Melanius was among the first of those Christians of Egypt, who, after the
recent example of the hermit, Paul, renouncing all the comforts of social
existence, betook themselves to a life of contemplation in the desert.
Less selfish, however, in his piety, than most of these ascetics, Melanius
forgot not the world, in leaving it. He knew that man was not born to live
wholly for himself; that his relation to human kind was that of the link
to the chain, and that even his solitude should be turned to the advantage
of others. In flying, therefore, from the din and disturbance of life, he
sought not to place himself beyond the reach of its sympathies, but
selected a retreat, where he could combine the advantage of solitude with
those opportunities of serving his fellow‐men, which a neighbourhood to
their haunts would afford.
That taste for the gloom of subterranean recesses, which the race of
Misraim inherit from their Ethiopian ancestors, had, by hollowing out all
Egypt into caverns and crypts, furnished these Christian anchorets with a
choice of retreats. Accordingly, some found a shelter in the grottos of
Elethya;—others, among the royal tombs of the Thebaïd. In the middle of
the Seven Valleys, where the sun rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim
and melancholy retreat, while others have sought the neighbourhood of the
red Lakes of Nitria, and there,—like those Pagan solitaries of old, who
dwelt among the palm‐trees near the Dead Sea,—muse amid the sterility of
nature, and seem to find, in her desolation, peace.
It was on one of the mountains of the Saïd, to the east of the river, that
Melanius, as we have seen, chose his place of seclusion,—between the life
and fertility of the Nile on the one side, and the lone, dismal barrenness
of the desert on the other. Half‐way down this mountain, where it impends
over the ravine, he found a series of caves or grottos dug out of the
rock, which had, in other times, ministered to some purpose of mystery,
but whose use had been long forgotten, and their recesses abandoned.
To this place, after the banishment of his great master, Origen, Melanius,
with a few faithful followers, retired, and, by the example of his
innocent life, no less than by his fervid eloquence, succeeded in winning
crowds of converts to his faith. Placed, as he was, in the neighbourhood
of the rich city, Antinoë, though he mingled not with its multitude, his
name and his fame were among them, and, to all who sought instruction or
consolation, the cell of the hermit was ever open.
Notwithstanding the rigid abstinence of his own habits, he was yet careful
to provide for the comforts of others. Contented with a rude bed of straw,
himself, for the stranger he had always a less homely resting‐place. From
his grotto, the wayfaring and the indigent never went unrefreshed; and,
with the assistance of some of his brethren, he had formed gardens along
the ledges of the mountain, which gave an air of cheerfulness to his rocky
dwelling, and supplied him with the chief necessaries of such a climate,
fruit and shade.
Though the acquaintance which he had formed with the mother of Alethe,
during the short period of her attendance at the school of Origen, was
soon interrupted, and never afterwards renewed, the interest which he had
then taken in her fate was too lively to be forgotten. He had seen the
zeal with which her young heart welcomed instruction; and the thought that
such a candidate for heaven should have relapsed into idolatry, came
often, with disquieting apprehension, over his mind.
It was, therefore, with true pleasure, that, but a year or two before her
death, he had learned, by a private communication from Theora, transmitted
through a Christian embalmer of Memphis, that “not only her own heart had
taken root in the faith, but that a new bud had flowered with the same
divine hope, and that, ere long, he might see them both transplanted to
the desert.”
The coming, therefore, of Alethe was far less a surprise to him, than her
coming thus alone was a shock and a sorrow; and the silence of their
meeting showed how deeply each remembered that the tie which had brought
them together was no longer of this world,—that the hand, which should
have been joined with theirs, was in the tomb. I now saw that not even
religion was proof against the sadness of mortality. For, as the old man
put the ringlets aside from her forehead, and contemplated in that clear
countenance the reflection of what her mother had been, there was a
mournfulness mingled with his piety, as he said, “Heaven rest her soul!”
which showed how little even the certainty of a heaven for those we love
can subdue our regret for having lost them on earth.
The full light of day had now risen upon the desert, and our host,
reminded, by the faint looks of Alethe, of the many anxious hours we had
passed without sleep, proposed that we should seek, in the chambers of the
rock, such rest as the dwelling of a hermit could offer. Pointing to one
of the largest openings, as he addressed me,—“Thou wilt find,” he said,
“in that grotto a bed of fresh doum leaves, and may the consciousness of
having protected the orphan sweeten thy sleep!”
I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and already almost repented
of having deserved it. There was a sadness in the countenance of Alethe,
as I took leave of her, to which the forebodings of my own heart but too
faithfully responded; nor could I help fearing, as her hand parted
lingeringly from mine, that I had, by this sacrifice, placed her beyond my
reach for ever.
Having lighted me a lamp, which, in these recesses, even at noon, is
necessary, the holy man led me to the entrance of the grotto;—and here, I
blush to say, my career of hypocrisy began. With the sole view of
obtaining another glance at Alethe, I turned humbly to solicit the
benediction of the Christian, and, having conveyed to her, as I bent
reverently down, as much of the deep feeling of my soul as looks could
express, with a desponding spirit I hurried into the cavern.
A short passage led me to the chamber within,—the walls of which I found
covered, like those of the grottos of Lycopolis, with paintings, which,
though executed long ages ago, looked fresh as if their colours were but
laid on yesterday. They were, all of them, representations of rural and
domestic scenes; and, in the greater number, the melancholy imagination of
the artist had called Death in, as usual, to throw his shadow over the
picture.
My attention was particularly drawn to one series of subjects, throughout
the whole of which the same group—a youth, a maiden, and two aged persons,
who appeared to be the father and mother of the girl,—were represented in
all the details of their daily life. The looks and attitudes of the young
people denoted that they were lovers; and, sometimes, they were seen
sitting under a canopy of flowers, with their eyes fixed on each other’s
faces, as though they could never look away; sometimes, they appeared
walking along the banks of the Nile,
——on one of those sweet nights
When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights
Her bridal crescent o’er the holy stream,—
When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam,
And number o’er the nights she hath to run,
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.
Through all these scenes of endearment the two elder persons stood
by;—their calm countenances touched with a share of that bliss, in whose
perfect light the young lovers were basking. Thus far, all was
happiness,—but the sad lesson of mortality was to come. In the last
picture of the series, one of the figures was missing. It was that of the
young maiden, who had disappeared from among them. On the brink of a dark
lake stood the three who remained; while a boat, just departing for the
City of the Dead, told too plainly the end of their dream of happiness.
This memorial of a sorrow of other times—of a sorrow, ancient as death
itself,—was not wanting to deepen the melancholy of my mind, or to add to
the weight of the many bodings that pressed on it.
After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleeping thought, I rose
from my bed and returned to the garden. I found the Christian
alone,—seated, under the shade of one of his trees, at a small table, with
a volume unrolled before him, while a beautiful antelope lay sleeping at
his feet. Struck forcibly by the contrast which he presented to those
haughty priests, whom I had seen surrounded by the pomp and gorgeousness
of temples, “Is this, then,” thought I, “the faith, before which the world
trembles—its temple the desert, its treasury a book, and its High Priest
the solitary dweller of the rock!”
He had prepared for me a simple, but hospitable, repast, of which fruits
from his own garden, the white bread of Olyra, and the juice of the honey‐
cane were the most costly luxuries. His manner to me was even more cordial
than before; but the absence of Alethe, and, still more, the ominous
reserve, with which he not only, himself, refrained from all mention of
her name, but eluded the few inquiries, by which I sought to lead to it,
seemed to confirm all the fears I had felt in parting from her.
She had acquainted him, it was evident, with the whole history of our
flight. My reputation as a philosopher—my desire to become a Christian—all
was already known to the zealous Anchoret, and the subject of my
conversion was the very first on which he entered. O pride of philosophy,
how wert thou then humbled, and with what shame did I stand, casting down
my eyes, before that venerable man, as, with ingenuous trust in the
sincerity of my intention, he welcomed me to a participation of his holy
hope, and imprinted the Kiss of Charity on my infidel brow!
Embarrassed as I felt by the consciousness of hypocrisy, I was even still
more perplexed by my total ignorance of the real tenets of the faith to
which I professed myself a convert. Abashed and confused, and with a heart
sick at its own deceit, I heard the animated and eloquent gratulations of
the Christian, as though they were words in a dream, without link or
meaning; nor could disguise but by the mockery of a reverential bow, at
every pause, the entire want of self‐possession, and even of speech, under
which I laboured.
A few minutes more of such trial, and I must have avowed my imposture. But
the holy man saw my embarrassment;—and, whether mistaking it for awe, or
knowing it to be ignorance, relieved me from my perplexity by, at once,
changing the theme. Having gently awakened his antelope from its sleep,
“You have heard,” he said, “I doubt not, of my brother‐anchoret, Paul,
who, from his cave in the marble mountains, near the Red Sea, sends hourly
‘the sacrifice of thanksgiving’ to heaven. Of _his_ walks, they tell me, a
lion is the companion; but, for me,” he added, with a playful and
significant smile, “who try my powers of taming but on the gentler
animals, this feeble child of the desert is a far fitter play‐mate.” Then,
taking his staff, and putting the time‐worn volume which he had been
reading into a large goat‐skin pouch, that hung by his side, “I will now,”
said he, “lead thee over my rocky kingdom,—that thou mayst see in what
drear and barren places, that ‘fruit of the spirit,’ Peace, may be
gathered.”
To speak of peace to a heart like mine, at that moment, was like talking
of some distant harbour to the mariner sinking at sea. In vain did I look
round for some sign of Alethe;—in vain make an effort even to utter her
name. Consciousness of my own deceit, as well as a fear of awakening in
Melanius any suspicion that might frustrate my only hope, threw a fetter
over my spirit and checked my tongue. In silence, therefore, I followed,
while the cheerful old man, with slow, but firm, step, ascended the rock,
by the same ladders which I had mounted on the preceding night.
During the time when the Decian Persecution was raging, many Christians of
this neighbourhood, he informed me, had taken refuge under his protection,
in these grottos; and the chapel on the summit, where I had found them at
prayer, was, in those times of danger, their place of retreat, where, by
drawing up these ladders, they were enabled to secure themselves from
pursuit.
From the top of the rock, the view, on either side, embraced the two
extremes of fertility and desolation; nor could the Epicurean and the
Anchoret, who now gazed from that height, be at any loss to indulge their
respective tastes, between the living luxuriance of the world on one side,
and the dead repose of the desert on the other. When we turned to the
river, what a picture of animation presented itself! Near us, to the
south, were the graceful colonnades of Antinoë, its proud, populous
streets, and triumphal monuments. On the opposite shore, rich plains,
teeming with cultivation to the water’s edge, offered up, as from verdant
altars, their fruits to the sun; while, beneath us, the Nile,
——the glorious stream,
That late between its banks was seen to glide,—
With shrines and marble cities, on each side,
Glittering, like jewels strung along a chain,—
Had now sent forth its waters, and o’er plain
And valley, like a giant from his bed
Rising with outstretch’d limbs, superbly spread.
From this scene, on one side of the mountain, we had but to turn round our
eyes, and it was as if nature herself had become suddenly extinct;—a wide
waste of sands, bleak and interminable, wearying out the sun with its
sameness of desolation;—black, burnt‐up rocks, that stood as barriers, at
which life stopped;—while the only signs of animation, past or present,
were the foot‐prints, here and there, of an antelope or ostrich, or the
bones of dead camels, as they lay whitening at a distance, marking out the
track of the caravans over the waste.
After listening, while he contrasted, in a few eloquent words, the two
regions of life and death on whose confines we stood, I again descended
with my guide to the garden we had left. From thence, turning into a path
along the mountain‐side, he conducted me to another row of grottos, facing
the desert, which had once, he said, been the abode of those brethren in
Christ, who had fled with him to this solitude from the crowded world,—but
which death had, within a few months, rendered tenantless. A cross of red
stone, and a few faded trees, were the only traces these solitaries had
left behind.
A silence of some minutes succeeded, while we descended to the edge of the
canal; and I saw opposite, among the rocks, that solitary cave, which had
so chilled me with its aspect on the preceding night. By the bank we found
one of those rustic boats, which the Egyptians construct of planks of wild
thorn, bound rudely together with bands of papyrus. Placing ourselves in
this boat, and rather impelling than rowing it across, we made our way
through the foul and shallow flood, and landed directly under the site of
the cave.
This dwelling, as I have already mentioned, was situated upon a ledge of
the rock; and, being provided with a sort of window or aperture to admit
the light of heaven, was accounted, I found, more cheerful than the
grottos on the other side of the ravine. But there was a dreariness in the
whole region around, to which light only lent more horror. The dead
whiteness of the rocks, as they stood, like ghosts, in the sunshine;—that
melancholy pool, half lost in the sands;—all gave me the idea of a wasting
world. To dwell in such a place seemed to me like a living death; and when
the Christian, as we entered the cave, said, “Here is to be thy home,”
prepared as I was for the worst, my resolution gave way;—every feeling of
disappointed passion and humbled pride, which had been gathering round my
heart for the last few hours, found a vent at once, and I burst into
tears!
Well accustomed to human weakness, and perhaps guessing at some of the
sources of mine, the good Hermit, without appearing to notice this
emotion, expatiated, with a cheerful air, on, what he called, the many
comforts of my dwelling. Sheltered, he said, from the dry, burning wind of
the south, my porch would inhale the fresh breeze of the Dog‐star. Fruits
from his own mountain‐garden should furnish my repast. The well of the
neighbouring rock would supply my beverage; and, “here,” he
continued,—lowering his voice into a more solemn tone, as he placed upon
the table the volume which he had brought,—“here, my son, is that ‘well of
living waters,’ in which alone thou wilt find lasting refreshment or
peace!” Thus saying, he descended the rock to his boat, and after a few
plashes of his oar had died upon my ear, the solitude and silence around
me was complete.