by Thomas Moore
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, 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.
CHAP. XVIII.
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 tho
ught, 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.
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br /> 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!