In this mode of existence did I pass some days;—my mornings devoted to
reading, my nights to listening, under the canopy of heaven, to the holy
eloquence of Melanius. The perseverance with which I enquired, and the
quickness with which I learned, soon succeeded in deceiving my benevolent
instructor, who mistook curiosity for zeal and knowledge for belief. Alas!
cold, and barren, and earthly was that knowledge,—the word, without the
spirit, the shape, without the life. Even when, as a relief from
hypocrisy, I persuaded myself that I believed, it was but a brief
delusion, a faith, whose hope crumbled at the touch,—like the fruit of the
desert‐shrub, shining and empty!
But, though my soul was still dark, the good Hermit saw not into its
depths. The very facility of my belief, which might have suggested some
doubt of its sincerity, was but regarded by his innocent zeal, as a more
signal triumph of the truth. His own ingenuousness led him to a ready
trust in others; and the examples of such conversion as that of the
philosopher, Justin, who received the light into his soul during a walk by
the sea‐shore, had prepared him for illuminations of the spirit, even more
rapid than mine.
During this time, I neither saw nor heard of Alethe;—nor could my patience
have endured so long a privation, had not those mute vestiges of her
presence, that welcomed me every night on my return, made me feel that I
was still living under her gentle influence, and that her sympathy hung
round every step of my progress. Once, too, when I ventured to speak her
name to Melanius, though he answered not my enquiry, there was a smile, I
thought, of promise upon his countenance, which love, more alive than
faith, interpreted as it wished.
At length,—it was on the sixth or seventh evening of my solitude, when I
lay resting at the door of my cave, alter the study of the day,—I was
startled by hearing my name called loudly from the opposite rocks, and
looking up, saw, on the cliff near the deserted grottos, Melanius and—oh,
I could not doubt—my Alethe by his side!
Though I had never ceased, since the first night of my return from the
desert, to flatter myself with the fancy that I was still living in her
presence, the actual sight of her again made me feel what an age we had
been separated. She was clothed all in white, and, as she stood in the
last remains of the sunshine, appeared to my too prophetic fancy like a
parting spirit, whose last footsteps on earth that glory encircled.
With a delight only to be imagined, I saw them descend the rocks, and
placing themselves in the boat, proceed towards my cave. To disguise from
Melanius the feelings with which we met was impossible;—nor did Alethe
even attempt to make a secret of her innocent joy. Though blushing at her
own happiness, she could as little conceal it, as the clear waters of
Ethiopia can hide their gold. Every look, too, every word, spoke a fulness
of affection, to which, doubtful as I was of our tenure of happiness, I
knew not how to answer.
I was not long, however, left ignorant of the bright fate that awaited me;
but, as we wandered or rested among the rocks, learned every thing that
had been arranged since our parting. She had made the Hermit, I found,
acquainted with all that had passed between us; had told him, without
reserve, every incident of our voyage,—the avowals, the demonstrations of
affection on one side, and the deep sentiment that gratitude had awakened
on the other. Too wise to regard feelings, so natural, with
severity,—knowing that they were of heaven, and but made evil by man,—the
good Hermit had heard of our attachment with pleasure; and, proved as he
thought the purity of my views had been, by the fidelity with which I had
delivered up my trust into his hands, saw, in my affection for the young
orphan, but a providential resource against that friendless solitude in
which his death must soon leave her.
As I collected these particulars from their discourse, I could hardly
trust my ears. It seemed too much happiness to be real; nor can words give
an idea of the joy—the shame—the wonder with which I listened, while the
holy man himself declared, that he awaited but the moment, when he should
find me worthy of becoming a member of the Christian Church, to give me
also the hand of Alethe in that sacred union, which alone sanctifies love,
and makes the faith, which it pledges, heavenly. It was but yesterday, he
added, that his young charge, herself, after a preparation of prayer and
repentance, such as even her pure spirit required, had been admitted, by
the sacred ordinance of baptism, into the bosom of the faith;—and the
white garment she wore, and the ring of gold on her finger, “were
symbols,” he said, “of that New Life into which she had been initiated.”
I raised my eyes to her as he spoke, but withdrew them again, dazzled and
confused. Even her beauty, to my imagination, seemed to have undergone
some brightening change; and the contrast between that open and happy
countenance, and the unblest brow of the infidel that stood before her,
abashed me into a sense of unworthiness, and almost checked my rapture.
To that night, however, I look back, as an epoch in my existence. It
proved that sorrow is not the only awakener of devotion, but that joy may
sometimes call the holy spark into life. Returning to my cave, with a
heart full, even to oppression, of its happiness, I knew no other relief
to my overcharged feelings than that of throwing myself on my knees, and,
for the first time in my life, uttering a prayer, that if, indeed, there
were a Being who watched over mankind, he would send down one ray of his
truth into my soul, and make it worthy of the blessings, both here and
hereafter, proffered to me!
My days now rolled on in a perfect dream of happiness. Every hour of the
morning was welcomed as bringing nearer and nearer the blest time of
sunset, when the Hermit and Alethe never failed to pay their visit to my
now charmed cave, where her smile left a light, at each parting, that
lasted till her return. Then, our rambles, by star‐light, over the
mountain;—our pauses, on the way, to contemplate the bright wonders of
that heaven above us;—our repose by the cistern of the rock, and our
silent listening, through hours that seemed minutes, to the holy eloquence
of our teacher;—all, all was happiness of the most heartfelt kind, and
such as even the doubts, the cold, lingering doubts, that still hung, like
a mist, around my heart, could neither cloud nor chill.
When the moonlight nights returned, we used to venture into the desert;
and those sands, which but lately had appeared to me so desolate, now wore
even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To the light, innocent heart of Alethe
every thing was a source of enjoyment. For her, even the desert had its
jewels and flowers; and, sometimes, her delight was to search among the
sands for those beautiful pebbles of jasper that abound in
them;—sometimes, her eyes sparkled on finding, perhaps, a stunted
marigold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers, that lend their mockery
of ornament to the desert. In all these pursuits and pleasures the good
Hermit took a share,—mingling with them occasionally the reflections of a
benevolent piety, that lent its own cheerful hue to all the works of
creation, and saw the consoling truth “God is Love,” written legibly every
where.
Such was, for a few weeks, my blissful life. Oh mornings of hope, oh
nights of happiness, with what mournful pleasure do I retrace your flight,
and how reluctantly pass to the sad events that followed!
During this time, in compliance with the wishes of Melanius, who seemed
unwilling that I should become wholly estranged from the world, I
occasionally paid a visit to the neighbouring city, Antinoë, which, as the
capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of all the luxury of Upper Egypt.
Here,—so changed was my every feeling by the all‐transforming passion that
possessed me,—I wandered, unamused and uninterested by either the scenes
or the people that surrounded me, and, sighing for that rocky solitude
where Alethe breathed, felt _this_ to be the wilderness, and _that_, the
world.
Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that were called up, at every
step, by the light, Grecian architecture of this imperial city, did not
awaken one single regret in my heart—one wish to exchange even an hour of
my desert for the best luxuries and honours that awaited me in the Garden.
I saw the arches of triumph;—I walked under the superb portico, which
encircles the whole city with its marble shade;—I stood in the Circus of
the Sun, by whose rose‐coloured pillars the mysterious movements of the
Nile are measured;—all these bright ornaments of glory and art, as well as
the gay multitude that enlivened them, I saw with an unheeding eye. If
they awakened in me any thought, it was the mournful idea, that, one day,
like Thebes and Heliopolis, this pageant would pass away, leaving nothing
behind but a few mouldering ruins,—like the sea‐shells found where the
ocean has been,—to tell that the great tide of Life was once there!
But, though indifferent thus to all that had formerly attracted me, there
were subjects, once alien to my heart, on which it was now most
tremblingly alive; and some rumours which had reached me, in one of my
visits to the city, of an expected change in the policy of the Emperor
towards the Christians, filled me with apprehensions as new as they were
dreadful to me.
The peace and even favour which the Christians enjoyed, during the first
four years of the reign of Valerian, had removed from them all fear of a
renewal of those horrors, which they had experienced under the rule of his
predecessor, Decius. Of late, however, some less friendly dispositions had
manifested themselves. The bigots of the court, taking alarm at the spread
of the new faith, had succeeded in filling the mind of the monarch with
that religious jealousy, which is the ever‐ready parent of cruelty and
injustice. Among these counsellors of evil was Macrianus, the Prætorian
Prefect, who was, by birth, an Egyptian, and—so akin is superstition to
intolerance—had long made himself notorious by his addiction to the dark
practices of demon‐worship and magic.
From this minister, who was now high in the favour of Valerian, the
expected measures of severity against the Christians, it was supposed,
would emanate. All tongues, in all quarters, were busy with the news. In
the streets, in the public gardens, on the steps of the temples, I saw,
every where, groups of enquirers collected, and heard the name of
Macrianus upon every tongue. It was dreadful, too, to observe, in the
countenances of those who spoke, the variety of feeling with which the
rumour was discussed, according as they desired or dreaded its
truth,—according as they were likely to be among the torturers or the
victims.
Alarmed, though still ignorant of the whole extent of the danger, I
hurried back to the ravine, and, going at once to the grotto of Melanius,
detailed to him every particular of the intelligence I had collected. He
heard me with a composure, which I mistook, alas, for confidence in his
security; and, naming the hour for our evening walk, retired into his
grotto.
At the accustomed time Alethe and he were at my cave. It was evident that
he had not communicated to her the intelligence which I had brought, for
never did brow wear such a happiness as that which now played round
hers;—it was, alas, _not_ of this earth! Melanius, himself, though
composed, was thoughtful; and the solemnity, almost approaching to
melancholy, with which he placed the hand of Alethe in mine—in the
performance, too, of a ceremony that _ought_ to have filled my heart with
joy—saddened and alarmed me. This ceremony was our betrothment,—the
plighting of our faith to each other,—which we now solemnized on the rock
before the door of my cave, in the face of that sunset heaven, with its
one star standing as witness. After a blessing from the Hermit on our
spousal pledge, I placed the ring,—the earnest of our future union—on her
finger, and, in the blush, with which she surrendered her whole heart to
me at that instant, forgot every thing but my happiness, and felt secure,
even against fate!
We took our accustomed walk over the rocks and on the desert. The moon was
so bright,—like the daylight, indeed, of other climes—that we could see
plainly the tracks of the wild antelopes in the sand; and it was not
without a slight tremble of feeling in his voice, as if some melancholy
analogy occurred to him as he spoke, that the good Hermit said, “I have
observed in my walks, that where‐ever the track of that gentle animal is
seen, there is, almost always, the foot‐print of a beast of prey near it.”
He regained, however, his usual cheerfulness before we parted, and fixed
the following evening for an excursion, on the other side of the ravine,
to a point, looking, he said, “towards that northern region of the desert,
where the hosts of the Lord encamped in their departure out of bondage.”
Though, in the presence of Alethe, my fears, even for herself, were
forgotten in that perpetual element of happiness, which encircled her like
the air that she breathed, no sooner was I alone than vague terrors and
bodings crowded upon me. In vain did I try to reason myself out of my
fears by dwelling on the most cheering circumstances,—the reverence with
which Melanius was regarded, even by the Pagans, and the inviolate
security with which he had lived through the most perilous periods, not
only safe himself, but affording sanctuary in his grottos to others. When,
somewhat calmed by these considerations, I sunk off to sleep, dark,
horrible dreams took possession of my mind. Scenes of death and of torment
passed confusedly before me, and, when I awoke, it was with the fearful
impression that all these horrors were real.