disengaged some ornament which fell to the ground. It
was the small mirror which I had seen shining on her bosom. Hastily and
tremulously I picked it up, and hurried to restore it;—but she was already
lost to my eyes in the crowd.
In vain I tried to follow;—the aisles were already filled, and numbers of
eager pilgrims pressed towards the portal. But the servants of the Temple
prevented all further entrance, and still, as I presented myself, their
white wands barred the way. Perplexed and irritated amid that crowd of
faces, regarding all as enemies that impeded my progress, I stood on
tiptoe, gazing into the busy aisles, and with a heart beating as I caught,
from time to time, a glimpse of some spangled zone, or lotus wreath, which
led me to fancy that I had discovered the object of my search. But it was
all in vain;—in every direction, files of sacred nymphs were moving, but
nowhere could I see her, whom alone I sought.
In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for some
time,—bewildered with the confusion of faces and lights, as well as with
the clouds of incense that rolled around me,—till, fevered and impatient,
I could endure it no longer. Forcing my way out of the vestibule into the
cool air, I hurried back through the alley of sphinxes to the shore, and
flung myself into my boat.
There is, to the north of Memphis, a solitary lake (which, at this season
of the year, mingles with the rest of the waters,) upon whose shores
stands the Necropolis, or City of the Dead—a place of melancholy grandeur,
covered over with shrines and pyramids, where many a kingly head, proud
even in death, has for ages awaited the resurrection of its glories.
Through a range of sepulchral grots underneath, the humbler denizens of
the tomb are deposited,—looking out on each successive generation that
visits them, with the same face and features they wore centuries ago.
Every plant and tree, that is consecrated to death, from the asphodel‐
flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to this place
of tombs; and the only noise that disturbs its eternal calm, is the low
humming sound of the priests at prayer, when a new inhabitant is added to
the silent city.
It was towards this place of death that, in a mood of mind, as usual, half
bright, half gloomy, I now, almost unconsciously, directed my bark. The
form of the young Priestess was continually before me. That one bright
look of hers, the very memory of which was worth all the actual smiles of
others, never left my mind. Absorbed in such thoughts, I rowed on, scarce
knowing whither I went, till, startled by finding myself within the shadow
of the City of the Dead, I looked up, and saw, rising in succession before
me, pyramid beyond pyramid, each towering more loftily than the
other,—while all were out‐topped in grandeur by one, upon whose summit the
moon seemed to rest, as on a pedestal.
Drawing near to the shore, which was sufficiently elevated to raise this
city of monuments above the level of the inundation, I lifted my oar, and
let the boat rock idly on the water, while my thoughts, left equally
without direction, fluctuated as idly. How various and vague were the
dreams that then passed through my mind—that bright vision of the temple
mingling itself with all! Sometimes she stood before me, like an aërial
spirit, as pure as if that element of music and light, into which I had
seen her vanish, was her only dwelling. Sometimes, animated with passion,
and kindling into a creature of earth, she seemed to lean towards me with
looks of tenderness, which it were worth worlds, but for one instant, to
inspire; and again—as the dark fancies, that ever haunted me, recurred—I
saw her cold, parched, and blackening, amid the gloom of those eternal
sepulchres before me!
Turning away, with a shudder, from the cemetery at this thought, I heard
the sound of an oar plying swiftly through the water, and, in a few
moments, saw, shooting past me towards the shore, a small boat in which
sat two female figures, muffled up and veiled. Having landed them not far
from the spot where I lay,—concealed by the shadow of a monument on the
bank,—the boat again departed, with the same fleetness, over the flood.
Never had the prospect of an adventure come more welcome than at this
moment, when my fancy was weaving such chains for my heart, as threatened
a bondage, of all others, the most difficult to break. To become enamoured
thus of a creature of my own imagination, was the worst, because the most
lasting, of follies. Reality alone gives a chance of dissolving such
spells, and the idol I was now creating to myself must for ever remain
ideal. Any pursuit, therefore, that seemed likely to divert me from such
thoughts—to bring back my imagination to earth and reality, from the vague
region in which it was wandering, was a relief too seasonable not to be
welcomed with eagerness.
I had watched the course which the two figures took, and, having hastily
fastened my boat to the bank, stepped gently on shore, and, at a little
distance, followed them. The windings through which they led were
intricate; but, by the bright light of the moon, I was enabled to keep
their forms in view, as, with rapid step, they glided among the monuments.
At length, in the shade of a small pyramid, whose peak barely surmounted
the plane‐trees that grew nigh, they vanished from my sight. I hastened to
the spot, but there was not a sign of life around; and had my creed
extended to another world, I might have fancied that these forms were
spirits, sent from thence to mock me,—so instantaneously they disappeared.
I searched through the neighbouring grove, but all there was still as
death. At length, in examining one of the sides of the pyramid, which, for
a few feet from the ground, was furnished with steps, I found, midway
between peak and base, a part of the surface, which, though presenting an
appearance of smoothness to the eye, gave to the touch, I thought,
indications of a concealed opening.
After a variety of efforts and experiments, I, at last, more by accident
than skill, pressed the spring that commanded this mysterious aperture. In
an instant the portal slid aside, and disclosed a narrow stair‐way within,
the two or three first steps of which were discernible by the moonlight,
while the rest were lost in utter darkness. Though it was difficult to
conceive that the persons whom I had followed would have ventured to pass
through this gloomy opening, yet to account for their disappearance
otherwise was still more difficult. At all events, my curiosity was now
too eager in the chase to relinquish it;—the spirit of adventure, once
raised, could not be so easily laid. Accordingly, having sent up a gay
prayer to that bliss‐loving Queen whose eye alone was upon me, I passed
through the portal and descended into the pyramid.