life, I beheld adjudged to the agonized and parching death! Far in the
mighty crowd I saw the light rest and glimmer over the cross; I heard
the hooting mob, I cried aloud, I raved, I threatened--none heeded me--I
was lost in the whirl and the roar of thousands! But even then, in my
agony and His own, methought the glazing eye of the Son of Man sought me
out--His lip smiled, as when it conquered death--it hushed me, and I
became calm. He who had defied the grave for another--what was the
grave to him? The sun shone aslant the pale and powerful features, and
then died away! Darkness fell over the earth; how long it endured, I
know not. A loud cry came through the gloom--a sharp and bitter
cry!--and all was silent.
'But who shall tell the terrors of the night?' I walked along the
city--the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses trembled to their
base--theliving had deserted the streets, but not the Dead: through the
gloom I saw them glide--the dim and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of
the grave--with horror, and woe, and warning on their unmoving lips and
lightless eyes!--they swept by me, as I passed--they glared upon me--I
had been their brother; and they bowed their heads in recognition; they
had risen to tell the living that the dead can rise!'
Again the old man paused, and, when he resumed, it was in a calmer tone.
'From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that of serving HIM.
A preacher and a pilgrim, I have traversed the remotest corners of the
earth, proclaiming His Divinity, and bringing new converts to His fold.
I come as the wind, and as the wind depart; sowing, as the wind sows,
the seeds that enrich the world.
'Son, on earth we shall meet no more. Forget not this hour,--what are
the pleasures and the pomps of life? As the lamp shines, so life
glitters for an hour; but the soul's light is the star that burns for
ever, in the heart of inimitable space.'
It was then that their conversation fell upon the general and sublime
doctrines of immortality; it soothed and elevated the young mind of the
convert, which yet clung to many of the damps and shadows of that cell
of faith which he had so lately left--it was the air of heaven breathing
on the prisoner released at last. There was a strong and marked
distinction between the Christianity of the old man and that of
Olinthus; that of the first was more soft, more gentle, more divine.
The heroism of Olinthus had something in it fierce and intolerant--it
was necessary to the part he was destined to play--it had in it more of
the courage of the martyr than the charity of the saint. It aroused, it
excited, it nerved, rather than subdued and softened. But the whole
heart of that divine old man was bathed in love; the smile of the Deity
had burned away from it the leaven of earthlier and coarser passions,
and left to the energy of the hero all the meekness of the child.
'And now,' said he, rising at length, as the sun's last ray died in the
west; 'now, in the cool of twilight, I pursue my way towards the
Imperial Rome. There yet dwell some holy men, who like me have beheld
the face of Christ; and them would I see before I die.'
'But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the way is long,
and the robber haunts it; rest thee till to-morrow.'
'Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the robber? And the
Night and the Solitude!--these make the ladder round which angels
cluster, and beneath which my spirit can dream of God. Oh! none can
know what the pilgrim feels as he walks on his holy course; nursing no
fear, and dreading no danger--for God is with him! He hears the winds
murmur glad tidings; the woods sleep in the shadow of Almighty
wings--the stars are the Scriptures of Heaven, the tokens of love, and
the witnesses of immortality. Night is the Pilgrim's day.' With these
words the old man pressed Apaecides to his breast, and taking up his
staff and scrip, the dog bounded cheerily before him, and with slow
steps and downcast eyes he went his way.
The convert stood watching his bended form, till the trees shut the last
glimpse from his view; and then, as the stars broke forth, he woke from
the musings with a start, reminded of his appointment with Olinthus.
Chapter V
THE PHILTRE. ITS EFFECT.
WHEN Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia seated under the
portico of his garden. In fact, she had sought his house in the mere
chance that he might return at an early hour: anxious, fearful,
anticipative, she resolved upon seizing the earliest opportunity of
availing herself of the love-charm, while at the same time she half
hoped the opportunity might be deferred.
It was then, in that fearful burning mood, her heart beating, her cheek
flushing, that Nydia awaited the possibility of Glaucus's return before
the night. He crossed the portico just as the first stars began to
rise, and the heaven above had assumed its most purple robe.
'Ho, my child, wait you for me?'
'Nay, I have been tending the flowers, and did but linger a little while
to rest myself.'
'It has been warm,' said Glaucus, placing himself also on one of the
seats beneath the colonnade.
'Very.'
'Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I have drunk heats me, and I long for
some cooling drink.'
Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nydia
awaited presented itself; of himself, at his own free choice, he
afforded to her that occasion. She breathed quick--'I will prepare for
you myself,' said she, 'the summer draught that Ione loves--of honey and
weak wine cooled in snow.'
'Thanks,' said the unconscious Glaucus. 'If Ione love it, enough; it
would be grateful were it poison.'
Nydia frowned, and then smiled; she withdrew for a few moments, and
returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her
hand. What would not Nydia have given then for one hour's prerogative
of sight, to have watched her hopes ripening to effect--to have seen the
first dawn of the imagined love--to have worshipped with more than
Persian adoration the rising of that sun which her credulous soul
believed was to break upon her dreary night! Far different, as she
stood then and there, were the thoughts, the emotions of the blind girl,
from those of the vain Pompeian under a similar suspense. In the last,
what poor and frivolous passions had made up the daring whole! What
petty pique, what small revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph,
had swelled the attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the name
of love! but in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure,
uncontrolled, unmodified passion--erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but
debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling. Filled with love as
with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of winning love in
return!
She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, before so
flushed, was now white as snow, and with her delicate hands clasped
convulsively together, her lips apart, her eyes on the ground, she
waited the next words Glaucus should utter.
Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already drained about a
fourth of its contents, when his eye suddenly glancing upon the face of
Nydia, he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and
painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still
holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed:
'Why, Nydia! Nydia! I say, art thou ill or in pain? Nay, thy face
speaks for thee. What ails my poor child?' As he spoke, he put down
the cup and rose from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot
coldly to his heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy
sensation at the brain. The floor seemed to glide from under him--his
feet seemed to move on air--a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon
his spirit--he felt too buoyant for the earth--he longed for wings, nay,
it seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence, as if he possessed them.
He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh. He clapped his
hands--he bounded aloft--he was as a Pythoness inspired; suddenly as it
came this preternatural transport passed, though only partially, away.
He now felt his blood rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins; it
seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a stream that has burst its
bounds, and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in his ear with a mighty
sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins in the temples
stretch and swell as if they could no longer contain the violent and
increasing tide--then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes--darkness,
but not entire; for through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls glow
out, and the figures painted thereon seemed, ghost-like, to creep and
glide. What was most strange, he did not feel himself ill--he did not
sink or quail beneath the dread frenzy that was gathering over him. The
novelty of the feelings seemed bright and vivid--he felt as if a younger
health had been infused into his frame. He was gliding on to
madness--and he knew it not!
Nydia had not answered his first question--she had not been able to
reply--his wild and fearful laugh had roused her from her passionate
suspense: she could not see his fierce gesture--she could not mark his
reeling and unsteady step as he paced unconsciously to and fro; but she
heard the words, broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips.
She became terrified and appalled--she hastened to him, feeling with her
arms until she touched his knees, and then falling on the ground she
embraced them, weeping with terror and excitement.
'Oh, speak to me! speak! you do not hate me?--speak, speak!'
'By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprus! Ho! how they fill
us with wine instead of blood! now they open the veins of the Faun
yonder, to show how the tide within bubbles and sparkles. Come hither,
jolly old god! thou ridest on a goat, eh?--what long silky hair he has!
He is worth all the coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee--this
wine of thine is too strong for us mortals. Oh! beautiful! the boughs
are at rest! the green waves of the forest have caught the Zephyr and
drowned him! Not a breath stirs the leaves--and I view the Dreams
sleeping with folded wings upon the motionless elm; and I look beyond,
and I see a blue stream sparkle in the silent noon; a fountain--a
fountain springing aloft! Ah! my fount, thou wilt not put out rays of
my Grecian sun, though thou triest ever so hard with thy nimble and
silver arms. And now, what form steals yonder through the boughs? she
glides like a moonbeam!--she has a garland of oak-leaves on her head.
In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she pours pink and tiny
shells and sparkling water. Oh! look on yon face! Man never before saw
its like. See! we are alone; only I and she in the wide forest. There
is no smile upon her lips--she moves, grave and sweetly sad. Ha! fly,
it is a nymph!--it is one of the wild Napaeae! Whoever sees her becomes
mad-fly! see, she discovers me!'
'Oh! Glaucus! Glaucus! do you not know me? Rave not so wildly, or thou
wilt kill me with a word!'
A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and disordered mind
of the unfortunate Athenian. He put his hand upon Nydia's silken hair;
he smoothed the locks--he looked wistfully upon her face, and then, as
in the broken chain of thought one or two links were yet unsevered, it
seemed that her countenance brought its associations of Ione; and with
that remembrance his madness became yet more powerful, and it swayed and
tinged by passion, as he burst forth:
'I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though I have now the
world on my shoulders, as my countryman Hercules (ah, dull Rome! whoever
was truly great was of Greece; why, you would be godless if it were not
for us!)--I say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would let it
fall into chaos for one smile from Ione. Ah, Beautiful,--Adored,' he
added, in a voice inexpressibly fond and plaintive, 'thou lovest me not.
Thou art unkind to me. The Egyptian hath belied me to thee--thou
knowest not what hours I have spent beneath thy casement--thou knowest
not how I have outwatched the stars, thinking thou, my sun, wouldst rise
at last--and thou lovest me not, thou forsakest me! Oh! do not leave me
now! I feel that my life will not be long; let me gaze on thee at least
unto the last. I am of the bright land of thy fathers--I have trod the
heights of Phyle--I have gathered the hyacinth and rose amidst the
olive-groves of Ilyssus. Thou shouldst not desert me, for thy fathers
were brothers to my own. And they say this land is lovely, and these
climes serene, but I will bear thee with me--Ho! dark form, why risest
thou like a cloud between me and mine? Death sits calmly dread upon thy
brow--on thy lip is the smile that slays: thy name is Orcus, but on
earth men call thee Arbaces. See, I know thee! fly, dim shadow, thy
spells avail not!'
'Glaucus! Glaucus!' murmured Nydia, releasing her hold and falling,
beneath the excitement of her dismay, remorse, and anguish, insensible
on the floor.
'Who calls?' said he in a loud voice. 'Ione, it is she! they have borne
her off--we will save her--where is my stilus? Ha, I have it! I come,
Ione, to thy rescue! I come! I come!'
So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, he traversed
the house, and rushed with swift but vacillating steps, and muttering
audibly to himself, down the starlit streets. The direful potion burnt
like fire in his veins, for its effect was made, perhaps, still more
sudden from the wine he had drunk previously. Used to the excesses of
nocturnal revellers, the citizens, with smiles and winks, gave way to
his reeling steps; they naturally imagined him under the influence of
the Bromian god, not vainly worshipped at Pompeii; but they who looked
twice upon his face started in a nameless fear, and the smile withered
