THE SYRIAN LETTERS.

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

Damascus.

Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

I hope you will not deem me tedious, my friend, if I endeavor to describe to you the manner in which Lactantius maintained the truth of that faith of which he is one of the most illustrious advocates. But you should have heard him, to have felt yourself in the presence of one of the greatest of men. As the day was mild, Septimus ordered the couches to be disposed along the level roof, as affording much the most delightful place to hold a conversation, for so harmless is the air of this climate, that you may even take your midnight repose under the open sky; and this they inform us is the reason why this land is so noted for those who are skilled in the map of the heavens. This, you may truly say, should be no matter of surprise, for it may be held impossible that one the least inclined to meditation should behold, night after night, without being fired with the spirit of investigation, that overspreading canopy unbounded and far reaching as eternity, but bright with wheeling stars, that rise at their own fixed moment, and set behind some well-known peak, and thus, year after year, traverse the same unvarying and harmonious circle, without collision with their sister orbs—glorious and imperishable.

The sun, last sinking toward Cyprus, robbed of his exhausting heats, was mildly burning above Lebanon. The city lay on every side. In one direction rose the pillar of Antonine; in another the amphitheatre; and you might, with steady observation, see the wild beasts pacing to and fro, with impatient step, their well-barred cages, kept now more for curiosity than sport. In another quarter the accustomed grove relieved the wilderness of marble, like a clump of palms which often starts out so refreshingly against the whitened sands.

But, what was most beautiful to behold from this elevated site, was the far receding valley in which this city is built, sheltered on either hand by an eternal battlement of rocks, cultivated to the utmost stretch of industry, clothed with its fruitful vines, and glistening with its hundred gardens, temples and villas, wherever you might look. Through its centre ran the mazy Leontes, shining from among its tufted banks, and catching ever and anon the parting glories of the sun while on its bosom, or suddenly emerging from some green shade, the eye detected, by the sparkling of the oar, the gaily colored galley, freighted with many a light heart. Thus raised above the bustle of the crowded thoroughfares, and soothed by the Cyprian breeze, we felt the inspiring influence of all we saw.

Lactantius was the first to speak.

“I hesitate not to avow,” said he, “that I feel a deep solicitude in behalf of my friend Mobilius. Would that I had the power to expound to him the unsatisfactory reliance of his faith, the feebleness of its supports, and the terms of its delusions. As the shivering reed trembles on the first assault of the rude wind, so does this perishable belief upon the first advance of swift-footed adversity; forsaking you when you most require the aid of ready guidance and bright-eyed consolation.

“Brought from Egypt by the crafty priest, that land of science, but of superstition, he planted it in a soil where he was certain it would thrive, and to make success more sure he mingled with it the gaudy ceremonies of Chaldea. Strange that so noxious a plant should flourish as well as in its native soil, and so near the walls of Bethlehem.

“They burn an offering of perpetual fires to the king of day—what a sorry imitation of his light when but a struggling ray shall quench it! They behold his blinding brightness, they feel his piercing heats, they see nature bloom beneath his smiles, and they forget he sprang from something. They look not beyond. Will the sun rescue us from affliction, and heal us in the hour of sickness? How,” he exclaimed, warming as he spoke, and felt the influence of rapt attention—“How shall glittering rites propitiate that which can neither feel nor see, which was created to rule the day, divide the light from darkness, and mark the rolling seasons, but has no power to save, to heal or vanquish? The throbbing pulse, the glistening eye, the kindly sympathy we feel in another’s anguish speaks to us of a soul, declares to us we sprang from some sublime and all wise original. Behold,” said he, rising from his couch with a commanding attitude, “yon temple, the boast of Syria, what symmetry, what grandeur!—as wise would it be to say it sprang from nothing, as that sun, which from time almost incalculable, has risen in the east and set beneath those mountains. It must have been the instrument of an all wise purpose. Then why not adore the source through whose command it blazed into existence?

“How is it, Mobilius, that the faithful follower in our faith, worn out by agonising pain, or hastening, hour after hour, toward certain dissolution, every thing, the bright skies, the anxious faces of those that gather round him, exposing to his fading eye—how is it he is yet more cheerful as his shattered frame sinks into increasing weakness—so that neither the stake, with its tortures, the amphitheatre, with its jeers and cruel glances, nor the silent chamber, where the last enemy of the good man approaches with slower step, and where he does not find the support or triumph of a martyrdom, shall shake his confidence?”

Here Mobilius seemed oppressed with affliction.

“What is it, my good friend,” said Lactantius, “that grieves you?”

“I will tell you: your words shoot anguish through my soul, but it is for memories that are past. My sister, she on whom I lavished every thought, and all that I possessed, was snatched from me in the midst of mutual happiness. She lingered, and was buoyed up by some sweet and hidden consolation she appeared anxious to impart, but the flickering flame of life burnt too feebly in the lamp. It was, it must have been this; would I had known it, that I might have whispered into her ear I knew it. Her last look was cast upon the blue depths of heaven, as if in earnest contemplation of some glorious spectacle, and she died with a sweet smile upon her features, as if listening to sweet music. ‘Mobilius,’ she said, pointing upward, ‘Mobilius, my dear brother, behold the—’ but the trembling syllables died into a whisper—she had fled! There were to me sweet smiles no longer to cheer the vigor of my desolation—I was alone in the world.”

“Console yourself,” replied Lactantius, “this was an evidence your sister died in peace. Trouble not yourself on this account, you may meet her again.”

At this communication his countenance, dull and heavy with grief, brightened as the sun through showers. You have seen a piece of marble carved into a coarse resemblance of the face. You have come again. The chisel of a master spirit has been busy in its god-like lineaments. It almost speaks; the dull, cold marble almost warms into a smile—such was the change. Mobilius, gathering his mantle about him, abruptly left us, nor did I see him again throughout that day.

The stars began to glimmer as the sunlight waned, and we felt in all its bounteous fulness the care-dispelling influence of this clime. The conversation was prolonged, and I found that Lactantius was as well skilled in the policy of existing governments, as in the peculiarities of all the prevailing theologies, in short, as competent for the duties of a statesman as a bishop; and it grieves me not a little that so many should be raised to this eminent station in the church so far inferior to Lactantius, while he, blessed with every natural gift, endowed with the quickest of intellects—enriched with all the learning—polished, fiery and overwhelming in speech, or if it please him, mild and winning as the softest Lydian measure, the Christian and the philosopher, should be thrust aside. This age will be signalised upon the page of the historian, as much because it gave birth to a Constantine as that on it there flourished a Lactantius.

We now descended, and the evening passed in the enjoyments of those rational pleasures which are always sought with an increasing relish.

To turn to another topic, shall I propose a subject for thy solution? What is that which may be likened to the gleam that struggles through the dark and overhanging mists, driving away in its scattering brightness the gloom of the weeping clouds? Yes, and I have known it prove stronger than the precepts of philosophy, or the examples of heroic ardor, kindling dying courage, inspiring god-like resolution, and confessing a manly port and look which seemed to herald victory ere it was achieved. More enlivening than the wine of Chios, let it but beam upon you, and the mist of bewilderment flies, and in its place you find that joy the poets so sweetly picture. What is it, you say, has induced Servilius to wander from the thread of his narrative? Of a certainty you cannot hesitate a moment—a woman’s smile! You whisper the boy Cupid, and that no other than one assailed by his dart, could invest with such rosy hues that which one sees and feels every hour of the day.

But let me pause. I am writing to a philosopher, and one who may chide me when he remembers the discussions we have had upon this matter, and in which I took the sterner part. But I recant, I renounce my errors. You have influence, Cornelius, at Athens. Place the good of all that is left to us below upon a loftier pedestal. Woman should be looked up to with admiration, and not down upon with contempt. What, as yourself must admit, so softens the rigors of existence as the winning influence of woman, and why should they be treated as so insignificant a portion of the state? Be persuaded that that nation, which by its laws most elevates the character of woman, which pays the most profound obeisance to their gentle virtues, is nearest the standard of true happiness, and surest in the certainty of its duration.

These were my reflections, when who other should approach, as wearied and heated from exposure to the sun, I had thrown myself upon a couch beside a fountain in the hall of Septimus, both unperceiving and unperceived until too late to retreat, than Placidia and Lucretia. They seemed to hesitate and blush, but instantly arising, I invited them to stay.

“You came, I know, to seek the coolness of this airy hall, and you must permit me to retire.”

“No!” they exclaimed, “that we must not do.”

“You look wearied,” Lucretia added.

“Yes, I have been pacing the crowded streets of this proud city in search of amusement and instruction.”

“How is it?” she asked, “that you youth of Rome who travel, take such pleasure in beholding a pile of marble variously disposed. Having seen one handsome temple, I am sure all the rest are like it, though perchance they may be somewhat larger or smaller, or have an additional column or so. Is it a taste which is natural or does it come of cultivation?” and thus she dashed on in the same gay strain, as if undetermined whether to speak with lightness or with seriousness. Placidia now began a skilful attack upon my adversary, nor could the best disciple of the schools have made a more effectual sally.

“It was but yesterday, Lucretia, I heard you discourse so prettily about the great buildings in the city, with choice of language, and glow of thought that any poet might have envied. There were the flowery capitals—the happy arrangement—the beautiful designs—the—but I cannot remember the learned phrases which you used. I have it—you spoke but to draw our friend into an argument, in order that he might show wherein you are in error.”

Lucretia stood silent, half-smiling, half-angry, as if to say, tarry until a more fitting opportunity—wait until we are alone my sweet Placidia, and I will amply revenge myself for these unreserved communications.

“I must acknowledge, Placidia,” I replied, “the kindness of your interposition. But the inquiry of Lucretia has been fully answered by the unfortunate Longinus, a copy of whose immortal works I have now in my possessions, and it would be a source of pleasure to study them with you.”

“We embrace the proposition with delight,” she answered, but then, as if fearing she had been too eager, she replied, “but Mobilius must be of the number.”

“Placidia,” said Lucretia, “do you know then that Septimus and all his friends are alarmed at the absence of Mobilius: he has not been seen since he left us last night?” This was uttered in a tone which led me to believe her previous gaiety was but assumed.

“Is it possible?” replied Placidia with emotion.

“I must go and assist my friends in their search,” I replied.

“But you are not acquainted with the streets of Heliopolis, and what service could you render?”—

“Friendship, Placidia—” but she interrupted me as if in anticipation of what I was about to say.

“Go—hasten,” at the same time whispering in my ear as she turned, and deeply blushing, “let me see you on your return—I have something to confide to you which hangs heavily upon my spirits.”

“I see how it is,” and the fire of jealousy shot through my veins, “she loves Mobilius;” but such ungenerous thoughts were soon driven from my mind, when I remembered the uncertainty of the fate of my friend. At this moment I heard the name of Septimus cried aloud.

“Where is Septimus?” exclaimed one of the slaves as he rushed into the hall; “a lion has escaped from the amphitheatre—” he said, and trembled with fear.

“And has been chasing you, or you are frightened,” I replied. “Why hesitate? the door is closed.” He looked up, as if imploring my patience.

“Worse, worse,—Mobilius was found on the road that leads to the temple of Venus, upon Lebanon, mangled,—” here he was completely overpowered. Indeed, it was dreadful news, and I asked the man no further questions. Placidia sank senseless upon a couch, while Lucretia, greatly affected, endeavored to support her tottering frame. As soon as she was partially restored, I departed, and meeting Lactantius, who had been more active in his enquiries, he cheered me by a most agreeable piece of news, as compared with the hopeless story I had heard. It was only the mantle of Mobilius that had been found, and there was no blood upon it. I hastened to relieve the anxieties of my friends, and was ushered into the presence of Placidia, by her maid, who stood waiting for me under the portico.

I hastily told her what I had heard. After expressing her joy, she broke to me her story. “Servilius, my friend, for you must permit me to call you such, from your many acts of kindness I shall never be able to repay—”

“You cannot repay,” I whispered to myself, “oh! cruel Placidia.”

“There is something, which greatly troubles me, and some hidden prompter seems to tell me that by unburdening to you the cause of my sorrow, I shall find the speediest relief.”

My heart now beat high with expectation, “dare I hope?” I said to myself.

“It cannot be a dream,” she said, with her eyes fixed, and half-musing, as if for the moment unconscious of my presence. “It cannot be a dream—but I no sooner beheld the face of Mobilius, than the recollection of youth rushed upon my memory, and I thought of my brother and my sister, who have long slept with the perished. They were wrecked upon the coast of Africa, and none escaped to bear to mourning friends the brief story of their fate, but one, who, floating on a fragment of the vessel, was taken up as he was on the point of relinquishing his hold, from utter weakness, by a Syrian galley. Messengers were despatched, and my uncle himself undertook the risk and toil of a journey on our behalf. But all was in vain.”

“There is still an expectation to be cherished,” I said.

“Do you give hope?” said she, faintly smiling through her tears, “affection once clung to the feeblest support, but it has long since despaired.”

“It shall not despair,” I answered, with an energy that startled, her, hurrying out of the apartment.

I soon recollected myself.

“What have I done?” I thought, “years have rolled by, nor could I flatter myself with the hope of success even if I wandered over all the territory of Rome, and ventured to the unknown land of the barbarian.”

I now remembered that I had heard Apicius speak of some wealthy merchant residing in Berytus, who owned many galleys in communicating with the coast of Africa, but he had gone to his villa, and I was obliged to postpone my investigation.

Returning to the hall, I met Septimus, who told me the last that had been heard of Mobilius was from a Syrian merchant, who knew and accosted him hastening toward the road leading to the mountains, but with his eye riveted upon the path. He advanced with rapid strides. I then told Septimus the news his slave had brought.

“Alas! there is no longer a doubt, Servilius,” he replied, “since this is the same road on which the temple stands.”

We parted in grief, and Septimus in despair.

When first I met Mobilius there was a levity in his manner which did not please me, but since his conversations with Lactantius a noted change had been wrought in him, and the hidden virtues of his character shone unclouded.

We did not meet until we mingled at the evening tables; but no joy was there, and the silence was only broken by a loud cry from the slaves, as if something unusual had taken place. Septimus arose to ascertain the cause, when he was suddenly confronted by Mobilius, with dishevelled hair and robes. A shriek of surprise and joy burst from every tongue.

“We greet you, my dear Mobilius,” said Sergius, as he pressed his hand with parental fondness.

Mobilius cast upon him a look of wonder, blended with bewilderment, as if in the sudden but vain effort to recall some long effaced recollection, or it might have been from gratitude at the interest of a stranger in a stranger’s fate. All with one accord begged him to tell the cause of his absence.

“I knew you would feel solicitude,” he said, “and as you perceive by the dust upon my robe, I have hastened to relieve your anxieties. The conversation of last night, and the light that suddenly broke upon my soul, for the while robbed me of my senses. I hurried from you, nor did I stop until I left the city many a pace behind me. Midnight gathered on. I began to recollect myself and sought shelter at the temple which lay in my way. I struck its gate with redoubling blows. I cried aloud, but none answered. Verily you might perish before these cruel priests would give you protection. A lofty tree presented the only refuge. Awakened by the morning sun, and descending, I retraced my steps with as much anxiety to reach Heliopolis as I had felt to leave it. I had not gone far, however, when to my horror I encountered that terrible lion of the amphitheatre. Subterfuge and presence of mind afforded the only chance of safety. Escape was impossible, and weapon I had none. He fixed his fiery eye upon me, lashed his tail, as if sure of his prey, and crouched to spring. Now was the only hope. Hastily unloosening my light robe, I suddenly raised it upon a slender stick, torn from a neighboring bush, and quickly stepped aside. The deceit was successful, the furious animal sprang at it, dragged it on the ground, and tore it into atoms. Rushing toward a tree, while I left him at the garment, I mounted among its branches as with wings. I do assure you I never climbed with more alacrity. The noble animal, discovering his mistake, scowled with sullen fierceness toward my place of shelter, and seemingly satisfied with the vengeance he had taken, strode onward.”

“A most fortunate escape,” ejaculated Valerius; “you must present your gifts to-morrow at the temple.” A tear twinkled in the eye of Lactantius, and I fancied I saw his lips move as in the act of prayer.

“Yes, Valerius, and it is not the first escape with which a guardian Providence has blessed me. Shipwreck and slavery I also have escaped.”

“Shipwreck,” enquired Sergius, with anxiety, “will you tell us the sad story? I had a son who was shipwrecked,” and the old man trembled in the effort to subdue his grief.

“I will. I left Rome on a voyage to Athens; we were driven by stress of weather into a port of Sicily. The storm abating, we pursued our course along the coast of Africa, being obliged to touch at Alexandria, but we were wrecked before we reached our haven, and nearly all the crew were swallowed by the waves.”

“Pardon me for asking,” said Marcus, “but did you not write to Rome, after you secured your liberty, to discover whether your kindred were still living?”

“I wrote many epistles, and to my uncle also, who told me they were all carried off by a terrible pestilence, which visited the city, and that my patrimony had been previously confiscated to the state, because of some act of my parent, and that if I ventured to Rome the rage of my father’s enemies would doubtless be turned against me. I had no wish, however, to undertake the voyage, since those most cherished were no more.”

“And what was the name of your father?” asked Lactantius.

“Lucius Sergius.”

The venerable man paused for a moment in mute bewilderment, and then rushed into the arms of Mobilius, exclaiming, “Caius, my son, my long lost son!”

“My sisters,” he cried, as they ran to embrace their beloved brother, and wept with joy. It was a touching scene, and the ecstacy of gladness brightened every face. Here let me drop the veil with the promise of ending the description of the trials and fortunes of my friend in my next epistle.

Farewell.