THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

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THE

E r 1 C U R E A X,

A TALE.

BY

THOMAS MOOKE.

ScconH ilSBition.

LONDON:

VRINTKI) KOK

LONGMAN, KKES, ORMK, BKOWN, AND GRKEN,

P.\TKIlNOSTER-KO\V.

1827.

The Publishers beg to inlorm the Composers of Music, and
Music Sellers, that Mr. James Power, of the Strand, Music
Seller, is the only person authorized by them to publish the Songs
or Verses in this Work connected with Music.

fK

/

TO

LORD JOHN RUSSELL

T HJS VOLUME

IS INSCUIBKU

BV ONt WHO AUMIRliS HIS CHAUACTKR
AND TALENTS,

ANU 1> I'UOUU OF HIS FRIKNUSllI K

1317 ID'J

LETTER TO THE TRANSLATOR,

FROM

-, Esq.

Cairo> June 19. 1800.
My clear Sir,
In a visit I lately paid to the monas-
tery of St. Macarius, — which is situated,
as you know, in the Valley of the Lakes
of Natron, — I was lucky enou<i;h to ob-
tain possession of a curious Greek ma-
nuscript, which, in the hope that you may
be induced to translate it, I herewith
send you. Observing one of the monks
very busily occupied in tearing uj), into
a variety of fantastic shapes, some papers

a

VI

which had the appearance of being the
leaves of old books, I enquired of him
the meaning of his task, and received the
following explanation : —

The Arabs, it seems, who are as fond
of pigeons as the ancient Egyptians, have
a superstitious notion that, if they place
in their pigeon-houses small scraps of
paper, written over with learned charac-
ters, the birds are always sure to thrive
the better for the charm ; and the monks,
who are never slow in profiting by super-
stition, have, at all times, a supply of such
amulets for purchasers.

In general, the holy fathers have been
in the habit of scribbling these mystic
fragments, themselves ; but a discovery,
which they have lately made, saves them
this trouble. Having dug up (as my in-
formant stated) a chest of old manuscripts,
which, being chiefly on the subject of al-
chemy, must have been buried in the time
of Dioclesian, " we thought we could
not," added the monk, " employ such

Vll

rubbish more properly, tlian in tearing
it iiji, as you see, for the pigeon-houses
of the Arabs."

On my expressuig a wisii to rescue
some part of these treasures from the fate
to which his indolent fraternity had con-
signed them, he produced the manuscript
which I have now the pleasure of sending
you, — the only one, he said, remaining
entire, — and I very readily paid him the
price he demanded for it.

You will find the story, I think, not
altoirether uninterestino; ; and the coinci-
dence, in many respects, of the curious
details in Chap. VI. with the description
of the same ceremonies in the Romance
of Sethos *, will, I have no doubt, strike

* The description, here alluded to, may also be
found, copied verbatim tVom Sethos, in the " Voy-
ages d'Antcnor." — " In that philosophical ro-
mance, called ' La Vie de Sethos,' " says Warburton,
" we find a much juster account of old Egyptian
wisdom, than in all the pretended ' Histoire du
Ciel.'" Uiv. Leg. hook 4. sect. 14.

vm

you. Hoping that you may be tempted
to give a translation of this Tale to the
world,

I am, my dear Sir,

Very truly yours.

THE EPICUREAN.

CHAPTER I.

It was in the fourth year of the reign of
the hite Emperor Valerian, that the fol-
lowers of p]picuriis, who were at that time
numerous in Athens, proceeded to tlie
election of a person to fill the vacant chair
of their sect; — and, by the unanimous voice
of the School, I was the individual chosen
for their Chief. I was just then enter-
ing on my twenty-fourth year, and no
instance had ever before occurred, of a
person so young being selected for that
office. Youth, however, and the personal
advantages that adorn it, were not, it may
be supposed, among the least valid recom-
mendations, to a sect that included within
its circle all the beauty as well as wit of
Athens, and which, though dignilVing its

B

'Z THE EPICUREAN.

pursuits with the name of philosophy,
was little else than a pretext for the more
refined cultivation of pleasure.

The character of the sect had, indeed,
much changed, since the time of its wise
and virtuous founder, who, while he asserted
that Pleasure is the only Good, inculcated
also that Good is the only source of Plea-
sure. The purer part of this doctrine
had long evaporated, and the tem-
perate Epicurus would have as little re-
cognised his own sect in the assemblage of
refined voluptuaries who now usurped its
name, as he would have known his own
quiet Garden m the luxurious groves and
bowers amonfj which the meetings of the
School were now held.

Many causes, besides the attractiveness
of its doctrines, concurred, at this period,
to render our school the most popular of
any that still survived the glory of Greece.
It may generally be observed, that the pre-
valence, in one half of a community, of very
rigid notions on the subject of religion.

Tlir EPICUKEAN. 3

produces tlic opposite extreme of laxity
and infulelity in the other; and this kind
of re-action it was tliat now mainly con-
tributed to render the doctrines of the
Garden the most fashionable philosophy
of the day. The raj)id prou;ress of the
Christian faith had alarmed all those, who,
either from piety or worldUness, were in-
terested in the continuance of the old
established creed — all who believed in
the Deities of Olympus, and all who
lived by them. The consequence was,
a considerable increase of zeal and ac-
tivity, throughout the constituted autho-
rities and priesthood of the whole Heathen
world. What was wanting in sincerity of
belief was made up in rigour; — the weak-
est parts of the Mythok)gy were those, of
course, most angrily defended, and any
reflections, tending to bring Saturn, or his
wife Ops, into contempt, were punished
witli the utmost severity of the law.

in this state of affairs, between the
alarmed bigotry of the declining Faith,

B 2

4 THE EPICUREAN.

and the simple, sublime austerity of her
rival, it was not wonderful that those lovers
of ease and pleasure, who had no interest,
reversionary or otherwise, in the old re-
ligion, and were too indolent to enquu'e into
the sanctions of the new, should take refuge
from the severities of both under the shelter
of a luxurious philosophy, which, leaving
to others the task of disputing about the
future, centered all its wisdom in the fiill
enjoyment of the present.

The sectaries of the Garden had, ever
since the death of their founder, been
accustomed to dedicate to his memory
the twentieth day of every month. To
these monthly rites had, for some time,
been added a grand annual Festival, in
commemoration of his birth. The feasts,
given on this occasion by my predecessors
in the Chair, had been invariably distin-
guished for their taste and splendour ; and
it was my ambition, not merely to imitate
this example, but even to render the anni-
versary, now celebrated under my auspices.

THE EPICUREAN. 5

SO brilliant, as to efface the recollection of
all that went before it.

Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed
such a scene. The grounds that formed
the original site of the Garden had, from
time to time, received considerable adtli-
tions ; and the whole extent was laid out
with that perfect taste, which knows how
to wed Nature to Art, without sacrificing
her simplicity to the alliance. Walks,
leadin*; throuirh wildernesses of shade
and fragrance — glades, opening, as if to
afford a play-ground for the sunshine —
temples, rising on the very spots where
imagination herself would have called them
up, and fountains and lakes, in alternate
motion and repose, either wantonly court-
ing the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its
embrace, — such was the variety of fea-
ture that diversified these fair gardens;
and, animated as they were on this occasion,
by all the living wit and loveliness of
Athens, it afforded a scene such as my

own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in
IS 3

6 THE EPICUREAN.

images of luxury and beauty, could hardly
have anticipated.

The ceremonies of the day began with
the very dawn, when, according to the form
of simpler and better times, those among
the disciples who had apartments within
the Garden, bore the image of our Founder
in procession from chamber to chamber,
chanting verses in praise of — what had
long ceased to be objects of our imitation
— his frugality and temperance.

Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of
the garden, stood four white Doric temples,
in one of which was collected a library
containing; all the flowers of Grecian
literature ; while, in the remaining three.
Conversation, the Song, and the Dance,
held, uninterrupted by each other, their
respective rites. In the Library stood
busts of all the most illustrious Epi-
cureans, both of Rome and Greece —
Horace, Atticus, Pliny the elder, the poet
Lucretius, Lucian, and the biographer of
the Philosophers, lately lost to us, Dio-

THE EPICUREAN. 7

genes Laertius. Tlieie were also tlie por-
traits, in marble, of all the eminent female
votaries of the school — Leontium and her
fair daughter Danae, Thcmistti, Philaenis,
and others.

It was here that, in my capacity of
Heresiarch, on the morning of the Festival,
I received the felicitations of the day from
some of the fairest lips of Athens ; and, in
pronouncing the customary oration to the
memory of our Master (in which it was
usual to dwell on the doctrines he incul-
cated) endeavoured to attain that art, so
useful before such an audience, of diffusing
over the gravest subjects a charm, which
secures them listeners even among the
simplest and most volatile.

Though study, as may easily be suj>
posed, engrossed but little of the morn
ings of the Garden, yet the lighter part of
learning, — that portion of its attic honey,
for which the bee is not obliged to go very
deep into the flower — was zealously culti-
vated. Even here, however, the student

8 THE EPICUREAN.

had to encounter distractions, which are,
of all others, least favourable to composure
of thought ; and, with more than one of my
fair disciples, there used to occur such
scenes as the following, which a poet of the
Garden, taking his picture from the life,
described : —

" As o'er the lake, in evening's glow,

That temple threw its lengthening shade,
Upon the marble steps below,

There sate a fair Corinthian maid.
Gracefully o'er some volume bending ;

While, by her side, the youthfid Sage
Held back her ringlets, lest, descending.

They should o'er-shadow all the page."

But it was for the evening of that
day, that the richest of our luxuries were
reserved. Every part of the Garden was
illuminated, with the most skilful variety of
lustre ; while over the Lake of the Temples
were scattered wreaths of flowers, through
which boats, filled with beautiful children,
.floated, as through a liquid parterre.

Between two of these boats a perpetual
combat was maintained ; — their respective

THE EPICUREAN. 9

commanders, two bloominj^ youths, being
habited to rejnesent Eros and Anteros; tKe
former, the Celestial Love of the Platonists,
and the latter, that more earthly spirit, which
usurps the name of Love among the Epi-
cureans. Throughout the evening their
conflict was carried on with various success;
the timid distance at which Eros kept from
his more lively antagonist being his only
safeguard against those darts of fire, with
showers of which the other continually
assailed him, but which, luckily falling
short of their mark upon the lake, only
scorched the flowers upon which they
fell, and were extinguished.

In another part of the gardens, on a
wide verdant glade, lighted only by the
moon, an imitation of the torch-race of
the Panathenaea was performed, by young
boys chosen for their fleetness, and arrayed
with wings, like Cupids ; while, not fur off^ a
grouji of seven nymphs, with each a star on
her forehead, rejiresented the movements
of the planetiuy choir, and embodied the

B 5

10 THE EPICUREAN.

dream of Pythagoras into real motion and
song.

At every turning some new enchantment
broke upon the ear or eye. Sometimes,
from the depth of a grove, from which a
fountain at the same time issued, there
came a strain of music, which, mingling
with the murmur of the water, seemed like
the voice of the spirit that presided over its
flow; — while sometimes the strain rose
breathing from among flowers ; and, again,
would ajipear to come suddenly from under
ground, as if the foot had just touched
some spring that set it in motion.

It seems strange that I should now dwell
upon these minute descriptions ; but every
thing connected with that memorable night
— even its long-repented follies — must for
ever live sacredly in my memory. The
festival concluded with a banquet, at whicli
I, of course, presided ; and, feeling myself
to be the ascendant spirit of the whole
scene, gave life to all around me, and saw
my own happiness reflected in that of
others.

THE EPICUREAN. I 1

CHAP. II.

The festival was over; — tlie sounds of"
the song and dance had ceased, anil 1
was now left in those luxurious gardens,
alone. Though so ardent and active a
votary of pleasure, I had, by nature,
a disposition full of melancholy ; — an
imagination that presented sad thoughts,
even in the midst of mirth and happi-
ness, and threw the shadow of the future
over the gayest illusions of the present.
Melancholy was, indeed, twin-born in my
soul ivith Passion; and, not even in the
fullest fervour of the latter, were they
separated. From the first moment that I
was conscious of thought and feeling,
the same dark thread had run across
the web ; and images of death and anni-
hilation mingled themselves with the most
smiling scenes through which my career
of enjoyment led me. My very passion
for pleasure but deepened these gloomy

B G

12 THE EPICUREAN.

fancies. For, shut out, as I was by my
creed, from a future life, and having no hope
beyond the narrow horizon of this, every
minute of dehght assumed a mournful
preciousness in my eyes, and pleasure,
like the flower of the cemetery, grew but
more luxuriant from the neighbourhood of
death.

This very night my triumph, my happi-
ness had seemed complete. I had been the
presiding genius of that voluptuous scene.
Both my ambition and my love of pleasure
had drunk deep of the cup for which they
thirsted. Looked up to by the learned,
and loved by the beautiful and the young,
1 had seen, in every eye that met mine,
either the acknowledgment of triumphs
already won, or the promise of others,
still brighter, that awaited me. Yet, even
in the midst of all this, the same dark
thoughts had presented themselves; — the
perishableness of myself and all around
me every instant recurred to my mind.
Those hands I had prest — those eyes, in

THE EPICUREAN. 13

which I had seen sparkling, a spirit of
lio-ht and life that should never die — those
voices, that had talked of eternal love —
all, all, I felt, were but a mockery of the
moment, and would leave nothing eternal
but the silence of their dust !

Oh, were it not for this sad voice,

Stealini; amid our mirth to say.
That all, in which we most rejoice.

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey ; —
But for this bitter — only this —
Full as the world is brinnn'd with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul
Of draining to its depth the whole,
I should turn earth to heaven, and be,
If bliss made gods, a deity !

Such was the description 1 gave of my
own feelings, in one of those wild, passion-
ate songs, to which this ierment of my
spirits, between mirth and melancholy,
tiave birth.

Seldom had my heart more fully aban-
doned itself to such vague sadness than at
the present moment, when, as I paced

l* THE EPICUREAN.

thoughtfully among the fading lights
and flowers of the banquet, the echo of
my own step was all that sounded, where
so many gay forms had lately been revel-
ling. The moon was still up, the morn-
ing had not yet glimmered, and the calm
glories of night still rested on all around.
Unconscious whither my pathway led, I
wandered along, till I, at length, found
myself before that fair statue of Venus,
with which the chisel of Alcamenes had
embellished our Garden; — that image of
deified woman, the only idol to which I
had ever bent the knee. Leaning against
the pedestal, I raised my eyes to heaven,
and fixing them sadly and intently on the
ever-burning stars, as if I sought to read
the mournful secret in their light, asked,
whei'efore was it that Man alone must
perish, while they, less wonderful, less
glorious than he, lived on in light un-
changeable and for ever ! — " Oh, that
there were some spell, some talisman," I
exclaimed, " to make the spirit within us

THE EPICUREAN. 15

deathless as those stars, and oj^en to its
desires a career hke theirs, burning aiul
boundless throughout all time ! "

While I gave myself up to this train of
thought, that lassitude which earthly p\ea-
sure, however sweet, leaves behind, — as
if to show how earthly it is, — came
drowsily over me, and I sunk at the base
of the statue to sleep.

Even in sleej), however, my i'ancy \\as
still busy ; and a dream, so vivid as to
leave behuid it the impression of reality,
thus passed through my mind. I thought
myself transported to a wide desert plain,
where nothing seemed to breathe, or move,
or live. The very sky above it looked pale
and extinct, giving the idea, not of dark-
ness, but of light that had died ; and, luul
that region been the remains of some older
world, left broken up and sunless, it could
not have looked more dead and desolate.
The only thing that bespoke life, in this
melancholy waste, was a small moving
spark, that at first glimmered in the dis-

16 THE EPICUREAN.

tance, but, at length, slowly approached
the spot where I stood. As it drew
nearer, I could perceive that its feeble
gleam was from a taper in the hand of a
pale venerable man, who now stood, like a
messenger from the grave, before me.
After a few moments of awful silence,
during which he looked at me with a sad-
ness that thrilled my very soul, he said,
— " Thou, who seekest eternal life, go
unto the shores of the dark Nile — go
unto the shores of the dark Nile, and thou
wilt find the eternal life thou seekest ! "

No sooner had he said these words than
the death-like hue of his cheek brightened
into a smile of more than human promise.
The small torch that he held sent forth a
radiance, by which suddenly the whole
surface of the desert was illuminated, even
to the far horizon's edge, along whose
line were now seen gardens, palaces, and
spires, all bright and golden, like the
architecture of the clouds at sunset. Sweet
music, too, was heard every where, floating

THE EPICUREAN. 17

arouiul, and, from all sides, such varieties
of splendour poured, that, with the excess
both of harmony and ol" li<i;ht, I woke.

That infidels should be superstitious is
an anomaly neither unusual nor strange.
A belief in superhuman agency seems
natural and necessary to the mind ; ami,
if not suffered to flow in the obvious chan-
nels, it will find a vent in some other.
Hence, many who have doubted the ex-
istence of a God, have yet im{)licitly placed
themselves under the patronage of Fate or
the stars. Much the same inconsistency
I was conscious of in my own feelings.
Though rejecting all belief in a Divuie Pro-
vidence, I had yet a faith in dreams, that
all my philosophy could not conquer. Nor
was experience wanting to confirm me in
my delusion ; for, by some of those acci-
dental coincidences, which make the for-
tune of soothsayers and proi)liets, dreams,
more than once, had been to me

Oracles, truer far than oak,
Or dove, or tri[)oti, ever spoke.

18 THE EPICUREAN.

It was not wonderful, therefore, that the
vision of that night, touching, as it did,
a chord so ready to vibrate, should have
affected me with more than ordinary power,
and sunk deeper into my memory with
every effort I made to forget it. In vain
did I mock at my own weakness; — such
self-derision is seldom sincere. In vain
did I pursue my accustomed pleasures.
Their zest was, as usual, for ever new ; but
still came the saddening consciousness of
mortality, and, with it, the recollection of
this visionaiy promise, to which my fancy,
in defiance of my reason, still clung.

Sometimes indulging in reveries, that
were little else than a continuation of my
dream, I even contemplated the possible
existence of some secret, by which youth
might be, if not perpetuated, at least pro- '
longed, and that dreadful vicinity of death,
within whose circle love pines and pleasure
sickens, might be for a while averted.
" Who knows," I would ask, " but that in
Egypt, that land of wonders, where Mystery

THE EPICUREAN. 19

hath yet untbkkd but half her treasures,
— where so many dark secrets of the ante-
diluvian workl still remain, undeciphered,
ujion the pillars of Seth — who knows but
some charm, some amulet, may lie hid,
whose discovery, as this phantom hath
promised, but waits my coming — some
compound of the same pure atoms, that
scintillate in the eternal stars, and whose
infusion into the frame of man might make
him, too, fadeless and immortal ! "

Thus did I fondly speculate, in those
rambling moods, when the life of excite-
ment which I led, acting ui)on a warm
heart and vivid fancy, produced an hitoxi-
cation of spirit, during which I was not
wholly myself. This bewilderment, too,
was not a little increased by the constant
struggle between my own natural feehngs,
and the cold, mortal creed of my sect, in
endeavouring to escape from whose dead-
ening bondage I but broke loose into the
realms of romance and fantasy.

Even, however, in my calmest and so-
berest moments, that strange vision per-

20 THE EPICUREAN.

petually haunted me. In vain were all
my efforts to chase it from my mind ; and
the deliberate conclusion to which I came
at last, was, that without, at least, a visit to
Egypt, I could not rest, nor, till convinced
of my folly by disappomtment, be reason-
able. J, therefore, announced without
delay to my associates of the Garden, the
intention which I had formed to pay a visit
to the land of Pyramids. To none of
them did I dare to confess the vague, vi-
sionary impulse that actuated me. Know-
ledge was the object that I alleged, while
Pleasure was that for which they gave me
credit. The interests of the School, it was
apprehended, would suffer by my absence ;
and there were some tenderer ties, which
had still more to fear from sqiaration. But
for the former inconvenience a temporary
remedy was provided ; while the latter a
skilful distribution of vows and sighs alle-
viated. Being furnished with recommend-
atory letters to all parts of Egypt, in the
summer of the year 257, A.D. I set sail for
Alexandria.

THE EPICUREAN. 21

CHAP. III.

To one, who extracted such sweets frofri
every moment on land, a sea- voyage, how-
ever smooth and favourable, appeared the
least agreeable mode of losing time that
could be devised. Often did my imagin-
ation, in passing some isle of those seas,
people it with fair forms and kind hearts,
to whom most willingly, if I might, would I
have paused to pay homage. But the wind
blew direct towards the land of Mystery;
and, still more, I heard a voice within me,
whispering for ever " On."

As we approached the coast of Egypt,
our course became less prosperous ; and
we had a specimen of the benevolence of
the divinities of the Nile, in the shape of a
storm, or rather whirlwind, which had
nearly sunk our vessel, and which, the
Egji^tians on board said, was the work of"
their God, Typhon. After a day and niglu

22 THi; EPICUREAN.

of danger, during which we were driven
out of our course to the eastward, some
benigner influence prevailed above ; and,
at length, as the mornino; freshly broke,
we saw the beautiftd city of Alexandria
rising from the sea, with its Palace of
Kings, its portico of four hundred columns,
and the fair Pillar of Pillars, towering up
to heaven in the midst.

After passing in review this splendid
vision, we shot rapidly round the Rock of
Pharos, and, in a few minutes, found our-
selves in the harbour of Eunostus. The
sun had risen, but the light on the Great
Tower of the Rock was still burning ; and
there was a lauijuor in the first wakinir
movements of that voluptuous city — whose'.*
houses and temples lay shining in silence
round the harbour — that sufficiently at-
tested the festivities of the preceding night.

We were soon landed on the quay ; and,
as I walked, through a line of palaces and
shrines, up the street which leads from the
sea to the Gate of Canopus, fresh as T was

THE EriCUKEAN". 23

trom the contcinpliition of my own lovely
Athens, I felt a glow of admiration at the
scene around me, which its novelty, even
more than its magnificence, insjiired. Nor
were the luxuries and delights, which such
a city promised, among the least of the
considerations on which my fancy, at that
moment, dwelt. On the contrary, everv
thing around seemed prophetic of future
pleasure. The very forms of the archi-
tecture, to my Epicurean imagination, ap-
peared to call up images of living grace;
and even the dim seclusion of the temples
and groves spoke only of tender mysteries
to my mind. As the whole bright scene
grew animated around me, I felt that
plough Egypt might not enable me to
lengthen life, she could teach the next best
art, — that of multiplying its enjoyments.

The population of Alexandria, at this
period, consisted of the most motley mis-
cellany of nations, religions, and sects, that
had ever been brought together in one
titv. Beside the school of the Grecian

24 THE EPICUREAN.

Platonist was seen the oratory of the
cabalistic Jew; while the church of the
Christian stood, undisturbed, over the
crypts of the Egyptian Hierophant. Here,
the adorer of Fire, from the east, laughed
at the superstition of the worshipper of
cats, from the west. Here Christianity,
too, unluckily, had learned to emulate
the vagaries of Paganism ; and while,
on one side, her Ophite professor was
seen kneeling down gravely before his ser-
pent, on the other, a Nicosian was, as
gravely, contending that there was no
chance of salvation out of the pale of the
Greek alphabet. Still worse, the unchari-
tableness of Christian schism was already
distinguishing itself with equal vigour ; and
I heard of nothing, on my arrival, but the
rancour and hate, with which the Greek
and Latin churchmen persecuted each
other, because, forsooth, the one fasted on
the seventh day of the week, and the
others fasted upon the fourth and sixth !

THE EPICUREAN. 25

To none of those religions or sects, how-
ever, except for puqioses of ridicule, did
I pay much atteution. I was now in the
most luxurious city of the universe, and
gave way, without reserve, to the seduc-
tions that surrounded me. My reputation,
as a philosopher and a man of })leasure,
had preceded me; and Alexandria, the
second Athens of the world, welcomed me
as her own. My celebrity, indeed, was as
a talisman, that opened hearts and doors
at my apj^roach. The usual noviciate of
acquaintance was dispensed with in my
favour, and not only intimacies, but loves
and friendships, ripened in my path, as
rapidly as vegetation springs up where the
Nile has flowed. The dark beauty of the
Egyptian women had a novelty in my eyes
that enhanced its other charms ; and that
hue of the sun on their rounded cheeks
was but an earnest of the ardour he had
kindled in their hearts —

Th' imbrowning of the fruit, that tells
How rich within the soul of sweetness dwells.
C

26 THE EPICUREAN.

Some weeks rolled on in such perpetual
and ever-changing pleasures, that even the
melancholy voice in my heart, though it
still spoke, was but seldom listened to, and
soon died away in the sound of the siren
songs that surrounded me. At length,
however, as the novelty of these scenes
wore off, the same gloomy bodings began
to mingle with all my joys ; and an incident
that occurred, during one of my gayest
revels, conduced still more to deepen their
gloom.

The celebration of the annual festival
of Serapis took place during my stay, and
I was, more than once, induced to mingle
with the gay multitudes, that crowded to
his shrine at Canopus on the occasion.
Day and night, while this festival lasted,
the canal, which led from Alexandria to
Canopus, was covered with boats full of
pilgrims of both sexes, all hastening to avail
themselves of this pious licence, which lent
the zest of a religious sanction to pleasure,
and gave a holiday to the passions of earth,
in honour of heaven.

THE EPICUREAN. 27

I was retuniin«;, one lovely night, to
Alexandria. The north wind, that wel-
come visitor, freshened the air, while the
banks, on either side, sent forth, from
groves of orange anil henna, the most
delicious odours. As I had left all the
crowd behind me at Canopus, there was
not a boat to be seen on the canal but
my own ; and I was just yielding to the
thoughts which solitude at such an hour
inspires, when my reveries were broken
by the sound of some female voices, coming,
mingled with laughter and screams, from
the garden of a pavilion, that stood, bril-
liantly illuminated, upon the bank of the
canal.

On rowing nearer, I jierceived that
both the mirth and the alarm had been
caused by the efforts of some playful girls to
reach a hedge of jasmin which grew near the
water, and in bending towards which they
had nearly fallen into the stream. Hasten-
ing to proffer my assistance, I soon recog-
nised the voice of one of my fair Alexandj'ian
c 9-

28 THE EPICUREAN.

friends, and, springing on the bank, was
surrounded by the whole group, who in-
sisted on my joining their party in the
paviHon, and flinging the tendrils of jas-
min, which they had just plucked, around
me, led me, no unwilling captive, to the
banquet-room.

I found here an assemblage of the very
flower of Alexandrian society. The unex-
pectedness of the meeting gave it an addi-
tional zest on both sides ; and seldom had
I felt more enlivened myself, or contri-
buted more successfully to circulate life
among others.

Among the company were some Greek
women, who, according to the fashion of
their country, wore veils ; but, as usual,
rather to set off than conceal their beauty,
some gleams of which were continually
escaping from under the cloud. There
was, however, one female, who particularly
attracted my attention, on whose head was
a chaplet of dark-coloured flowers, and
who sat veiled and silent during the whole

THE EPICUTIEAN. 29

of the banquet. She took no share, I ob-
served, in what was passing around : the
viands and the wine went by her untouched,
nor did a word that was spoken seem
addressed to her ear. This abstraction
from a scene so sparkling with gaiety,
though apparently unnoticed by any one
but myself, struck me as mysterious and
strange. I inquired of my fair neiglibour
the cause of it, but she looked grave and
was silent.

In the mean time, the lyre and the cup
went round ; and a young maid from Athens,
as if inspired by the presence of her coun-
tryman, took her lute, and sung to it some
of the songs of Greece, with a feeling that
bore me back to the banks of the Ilissus,
and, even in the bosom of present plea-
sure, drew a sigh from my heart for that
which had passed away. It was daybreak
ere our tlelighted party rose, and unwill-
ingly re-embarked to return to the city.

Scarcely were we afloat, when it was
discovered that the lute of the young

c 3

30 THE EPICUREAN.

Athenian had been left behind ; and, with
my heart still full of its sweet sounds,
I most readily sprung on shore to seek it.
I hastened to the banquet-room, which was
now dim and solitary, except that — there, to
my astonishment, still sat that silent figure,
which had awakened my curiosity so
strongly during the night. A vague feel-
ing of awe came over me, as I now slowly
approached it. There was no motion,
no sound of breathing in that form ; —
not a leaf of the dark chaplet on its brow
stirred. By the light of a dymg lamp
which stood before the figure, I raised,
with a hesitating hand, the veil, and saw —
what my fancy had already anticipated —
that the shape underneath was lifeless, was
a skeleton ! Startled and shocked, I hur-
ried back with the lute to the boat, and
was almost as silent as that shape for the
remainder of the voyage.

This custom among the Egyptians of
placing a mummy, or skeleton, at the
banquet-table, had been for some time
disused, except at particular ceremonies ;

THE EPICUIIEAN. 31

and, even on such occasions, it had been
the practice of tlie Uixurious Alexandrians
to disguise this memorial of mortality in the
manner just described. But to me, who
was wholly unprepared for such a spec-
tax^le, it gave a shock from which my
imagination did not speedily recover. This
silent and ghastly witness of mirth seemed
to embody, as it were, the shadow in my
own lieart. The features of the grave
were now stamped on the idea that haunted
me, and this picture of what I "was to be
mingled itself with the sunniest aspect of
what I was.

The memory of the dream now recurred
to me more livelily than ever. The bright
assuring smile of that venerable Spirit,
;uid his words, " Go to the shores of the
dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal
life thou seekest," were for ever before my
mind. But as yet, alas, I had done nothing
towards realising this splendid promise.
Alexandria was not Egypt ; — the very soil
on which it stood was not in existence,

c 4

32 THE EPICUREAN,

when Thebes and Memphis alrea d count-
ed ages of glory.

" It is beneath the Pyramids of Mem-
phis," I exclaimed, " or m the mystic Halls
of the Labyrinth, that I must seek tliose
holy arcana of science, of which the ante-
diluvian world has made Egypt its heir, and
among which — blest thought! — the key to
eternal life may lie."

Having formed my determination, I took
leave of my many Alexandrian friends,
and departed for Memphis.

THE EPICUnEAN. 33

CHAP. IV.

lifGYPT was the country, of all others,
from that mixture of the melancholy and
the voluptuous, which marked the charac-
ter of her people, her religion, and her
scenery, to affect deeply a temperament
and fancy like mine, and keep tremblingly
alive the sensibilities of both. Wherever
I turned, I saw the desert and the garden,
minfrlinu their bloom and desolation to-
gether. 1 saw the love-bower and the
tomb standing side by side, and pleasure
and death keeping hourly watch upon each
other. In the very luxury of the climate
there was the same saddening influence.
The monotonous splendour of the days,
the solemn radiance of the nights — all
tended to cherish that ardent melancholy,
the offspring of passion and of thought,
which had so long been the inmate of my
soul.

c 5

34- THE EPICUREAN.

When I sailed from Alexandria, the in-
nundation of the Nile was at its full. The
whole valley of Egypt lay covered by its
flood; and, as I saw around me, in the
light of the setting sun, shrines, palaces,
and monuments, encircled by the waters, I
could almost fancy that I beheld the sink-
ing island of Atalantis, on the last evening-
its temples were visible above the wave.
Such varieties, too, of animation as pre-
sented themselves on every side ! —

While, far as sight can reach, beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever bless'd this sphere,
Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphjry domes,
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes
Of mighty gods, and pyramids, whose hour
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower !

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make
One theatre of this vast, peopled lake.
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives.
Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave
Ascending, in procession slow and grave.
Priests, in white garments, go, with sacred wands
And silver cymbals gleaming in theif hands :

THE EPICUREAN. 36

While, there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny

tracts
Far off", beyond the sounding cataracts —
GHde with their precious hiding to the sea.
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory,
Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains
Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay

Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way

To Sais or Bubastus, among beds

Of lotus-flowers, that close above their heads,

Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower,

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour ;

While haply, not far off', beneath a bank

Of blossoming acacias, many a prank

Is play'd in the cool current by a train

Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she, whose chain

Around two conquerors of the world was cast,

But, for a third too feeble, broke at last !

Enchanted with the whole scene, 1 hn-
gered on my voyage, visiting all those lux-
urious and venerable places, whose names
have been consecrated by the wonder of
ages. At Sa'is I was present during her
Festival of Lamps, and read, by the blaze
of innumerable lights, those sublime words

c 6

36 THE EPICUREAN.

on the temple of Neitha : " I am all that
has been, that is, and that will be, and no
man hath ever lifted my veil." I wandered
among the prostrate obelisks of Heliopolis,
and saw, not without a sigh, the sun smiling
over her ruins, as if in mockery of the mass
of perishable grandeur, that had once called
itself, in its pride, " The City of the Sun."
But to the Isle of the Golden Venus was
my fondest pilgrimage ; — and as I ex-
plored its shades, where bowers are the
only temples, I felt how far more fit to form
the shrine of a Deity are the ever-living
stems of the garden and the grove, than
the most precious columns that the inani-
mate quarry can supply.

Every where new pleasures, new inter-
ests awaited me ; and though Melancholy,
as usual, stood always near, her shadow
fell but half-way over my vagrant path,
and left the rest more welcomely brilliant
from the contrast. To relate my various
adventures, during this short voyage, would
only detain me from events, far, far more

THE EPICUREAN. 31

worlhy of record. Amidst such endless va-
riety of attractions, the great object of my
journey was forgotten; — the mysteries of
this land of tlie sun were, to me, as much
mysteries as ever, and I had as yet been
initiated in nothing but its jileasures.

It was not till tiiat evening, when I first
stooti before the Pyramids of Memphis,
and saw them towering aloft, like the
watch-towers of Time, from whose sum-
mit, when he expires, he will look his last,
— it was not till this moment that the
great secret, of which I had dreamed,
again rose, in all its inscrutable darkness,
upon my thoughts. There was a solem-
nity in the sunshine that rested upon those
monuments — a stillness, as of reverence,
in the air around them, that stole, like the
music of past times, into my heart. I
thought what myriads of the wise, the
beautiful, and the brave, had sunk into
dust since earth first beiield those wonders ;
and, in the sadness of my soul, I exclaimed,
— " Must man alone, then, perish ? must

S8 THE EPICUREAN.

minds and hearts be annihilated, while pyra-
mids endure ? Death, Death, even on these
everlasting tablets, — the only approach to
immortality that kings themselves could
purchase, — thou hast written our doom,
saying, awfully and intelligibly, ' There
is, for man, no eternal mansion, but the
tomb!'"

My heart sunk at the thought; and,
for the moment, I yielded to that desolate
feeling, which overspreads the soul that
hath no light from the future. But again
the buoyancy of my nature prevailed, and
again, the willing dupe of vain dreams, I de-
luded myself into the belief of all that I most
wished, with that happy facility which
makes imagination stand in place of
happiness. " Yes," I cried, " immor-
tality must be within man's reach ; and, as
wisdom alone is worthy of such a blessing,
to the wise alone must the secret have
been revealed. Deep, it is said, under
yonder pyramid, has for ages lain con-
cealed the Table of Emerald, on which

THE EPICUREAN. 39

tlic Thrice-Great Hermes engraved, be-
fore the flood, tlic secret of Alchemy, that
gives gold at will. Why may not the
mightier, the more god-like secret, that
gives life at will, be recorded there also?
It was by the power of gold, of endless
gold, that the kings, who repose in those
ma,ssy structures, scooj)ed earth to the
centre, and raised quarries into tlie air, to
provide themselves with tombs that might
outstand the world. Who can tell but that
the gift of immortality was also theirs?
who knows but that they themselves, tri-
umi)hant over decay, still hve — those man-
sions, which we call tombs, being rich and
everlasting palaces, within whose depths,
concealed from this withering world, they
still wander, with the few who are sliarers
of their gift, through a sunless, but illu-
minated, elysium of their own? Else,
wherefore those structures ? wherefore
that subterraneous realm, by which the
whole valley of Egypt is undermined ?
\\'hy, else, those labyrinths, which none

40 THE EPICUREAN.

of earth hath ever beheld — which none of
heaven, except that God, with the finger
on his hushed Hp, hath trodden !"

While I indulged in these dreams, the
sun, half sunk beneath the horizon, was
taking, calmly and gloriously, his leave of
the Pyramids, — as he had done, evening
after evening, for ages, till they had become
familiar to him as the earth itself On the
side turned to his ray they now presented
a fi'ont of dazzling whiteness, while, on
the other, their great shadows, lengthen-
ing to the eastward, looked like the first
steps of Night, hastening to envelope the
hills of Araby in her shade.

No sooner had the last gleam of the sun
disappeared, than, on every house-top iir
Memphis, gay, gilded banners were seen
waving aloft, to proclaim his setting, —
while a fiiU burst of harmony pealed fi:om
all the temples along the shores.

Startled fi-om my musing by these
sounds, I at once recollected, that, on that
very evening, the great festival of the Moon

THE EPICUREAN. 4-1

was to be celebrated. On a little islaiKJ,
half-way over between the gardens ol"
Memphis and the eastern shore, stood the
temple of that goddess,

Whose beams
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams.
iVot the cold Dian of tlie North, who cluiins
In vestal ice the current of young veins;
But she, who haunts the gay, Bubastian grove.
And owns she sees, from her bright heav'n above,
Nothing on earth, to match that heav'n, but love !

Tlius did I exclaim, in the words of one
of their own Egyptian poets, as, anticipating
the various delights of the festival, I cast
away from my mind all gloomy thoughts,
and, hastening to my little bark, in which
I now lived, like a Nile-bird, on the waters,
steered my course to the island-temple of
the Moon.

42 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. V.

1 HE rising of the Moon, slow and majestic,
as if conscious of the honours that awaited
her upon earth, was welcomed with a loud
acclaim fi'om every eminence, where mul-
titudes stood watchintj for her first light.
And seldom had she risen upon a scene
more beautiful. Memphis, — still grand,
though no longer the unrivalled Memphis,
that had borne away fi'om Thebes the
crown of supremacy, and worn it undis-
puted through so many centuries, — now,
softened by the moonlight that harmonised
with her decline, shone forth among her
lakes, her pyramids, and her shrines, like
a dream of glory that was soon to pass
away. Ruin, even now, was but too visible
around her. The sands of the Libyan desert
gamed upon her like a sea; and, among
solitary columns and sphinxes, already half
sunk from sight, Time seemed to stand

THE EPICUREAN. 43

waitin^r, till all, that now flourisheil aroiinil,
shoukl fall beneath his desolating hand,
like tlie rest.

On the waters all was life and gaiety.
As i\\v as eye could reach, the lights of in-
numerable boats were seen, studding, like
rubies, the surface of the stream. Vessels
of all kinds, — from the light coracle, built
for shooting down the cataracts, to the
large yacht that glides to the sound of
flutes, — all were afloat for this sacred
festival, filled with crowds of the young
and the gay, not only fi'om Memphis
and Babylon, but from cities still farther
removed from the scene.

As I approached the island, 1 could see,
glittering through the trees on the bank,
the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to
the ceremony. Landing in the direction
which those lights pointed out, I soon
joined the crowd ; and, passing through a
long alley of sphinxes, whose spangling
marble shone out from the dark sycamores
around them, in a short time reached

4>i> THE EPICUREAN.

the grand vestibule of the temple, where
I found the ceremonies of the evening
already commenced.

In this vast hall, which was surrounded
by a double range of columns, and lay
open over-head to the stars of heaven, I
saw a group of young maidens, moving in
a sort of measured step, between walk and
dance, round a small shi'ine, upon which
stood one of those sacred birds, that, on
account of the variegated colour of their
wings, are dedicated to the moon. The
vestibule was dimly lighted, — there being
but one lamp of naptha on each of the
great pillars that encircled it. But, having
taken my station beside one of those pillars,
I had a distinct view of the young dan-
cers, as in succession they passed me.

Their long, graceful drapery was as white
as snow ; and each wore loosely, beneath
the rounded bosom, a dark-blue zone, or
bandelet, studded, like the skies at mid-
night, with little silver stars. Through
their dark locks was wreathed the white

THE EPICUREAN. 4.5

lily of the Nile, — that flower being ac-
counted as welcome to the moon, as the
•rolclen blossoms of the bean-flower are to
the sun. As they passed under the lamj),
a jrleam of lifjht flashed fi-om their bosoms,
which, I could perceive, was the reflection
of a small mirror, that, in the manner of
the women of the East, each wore beneath
her left shoulder.

There was no music to regulate their
steps ; but, as they gracefully went round
the bird on the shrine, some, by the beat
of the Castanet, some, by the shrill ring
of the sistrum, — which they held up-
lifted in the attitude of their own divine
Isis, — harmoniously timed the cadence of
their feet ; while others, at every step,
shook a small chain of silver, whose sound,
mingling with those of the castanets and
sistrums, produced a wild, but not an un-
plcasing harmony.

Thev seemed all lovely ; but there was
one — whose face the light had not yet
reached, so downcast she held it, — who

46 THE EPICUREAN.

attracted, and, at length, riveted all my
attention. I Itnew not why, but there was
a something in those half-seen features, —
a charm in the very shadow, that hung
over their imagined beauty, — which took
me more than all the out-shining love-
liness of her companions. So enchained
was my fancy by this coy mystery, that
her alone, of all the group, could I either
see or think of — her alone I watched, as,

with the same downcast brow, she glided
round the altar, gently and aerially, as if
her presence, like that of a spirit, was
something to be felt, not seen.

Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash
of a thousand cymbals was heard ; — the
massy gates of the Temple flew open, as
if by magic, and a flood of radiance from
the illuminated aisle filled the whole vesti-
bule ; while, at the same instant, as if the
light and the sounds were born together,
a peal of rich harmony came mingling
with the radiance.

It was then, — by that light, which shone

THE EPICUREAN. 47

full upon the young maiden's features, as,
starting at the blaze, she raised her eyes to
the portal, and, as suddenly, let fall their
lids again, — it was then I beheld, what
even my own ardent imagination, in its
most vivid dreams of beauty, had never pic-
tured. Not Psyche herself, when pausing
on the threshold of heaven, while its
first glories fell on her dazzled lids, could
have looked more beautii'ul, or blushed
with a more innocent shame. Often as I
had felt the power of looks, none liad ever
entered into my soul so tar. It was a new
feeling — a new sense — coming as sud-
denly as that radiance into the vestibule,
and, at once, filling my whole being ; — and
had that vision but lingered another mo-
ment before my eyes, I should have wholly
forgotten who I was and where, and thrown
myself, in prostrate adoration, at her feet.
But scarcely had that gush of harmony
been heard, when the sacred bird, which
had, till now, stood motionless as an image,
expanded his wings, and flew into the Tem-

48 THE EPICUREAN.

pie ; while his graceful young worshippers,
with a fleetness like his own, followed, —
and she, who had left a dream in my
heart never to be forgotten, vanished with
the rest. As she went rapidly past the
pillar against which I leaned, the ivy
that encircled it caught in her drapery,
and disengaged some ornament which fell
to the ground. It was the small mirror
which I had seen shining on her bosom.
Hastily and tremulously I picked it up,
and hurried to restore it ; — but she was
already lost to my eyes in the crowd.

In vain I tried to follow ; — the aisles
were already filled, and numbers of eager
pilgrims pressed towards the portal. But
the servants of the Temple prevented all
further entrance, and still, as I presented
myself, their white wands barred the
way. Perplexed and irritated amid that
crowd of faces, regarding all as ene-
mies that impeded my progress, I stood
on tiptoe, gazing into the busy aisles, and
with a heart beatinc; as I caught, from

THE EPICUREAN. 49.

time to time, a ^lim|)se of some spangled
zone, or lotus wreath, which led me to
fancy that I had discovered tlie object of
my search. But it was all in vain; —
in every direction, files of sacred nymjihs
were moving, hut nowhere could I see her,
whom alone I sou<i:ht.

In this state of breathless agitation did
1 stand for some time, — bewildered with
the confusion of faces and lights, as well
as with the clouds of incense that rolled
around me, — till, fevered and impatient, I
could endure it no longer. Forcin<j mv
wav out of the vestibule into the cool air,
I hurried back through the alley of
sphinxes to the shore, and Hung myself
into my boat.

There is, to the north of Memphis, a
solitary lake (which, at this season of the
year, mingles with the rest of the waters,)
upon whose shores stands the Necropolis,
or City of the Dead — a place of melancholy
grandeur, covered over with shrines and py-
ramids, where many a kingly head, proud

D

50 THE EPICUREAN.

even in death, has for ages awaited the
resurrection of its glories. Through a range
of sepulchral grots underneath, the hum-
bler denizens of the tomb are deposited, —
looking out on each successive generation
that visits them, with the same face and
features they wore centuries ago. Every
plant and tree, that is consecrated to death,
from the asphodel -flower to the mystic
plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to
this place of tombs ; and the only noise
that disturbs its eternal calm, is the low
humming sound of the priests at prayer,
when a new inhabitant is added to the
silent city.

It was towards this place of death that,
in a mood of mind, as usual, half bright,
half gloomy, I now, almost unconsciously,
directed my bark. The form of the young
Priestess was continually before me. That
one bright look of hers, the very memory
of which was worth all the actual smiles of
others, never left my mind. Absorbed in
such thoughts, I rowed on, scarce knowing

THE EPICUREAN. SI

whither I went, till, startled by lindiiig
myself witiiin tiic shadow of the City of
tlie Dead, I looked up, and saw, rising in
succession before me, ])yrainid beyond py-
ramid, each towering more loftily than
the other, — while all were out-topped in
grandeur by one, upon whose summit the
moon seemed to rest, as on a pedestal.

Drawing near to the sliore, wliich was suf-
ficiently elevated to raise this city of monu-
ments above the level of the inundation, I
lifted my oar, and let the boat rock idly on
the water, while my thoughts, left equally
without direction, fluctuated as idly.
How various and vague were the dreams
that then passed through my mind — that
bright vision of the temple mingling itself
with all ! Sometimes she stood before
me, like an aijrial spirit, as pure as if that
element of music and litjht, into which
I had seen her vanish, was her only dwell-
ing. Sometimes, animated with passion,
and kindling into a creature of earth, she
seemed to lean towards me with looks of"

D 2

52 THE EPICUREAN.

m

tenderness, which it were worth worlds, but
for one instant, to inspire; and again —
as the dark fancies, that ever haunted me,
recurred — I saw her cold, parched, and
blackening, amid the gloom of those eternal
sepulchres before me !

Turning away, with a shudder, from
the cemetery at this thought, I heard die
sound of an oar plying swiftly through
the water, and, in a few^ moments, saw,
shooting past me towards the shore, a
small boat in which sat two female figures,
muffled up and veiled. Having landed
them not far from the spot where I lay, —
concealed by the shadow of a monu-
nient on the bank, — the boat again de-
parted, with the same fleetness, over the
flood.

Never had the prospect of an adventure
come more welcome than at this moment,
when my fancy was weaving such chains
for my heart, as threatened a bondage,
of all others, the most difficult to break.
To become enamoured thus of a creature of

THi: El'ICURF-AN. 53

my own imagination, was the worst, be-
cause the most histing, of follies. Reality
alone ffives a chance of dissolving such
spells, and the idol I was now creating to
myself must for ever remain ideal. Any
pursuit, therefore, that seemed likely to
divert me from such thoughts — to bring
back mv imamnation to earth and reality,
from the vajjue region in which it was
wandering, was a relief too seasonable not
to be welcomed with eagerness.

I had watched the course which the two
figures took, and, having hastily fastened
my boat to the bank, stepped gently on
shore, and, at a little distance, foUoweil
them. The windings through which they
led were intricate ; but, by the bright light
of the moon, I was enabled to keep their
forms in view, as, with rajiid step, they
glided among the monuments. At length,
in the shade of a small pyramid, whose
peak barely surmounted the plane-trees
that grew nigh, they vanished from my
sight. I hastened to the spot, but there
D 3

54> THE EPICUREAN.

was not a sign of life around ; and had my
creed extended to another world, I might
have fancied that these forms were spirits,
sent from thence to mock me, — so instan-
taneously they disappeared. I searched
through the neighbouring grove, but all
there was still as death. At length, in ex-
amining one of the sides of the pyramid,
which, for a few feet from the ground, was
furnished with steps, I found, midway be-
tween peak and base, a part of the surface,
which, though presenting an appearance of
smoothness to the eye, gave to the touch, I
thought, indications of a concealed opening.
After a variety of efforts and experi-
ments, I, at last, more by accident than
skill, pressed the spring that commanded
this mysterious aperture. In an instant
the portal slid aside, and disclosed a nar-
row stair-way within, the two or three first
steps of which were discernible by the
moonlight, while the rest were lost in utter
darkness. Though it was difficult to con-
ceive that the persons whom I had followed

THE EPICUHEAN. 55

would have ventured to pass through this
gloomy opening, yet to account for their
disapj)earance otherwise was still more dif-
ficult. At all events, my curiosity was now
too eager in the chase to relinquish it ; —
the spirit of adventure, once raised, could
not be so easily laid. Accordingly, having
sent up a gay prayer to that bliss-loving
Queen whose eye alone was upon me, I
passed through the portal and descended
into the pyramid.

D 4

56 THE EPICUREAN,

CHAR VI.

At the bottom of the stair-way I found
myself in a low, narrow passage, through
which, without stooping almost to earth,
it was impossible to proceed. Though
leading through a multiplicity of dark
windings, this way seemed but little to
advance my progress, — its course, I per-
ceived, being chiefly circular, and gather-
ing, at every turn, but a deeper intensity
of darkness.

" Can this," I thought, " be the sojourn
of any thing human ?" — and ^lad scarcely-
asked myself the question, when the path
opened into a long gallery, al the farthest
end of which a gleam of light was visible.
This welcome glimmer appeared to come
from some cell or alcove, in which the
right-hand wall of the gallery terminated,

THi: EPICUREAN. 57

aiul, breathless with expectation, I stole
gently towards it.

Arrived at tlie end of the gallery, a scene
presented itself to my eyes, for which my
fondest expectations of adventure could not
have prepared me. The place from which
the light proceeded was a small chapel, of
whose interior, from the dark recess in
which I stood, I had, unseen myself, a full
and distinct view. Over the walls of this
oratory were painted some of those various
symbols, by which the mystic wisdom of
the Egy[)tians loves to shadow out the
History of the Soul — the winj^ed dobe
with a seri)ent, — the rays descending from
above, like a glory, and the Theban beetle,
as he comes forth, after the waters have
passed away, and the first sunbeam falls
orl his rejrenerated winiis.

In the middle of the chapel stood a low
altar of granite, on which lay a lifeless
female form, enshrined within a case of
crystal, — as they })reserve their dead iu
Ethiopia, — and looking as freshly beautiful
D 5

58 THE EPICUREAN.

as if the soul had but a few hours departed.
Among the emblems of death, on the front
of the altar, were a slender lotus-branch,
broken in two, and a bird, just winging
its flight from the spray.

To these memorials of the dead, how-
ever, I but little attended ; for there was
a living object there upon which my e3'es
were most intently fixed.

The lamp, by which the whole of the
chapel was illuminated, was placed at the
head of the pale image in the shrine ; and,
between its light and me, stood a female
form, bending over the monument, as if to
gaze upon the silent features within. The
position in which this figure was placed, in-
tercepting a strong light, afforded me, at
first, but an imperfect and shadowy view of
it. Yet even at this mere outline my heart
beat high, — and memory, as it proved, had
as much share in this feeling as imagination.
For, on the head changing its position,
so as to let a gleam fall on the features,
I saw with a transport, which had almost

THE EPICUREAN. 59

leil me to betray my luiking-place, that it
was she — the young worshipper ol" Kis —
the same, the very same, whom I had seen,
brightening the lioly place where she stood,
and looking like an inhabitant of some
})urer work!.

The movement, by which she had now
given me an opportunity of recognising
her, was made in raising from the siirine a
small cross * of silver, which lay directly
over the bosom of the lifeless fiirure.
iiringing it close to her lips, she kissed it
with a religious fervour ; then, turning her
eyes mournfully upwai'ds, held them fixed
with an inspired earnestness, as if, at that
moment, in direct comnmnion with heaven,
they saw neither root^ nor any other earthly
i)arrier between them and the skies.

What a power hath innocence, whose
very helplessness is its safeguard — in
whose presence even Passion himself

* A cross was, among the Egyptians, the emblem
of a future life.

D 6

60 THE EPICUREAN.

stands abashed, and turns worshipper at
the altar which he came to despoil. She,
who, but a short hour before, had pre-
sented herself to my imagination, as some-
thing I could have risked immortality to
win — she, whom gladly, from the floor of
her own lighted temple, in the very face
of its proud ministers, I would have borne
away in triumph, and defied all punish-
ments, both human and sacred, to make
her mine, -^ she was now before me,
thrown, as if by fate itself, into my power
— standing there, beautiful and alone,
with nothing but her innocence for her
guard! Yet, no — so touching was the
purity of the whole scene, so calm and au-
gust that protection which the dead seemed
to extend over the living, that every
earthlier feeling was forgotten as I gazed,
and love itself became exalted into re-
verence.

Entranced, indeed, as 1 felt in witness-
ing such a scene, thus to enjoy it by stealth,
seemed a wrong, a sacrilege — and, rather

THE EPICUREAN. Gl

than let her eyes meet the flash of mine,
or disturb, by a whis[)er,that sacred silence,
in which Youth and Death hehl couunu-
nioii through Love, I would have let mv
heart break, without a niurniur, where
I stood. Gently, as if life depended upon
every movement, I stole awav from
that tran(]uil and holy scene — leaving-
it still tranquil <\m\ holy as I found it —
and, jrlidin"- back througii the same
passages and windings by which I had
entered, regained the narrow stair-way,
and again ascended into light.

The sun had just risen, antl, from
the summit of the Arabian hills, was
pouring down his beams into that vast
valley of waters, — as if proud of the
homage that had been paid to liis own
Isis, now fading away in the superior
light of her Lord. INIy first impulse
was to fly from this dangerous spot,
and in new loves anil pleasures seek for-
gctfulness of the scene which I had wit-
nessed. " Once out of the circle of this

62 THE EPICUREAN.

enchantment," I exclaimed, " I know my
own susceptibility to new impressions too
well,, to doubt that I shall soon break
the spell that is around me."

But vain were my efforts and resolves.
Even while I swore to fly, my steps were
still lingering round the pyramid — my
eyes still turned towards the secret portal,
which severed this enchantress from the
world of the living. Hour after hour did
I wander through that City of Silence,
— till, already, it was noon, and, under the
sun's meridian eye, the mighty pyramid of
pyramids stood, like a great spirit, sha-
dowless.

Again did those wild and passionate feel-
ings, whicli had, for a moment, been sub-
dued into reverence by her presence, return
to kindle up my imagination and senses.
I even reproached myself for the awe,
that had held me spell-bound before her.
" What would my companions of the
Garden say, did they know that their
chief, — he, whose path Love had strewed

THE KPICUHEAN. G3

with trophies — was now pining for ;i
simple Egyptian girl, in wliose presence
he had not dared to give utterance to a
sigh, and who had vantjuishcd the victor,
without even knowing her triumph !"

A blush came over my cheek at the
humiliating thought, and my determin-
ation was fixed to await her coming.
That she should be an inmate of those
gloomy caverns seemed inconceivable ;
nor did there appear to be any issue
from their depths but by the pyramid.
Again, therefore, like a sentinel of the
dead, did I pace up and down among
these tombs, contrasting, in many a
mournful reflection, the burning fever
within my own veins with the cold (juiet
of those who slept around.

At length the fierce glow of the sun
over my head, and, still more, that
ever restless agitation in my heart, were
too much for even strength like mine to
bear. Exhausted, I lay down at the base
of the {)yramid — i)lacing myself directly

64 THE EPICUREAN.

under the portal, where, even should
slumber surprise nie, mj^ heart, if not
my ear, might still be on the watch, and
her footstep, light as it was, could not fail
to awake me.

After many an ineffectual struggle against
drowsiness, I at length sunk into sleep —
but not into forgetfulness. The same
image still haunted me, in every variety of
shape, with which imagination, assisted by
memory, could invest it. Now, like Nei'tha,
upon her throne at Sais, she seemed to
sit, with the veil just raised from that brow,
which mortal had never, till then, beheld, —
and now, like the beautiful enchantress
Rhodope, I saw her rise out of the
pyramid in which she had dwelt for
ages, —

" Fair Rliodope, as story tells,

The bright, unearthly nymph, who dwells
Mid sunless gold and jewels hid,
The Lady of the Pyramid!"

So long, amid that unbroken silence,
did my sleep continue, that I found the

THE EPICUUEAN. 65

moon ajTuiii shininf^ above the horizon,
when I awoke. All around was silent ami
lifeless as before, nor did a print upon the
herbage betray that any foot had jiassed it
since my own. Reireshed by rest, and with
a fancy still more excited by the mystic
wonders of which I had been dreaming, I
now resolved to revisit the chapel in the
l^yramid, and put an end, if possible, to this
illusion that haunted me.

Having learned from the experience of
the preceding night, the inconvenience of
encountering those labyrinths without a
ligiit, I now hastened to j)rovjde myself with
a lamp from my boat. Tracking my way
back with some diliiculty to the shore, I
there found, not only my lamp, but some
dates and dried fruits, with a store oi'
which, for my roving life upon the waters,
1 was always supplietl, — and which now,
after so many hours of abstinence, were a
welcome and necessary relief.

Thus i)repared, I again ascentled the
pyramid, antl was j)roceeding to search

66 THE EPICUREAN.

out the secret spring, when a loud, dismal
noise was heard at a distance, to which all
the echoes of the cemetery answered. It
came, I knew, from the Great Temple on
the shore of the Lake, and was the shriek
which its gates — the Gates of Oblivion, as
they were called — sent forth from their
hinges, in opening at night, to receive
within their precincts the newly-landed
dead.

I had heard that sound before, and
always with sadness ; but, at this moment,
it thrilled through me, like a voice of ill
omen, and I almost doubted whether I
should not abandon my enterprise. The
hesitation, however, was but momentary ;
— even while it passed through my mind,
I had touched the spring of the portal.
In a few seconds more, I was again in the
passage beneath the pyramid, and being
enabled by my lamp to follow the wind-
ings of the way more rapidly, soon found
myself at the door of the small chapel in
the gallery.

THE EPICUREAN. 67

I entered, still awed, tliou<rh there was.
now nothing living within. The young
Priestess had fled — had vanished, like a
spirit, into the darkness. All the rest was
as I had left it on the preceding night.
The lamp still stood burning upon the
crystal shrine — the cross lay where the
hands of the young mourner had placed
it, and the cold image beneath wore the
same tranquil look, as if resigned to the
solitude of death— of all lone things the
loneliest. Remembering the lips that J
had seen kiss that cross, and kindling witli
the recollection, I raised it passionately to
my own; — but, at the same moment, 1
fancied the dead eyes met mine, and,
saddened in the midst of my ardour, I re-
placed die cross upon the shrine.

I had now lost all clue to the object
of my j)ursuit, and was preparing slowly
to retrace my steps to earth, with that
gloomy satisfaction which certainty, even
when unwelcome, brings, — when, as I held
forth my lamp, on leaving the chapel, 1

68 THE EPICUREAN.

could perceive that the gallery, instead of
terminating here, took a sudden bend to
the left, which had before eluded my eye,
and which gave a promise of leading still
further into those recesses. Re-animated
by this discovery, which opened a new-
source of hope to my heart, I cast but one
hesitating look at my lamp, as if to ask
whether it would be faithful through the
gloom I was about to encounter, and,
without further thouQ-ht, rushed eager] v
forward.

THE EPICUnEAN. 69

CHAP. VII.

The path led, for some time, througli the
same sort of narrow windhigs as those
whicli I had encountered in descending
the stair-way ; and at length opened, in a
similar maimer, into a straight and steep
gallery, along each side of which stood,
closely ranged and upright, a file of lifeless
bodies, whose glassy eyes threw a preter-
natural glare upon me as I passed.

Arrived at the end of this gallery, I
found my hopes a second time vanish.
The path, I perceived, extended no fur-
ther. The only object that I could discern,
by the glinmiering of my lamp, which now,
every minute, burned fainter and fainter,
was the mouth of a huge well, that lay
gaping before me — a reservoir of darkness,
black and unfathomable. It now crossed
my memory that I had heard of such well^,
as being used occasionally for passages

TO THE EPICUREAN.

by the Priests. Leaning down, therefore,
over the edge, I looked anxiously within,
to discover whether it was possible to
descend into the chasm; but the sides
were hard and smooth as glass, being
varnished all over with that dark pitch,
which the Dead Sea throws out on its slimv
shore.

After a more attentive scrutiny, how-
ever, I observed, at the depth of a few
feet, a sort of iron step, projecting dimly
from the side, and, below it, another, which,
though hardly perceptible, was just suf-
ficient to encourage an adventurous foot to
the trial. Though all hope of tracing the
young Priestess was at an end, — it being
impossible that female foot should have
dared this descent, — yet, as I had so far
engaged in the adventure, and there was,
at least, a mystery to be unravelled, I de-
termined, at all hazards, to explore the
chasm. Placing my lamp (which was hol-
lowed at the bottom, so as to fit like a
helmet) firmly on my head, and having

THE EPICUREAN. 71

thus both hands at liberty for exertion, I
set my foot cautiously on tlie iron step, and
descended into the well.

I found the same footin*^, at regular in-
tervals, to a considerable depth ; and had
already counted near a hundred of these
steps, when the ladder altogether ceased,
and I could descend no farther. In vain
did I stretch down mv foot in search of
support — the hard, slippery sides were
all that it encountered. At length, stoop-
ing my head, so as to let the light fall
below, I observed an opening or window
directly above the step on which I stood,
and, taking for granted that the way must
lie in that direction, with some little diffi-
culty clambered through the aperture.

I now found myself on a rude and nar-
row stair-way, the steps of which were cut
out of the living rock, and wound spirally
downward in the same direction as the well.
Almost dizzy with the descent, which
seemed as if it would never end, I, at last,
reached the bottom, where a pair of massy

72 THE EPICUREAN.

iron gates closed directly across my path,
as if to forbid any further progress. Massy,
however, and gigantic as they were, I
found, to my surprise, that the hand of
an infant might have opened them with
ease — so readily did their great folds give
way to my touch,

" Light as a lime-bush, that receives
Some wandering bird among its leaves."

No sooner, however, had I passed through,
than the din, with which the gates clashed
tosfether again, was such as might have
awakened death itself. It seemed as if every
echo, throughout that vast, subterranean
world, from the Catacombs of Alexan-
dria to Thebes's Valley of Kings, had
caught up and repeated the thundering
sound.

Startled, however, as I was, not even this
supernatural clangour could divert my at-
tention from the light that now broke upon
me — soft, warm, and welcome as are the
stars of his own South to the mariner

THE EIMCIREAN. 73

who has been waiulerin<^ throufrh the seas
of the north. Looking tor the source of
this spleiulour, I saw, tln-oiigh an arch-
way opposite, a hmg ilhiniinated alley,
stretching away as lar as the eye coukl
reach, and fencetl, on one side, with
thickets of odoriferous shrubs, while,
along the other, extended a line of lofty
arcades, from which the light, tliat filled
the whole area, issued. As soon, too,
as the din of the deep echoes had sub-
sided, there stole gradually on my ear
a strain of" choral music, which appeared
to come, mellowed and sweetened in its
passage, through many a spacious hall
within those shining arcades. Among the
voices 1 could di.'itinguish some female
tones, towering hi<ih and clear over
all the rest, and forming the spire, as it
were, into which the harmony tapered, as
it rose.

So excited was my fancy by this sudden
enchantment, that — though never had I
caught a sound from the young Egyptian's

£

74 THE EPICUREAN.

lips, — I yet persuaded myself that the voice
I now heard was hers, sounding highest
and most heavenly of all that choir, and
calling to me, like a distant spirit out of its
sphere. Animated by this thought, I flew
forward to the archway, but found, to my
mortification, that it was guarded by a
trellis -work, whose bars, though invisible
at a distance, resisted all my efforts to
force them.

While occupied in these ineffectual
struggles, I perceived, to the left of the
archway, a dark, cavernous opening, which
seemed to lead in a direction parallel to
the lighted arcades. Notwithstanding my
impatience, however, the aspect of this pas-
sage, as I looked shiidderingly into it, chilled
my very blood. It was not so much dark-
ness, as a sort of livid and ghastly twilight,
from which a damp, like that of death-
vaults, exhaled, and through which, if
my eyes did not deceive me, pale, phan-
tom-like shapes were, at that very moment,
hoveriug.

THE EPICUnEAN. 75

Looking anxiously round, to discover
some less forniidable outlet, I saw, over
the vast fol(lin<T-<rates through which I
had just passed, a bhie, tremulous flame,
which, alter playing for a lew seconds
over the dark ground ol" the pediment,
settled gradually into characters of light,
and tonned the followinjr words : —

You, who wouUl try

Yon terrible track,
To live, or to die.

But ne'er to look back —

You, who aspire

To be purified there,
By the terrors of Fire,

Of Water, and Air, —

If danger, and pain.

And death you despise.
On — for again

Into light you shall rise ;

Rise into light

With that Secret Divine,
Now shrouded from sight

By the Veils of the Shrine !

But if

E 2

76 THE EPICUREAN,

Here the letters faded away into a dead
blank, more awfully intelligible than the
most eloquent words.

A new hope now flashed across me.
The dream of the Garden, which had
been for some time almost forgotten, re-
turned to my mind. " Am I then," I
exclaimed, " in the path to the promised
mystery? and shall the great secret of
Eternal Life indeed be mine ?"

" Yes !" seemed to answer, out of the
air, that spirit-voice, which still was heard
crowning the choir with its single sweet-
ness. I hailed the omen with transport.
Love and Immortality, both beckoning
me onward — who could give a thought
to fear, with two such bright hopes ui
view ? Having invoked and blessed
that unknown enchantress, whose steps
had led me to this abode of mystery and
knowledge, I plunged into the chasm.

Instead of that vague, spectral twilight
which had at first met my eye, I now
found, as I entered, a thick darkness,

THE ElMtrurAX. 77

which, tlioujrh far less horrible, was,
at tliis moment, still more disconcert-
ing, as my lamp, which had been, tor
some time, almost useless, was fast ex-
piring, llesolved, however, to make the
most of its last gleam, I hastened, with
rapid stej), through this gloomy region,
which seemed wider and more open to
the air than any that I had yet passed.
Nor was it long before the appearance
of a brij^ht blaze in the distance an-
nounced to me that my first great Trial
was at hand. As I drew nearer, the
flames burst hijih and wide on all sides; —
and the spectacle that now presented itself
was such as might have appalled even
hearts more habituated to dangers than
mine.

There lay before me, extending com-
pletely across my path, a thicket, or grove
of the most combustible trees of Egypt
— tamarind, pine, and Arabian balm.
Around their stems and branches were
coiled serpents of fire, which, twisting

E 3

78 THE EPICUREAN.

themselves rapidly from bough to bough,
spread their own wild-fire as they went,
and involved tree after tree in one general
blaze. It was, indeed, rapid as the burn-
ing of those reed-beds of Ethiopia, whose
light brightens, at night, the distant cata-
racts of the Nile.

Through the middle of this blazing
grove, I perceived, my only pathway lay.
There was not a moment to be lost — the
conflagration gained rapidly on either side,
and already the narrowing path between
was strewed with fire. Casting away my
now useless lamp, and holding my robe
as some protection over my head, with a
tremor, I own, in every limb, I ventured
through the blaze.

Instantly, as if my presence had given
new life to the flames, a fi-esh outbreak
of combustion arose on all sides. The
trees clustered into a bower of fire above
my head, while the serpents, that hung
hissing from the red branches, shot show-
ers of sparkles down upon me, as I passed.

Tin: EPICUREAN. 79

Never were decision and activity more ser-
viceable ; — one minute later, and I must
have perished. The narrow opening, of
which 1 had so promptly availed myself,
closed instantly behind me ; and, as I
looked back, to contemplate the ordeal
which I had passed, I saw that the whole
grove was already one mass of fire.

Hap})y at having escajied this first trial,
I plucked from one of the pine-trees a
bough that was but just kindled, and, with
this for my only guide, hastened breath-
lessly forward. I had gone but a few
paces, when the path turned suddenly off,
— leading downwards, as I could see by
the glinuner of my brand, into a more
confined space, through which a chilling
air, as if from some neighbouring waters,
blew over my brow. Nor had I pro-
ceeded very far, when the sound of torrents
fell on my ear, — mingled, as I thought,
from time to time, with shrill wailings,
like the cries of persons in danger or

E 4

80 THE EPICUREAN.

distress. At every step the noise of the
dashing waters increased, and I now per-
ceived that I had entered an immense
rocky cavern, through the middle of
which, headlong as a winter-torrent, the
flood, to whose roar I had been listening,
rushed. Upon its surface, too, there
floated strange, spectre-like shapes, which,
as they went by, sent forth those dismal
shrieks, as if in fear of some precipice to
whose brink they were hurrying.

I saw too plainly that my course must
be across that torrent. It was fearful ; but
in courage lay my only hope. What
awaited me on the opposite shore, I knew
not; for all there was wrapped in im-
penetrable gloom, nor could the weak
light I held reach half so far. Dismiss-
ing, however, all thoughts but that of
pressing onward, I sprung from the rock
on which I stood into the flood, — trust-
ing that, with my right hand, I should be
able to buffet the current, while, with
the other, I might contrive to hold my

THE EPiri ni-AN. 81

brand aloft, as long as a glimmer of it
remained, to guide me to the shore.

Lon<; and formidable was the strujrgle
r hatl to maintain. More than once,
overpowered by the rush of the waters, I
had almost given myself up, as destined to
follow those apparitions, that still pass'ed
me, hurrying, with mournful cries, to their
doom in some invisible gulf before them.

At length, just as my strength was
nearly exhausted, and the last remains of
the pine-branch were falling from my hand,
I saw, outstretching towards me into the
water, a light double balustrade, with a
flight of steps between, ascending, almost
perpendicularly, from the wave, till they
seemed lost in a dense mass of clouds
above. This glimpse — for it was no
more, as my light expired in giving it —
lent new spring to my courage. Having
now both hantls at liberty, so despe-
rate were my efforts, that after a few
minutes' struggle, I felt my brow stirke
E 5

82 THE EPICUREAN.

against the stairway, and, in an instant
more, my feet were on the steps.

Rejoiced at my rescue from that perilous
flood, thoimh I knew not whither the
stairway led, I promptly ascended it.
But this feeling of confidence was of short
duration. I had not mounted far, when,
to my horror, I perceived, that each suc-
cessive step, as my foot left it, broke away
from beneath me, — leaving me in mid-
air, with no other alternative than that of
mounting still by the same momentary
footing, and with the dreadful doubt whe-
ther it would even endure my tread.

And thus did I, for a few seconds,
continue to ascend, with nothing beneath
me but that awful river, in which — so
trancjuil it had become — I could hear
the ])lash of the falling fragments, as every
step in succession gave way under my feet.
It was a trying moment, but still worse
remained. I now found the balustrade,
by whicli 1 had held during my ascent,
and which had hithei'to seemed firm,

THE EPICUREAN. 83

grow trenuiloiis in my hand, — while the
step to which I was about to trust my-
self, tottered under my foot. Just then,
a momentary flash, as if of hghtning,
broke around, and I saw, hanging out
of the clouds, within my reach, a huge
brazen ring. Instinctively I stretched forth
my arm to seize it, and, at the same in-
stant, both balustrade and steps gave way
beneath me, and I was left swhiging by
my hands in the dark void. As if, too,
this massy ring, which I grasped, vvas by
some magic power linked with all the
winds in heaven, no sooner had I seized
it than, like the touciiing of a spring,
it seemed to give loose to eveiy variety of
gusts and tempests, that ever strewed the
sea-shore with wrecks or dead ; and, as I
swung about, the sj)ort of this elemental
strife, each new burst of its fury threatened
to shiver me, like a storm-sail, to atoms I

Nor was even this the worst; — still
holding, I know not how, by the ring, 1
felt myself caught up, as if by a thousand

E 6

84 THE EPICUREAN.

whirlwinds, and round and round, like a
stone-shot in a sling, whirled in the midst
of all this deafening chaos, till my brain
grew dizzy, and my recollection confused,
and I almost fancied myself on that wheel
of the infernal world, whose rotations, it
is said, Eternity alone can number !

Human strength could no longer sus-
tain such a trial. I was on the point,
at last, of loosing my hold, when suddenly
the violence of the storm moderated; —
my whirl through the air gradually ceased,
and I felt the ring slowly descend with
me, till — happy as a shipwrecked mari-
ner at the first touch of land — I found
my feet once more upon firm ground.

At the same moment, a light of the
most delicious softness filled the whole air.
Music, such as is heard in dreams, came
floating at a distance ; and, as my eyes gra-
dually recovered their powers of vision,
a scene of glory was revealed to them,
almost too bright for imagination, and
yet living and real. As far as the sight

J

THE EPICUREAN. 85

could leacli, encliantin<i; gardens were
seen, opening away through h)iig tracts
of light and verdure, and sparkling every
where with fountains, that circulated, like
streams of life, amonij the flowers. Not
a charm was here wanting, that the imagin-
ation of poet or prophet, in their pic-
tures of Elysium, ever yet dreamed or
promised. Vistas, opening into scenes of
indistinct grandeur, — streams, shining out
at intervals, in their shadowy course, —
and labyrinths of flowers, leading, by
mysterious windings, to green, spacious
glades, full of splendour and repose. Over
all this, too, thei'e fell a light, from some
unseen source, resembling; nothinjr that
illumines our upi)er woild — a sort of
golden moonlight, mingling the warm ra-
diance of day with the calm and melan-
cholv lustre of ni<rlit.

Nor were there wanting inhabitants for
this sunless Paradise. Through all the
bright gardens were wandering, with the
serene air and step of happy spirits, groups

86 THE EPICUREAN.

both of young and old, of venerable and of
lovely forms, bearing, most of them, the
Nile's white flowers on their heads, and
branches of the eternal palm in their
hands ; while, over the verdant turf, fair
children and maidens went dancing to
aerial music, whose source was, like that
of the light, invisible, but which filled
the whole air with its mystic sweetness.

Exhausted as I was by the trials I had
undergone, no sooner did I perceive those
fair groups in the distance, than my weari-
ness, both of frame and spirit, was for-
gotten. A thouoht crossed me that she,
whom I sought, might be among them ;
and, notwithstanding the awe, with which
that unearthly scene inspired me, I was
about to flv, on the instant, to ascertain mv
hope. But in the act of making the effort,
I felt my robe gently pulled, and turning,
beheld an aged man before me, whom, by
the sacred hue of his garb, I knew to be
a Hierophant. Placing a branch of the
consecrated palm in my hand, he said,

THE ElMCUREAN. 87

in !i solemn voice, " As))irant of the Mys-
teries, welcome !" — then, lej^arding me
i'or a few seconds with grave attention,
added, in a tone of courteonsness and in-
terest, " The victory over the body hath
been gained ! — Follow me, young Greek,
to thy resting place."

I obeyed in silence, — and the Priest,
turning away from this scene of si)lendour,
into a secluded path, where the light faded
away, as we advanced, conducted me to a
small pavilion, by the side of a whisper-
ing stream, where the very spirit of slum-
ber seemed to preside, and, pointing to
a bed of dried })oppy-leaves within it, left
me to repose.

88 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. VIII.

Though the sight of that splendid scene
which opened upon me, hke a momentary
glimpse into another world, had, for an in-
stant, re-animated my strength and spirit,
so completely had fatigue overmastered my
whole frame, that, even had the form of
the young Priestess stood before me, my
limbs would have sunk in the effort to
reach her. No sooner had I fallen on my
leafy couch, than sleep, like a sudden
death, came over me ; and I lay, for hours,
in the deep, and motionless rest, which not
even a shadow of life disturbs.

On awaking I saw, beside me, the same
venerable personage, who had welcomed
me to this subterranean world on the pre-
ceding night. At the foot of my couch stood
a statue, of Grecian workmanship, repre-
senting a boy, with wings, seated gracefully

THE F.I'ICL'REAN. 89

Oil a lotus-flower, and having the tore-
finger of his right liand j)res.secl to his hps.
This action, together with the glory round
his brows, denoted, as I already knew,
the God of Silence and Light.

Impatient to know what further trials
awaited me, I was about to speak, when
the Priest exclaimed, anxiously, " Hush !"
— and, pointing to this statue at the foot
of the couch, said — " Let the spell of that
Spirit be on thy lips, young stranger, till
the wisdom of tliy instructors shall think
fit to remove it. Not unaptly doth the same
god preside over Silence and Light ; since
it is only out of the depth of contemplative
silence, that the great light of the soul,
Truth, arises ! "

Little used to the language of dictation
or instruction, I was now preparing to rise,
when the priest again restrained me; and,
at the same moment, two boys, beautiful as
the young Genii of the stars, entered the
pavilion. They were habited in long
garments of the purest white, and bore

90 THE EPICUREAN.

each a small golden chalice in his hand.
Advancing towards me, they stopped on
opposite sides of the couch, and one of
them, presenting to me his chalice of gold,
said, in a tone between singing and speak-

ing

" Drink of this cnp — Osiris sips
The same in his halls below;
And the same he gives, to cool the lips
Of the Dead, who downward go.

" Drink of this cup — the water within
Is fresh from Lethe's stream ;
'Twill make the past with all its sin.
And all its pain and sorrows, seem
Like a long-forgotten dream !

" The pleasure, whose charms
Are steep'd in woe ;
The knowledge, that harms
The soul to know ;

" The hope, that, bright

As the lake of the waste.
Allures the sight.
But mocks the taste ;

THE El'KlHIiAN. 91

" The love, tliat binds
Its innocent wreath,
Where tiic serpent winds.
In venom, beneath; —

" All that, of evil or false, by thee
Hath ever been known or seen.
Shall melt away in this cup, and be
Forgot, ns it never had been I"

Unwilliiiix to throw a slight on this
.strange ceremony, I leaned forward, witli
all due gravity, and tasted the cup ;
which I had no sooner done than the
young cup-bearer, on tlie other side,
invited my attention, and, in his turn,
presenting the chalice which he held,
sung, with a voice still sweeter than that
of his companion, the following strahi : —

" Drink of this cup — when Isis led

ller boy, of old, to the beaming sky.
She mingled a draught divine, and said- —
' Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die !'

" Thus do I say and sing to tliee.

Heir of that boundless heav'n on high,
Though frail, and fall'n, and lost thou be,
Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die I"

92 THE EPICUREAN.

Much as I had endeavoured to keep my
philosophy on its guard, against the illu-
sions with which, I knew, this region
abounded, the young cup-bearer had here
touched a spring of imagination, over
which, as has been seen, my philosophy
had but little controul. No sooner had
the words, " thou shalt never die," struck
on my ear, than the dream of tlie Garden
came fully to my mind, and, starting half-
way from the couch, I stretched forth my
hands to the cup. Recollecting myself,
however, and fearful of having betrayed
to others a weakness only fit for my own
secret indulgence, with an affected smile
of indifference I sunk back again on my
couch, — while the voung minstrel, but
little interrupted by my movement, stUl
continued his strain, of which I heard but
the concluding words: —

" And Memory, too, with her dreams shiill come,
Dreams of a former, happier day,
When Heaven was still the Spirit's home,
And her wings had not yet fallen away ;

THE EPKUREAX. U3

" Glimpses of glory, ne'er forgot,

That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea.
What once hath been, what now is not,
I3nt, oh, what aLrain shall brightly be !"

Thougli till' assurances of immortality,
contained in these verses, would, at any
otlier moment, — vain and visionary as I
thou«rlit them, — have sent my fancy wan-
dering into reveries ol" the future, the
effort of self-control I had just made ena-
bled me to hear them with indifference.

Having gone through the form of tasting
this second cu}), I again looked anxiously
to the Hierophant, to ascertain whether 1
might be permitted to rise. His assent
having been given, the young pages brought
to my couch a robe and tunic, which, like
their own, were of linen of the purest
white ; and having assisted to clothe me in
this sacred garb, they then placed upon
my head a cliaplet of myrtle, in which the
symbol of Initiation, a golden grashopper,
was seen shining out from among the dark
leaves.

94 THE EPICUREAN.

Though sleep had done much to refresh
my frame, something more was still wanting
to restore its strength ; and it was not
without a smile at my own reveries I
reflected, how much more welcome than
the young page's cup of immortality was
the unpretending, but real, repast now set
before me, — fresh fruits from the Isle of
Gardens in the Nile, the delicate flesh of
the desert antelope, and wine from the
Vmeyard of the Queens at Anthylla,
fanned by one of the pages with a palm-
leaf, to keep it cool.

Havirtg done justice to these dainties, it
was with pleasure I heard the proposal of
the Priest, that we should now walk forth
together, and meditate among the scenes
without. I had not forgotten the elysium
that welcomed me last night, — those en-
chanted gardens, that mysterious music,
and light, and the fair forms I saw wandering
about, — as if, in the very midst of haji-
piness, still seeking it. The hope, which
had then occurred to me, that, perhaps,

THF. ET'ICUPEAN. 95

aniou^ those sparkling groups, iniglit \k-
the mauk'ii I sought, now returned with
hicreased strength. I had little (l()ul)t that
my guide was about to lead to the same
Elysian scene, and that the form, so fit to
inhabit it, would again a})pear before n)y
eyes.

liut far different was the region to which
he conducted n)e; nor could the whole
world produce a scene more gloomy, or
more strange. It had the appearance of
a small, soUtary valley, inclosed, on every
side, by rocks, which seemed to rise, al-
most perpendicularly, to die very sky ; —
for it was, indeed, the blue sky that I saw
shining between their summits, and whose
light, dimmed and half lost, in its descent
thus far, formed the melancholv davli<>ht
of this nether world.* Down the side of

* " On s'ctoit niemc a\is6, depuis la premiere
construction de ces denieures, de percer en plii-
sieurs cndroits jusq'au haut Ics terres qui les coii-
vroient ; noii pas, a la VL-ritc, pour tirer un jour qui
n'auroit jamais etc sufTisant, niais pour rcccvoir un
air sakitairc, &c." — Sclhos.

96 THE EPICUREAN.

these rockv walls fell a cataract, whose
source was upon earth, and on whose
waters, as they rolled glassily over the
edge above, a gleam of radiance rested,
that showed how brilliant was the sun-
shine they left. From thence, gradually
darkening, and broken, in its long de-
scent, by alternate chasms and projections,
the stream fell, at last, in a pale and thin
mist — the phantom of what it had been
on earth — into a small lake that lay at
the base of the rock to receive it.

Nothins could be more bleak and sad-
dening than the appearance of this lake.
The usual ornaments of the waters of
Egypt were not wanting : the lotus here up-
lifted her silvery flowers, and the crimson
flamingo floated over the tide. But they
were, neither of them, the same as in the
upper world ; — the flower had exchanged
its whiteness for a livid hue, and the wings
of the bird hung heavy and colourless.
Every thing wore the same half-living
asj)ect ; and the only sounds that dis-

THE EPICUREAN. 97

turhcd tlic iiKniniliil stillness were tiie
wailing cry of a heron among the sedges,
and that dinof the waters, in their midway
struggle, above.

There was an unearthly sadness ui the
whole scene, of which no heart, however
light, could resist the influence. Per-
ceiving how I was affected by it, " Such
scenes," said the Priest, " are best suited to
that solemn complexion of mind, which
becomes him who approaches the Great
Secret of futurity. Behold," — and, in
saying thus, he pointed to the opening over
our heads, through which I could perceive
a star or two twinkling in the heavens,
though the sun had but a short time passed
his meridian, — " as from this gloomy depth
we can see those stars, which are now
invisible to the dwellers upon tlie bright
earth, even so, to the sad and self-humbled
spirit, doth many a mystery of heaven
reveal itself, of which they, who walk in
the light of the proud world, know not !"

F

98 THE EPICUREAN.

He now led me towards a rustic seat or
alcove, beside which stood an image of
that dark Deity, that God without a smile,
who presides over the kingdom of the
Dead. * The same livid and lifeless hue
was upon his features, that hung over everj'^
thing in this dim valley; and, with his
right hand, he pointed directly down-
wards, to denote that his melancholy
kingdom lay there. A plantain — that
favourite tree of the genii of Death —
stood behind the statue, and spread its
branches over the alcove, in which the
Priest now, seating himself, signified that
I should take my place by his side.

After a long pause, as if of thought and
preparation, — " Nobly," said he, " young-
Greek, hast thou sustained the first trials
of Initiation. What remains, though oi
vital import to the soul, brings with it
neither pain nor peril to the body. Having
now proved and chastened thy mortal
frame, by the three ordeals of Fire, of
* Osiris.

THE EPICUREAN. 99

Water, and of Air, the next task to which
we are called is the purification of thy
spirit, — the cleansing of tiiat inward and
immortal part, so as to render it fit for the
reception of the last luminous reveal ment,
when the Veils of the Sanctuary shall be
thrown aside, and the Great Secret of
Secrets unfolded to thee ! — Towards this
object, the primary and most essential step
is, instruction. \Vliat the three purifying
elements, through which thou hast passed,
have done for thy body, instruction will
effect for "

" But that lovely maiden !" I exclaimed,
bursting from my silence, having fallen,
duruig his speech, into a deep revery, in
which I had forgotten him, myself, the
Great Secret, every thinii- — but her.

Startled by this profane interruption, he
cast a look of alarm towards the statue, as if
fearful lest the God should have heard my
words. Then, turning to me, in a tone of
mild solemnity, " It is but too plain,"
said he, '' that thoughts of the upper
F 2

100 THE EPICUREAN.

world, and of its vain delights, still en-
gross thee too much, to let the lessons of
Truth sink profitably into thy heart. A
few hours of meditation amid this solemn
scenery — of that wholesome meditation,
which purifies, by saddening — may
haply dispose thee to receive, with reve-
rence, the holy and immortal knowledge
that is in store for thee. With this hope,
I now leave thee to thy own thoughts, and
to that God, before whose calm and
mournful eye the vanities of the world,
from which thou comest, wither !"

Thus saying, he turned slowly away,
and passing behind the statue, towards
which he had pointed during the last sen-
tence, suddenly, and as if by enchantment,
disappeared from my sight.

THE EPICUREAN. 101

CHAP. IX.

Being left to my own solitary thoughts,
I had now leisure to reflect, with coolness,
on the inconveniences, if not dangers, of
the situation into which my love of adven-
ture had hurried me. However ready my
imagination was to kindle, in its own ideal
sphere, I have ever found that, when
brought into contact with reality, it as
suddenly cooled ; — like those meteors,
that seem stars in the air, but, the mo-
ment they touch earth, are extinguished.
Such was the disenchantment that now
succeeded to the dreams hi which I had
been indulging. As long as Fancy had
the field of the future to herself, even im-
mortality did not seem too distant a race
for her. But when human instruments
interposed, the illusion vanished. From
mortal lips the promise of immortality

F 3

102 THE EPICUREAN.

seemed a mockery, and imagination her-
self had no wings that could carry beyond
the grave.

Nor was this disappointment the only
feeling that occupied me ; — the impru-
dence of the step, which I had taken, now
appeared in its full extent before my eyes.
I had thrown myself into the power of
the most artful priesthood in the world,
without a chance of being able to escape
from their toils, or to resist any machin-
ations with which they might beset me. It
seemed evident, from the state of preparation
in which I had found all that wonderfiil
apparatus, by which the terrors and splen-
dours of Initiation are produced, that my
descent into the pyramid was not unex-
pected. Numerous, indeed, and active as
were the spies of the Sacred College of
Memphis, there could be but little doubt
that all my movements, since my arrival,
had been tracked; and the many hours
I had passed in watching and wandering
round the pyramid, betrayed a curiosity

THE EPICUREAN. 103

which might well insjiire these wily priests
with the hope of" drawing an Epicurean
into their superstitious toils.

I well knew their hatred to the sect
of which I was Chief; — that they con-
sidered the Epicureans as, next to the
Christians, the most formidable enemies
ol" their cratt and power. " How thought-
less, then," I exclaimed, " to have placed
myself in a situation, where I am equally
helpless against their fraud and violence,
and must either seem to be the dupe of
their impostures, or submit to become
the victim of their vengeance." Of these
alternatives, bitter as they were, the latter
appeared by far the more welcome. I
blushed even to thuik of the mockeries
to which I already had yielded; and the
prospect of being put through still further
ceremonials, and of being tutored aiul
preached to by hypocrites I despised,
appeared to me, in my present temper,
a trial of patience, to which the Hames

F 4

104 THE EPICUREAN.

and the whirlwinds I had already en-
countered were pastime.

Often and impatiently did I look up,
between those rocky walls, to the bright
sky that appeared to rest upon their sum-
mits, as, round and round, through every
part of the valley, I endeavoured to find an
outlet from its gloomy precincts. But in
vain I endeavoured ; — that rocky barrier,
which seemed to end but in heaven, inter-
posed itself every where. Neither did the
image of the young maiden, though con-
stantly in my mind, now bring with it the
least consolation or hope. Of what avail
was it that she, perhaps, was an mhabi-
taiit of this region, if I could neither see
her smile, nor catch the sound of her voice,
— if, while among preaching priests I
wasted away my hours, her presence
diffused its enchantment elsewhere.

At length exhausted, I lay down by the
brink of the lake, and gave myself up to
all the melancholy of my fancy. The

THE EPICUREAN. 105

pale semblance of daylight, which had
hitherto shone around, grew, every mo-
ment, more dim and dismal. Even the
rich gleam, at the summit of the cascade,
had faded ; and the sunshme, like the
water, exhausted in its descent, had now
dwindled into a ghostly glinuner, far
worse than darkness. The birds upon the
lake, as if about to die with the dying
light, sunk down their heads ; and, as I
looked to the statue, the deepening shadows
gave an expression to its mournful features
that chilled my very soul.

The thought of death, ever ready to
present itself to my imagination, now came,
with a disheartening weight, such as I had
never before felt. I almost fancied myself
already in the dark vestibule of the grave,
— separated, for ever, from the world
above, and with nothing but the blank of
an eternal sleep before me. It had often, J
knew, happened that the visitants of this
mysterious realm were, after their descent

F 5

106 THE EPICUREAN.

fi-om earth, never seen or heard of; —
beinff condemned, for some failure in their
initiatory trials, to pine away theii' Uves in
the dark dungeons, with which, as well as
with altars, this region abounded. Such,
I shuddered to think, might probably
be my destiny ; and so appalling was the
thought, that even the spu'it of defiance
died within me, and I was already giving
myself up to helplessness and despau\

At lenoth, after some hours of this
gloomy musuig, I heard a rusthng in the
sacred grove behind the statue ; and,
soon after, the sound of the Priest's voice
— more welcome than I had ever thought
such voice could be — brought the as-
surance that I was not yet, at least,
wholly abandoned. Finding his way to
me through the gloom, he now led me to
the same spot, on which we had parted so
many hours before ; and, in a voice that
retained no trace of displeasure, bespoke
my attention, while he should reveal to
me some of tliose divine truths, by whose

THE EPICUREAN. 107

infusion, he said, into the soul of man, its
purification can alone be effected.

Tile valley had now become so wholly
dark, that we could no longer discern each
other's faces, as we sat. There was a
melancholy in the voice of my instructor
that well accorded with the gloom around
us; and, saddened and subdued, I now
listened with resignation, if not with in-
terest, to those sublime, but, alas, I
thought, vain tenets, which, with the
warmth of a believer, this Hierophiuit
expounded to me.

He spoke of the pre-existence of the
soul, — of its abode, from all eternity, in
a place of bliss, of which all that we have
most beautiful in our conceptions here is but
a dim transcript, a clouded remembrance.
In the blue depths of ether, he said, lay that
" Country of the Soul," — its boundary
alone visible in the line of milky light, that
separates it, as by a barrier of stars, fi-om
the dark earth. " Oh, realm of purity !
F 6

108 THE EPICUREAN.

Home of the yet unfallen Spirit ! — where,
in the days of her primal innocence, she
wandered, ere her beauty was soiled by
the touch of earth, or her resplendent wings
had withered away. Methinks," he cried,
" I see, at this moment, those fields of
radiance, — I look back, through the mists
of life, into that luminous world, where
the souls that have never lost their high,
heavenly rank, still soar, without a stain,
above the shadowless stars, and dwell to-
gether in infinite perfection and bliss !"

As he spoke these words, a burst of
pure, brilliant light, like a sudden opening
of heaven, broke through the valley ; and,
as soon as my eyes were able to endure
the splendour, such a vision of loveliness
and glory opened upon them, as took
even my sceptical spirit by surprise, and
made it yield, at once, to the potency
of the spell.

Suspended, as I thought, in uir, and
occupying the whole of the opposite region
of the valley, there appeared an immense

THE EPICUREAN. 109

orb of light, within wliich, through a haze
of radiance, I coukl sec distinctly groups
of young female spirits, who, in silent, but
harmonious movement, like that of the
stars, wound slowly through a variety of
fanciful evolutions; and, as they linked
and unlinked each other's arms, formed
a living labyrinth of beauty and grace.
'rhou<>;h their feet seemed to tread alonij a
field of light, they had also wings, of the
richest hue, which, like rainbows over
waterfalls, when played with by the breeze,
at every moment reflected a new variety
of glory.

As I stood, gazing with wonder, the
orb, with all its ethereal inmates, gradually
receded into the dark void, lessening, as
it went, and growing more bright, as it les-
sened ; — till, at length, distant, apparent-
ly, as a retirhig comet, this little world of
Spirits, in one small point of intense ra-
diance, shone its last and vanished. " Go,"
exclaimed the nxpt Priest, " ye happy
souls, of whose dwelhng a glimpse is thus

110 THE EPICUREAN.

given to our eyes, go, wander, in your orb,
through the boundless heaven, nor ever
let a thought of this perishable world come
to mingle its dross with your divine nature,
or tempt you to that earthward fall, by
which spirits, as bright, have been ruined !"

A pause ensued, during which, still
under the influence of wonder, I sent my
fancy wandering after the inhabitants of
that orb, — almost wishing myself cre-
dulous enough to believe in a heaven, of
which creatures, so like all that I most
loved on earth, were inmates.

At length, the Priest, with a sigh at the
contrast he was about to draw, between
the happy spirits we had just seen and the
fallen ones of earth, resumed his melan-
choly History of the Soul. Tracing it,
from the first moment of earthward desire,
to its final eclipse in the shadows of this
world, lie dwelt upon every stage of its
darkening descent, with a pathos that sent
sadness into the very depths of the heart.
The first downward look of the Spirit to-

THE EPICUREAN. I 1 1

wards earth — the tremble of her wings
on the edge of Heaven — the giddy slide,
at lengtli, down that fatal descent, and the
Leth.uan cup, midway in the sky, of wiiich
whiin she has once tasted. Heaven is foigot,

— throuijrh all these ijradations he mourn-
fully traced her fall, to the last stage of dark-
ness, when, wholly immersed in this world,
her celestial nature is changed, she can nt)
longer rise above earth, nor remembers

« her home, but by glimpses so vague, that,
mistaking for hope what is only memory,
she believes them to be a light fi'om the
Future, not the Past.

" To retrieve this ruin of the once blessed
Soul — to clear away, from around her,
the clouds of earth, and, restoring her lost
wings*, facilitate their return to Heaven

— such," said the reverend man, " is the
great task of our religion, and such the
triumph of those divine Mysteries, in

* In the language of Plato, Hieroclcs, &c. to
" restore to the soul its wings," is the main object
both of religion and philosophy.

112 THE EPICUREAN.

which the hfe and essence of our rehgion
lie. However sunk and changed and
clouded may be the Spirit, as long as a
single trace of her original light remains.

there is yet hope that "

Here his voice was interrupted by a
stram of mournfol music, of which the
low, distant breathings had been, for some
minutes, heard, but which now gained
upon the ear too thrillingly to let it
listen to any more earthly sound. A
faint light, too, at that instant broke
through the valley, — and I could per-
ceive, not far from the spot where we
sat, a female figure, veiled, and crouching
to earth, as if subdued by sorrow, or
under the influence of shame.

The light, by which I saw her, was
from a pale, moon-like meteor, which had
formed itself in the air as the music ap-
proached, and shed over the rocks and the
lake a glimmer as cold as that by which
the Dead, in their own realm, gaze on each
other. The nmsic, too, which appeared

THE EPICUREAX. 1 1 S

to rise directly out of the lake, and to come
full of the breath of its dark waters, spokt-
a desj)ondency in every note which ni»
language could express; — and, as I lis-
tened to its tones, and looked ujion that
fallen Sj)irit, (for such, the holy man
whispered, was the form before us,) so
entirely did the illusion of the scene take
possession of me, that, with breathless
anxiety, I waited the result.

Nor had I jjazed lonf; before that
form rose slowly from its drooping posi-
tion ; — the air around it grew bright, and
the pale meteor overhead assumed a more
cheerful and living light. The veil, which
had before shrouded the face of the figure,
became gradually transparent, and the
features, one by one, disclosed themselves
throujrh it. Having tremblingly watched
the progress of the aj)parition, I now
started irom my seat, and half exclaimed,
" It is she !" In another minute, this veil
had, like a thin mist, melted away, anil
the young Priestess of the Moon stood.

114 THE EPICUREAN.

for the third time, revealed before my
eyes.

To rush instantly towards her was my
first impulse — but the arm of the Priest
held me firmly back. The fresh light,
which had begun to flow in from all sides,
collected itself in a glory round the spot
where she stood. Instead of melancholy
music, strains of the most exalted rapture
were heard ; and the young maiden, buoy-
ant as the inhabitants of the fairy orb,
amid a blaze of light like that which fell
upon her in the Temple, ascended into the
air.

" Stay, beautiful vision, stay !" I ex-
claimed, as, breaking from the hold of the
Priest, I flung myself prostrate on the
ground, — the only mode by which I could
express the admiration, even to worship,
with which I was filled. But the vanishing
spirit heard me not : — receding into the
darkness, like that orb, whose track she
seemed to follow, her form lessened away,
till she was seen no more. Gazing, till

THE EPICUREAN.

the last luminous speck had disappeared,
I suffered myself unconsciously to be led
away by my reverend ^uide, who, placing
me once more on my bed ot" poppy-
leaves, left me to such repose as it was
possible, aftei" such a scene, to enjoy.

116 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. X.

iHE apparition with which I had been
blessed in that Valley of Visions — as the
place where I had witnessed these won-
ders was called — brought back to my
heart all the hopes and fancies, in which
I had indulged during my descent from
earth. I had now seen once more that
matchless creature, who had been my
guiding star into this mysterious world ;
and that she was, in some way, connected
with the further revelations that awaited
me, I saw no reason to doubt. There
was a sublimity, too, hi the doctrines of
my reverend teacher, and even a hope in
the promises of immortality held out by
him, which, in spite of reason, won insen-
sibly both upon my fancy and my pride.

The Future, however, was now but of
secondary consideration ; — the Present,

THE EPICUREAN. 117

ami that deity of the Present, woman, were
the objects that engrossed my whole soul.
For the sake, indeed, of such beings alone
did I think innnortality desirable, Jior,
without them, would eternal life have ap-
jieared to me worth a prayer. To every
furtlu'i- trial of my patience and faith, I
now made u[) my minil to submit without
a nuuMnur. Some propitious chance, I
fondly persuaded myself, might yet bring
me nearer to the object of my adoration,
and enable me to address, as mortal wo-
man, her who had hitherto been to me but
as a vision, a shade.

The period of my probation, however,
was nearly at an end. Both frame and
spirit had now been tried ; and, as the
crowning test of the purification t)i the
latter was that power of seeing into the
world of spirits, with which, in the Valley
of Visions, I had proved myself to be en-
dowed, there remained now, to perfect
my Initiation, but this one night more,

118 THE EPICUREAN.

when, in the Temple of Isis, and in the
presence of her unveiled image, the last
errand revelation of the Secret of Secrets
was to open upon me.

I passed the morning of this day in
company with the same venerable person-
age, who had, from the first, presided
over the ceremonies of my instruction ; and
who, to inspire me with due reverence for
the power and magnificence of his religion,
now conducted me through the long range
of illuminated galleries and shrmes, that
extend under the site upon which Mem-
phis and the Pyramids stand, and form
a counterpart under ground to that mighty
city of temples upon earth.

He then descended with me, still lower,
into those winding crj-pts, where lay the
Seven Tables of stone, found by Hermes
in the vailev of Hebron. " Oh these
tables," said he, " is written all the know-
ledge of the antediluvian race, — the
decrees of the stars from the beginning
of time, the annals of a still earlier world,

THE EPICUREAN. I 10

and all the marvellous secrets, both ot"
heaven and earth, which would have been,

" but for this key,
Lost in tlie Universal Sea."

Returning to the region, from whicii we
had descended, we next visited, in succes-
sion, a series of small shrines, represent-
ing the various objects of adoration through
Egypt, and thus furnishing to the Priest
an occasion for explaining the mysteri-
ous nature of animal worsliip, and the re-
fined doctrines of theology that lay veiled
inider its forms. Every shrine was con-
secrated to a particular faith, and con-
tained a living image of the deity which it
adoreil. Beside the goat of Mendes, with
his refulgent star upon his breast, I saw
the crocodile, as presented to the eyes of its
idolaters at Arsinoe, with costly gems in its
loathsome ears, and rich bracelets of gold
encirclin<>- its feet. Here, floatin<; throuffh
a tank in the centre of a temple, the sacred
carp of Lepidotum exhibited its silvery

120 THE EPICUREAN.

scales; while, there, the Isiac serpents
trailed languidly over the altar, with that
movement which most inspires the hopes of
their votaries. In one of the small chapels
we found a beautiful child, feeding and
watching over those golden beetles, which
are adored for their brightness, as emblems
of the sun; while, in another, stood a
sacred ibis upon its pedestal, so like, in
plumage and attitude, to the bird of the
young Priestess, that 1 could gladly have
knelt down and worshipped it for her
sake.

After visiting these various shrines, and
listening to the reflections which they sug-
gested, I was next led by my guide to the
Great Hall of the Zodiac, on whose
ceiling, in bright and undying colours,
was delineated the map of the firmament,
as it appeared at the first dawn of time.
Here, in pointing out the track of the sun,
among the spheres, he spoke eloquently of
the analogy that exists between moral and
})hysical darkness — of the sympathy with

THE EPICUREAN. 121

which all spiritual creatures regard the
sun, so as to sadden and droop when Ik
sinks into his wintry hemisphere, and t<t
rejoice wlien he resumes his own em-
pire of light. Hence, the festivals and
liymns, with which most of the nations of
the earth are wont to welcome the resui-
rection of his orb in spring, as an emblem
and pledge of the re-ascent of the soul
ti) heaven. Hence, the songs of sorrow,
the mournful ceremonies, — like those
Mysteries of the Night, u})on the Lake ot
Sais, — in which they brood over his
autumnal descent into the shades, as a
type of the Spirit's fall into this world of
death.

In discourses such as these the hours
passed away ; and though there was no-
thing in the light of this sunless region to
mark to the eye the decline of day. my
own feehngs told me that the night drew
near; — nor, in spite of my incredulity,
could I refraui from a flutter of hope, as

G

122 THE EPICUREAN.

that promised moment of revelation ap-
proached, when the Mystery of Mysteries
was to be made all my own. This con-
smnmation, however, was less near than I
expected. My patience had still further
trials to encounter. It was necessary, I
now found, that I should keep watch, dur-
ing the greater part of the night, in the
Sanctuary of the Temple, alone and in
darkness, — and thus prepare myself^ by
meditation, for the awful moment, when
the irradiation from behind the sacred
Veils was to burst upon me.

At the appointed hour, we left the Hall
of the Zodiac, and proceeded through
a line' of long marble galleries, where the
lamps were more thuily scattered as we ad-
vanced, till, at length, we found ourselves
in total darkness. Here the Priest, taking
me by the hand, and leading me down a
flight of steps, into a place where the same
deep gloom prevailed, said, with a voice
trembling, as if from excess of awe, —
" Thou art now in the Sanctuary of our

THE EPICUREAN. 123

gocUless, Isis, and the dark veils, that hang
over her image, are before thee ! "

After exhorting me earnestly to that
train of thought, whicli best accorded with
the spirit of the place where I stood, and,
above all, to that full and unhesitating
faitli, with which alone, he said, the mani-
festation of such mysteries should be ap-
proached, the holy man took leave of me,
and re-ascended the steps; — while, so
spell-bound did 1 feel by that deep dark-
ness, that the last sound of his footsteps
died upon my ear, before I ventured to stir
a limb from the position in which he had
left me.

The prospect of the long watch, now
before me, was dreadful. E\'en tlanger
itself, in an active form, would have been
preferable to this sort of safe, but dull,
probation, by which patience was the
only virtue put to the proof. Having
ascertained how far the space arounil me
was free from obstacles, I endeavoured

G 2

124- THE EPICUREAN.

to beguile the time by pacing up and
down within those Hmits, till I became
tii'ed of the echoes of my own tread.
Finding my way, then, to what I felt to
be a massive pillar, and, leaning wearily
against it, I surrendered myself to a train
of thoughts and feelings, far different
from those with which the Hierophant
had hoped to inspire me.

" Why," I again asked, " if these
priests possess the secret of life, why are
they themselves the victims of death ?
why sink into the grave with the cup of
immortality in their hands ? But no, safe
boasters, the eternity they so lavishly pro-
mise is reserved for another, a future
world — that ready resource of all priestly
promises — that depository of the airy
pledges of all creeds. Another world ! —
alas, where does it lie? or, what spirit
hath ever come to say that Life is there?"

The conclusion, to which, half sadly,
half passionately, I arrived, was that,
life being but a dream of the moment.

THE EPICUREAN. 125

never to come again, every bliss that is
promised for hereafter should be secured
by the wise man here. And, as no
heaven I iiad ever heard of from these
visionary priests opened half such cer-
tainty of happiness as that smile which I
behekl last night, — " Let me," I ex-
claimed, impatiently, striking the massy
pillar, till it rung, " let me but make that
beautiful Priestess my own, and I here
willingly exchange for her every chance
of immortality, that the combined wis-
dom of Egypt's Twelve Temples can
offer me ! "

No sooner had I uttered these words,
than a tremendous peal, like that of
thunder, rolled over the Sanctuary, and
seemed to shake its walls. On every
side, too, a succession of blue, vivid
Hashes pierced, like so many lances of
light, through the gloom, revealing to
me, at intervals, the mighty dome in
which I stood — its ceiling of azure, stud-
ded with stars, its colossal columns,

G 3

126 THE EPICUREAN.

towering aloft, and those dark, mysterious
veils, which hung, in massy drapery, from
the roof to the floor, and covered the rich
fflories of the Shrine under their folds.

So weary had I grown of my tedious
watch, that tliis stormy and fitful illumin-
ation, during which the Sanctuary seemed
to rock to its base, was by no means an
unwelcome interruption of the monotony
under which my impatience suffered.
After a short interval, however, the flashes
ceased ; — the sounds died away, like ex-
hausted thunder, through the abyss, and
darkness and silence, like that of the
grave, succeeded.

Resting my back once more against the
pillar, and fixing my eyes upon that side
of the Sanctuary, from which the pro-
mised irradiation was to burst, I now
resolved to await the awful moment in
patience. Resigned and immovable, I
had remained thus, for nearly another
hour, when, suddenly, along the edges
of the mighty Veils, I perceived a thin rim

THE EPICUREAN. 127

of light, as if from some brilliant object
under them; — like that border which
encircles a cloud at sunset, when the
radiance, from behind, is escaping at its
edges.

This indication of concealed glories
grew every instant more strong ; till, at
last, vividly marked as it was upon the
darkness, the narrow fringe of lustre al-
most pained the eye, giving })romise of a
splendour too bright to be endured. My
expectations were now wound to the high-
est pitch, and all the scepticism, into
which I had been cooling down my mind,
was forfxotten. The wonders that had
been presented to me since my descent
from earth — that glimpse into Elysium
on the first night of my coming — those
visitants from the Land of Spirits in the
mysterious valley, — all led me to expect,
in this last and brightest revelation, such
visions of glory and knowledge as might
transcend even fancy itself, nor leave
G 4

128 THE EPICUREAN.

a doubt that they belonged less to earth
than heaven.

While, with an imagination thus excited,
1 stood waiting the result, an increased
ii'ush of lififht still more awakened my at-
tention ; and I saw, with an intenseness of
interest, which made my heart beat aloud,
one of the corners of the mighty Veil slow-
ly raised up. I now felt that the Great
Secret — whatever it might be — was at
hand. A vague hope even crossed my mind
— so wholly had imagination resumed her
empire — that the splendid promise of
my dream was on the point of being
realised !

With surprise, however, and — for a
moment — with disappointment, I per-
ceived, that the massy corner of the Veil
was but raised sufficiently to allow a female
figure to emerge from under it, — and
then fell again, over its mystic sjilendours,
as dark as before. By the strong light,
too, that issued when the drapery was
lifted, and illuminated the profile of the

THE EPICUREAN. 129

emergin*r figure, I either saw, or fancied
that I saw, the same bright features,
that had ah-eady mocked me so often with
their momentary charm, and seemed des-
tined to haunt my heart as unavailingly as
the fcmd, vain dream of Inuuortaiity itself.

Dazzled as I had been by that short
gush of splendour, and distrusting even my
senses, when under the influence of a
fancy so excited, I had hardly time to
question myself as to the reality of my
impression, when I heard the sounds of
light footsteps approaching me through
the gloom. In a second or two more, the
figure stopped before me, and, placing the
end of a riband gently in my hand, said,
in a tremulous whisper, " Follow, and be
silent."

So sudden and strange was the adven-
ture, that, for a moment, I hesitated, — fear-
ful lest my eyes should have been deceived
as to the object they had seen. Casting a
look towards the Veil, wliich seemed burst-
ing with its luminous secret, I was almost
G 5

130 THE EPICUREAN.

doubtinff to which of the two chances
I should commit myself, wlien I felt the
riband in my hand pulled softly at the
other extremity. This movement, at
once, like a touch of magic, decided
me. Without further deliberation, I
yielded to the silent summons, and fol-
lowing my guide, who was already at
some distance before me, found myself
led up the same flight of marble steps,
by which the Priest had conducted me
into the Sanctuary. Arrived at their
summit, I felt the pace of my conductress
quicken, and, giving one more look to
the Veiled Shrine, whose glories we left
burning ineffectually behind us, has-
tened into the gloom, full of confidence
in the belief, that she, who now held the
other end of that clue, was one whom I
could follow devotedly through the world.

THE EPICUUEAN. LSI

CHAR XI.

So rapidly was I hurried along by my
unseen conductress, lull ol" wonder at the
speed with which she ventured through
these labyrinths, that I had but little time
to reflect upon the strangeness ol" the
adventure to which I had committed my-
self. My knowledge of the character of
the priests, as well as the fearful rumours
that had reached me, of the fate that often
attended unbelievers in their hands, waked
a momentary suspicion of treachery in my
mind. But, when I recalled the face of
my guide, as I had seen it in the chapel,
with that divine look, the very nie-
morv of which brouy-ht puritv into the
heart, this suspicion all vanished, and I
felt shame at having harboured it but an
instant.

In the mean while, our course continued
uninterruptetl, through windings more

G 6

132 THE EPICUREAN.

capriciously intricate than any that I had
yet passed, and whose darkness seemed
never to have been disturbed by a single
glimmer. My conductress still continued
at some distance before me, and the clue,
to which I clung as if it were the thread
of Destiny herself, was still kept, by her
speed, at full stretch between us. At
length, suddenly stopping, she said, in
a breathless whisper, " Seat thyself here,"
and, at the same moment, led me by the
hand to a sort of low car, in which I lost
not a moment in placing myself, as desired,
while the maiden, as promptly, took her
seat by my side.

A sudden click, like the touching of
a spring, was then heard, and the car, —
which, as I had felt in entering it, leaned
half-way over a steep descent, — on being-
loosed from its station, shot down, al-
most perpendicularly, into the darkness,
with a rapidity which, at first, nearly
deprived me of breath. Tiie wheels slid
smoothly and noiselessly in grooves, and

THE EPICUREAN. 133

the impetus, wliicli tlie car acquired in
descending, was sufficient, I })erceived, to
carry it uj) an eminence that succeeded,
— from tiu' summit of whieii it apiin
rushed down another decHvity, even still
more long and precipitous than the for-
mer. In this manner we jiroceeded, by
alternate falls and rises, till, at length,
from the last and steepest elevation, the
car descended ujion a level of deep sand,
where, after ruiming for a few yards, it
by degrees lost its motion and stopjied.

Here, the maiden alighting, again placed
the riband in my hands, — and again I
followed her, though with more slowness
and difficulty than before, as our way led
up a flight of damp and time-worn steps,
whose ascent seemed to the weary and
insecure foot interminable. Perceiving
with what languor my guide now ad-
vanced, I was on the point of making
an effi.)rt to assist her progress, when
the creak of an o))ening door above,
and a faint gleam of light whicii, at the

13* THE EPICUREAN.

same moment, shone upon her figure,
apprised me that we were arrived within
reach of sunshine.

Joyfully I followed through this open-
ing, and, by the dim light, could discern,
that we were now in the sanctuary of a
vast, ruined temple, — havmg entered by
a passage under the lofty pedestal, upon
which an image of the idol of the place
once stood. The first movement of the
maiden, after replacing the portal under
the pedestal, was, without even a look
towards me, to cast herself down on her
knees, with her hands clasped and up-
lifted, as if for the pvn'pose of thanksgiv-
ing or prayer. But she was unable to
sustain herself in this position ; — her
strength could hold out no longer. Over-
come by agitation and fatigue, she sunk
senseless upon the pavement.

Bewildered as I was, myself, by the
events of the night, I stood for some
minutes looking upon her in a state of
helplessness and alarm. But, reminded,

THE EPICUREAN. 135

by my own feverish sensations, of the
reviving eiiects of tlie air, I raised her
gently in my arms, and crossing the corri-
dor that surrounded tlie sanctuary, found
my way to the outer vestibule of the tnn-
ple. Here, sluuling her eyes from the sun,
I placid her, reclining, u})()n the stej)s,
where the cool wind, then blowing freshly
from the north, might play, with free
draught, between the pillars over her brow.
It was, indeed, — I now saw, with cer-
tainty,— the same beaulifid and myste-
rious girl, who had been the cause of"
my descent into that subterranean world,
and who now, under such strange and
unaccountiible circumstances, was my
tiuide back a<;ain to the realms of day.
I looked roinul, to discover where we
were, and beheld such a scene of gran-
deur, as — could my eyes have wandered
to any other object from thi' pale form
reclining at my side — might well have
won them to dwell on its s})lendid beauties.
I was now standing, I found, on the

136 THE EPICUREAN.

small island in the centre of Lake Moeris ;
and that sanctuary, where we had emerged
fi-om darkness, formed part of the ruins of
a temple, which (as I have since learned)
was, in the grander days of Memphis, a
place of pilgrimage for worshippers from
all parts of Egypt. The fair Lake, itself,
out of whose waters once rose pavilions,
palaces, and even lofty pyramids, was still,
though divested of many of these wonders,
a scene of interest and splendour such as
the whole world could not equal. While
the shores still sparkled with mansions
and temples, that bore testimony to the
luxury of a living race, the voice of the
Past, sjieaking out of unnumbered ruins,
whose summits, here and there, rose
blackly above the wave, told of times long
fled and generations long swept away,
before whose giant remains all the glory
of the present stood humbled. Over the
southern bank of the Lake hunfj the dark
relics of the Labyrmth ; — its twelve
Roval Palaces, like the mansions of the

THE EPICUREAN. 137

Zodiac, — its ihiiiuleriiig jiortals and con-
stellated halls, havin*; kit nothing behind
but a few frowning ruins, which, contrasted
with the soft m-oves of olive and acacia
around them, seemed to rebuke the lux-
uriant smiles of nature, and threw a me-
lancholy grandeur over the wliole scene.

The effects of the air, in re-animating
the young Priestess, were less speedy
than I had expected ; — her eyes were
still closed, and she remained jiale and
insensible. Alarmed, I now rested her
head (which had been, for some time,
supported by my arm,) against the base
of a colunni, with my cloak for its
pillow, while I hastened to procure
some water from the Lake. The temple
stood high, and the descent to the shore
was precii^itous. But, my Epicurean ha-
bits having but little impaired my acti-
vity, I soon descendetl, with the lightness
of a desert deer, to the bottom. Here,
j)lucking from a lofty bean-tree, whose
flowers stood, shining like gold, above the

138 THE EPICUREAN.

water, one of those large hollowed leaves
that serve as cups for the Hebes of the
Nile, I filled it from the Lake, and hurried
back with the cool draught to the temple.
It was not without some difficulty and
delay that I succeeded, in bearing my
rustic chalice steadily up the steep ; more
than once did an unlucky slip waste its
contents, and as often did I impatiently
return to refill it.

During this time, the young maiden
was fast recovering her animation and
consciousness ; and, at the moment when
I appeared above the edge of the steep,
was just rising from the steps, with her hand
pressed to her forehead, as if confusedly
recalling the recollection of what had oc-
curred. No sooner did she observe me,
than a short cry of alarm broke from her
lips. Looking anxiously round, as though
she sought for protection, and half audibly
uttering the words, " Where is he?" she
made an effort, as I approached, to retreat
into the temple.

THE EPICUREAN. 139

Already, liowever, I was by her side,
and takin<£ lier liaiid w'>tlv, as she liinied
away, " WMioiii dost thou seek, tair
Priestess?" 1 asked, — for the first time
breakiiii; throii<rh the silence she had en-
joined, and in a tone that nii^ht have
re-assured the most timid spirit. But
my words had no effect in calming her
apprehension. Trembling, and with her
eyes still averted towards the Temple,
she contiimed in a voice of suppressed
alarm, — " Where ca7i he be ? — that
venerable Atiienian, that philosopher,
who "

" Here, here," I exclaimed, anxiously
interrupting her, — "behold him still by
thy siile — the same, the very same who
saw thee steal from under the lighted
Veils of the Sanctuary, wliom thou hast
guided by a clue through those laby-
rinths below, and who now but waits his
command from those lips, to devote him-
self through life and death to thy ser-
vice." As I spoke these words, she turned

14-0 THE EPICUREAN.

slowly round, and looking timidly in my
face, while her own burned with blushes,
said, in a tone of doubt and wonder,
*' Thou ! " and hid her eyes in her
hands.

I knew not how to interpret a reception
so unexpected. That some mistake or
disappointment had occurred was evident ;
but so inexplicable did the whole adven-
ture appear, that it was in vain to think
of unravelling any part of it. Weak and
agitated, she now tottered to the steps
of the temple, and there seating herself,
with her forehead against the cold marble,
seemed for some moments absorbed in the
most anxious thouffht, — while silent and

o

watchful I waited her decision, with a
prophetic feeling, however, that my des-
tiny would be henceforth linked with hers.
The inward struggle by which she
was agitated, though violent, was not
of long continuance. Starting suddenly
from her seat, with a look of terror
towards the temple, as if the fear of

THE EPICUREAN. IIJ

immediate pursuit hud alone decided her,
she pointed eagerly towards the East, and
exclaimetl, " To the Nile, without delay !"
— clasping her hands, when she had
spoken, with the most supj)liant fervour,
as ii" to soften the abruptness of the man-
date she had given, and appealing to me
with a look that would have taught Stoics
tenilerness.

I lost no tune in obeying the welcome
command. While a thousand wild hopes
and wishes crowded u})on my fancy, at
the prospect which a voyage, under such
auspices, presented, I descended rapidly
to the shore, and hailing one of the nu-
merous boats that ply upon the Lake for
hire, arranged speedily for a passage down
the canal to the Nile. Having learned,
tt)o, from the boatmen, a more easy path
uj) the rock, I hastened back to the
Temple for my fair charge ; and without
a word, a look, that could alarm, even
by its kindness, or disturb that innocent
confidence which she now placed in me,

142 THE EPICUREAN.

led her down by the winding path to the
boat.

Every thing looked smiling around us
as we embarked. The morning was
now in its first freshness, and the path
of the breeze might be traced over the
Lake, wakening up its waters from their
sleep of the night. The gay, golden-
winged birds that haunt these shores,
were, in every direction, skimming along
the lake ; while, with a graver conscious-
ness of beauty, the swan and the pelican
were seen dressing their white plumage
in the mirror of its wave. To add to the
animation of the scene, a sweet tinkling
of musical instruments came, at intervals,
on the breeze, from boats at a distance,
employed thus early in pursuing the fish of
these waters, that suffer themselves to be
decoyed into the nets by music.

The vessel which I selected for our
voyage was one of those small pleasure-
boats or yachts, — so nuich in use among
the luxurious navigators of the Nile, —

THE EPICUREAN. 14-3

in the centre of which lists a pavihon of
cedar or cypress wood, <rild(.'tl gorgeously,
without, with reHgious emblems, and fitted
uj), within, for all the purposes of feasting
and repose. To the door of this pavilion
I now led my com|)ani()ii, and, after a few
words of kindness — tempered with as
much respectful reserve as the deej) ten-
derness which I felt would admit of — left
her in solitude to court that restoring rest,
which the agitation of her sj)irits but too
much required.

For myself, thougli repose was hardly
less necessary to me, the ferment in which
my thoughts had been kept seemed to
render it hopeless. Throwing mvself
upon the deck, uniler an awning which
the sailors had raised for me, I con-
tinued, for some hours, in a sort of vague
day-dream, — s(mietimes passing in review
the scenes of that subterranean drama,
and sometimes, with mv eves fixed in
drowsy vacancy, receiving passively the

144- THE EPICUREAN.

impressions of the bright scenery through
which we passed.

The banks of the canal were then luxu-
riantly wooded. Under the tufts of the light
and towering palm were seen the orange
and the citron, interlacing their boughs;
while, here and there, huge tamarisks
thickened the shade, and, at the very edge
of the bank, the willow of Babylon stood
bending its graceful branches into the wa-
ter. Occasionally, out of the depth of
these groves, there shone a small temple or
pleasure-house ; — while, now and then, an
opening in their line of foliage allowed the
eye to wander over extensive fields, all
covered with beds of those pale, sweet
roses, for which this district of Egypt is
so celebrated.

The activity of the morning hour was
visible every where. Flights of doves
and lapwings were fluttering among the
leaves, and the white heron, which had
roosted all night in some date-tree, now

THE EPICUREAN. Ho

stood sunning its wings u})on tlic green
bank, or flouted, like livijig silver, over
the flood. The flowers, too, both of
land and water, looked freshly awakened;
— and, most of all, the superb lotus, which
had risen with the sun from the wave, and
was now holding up her chalice foi a full
draught of his Vurhu

Such were the scenes that now passed
l)efore my eyes, and mingled with the
reveries that floated through my mind, as
our boat, with its high, capacious sail,
swept over the flood. Though the occur-
rences of the last few days appeared to
me one series of wonders, yet by far the
most miraculous wonder of all was, that
she, whose first look had sent wild-fire
into my heart, — whom I had thought of
ever since with a restlessness of passion,
tiiat would have dared any thing on earth
to obtain its object, — was now sleeping sa-
credly in tliat small pavilion, while guard-
ing her, even from myself, I lay calmly at
its threshold.

H

14-6 THE EPICUREAN.

Meanwhile, the sun had reached his
meridian. The busy hum of the moniing
had died gradually away, and all aroimd
was sleeping in the hot stillness of noon.
The Nile-goose, folding her splendid
wings, was lying motionless on the shallow
of the sycamores in the water. Even the
nimble lizards upon the bank seemed to
move more languidly, as the light fell
upon their gold and azure hues. Over-
come as I was with watching, and weary
with thought, it was not long before 1
yielded to the becalming influence of the
hour. Looking fixedly at the pavilion, —
as if once more to assure my senses, that
I was not already in a dream, but that
the young Egyptian was really there, —
I felt my eyes close as I looked, and in
a few minutes sunk into a profound sleep.

THE EPICUREAN. 147

CHAP. XII.

It was by the canal tliiouuh which we
now sailed, that, in the more prosperous
days of iMeni))lus, the commerce of l^pper
Ei,'y|)t and Nubia was transported to her
uiannificeiit Lake, and from thence, having
l)aid tribute to tlie queen of cities, was
jioured out aijaiii, throu<j;h the Nile, into
tile ocean. The course of this canal to
the river was not direct, but ascendintr in a
south-easterly direction towards the Said ;
and in calms, or with adverse winds,
the passage was tedious. But as tlie breeze
was now blowing freshly from tlie north,
there was every prospect of our reaching
the river before night-fall. Rajiidly, too,
as our galley swept along the flood, its
motion was so smooth as to be hardly
felt ; and the quiet gurgle of the waters
underneath, and the drowsy song of the

H 2

148 THE EPICUREAN.

boatman at the prow, alone disturbed the
deep silence that prevailed.

The sun, mdeed, had nearly sunk be-
hind the Libyan hills, before the sleep,
m which these sounds lulled me, was
broken ; and the first object, on which my
eves rested, in waking, was tliat fair young-
Priestess, — seated under a porch by which
the door of the pavilion was shaded, and
bendmg mtently over a small volume that
lay unrolled on her lap.

Her face was but half turned towards
me, and as, once or twice, she raised her
eyes to the warm sky, whose light fell,
softened through the trellis, over her
cheek, I found every feeling of reverence,
with which she had inspired me in the
chapel, return. There was even a purer
and holier charm around her countenance,
thus seen by the natural light of day, than
in those dim and unhallowed regions be-
low. She could now, too, look direct to
the glorious sky, and that heaven and her
eyes, so worthy of each other, met.

THE EPICUREAN. 149

After coiitcinplating lier for a few iiio-
nients, with little less than adoration, 1
rose gently from my resting-place, and
approached the pavilion. But the mere
movement had startled her from her de-
votion, and, l)lusi)ing and confused, she
covered the volimie with the folds of her
robe.

In the art of winning npon female con-
fidence, I had long been schooled; and,
now that to the lessons of gallantry the
inspiration of love was added, my ambitioji
to please and to interest could hardly, it
may be supposed, fail of success. I
soon found, however, how n^uch less
fluent is the heart than the fancv, and
how very distinct are the operations of
making love and feeling it. In the few
words of jjreetinjT now exchanwd between
US, it was evident that the gay, the enter-
prising Epicurean was little less em-
barrassed than the secluded Priestess ; —
and, after one or two ineffectual efforts to

H 3

150 THE EPICUREAN.

bring our voices acquainted with each
other, the eyes of both turned bashfully
away, and we relapsed into silence.

From this situation — the result of
timidity on one side, and of a feeling
altogether new, on the other — we
were, at length, after an interval of es-
trangement, relieved, by the boatmen
announcing that the Nile was in sisfht.
The countenance of the young Egyptian
brightened at this intelligence; and the
smile with which I congratulated her on
the speed of our voyage was answered
by another, so full of gratitude, that
already an instinctive sympathy seemed
established between us.

We were now on the point of entering
that sacred river, of whose sweet waters
the exile drinks in his dreams, — for a
draught of whose flood the daughters of
the Ptolemies, when wedded to foreign
kings, sighed in the midst of their splen-
dour. As our boat, with slackened sail.

TirE EPICUREAN. 151

^luletl into the current, an encjuiry from
the boatmen, whether they should anchor
tor the ni<:ht in the Nile, first remindeil
me of the i<j;norance, in which I still re-
mained, with respect to either the motive
or destination of our voyage. Embarrassed
by their (juestion I directed my eyes
towards the Priestess, whom I saw wait-
inj; for my answer with a look of anxiety.

t->

which this silent reference to her wishes
at once dispelled. Eagerly iintbkling the
volume with which I had seen her occu-
pied, she took from its folds a small leaf
of papyrus, on which there a})))eared to
be some faint lines of drawing, and after
thoughtfully looking upon it, herself, for a
moment, placed it, with an agitated hand,
in mine.

In the mean time, the boatmen had
taken in their sail, and the yacht drove
slowly down the river with the current,
while, by a li<rht which had been kindled at
sunset on the deck, I stood examining the
leaf that the Priestess had given me, — her
H 4

152 THE EPICUREAN.

dark eyes fixed anxiously on my counte-
nance all the while. The lines traced upon
the papyrus were so faint as to be almost
invisible, and I was for some time at a loss
to divine their import. At length, I could
perceive that they were the outlines, or
map — traced slightly and unsteadily with
a Memphian reed — of a part ofthatmoun-
tamous ridge by which Upper Egypt is
bounded to the east, together with the
names, or rather emblems, of the chief
towns in the neighbourhood.

It was thither, I could not doubt, that the
young Priestess wished to pursue her course.
Without a moment's delay, therefore, I
gave orders to the boatmen to set our
yacht before the wind and ascend the cur-
rent. My command was promptly obeyed :
the white sail again rose into the region
of the breeze, and the satisfaction that
beamed in every feature of the fair Egyp-
tian showed that the quickness with which
I had obeyed her wishes was not unfelt by
her. The moon had now risen ; and

THE EPICUREAN. 153

though tlie current was against us, the
Etesian wind of the season blew stronjTJy
up the river, and we were soon floating
before it, through the rich plains and
groves of the Said.

The love, with which this sinij)le girl
hud inspired me, was — possibly from
the mystic scenes and situations in which
I had seen her — not unmingled with a
tinge of superstitious awe, under the influ-
ence of which I felt the buoyancy of my
sj)irit checked. The few words that had
jiassed between us on the subject of our
route had somewhat loosened this spell ;
and what I wanted of vivacity and confi-
dence was more than made up by the
tone of deep sensibility which love had
awakened in their place.

We had not j)roceeded far before the
glittering of lights at a distance, and the
shooting up of fireworks, at intervals, into
the air, apprised us that we were approacli-
ing one of those night-fairs, or marts,
which it is the custom, at this season, to

H 5

154 THE EPICUREAN.

hold upon the Nile. To me the scene
was familiar ; but to my young companion
it was evidently a new world; and the
mixture of alarm and delight with which
she gazed, from under her veil, upon the
busy scene into which we now sailed, gave
an air of innocence to her beauty, which
still more heightened its every charm.

It was one of the widest parts of the
river; and the whole surface, from one
bank to the other, was covered with boats.
Along the banks of a green island, in the
middle of the stream, lay anchored the
galleys of the principal traders, — large
floating bazaars, bearing each the name of
its owner, emblazoned in letters of flame,
upon the stern. Over their decks were
spread out, in gay confusion, the products
of the loom and needle of Egyjot, — rich
carpets of Memphis, and those variegated
veils, for which the female embroiderers of
the Nile are so celebrated, and to which
the name of Cleopatra lends a traditional
value. In each of the other galleys was

THE EPICUREAN. 1.55

exhibited some branch of Efj^rptian work-
mar.ship, — vases of the fraf^rant poi CL'laiii
ot" On, — cii})s of that frail crystal, whose
hues change like tiiose of the })if^eon's
pluniage, — enamelled amulets graven with
the heatl of Anubis, and necklaces and
bracelets of the black beans of Abyssinia.

While Commerce thus displayed her
luxuries in one (juarter, in every other
directi(m Pleasure, nndtiplied into her
thousand shapes, swarmed over the waters.
Nor was the festivity confined to the river
only. All along the banks of the island
and on the shores, lighted up mansions
were seen through the trees, from which
sounds of music and merriment came. In
some of the boats were bands of minstrels,
who, from time to time, answered each
other, like echoes, across the wave ; and
the notes of the lyre, the flageolet, and
thi sweet lotus-wood flute, were heard,
in the pauses of revelry, dying along the
waters.

Meanwhile, from t)ther boats stationed
H Q

156 THE EPICUREAN.

ill the least lighted places, the workers of
fire sent forth their wonders into the air.
Bursting out from tune to tune, as if in
the very exuberance of joy, these sallies of
flame seemed to reach the sky, and there
breaking into a shower of sparkles, shed
such a splendour round, as brightened
even the white Arabian hills, — making
them shine Uke the brow of Mount Atlas
at night, when the fire from his own
bosom is playing around its snows.

The opportunity which this luxurious
mart afforded us, of providing ourselves
with other and less remarkable habiliments
than those in which we had escaped from
that nether world, was too seasonable not
to be gladly taken advantage of by both.
For myself, the strange mystic garb that I
wore was sufficiently concealed by my
Grecian mantle, vv'hich I had luckily
thrown round me on the night of my
watch. But the thin veil of my com-
panion was a far less efficient tlisguise.
She had, uideed, flung away the golden

THE EPICUREAN. 157

beetles Iroin lier liair; but llie sacred
robe of her order was still loo visible,
and the stars of the bandelet shone
brightly through her veil.

Most gladly, therefore, did she avail
herself of this opportunity of a change ;
and, as she took from a casket — which,
with the volume I had seen her readhig,
upjieared to be her only treasure — a
small jewel, to exchange for the simple
garments she had chosen, there fell out,
at the same time, the very cross of silver,
which I had seen her kiss, as may be
remembered, m the monumental chapel,
and which was afterwards pressed to my
own hps. This link (for such it appeared
to my imagination) between us, now re-
vived ill my heart all the burning feelings
of that moment ; — and, had I not abruptly
turned away, my agitation would, but too
plahily, have betrayed itself.

The object, for which we had delayeil
in this gay scene, being accomplished, the
sail was again spread, and we pi'oceeded

158 THE EPICUREAN.

on our course up the river. The sounds
and the hglits we left behind died gra-
dually away, and we now floated along
in moonlight and silence once more.
Sweet dews, worthy of being called " the
tears of Isis," fell through the air, and
every plant and flower sent its fragrance
to meet them. The wind, just strong
enough to bear us smoothly against the
current, scarcely stirred the shadow of the
tamarisks on the water. As the inhabit-
ants fi-om all quarters were collected at
the night-fair, the Nile was more than
usually still and solitary. Such a silence,
indeed, prevailed, that, as we glided near
the shore, we could hear the rustling
of the acacias, as the chameleons ran up
their stems. It was, altogether, a night
' such as only the clime of Egypt can boast,
when every thing lies lulled in that sort of
bright tranquillity, which, we may ima-
gine, shines over the sleep of those happy
spirits, who are supposed to rest in the
Valley of the Moon, on their way to
heaven.

THE EPICUnEAN. 159

IJy swell a light, and at .siicli an lioiii-,
seated, side hy side, on tlie deck i)t" that
bark, did we j)iirsiie Dur course np the
lonelv Nile — each a mystery to the
otlier — our thou<j;hts, our objects, our
very names a secret; — sej)arated, too,
till now, by tiestinies so different, the
one, a gay voln])tuary ol the Garden ot
Athens, the other, a secluded Priestess ot"
the Temples of jNIemjihis; — and the only
relation yet established between us being
that dangerous one of love, passionate
love, on one side, and the most feminine
and confiding dependence on the other.

The ))assing adventure of the night-
fair had not only dispelled still more
our mutual reserve, but had sup})lied
us with a subject on which we could
converse without embarrassment. From
this topic I took care to lead on, witli-
out interruption, to others, — fearful lest
our former silence should return, and
the music of her vt)ice a<rain be lost
to me. It was, indeed, only by thus

160 THE EPICUREAN.

indirectly unburdening my heart that I
was enabled to refrain from the full utter-
ance of all I thought and felt ; and the
restless rapidity with which I flew from
subject to subject was but an effort to
escape from the only one in which my
heart was interested.

" How bright and happy," said I, —
pointing up to Sothis, the fair Star of the
Waters, which was just then sparkling
brilliantly over our heads, — " How
bright and happy this world ought to
be, if — as your Egyptian sages assert
— yon pure and beautiful luminary was
its birth-star !" Then, still leaning back,
and letting my eyes wander over the
firmament, as if seeking to disengage
them from the fascination which they
dreaded — " To the study (I said), for
ages, of skies like this, may the })ensive
and mystic character of your nation be
traced. That mixture of pride and me-
lancholy which naturally arises, at the sight
of those eternal lights shining out of dark-

THE EPICUREAN. U) I

ness ; — that sublinif, but sadcluiied, antici-
pation of a Future, which conies over the
soul in the silence of such an iiour, when,
though Death seems to reign in the repose
of earth, there are those beacons of Im-
mortality burning in the sky — "

Pausing, as I uttered the word " im-
mortality," with a sigh to think how little
my heart echoed to my lijis, I looked
hi the face of the maiden, and saw that it
had lighted up, as I spoke, into a glow of
holy animation, such as Faith alone gives
— such as Hope herself wears, when she is
dreaming of heaven. Touched by the
contrast, and gazing upon her with mourn-
ful tenderness, I found my arms Imlf
opened, to clasp her to my heart, while
the words died away inaudibly upon my
lips, — "thou, too, beautiful maiden ! must
thou, too, die for ever ?"

My self-ccmnnand, I felt, had nearly
deserted me. Rising abruptly from my
seat, I walked to the middle of the deck,
and stood, for some moments, uncon-

162 THE EPICUREAN.

sciously gazing upon one of those fires,
which, — as is the custom of all who travel
by night upon the Nile, — our boatmen had
just kindled, to scare away the crocodiles
from the vessel. But it was in vain that I
endeavoured to compose my spirit. Every
effort I made but more deeply convinced
me, that, till the mystery which hung round
that maiden should be solved — till the
secret, with which my own bosom laboured,
should be disclosed — it was fruitless to
attempt even a semblance of tranquillity.

My resolution was therefore taken ; —
to lay open, at least, my own heart, as far
as such a revelation might be risked,
without startling the timid innocence of
my companion. Thus resolved, I returned,
with more composure, to my seat by
her side, and taking fi-om mv bosom the
small mirror which she had dropped in
the Tem{)le, and which I had ever since
worn suspended round my neck, with a
trembling hand presented it to her view.
Tlie boatmen had just kindled one of their

mi: EPicuKEAN. 163

iiiglit-lircs near us, mid its lii^lit, as she
leaned forward towards the mirror, fell
on her face.

'Die quick blush of smprise with whicli
she recofjnised it to be hers, and her look
of bashful, yet eager, in{|uiiy, in raising
her eyes to mine, were appeals to which
I was not, of course, slow in answering.
Beginning with the first moment when
I saw her in the Temple, and passing
ha-stilv, but with words that burned as
they went, over tlie impression which she
had then left upon my heart and fancy,
I ))roceetled to describe the particulars of
my descent into the })yramid — my sur-
prise and adoration at the door of the
chapel — my encounter with the Trials of
Initiation, so mysteriously prepared tor
me, and all the various visionary wonders
I had witnessed in that region, till the
moment when I had seen her stealing from
under the Veils to approach me.

Though, in detailing these events, I had
said but little of the feelings they had

16 i THE EPICUREAN.

awakened in me, — though my lips had
sent back many a sentence, unuttered,
there was still enough that could neither
be subdued or disguised, and which, like
that light from under the veils of her own
Isis, glowed through every word that I
spoke. When I told of the scene hi the
chapel, — of the silent interview which I
had witnessed between the dead and the
living, — the maiden leaned dowii her head
and wept, as from a heart full of tears.
It seemed a pleasure to her, however,
to listen ; and, when she looked at me
again, there was an earnest and affec-
tionate cordiality in her eyes, as if the
knowledge of my having been present at
that mournful scene had opened a new
source of sympathy and intelligence be-
tween us. So neiohbouriniT are the foun-
tains of Love and of Sorrow, and so
imperceptibly do they often mingle their
streams.

Little, indeed, as I was guided by art
or design, in my manner and conduct to

THE EPICURKAN. 165

this innocent girl, not all the most ex-
perienced gallantry of the Garden could
have dictated a policy half so seductive as
that which my new master, Love, now
taught me. The ardour which, shown
at once, and without reserve, might have
startled a heart so little prepared for it,
thus checked and softened by the ti-
midity of real love, won its way without
alarm, and, when most diffident of suc-
cess, most triumphed. I^ike one whose
sleep is gradually broken by nmsic, the
maiden's heart was awakened without i)e-
ing disturbed. She followed the charm,
unconscious whither it led, nor was aware
of the flame she had lii^hted in another's
bosom, till she ])erceive(l the reflection of
it glimmering in her own.

Impatient as I was to appeal to her
generosity and sympathy, for a similar
proof of confidence to that which I had
just given, the night was now too far
advanced for me to im})ose such a task
upon her. After exchanging a few words,

166 THE EPICUREAN.

in which, though Httle was said, there
was a tone and manner that spoke far
more than language, we took a lingering
leave of each other for the night, with
every prospect of still being together in
our dreams.

THE EPICUREAN. 16*

CHAP. xiir.

It was so near tlie tlawn of day w lien we
parted, that we again found the sun sink-
iii<r westward whtii wr ix'joined eacli
other. The smile vvithwhieh siu' met me,
— so frankly eordial, — might have been
taken for the greeting of a long mellowed
triendshij), did not the blush and the cast-
down eyelid, tliat followed, give symptoms
of a feeling newer and less calm. For
myself, lightened as I was, in some degree,
by the confession which I had made, I
was yet too conscious of the new aspect
thus given to our intercourse, to feel al-
together unembarrassed at the prospect
of returning to the theme. It was, there-
fore, willingly we both suffered our atten-
tion to be diverted, by the variety of
objects that presented themselves on the
way, from a subject that both ecjuully
trembled to approach.

168 THE EPICUKEAN.

The river was now full of life and
motion. Every moment we met with
boats descending the current, so inde-
pendent of aid from sail or oar, that the
sailors sat idly upon the deck as they shot
along, singing or playing upon their
double-reeded pipes. Of these boats,
the greater number came loaded with
merchandise from Coptos, — some with
those large emeralds, from the mine in
the desert, whose colours, it is said, are
brightest at the full of the moon, and
some laden with frankincense from the
acacia-groves near the Red Sea. Ou the
decks of others, that had been to the Golden
Mountains beyond Syene, were heaped
blocks and frai>inents of that sweet-smell-
ing wood, which the Green Nile of Nubia
washes down in the season of the floods.

Our companions up the stream were
far less numerous. Occasionally a boat,
returning lightened from the fair of last
night, with those high sails that catch
every breeze from over the hills, shot past

THE EPICUREAN. 169

US ; — while, now aiul tlien, we overtook
one of those barges full of bees, that at
this season of the yeai; are sent to co-
lonise the gardens of the south, and take
advantage of the first flowers after the
inundation has passed away.

By these various objects we were, for
a short time, enabled to divert the convers-
ation from lighting and settling upon the
one subject, round which it continually
hovered. But the elfort, as might be ex-
pected, was not long successful. As even-
ing advanced, the whole scene became
more solitary. We less frequenth' ventured
to look upon each other, and our intervals
of silence grew more long.

It was near sunset, when, in passing a
small temple on the shore, whose por-
ticoes were now full of the evening light,
we saw, issuing IVom a thicket of acan-
thus near it, a train of vouny; maids
linked together in the dance bv lotus-
stems, held at arms' length between
them. Their tresses were also wreathed

I

170 THE EPICUREAN.

with this emblem of the season, and such a
profusion of the white flowers were twisted
round their waists and arms, that they
might have been taken, as they gracefully
bounded along the bank, for Nymphs of
the Nile, risen freshly from their gardens
under the wave.

After looking; for a few moments at
this sacred dance, the maid turned away
her eyes, with a look of pain, as if the re-
membrances it recalled were of no welcome
nature. This momentary retrospect, this
glimpse into the past, seemed to offer
a sort of clue to the secret for which I
panted ; — and, gradually and delicately
as my impatience would allow, I availed
myself of it. Her fi-ankness, however,
saved me the embarrassment of much
questioning. She even seemed to feel
that the confidence I sought was due to
me, and beyond the natural hesitation of
maidenly modesty, not a shade of reserve
or evasion appeared.

To attempt to repeat, in her own

THE EPICUREAN. 171

toucliin<r words, the simple story which
she now related to me, would be like en-
deavouring to note down some strain
of unpremeditated music, with those fu-
gitive graces, those felicities of the mo-
ment, which no art can restore, as they
first met the ear. I'rom a feeling, too, of
humility, she had omitted in her narra-
tive some particulars relating to herself,
which I afterwards learned ; — while others,
not less important, she but slightly passed
over, from a fear of wounding the pre-
judices of her heathen hearer.

I shall, therefore, give her story, as the
outline which she, herself, sketched was
atterwards filled up by a pious and ve-
nerable hand, — far, far more worthy than
mine of being associated with the memory
of such purity .

1 2

172 THE EPICUREAN.

STORY OF ALETHE.

" The mother of this maiden was the
beautiful Theora of Alexandria, who,
though a native of that city, was descended
from Grecian parents. When very young,
Theora was one of the seven maidens
selected, to note down the discourses of
the eloquent Origen, who, at that period,
presided over the School of Alexandria,
and was in all the fulness of his fame, both
amonff Pagans and Christians. Endowed
richly with the learning of both creeds,
he brought the natural light of philosophy
to elucidate the mysteries of faith, and
was only proud of his knowledge of the
wisdom of this world, inasmuch as it mi-
nistered to the trium})h of divme truth.

" Though he had courted in vain the
crown of martyrdom, it was held, through-
out his life, suspended over his head, and hi
more than one persecution, he had evinced
his readiness to die for that faith which he

THE EPICUREAN. 173

lived but to testify and adorn. On one of
these occiisions, his tormentors, having ha-
bited him Uke an Egyj^tian priest, placed
him upon the steps of the Temple of Sera-
pis, and connnanded that he should, in the
manner of the Pagan ministers, present
j)alm-branches to the nuiltitude who went
uj) to the shrine. But the courageous
Christian dlsa}ii>ointed their views. Hold-
ing forth the branches with an unshrinking
hand, he cried aloud, ' Come hither and
take the branch, not of an Idol Temple,
but of Christ.'

" So indefatiijjable was this learned
Father in his studies, that, while compos-
ing his Commentary on the Scriptures, he
was attended by seven scribes or notaries,
who relieved each other in taking down the
(.lictates of his eloquent tongue ; while the
same number of vouu"; females, selected
for the beauty of theii- penmanshi]), were
employed in arranging and transcribing
the precious leaves.

" Among the scribes so selected, was the
I 3

174 THE EPICUREAN.

fair young Theora, whose parents, though
attached to the Pagan worship, were not
unwilling to profit by the accomplishments
of their daughter, thus devoted to a task
which they considered purely mechanical.
To the maid herself, however, her task
brought far other feelings and conse-
quences. She read anxiously as she wrote,
and the divine truths, so eloquently illus-
trated, found their way, by degrees, from the
page to her heart. Deeply, too, as the written
words affected her, the discourses from
the lips of the great teacher himself, which
she had frequent opportunities of hearing,
sunk still more deeply into her mind.
There was, at once, a sublimity and gentle-
ness in his views of religion, which, to the
tender hearts and lively imaginations of
women, never failed to appeal with con-
vincing power. Accordingly, the list of
his female pupils was numerous ; and the
names of Barbara, Juliana, Herai's, and
others, bear honourable testimony to his
influence over that sex.

THE EPICUREAN. 175

" To Tlieora the feeling, with which his
discourses inspired her, was like a hew soul,
— a consciousness of spiritual existence,
unfelt before. By the eloquence of the
comment she was awakened into admiration
of the text ; and when, by the kindness of
a Catechumen of the school, who had been
struck by her innocent zeal, she, for the
first time, became possessor of a copy of
the Scriptures, she could not sleep for
tliinkhig of her sacred treasure. With
a mixture of pleasure and fear she hid
it from all eyes, and was like one who had
received a divine guest under her roof,
and felt fearful of betraying its divinity to
the world.

" A heart so awake would have been
easily secured to the faith, had her oppor-
tunities of hearing the sacred word con-
tinuetL But circumstances arose to de-
prive iier of this advantage. The mild
Origen, long harassed and thwarted in
his labours by the tyranny of the Bishop
of Alexandria, Demetrius, was obliged to

I 4

176 THE EPICUREAN.

relinquish his school and fly from Egypt.
The occupation of the fair scribe was,
therefore, at an end : her intercourse with
the followers of the new faith ceased; and
the growing enthusiasm of her heart gave
way to more worldly impressions.

" Love, among the rest, had its share
in alienating her thoughts from religion
While still very young, she became the
wife of a Greek adventurer, who had
come to Egj'pt as a purchaser of that rich
tapestry, in which the needles of Persia are
rivalled by the looms of the Nile. Having
taken his young bride to Memphis, which
was still the great mart of this merchan-
dise, he there, m the midst of his specu-
lations, died, — leaving his widow on the
point of becoming a mother, while, as yet,
but m her nineteenth year.

" For single and unprotected females, it
has been, at all times, a favourite resource,
to seek admission into the service of some of
those great temples, which absorb so much
of the wealth and power of Egypt. In most

THE EPICUREAN. 177

of these institutions there exists an order of
Priestesses, which, though not hereditary,
Hke that of the Priests, is ])rovided for by
ample endowments, and confers that rank
and station, with which, in a government
so theocratic. Religion is sure to invest
even her liuml)lest handmaids. From the
general policy of the Sacred College of
Memphis, it may be concluded, that an
accomplished female, like Theora, found
but little difficulty in being chosen one of
the Priestesses of Isis ; and it was in the
service of the subterranean shrines that
her ministry chiefly lay.

" Here, a month or two after her admis-
sion, she gave birth to Alethe, who first
opened lier eyes among the uidioly pomps
and specious miracles of this mysterious
reirion. Though Theora, as we have
seen, had been diverted by other feelings
from her first enthusiasm for the Christian
faith, she had never wholly forgot the
impression then made upon her. The
sacred volume, which the pious Catcchu-

I 5

178 THE EPICUREAN.

men had given her, was still treasured
with care ; and, though she seldom opened
its pages, there was an idea of sanctity as-
sociated with it in her memory, and often
would she sit to look upon it with reveren-
tial pleasure, recalling the happiness she
felt when it was first made her own.

" The leisure of her new retreat, and
the lone melancholy of w^idowhood, led
her still more frequently to indulge in
such thoughts, and to recur to those con-
solmg truths which she had heard in
the school of Alexandria. She now began
to peruse eagerly the sacred book, drink-
ing deep of the fountain of which she be-
fore but tasted, and feeling — what thou-
sands of mourners, since her, have felt —
that Christianity is the true religion of the
sorrowful.

" This study of her secret hours became
still more dear to her, from the peril with
which, at that period, it was attended, and
the necessity she was under of concealing
from those around her tlie precious light

THE EPICUREAN. 179

that had been kiiulled in lier heart. Too
timid to encounter the fierce persecution,
which awaited all who were susjiected of a
leaning to Christianity, she contiiuied to
officiate in the pomps and ceremonies of
the Temple ; — tiiough, often, with such
remorse of soul, that she would pause, in
the midst of the rites, and pray inwardly
to God, that he would forgive this pro-
fanation of his Spirit.

" In the mean time her daughter, the
young Alethe, grew up still lovelier
than herself, and added, every hour, to
her happiness and her fears. When ar-
rived at a sufficient age, she was taught,
like the other children of the priestesses,
to take a share in tlie service and cere-
monies of the shrines. The duty of some
of these young servitors was to look after
the flowers for the altar ; — of others, to
take care that the sacred vases were filled
every day with fresh water from the Nile.
The task of some was to preserve, in per-
fect polish, those silver images of the moon
I 6

180 THE EPICUREAN.

which the priests carried in processions ;
while others were, as we have seen, em-
ployed in feeding the consecrated animals,
and in keeping their plumes and scales
bright, for the admiring eyes of their wor-
shippers.

" Tlie office allotted to Alethe — the
most honourable of these minor ministries
— was to wait upon the sacred birds of
the Moon, to feed them with those eggs
from the Nile which they loved, and pro-
vide for their use that purest water, which
alone these delicate birds will touch.
Tliis employment was the delight of her
childish hours ; and that ibis, which Al-
ciphron (the Epicurean) saw her dance
round in the Temple, was her favourite,
of all the sacred flock, and had been daily
fondled and fed by her fi-om infancy.

" Music, as being one of the chief spells
of this enchanted region, was an accom-
plishment required of all its ministrants ;
and the harj), the lyre, and the sacred
flute, sounded nowhere so sweetly as that

THE EPICUREAN. 181

throu<^h these subterranean gardens. 'I'lie
chief object, indeed, in the education oi"
the youth of" the Teni))le, was to fit them,
by every grace of art and nature, to give
effect to the illusion of those shows and
jihantasnis, in which the whole charm and
secret of Initiation lay.

" Among the means employed to sup-
port the old system of sui)erstition, against
the infidelitv and, still more, the new
Faith that menaced it, was an increased
display of sj)lendour and marvels in those
Mysteries for which Egyjit has so long
been celebrated. Of these ceremonies so
many imitations had, under various names,
been multiplied through Europe, that the
parent superstition ran a risk of being
eclipsed by its progeny ; and, in order
still to retain their rank of the first Priest-
hood in the world, those of Egypt found
it necessary to continue still the best im-
postors.

" Accordingly, every contrivance thai
art could devise, or labour execute — every

182 THE EPICUREAN.

resource that the wonderful knowledge of
the Priests, in pyrotechny, mechanics, and
dioptrics, could command, was brought
into action to heighten the effect of their
Mysteries, and give an air of enchantment
to every thing connected with them.

" Tlie final scene of beatification — the
Elysium, into which the Initiate was re-
ceived, — formed, of course, the leading
atti'action of these ceremonies ; and to
render it captivating alike to the senses of
the man of pleasure, and the imagination
of the spiritualist, was the object to which
the whole skill and attention of the Sacred
College were devoted. By the influence
of the Priests of Memphis over those of
the other Temples they had succeeded in
extending their subterranean fi-ontier, both
to the north and south, so as to include,
within then' ever-lighted Paradise, some
of the gardens excavated for the use of the
other Twelve Shrines.

" The beauty of the young Alethe, the
touching sweetness of her voice, and the

THE EPICUREAN. 183

sensibility that breathed throughout her
every look anil movement, rendered her
a powerful auxiliary in such appeals to the
imajiination. JShe was, accordin<;lv, from
her chililhood, selected from among her fair
companions, as the most worthy represent-
ative of spiritual loveliness, in those pic-
tures of Elysium — those scenes of another
world — by which not only the fancy, but
the reason, of the excited Aspirants was
dazzled.

" To the innocent child herself these
shows were pastime. But to Theora, who
knew too well the imposition to whicli they
were subservient, this profanation of all
that she loved was a perpetual source of
horror and remorse. Often would she —
when Alethe stood smiling before her,
arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit of the Elysian
world, — turn away, with a shudder, from
the happy child, almost fancying that she
already saw the shadows of sin descend-
ing over that innocent brow, as she gazed
on it.

184- THE EPICUREAN.

" As the intellect of the young maid
became more active and inquiring, the ap-
prehensions and difficulties of the mother
increased. Afraid to communicate her
own precious secret, lest she should in-
volve her child in the dangers that en-
compassed it, she yet felt it to be no less
a cruelty than a crime to leave her wholly
immersed in the darkness of Paganism.
In this dilennna, the only resource that
remained to her was to select, and dis-
engage from the dross that surrounded
them, those pure particles of truth which
lie at the bottom of all religions ; — those
feelings, rather than doctrines, which God
has never left his creatures without, and
which, in all ages, have furnished, to those
who sought it, some clue to his glory.

" Tlie unity and perfect goodness of the
Creator ; the fall of the human soul into
corruption ; its struggles with the dark-
ness of this world, and its final redemj)tion
and re-ascent to the source of all spirit; —
these natural solutions of the problem of

THE EPICUREAN. 185

our existence, these elementary ffroiuKls
of nil reliij^ion and virtue, which Theora
hail heard illustrated by her Christian
teacher, lay also, she knew, veiled under the
theolojry of EfryjU ; and to impress them,
in all their abstract purity, upon the mind
of her susceptible i)upil, was, in default of
more heavenly liirhts, her sole ambition
and care.

" It was their habit, after devotin<r their
mornings to the service of the Temple, to
pass their evenings and nights in one of those
small mansions above gi'ound, allotted to
some of the most favoured Priestesses,
in the precincts of the Sacred College.
Here, out of the reach of those gross su-
perstitions, which pursued them, at every
step, below, she endeavoured to inform,
as far as she might, the mind of her be-
loved girl ; and found it lean as naturally
and instinctively to truth, as plants that
have been long shut up in darkness will,
when li<rht is let in, incline themselves to
its ray.

186 THE EPICUREAN.

"Frequently, as they sat together on the
terrace at night, contemplating that as-
sembly of glorious stars, whose beauty
first misled mankind into idolatry, she
would explain to the young listener by
what gradations ■ it was that the worship,
thus transferred fi'om the Creator to the
creature, sunk lower and lower in the
scale of being, till man, at length, pre-
sumed to deify man, and by the most
monstrous of inversions, heaven was made
the mirror of earth, reflecting all its most
earthly features.

" Even in the Temple itself, the anxious
mother would endeavour to interpose her
purer lessons among the idolatrous cere-
monies in which they were engaged. When
the favourite ibis of Alethe took its station
on the shrine, and the young maiden was
seen approaching, with all the gravity of
worship, the very bird which she had played
with but an hour before, — when the aca-
cia-bough, which she herself had plucked,
seemed to acquire a sudden sacredness in

THE EPICUREAN. 187

her eyes, as soon as the priest had hreatlied
on it, — on all such occasions Theora,
though with fear and trembling, would
venture to suggest to the youthful wor-
shipper the tlistinction that should he
drawn between the sensible object of ador-
ation, and that spiritual, unseen Deity, of
which it was but the renienilirancer or
tyi)e.

" With sorrow, however, she soon dis-
covered that, in thus but partially enlight-
ening a mind too ardent to be satisfied
with such glimmerings, she only bewil-
dered the heart that she meant to guide,
and cut down the hope round which its
faith twined, without substituting any
other supjiort in its place. As the beauty,
too, of Alethe began to attract all eyes,
new fears crowded upon the mother's
heart ; — fears, in which slie was but too
much justified by the characters of some
of those around her.

"• In this sacred abode, as may easily
be conceiveil, morality did not always

188 THE EPICUREAN.

go hand in hand with religion. The hy-
pocritical and ambitious Orcus, who was,
at this period, High Priest of Memphis,
was a man, in every respect, quaUfied to
preside over a system of such splendid
fraud. He had reached that effective
time of life, when enough of the warmth
of youth remains to give animation to the
counsels of age. But, in his instance,
3^outh had only the baser passions to be-
queath, while age but contributed a more
refined maturity of mischief. The advan-
tages of a faith appealing so wholly to the
senses, were well understood by him ; nor
was he ignorant that the only way of mak-
ing religion subservient to his own mterests
was by shaping it adroitly to the passions
of others.

The state of misery and remorse in
which the mind of Theora was kept by
the scenes, however veiled by hj^)ocrisy,
which she witnessed around her, became
at length intolerable. No perils that the
cause of truth could bring with it would

THE EPICUREAN. 189

be half so dreadful as this endurance
of sinfuhiess and deceit. Her child was,
as yet, pure and innocent ; — but, without
that sentinel ol' the soul, Religion, how
lon<£ niifrht she continue so ?

" Tills thought at once decided her ; —
all other fears vanished before it. She
resolved instantly to lay open to Alethe the
whole secret of her soul ; to make her,
who was her only hope on earth, the
sharer of all her hopes in heaven, and
then fly with her, as soon as possible, from
tliis unhallowed place, to the desert — to
the mountains — to any place, however
desolate, where God and the conscious-
ness of innocence might be witli them.

" The promptitude with which her
young pu})il caught from her the divine
truths, was even beyond what she expected.
It was like the lighting of one torch at
another, — so prepared was Alethe's mind
for the illumination. Ami)ly was the
mother now repaid for all her misery, by
this perfect communion of love and faith.

190 THE EPICUREAN.

and by the delight with which she saw
her beloved child — like the young an-
telope, when first led by her dam to the
well, — drink thirstily by her side, at the
source of all life and truth.

" But such happiness was not long to
last. The anxieties that Theora had
suffered preyed upon her health. She
felt her strength daily decline; and the
thoughts of leaving, alone and imguarded
in the world, that treasure which she had
just devoted to heaven, gave her a feeling
of despair which but hastened the ebb of
life. Had she put in practice her resolu-
tion of flying from this place, her child
might have been now beyond the reach
of all she dreaded, and in the solitude
of the wilderness would have found at
least safety from wrong. But the very
ha})piness she had felt in her new task
diverted her from this project; — and it
was now too late, for she was already
dying.

THE EPICUREAN. 191

" She concealed, however, lier state from
the tender and sannjuine girl, who, thouj^h
she saw the traces of disease on her mo-
ther's cheek, little knew that they were the
hasteninji; footstej)S of dcalli, nor thouf^ht
even of the possibility of losing wliat was
so dear to her. Too soon, however,
the moment of separation arrived ; and
while the angnish and dismay of Alethe
were in jiroportion to the security in
which she had indulged, Theora, too,
felt, with bitter regret, that she had sacri-
ficed to her fond consideration much pre-
cious time, and that there now remained
but a few brief and painful moments, for
the comnmnication of all those wishes and
instructions, on \\liicli the future destiny
of the young or|)han dejiended

" She had, indeed, time for little more
than to place the sacred volume solemnly
in her hands, to implore that she would,
at all risks, fly from this unholy place,
and, pointing in the direction of the moun-
tains of the Said, to name, with her last

192 THE EPICUREAN.

breath, the holy man, to whom, under
heaven, she trusted for the protection and
salvation of her child.

" The first violence of feeling to which
Alethe gave way was succeeded by a fixed
and tearless grief, which rendered her in-
sensible, for some time, to the dangers of
her situation. Her only comfort was in
visiting that monumental chapel, where the
beautiful remains of Theora lay. There,
night after night, in contemplation of
those placid features, and in prayers for
the peace of the departed spirit, did she
pass her lonely, and — sad as they were
— happiest hours. Though the mystic
emblems that decorated that chapel were
but ill suited to the slumber of a Christian
saint, there was one among them, the Cross,
which, by a remarkable coincidence, is an
emblem common alike to the Gentile and
the Christian, — being, to the former, a
shadowy ty})e of that immortality, of
which, to the latter, it is a substantial and
assurhig pledge.

THE EPICUREAN. 193

" Nightly, upon this cross, which slit-
had often seen her lost mother kiss, did she
breathe forth a solemn and heartfelt vow,
never to abandon the faith which that
departed spirit had bequeathed to her.
To such enthusiasm, huleed, did her heart
at such moments rise, that, but for the
last injunctions from those pallid lips, she
would, at once, have avowed her perilous
secret, and spoken out the words, ' I
am a Christian,' among those benighted
shrines !

" But the will of her, to whom she owed
more than life, was to be obeyed. To
escape from this haunt of superstition
must now, she felt, be her first object;
ami, in devising the means of effecting it,
her mind, day and night, was employed.
It was with a loathing not to be con-
cealed she now found herself compelled
to resume her idolatrous services at the
shrine. To some of the offices of Theora
she succeeded, as is the custom, by inhe-
ritance ; mid in the j)erformance of these

K

194 THE EPICUREAN.

— sanctified as they were in her eyes by
the pure spirit she had seen engaged in
ttiem — there was a sort of melancholy
pleasure in which her sorrow found re-
lief. But the part she was agam forced
to take, in the scenic shows of the Mys-
teries, brought with it a sense of wrong
and degradation which she could no
longer bear.

" She had already formed, in her own
mind, a plan of escape, in which her
knowledge of all the windings of this
subterranean realm gave her confidence,
when the reception of Alciphron, as an
Initiate, took place.

" From the first moment of the landing
of that philosopher at Alexandria, he had
decome an object of suspicion and watch-
fulness to the inquisitorial Orcus, whom
philosophy, in any shape, naturally alarm-
ed, but to whom the sect over which the
young Athenian presided was particu-
larly obnoxious. The accomplishments of
Alciphron, his popularity, wherever he

THE EPICUREAN. 195

went, and the freedom with which he
indulged liis wit at the expense of re-
Hgion, was all faithfully reported to the
High Priest by his spies, and stirred up
witliin him no kindly feelings towards
the stranger. In dealing with an infidel,
such a j)ersonage as Orcus could know
no alternative but that of either converting
or destroying him; and though iiis spite,
as a man, would have been more irratified
by the latter jiroceeding, his pride, as
a priest, led him to pi'cfer the triumph of
the former.

" The first descent of the Epicurean into
the pyramid was speedily known, and the
alarm immediately given to the Priests
below. As soon as it was discovered that
the young philosopher of Athens was the
intruder, and that he still continued to
linger round the pyramid, looking often
and wistfully towards the portal, it was
concluded that his curiosity would impel
him to try a second descent ; and Orcus,
blessing the good chance which had thus
K 2

196 THE EPICUREAN.

brought the wild bird to his net, deter-
mined not to' allow an opportunity so
precious to be wasted.

" Instantly, the whole of that wonderful
machinery, by which the phantasms and
illusions of Initiation are produced, were
put in active preparation throughout that
subterranean realm ; and the increased
stir and watchfulness excited among
its inmates, by this more than ordinary
display of all the resources of priestcraft,
rendered the accomplishment of Alethe's
design, at such a moment, peculiarly dif-
ficult. Wholly ignorant of the share
which had fallen to herself in attracting
the young philosopher down to this re-
gion, she but heard of him vaguely, as
the Chief of a great Grecian sect, who had
been led, by either curiosity or accident,
to expose himself to the first trials of Ini-
tiation, and whom the priests, she saw,
were endeavouring to . ensnare in their
toils, by every art and skill with which
their science of darkness had gifted them.

THE EPICUREAN. 197

" To her mind, tlie iina<]feof a philoso-
pher, such us Alciphroii had been re-
presented to her, came associated with
ideas of age and reverence; anil, more
than once, the possibiHty of his being
made instrumental to her deliverance
Hashed a hope across her heart in which
she could not help indulging. Often had
she been told by Theora of the many
Gentile sajres, who had laid their wisdom
down humbly at the foot of the Cross ;
and though this Initiate, she feared, could
hardly be among the number, yet the ru-
mours which she had gathered from the
servants of the Temple, of his undis-
guised contempt for the errors of hea-
thenism, led her to hope she might find
tolerance, if not synijx^thy, in her appeal
to him.

" Nor was it solely with a view to her

own chance of deliverance that she thus

connected hhn in her thoughts with the

plan which she meditated. The look of

K 3

198 THE EPICUREAN.

proud and self-gratulating malice, with
which the High Priest had mentioned
this ' infidel,' as he styled him, when in-
structmg her in the scene she was to
enact before the philosopher in the valley,
but too plainly informed her of the des-
tiny that hung over him. She knew how
many were the hapless candidates for
Initiation, who had been doomed to a
durance worse than that of the gi-ave, for
but a word, a whisper breathed against
the sacred absurdities which they wit-
nessed; and it was evident to her that
the venerable Greek (for such her fancy
represented Alciphron) was no less in-
terested in escaping from this region than
herself.

" Her own resolution was, at all events,
fixed. Tliat visionary scene, in which she
had appeared before Alciphron, — little
knowing how ardent were the heart and
imagination, over which her beauty, at that
moment, shed its whole influence, — was,
she solemnly resolved, the very last un-

THE EPICUREAN'. 199

lioly service, thai superstition or impos-
ture should ever command of her.

" On the foHowing nii^ht the Aspirant
was to watcli in the Great Temple of
Isis. JSiich an opportunity of approaching
and addressing him might never come
again. Should he, from com})assion for
her situation, or a sense of the danger of
his own, consent to lend his aid to her
flight, most gladly would she accept it, —
assured that no danger or treachery she
might risk could be half so dreadful as
those she left behind. Should he, on
the contrary, refuse, her determination
was e(jually fixed — to trust to that God,
who watches over tlie innocent, and go
forth alone.

" To reach the islaiul in Lake Mocris
wa.s her first object, and there occurred
luckily, at this time, a mode of accom-
plishing it, by which the difficulty and
dangers of the attempt wouUl be, in a
great degree, diminished. 'Hie day of
K 4

200 THE EPICUREAN.

the annual visitation of the High Priest
to the Place of Weeping — as that island
in the centre of the lake is called — was
now fast approaching; and Alethe well
knew that the self-moving car, by which
the High Priest and one of the Hiero-
phants are conveyed to the chambers
under the lake, stood waiting in readiness.
By availing herself of this expedient, she
would gain the double advantage both
of facilitating her own flight and re-
tarding the speed of her pursuers.

" Having paid a last visit to the tomb of
her beloved mother, and wept there, long
and passionately, till her heart almost
failed in the struggle, — having paused, too,
to give a kiss to her favourite ibis, which,
though too much a Christian to worship,
she was still child enough to love, —
with a trembling step she went early to
the Sanctuary, and hid herself in one
of the recesses of the Shrine. Her
intention was to steal out fi-om thence to
Alciphron, while it was yet dark, and be-

THE EPICUREAN. 201

fore the illumination of the <rreat Statue

behind the Veils liad begun. But her

fears delayed her till it was almost too

late; — already was the image lighted up,

and still she remained trembling in her

hidhig })lace.

" In a few minutes more the mighty Veils

would have been withdrawn, and the

fflories of that scene of enchantment laid
o

open, — when, at length, sununoning up
courage, and taking advantage of a mo-
mentary absence of those em})loyed in the
preparations of this splendid mockery, she
stole fi-oni under the Veil and found her
way, through the gloom, to the Epi-
curean. There was then no time for
explanation ; — she had but to trust to
the simple words, ' Follow, and be silent ;'
and the implicit readiness with which she
found them obeyed filled her with no less
suqirise than the philosopher hmiself felt
in hearing them.

" In a second or two they were on their
way through the subterranean windings,

K 5

202 THE EPICUREAN.

leaving the ministers of Isis to waste their
splendours on vacancy, through a long
series of miracles and visions which they
now exhibited, — unconscious that he,
whom they took such pams to dazzle,
was already, under the guidance of the
young Christian, removed beyond the
reach of their spells."

THE EPICUREAN. 203

CHAP. XIV.

bucH was the story, of wliich this innocent
girl gave me, in her own touching language,
the outline.

The sun was just rising as she finished
her narrative. Fearful of encountering
the expression of those feelings with which,
she could not but observe, I was affected
by her recital, scarcely had she concluded
the last sentence, when, rising abruptly
from her seat, she hurried into the pavi-
lion, leaving me with the words already
crowding for utterance to my lips.

Oppressed by the various emotions, thus
sent back ujion my heart, I lay down
on the deck in a state of agitation, that
defied even the most distant approaches
of sleep. While every word she had
K 6

204 THE EPICUREAN.

uttered, every feeling she expressed, but
ministered new fuel to that flame within
me, to describe which, passion is too weak
a word, there was also much of her recital
that disheartened, that alarmed me. To
find a Christian thus under the garb of
a Memphian Priestess, was a discovery
that, had my heart been less deeply in-
terested, would but have more powerfully
stimulated my imagination and pride.
But, when I recollected the austerity of
the faith she had embraced, — the tender
and sacred tie, associated with it in her
memory, and the devotion of woman's
heart to objects thus consecrated, — her
very perfections but widened the distance
between us, and all that most kindled my
passion at the same time chilled my hopes.
Were we left to each other, as on this
silent river, in this undisturbed communion
of thoughts and feelings, I knew too well,
I thought, both her sex's nature and my
own, to feel a doubt that love would
ultunately triumph. But the severity of

THE EPICUREAN. 205

the «^iuircliiiii.sliij) to wliiih 1 iiiu.bt resign
her, — some monk of the desert, some
stern Solitary, — the influence such :i
monitor would gain over lur mind, and
the horror with which, ere loni^, siie would
be tau<^ht to re<^ard the reprobate infitlel
on whom she now smiled, — in all this
prospect 1 saw nothuig but despair. After
a few short hours, my haj^jiiness woiUd be
at an end, and such a dark chasm open
between our fates, as must sever them, far
as earth is from heaven, asunder.

It was true, she was now wholly in my
power. I feared no witnesses but those of
earth, and the solitude of the desert was at
hand. But though I acknowledged not a
heaven, I worshipped her who was, to me,
its type and substitute. If, at any mo-
ment, a single thought of wrong or deceit,
towards a creature so sacred, arose in my
mhid, one look from her innocent eyes
averted the sacrilege. Even passion it-
self felt a holy fear in her presence, —

206 THE EPICUREAN.

like the flame trembling in the breeze of
the sanctuary, — and Love, pure Love,
stood in place of Religion.

As long as I knew not her story, I might
indulge, at least, in dreams of the future.
But, now — what hope, what prospect re-
mained ? My sole chance of happiness lay
in the feeble hope of beguiling away her
thoughts from the plan which she me-
ditated; of weaning her, by persuasion,
from that austere faith, which I had before
hated and now feared, and of — attaching
her, perha]:)s, alone and unlinked as she
was in the world, to my own fortunes for
ever !

In the agitation of these thoughts, 1
had started from my resting-place, and
continued to jiace up and down, under a
burning sun, till, exhausted both by thought
and feeling, I sunk down, amid its blaze,
into a sleep, which, to my fevered brain,
seemed a sleep of fire.

On awaking, I found the veil of Alethe

THE EPICUREAN. 207

laid carefully over my hiow, while she,
herself", sat near me, under the shadow of
tlie sail, looking anxiously at that leaf,
which her mother had given her, and
apparently employed in comparing its out-
lines with the course of the river and
the forms of the rocky hills by which
we passed. She looked })ale and troubled,
and rose eagerly to meet me, as if she
had long and impatiently waited for my
waking.

Her heart, it was plain, had been dis-
turbed from its security, and was begin-
ning to take alarm at its own feelings.
But, though vaguely conscious of the peril
to which she was exposed, her reliance, as
is usually the case, increased with her dan-
ger, and on me, far more than on herself^
did she depend for saving her from it.
To reach, as soon as possible, her asylum
hi the desert, was now the urgent object
of her entreaties and wishes ; and the self-
reproach she expressed at having permitted
her thoughts to be diverted, for a shigle

208 THE EPICUREAN.

moment, fi'om this sacred purpose, not only
revealed the truth, that she had forgotten
it, but betrayed even a glimmering con-
sciousness of the cause.

Her sleep, she said, had been broken
by ill-omened dreams. Every moment
the shade of her mother had stood be-
fore her, rebuking her, with mournftil
looks, for her delay, and pointing, as she
had done in death, to the eastern hills.
Bursting into tears at this accusing recol-
lection, she hastily placed the leaf, which
she had been examining, in my hands, and
implored that I would ascerttiin, without a
moment's delay, what portion of our voyage
was still unperformed, and in what space
of time we might hope to accomplish it.

I had, still less than herself, taken note
of either place or distance ; and, had we
been left to glide on in this dream of hap-
piness, should never have thought of paus-
ing to ask where it would end. But such
confidence, I felt, was too sacred to be
deceived. Reluctant as I was, naturally, to

THE EPICUREAN. 209

enter on an inquuy, which mi^ht so soon
dissipat4J even my last hope, htr wish was
sufficient to sujjersede even the selfisluiess
of love, and on the instant I proceeded
to obey her will.

There is, on the eastern bank of the
Nile, to the north of Antinoe, a high and
steeji rock, impending over the flood,
which for ages, from a prodigy connected
witli it, has borne the name of the Moun-
tain of the Birds. Yearly, it is said, at
a certain season and hour, large flocks of
birds assemble in the ravine, of which this
rocky mountain forms one of the sides,
and are there observed to go through the
mysterious ceremony of inserting each its
beak into a particular cleft of the rock,
till the cleft closes upon one of their num-
ber, when the rest, taking wing, leave
the selected victim to die.

Through the ravine where this charm
— for such the multitude consider it —
is worked, there ran, in ancient times, a
canal from the Nile, to some great and

210 THE EPICUREAN.

forgotten city that now lies buried in the
desert. To a short distance from the
river this canal still exists, but, soon after
having passed through the defile, its
scanty waters disappear altogether, and
are lost under the sands.

It was in the neighbourhood of this
place, as I could collect fi'om the deline-
ations on the leaf, — where a flight of
birds represented the name of the moun-
tain, — that the dwelling of the Solitary,
to whom Alethe was bequeathed, lay.
Imperfect as was my knowledge of the
o-eogi*aphy of Egypt, it at once struck me,
that we had long since left this mountain
behind ; and, on inquiring of our boat-
men, I found my conjecture confirmed.
We had, indeed, passed it, as appeared,
on the preceding night ; and, as the wind
had, ever since, blown strongly from the
north, and the sun was already declining
towards the horizon, we must now be, at
least, an ordinary day's sail to the south-
ward of the spot.

THE EPICUREAN. 21 1

At tliis discovery, I own, my Heart
felt a joy whicli I could with dilTiculty
conceal. It seemed to me as it" fortune
wa.s conspirin<r witli love, and, by thus
delaying the moment ol' our sejiaration,
afforded me at least a chance of haj)-
piness. Her look, too, and manner, when
informed of our mistake, rather encou-
raged than chilled this secret hope. In
the first moment of astonishment, her
eyes opened upon me with u suddenness
of splendour, under which I felt my
own wink, as if lightning had crossed
them. But she again, as suddenly, let
their lids fall, and, after a quiver of her
li}), which showed the conflict of feeling
within, crossed her arms upon her bosom,
and looked silently down ujion the deck ;
— her whole countenance sinking into an
expression, sad, but resigned, as if she felt,
with me, that fate was on the side of wrong,
ajid saw Love already stealing between
her soul and heaven.

I was not slow in availing myself of

212 THE EPICUREAN.

what I fancied to be the irresolution of
her mind. But, fearful of excitmg alarm
by any appeal to tenderer feelings, I
but addressed myself to her imagination,
and to that love of novelty, which is
for ever fresh in the youthful breast.
We were now approaching that region of
wonders, Thebes. " In a day or two,"
said I, " we shall see, towering above the
waters, the colossal Avenue of Sphinxes,
and the bright Obelisks of the Sun.
We shall visit the plain of Memnon, and
those mighty statues, that fling their sha-
dows at sunrise over the Libyan hills.
We shall hear the image of the Son of
the Morninff answermg to the first touch
of light. From thence, in a few hours,
a breeze like this will transport us to
those sunny islands near the cataracts;
there, to wander, among the sacred palm-
groves of Philai, or sit, at noon-tide hour,
in those cool alcoves, which the waterfall
of Syene shadows under its arch. Oh,
who, with such scenes of loveliness within

THE EPICUREAN. 21.S

reach, would turn coklly away to the bleak
desert, and leave this fair world, with all
its enchantments, shining behind them,
unseen and unenjoycd ? At least," — I
atlded, tenderly taking her by the hand,
— " at least, let a few more days be
stolen from the dreary fate to wliich thou
liast devoted thvself, and then "

She had heard but the last few words ; —
the rest had been lost upon her. Startled by
the tone of tenderness, into which, in spite
of all my resolves, my voice had softened,
she looked for an instant in my face, with
passionate earnestness ; — then, dropping
upon her knees with her clasped hands
uj)raised, exclaimed — " Temj)t me not,
in the name of God I imjilore thee,
tempt me not to swerve from my sacred
duty. Oh, take me instantly to that de-
sert mountain, and I will bless thee for
ever."

This appeal, I felt, could nut be resisted,
— thou*;h mv heart were to break for it.
Having silently expressed my assent to

214 THE EPICUREAN.

her prayer, by a pressure of her hand as
I raised her fi'om the deck, I hastened,
as we were still in full career for the
south, to give orders that our sail should
be instantly lowered, and not a moment
lost in retracing our course.

In proceeding, however, to give these
directions, it, for the first time, occurred
to me, that, as I had hired this yacht in
the neighbourhood of Memphis, where it
was probable that the flight of the young
fugitive would be most vigilantly tracked,
we should act imprudently in betraying
to the boatmen the place of her retreat;
— and the present seemed the most fa-
vourable opportunity of evading such a
danger. Desiring, therefore, that we
should be landed at a small village on
the shore, under pretence of paying a
visit to some shrine in the neighbour-
hood, I there dismissed our barge, and was
relieved fi'om fear of further observation,
by seeing it again set sail, and resume its
course fleetly up the current.

THE EPICUREAN. 21

i

From the boats f)f all descriptions
that lay idle beside thu bank, 1 now se-
lected one, which, \\\ every respect, suited
my purpose, — being, in its shape and ac-
connnodations, a miniature of our former
vessel, but so small and light as to be
manageable by myself alone, and, with the
advantage of the current, rc(juiring little
more than a hand to steer it. This boat
I succeeded, without much dillicultv, in
purchasing, and, after a short delay, we
were again afloat down the current; — the
sun just then sinking, in conscious glory,
over his own golden shrmes in the Libyan
waste.

The evening was more calm and lovely
than any that yet had smiled upon
our voyage ; and, as we left the bank,
there came soothingly over our ears a
strain of sweet, rustic melody from the
shore. It was the voice of a young Nubian
girl, whom we saw kneeling on the bank
before an acacia, and singing, while her
companions stood round, the wikK song

216 THE EPICUREAN.

of invocation, which, in her country, they
address to that enchanted tree : —

" Oh ! Abyssinian tree.

We pray, we pray, to thee ;
By the glow of thy golden fruit.
And the violet hue of thy flower,

And the greeting mute

Of thy bough's salute
To the stranger who seeks thy bower. *

II.

" Oh ! Abyssinian tree,

How the traveller blesses thee,
When the night no moon allows.
And the sun-set hour is near.
And thou bend'st thy boughs
To kiss his brows,
Saying, ' Come rest thee here.'
Oh ! Abyssinian tree,
■ Thus bow thy head to me !"

* See an account of this sensitive tree, which
bends down its branches to those who approach it,
in M. Jomard's Description of Syene and the Ca-
taracts.

THE EPICUREAN. 217

In the burden of this son^^ the conijxmioii^
of the youn*^ Nubian joined ; and we heard
the words, " Oh ! Abyssinian tree," dying
away on the breeze, long after the wliole
group had been lost to our eyes.

Whether, in this new arrangement which
I had made for our voyage, any motive,
besides those which I professed, had a
share, I can scarcely, even myself, so
bewildered were my feelings, determine.
But no sooner had the current borne
us away from all human dwellings, and
we were alone on the waters, with not
a soul near, than I felt how closely such
solitude ilraws hearts together, and how
much more we seemed to belong to each
other, than when there were eyes around.

The same feeling, but without the
same sense of its danger, was manifest in
every look and word of Alethe. The
consciousness of the one great effort
she had matle ap))eared to have satisfied
her heart on the score of duty, — while
the devotedness with which she saw I

L

218 THE EPICUREAN.

attended to her every wish, was felt with
all that gratitude which, in woman, is
the day-spring of love. She was, there-
fore, happy, mnocently happy; and the
confiding, and even aflPectionate, unreserve
of her manner, while it rendered my trust
more sacred, made it also far more dif-
ficult.

It was only, however, on subjects un^^
connected with our situation or fate, that
she yielded to such interchange of
thought, or that her voice ventured to
answer mine. The moment I alluded to
the destiny that awaited us, all her cheer-
fulness fled, and she became saddened and
silent. When I described to her the
beauty of my own native land — its founts
of inspiration and fields of glory — her
eyes sparkled with sympathy, and some-
times even softened into fondness. But
when I ventured to whisper, that, in that
glorious country, a life full of love and
liberty awaited her ; when I })roceeded
to contrast the adoration and bliss she

THE EPICUREAN. 219

might comiiuiiul, with the gloomy austeri-
ties of the life to wliich she was hastening,
— it was like the coming of a sudden cloud
over a sunnner sky. Her head sunk, as
she listened ; — I waited in vain for an
answer; and when, half playfully reproach-
ing her for this silence, 1 stooped to take
her hand, I coultl feel the warm tears fast
falling over it.

IJut even this — little hope as it held
«)ut — was happiness. Though it fore-
boded that I should lose her, it also whis-
pered that I was loved. Like that lake, in
the Land of Roses*, whose waters are
half sweet, half bitter, I felt my fate to be
a compound of bliss and pain, — but the
Vfiv pain well worth all ordinary bliss.

And thus dill the hours of that night
pass along; while every moment shortened
our haj)py dream, and the current seemed
to flow with a swifter piict- than any that

* The province ot" Ar»iiioii, now Fiouiii.
L 2

220 THE EPICUREAN.

ever yet hurried to the sea. Not a fea-
ture of the whole scene but is, at this
moment, freshly in my memory ; — the
broken star-light on the water ; — the
rippling sound of the boat, as, without
oar or sail, it went, like a thing of en-
chantment, down the stream ; — the scented
fire, burning beside us on the deck, and,
oh, that face, on which its light fell, still
revealing, as it turned, some new charm,
some blush or look, more beautiful than
the last.

Often, while I sat gazing, forgetful of
all else in this world, our boat, left wholly
to itself, would drive from its course, and,
bearing us to the bank, get entangled in
the water-flowers, or be caught in some
eddy, ere I perceived where we were.
Once, too, when the rustling of my oar
among the flowers had startled away from
the bank some wild antelopes, that had
stolen, at that still hour, to drink of the
Nile, what an emblem I thought it of the

THE EPICUREAN. 221

young lieait beside me, — tasting, for the
first time, of hope and love, and so soon,
alas, to be scared from their sweetness
for ever !

L 3

222 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. XV.

The night was now far advanced ; — the
bend of our course towards the left, and
the closing in of the eastern hills upon the
river, gave warning of our approach to
the hermit's dwelling. Every minute now
seemed like the last of existence ; and I
felt a sinking of despair at my heart,
which would have been intolerable, had
not a resolution that suddenly, and as if
by inspiration, occurred to me, presented
a glimpse of hope which, in some degi*ee,
calmed my feelings.

Much as I had, all my life, despised hy-
pocrisy, — the very sect I had embraced
being chiefly recommended to me by the
war which they waged on the cant of all
others, — it was, nevertheless, in hypocrisy
that I now scrupled not to take refuge

THE EPICUllEAN. 223

from, what I dreaded more than shame or
deatli, my separation iVoin Aletlie. In
my despair, 1 adopted the hnmiliating
phui — deeply humiiiatin<r as I felt it to
be, even amid the joy with whicli I wel-
comed it — of oflerinj; myself to this
hermit, as a convert to his faith, and thus
becoming the fellov. -disciple of Alethe
under his care !

From the moment I resolved upon
this plan, my spirit felt lightened. Though
having fully before my eyes the labyrinth
of imposture into which it would lead me,
I thou<rht of nothing but the chance of our
being still together ; — in this hope, all
pride, all philosophy was forgotten, and
every thing seemed tolerable, but the pro-
spect of losing her.

Thus resolved, it was with somewhat
less reluctant feelings, that I now uniler-
took, at the anxious desire of Alethe, to
ascertain the site of that well-known moun-
tain, in the neighbourhood of which the
dwelling of the anchoret lay. We had
L 4

224< THE EPICUREAN.

already passed one or two stupendous
rocks, which stood, detached, Hke for-
tresses, over the river's brink, and which,
in some degree, corresponded with the
description on the leaf. So little was
there of life now stirring along the
shores, that I had begun almost to despair
of any assistance from inquiry, when, on
looking to the western bank, I saw a boat-
man among the sedges, towing his small
boat, with some difficulty, up the current.
Hailing him, as we passed, I asked,
" Where stands the Mountain of the
Birds ? " — and he had hardly time to
answer, pointing above our heads, "There,"
when we perceived that we were just then
entering into the shadow, which this
mighty rock flings across the whole of the
flood.

In a few moments we had reached
the mouth of the ravine, of which the
Mountain of the Birds forms one of
the sides, and through which the scanty
canal from the Nile flows. At the sight

THE EPICUREAX. 225

of this chasm, in some of whose gloomy
recesses — if we had lij^hlly interpretetl
the leaf — the dweUiiig of the iSt)litiiry hiy,
our voices, at once, sunk into a low whisper,
uliilu Akthc looked round uj)on me with
a superstitious fearfulness, as if doubtful
whether I had not already disappeared from
her side. A (|uick movement, however,
of her hand towards the ravine, told too
j)lainly that her purpose was still un-
changed. With my oars, therefore, check-
ing the career of our boat, I succeeded,
after no small exertion, in turning it out
of the current of the river, and steering
into this bleak and stagnant canal.

Our transition fi'om life and bloom
to the very depth of desolation, was im-
mediate. While the water and one side
of the ravine lay buried in shadow, the
white, skeleton-like crags of the other
stood aloft hi the pale glare of moonlight.
Tlie slu<;<jish stream throujih which wi
moved, yielded sullenly to the oar, and
the shriek of a few water-birds, which \\i

L 5

226 THE EPICUREAN.

had roused fioni their fastnesses, was suc-
ceeded by a silence, so dead and awful,
that our lips seemed afraid to disturb it by
a breath ; and half-whispered exclamations,
" How dreary ! " — " How dismal ! " —
were almost the only words exchanged
between us.

We had proceeded for some time
through this gloomy defile, when, at a
distance before us, among the rocks on
which the moonlight fell, we perceived,
upon a ledge but little elevated above the
canal, a small hut or cave, which, from a
tree or two planted around it, had some
appearance of being the abode of a human
bemg. " This, then," thought I, " is
the home to which Alethe is destined ! " —
A chill of despair came again over my
heart, and the oars, as I gazed, lay mo-
tionless in my hands.

I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had
caught the same object, drawing closer to
my side than she had yet ventured. Lay-
ing her hand agitatedly uj)on mine,

THE EPICUREAN. 227

" We must here," she said, " part for
ever." I turned to her, as she sjioke :
there was a tenderness, a despondency
in her countenance, that at once sad-
dened and inrtamed my souh " Part ! "
I exchiinied passionately, — " No ! —
the same God shall receive us both. Thy
lailh, Alethe, shall, from this hour, he
mine, and I will live and die in this desert
with thee !"

Her surprise, her delight, at these
words, was like a momentary delirium.
The wild, anxious smile, with which she
looked into my face, as if to ascertain
whether she had, indeed, heard my words
aright, bes})oke a happiness too much Un-
reason to bear. At length the fulness of her
heart found relief in tears ; and, nunmur-
ing forth an incoherent blessing on my
name, she let her heail fall languidly and
powerlessly on my arm. The light from
our boat-fire shone uj)on her face. I saw
her eyes, which she had closed for a mo-
ment, again opening upon me with the
L 6

228 THE EPICUREAN.

same tenderness, and — merciful Provi-
dence, how I remember that moment ! — -
was on the point of bending down my lips
towards hers, when, suddenly, in the air
above our heads, as if it came from hea-
ven, there burst forth a strain from a
choir of voices, that with its solemn
sweetness filled the whole valley.

Breaking away from my caress at these
supernatural sounds, the maiden threw
herself trembling upon her knees, and,
not daring to look up, exclaimed wildly,
" My mother, oh my mother !"

It was the Christian's morning hymn
that we heard ; — the same, as I learned
afterwards, that, on their high terrace at
Memphis, Alethe had been often taught
by her mother to sing to the rising sun..

Scarcely less startled than my compa-
nion, I looked up, and, at the very sum-
mit of the rock above us, saw a light,
appearing to come from a small opening or
window, through which also the sounds,
that had appeared so supernatural, issued.

THE EPICUREAN. 229

There could be no doubt, that we liad nou
foiuid — il" not the dwelling ot" the anchoret

— at least, the haunt of" some of the Christ-
ian brotherhood of these rocks, hv whose
assistance we could not fail to (intl the
place of his retreat.

The aj^itation, into which Alethe had
been thrown by the first burst of that
psalmody, soon yielded to the softening
recollections which it brought back ; anil
a calm came over her brow, such as it
had never before worn, since our meet-
ing. She seemed to feel that she had
now reached her destined haven, and t(t
hail, as the voice of heaven itself, those
sounds by which slie was welcomed to it.

In her trantjuillity, however, I could
not now sympathize. Impatient to know
all that awaited her and mysi-ll", 1 pushed
our boat close to the base of the rock,

— directly under that lighted window on
the summit, to find my way up to which
was my first object. Having hastily
received my histructions from Alethe,

230 THE EPICUREAN.

and made her repeat again the name of
the Christian whom we sought, I sprang
upon the bank, and was not long in dis-
covering a sort of rude stair-way, cut
out of the rock, but leading, I found, by
easy windings, up the steep.

After ascending for some time, I arrived
at a level space or ledge, which the hand
of labour had succeeded in converting
into a garden, and which was planted,
here and there, with fig-trees and palms.
Around it, too, I could perceive, through
the glimmering light, a number of small
caves or grottos, into some of which,
human beings might find entrance, while
others appeared no larger than the tombs
of the Sacred Birds round Lake Moeris.

I was still, I found, but half-way up
the ascent to the summit, nor could per-
ceive any further means of continuing
my course, as the mountain from hence
rose, almost perjiendicularly, like a wall.
At length, however, on exploring around,
I discovered behind the shade of a syca-

THE EPICUREAN. 231

more u large ladder of wood, resting firmly
against the rock, and aflordiiig an easy
and secure ascent up tiie steeji.

Having ascertained thus far, I ;igaiii
descended to the boat for Alethe, —
whom I found trembling already at hei'
short solitutle, — and having led her up
the stejis to this (juiet garden, left her
safely lodged, amid its holy silence, while I
pursued my way upward to the light on
the rock.

At the top of the long ladder I found
myself on another ledge or platform,
somewhat smaller than the first, but
planted in the same manner, with trees,
and, as I could perceive by the mingled
liirht of mornin<r and the moon, embel-
lished with flowers. 1 was now near the
sunnnit ; — there remained but another
short ascent, and, as a ladder against the
rock, as before, supjilied the means of
scaling it, I was in a few minutes at the
opening from which the light issued.

I had ascended gently, as well Irom

232 THE EPICUREAN.

a feeling of awe at the whole scene, as
from an unwillmgness to disturb too
rudely the rites on which I intruded. My
approach was, therefore, unheard, and an
opportunity, during some moments, af-
forded me of observing the group within,
before my appearance at the window was
discovered.

In the middle of the apartment, which
seemed once to have been a Pagan oratory,
there was an assembly of seven or eight
persons, some male, some female, kneeling
in silence round a small altar ; — while,
among them, as if presiding over their
ceremony, stood an aged man, who, at
the moment of my arrival, was presenting
to one of the female worshippers an
alabaster cup, which she applied, with
much reverence, to her lips. On the
countenance of the venerable minister,
as he pronounced a short prayer over
her head, there was an expression of
})rofound feeling that showed how wholly
he was absorbed in that rite j and when

THE EPICUREAN. 233

she had (h'aiik of the cup, — uliicli I sau
had eiifTraveri on its side the image of a
head, with a glory round it, — the lioiy
man bent down and kissed her forehead.

After this parting sahitation, the whole
grouj) rose silently from their knees ;
and it was then, for the first time, that, by
a cry of terror from one of the women,
the appearance of a stranger at the win-
dow was discovered. The whole assembly
seemed startled and alarmed, except him,
that superior person, who, advancing from
the altar, with an unmoved look, raised the
latch of the door, which was adjoining to
the window, and admitted me.

Tiiere was, in this old man's features,
a mixture of elevation and sweetness, ot
simplicity and energy, which connnanded
at once attachment and homage ; and half
hojiing, half fearing to find in him the
destined guardian of Alethe, I looked
anxiously in his ftice, as I entered, and
pronounced the name "Melanius !" "Me-
lanius is my name, young stranger," he

234" THE EPICUREAN.

answered ; " and whether in friendship or
in enmity thou comest, Melanius blesses
thee." Thus saying, he made a sign with
his right hand above my head, while, with
involuntary respect, I bowed beneath the
benediction.

" Let this volume," I replied, " answer
for the peacefulness of my mission," — at
the same time, placing in his hands the
copy of the Scriptures, which had been
his own gift to the mother of Alethe,
and which her child now brought as the
credential of her claims on his protection.
At the sight of this sacred pledge, which he
recognized instantly, the solemnity that had
marked his first reception of me softened
into tenderness. Thoughts of other times
seemed to pass through his mind, and as,
with a sigh of recollection, he took the book
from my hands, some words on the outer
leaf caught his eye. They were few, — but
contained, perhaps, the last wishes of the
dying Theora, for as he eagerly read them
over, I saw the tears in his aged eyes.

THE EPICUUEAN. 235

" The trust," lie said, with a faheriiig
voice, " is sacred, and God will, I hojR',
enable liis servant to guard it iaithhilly."

During this short dialogue, tiie t)ther
persons of tlie assembly had departed —
being, as I afterwards learned, brethren
from the neighbouring bank of the Nile,
who came thus secretly before day-break,
to join in worshipping God. Fearful lest
their descent down the rock might alarm
Alethe, I hurried briefly over the few
words of explanation that remained, and,
leavinff the venerable Christian to follow
at his leisure, hastened anxiously down to
rejoin the maiden.

236 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. XVI.

Melanius was among the first of those
Christians of Egypt, who, after the recent
example of the hermit, PauJ, renounc-
ing all the comforts of social existence,
betook themselves to a life of contempla-
tion 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 re-
lation to human kind was that of the
link to the chain, and that even his so-
litude 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 soli-

THE EPICUREAN. 237

tiule witli tliosc t)j)j)c)ruiiiitiu!-, of sfiviiig
his fellow-men, which a neighbourhood to
their haunts would afibrd.

That taste for the gloom ot subterra-
nean recesses, which the race of Misraim
iniierit 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 ; —
otiiers, among the royal tombs of the
Thebaid. 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 Pajjan 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 ot the uiounlaiiis of
the Said, to the east of the river, that

238 THE EPICUREAN.

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-wav 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, Antinoe, though he
mingled not with its multitude, his name
and his fame were among them, and, to
all who souijht instruction or consolation,
the cell of the hermit was ever open.

Notwithstandini; the rigid abstinence of

THE EPICUREAN. 239

his own habits, he was yet careful lo pro-
vide for the comforts of others. Con-
tented with a rude bed of straw, him-
self, 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 dwelUng, 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 iier yoimg heart
welcomed instruction ; and the thought
that such a candidate for heaven should
have relapsed into idolatry, came often,

240 THE EPICUREAN.

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 communi-
cation fi'om 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 con-

TUF. EPICUREAN. 241

templated in that clear countenance the
reflection of wlial her mother had been,
there was a mournfuhiess minified 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 liffht of dav 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 geek, in the
chambers of the rock, such rest as the
dwellinnr of a hermit could offer. Pointing
to one of the largest openings, as he ad-
dressed me, — " Thou wilt find," he said.
" in that grotto a bed of fresh tloum leaves,
and may the consciousness of having pro-
tected the orphan sweeten thy sleep !"

I felt how dearly this praise iiaii been
earned, and already almost repented of
having deserved it. There was a sadness
in the countenance of Alethe, as 1 took

M

242 THE EPICUREAN.

leave of her, to which the forebodings of
mv O'wTi 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.

Ha\Tng 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 be-
nediction of the Christian, and, having con-
veyed to her, as I bent reverently down,
as much of the deep feehng 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,

THE EPICUREAN. 24-3

all of them, representations of rural and
domestic scenes ; and, in the greater num-
ber, 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 samegi'oup — a youth, a maiden,
and two aged persons, who appeared to be
the father and mother of the girl, — were
represented in all the detixils 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 couki
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.
IM 2

244 THE EPICUREAN.

Through all these scenes of endear-
ment 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, 1 rose from my
bed and returned to the garden. I found
the Christian alone, — seated, under the

THi: EPICUREAN. 245

shade of one of his trei-s, at a small table,
witli a vokinu' unrolled before liiiii, while
a beautilul antelope lay sleeping at his feet.
Struck forcibly l)y the contrast which lie
presented to those haughty priests, whom
1 liad seen surrounded by the j)onip and
gorfreousness of temples, " Is this, then,"
thouf'ht I, "the faith, before which the
world tj-embles — 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 } had felt in parting
from her.

M 3

246 THE EPICUREAN.

She had acquainted hmi, 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 philo-
sophy, 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 partici-
pation of his holy hope, and imprinted the
Kiss of Charity on my mfidel brow !

Embarrassed as I felt by the conscious-
ness of li}^:)ocrisy, I was even still more
perplexed by my total ignorance of the
real tenets of the faith to which I pro-
fessed myself a convert. Abashed and
conflised, 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

THE EPICUREAN. 'J4-7

mockery of a reverential how, at everv
pause, the entire want of self-possession,
and even of speech, under whicli 1 la-
boured.

A few minutes more of such trial, and
I must have avowed my imposture. But
the holy man saw my embarrassment :
— and, whetlier 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 puttiiig the time-worn

M \

248 THE EPICUREAN.

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
precedmg night.

During the time when the Decian Per-
secution was raging, many Christians of

THE EPICUREAN. 249

this neighbourhood, he informed nie, had
taken refuge under his protection, in these
grottos; and the chapel on the sunniiit,
vvliere I had found them at j)rayer, \va>>, in
those times of (hmger, their place of re-
treat, where, by (h'awing up these hidders,
they were enabled to secure themselves
from j)ursuit.

From the top of the rock, the view, on
either side, embraced the two extremes of
fertility and desolation; nor could the
Ej)icurean 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 sitle,
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
colomiades of Antinoe, its proud, populous
streets, and triumphal monuments. On t he-
opposite shore, rich plains, teeming with
cultivation to the water's edge, offered up.

M S

250 THE EPICUREAN.

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 moun-
tain, 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 mterminable, wearying out the
sun with its sameness of desolation ; —
black, bm'nt-up rocks, that stood as bar-
riers, 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.

THE EPICUREAN. 251

After listeniiiir, wliile he contrasted, in
a few el(Kjuent words, the twt) regions of
Hfe and deatli on whose confines we stooti,
I again descended with my guide to tht
garden we had left. From thence, turn-
ing into a j)ath along the mountain-side,
he conducted me to another row of grottos,
facing the desert, which had once, he saiii.
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, anti 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 tin
canal; and I saw opposite, among the
rocks, that solitary cave, which hud s(»
chilled me with its asj)ect on the pre-
ceding night. By the bank we found
one of those rustic boats, which the Egyp-
tians construct of i)lanks of wild thorn,
bound rudely together with bands of papy-

M 6

252 THE EPICUREAN.

rus. 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 men-
tioned, 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, m the sunshine; — that melan-
choly 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 Chris-
tian, 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

THE EPICUREAN. 253

and liiinihk'cl j)ri(lc', wliicli liad l)t»ii ^:i-
thering roiiiul my litart lor tlic 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, with-
out appearing to notice this emotion, ex-
patiated, with a clieerrni air, on, wliat he
called, the many comforts of my dwelliui;.
►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 iiioimlain-garden nIiouIiI
furnish my repast. The well of the neigh-
bouring rock would supply my beverage;
and, "here," he continued, — lowering liis
voice into a more solenm tone, as he
placed upon the table the volume whicfi he
had brought, — "here, my son, is that
' well of livintr waters,' in which alone
thou wilt find lasting refreslnnent or
peace!" Thus saying, he tlescended

254^ THE EPICUREAN.

the rock to his boat, and after a few
plashes of his oar had died upon my ear,
the solitude and silence around jne was.
complete.

THE EPICUREAN. '151

CHAP. XVII.

What a Uite was mine ! — but a tew
weeks since, presiclin<^ ovt-r that splendid
Festival of the Garden, with all the luxu-
ries of existence tributary in my train :
and now, — self-humbled into a solitary
outcast, — the hypocritical pupil of a
Christian anchoret, — without even the ex-
cuse of fanaticism, or of any other mad-
ness, but that of love, wild love, to extenuate
my fall ! Were there a hope that, by this
liumiliatinfT waste of existence, I miirht
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.

Hatin<r even to look upon the den to
which I was doomed, I hurried out into

256 THE EPICUREAN.

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 wound-
ed 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 rest-
less 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 sym-
pathise 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

THE KPICUREAN. 257

sickened to coiiti'injjlate. JUit the tflint
was uiiavailiii<r. Overcome hv that va>t
solitude, whose repose was not the slum-
ber of" j)eace, but the sullen and burnirifr
silence of hate, I felt my spirit ^ive 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 efibrt to shut out the overwhelm-
ing j)rospect. 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 life-
less waste, it seemed to me like the light of
the comet that once desolated this world,
shining out luridly over tin- ruin that it
had made I

Appalled by my own gloomy ima-
mnations, I turned towards the ravine; and.
notwithstandino- the disgust with which 1
had left my dwelling, was not ill pleased
to find my way, over the rocks, to it again.
On a)ii)roaching the cave, to my astonish-

258 THE EPICUREAN.

nient, I saw a light within. At such a
moment, any vestige of life was welcome,
and I hailed the unexpected appearance
with pleasure. On entermg, however, I
found the chamber as lonely as I had
left it. The light came fi'om 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, her-
self, 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.

THE EPICUREAN. '259

Eaprer to pri'iKiiv inysilf for my task
of imposture, 1 sut down to tin- volume,
which I now found to he the Hebrew
Scriptures; and the first sentence, on
which my eyes fell, was — " The Lord
hath commanded the blessiinr, 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 Jiage, 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 iuid
again relapsed into its gloom of scepticism,
and, to the word of " Life," the only an-
swer it sent back was, " Death ! "

Impatient, however, to jiossess 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

'260 THE EPICUREAN.

avidity, such as never even the most fa-
vourite of my studies had awakened in me.
Though, Uke all, who seek but the surface
of learning, I flew desultorily over the
leaves, lighting only on the more promi-
nent and shining points, I yet found
myself, even in this undisciplined career,
arrested, at every page, by the awful, the
supernatural sublimity, the alternate me-
lancholy and grandeur of the images that
crowded upon me.

I had, till now, known the Hebrew
theology but through the jilatonising re-
finements of Philo ; — as, in like manner,
for my knowledge of the Christian doc-
trine I was indebted to my brother Epi-
cureans, Lucian and Celsus. Little,
therefore, was I prepared for the simple
majest}', 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 ele-
vated, so awed was my imagination by

THE EPICUREAN. 261

that woiulerful book, — its waniiiiirs of
wo, its imnouncenients of glory, and its
unrivalled strains of adoration and sorrow.

Hour after hour, with the same eajrer
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
ajrain throutih the various scenes of which
1 had read ; again called up, in sleep, the
bright images that had charmed me, and,
when wakened at day-break by the Hynni
from the chapel, fancied myself still listen-
ing to the sound of the winds, sighing
moiu'nfully through the har]rs 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; — !
caught only the last notes of the Ilyinii.
as, echoing uj) that lonely valky, they
died away into the silence of the ilesert.

262 THE EPICUREAN.

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 persevermgly througli
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 re-
ferred all it contained ; and, passing rapidly
from annals to })ro})hecy, from narration to
song, regarded the whole but as a tissue
of splendid allegories, in which the melan-
choly of Egyptian associations was in-
terwoven with the rich imagery of the
East.

Towards sunset I saw the boat of Me-
lanius on its way, across the canal, to my
cave. Though he had no other companion
than his graceful antelope, that stood snuf-
fing the wild air of the desert, as if scent-
ing its home, I felt his visit, even tlms,
to be a most welcome relief. It was the

THE EPICUREAN. 2G3

hour, lie said, of" his eveniii<r raiiihk' up
the mountain, — of his accustomed visit to
those cisterns of the rock, from which he
nijjjhtly (hew his most precious bevera<re.
While lie spoke, I observed in his hand
one of those earthen cups, in which the
inhabitants of the wilderness are accus-
tomed to collect the fresh dew amonjr the
rocks. Having proposed that I should ac-
company 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 refresh-
ment of the dwellers in the wilderness.
Having learned from me how far I had pro-
ceeded in my study, " In that light," said
he, pointing to a small cloud in the east.

264 THE EPICUREAN.

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 revel-
ations, in which the Almighty has, from
time to time, renewed his communication
with Man, and kept alive the remem-
brance 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 punish-
ment, and winning back the humble by
love. It was to preserve, he said, unex-
tinguished upon earth, that vital truth, —
the Creation of the world by one Supreme
Being, — that God chose, from among the

THE EPICUREAN. 26.5

nations, an humble and enslaved race; — that
he brought tiieni out oftheir captivitv "on
eagles' wings," and, surrounding every step
of their course with miracles, placed them
before the eyes of all succeeding gener-
ations, as the depositaries of his will, and
the ever-during memorials of his power.

Passing, then, in review the loin; train
of inspired interpreters, whose |)ens and
whose tongues were made the echoes of
the Divine voice, he traced *, through the
events of successive ages, the gradual ini-
foldinii of the dark scheme of Providence —
darkness without, but all light and glory
within. The glini})ses of a coming redemp-
tion, visible even through the wrath ot
heaven; — the long series of pro})hecy,
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

• In the original the discourses of the Hermit are
given much more at length.

266 THE EPICUREAN.

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 glo-
rious 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 wa-
tered 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 be-
fore. 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 im-
mortality in its pages. " It tells me," said

THE EPICUREAN. 267

I, " of a God coining down lo 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 Onniipotent offer
to liis own chosen servants a hope be-
yond 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 disappoint-
ment, did I mock at my own willing self-
delusion, — again rail at the arts of that
traitress. Fancy, ever ready, like the De-
lilah of this book, to steal upon the slum-
bers of Reason, and deliver him up, shorn
and powerless, to his foes. If deception
— thought I, with a sigh — be neces-
sary, at least let me not practise it
on myself ; — in the desperate alternative
before me, let me rather be even hypo-
crite than dupe.

These self-accusing reflections, clieer-
N 2

268 THE EPICUREAN.

less as they rendered my task, did not
abate, for a single moment, my industry in
pm-suing 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. Tlie curses
and the blessings, the glory and the ruin,
which the historian recorded and the pro-
phet predicted, seemed all of this world,
— all, temporal and earthly. That mor-
tality, 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
thmg most bright upon earth, appeared
sinking before my eyes, under this dread-
ful doom, into one general mass of cor-
ruption 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

THE EPICUREAN. 269

liis most ghastly varieties, passed before
me; and I had coMtiniicd thus for some
time, as under i\\r infhiencc of a ilaiful
vision, when the touch of a hanti upon my
shoukler roused me. Looking up, I saw
the Anchoret standing by my side ; —
his countenance beaming with that sub-
Hme trancjuilUty, which a liope, beyond
this earth, aknie can bestow. How J
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 stuily
of the morning had awakened.

" ITiou art yet, my son," he answered,
"but on the threshold of our faith. Thou
hast seen but the first rudiments of (lie
Divine plan ; — its full and consunnnate
perfection hath not yet opened upon thee.
However <;lorious that manifestation of
Divinity on Mount Sinai, it was but the
N 3

270 THE EPICUREAN.

forerunner of another, still more glorious,
that, in the fulness of time, was to burst
upon the world ; when all, that had
seemed dun 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 pro-
claimed to the world ! "

Observing my featm-es brighten at these
words, the pious man continued. Anticipat-
ing 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 EPICUREAN, 271

the example of obedience to Ciod ami
love to man, which he set, as a shining
light, before the world for ever; — and,
lastly and chiefly, his death and resur-
rection, by wliich the covenant of mercy
was sealed, and " life and imniortalitv
brouijht to light."

" Such," continued the Hermit, " was
the Mediator, promised through all time,
to ' make reconciliation for ini(|uity, ' to
change death into life, and bring 'heal-
ing 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 aj)-
})arent evil and temj)orary 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 happi-
ness ! "

With a mind astonisheil, if not toucheil,
N 4

272 THE EPICUREAN.

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
ffentle hand I was indebted for this in-
visible superintendence over my studies,
there was yet a something in it, so like spi-
ritual interposition, that it awed me ; — and
never more than at this moment, when,
on approaching the volume, I saw, as the
liffht 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.

THE EPICUREAN. 273

CHAP. XVIII.

In this mode of existence did I pass
some tiays ; — my mornings devoted Xd
reading, my nights to listening, under tht
canopy of heaven, to the holy elocjuenci-
of Melanius. The perseverance with
which I enquired, and the quickness with
which I learned, soon succeeded in de-
ceiving 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 tlu-
life. Even when, as a relief from hy-
pocrisy, I persuaded myself that I be-
lieved, it was but a brief delusion, a faith.
whose hope crumbled at the toucli, —
like the fruit of the desert-shruh, shinitiir
and empty !

But, though my soul was still dark, the
N 5

274 THE EPICUREAN.

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 pre-
pared 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 sympatliy
himg 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, J
thought, of promise upon his countenance.

THE EPICUREAN. '275

which love, more alive than laith, iuter-
preted as it wished.

At len<rth, — it was t)ii tiie sixth or
seventh evening of my solitude, wluii I
lay resting at the door of my cave, after
the study of the tlay, — I was startled l)y
hearing my name called loudly from the
opposite rocks, and looking up, saw, un
the cliff near the deserted grottos, Me-
lanius and — oh, 1 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
jjlorv encircled.

With a delight only to be imagined, 1
saw them descend the rocks, and placing
N 6

276 THE EPICUREAN.

themselves in the boat, proceed towards
my cave. To disguise from Melanius
the feelings with which we met was im-
possible ; — nor did Alethe even attempt
to make a secret of her innocent joy.
Though blushing at her own happmess,
she could as little conceal it, as the clear
waters of Ethiopia can hide their gold.
Every look, too, every .word, spoke a ful-
ness of affection, to which, doubtful as 1
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 demon-
strations of affection on one side, and
the deep sentiment that gratitude had
awakened on the other. Too wise to re-

THE EPICUREAN. 277

gard feelings, so luiluial, with severity, —
knowing that they were of heaven, and
but made evil by man, — the good Hermit
had heard of our attachment with plea-
sure ; and, proved as he thought the
purity of my views had l)een, by the
fidelity with which 1 had delivered ui) 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 hap})iness to
be real ; nor can words give an idea of
the joy — the shame — the wonder with
which I listened, while the holy man him-
self declared, that he awaited but the mo-
ment, 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, whicli it pledges,
heavenly. It was but yesterday, he added,

278 THE EPICUREAN.

that his young charge, herself, after a pre-
paration of prayer and repentance, such
as even her pure spirit required, had been
admitted, by the sacred ordinance of bap-
tism, 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 ima-
gination, seemed to have undergone some
brightening change; and the contrast be-
tween 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

THE EPICUREAN. 279

my cave, with :i lit-aii lull, fvuii to op-
pression, of its happiness, I knew no other
relief to my overcharged feelings than that
ol throwing myself on my km-cs, Mtul.
for the first time in inv life, utteriii<r ;i
prayer, that il", indeed, there were a
Being who watched over mankind. In-
would send down one ray of his truth into
my soul, and make it worthy of the bless-
ings, 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 ))arting, that
lasted till her return. Then, our rambles,
by star-light, over the mountiiin ; — our
pauses, on the way, to contem})late tlie
bright wonders of that heaven above us ;
— our repose by the cistern of the rock,
and our silent listenhig, through hours

280 THE EPICUREAN.

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 ap-
peared 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 ; — some-
times, her eyes sparkled on finding, per-
haps, a stunted marigold, or one of those
bitter, scarlet flowers, that lend their mock-
ery of ornament to the desert. In all these
pursuits and pleasures the good Hermit
took a share, — mingling with them occa-
sionally the reflections of a benevolent

THE EPICUnEAN. 281

piety, that lent its own ciicLTfiil hue to all
the works of creation, and saw tin- con-
solin<; truth " God is Love," written k'^ihlv
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 I

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, Antinot*, which, as the
capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of all
the luxury of Upper Egypt. Here, — so
changed was my every feeling l)y the all-
transforming passion that possessed me, —
I wandered, unamused and uninterested
by either the scenes or the people that sur-
rounded me, and, sighing for that rocky so-
litude where Alethe breathed, felt this to be
the wilderness, and that, the world.

Even the thoughts of mv own native

282 THE EPICUREAN.

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 ex-
change 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 myste-
rious movements of the Nile are measured ;

— all these bright ornaments of glory and
art, as well as the gay multitude that en-
livened 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 mouldermg 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

THE EPICUREAN. 283

subjects, once alien to my heart, on wliicli
it was now most tremblini^ly 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 EnijXTor to-
wards the Christians, filled me with ap-
prehensions 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, hail removed
fi'om them all fear of a renewal of those
horrors, which they had experienced under
tlie rule of his predecessor, Decius. Of
late, however, some less friendly disposi-
tions had manifested themselves. The
bigots of the court, taking alarm at the
spread of the new faith, had succeeded
in fiUinfj themindof the monarch with that
religious jealousy, which is the ever-ready
parent of cruelty and injustice. Among
these counsellors of evil was Macriamis, the
Praetorian Prefect, who was, by birth, an
Egyjitian, and — so akin is superstition to

284 THE EPICUREAN.

intolerance — had long made himself no-
torious by his addiction to the dark prac-
tices 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,
if was supposed, would emanate. All
tongues, in all (juarters, 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, m the countenances of those who
spoke, the variety of feeling with which
the rumour was discussed, according as
they desired or dreaded its truth, — ac-
cording 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 col-

THE EPICUREAN. 285

k-ctrd. He Iwiud iiu- with a conijiosurc,
which I mistook, alas, (or coiifiik-iicc in
his security ; and, naming the hour for our
eveuinjr walk, retired into his frrotto.

At the accustomed time Alethe and he
were at my cave. It was evident that he
had not ccmununicated to her the intelli-
gence which I had hrouglit, for never did
brow wear such a haj)|)iuess as that which
now played round hers; — it was, alas, tiut
of this earth ! Melanius, himself, though
composed, was thoughtful ; and the solem-
nity, almost apjiroaching to melancholy,
with which he placed the hand of Alethe in
mine — in the performance, too, of a cere-
mony that o?/(T/it to have filled my heart
with joy — saddened and alarmed me. This
ceremony was our betrotlmient, — the j)l ight-
ing of our faith to each other, — which we
now solemnized on the rock before the
door of my cave, in the face of that sun-
set heaven, with its one star standing as
witness. After a blessing from the Hei-
mit on our spousal pledge, I placed the

286 THE EPICUREAN.

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 feelinjj 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,

THE EPICUREAN. 287

wIktc- the hosts of the Lord (.ncaiiipLcl in
their tleparture out of boiuhi<rf."

Though, ill the presence of Alcilii.-, my
fears, even for herself, were forgotten in
that })erpc*tual element of hapi)iness, which
encirckcl her like the air that she breatiail,
no sooner was 1 alone than vague terrors
and bodings crowded uj)on nie. In vain tlid
I try to reason myself out of my fears by
dwelling on the most cheering circum-
stances,— the reverence with which Mela-
nius was regarded, even by the Pagans,
and the inviolate security with which
he had lived through the most peril-
ous periods, not only safe himself, but af-
fording sanctuary in his grottos to others.
When, somewhat calmed by these con-
siderations, I sunk olf to sleep, dark, hor-
rible 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 im})ression that all
these horrors were real.

2S8 THE EPICUREAN.

CHAP. XIX.

At length, the day dawned, — that dread-
ful day. Impatient to be relieved from my
suspense, I threw myself into my boat, —
the same m which we had performed our
happy voyage, — and, as fast as oars could
speed me, hurried away to the city. I
foimd the suburbs silent and solitary, but,
as I a})proached 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 i^ 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 mitldle 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

THE EPICUREAN. 289

these idols were shrines, to wliidi tlie de-
voted Cliristians were drufrfred from all
quarters by the soldiers and mol), and there
compelled to recant, by throwiiifr incense
into the flame, or, on their refusal, hurried
away to torture and ileath. It was an
appallin«r scene ; — the consternation, the
cries of some of the victims, — the pale,
silent resolution of others; — tlu' fierce
shouts of laughter that broke from die
multitude, when the frankincense, drop-
ped 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 1 gazed but for a few niiimles,
in those muiutes I felt enough for years.
Already did the form of A let he flit
before me through that tujiuilt ; — I
heard them shout her name ; — her shriek
fell on my ear ; and the very thought so

o

290 THE EPICUREAN.

palsied me with terror, that I stood fixed
and statue-like on the spot.

Recollecting, however, the fearfiil pre-
ciousness of every moment, and that — per-
haps, at this very instant — some emissaries
of blood might be on their way to the
grottos, I rushed wildly out of the Formn,
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 Cen-
turion stood sternly in my path, and I was
surrounded and arrested by soldiers ! It
was in vain that I implored, that I strug-
gled with them as for life, assuring them
that I was a stranger, — that I was an
Athenian, — that I was — 7iot a Christian.
The precipitation of my flight was suffi-
cient evidence against me, and unrelent-
ingly, and by force, they bore me away to
the quarters of their Chief

THE EPICUREAN. 29J

Jt WHS ciioiiifli to (hive me to niadness !
Two hours, two i'riirhlful hours, was I
kept waiting the arrival ol the Tribune
oi' their Legion *, — my l)rain burning
with a thousand fears and imaginations,
whicli every passing minute made more
likely to be realised. Every thing,
too, that 1 could collect from the con-
versations around me but added to the
agonising apprehensions w ilh which i was
racked. Troops, it was said, had been
sent in all directions through the neigh-
bourhood, to bring in the rebellious Chris-
tians, and make them bow before the
Gods of the Empire. With horror, too,
1 hearel of Orcus, — Orcus, the High
Priest of Memphis, — as one of the
principal instigators of this sanguinary
edict, and as here present in Antinoe,
animating and directing its execution.
In this state of torture I remahied till

• A rank, resembling that of Colonel,
o 2

292 THE EPICUREAN.

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, exclaun, "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 courte-
sies ; — 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 fi'on)
their fury. The ill-fated delay that had
occurred rendered this hope almost de-

THE EPICUREAN. 293

sperate; 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 desjierate effort, I sprang
fi'om my boat and lighted upon the edge
of their vessel. I knew not what I did, for

o 3

294 THE EPICUREAN.

despair was my only prompter. Snatch-
ing at the sword of one of the soldiers, as
I stood tottering on the edge, I had suc-
ceeded in wresting it out of his hands,
when, at the same moment, I received
a thrust of a lance from one of his com-
rades, and fell backward into the river.
I can just remember rising again and
making a grasp at the side of the ves-
sel ; — but the shock, the faintness from
my wound, deprived me of all conscious-
ness, and a shriek from Aletlie, 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 — disa-

THE EPICUREAN. 295

bled as I was — from my coucli, I called
loudly, and with the shriek of a maniac,
on Alethe.

1 was in the house, J found, of my
friend and discij)le, the young Tribune,
who had made the Governor acquainted
with my name aiul condition, and had re-
ceivetl me under his roof, when brought,
bleeding and insensible, to Antinoe. From
him I now learned at once, — for I could
not wait for details, — the sum of all that
had liappened 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, tbund the
Tribune by my side. The horrors, he said,
of the Forum were, for that day, over, —
but what the morrow might bring, he shud-
dered to contemplate. His nature, it was

o 4

^96 THE EPICUREAN.

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 pro-
mising that I should, at night-fall, be con-
veyed 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 vuidic-
tive Orcus, who has resisted even this
short respite of mercy, will, to-morrow, in-
exorably demand his prey."

He then related to nie, at my own re-
quest, — though every word was torture,
— all the harrowing details of the pro-
ceeding before the Tribunal. " I have
seen courage," said he, " in its noblest
forms, in the field; but the calm intre-
pidity with which that aged Hermit en-
dured torments — which it was hardly
less torment to witness — surpassed all

THE EPICUREAN. 297

that I could have conceived of human
fortitude !"

My poor Alethe, too, — ui describing
to nie 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 wo-
manly weakness. But no sooner was she
brought before the Tribunal, and the de-
claration 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 fer-
vour, 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 multi-
tude. Her youth, her loveliness, affected
all hearts, and a cry of ' Save the young
maiden !' was heard in all directions."

The imjilacable Orcus, however, would
o 5

298 THE EPICUREAN.

0

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 de-
manded 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 mock-
ery 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 chajilets of

THE EPICUREAN. 299

coral*, witli which it is the custom of
yoim<j; Christian maidens to array them-
selves on the (lay of their nuirtyrdom ; —
" 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 con-
ducted, under the guidance of my friend,
to the prison. Through his interest with
the guard, we were without difficulty ad-
mitted, and I was borne into the chamber
where the maiden lay immured. Even the
veteran guardian of the })lace seemed
touched with compassion for his prisoner,
and supposing her to be asleep, had the
litter placed gently near her.

* " Une de cescouronnes dc ijrain de corail, dont
les vierges martyrcs ornoient leurs cheveaux en allant
a la mort." Lcs Marti/rs.

o 6

300 THE EPICUREAN.

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 ofnaptha, 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 ob-
serving which, the kind Tribune with-
drew, 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

THE EPICUREAN. 301

miirblc line but iippeared iiiort- deatli-like
from those red bands that hiy so awfully
across it.

After waiuleriny vaguely for a miiuite,
her eyes rested ujiou me, — and, with a
shriek, half terror, half joy, she sprung
from the couch, and sinik upon her knees
l)y my side. She hatl believed me dead ;
anil, even now, scarcely trusted her
senses. " Mv husband ! mv love ! " she
exclaimed; " oh, if thou comest to call me
from this world, behold I am reatly ! "
In saying thus, she pointed wildly to that
ominous wreath, and then drop})ed 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 re-
animate her ; — she looked np, with a
faint smile, in my face. Her thoughts,
which had evidently been wandering, be-
came collected ; and in her joy at my
safety, her sorrow at my suffering, she

302 THE EPICUREAN.

forgot wholly the fate that impended over
herself. Love, hinocent love, alone occu-
pied 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 approachmg. Already I saw
her wi-ithing 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
fi'om 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 demand-
ed of her.

Shrmking from me, as I spoke, — but
with a look more of sorrow than reproach.

THE EPICUREAN. 303

— " What, thou, too !" she said inoiini-
fully, — " thou, into wliose sj)irit I had
fondly lioped the same heavenly truth
hud tlescended as into my own ! Oh,
be not thou leajjued with those who
would tempt me to ' make shipwreck
of my faith !' Thou, who couklst alone
bind me to life, use not thy power :
but let me die, as He I serve hath
commanded, — die for the Truth. Re-
member 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 divhie privilege ? shall I deny the
true God, whom we then learned to love ?
" No, my own betrothed, " she con-
tinued,— 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, —

304- THE EPICUREAN.

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 inter-
cede for thy soul — I will pray that it
may yet share with mine that ' inherit-
ance, immortal and undefiled, ' which
Mercy offers, and that thou, — my dear
mother, — and I — "

She here dropped her voice ; the mo-
mentary 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
lookmg at me with a fearful eagerness, as if
anxious to hear some consoling assurance
fi'om 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

THE EPICUREAN. 305

(Ireaclful to mc, as the thoiin;lit that I
leave tliee — "

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 ; — hut the
Tribune came rushing into the chamber,
and, looking on the maiden, said, with a
face flill 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 cruel-
ty ! — 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 move-
ment 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 has-
tily fi-om her bosom the small silver cross

306 THE EPICUREAN.

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 folloisoing
Notice, extracted, as it appears, from
some Egyptian martyrology : —

" Alciphron, — an Epicurean philoso-
pher, converted to Christianity a. d. 257,
by a young Egyjotian 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

THE EPICUREAN. 307

holiness and {lenitence. During the i)er-
secution iiiuler Dioclesian, his sufferings
for the thith wore most exeni))Iary ; and,
being at length, at an advanced age, con-
demned 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 main-
tained since by Arius, his memory has not
been spared by Athanasian writers, who,
among other charges, accuse him of hav-
ing been addicted to the su})erstitions of
Egypt. For this calunniy, however, there
appears to be no better foundation than
a circumstance, recorded by one of his
brother monks, that there w^as found,
after his death, a small metal mirror, like
tliose used in the ceremonies of Isis, sus-
pended round his neck."

,

NOTES.

Page 1 7. — For the importance attiiched to dreams by
tlie ancients, see Jortin, ilemarks on Ecclesiastical His-
tory, vol. 1. p. 90.

Page 22 " The Pillar if Pillars" — more properly,

perhaps, " the column of the pillars," v. Abdullalif, Re-
lation de I'Egypte, and the notes of M. de Sacy. The
great portico round this column (formerly designated
Ponipey's, but now known to have been erected in ho-
nour of Dioclesian) was still standing, M. de Sacy says,
in the time of Saladin. v. Lord Valentia's Travels.

Page 23. — Ammianus thus speaks of the state of
Alexandria in his time, which was, I believe, as late as
the end of the fourth century : — " Nc nunc quidem in
eadcm urbe Doctrinas variac silent, non apud nos exaruit
Musica nee Harmonia conticuit." Lib. 22.

Page 25. — From the character of the features of the
Sphinx, and a passage in Herodotus, describing the
Egyptians as ufXayxpofs /cat ov\orptKfs, Volney, Bruce,
and a few others, have concluded that the ancient inha-
bitants of Egypt were negroes. But this opinion is con-
tradicted by a host of authorities. See Caslera's notes upon

310 NOTES.

Browne's Travels, for the result of Blumenbach's dissec-
tion of a variety of mummies. Denon, speaking of the
character of the heads represented in the ancient sculpture
and painting of Egypt, says, " Celle des femmes ressemble
encore a la figure des jolies femmes d'aujourd'hui :
de la rondeur, de la volupt6, le nez petit, Ics yeux longs,
peu ouverts," &c. &c. He could judge, too, he says,
from the female mummies, " que leurs cheveux ^toient
longs et lisses, que le caract^re de tete de la plupart
tenoit du beau style" — " Je raportai," he adds, " une tete
de vieille femme qui ^toit aussi belle que celles de Michel
Ange, et leur ressembloit beaucoup"

In a "Description generate de' Thebes" by Messrs.
Jollois et Desvilliers, they say, " Toutes les sculptures
Egyptiennes, depuis les plus grands colosses de Thrbes
juscju'aux plus petites idoles, ne rappellent en aucune ma-
niere les traits de la figure des negres ; outre que les tfites
des momies des catacombs de Thebes presentent des
profils droits." See also M. Jomard's " Description of
Syene and the Cataracts," Baron Larrey, on the
"conformation physique" of the Egyptians, &c.

De Pauw, the great depreciator of every thing Egyp-
tian, has, on the authority of a passage in iElian, presumed
to affix to the countrywomen of Cleopatra the stigma of
complete and unredeemed ugliness. The following line
of Euripides, however, is an answer to such charges: —

NetAou fiiv ai'Se KaKXitrapSxvoi poai.
In addition to the celebrated instances of Cleopatra,
Rhodope, &c. we are told, on the authority of Manetho
(as given by Zoega from Georgius Syncellus),of a beau-
tiful queen of Memphis, Nitocris, of the sixth dynasty,
who, in addition to other charms and perfections, was
(rather inconsistently with the negro hypothesis) iavSit)

NOTES. 3 1 1

See, for a lril)utc to the beauty of tlic Egyptian women,
Montesquieu's Temple de Guide.

Page 35. — " Among beds of lotus Jlowers. " — v. Slrabo.

Page 36. — " Isle of the golden Venus." — " On trouve
unetle oppelre Venus- Doree, ou le champ d'or, avant de
remonter jusqu'il IMemphis." Voyages de I'l/lliagorc.

Page 39. — For an account of the Table of Emerald,
V. Lettres sur I'Urigiiu: dfs Diriii d' E^i/jUf. De Pauiv
supposes it to be a modern fiction of tlie Arabs. 3Iany
writers have fancied that the art of making gold was
the great secret that lay hid under the forms of Egyptian
theology. " La science Ilcrnii'tiijue," says the Benedic-
tine, Pernetz, " Tart sacerdotal etoit la source de toutes
les ricliesses dcs Hois d'Egyptc, et I'objet de ces myst^res
si caches sous le voile du leur pretendu Religion."
Fables Egyptietmes. The hieroglyphs, that formerly co-
vered the Pyramids, are supposed by some of these writers
to relate to the same art. Si;e Mutus liber, Rupellte.

Page 40. — " By reflecting the sun's rays," says Clarke,
speaking of the Pyramids, " tliey appeared white as snow."

Page 41. — For Bubastis, the Diana of the Egyptians,
V. Jablonski, lib. 3. c. 4.

Page 43. — " The light coracle," ^-c. — v. AmttHliotu
" Ilistoire de la Navigation et du Commerce des Egyp-
tiens sous les Plolemees," Sec also, for a description of
the various kinds of boats used on the Nile, Maillet,
tom. i. i>. 98.

Page 41. — V. Maurice, .Appendix to •' Ruins of Ba-

312 NOTES.

by Ion." Another reason, he says, for their worship of
the Ibis, " founded on their love of geometry, was (ac-
cording to Plutarch) that the space between its legs,
when parted asunder, as it walks, together with its beak,
forms a complete equilateral triangle." From the exa-
mination of the embalmed birds, found in the Catacombs
of Saccara, there seems to be no doubt that the Ibis
was the same kind of bird as that described by Bruce,
under the Arabian name of Abou Hannes.

lb. — " The sistrian," cfc. — " Isis est genius," says
Servius, " -Sgypti, qui per sistri motum, quod gerit in
dextra, Nili accessus recessusque significat."

Page 48. — " The ivy encircled it," ^c. — The ivy
was consecrated to Osiris, v. Diodor. Sic. 1. 10.

lb. — " The small mirror." — " Quelques unes," says
Dupiiis, describing the processions of Isis, " portoient
des miroirs attaches a. leurs epaules, afin de multiplier et
de porter dans tous les sens les images de la D^esse."
Origine des Cultes, tom. 8. p. 847. A mirror, it appears,
was also one of the emblems in the mysteries of Bacchus.

Page 49. — There is, to the north of Memphis," S^c. —
" Tout prouve que la territoire de Sakkarah (itoit la
Necropolis au sud de Memphis, et le faubourg oppose a
celui-ci, ou sont les pyramides de Gizeh, une autre Ville
des Morts, qui terminoit Memphis au nord." Denon-

There is nothing known with certainty as to the site
of Memphis, but it will be perceived that the description
of its position given by the Epicurean corresponds, in
almost every particular, with that which M. Maillet (the
French consul, for many years, at Cairo) has left us. It
must be always borne in mind, too, that of the dis-

NOTES. 3 1 3

tances between the respective places here mentioned,
we have no longer any accurate means ofjudging.

Page 49. — " Pyramid beyond pyramid.^' — " Multas
dim pyramidas fuisse e minis arguitur." Zoega. —
Vandeb, who visited more than ten of the small pyramids,
is of opinion tliat there must have originally been a
hundred in this place.

See, for tlic lake to Uic northward of Memphis,
Sliaw's Travels, p. 302.

Page 57. — " The Tlieban beetle." — " On voit en
Egypte, apres la retraite du Nil et la fi^condation des
terres, le limon convert d' une multitude de scarab^es.
Un pareil phenomene a dii sembler aux Egyptiens le
plus propre a peindre une nouvelle existence." M.
Jomard. — Partly for the same reason, and partly for
another, still more fanciful, the early Christians used to
apply this -emblem to Christ. " Bonus ille scara-
baeus meus," says St. Augustine " non ek tantum de
causa quod unigcnitus, quod ipsemet sui auctor mor-
talium speciem induerit, sed qu6d in hac nostra faece
sese volutaverit et ex hac ipsa nasci voluerit."

lb. — " Enshrined ivilhin a case of crystal." — " Les
Egyptiens ont fait aussi, pour conserver leurs morts, des
caisses de verrc." J)c Pamv. — He mentions, in another
place, a sort of transparent substance, which the Ethio-
pians used for the same purpose, and which was fre-
quently mistaken by the Greeks for glass.

Page 58. — ** Among the emblems of death." — " Un
pretre, qui brise la tige d'une fleur, des oiseaux qui

P

314 NOTES.

s'envolent sont les emblemes de la morte et de I'ame qui
se s6pare du corps." Denon.

Theseus employs the same image in the Phaedra : —

Opvis yap ois Tis e/c x^P'^^ a<pa.vTos et
ITtjStJ/u' €s ahov niKpov opfirjcraiTa juoi.

Page 59. • — " The singular appearance of a Cross so
frequently recurring among the hieroglyphics of Egypt,
had excited the curiosity of the Christians at a very early-
period of ecclesiastical history ; and as some of the
Priests, who were acquainted with the meaning of the
hieroglyphics, became converted to Christianity the se-
cret transpired. ' The converted heathens,' says Socrates
Scholasticus, ' explained the symbol, and declared that it
signified Life to Come.' " Clarke.

Lipsius, therefore, erroneously supposes the Cross to
have been an emblem peculiar to the Christians. See, on
this subject, L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. 9. c. 16.

It is singular enough that while the Cross was held
sacred among the Egyptians, not only the custom ot
marking the forehead with the sign of the Cross, but
Baptism and the consecration of the bread in the Eu-
charist were imitated in the mysterious ceremonies of
Mithra. Tertidl. de Proscriptione Hcreticoru7n.

Zoega is of opinion that the Cross found (for the first
time, it is said) on the destruction of the temple of Serapis,
by the Christians, could have not been the crux ansata ;
as nothing is more common than this emblem on all the
Egyptian monuments.

Page 62. — " Stood shadowless." — It was an idea
entertained among tiie ancients that the Pyramids were
so constructed (" mccanicA. constructione," sa.ys Ammi-
anus Marcellinus) as never to cast any shadow.

NOTES. 315

Page 64. — " Rliodope." — From the story of Rho-
tlope, Zoeg.i thinks, " videntiir Arahcs ansain arripuissc
lit in una ex pyramiilibiis, genii loco, liabitaro dice-rent
muliereni nudam insignis pulcliritudinis quae aspcctu suo
homines insanirc facial." Dc Usu Obeliscorum. See
albO L'l^gi/ple dti MurUuli par Fattier.

Page 66. — " The Gates of Oblivion." — "Apud Mein-
phim n-ncas quasdam portas, qua; Lethes et Cocyti (hoc
est oblivionis el lamentalionis appellenlcr aperiri, gra-
ven! asperumque edentes sonuni." Zocga.

Page 69. — " J jnlc of lifeless bodies." — See, for tlje
custom of burying the dead upright (" post funus slanlia
buslo corpora," as Slalius describes it"), Dr. Clarke's pre-
face to ihe 2d seclion of his fifth volume. They used to
insert precious stones in the place of the eyes. " Les yeux
etoient form(^s dVmeraudes, de turquoises," &c. — v.
Masoudi/, (jiiolcd by Quatrcmere.

Page 72. — •' It seemed as if every echo." — See, for
the echoes in the pyramids, Plutarch, de Placilis Philo-
soph.

Page 74 " Pa/e phnnlum-like shapes." — " Ce mo-
ment heureux (de 1' Aulopsie) etoit prepare par des scenes
eflrayanles, par des alternatives de crainte et de joie, de
lumi^re et des tinrbrcs, par la lueur des eclairs, par
le bruit terrible de la foudre, qu'on imitoit, ct par des
apparitions de spectres, des illusions magiques, qui frap-
poicnt les yeux et les oreilles tout ensemble." Dupuis.

Page 77 '* Serpents of fire." — " Ces considerations

me portent k penser que, dans les mysteres, ces pheno-

P 2

316 NOTES.

menes ^toient beaucoup mieux ex^cut^es et sans com-
parison plus terribles a I'aide de quelque composition
pyrique, qui est restee cach^e, comme celle du feu
Gr^geois." De Pauw.

Page 7 8 " The burning of the reed-beds of Ethio-
pia."— " II n'y a point d'autre moyen que de porter le
feu dans ces for^ts de roseaux, qui r^pandent alors dans
tout le pais une lumiere aussi considerable que celle du
jour m6me," Maillet, tom. 1. p. 63.

Page 79. — "The sound of torrents." — The Nile,
Pliny tells us, was admitted into the Pyramid.

Page 81. — " I had almost given mi/self up." — " On
exer^oit," says Dupuis, " les recipiendaires, pendant
plusieurs jours, a traverser, k la nage, une grande ^tendue
d'eau. On les y jettoit et ce nYtoit que avec peine qu'
lis s'en retiroient. On ;ippliquoit le fer et le feu sur leurs
membres. On les faisoit passer k travers les flammes."

The aspirants were often in considerable danger, and
Pythagoras, we are told, nearly lost his life in the trials.
V. Recherches sur les Initiations, par Robin.

Page 90. — For the two cups used in the mysteries,
see L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. 9. c. 16.

lb. — " Oshis." — Osiris, under the name of Serapis,
was supposed to rule over the subterranean world ; and
performed the office of Pluto, in the mythology of the
Egyptians. " They believed, " says Dr. Pritchard, "that
Serapis presided over the region of departed souls, during
the period of their absence, when languishing %vithout
bodies, and that the dead were deposited in his palace."
Analysis of the Egyptian Mythology.

NOTES. 3 1 T

lb. — " To cool the lips of the ilead." — " Frigidam
illam aquam post mortem, tanquam Hebes poculum, ex-
pelitam." Zocga. — The Lcthc of the Egyptians was
called Ameles. See Dupuis, tom. 8. p. 651.

Page 90. — " ^ draught divine." — Diodor. Sicul.

Page 9;}. — "Grasshopper, symbol of initiation." —
Hor. Apoll. — The grasshopper was also consecrated
to the sun as being musical.

Page 94. — " Tsle of gardens." — The isle Antirrhodus
near Alexandria. Maillet.

lb. — " Vinei/ard at Anthylla." — See Athen. Deipnos.

Page 97.— " IVc can see those stars." — " On voyoit
en plcin jour par ces ouvertures les <''toiles, et meme
quelques plant^tes en Icur plus grando latitude septentrio-
nale; et les prctres avoicnt bientot profit^ de ce phf'no-
mene pour observer a diverses heures la passage des
etoiles." S^thos. — Strabo mentions certain caves or pits,
constructed for tlie puriiose of astronomical observations,
which lay in the Zelopolitan prefecture, beyond Ileliopolis.

Page 98. — " A plantain." — This tree was dedicated
to the Genii of the Shades, from its being an emblem of
repose and cooling airs. " Cui imminet musa; folium,
quod ab Iside infera geniisque oi addictis manu geri so-
litum, uml)ram requiemque et auras frigidas subindigi-
tare videtur. " Zoega.

Page 107. — " He spoke of the preexistence of the soul,"

ij-c For a full account of the doctrines which are

here represented as having been taught to the initiated

p 3

318 NOTES.

in the Egyptian mysteries, the reader may consult Du-
piiis, Pritchard's Analysis; of the Egi/ptian Mythology,
&c. &c. " L'on d^couvroit I'origine de Fame, sa chute
sur la terre, a travers les spheres et les Clemens, et son
retour au lieu de sa origine .... c'etoit ici la partie la
plus m^taphysique, et que ne pourroit guere entendre le
commun des Inities, mais dont on lui donnoit le spectacle
par des figures et des spectres allegoriques." Dupuis.

Page 108. — " Those jklds of radiance." — See Beau-
soln'e, liv. 3. c. 4. for the " terre bienheureuse et lumi-
neuse" which the Manicheans supposed God to inhabit.
Plato, too, speaks (in Phad.) of a " pure land lying in
the pure sky (rrji/ yriv Kabapav iv Ka^apw Keicf^ai ovpavai),
tlie abode of divinity, of innocence, and of life."

Page 110. — " Tracing it from the first moment of
earthward desire." — In the original construction of this
work, there was an episode introduced here, (which I
have since published in another form,) illustrating the
doctrine of the fall of the soul by the Oriental fable of the
Loves of the Angels.

Page 111. — " Restoring her lost wings." — Damascius
in his Life of Isidorus, says, " Ex antiquissiinis Philoso-
phis Pythagoram et Platonem Isidorus ut Deos coluit,
et eorum animas alatas esse dixit quas in locum supercce-
lestem inijuc campum veritatis et pratum elevatas, divinis
putavit ideis pasci." Apiid Phot. Bibliothcc.

Page 112. — ^' A pale, moonlike meteor." — Apuleius,
in describing the miraculous appearances exhibited in the
mysteries, says, " Nocte mcdi^ vidi solem canclido coru-
scantem lumine." Mctamorphos. \\h, 11.

NOTES. 319

Page 113. — " .So entirely did the illusion of the scene,"
<yr. — In tracing the early connection of spectacles
with tlie ceremonies of religion, Voltaire says, " II y a
bicn plus ; les v(-ritablcs grandes tragedies, les represent-
ations imposantes et terribles, ('toient les mysteres sacr^s,
(]u'on ci'lt'-hroit dans les plus vastes teni|)lesdu monde, en
presence des souls Initit's ; c'etoit la que les habits, les
decorations, les machines Stolen t propres au sujct ; et
Ic sujct ('■toil la vie pr<''sente et la vie future." Des
divers cliangcmcns arrivrs a Cart trcigirjuc.

To these scenic representations in the Egyptian mys-
teries, there is evidently an allusion in the vision of
Ezekiel, where the spirit shows him the abominations
which the Israelites learned in Egypt : — " Then said
he unto me, ' .Son of man, hast thou seen what the an-
cients of the house of Israel do in the dark, every man
in the chambers of his imagery.^ " Chap. 8.

Page 118. — " The seven tables of stone." — " Bernard,
Comte de la Marche Trijvisane, instruit par la lecture
des livres anciens, dit qu' Hermes trouva sept tables dans
la vallec d'Hcbron, sur Icsquelles etoient grav(''s les prin-
cipes des arts liberaux." Fables £gi/plii-nnes. See Ja-
blonski de stelis Herm.

Page 119. — " Beside the goal of Mendes." — For an
account of tlie animal worship of th« Egyptians, see He
Pauw, torn. 2.

lb. — " The Isiac serjHmts." — " On auguroit bien
des seq)ens Isi.iques, lorsqu'ils goutoient I'ofl'rande et se
trainoient lentement autour de I'autel." J)e I'auw.

Page 1 21. — " Hence the festivals and hymns"^c. — For
an account of the various festivals at the different periods

1' i

320 NOTES.

of the sun's progress, in the spring, and in the autumn,
see Dupuis and Pritchard.

lb. — " The mysteries of the night." — v. Athenag.
Leg. pro Christ, p. 133.

Page 125. — « A peal like that of thunder." — See, for
some curious remarks on the mode of imitating thunder
and lightning in the ancient mysteries, Be Pauw, torn. 1.
p. 323. The machine with which these effects were pro-
duced on the stage was called a ceraunoscope.

Page 131. — " Windings, capriciously intricate." — In
addition to the accounts which the ancients have left us
of the prodigious excavations in all parts of Egypt, — the
fifteen hundred chambers under the Labyrinth — the sub-
terranean stables of the Thebaid, containing a thousand
horses — the crypts of Upper Egypt passing under the
bed of the Nile, &c. &c. — the stories and traditions
current among the Arabs still preserve the memory of
those wonderful substructions. " Un Arabe," says Paul
Lucas, " qui ^toit avec nous, m'assura qu'^tant entr^
autrefois dans le Labyrinthe, il avoit march^ dans les
chambres souterraines jusqu'en un lieu oii il y avoit une
grande place environn^e de plusieurs niches qui ressem-
bloit a de petites boutiques, d'oil Ton entroit dans d'autres
allees et dans des chambres, sans pouvoir en trouver la
fin." In speaking, too, of the arcades along the Nile,
near Cosseir, " lis me dirent m6me que ces souterrains
etoient si profondes qu'il y en avoient qui alloient a trois
journ<'>es de la, et qu'ils conduisoient dans un pays ou
Ton voyoit de beaux jardins, qu'on y trouvoit de belles
maisons," &c. &c.

See also in M. Quatremere's Memoires sur I'Egypte,
torn. 1. p. 142., an account of a subterranean reservoir.

1

NOTES. 321

said to have been discovered at Kais, and of the expe-
dition undertaken by a party of persons, in a long narrow
boat, for the purpose of exploring it. " Leur royage
avoit (^'te de six jours, dont les quatre premiers furent
employes a pen^trer les bonis ; les deux autres li revenir
au lieu d'ou ils (-toient partis -. Pendant tout cet intervalle
ils ne i)urent atteindre rcxtn'mite du bassin. L'emir
Ala-eddin-Tamboga, gouverneur de Uehncsa, (jcrivit ces
di-tails au sultan, qui en fut extrtoeraent surpris. "

Page \ 36. — " ^ small island in the centre of Lake
Maris." — The position here given to Lake Moeris, in
making it the immediate boundary of the city of Mem-
phis to tlic south, corresponds exactly with the site as-
signed to it by 31aillet : — " Memphis avoit encore k son
midi un vaste reservoir, par oil tout ce qui peut servir
a la commodite et Jl ragn'ment de la vie lui etoit voiture
abondamment de toutes les parties de TEgypte. Ce lac
qui la terminoit de ce c6t^-lJ^" &c. &c. Tom. 2. p. 7.

lb. — " Ruins rising blackly above the wave." — " On
voit sur la rive orientate des antiquites qui sont presque
enti^rement sous les eaux." Jielzoni.

Page 1.37 " lis thundering portals," — " Quorun-

dam autem domorum (in Labyrintho) talis est situs, ut
adaperientibus foris tonitru iiitus terribilc existiit."
J'li/ii/.

Page 1,38. — " Leaves that seriv as cups." — Slrabo.
According to the French translator of Strabo, it was the
fruit of the/aba u'Egyptiaca, not tlie leaf, that was used for
this pur])osc. " !,(.■ Kt^wptuu," he- says, " devoit s'entendre
de la capsule ou fruit de cette plante, dont les Egyptiens

P 5

322 NOTES.

se servoient comme d'un vase, imaginant que I'eau du
Nil y devenoit delicieuse."

Page 142. ^ " The fish of these waters" ^c. — jElian,
lib. 6. 32.

lb. — " Pleasure boats or yachts." — Called Thala-
raages, from the pavilion on the deck. v. Strabo.

Page 144. — " Covered with beds of those pale, siveet
roses.'" — As April is the season for gathering these roses
(See Malte-brun's Economical Calendar), the Epicurean
could not, of course, mean to say that he saw them
actually in flower.

Page 146. — " The lizards upon the bank." — *' L'or
et I'azur brillent en bandes longitudinales sur leur corps
entier, et leur queue est du plus beau bleu celeste."
Sonnini.

Page 147. — " The canal through which we now sailed."
— " Un canal," says Maillet, " tr&s profond et tres large
y voituroit les eaux du Nil."

Page 150. — " For a draught of whose food," ^c. —
" Anciennement on portoit les eaux du Nil jusqu'au des
contrees fort ^loign^es, et surtout chez les princesses du
sang des PtolomiSes, marines dans des families etrang^res."
De Pauw.

Page 1 54. — " Bearing each the name of its owner," —
" Le nom du maitre y <?toit <;crit, pendant la nuit en
lettres de feu." Maillet,

NOTES. 323

Page 155. — '*Cu]ts of thai frail crt/stal "— called Alas-
sontcs. For their brittleness Martial is an authority : —

Tolle, puer, calices, tejiidiquc toreumata Nili,
Et mihi securfl pocula trade manu.

lb. — •' Bracelets tf the black beans of Abijssinia." —
Tlie bean of the Glycyne, which is so beautiful as to be
strung into necklaces and bracelcU, is generally known by
the name of tlie black bean of Abyssinia. Xicbhur.

lb. — «' Siueet lotus-wood flute." — See M. ViUoteau on
the musical instruments of the Egyptians.

Page 156. — " Shine like the brow of Mount Atlas at
night." — Solinus speaks of the snowy summit of Mount
Atlas glittering witli llames at night. In the account of
the Pcriplus of Ilanno, as well as in that of Eudoxus, we
read that as those navigators were coasting tliis part of
Africa, torrents of light were seen to fall on the sea.

Page 158 " The tears of Isis." — " Per lacrymas,

vero, Isidis iiitelligo effluvia qu.-edam Luna;, (juibus tan-
tara vim videntur tribuisse ^Egypti." Jablonski. — He is
of opinion that the superstition of tlie Nucta, or miracu-
lous drop, is of a relic of the veneration paid to the dews,
as the tears of Isis.

Page 158. — " The rustling of the acacias," S^c. —
Travels of Captain Mangles.

lb. — " Supposed to rest in the valley of the moon." —
Plutarch. Dujniis, tom. 10. Tl)e Manicheans held the
same belief. See Jieausobre, p. 565.

324? NOTES.

Page 160. — "■Solids, the fair star of the waters." —
vSpa-yoiyov is the epithet applied to this star by Plutarch,
de Idd.

lb. — " Was its birth-star." — 'H Sco^ews avaroKr}
yeveaews Karapxovaa ttjs eir rov Kocrixov. Porphyr. de
Antra Kymph.

Page 168. — ^'Golden Mountains" — v. Wilford on
Egypt and the Nile, Asiatic Researches.

lb. — " Sweet-smelling wood." — " 'A I'^poque de Sa
crue le Nil Vert charie les planches d'un bois qui a une-
odeur semblable k celle de I'encens." Quatremerc.

Page 169. — " Barges full of bees." — Maillet.

Page 1 70.—" Such a profusion of the white flowers," ^c.
— " On les voit comme jadis cueillir dans les champs des
tiges du lotus, signes du debordeinent et presages de
I'abondance ; ils s'enveloppent les bras et le corps avec les
longues tiges fleuries, et parcourent les rues," &c. D(-
scription des Tombeaux des Rois, par M. Costaz.

Page 173. — " While composing his cominentary on
the scriptures." — It was during the composition of his
great critical work, the Hexapla, that Origen employed
these female scribes.

Page 176. — " That rich tapestry," S^c.

Non ego prajtulerim Babylonica picta superbe
Texta, Semiramia qucc variantur acu.

Martial.

i

NOTES.

325

Page 200. — " The Place of Weeping." — v. WUford,
Asiatic Researches, vol. 3. p. 340.

Page 210, — " Wc had long since left this mountain be-
hind." — Tlic voyages on the Nile are, under favourable
circumstances, performed with considerable rapidity.
'< En cinq ou six jours," says Maillct, " on pourroit aise-
ment rcnionter de Temboucliure du Nil a sus cataractes,
ou descendre des cataractes jusqu'^ la mcr. " The great
uncertainty of the navigation is proved by what liehoni
tells us : — " Nous ne mimes cette fois que deux jours
et demi pour faire le trajet du Caire a Melawi, auqucl,
dans notre second voyage, nous avions employes dix-huit
jours."

Page 212. — « Those viighty statues, that Jling their
sliadoivs.'" — " Elles ont pri^s de vingt mt^trcs (61 pieds)
d't'levation ; etau lever du soleil, leurs ombres immenses
sY'tendent au loin sur la chaine Libyen." Description
generale de Thebes, par Messrs. Jollois et Desvilliers.

lb. — " Those cool alcoves." — Paul Lucas.

Page 21 9. — " Whose waters are half sweet, half bitter,"

— Paul Lucas.

Page 22-1 " The Mountain of the Birds." — There

has been much controversy among the Arabian writers,
with respect to the site of this mountain, for which see
Qualremere, torn. 1. art. Amoun.

Page 230. — " The hand of labour had succeeded," ^c.

— The monks of Mount .Sinai (Shaw says) have covered
over near four acres of the naked rocks with fruitful
gardens and orchards.

326 NOTES.

Page 233. — " The image of a head." — There was
usually, Tertullian tells us, the image of Christ on the
communion-cups.

lb. — " Kissed her forehead." — " We are rather dis-
posed to infer," says the present Bishop of Lincoln,
in his very sensible work on Tertullian, " that, at the
conclusion of all their meetings for the purpose of
devotion, the early Christians were accustomed to give
the kiss of peace, in token of the brotherly love subsisting
between them."

Page 237. — " In the middle of the seven valleys." —
See Macrizy's account of these valleys, given by Quatre-
mere, torn. 1. p. 450.

lb. — " Red lakes of Nitria." — For a striking de-
scription of this region, see " Rameses," — a work
which, though, in general, too technical and elaborate,
shows, in many passages, to what picturesque effects the
scenery and mythology of Egypt may be made subservient.

Page 238. — " In the neighbourhood of Antinoe." —
From the position assigned to Antinoe- in this work, we
should conclude that it extended much farther to the
north, than these fevf ruins of it that remain would seem
to indicate ; so as to render the distance between the city
and the Mountain of the Birds considerably less than
what it appears to be at present.

Page 243. — " When Isis, the pure star of lovers." —
V. Plutarch de Isid,

lb. — " Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun," —
" Conjunctio solis cum luna, quod est veluti utriusque
connubium." Jalilonshi.

NOTES. 327

Page 247. — " Of his walkialion is the companion." —
_M. Chateaubriand lias introduced Paul and his lion into

the " Miirli/ra" liv. 1 I.

Page 235. — " Come thus secretly before day-break." —
It was among the accusations of Celsus against the
Ciiristians, tliat they held their assemblies privately and
contrary to law ; and one of the speakers in the curious
work of Minucius Felix calls the Christians " latebrosa
et lucifugax natio."

Page 256. — " jt swallow" S(C. — " Je vis dans le
desert des hirondellcs d'un gris clair comme le sable sur
lequel elles volent." — Denon.

Page 257. — " The comet that once desolated this
world." — In alluding to Wliiston's idea of a comet hav-
ing caused the deluge, M. Girard, having remarked that
the word Typhon means a deluge, adds, " On ne pcut
entendre par le terns du regne de Typhon que celui
pendant lecjuel le dt'luge inonda la terre, tems pendant
lequel on dCit observer la comete qui I'occasionna, et
dont I'apparition fut, non seulement pour les peoples
de I'Egypte, et de I'Ethiopie, mais encore pour tons les
peuples le presage funeste de leur destruction presque
totale. " Description dc la Vallvc de VE'garemcnt.

Page 259. — " Inwhich the sjnril of my dream," cj-c. —
" Many people," said Origen, " have been brought over
to Christianity by the Spirit of God giving a sudden
turn to tlieir minds, and offering visions to them either
by day or night." On this Jorlin remarks: — " Why
should it be thought improbable that Pagans of good dis-
positions, but not free from prejudices, should have been

328 NOTES.

called by divine admonitions, by dreams or visions, ■which
might be a support to Christianity in those days of dis-
tress."

Page 263. — " One of those earthen cups. " — Palladius,
who lived some time in Egypt, describes the monk
Ptolemseus, who inhabited the desert of Scete, as col-
lecting in earthen cups the abundant dew from the
rocks Bibliothec. Pat. torn. 13.

Page 264. — "It was to preserve, he said," ^c. — The
brief sketch here given of the Jewish dispensation agrees
very much with the view taken of it by Dr. Sumner, the
present Bishop of Llandaff, in the first chapters of his elo-
quent and luminous work, the " Records of the Creation."

Page 266. — " Li vain did I seek the promise of immor-
tality.''— " It is impossible to deny," says the Bishop of
Llandaff, "that the sanctions of the Mosaic Law are

altogether temporal It is, indeed, one of the facts

that can only be explained by acknowledging that he
really acted under a divine commission, promulgating a
temporary law for a peculiar purpose," — a much more
candid and sensible way of treating this very difficult
point, than by either endeavouring, like Warburton, to
escape from it into a paradox, or still worse, contriving,
like Dr. Graves, to increase its difficulty by explanation,
v. "On the Pentateuch." See also Home's Introduc-
tion, ^c. vol. 1. p. 226.

Page 268. — " All are of the dust," ^c. — While
Voltaire, Volney, &c. refer to the Ecclesiastes, as abound-
ing with tenets of materialism and Epicurism, Mr. Des
Voeux and others find in it strong proofs of belief in a
future state. The chief difficulty lies in the chapter from

NOTES. 329

which this text is quotod ; and the mode of construction by
which some writers attempt to get rid of it, — namely, by
putting tliese texts into the mouth of a foolish reasoncr, —
appears forced and gratuitous, v. Dr. Halcs's Analysis.

Page 270. — " The noblest and Jirst-crcaled" ^c. —
This opinion of the Hermit may be supposed to have
been derived from his master, Origen ; but it is not easy
to ascertain tlie exact doctrine of Origen on tliis subject.
la the Treatise on Prayer attributed to him, he asserts
that God the Father alone should be invoked, — which,
says Baylc, is " encherir sur les Heresies des Soci-
niens." Notwithstanding this, however, and some other
indications of, wliat was afterwards called, Arianism,
(such as tlie opinion of the divinity being received by
communication, which Milner asserts to have been held
by this Father,) Origen was one of the authorities
quoted by Athanasius in support of his high doctrines
of co-eternity and co-essentiality. What Priestley says
is, perhaps, the best solution of these inconsistencies ;
— " Origen, as well as Clemens Alexandrinus, has
been Uiought to favour the Arian principle ; but lie
did it only in words and not in ideas." Early Opi-
nions, tjc. Whatever uncertainty, however, there may
exist with respect to the opinion of Origen himself
on this subject, there is no doubt that the doctrines of
Ills immediate followers were, at least, Anti-Athanasian.
" So many IJishops of Africa," says Priestley, " were, at
this period (between tlie years 255 and 258), Unitarians,
that Athanasius says, * The Son of God,' — meaning his
divinity, — ' was scarcely any longer preaclied in the
churches.' "

Page 271. — " The restoration of the wlwlc human
race to purity and happiness." — This benevolent doc-

330 NOTES.

trine, — which not only goes far to solve the great problem
of moral and physical evil, but which would, if received
more generally, tend to soften the spirit of uncharitable-
ness, so fatally prevalent among Christian sects, — was
maintained by that great light of the early Church, Origen,
and has not wanted supporters among more modern
Theologians. That Tillotson was inclined to the opinion
appears from his sermon preached before the queen.
Paley is supposed to have held the same amiable doc-
trine ; and Newton (the author of the work on the
Prophecies] is also among the supporters of it. For a
full account of the arguments in favour of this opinion,
derived both from reason and the express language of
Scripture, see Dr. Southwood Smith's very interesting
work, " On the Divine Government." See also Magee
on the Atonementf where the doctrine of the advocates of
Universal Restoration is thus briefly and fairly explained:
— " Beginning with the existence of an infinitely pow-
erful, wise, and good Being, as the first and fundamental
principle of rational religion, they pronounce the essence
of this Being to be love, and from this infer, as a demon-
strable consequence, that none of the creatures formed by

such a Being will ever be made eternally misei-able

Since God (they say) would act unjustly in inflicting
eternal misery for temporary crimes, the sufTerings of the
wicked can be but remedial, and will terminate in a com-
plete purification from moral disorder, and in their ul-
timate restoration to virtue and happiness."

Page 273. — " Fruit of the desert shrub." — v. Hamil-
ton s JEgyptiaca.

Page 278. — " The while garment she wore, and the
ring of gold on her Jinger." — See, for the custom among
the early Christians of wearing white for a few days after

NOTES. 331

tiaptism, Amhros. de Myst. — With respect to the ring,
tlie Hishop of Lincuhi says, in liis work on 'iVrtuUian,
" The natural inference from these words (Terlull. dc
Pudicitiii) appears to be that a ring used to be given in
l)aptism ; but I have found no other trace of sudi a
custom."

Page 280. — " PtUh's of jasper r — v. Clarke

lb. — " Stunted marigold," S^c. — " Les Mesembryan-
tltcmum nodlfloruni et Zt/gophi/lliim cnccineutn, plantes
grasses des deserts, rejetees a cause de leur acrete par les
chameaux, les chevres, et les gazelles." M. Delile upon
the plants of Egi/pt.

Page 28 1 . — " Antinoe."— v. Savary and Qualremere.

Page 286. — " / have observed in my walks.'" — " Je
remarquai avec une reflexion triste, (ju'un animal de
proie accompagne presque toujours les pas de ce joli et
fr^le individu."

Page 272. — " Glistened over its silver letters. " — Tlie
Codex Coftonianus of the New Testament is written in
silver letters on a jjurpie ground. The Codex Cottonia-
nus of the Septuagint version of the Old Testament is
supjjosed to be the identical co[)y that belonged to
Origen.

Page 289. — " Some denier of Christ." — Those
Christians who sacrificed to idols to save themselves were
called by various names, Thurijicali, Sacrificuti, Mitten-
tes, Negalores, &c. Baronius mentions a bishop of this
period (253), Marcellinus, who, yielding to the threats

332 NOTES.

of the Gentiles, threw incense upon the altar, v. Amob.
contra Gent. lib. 7.

Page 297. — " The clear voice with which," ^c. — The
merit of the confession " Christianus sum," or " Chris-
tiana sum," was considerably enhanced by the clearness
and distinctness with which it was pronounced. Euse-
bi^is mentions the martyr Vetius as making it \afnrpoTaT7}
(paivT}.

Page 304. — " The band round the young Christian's
brow." — We find poisonous crowns mentioned by Pliny,
under the designation of " coronse ferales." Paschalius,
too, gives the following account of these " deadly gar-
lands," as he calls them : — " Sed mirum est tam salutare
inventum humanam nequitiam reperisse, quomodo ad
nefarios usus traducent. Nempe, reperts sunt nefandse
coron» harum, quas dixi, tam salubrium per nomen qui-
dem et speciem imitatrices, at re et effectu ferales, atque
adeo capitis, cui imponuntur, interfectrices. " De Coronis.

THE END.

London ;
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