Though the sight of that splendid scene which opened upon me, like a
momentary glimpse into another world, had, for an instant, re‐animated my
strength and spirit, so completely had fatigue overmastered my whole
frame, that, even had the form of the young Priestess stood before me, my
limbs would have sunk in the effort to reach her. No sooner had I fallen
on my leafy couch, than sleep, like a sudden death, came over me; and I
lay, for hours, in the deep, and motionless rest, which not even a shadow
of life disturbs.
On awaking I saw, beside me, the same venerable personage, who had
welcomed me to this subterranean world on the preceding night. At the foot
of my couch stood a statue, of Grecian workmanship, representing a boy,
with wings, seated gracefully on a lotus‐flower, and having the forefinger
of his right hand pressed to his lips. This action, together with the
glory round his brows, denoted, as I already knew, the God of Silence and
Light.
Impatient to know what further trials awaited me, I was about to speak,
when the Priest exclaimed, anxiously, “Hush!”—and pointing to this statue
at the foot of the couch, said—“Let the spell of that Spirit be on thy
lips, young stranger, till the wisdom of thy instructors shall think fit
to remove it. Not unaptly doth the same god preside over Silence and
Light; since it is only out of the depth of contemplative silence, that
the great light of the soul, Truth, arises!”
Little used to the language of dictation or instruction, I was now
preparing to rise, when the priest again restrained me; and, at the same
moment, two boys, beautiful as the young Genii of the stars, entered the
pavilion. They were habited in long garments of the purest white, and bore
each a small golden chalice in his hand. Advancing towards me, they
stopped on opposite sides of the couch, and one of them, presenting to me
his chalice of gold, said, in a tone between singing and speaking,—
“Drink of this cup—Osiris sips
The same in his halls below;
And the same he gives, to cool the lips
Of the Dead, who downward go.
“Drink of this cup—the water within
Is fresh from Lethe’s stream;
’Twill make the past with all its sin,
And all its pain and sorrows, seem
Like a long‐forgotten dream!
“The pleasure, whose charms
Are steep’d in woe;
The knowledge, that harms
The soul to know;
“The hope, that, bright
As the lake of the waste,
Allures the sight,
But mocks the taste;
“The love, that binds
Its innocent wreath,
Where the serpent winds,
In venom, beneath;—
“All that, of evil or false, by thee
Hath ever been known or seen,
Shall melt away in this cup, and be
Forgot, as it never had been!”
Unwilling to throw a slight on this strange ceremony, I leaned forward,
with all due gravity, and tasted the cup; which I had no sooner done than
the young cup‐bearer, on the other side, invited my attention, and, in his
turn, presenting the chalice which he held, sung, with a voice still
sweeter than that of his companion, the following strain:—
“Drink of this cup—when Isis led
Her boy, of old, to the beaming sky,
She mingled a draught divine, and said—
‘Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die!’
“Thus do I say and sing to thee,
Heir of that boundless heav’n on high,
Though frail, and fall’n, and lost thou be,
Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die!”
Much as I had endeavoured to keep my philosophy on its guard, against the
illusions with which, I knew, this region abounded, the young cup‐bearer
had here touched a spring of imagination, over which, as has been seen, my
philosophy had but little controul. No sooner had the words, “thou shalt
never die,” struck on my ear, than the dream of the Garden came fully to
my mind, and, starting half‐way from the couch, I stretched forth my hands
to the cup. Recollecting myself, however, and fearful of having betrayed
to others a weakness only fit for my own secret indulgence, with an
affected smile of indifference I sunk back again on my couch,—while the
young minstrel, but little interrupted by my movement, still continued his
strain, of which I heard but the concluding words:—
“And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,
Dreams of a former, happier day,
When Heaven was still the Spirit’s home,
And her wings had not yet fallen away;
“Glimpses of glory, ne’er forgot,
That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,
What once hath been, what now is not,
But, oh, what again shall brightly be!”
Though the assurances of immortality, contained in these verses, would, at
any other moment,—vain and visionary as I thought them,—have sent my fancy
wandering into reveries of the future, the effort of self‐control I had
just made enabled me to hear them with indifference.
Having gone through the form of tasting this second cup, I again looked
anxiously to the Hierophant, to ascertain whether I might be permitted to
rise. His assent having been given, the young pages brought to my couch a
robe and tunic, which, like their own, were of linen of the purest white;
and having assisted to clothe me in this sacred garb, they then placed
upon my head a chaplet of myrtle, in which the symbol of Initiation, a
golden grasshopper, was seen shining out from among the dark leaves.
Though sleep had done much to refresh my frame, something more was still
wanting to restore its strength; and it was not without a smile at my own
reveries I reflected, how much more welcome than the young page’s cup of
immortality was the unpretending, but real, repast now set before
me,—fresh fruits from the Isle of Gardens in the Nile, the delicate flesh
of the desert antelope, and wine from the Vineyard of the Queens at
Anthylla, fanned by one of the pages with a palm‐leaf, to keep it cool.
Having done justice to these dainties, it was with pleasure I heard the
proposal of the Priest, that we should now walk forth together, and
meditate among the scenes without. I had not forgotten the elysium that
welcomed me last night,—those enchanted gardens, that mysterious music,
and light, and the fair forms I saw wandering about,—as if, in the very
midst of happiness, still seeking it. The hope, which had then occurred to
me, that, perhaps, among those sparkling groups, might be the maiden I
sought, now returned with increased strength. I had little doubt that my
guide was about to lead to the same Elysian scene, and that the form, so
fit to inhabit it, would again appear before my eyes.
But far different was the region to which he conducted me; nor could the
whole world produce a scene more gloomy, or more strange. It had the
appearance of a small, solitary valley, inclosed, on every side, by rocks,
which seemed to rise, almost perpendicularly, to the very sky;—for it was,
indeed, the blue sky that I saw shining between their summits, and whose
light, dimmed and half lost, in its descent thus far, formed the
melancholy daylight of this nether world.(3) Down the side of these rocky
walls fell a cataract, whose source was upon earth, and on whose waters,
as they rolled glassily over the edge above, a gleam of radiance rested,
that showed how brilliant was the sunshine they left. From thence,
gradually darkening, and broken, in its long descent, by alternate chasms
and projections, the stream fell, at last, in a pale and thin mist—the
phantom of what it had been on earth—into a small lake that lay at the
base of the rock to receive it.
Nothing could be more bleak and saddening than the appearance of this
lake. The usual ornaments of the waters of Egypt were not wanting: the
lotus here uplifted her silvery flowers, and the crimson flamingo floated
over the tide. But they were, neither of them, the same as in the upper
world;—the flower had exchanged its whiteness for a livid hue, and the
wings of the bird hung heavy and colourless. Every thing wore the same
half‐living aspect; and the only sounds that disturbed the mournful
stillness were the wailing cry of a heron among the sedges, and that din
of the waters, in their midway struggle, above.
There was an unearthly sadness in the whole scene, of which no heart,
however light, could resist the influence. Perceiving how I was affected
by it, “Such scenes,” said the Priest, “are best suited to that solemn
complexion of mind, which becomes him who approaches the Great Secret of
futurity. Behold,”—and, in saying thus, he pointed to the opening over our
heads, through which I could perceive a star or two twinkling in the
heavens, though the sun had but a short time passed his meridian,—“as from
this gloomy depth we can see those stars, which are now invisible to the
dwellers upon the bright earth, even so, to the sad and self‐humbled
spirit, doth many a mystery of heaven reveal itself, of which they, who
walk in the light of the proud world, know not!”
He now led me towards a rustic seat or alcove, beside which stood an image
of that dark Deity, that God without a smile, who presides over the
kingdom of the Dead.(4) The same livid and lifeless hue was upon his
features, that hung over every thing in this dim valley; and, with his
right hand, he pointed directly downwards, to denote that his melancholy
kingdom lay there. A plantain—that favourite tree of the genii of
Death—stood behind the statue, and spread its branches over the alcove, in
which the Priest now, seating himself, signified that I should take my
place by his side.
After a long pause, as if of thought and preparation,—“Nobly,” said he,
“young Greek, hast thou sustained the first trials of Initiation. What
remains, though of vital import to the soul, brings with it neither pain
nor peril to the body. Having now proved and chastened thy mortal frame,
by the three ordeals of Fire, of Water, and of Air, the next task to which
we are called is the purification of thy spirit,—the cleansing of that
inward and immortal part, so as to render it fit for the reception of the
last luminous revealment, when the Veils of the Sanctuary shall be thrown
aside, and the Great Secret of Secrets unfolded to thee!—Towards this
object, the primary and most essential step is, instruction. What the
three purifying elements, through which thou hast passed, have done for
thy body, instruction will effect for——”
“But that lovely maiden!” I exclaimed, bursting from my silence, having
fallen, during his speech, into a deep revery, in which I had forgotten
him, myself, the Great Secret, every thing—but her.
Startled by this profane interruption, he cast a look of alarm towards the
statue, as if fearful lest the God should have heard my words. Then,
turning to me, in a tone of mild solemnity, “It is but too plain,” said
he, “that thoughts of the upper world, and of its vain delights, still
engross thee too much, to let the lessons of Truth sink profitably into
thy heart. A few hours of meditation amid this solemn scenery—of that
wholesome meditation, which purifies, by saddening—may haply dispose thee
to receive, with reverence, the holy and immortal knowledge that is in
store for thee. With this hope, I now leave thee to thy own thoughts, and
to that God, before whose calm and mournful eye the vanities of the world,
from which thou comest, wither!”
Thus saying, he turned slowly away, and passing behind the statue, towards
which he had pointed during the last sentence, suddenly, and as if by
enchantment, disappeared from my sight.