At length, the day dawned,—that dreadful day. Impatient to be relieved
from my suspense, I threw myself into my boat,—the same in which we had
performed our happy voyage,—and, as fast as oars could speed me, hurried
away to the city. I found the suburbs silent and solitary, but, as I
approached the Forum, loud yells, like those of barbarians in combat,
struck on my ear, and, when I entered it,—great God, what a spectacle
presented itself! The imperial edict against the Christians had arrived
during the night, and already the wild fury of bigotry was let loose.
Under a canopy, in the middle of the Forum, was the tribunal of the
Governor. Two statues, one of Apollo, the other of Osiris, stood at the
bottom of the steps that led up to his judgment‐seat. Before these idols
were shrines, to which the devoted Christians were dragged from all
quarters by the soldiers and mob, and there compelled to recant, by
throwing incense into the flame, or, on their refusal, hurried away to
torture and death. It was an appalling scene;—the consternation, the cries
of some of the victims,—the pale, silent resolution of others;—the fierce
shouts of laughter that broke from the multitude, when the frankincense,
dropped on the altar, proclaimed some denier of Christ; and the fiend‐like
triumph with which the courageous Confessors, who avowed their faith, were
led away to the flames;—never could I have conceived such an assemblage of
horrors!
Though I gazed but for a few minutes, in those minutes I felt enough for
years. Already did the form of Alethe flit before me through that
tumult;—I heard them shout her name;—her shriek fell on my ear; and the
very thought so palsied me with terror, that I stood fixed and statue‐like
on the spot.
Recollecting, however, the fearful preciousness of every moment, and
that—perhaps, at this very instant—some emissaries of blood might be on
their way to the grottos, I rushed wildly out of the Forum, and made my
way to the quay.
The streets were now crowded; but I ran headlong through the multitude,
and was already under the portico leading down to the river,—already saw
the boat that was to bear me to Alethe,—when a Centurion stood sternly in
my path, and I was surrounded and arrested by soldiers! It was in vain
that I implored, that I struggled with them as for life, assuring them
that I was a stranger,—that I was an Athenian,—that I was—_not_ a
Christian. The precipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence against
me, and unrelentingly, and by force, they bore me away to the quarters of
their Chief.
It was enough to drive me to madness! Two hours, two frightful hours, was
I kept waiting the arrival of the Tribune of their Legion(9),—my brain
burning with a thousand fears and imaginations, which every passing minute
made more likely to be realised. Every thing, too, that I could collect
from the conversations around me but added to the agonising apprehensions
with which I was racked. Troops, it was said, had been sent in all
directions through the neighbourhood, to bring in the rebellious
Christians, and make them bow before the Gods of the Empire. With horror,
too, I heard of Orcus,—Orcus, the High Priest of Memphis,—as one of the
principal instigators of this sanguinary edict, and as here present in
Antinoë, animating and directing its execution.
In this state of torture I remained till the arrival of the Tribune.
Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had not perceived his entrance;—till,
hearing a voice, in a tone of friendly surprise, exclaim, “Alciphron!” I
looked up, and in this legionary Chief recognised a young Roman of rank,
who had held a military command, the year before, at Athens, and was one
of the most distinguished visitors of the Garden. It was no time, however,
for courtesies;—he was proceeding with cordiality to greet me, but, having
heard him order my instant release, I could wait for no more.
Acknowledging his kindness but by a grasp of the hand, I flew off, like
one frantic, through the streets, and, in a few minutes, was on the river.
My sole hope had been to reach the grottos before any of the detached
parties should arrive, and, by a timely flight across the desert, rescue,
at least, Alethe from their fury. The ill‐fated delay that had occurred
rendered this hope almost desperate; but the tranquillity I found every
where as I proceeded down the river, and the fond confidence I still
cherished in the sacredness of the Hermit’s retreat, kept my heart from
giving way altogether under its terrors.
Between the current and my oars, the boat flew, like wind, along the
waters; and I was already near the rocks of the ravine, when I saw,
turning out of the canal into the river, a barge crowded with people, and
glittering with arms! How did I ever survive the shock of that sight? The
oars dropped, as if struck out of my hands, into the water, and I sat,
helplessly gazing, as that terrific vision approached. In a few minutes,
the current brought us together;—and I saw, on the deck of the barge,
Alethe and the Hermit surrounded by soldiers!
We were already passing each other when, with a desperate effort, I sprang
from my boat and lighted upon the edge of their vessel. I knew not what I
did, for despair was my only prompter. Snatching at the sword of one of
the soldiers, as I stood tottering on the edge, I had succeeded in
wresting it out of his hands, when, at the same moment, I received a
thrust of a lance from one of his comrades, and fell backward into the
river. I can just remember rising again and making a grasp at the side of
the vessel;—but the shock, the faintness from my wound, deprived me of all
consciousness, and a shriek from Alethe, as I sunk, is all I can recollect
of what followed.
Would I had then died!—Yet, no, Almighty Being,—I should have died in
darkness, and I have lived to know Thee!
On returning to my senses, I found myself reclined on a couch, in a
splendid apartment, the whole appearance of which being Grecian, I, for a
moment, forgot all that had passed, and imagined myself in my own home at
Athens. But too soon the whole dreadful certainty flashed upon me; and,
starting wildly—disabled as I was—from my couch, I called loudly, and with
the shriek of a maniac, on Alethe.
I was in the house, I found, of my friend and disciple, the young Tribune,
who had made the Governor acquainted with my name and condition, and had
received me under his roof, when brought, bleeding and insensible, to
Antinoë. From him I now learned at once,—for I could not wait for
details,—the sum of all that had happened in that dreadful interval.
Melanius was no more,—Alethe, still alive, but in prison!
“Take me to her”—I had but time to say—“take me to her instantly, and let
me die by her side,”—when, nature again failing under such shocks, I
relapsed into insensibility. In this state I continued for near an hour,
and, on recovering, found the Tribune by my side. The horrors, he said, of
the Forum were, for that day, over,—but what the morrow might bring, he
shuddered to contemplate. His nature, it was plain, revolted from the
inhuman duties in which he was engaged. Touched by the agonies he saw me
suffer, he, in some degree, relieved them, by promising that I should, at
night‐fall, be conveyed to the prison, and, if possible, through his
influence, gain access to Alethe. She might yet, he added, be saved, could
I succeed in persuading her to comply with the terms of the edict, and
make sacrifice to the Gods.—“Otherwise,” said he, “there is no hope;—the
vindictive Orcus, who has resisted even this short respite of mercy, will,
to‐morrow, inexorably demand his prey.”
He then related to me, at my own request,—though every word was
torture,—all the harrowing details of the proceeding before the Tribunal.
“I have seen courage,” said he, “in its noblest forms, in the field; but
the calm intrepidity with which that aged Hermit endured torments—which it
was hardly less torment to witness—surpassed all that I could have
conceived of human fortitude!”
My poor Alethe, too,—in describing to me her conduct, the brave man wept
like a child. Overwhelmed, he said, at first by her apprehensions for my
safety, she had given way to a full burst of womanly weakness. But no
sooner was she brought before the Tribunal, and the declaration of her
faith was demanded of her, than a spirit almost supernatural seemed to
animate her whole form. “She raised her eyes,” said he, “calmly, but with
fervour, to heaven, while a blush was the only sign of mortal feeling on
her features;—and the clear, sweet, and untrembling voice, with which she
pronounced her dooming words, ‘I am a Christian!’ sent a thrill of
admiration and pity throughout the multitude. Her youth, her loveliness,
affected all hearts, and a cry of ‘Save the young maiden!’ was heard in
all directions.”
The implacable Orcus, however, would not hear of mercy. Resenting, as it
appeared, with all his deadliest rancour, not only her own escape from his
toils, but the aid with which, so fatally to his views, she had assisted
mine, he demanded loudly, and in the name of the insulted sanctuary of
Isis, her instant death. It was but by the firm intervention of the
Governor, who shared the general sympathy in her fate, that the delay of
another day was accorded, to give a chance to the young maiden of yet
recalling her confession, and thus affording some pretext for saving her.
Even in yielding reluctantly to this brief respite, the inhuman Priest
would accompany it with some mark of his vengeance. Whether for the
pleasure (observed the Tribune) of mingling mockery with his cruelty, or
as a warning to her of the doom she must ultimately expect, he gave orders
that there should be tied round her brow one of those chaplets of
coral(10), with which it is the custom of young Christian maidens to array
themselves on the day of their martyrdom;—“and, thus fearfully adorned,”
said he, “she was led away, amid the gaze of the pitying multitude, to
prison.”
With these details the short interval till night‐fall,—every minute of
which seemed an age,—was occupied. As soon as it grew dark, I was placed
upon a litter,—my wound, though not dangerous, requiring such a
conveyance,—and conducted, under the guidance of my friend, to the prison.
Through his interest with the guard, we were without difficulty admitted,
and I was borne into the chamber where the maiden lay immured. Even the
veteran guardian of the place seemed touched with compassion for his
prisoner, and supposing her to be asleep, had the litter placed gently
near her.
She was half reclining, with her face hid in her hands, upon a couch,—at
the foot of which stood an idol, over whose hideous features a lamp of
naptha, hanging from the ceiling, shed a wild and ghastly glare. On a
table before the image stood a censer, with a small vessel of incense
beside it,—one grain of which, thrown voluntarily into the flame, would,
even now, save that precious life. So strange, so fearful was the whole
scene, that I almost doubted its reality. Alethe! my own, happy Alethe!
_can_ it, I thought, be thou that I look upon?
She now, slowly and with difficulty, raised her head from the couch; on
observing which, the kind Tribune withdrew, and we were left alone. There
was a paleness, as of death, over her features; and those eyes, which when
last I saw them, were but too bright, too happy for this world, looked dim
and sunken. In raising herself up, she put her hand, as if from pain, to
her forehead, whose marble hue but appeared more death‐like from those red
bands that lay so awfully across it.
After wandering vaguely for a minute, her eyes rested upon me,—and, with a
shriek, half terror, half joy, she sprung from the couch, and sunk upon
her knees by my side. She had believed me dead; and, even now, scarcely
trusted her senses. “My husband! my love!” she exclaimed; “oh, if thou
comest to call me from this world, behold I am ready!” In saying thus, she
pointed wildly to that ominous wreath, and then dropped her head down upon
my knee, as if an arrow had pierced it.
“Alethe!”—I cried, terrified to the very soul by that mysterious pang,—and
the sound of my voice seemed to reanimate her;—she looked up, with a faint
smile, in my face. Her thoughts, which had evidently been wandering,
became collected; and in her joy at my safety, her sorrow at my suffering,
she forgot wholly the fate that impended over herself. Love, innocent
love, alone occupied all her thoughts; and the tenderness with which she
spoke,—oh, at any other moment, how I would have listened, have lingered
upon, have blessed every word!
But the time flew fast—the dreadful morrow was approaching. Already I saw
her writhing in the hands of the torturer,—the flames, the racks, the
wheels were before my eyes! Half frantic with the fear that her resolution
was fixed, I flung myself from the litter, in an agony of weeping, and
supplicated her, by the love she bore me, by the happiness that awaited
us, by her own merciful God, who was too good to require such a
sacrifice,—by all that the most passionate anxiety could dictate, I
implored that she would avert from us the doom that was coming, and—but
for once—comply with the vain ceremony demanded of her.
Shrinking from me, as I spoke,—but with a look more of sorrow than
reproach,—“What, thou, too!” she said mournfully,—“thou, into whose spirit
I had fondly hoped the same heavenly truth had descended as into my own!
Oh, be not thou leagued with those who would tempt me to ‘make shipwreck
of my faith!’ Thou, who couldst alone bind me to life, use not thy power;
but let me die, as He I serve hath commanded,—die for the Truth. Remember
the holy lessons we heard on those nights, those happy nights, when both
the Present and Future smiled upon us,—when even the gift of eternal life
came more welcome to my soul, from the blessed conviction that thou wert
to be a sharer in it;—shall I forfeit now that divine privilege? shall I
deny the true God, whom we then learned to love?
“No, my own betrothed,” she continued,—pointing to the two rings on her
finger,—“behold these pledges,—they are both sacred. I should have been as
true to thee as I am now to heaven,—nor in that life to which I am
hastening shall our love be forgotten. Should the baptism of fire, through
which I shall pass to‐morrow, make me worthy to be heard before the Throne
of Grace, I will intercede for thy soul—I will pray that it may yet share
with mine that ‘inheritance, immortal and undefiled,’ which Mercy offers,
and that thou,—my dear mother,—and I—”
She here dropped her voice; the momentary animation, with which devotion
and affection had inspired her, vanished;—and a darkness overspread all
her features, a livid darkness,—like the coming of death—that made me
shudder through every limb. Seizing my hand convulsively, and looking at
me with a fearful eagerness, as if anxious to hear some consoling
assurance from my own lips,—“Believe me,” she continued, “not all the
torments they are preparing for me,—not even this deep, burning pain in my
brow, which they will hardly equal,—could be half so dreadful to me, as
the thought that I leave thee—”
Here, her voice again failed; her head sunk upon my arm, and—merciful God,
let me forget what I then felt,—I saw that she was dying! Whether I
uttered any cry, I know not;—but the Tribune came rushing into the
chamber, and, looking on the maiden, said, with a face full of horror, “It
is but too true!”
He then told me in a low voice, what he had just learned from the guardian
of the prison, that the band round the young Christian’s brow was—oh
horrible cruelty!—a compound of the most deadly poison,—the hellish
invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and make the fate of his
poor victim secure. My first movement was to untie that fatal wreath,—but
it would not come away—it would not come away!
Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face; but, unable to speak,
took hastily from her bosom the small silver cross which she had brought
with her from my cave. Having prest it to her own lips, she held it
anxiously to mine, and seeing me kiss the holy symbol with fervour, looked
happy, and smiled. The agony of death seemed to have passed away;—there
came suddenly over her features a heavenly light, some share of which I
felt descending into my own soul, and, in a few minutes more, she expired
in my arms.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
_Here ends the Manuscript; but, on the outer cover there is, in the hand‐
writing of a much later period, the following Notice, extracted, as it
appears, from some Egyptian martyrology:—_
“Alciphron,—an Epicurean philosopher, converted to Christianity A. D. 257,
by a young Egyptian maiden, who suffered martyrdom in that year.
Immediately upon her death he betook himself to the desert, and lived a
life, it is said, of much holiness and penitence. During the persecution
under Dioclesian, his sufferings for the faith were most exemplary; and,
being at length, at an advanced age, condemned to hard labour, for
refusing to comply with an Imperial edict, he died at the brass mines of
Palestine, A. D. 297.—
“As Alciphron held the opinions maintained since by Arius, his memory has
not been spared by Athanasian writers, who, among other charges, accuse
him of having been addicted to the superstitions of Egypt. For this
calumny, however, there appears to be no better foundation than a
circumstance, recorded by one of his brother monks, that there was found,
after his death, a small metal mirror, like those used in the ceremonies
of Isis, suspended round his neck.”