The night was now far advanced;—the bend of our course towards the left,
and the closing in of the eastern hills upon the river, gave warning of
our approach to the hermit’s dwelling. Every minute now seemed like the
last of existence; and I felt a sinking of despair at my heart, which
would have been intolerable, had not a resolution that suddenly, and as if
by inspiration, occurred to me, presented a glimpse of hope which, in some
degree, calmed my feelings.
Much as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy,—the very sect I had
embraced being chiefly recommended to me by the war which they waged on
the cant of all others,—it was, nevertheless, in hypocrisy that I now
scrupled not to take refuge from, what I dreaded more than shame or death,
my separation from Alethe. In my despair, I adopted the humiliating
plan—deeply humiliating as I felt it to be, even amid the joy with which I
welcomed it—of offering myself to this hermit, as a convert to his faith,
and thus becoming the fellow‐disciple of Alethe under his care!
From the moment I resolved upon this plan, my spirit felt lightened.
Though having fully before my eyes the labyrinth of imposture into which
it would lead me, I thought of nothing but the chance of our being still
together;—in this hope, all pride, all philosophy was forgotten, and every
thing seemed tolerable, but the prospect of losing her.
Thus resolved, it was with somewhat less reluctant feelings, that I now
undertook, at the anxious desire of Alethe, to ascertain the site of that
well‐known mountain, in the neighbourhood of which the dwelling of the
anchoret lay. We had already passed one or two stupendous rocks, which
stood, detached, like fortresses, over the river’s brink, and which, in
some degree, corresponded with the description on the leaf. So little was
there of life now stirring along the shores, that I had begun almost to
despair of any assistance from inquiry, when, on looking to the western
bank, I saw a boatman among the sedges, towing his small boat, with some
difficulty, up the current. Hailing him, as we passed, I asked, “Where
stands the Mountain of the Birds?”—and he had hardly time to answer,
pointing above our heads, “There,” when we perceived that we were just
then entering into the shadow, which this mighty rock flings across the
whole of the flood.
In a few moments we had reached the mouth of the ravine, of which the
Mountain of the Birds forms one of the sides, and through which the scanty
canal from the Nile flows. At the sight of this chasm, in some of whose
gloomy recesses—if we had rightly interpreted the leaf—the dwelling of the
Solitary lay, our voices, at once, sunk into a low whisper, while Alethe
looked round upon me with a superstitious fearfulness, as if doubtful
whether I had not already disappeared from her side. A quick movement,
however, of her hand towards the ravine, told too plainly that her purpose
was still unchanged. With my oars, therefore, checking the career of our
boat, I succeeded, after no small exertion, in turning it out of the
current of the river, and steering into this bleak and stagnant canal.
Our transition from life and bloom to the very depth of desolation, was
immediate. While the water and one side of the ravine lay buried in
shadow, the white, skeleton‐like crags of the other stood aloft in the
pale glare of moonlight. The sluggish stream through which we moved,
yielded sullenly to the oar, and the shriek of a few water‐birds, which we
had roused from their fastnesses, was succeeded by a silence, so dead and
awful, that our lips seemed afraid to disturb it by a breath; and half‐
whispered exclamations, “How dreary!”—“How dismal!”—were almost the only
words exchanged between us.
We had proceeded for some time through this gloomy defile, when, at a
distance before us, among the rocks on which the moonlight fell, we
perceived, upon a ledge but little elevated above the canal, a small hut
or cave, which, from a tree or two planted around it, had some appearance
of being the abode of a human being. “This, then,” thought I, “is the home
to which Alethe is destined!”—A chill of despair came again over my heart,
and the oars, as I gazed, lay motionless in my hands.
I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the same object, drawing closer
to my side than she had yet ventured. Laying her hand agitatedly upon
mine, “We must here,” she said, “part for ever.” I turned to her, as she
spoke: there was a tenderness, a despondency in her countenance, that at
once saddened and inflamed my soul. “Part!” I exclaimed
passionately,—“No!—the same God shall receive us both. Thy faith, Alethe,
shall, from this hour, be mine, and I will live and die in this desert
with thee!”
Her surprise, her delight, at these words, was like a momentary delirium.
The wild, anxious smile, with which she looked into my face, as if to
ascertain whether she had, indeed, heard my words aright, bespoke a
happiness too much for reason to bear. At length the fulness of her heart
found relief in tears; and, murmuring forth an incoherent blessing on my
name, she let her head fall languidly and powerlessly on my arm. The light
from our boat‐fire shone upon her face. I saw her eyes, which she had
closed for a moment, again opening upon me with the same tenderness,
and—merciful Providence, how I remember that moment!—was on the point of
bending down my lips towards hers, when, suddenly, in the air above our
heads, as if it came from heaven, there burst forth a strain from a choir
of voices, that with its solemn sweetness filled the whole valley.
Breaking away from my caress at these supernatural sounds, the maiden
threw herself trembling upon her knees, and, not daring to look up,
exclaimed wildly, “My mother, oh my mother!”
It was the Christian’s morning hymn that we heard;—the same, as I learned
afterwards, that, on their high terrace at Memphis, Alethe had been often
taught by her mother to sing to the rising sun.
Scarcely less startled than my companion, I looked up, and, at the very
summit of the rock above us, saw a light, appearing to come from a small
opening or window, through which also the sounds, that had appeared so
supernatural, issued. There could be no doubt, that we had now found—if
not the dwelling of the anchoret—at least, the haunt of some of the
Christian brotherhood of these rocks, by whose assistance we could not
fail to find the place of his retreat.
The agitation, into which Alethe had been thrown by the first burst of
that psalmody, soon yielded to the softening recollections which it
brought back; and a calm came over her brow, such as it had never before
worn, since our meeting. She seemed to feel that she had now reached her
destined haven, and to hail, as the voice of heaven itself, those sounds
by which she was welcomed to it.
In her tranquillity, however, I could not now sympathize. Impatient to
know all that awaited her and myself, I pushed our boat close to the base
of the rock,—directly under that lighted window on the summit, to find my
way up to which was my first object. Having hastily received my
instructions from Alethe, and made her repeat again the name of the
Christian whom we sought, I sprang upon the bank, and was not long in
discovering a sort of rude stair‐way, cut out of the rock, but leading, I
found, by easy windings, up the steep.
After ascending for some time, I arrived at a level space or ledge, which
the hand of labour had succeeded in converting into a garden, and which
was planted, here and there, with fig‐trees and palms. Around it, too, I
could perceive, through the glimmering light, a number of small caves or
grottos, into some of which, human beings might find entrance, while
others appeared no larger than the tombs of the Sacred Birds round Lake
Mœris.
I was still, I found, but half‐way up the ascent to the summit, nor could
perceive any further means of continuing my course, as the mountain from
hence rose, almost perpendicularly, like a wall. At length, however, on
exploring around, I discovered behind the shade of a sycamore a large
ladder of wood, resting firmly against the rock, and affording an easy and
secure ascent up the steep.
Having ascertained thus far, I again descended to the boat for
Alethe,—whom I found trembling already at her short solitude,—and having
led her up the steps to this quiet garden, left her safely lodged, amid
its holy silence, while I pursued my way upward to the light on the rock.
At the top of the long ladder I found myself on another ledge or platform,
somewhat smaller than the first, but planted in the same manner, with
trees, and, as I could perceive by the mingled light of morning and the
moon, embellished with flowers. I was now near the summit;—there remained
but another short ascent, and, as a ladder against the rock, as before,
supplied the means of scaling it, I was in a few minutes at the opening
from which the light issued.
I had ascended gently, as well from a feeling of awe at the whole scene,
as from an unwillingness to disturb too rudely the rites on which I
intruded. My approach was, therefore, unheard, and an opportunity, during
some moments, afforded me of observing the group within, before my
appearance at the window was discovered.
In the middle of the apartment, which seemed once to have been a Pagan
oratory, there was an assembly of seven or eight persons, some male, some
female, kneeling in silence round a small altar;—while, among them, as if
presiding over their ceremony, stood an aged man, who, at the moment of my
arrival, was presenting to one of the female worshippers an alabaster cup,
which she applied, with much reverence, to her lips. On the countenance of
the venerable minister, as he pronounced a short prayer over her head,
there was an expression of profound feeling that showed how wholly he was
absorbed in that rite; and when she had drank of the cup,—which I saw had
engraven on its side the image of a head, with a glory round it,—the holy
man bent down and kissed her forehead.
After this parting salutation, the whole group rose silently from their
knees; and it was then, for the first time, that, by a cry of terror from
one of the women, the appearance of a stranger at the window was
discovered. The whole assembly seemed startled and alarmed, except him,
that superior person, who, advancing from the altar, with an unmoved look,
raised the latch of the door, which was adjoining to the window, and
admitted me.
There was, in this old man’s features, a mixture of elevation and
sweetness, of simplicity and energy, which commanded at once attachment
and homage; and half hoping, half fearing to find in him the destined
guardian of Alethe, I looked anxiously in his face, as I entered, and
pronounced the name “Melanius!” “Melanius is my name, young stranger,” he
answered; “and whether in friendship or in enmity thou comest, Melanius
blesses thee.” Thus saying, he made a sign with his right hand above my
head, while, with involuntary respect, I bowed beneath the benediction.
“Let this volume,” I replied, “answer for the peacefulness of my
mission,”—at the same time, placing in his hands the copy of the
Scriptures, which had been his own gift to the mother of Alethe, and which
her child now brought as the credential of her claims on his protection.
At the sight of this sacred pledge, which he recognized instantly, the
solemnity that had marked his first reception of me softened into
tenderness. Thoughts of other times seemed to pass through his mind, and
as, with a sigh of recollection, he took the book from my hands, some
words on the outer leaf caught his eye. They were few,—but contained,
perhaps, the last wishes of the dying Theora, for as he eagerly read them
over, I saw the tears in his aged eyes. “The trust,” he said, with a
faltering voice, “is sacred, and God will, I hope, enable his servant to
guard it faithfully.”
During this short dialogue, the other persons of the assembly had
departed—being, as I afterwards learned, brethren from the neighbouring
bank of the Nile, who came thus secretly before day‐break, to join in
worshipping God. Fearful lest their descent down the rock might alarm
Alethe, I hurried briefly over the few words of explanation that remained,
and, leaving the venerable Christian to follow at his leisure, hastened
anxiously down to rejoin the maiden.