What a fate was mine!—but a few weeks since, presiding over that splendid
Festival of the Garden, with all the luxuries of existence tributary in my
train; and now,—self‐humbled into a solitary outcast,—the hypocritical
pupil of a Christian anchoret,—without even the excuse of fanaticism, or
of any other madness, but that of love, wild love, to extenuate my fall!
Were there a hope that, by this humiliating waste of existence, I might
purchase but a glimpse, now and then, of Alethe, even the depths of the
desert, with such a chance, would be welcome. But to live—and live
thus—_without_ her, was a misery which I neither foresaw nor could endure.
Hating even to look upon the den to which I was doomed, I hurried out into
the air, and found my way, along the rocks, to the desert. The sun was
going down, with that blood‐red hue, which he so frequently wears, in this
clime, at his setting. I saw the sands, stretching out, like a sea, to the
horizon, as if their waste extended to the very verge of the world,—and,
in the bitterness of my feelings, rejoiced to see so much of creation
rescued, even by this barren liberty, from the grasp of man. The thought
seemed to relieve my wounded pride, and, as I wandered over the dim and
boundless solitude, to be thus free, even amid blight and desolation,
appeared a blessing.
The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, whose wings were of
the hue of the grey sands over which he fluttered. “Why may not the mind,
like this bird, take the colour of the desert, and sympathise in its
austerity, its freedom, and its calm?”—thus, between despondence and
defiance, did I ask myself, endeavouring to face with fortitude what yet
my heart sickened to contemplate. But the effort was unavailing. Overcome
by that vast solitude, whose repose was not the slumber of peace, but the
sullen and burning silence of hate, I felt my spirit give way, and even
love itself yield to despair.
Seating myself on a fragment of a rock, and covering my eyes with my
hands, I made an effort to shut out the overwhelming prospect. But in
vain—it was still before me, deepened by all that fancy could add; and
when, again looking up, I saw the last red ray of the sun, shooting across
that melancholy and lifeless waste, it seemed to me like the light of the
comet that once desolated this world, shining out luridly over the ruin
that it had made!
Appalled by my own gloomy imaginations, I turned towards the ravine; and,
notwithstanding the disgust with which I had left my dwelling, was not ill
pleased to find my way, over the rocks, to it again. On approaching the
cave, to my astonishment, I saw a light within. At such a moment, any
vestige of life was welcome, and I hailed the unexpected appearance with
pleasure. On entering, however, I found the chamber as lonely as I had
left it. The light came from a lamp that burned brightly on the table;
beside it was unfolded the volume which Melanius had brought, and upon the
leaves—oh, joy and surprise—lay the well‐known cross of Alethe!
What hand, but her own, could have prepared this reception for me?—The
very thought sent a hope into my heart, before which all despondency fled.
Even the gloom of the desert was forgotten, and my cave at once brightened
into a bower. She had here reminded me, herself, by this sacred memorial,
of the vow which I had pledged to her under the Hermit’s rock; and I now
scrupled not to reiterate the same daring promise, though conscious that
through hypocrisy alone I could fulfil it.
Eager to prepare myself for my task of imposture, I sat down to the
volume, which I now found to be the Hebrew Scriptures; and the first
sentence, on which my eyes fell, was—“The Lord hath commanded the
blessing, even Life for evermore!” Startled by these words, in which the
Spirit of my dream seemed again to pronounce his assuring prediction, I
raised my eyes from the page, and repeated the sentence over and over, as
if to try whether the sounds had any charm or spell, to reawaken that
faded illusion in my soul. But, no—the rank frauds of the Memphian
priesthood had dispelled all my trust in the promises of religion. My
heart had again relapsed into its gloom of scepticism, and, to the word of
“Life,” the only answer it sent back was, “Death!”
Impatient, however, to possess myself of the elements of a faith, on
which,—whatever it might promise for hereafter,—I felt that my happiness
here depended, I turned over the pages with an earnestness and avidity,
such as never even the most favourite of my studies had awakened in me.
Though, like all, who seek but the surface of learning, I flew desultorily
over the leaves, lighting only on the more prominent and shining points, I
yet found myself, even in this undisciplined career, arrested, at every
page, by the awful, the supernatural sublimity, the alternate melancholy
and grandeur of the images that crowded upon me.
I had, till now, known the Hebrew theology but through the platonising
refinements of Philo;—as, in like manner, for my knowledge of the
Christian doctrine I was indebted to my brother Epicureans, Lucian and
Celsus. Little, therefore, was I prepared for the simple majesty, the high
tone of inspiration,—the poetry, in short, of heaven that breathed
throughout these oracles. Could admiration have kindled faith, I should,
that night, have been a believer; so elevated, so awed was my imagination
by that wonderful book,—its warnings of woe, its announcements of glory,
and its unrivalled strains of adoration and sorrow.
Hour after hour, with the same eager and desultory curiosity, did I turn
over the leaves;—and when, at length, I lay down to rest, my fancy was
still haunted by the impressions it had received. I went again through the
various scenes of which I had read; again called up, in sleep, the bright
images that had charmed me, and, when wakened at day‐break by the Hymn
from the chapel, fancied myself still listening to the sound of the winds,
sighing mournfully through the harps of Israel on the willows.
Starting from my bed, I hurried out upon the rock, with a hope that, among
the tones of that morning choir, I might be able to distinguish the sweet
voice of Alethe. But the strain had ceased;—I caught only the last notes
of the Hymn, as, echoing up that lonely valley, they died away into the
silence of the desert.
With the first glimpse of light I was again at my study, and,
notwithstanding the distraction both of my thoughts and looks towards the
half‐seen grottos of the Anchoret, pursued it perseveringly through the
day. Still alive, however, but to the eloquence, the poetry of what I
read, of its connection or authenticity, as a history, I never paused to
consider. My fancy being alone interested by it, to fancy I referred all
it contained; and, passing rapidly from annals to prophecy, from narration
to song, regarded the whole but as a tissue of splendid allegories, in
which the melancholy of Egyptian associations was interwoven with the rich
imagery of the East.
Towards sunset I saw the boat of Melanius on its way, across the canal, to
my cave. Though he had no other companion than his graceful antelope, that
stood snuffing the wild air of the desert, as if scenting its home, I felt
his visit, even thus, to be a most welcome relief. It was the hour, he
said, of his evening ramble up the mountain,—of his accustomed visit to
those cisterns of the rock, from which he nightly drew his most precious
beverage. While he spoke, I observed in his hand one of those earthen
cups, in which the inhabitants of the wilderness are accustomed to collect
the fresh dew among the rocks. Having proposed that I should accompany him
in his walk, he led me, in the direction of the desert, up the side of the
mountain that rose above my dwelling, and which formed the southern wall
or screen of the defile.
Near the summit we found a seat, where the old man paused to rest. It
commanded a full view over the desert, and was by the side of one of those
hollows in the rock, those natural reservoirs, in which the dews of night
are treasured up for the refreshment of the dwellers in the wilderness.
Having learned from me how far I had proceeded in my study, “In that
light,” said he, pointing to a small cloud in the east, which had been
formed on the horizon by the haze of the desert, and was now faintly
reflecting the splendours of sunset,—“in that light stands Mount Sinai, of
whose glory thou hast read; on whose summit was the scene of one of those
awful revelations, in which the Almighty has, from time to time, renewed
his communication with Man, and kept alive the remembrance of his own
Providence in this world.”
After a pause, as if absorbed in the immensity of the subject, the holy
man continued his sublime theme. Looking back to the earliest annals of
time, he showed how constantly every relapse of the human race into
idolatry has been followed by some manifestation of divine power,
chastening the proud by punishment, and winning back the humble by love.
It was to preserve, he said, unextinguished upon earth, that vital
truth,—the Creation of the world by one Supreme Being,—that God chose,
from among the nations, an humble and enslaved race;—that he brought them
out of their captivity “on eagles’ wings,” and, surrounding every step of
their course with miracles, placed them before the eyes of all succeeding
generations, as the depositaries of his will, and the ever‐during
memorials of his power.
Passing, then, in review the long train of inspired interpreters, whose
pens and whose tongues were made the echoes of the Divine voice, he
traced(8), through the events of successive ages, the gradual unfolding of
the dark scheme of Providence—darkness without, but all light and glory
within. The glimpses of a coming redemption, visible even through the
wrath of heaven;—the long series of prophecy, through which this hope
runs, burning and alive, like a spark through a chain;—the merciful
preparation of the hearts of mankind for the great trial of their faith
and obedience that was at hand, not only by miracles that appealed to the
living, but by predictions launched into futurity to carry conviction to
the yet unborn;—“through all these glorious and beneficent gradations we
may track,” said he, “the manifest footsteps of a Creator, advancing to
his grand, ultimate end, the salvation of his creatures.”
After some hours devoted to these holy instructions, we returned to the
ravine, and Melanius left me at my cave; praying, as he parted from
me,—with a benevolence I but ill, alas! deserved,—that my soul, under
these lessons, might be “as a watered garden,” and, ere long, bear “fruit
unto life eternal.”
Next morning, I was again at my study, and even more eager in the task
than before. With the commentary of the Hermit freshly in my memory, I
again read through, with attention, the Book of the Law. But in vain did I
seek the promise of immortality in its pages. “It tells me,” said I, “of a
God coming down to earth, but of the ascent of Man to heaven it speaks
not. The rewards, the punishments it announces, lie all on this side of
the grave; nor did even the Omnipotent offer to his own chosen servants a
hope beyond the impassable limits of this world. Where, then, is the
salvation of which the Christian spoke? or, if Death be at the root of the
faith, can Life spring out of it!”
Again, in the bitterness of disappointment, did I mock at my own willing
self‐delusion,—again rail at the arts of that traitress, Fancy, ever
ready, like the Delilah of this book, to steal upon the slumbers of
Reason, and deliver him up, shorn and powerless, to his foes. If
deception—thought I, with a sigh—be necessary, at least let me not
practise it on myself;—in the desperate alternative before me, let me
rather be even hypocrite than dupe.
These self‐accusing reflections, cheerless as they rendered my task, did
not abate, for a single moment, my industry in pursuing it. I read on and
on, with a sort of sullen apathy, neither charmed by style, nor
transported by imagery,—that fatal blight in my heart having communicated
itself to my fancy and taste. The curses and the blessings, the glory and
the ruin, which the historian recorded and the prophet predicted, seemed
all of this world,—all, temporal and earthly. That mortality, of which the
fountain‐head had tasted, tinged the whole stream; and when I read the
words, “all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again,” a feeling, like
the wind of the desert, came witheringly over me. Love, Beauty, Glory,
every thing most bright upon earth, appeared sinking before my eyes, under
this dreadful doom, into one general mass of corruption and silence.
Possessed by the image of desolation I had called up, I laid my head on
the book, in a paroxysm of despair. Death, in all his most ghastly
varieties, passed before me; and I had continued thus for some time, as
under the influence of a fearful vision, when the touch of a hand upon my
shoulder roused me. Looking up, I saw the Anchoret standing by my
side;—his countenance beaming with that sublime tranquillity, which a
hope, beyond this earth, alone can bestow. How I envied him!
We again took our way to the seat upon the mountain,—the gloom in my own
mind making every thing around me more gloomy. Forgetting my hypocrisy in
my feelings, I, at once, avowed to him all the doubts and fears which my
study of the morning had awakened.
“Thou art yet, my son,” he answered, “but on the threshold of our faith.
Thou hast seen but the first rudiments of the Divine plan;—its full and
consummate perfection hath not yet opened upon thee. However glorious that
manifestation of Divinity on Mount Sinai, it was but the forerunner of
another, still more glorious, that, in the fulness of time, was to burst
upon the world; when all, that had seemed dim and incomplete, was to be
perfected, and the promises, shadowed out by the ‘spirit of prophecy,’
realized;—when the silence, that lay, as a seal, on the future, was to be
broken, and the glad tidings of life and immortality proclaimed to the
world!”
Observing my features brighten at these words, the pious man continued.
Anticipating some of the holy knowledge that was in store for me, he
traced, through all its wonders and mercies, the great work of Redemption,
dwelling on every miraculous circumstance connected with it;—the exalted
nature of the Being, by whose ministry it was accomplished, the noblest
and first created of the Sons of God, inferior only to the one, self‐
existent Father;—the mysterious incarnation of this heavenly
messenger;—the miracles that authenticated his divine mission;—the example
of obedience to God and love to man, which he set, as a shining light,
before the world for ever;—and, lastly and chiefly, his death and
resurrection, by which the covenant of mercy was sealed, and “life and
immortality brought to light.”
“Such,” continued the Hermit, “was the Mediator, promised through all
time, to ‘make reconciliation for iniquity,’ to change death into life,
and bring ‘healing on his wings’ to a darkened world. Such was the last
crowning dispensation of that God of benevolence, in whose hands sin and
death are but instruments of everlasting good, and who, through apparent
evil and temporary retribution, bringing all things ‘out of darkness into
his marvellous light,’ proceeds watchfully and unchangingly to the great,
final object of his providence,—the restoration of the whole human race to
purity and happiness!”
With a mind astonished, if not touched, by these discourses, I returned to
my cave; and found the lamp, as before, ready lighted to receive me. The
volume which I had been reading was replaced by another, which lay open
upon the table, with a branch of fresh palm between its leaves. Though I
could not have a doubt to whose gentle hand I was indebted for this
invisible superintendence over my studies, there was yet a something in
it, so like spiritual interposition, that it awed me;—and never more than
at this moment, when, on approaching the volume, I saw, as the light
glistened over its silver letters, that it was the very Book of Life of
which the Hermit had spoken!
The orison of the Christians had sounded through the valley, before I
raised my eyes from that sacred volume; and the second hour of the sun
found me again over its pages.