THE SYRIAN LETTERS.

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WRITTEN PROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.

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Damascus.

Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

Your reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing, because so unexpected.

The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation to the sagacity and enterprise of Constantine. For who, until our emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of such rapidity of communication?

In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I was so fortunate as to witness some of the hidden mysteries.

You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius, as to have induced him to conduct me to one of the most secret recesses of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness. I have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but conjecture. Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to introduce me. If such was his anticipation, how signally in error! how vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can be mistaken for the solid pathway.

The sun had long gone down beneath the dizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the temple of the sun. Hurried along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were stopped by the porter, but recognising Mobilius, he permitted us to pass, without farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I could not clearly distinguish what he spoke, I heard him mutter angrily in the Syrian tongue.

We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther, entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily, however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the temple, through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the ornaments of the entablature. All was still.

“Earlier than I expected,” whispered Mobilius, “the ceremonies have not yet begun.”

This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the edifice.

The temple was the loftiest of all those that surrounded it, and which had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its mouldings, pannels, and compartments. In the centre was a sun, carved in the full glory of his rays: marshalled at equal distances, surrounded by its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the “Syrian Goddess,” and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not err, I could discern, constellated like the rest, the heads of Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors.

The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof, and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order as those which sustain the architrave.

Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a gorgeous altar, composed in part of precious metals, and of rare and various marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a reddened glow upon the walls and pillars, and a representation of the sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burning light, whether real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling the undulating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast upon the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the brief acquaintance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship, since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there was, unquestionably, a connection between Mobilius and some of the priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray those who had reposed such confidence, and would not his fears prevent, if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest outpourings.

“What means this?” I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought me to instant silence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed with the sounds.

The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the costliest dyes, and walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull—some ears of corn, others silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its fires, which threw into still brighter effulgence, the dazzling ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great sacrifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate observance of the usual ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to recount them, if I even could.

After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the same entrancing harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling round the altar, sent up a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of lightning, three bright fires sprang from the different portions of the altar-top, so brilliant, as that for many seconds, I was not able to discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us by the hand, said, “we must depart,” and led us by a different route from that through which we entered. At one place, in suddenly opening the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of light, illuminating a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a subterraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly unobserved, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. No sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battlement, or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on the ear, then was lost forever.

The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery flood of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady contemplation, appeared to stir from the place of their foundation, such is the power of fancy.

I turned; my companions were gone. They had passed on unheeded, and I wandered as I best could toward the mansion of Septimus.

The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the gay, the beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy wayfarer, were now as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone still undimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving, reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage, the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered, cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams.

This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished shield shone like another moon.

Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some gay Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet.

“Can you tell me,” I enquired, “in what direction lies the house of Septimus?”

“Oh! readily,” he answered, “I will go with you, for it stands nearly in my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking him for his kindness, we proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining companion.

“Pray,” said I, “what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now silvered by the moon?”

“That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last design,” and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued, “behold the proportions.”

I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect, enthusiastic in his profession, and not being able to understand his learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation.

“In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our countrymen can award? Man toils much ere he reaps, so that if the harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief space.”

“You do not draw your conclusion,” said he, “after the manner of the model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the inconsistency.”

Although not convinced, I was compelled, forsaking my former conjecture, to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of Heliopolis, so ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not be of so severe a school as some sternly avow.

Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness. Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of my conjecture—for philosophers, especially those of the present day, are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising themselves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the sick man by the hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon this abstracting a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes, he administered a portion, and its good effects were wonderful. All conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that my new friend was a disciple of Hippocrates.

How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward informed me he was a member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “Ah!” said the latter, “we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would prove of no avail in such a city as this.”

“Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “I was anxious on your account. How came you to leave us?”

“I did not leave you—it was you who left me—doubtless in the heat of controversy upon the Chaldean mysteries.”

“I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “but how came you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec, especially by moonlight?”

“Through the kindness,” I replied, “of Apicius.”

“You are fortunate,” ejaculated Mobilius, “and should deposite your offering to-morrow in the temple of fortune, as is the custom here. He is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his palace, you are still more fortunate.”

“And so he did,” I rejoined.

It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan.

“As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “we will seek our couches, and to-morrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “we may examine the Egyptian mysteries.”

But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a tedious length. I bid you an affectionate

Farewell.

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