The Epicurean, a tale. With vignette illustrations by J.M.W. Turner ... And Alciphron, a poem
Moore, Thomas, 1779-1852 | Turner, J. M. W. (Joseph Mallord William), 1775-1851, illus
\^ /Jfe ***** Smm 5 .L!nL% > v ^ "£ 4 O «2? ^ voV* iV / J? "~ *?w*s J> ** ** *^Wa\ *<fc .^ THE EPICUREAN, A TALE. ALCIPHRON, A POEM. I aU\ 1 11 K ID a I IP M I _^ II ^ pUpm ^LUTM €>!'■' ! ['*?.<&<?. 1 Q i Ro.vt 3, s: J •■.plan & Mar shall, Stax3.an.ers Court, & Robert Jerrrimgs, a THE EPICUREAN, a ©ale. WITH VIGNETTE ILLUSTRATIONS BY I J. M. W. TURNER, ESQ. R.A. AND ALCIPHRON, & Pern. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF LALLA BOOKH, $c. «£c. LONDON : JOHN MACRONE, 3, ST. JAMES'S SQUARE; SOLD BY SIMPKIN AND MARSHALL, STATIONERS' COURT, AND ROBERT JENNINGS, CHEAFSIDE. 1839. t£S /f3f 1*' /^ Gift r Herbert PeSl March 13, 1943 PRINTED BY C. V/HITINC* bcaufort house LORD JOHN RUSSELL THIS VOL UME IS INSCRIBED BY ONE WHO ADMIRES HIS CHARACTKR AND TALENTS, AND IS PROUD OF HIS FRIENDSHIP. PRELIMINARY NOTICE. To introduce thus, by a new preface, to my readers, a work which has been for so many years before the public, and which, however undeserving of such no- tice, has been translated into most of the languages of Europe,* may be regarded as rather an unnecessary ceremony. Some circumstances, however, connected with this new edition, as well as with the Poems sub- joined to the narrative, seem to require from me a few prefatory words. The idea of calling in the magic pencilof Mr. Turner, to illustrate some of the scenes of the following story, was first suggested by the late Mr. Macrone, — to whose general talents and enter- prising spirit all who knew him will bear ready and cordial testimony. His original wish had been that I should undertake for him some new poem, or story, to be thus embellished by the artist. But other tasks and ties having rendered my compliance with this wish impracticable, he proposed to purchase of me the copyright of the Epicurean, for a single " illus- * Among the translations which have reached me are two in French, one in Italian (Milan, 1836, 24mo,-~ Venice, 1835), one in German (Inspruc, 1828), and one in Dutch, by Mr. Herman van Loghem (Deventer, 1829). VI11 PRELIMINARY NOTICE. trated" edition ; and hence the appearance of the work under its present new auspices and form. A few more words remain to be said, respecting the Poems which occupy a portion of this volume ; and which, with the exception of a few fragments of them found scattered through the prose narrative, are here, for the first time, published. My original plan, in commencing the story of the Epicurean, was to write it all in verse, and in the form, as will be seen, of letters from the different personages. But the great difficulty of managing, in rhyme, the minor de- tails of a story, so as to be clear without becoming prosaic, and, still more, the diffuse length to which, I saw, narration in verse would be likely to run, de- terred me from pursuing this plan any further ; and I then commenced the tale anew, in its present shape. Whether I was wrong or right, in this change, my readers have now an opportunity of judging for them- selves. In the Letters of Alciphron will be found, — height- ened only by a freer use of poetic colouring, — nearly the same details of events, feelings, and scenery which occupy the earlier part of the prose narrative. But the Letter of the hypocritical High Priest, whatever else may be its claim to attention, will be found, both in matter and form, new to the reader. Thomas Moore. LETTER TO THE TRANSLATOR, -, Esq. Cairo, June 19, 1800. My dear Sir, In a visit lately paid by me to the monastery of St. Ma- carius, — which is situated, as you know, in the Valley of the Lakes of Natron, — I was lucky enough to obtain possession of a curious Greek manuscript which, in the hope that you may be induced to translate it, I herewith transmit to you. Observing one of the monks very busily occupied in tearing up into a variety of fantastic shapes some papers which had the appearance of being the leaves of old books, I inquired of him the meaning of his task, and received the following explanation : — b 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 characters, the birds are always sure to thrive the better for the charm ; and the monks, who are never slow in profiting by superstition, have, at all times, a supply of such amulets for purchasers. In general, the fathers of the monastery have been in the habit of scribbling these fragments themselves ; but a discovery lately made by them, saves all this trouble. Having dug up (as my informant stated) a chest of old manuscripts, which, being chiefly on the subject of alchemy, must have been buried in the time of Dioclesian, " we thought," added the monk, " that we could not employ such rubbish more properly, than in tearing it up, as you see, for the pigeon-houses of the Arabs." On my expressing a wish to rescue some part of these treasures from the fate to which his indolent fraternity had consigned them, he produced the manuscript which I have now the pleasure of sending you, — the only one, Xl he said, remaining entire, — and I very readily paid the price which he demanded for it. You will find the story, I think, not altogether unin- teresting ; and the coincidence, 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 you. Hoping that you may be induced to give a translation of this Tale to the world, I am, my dear Sir, Very truly yours, * The description, here alluded to, may also be found, copied verbatim from Sethos, in the " Voyages d'Antenor." — " In that phi- losophical romance, 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.* " Div. Leg. book iv. sect. 14. THE EPICUREAN. CHAPTER I. It was in the fourth year of the reign of the late Em- peror Valerian, that the followers of Epicurus, who were at that time numerous in Athens, proceeded to the elec- tion of a person to fill the vacant chair of their sect ; — and, by the unanimous voice of the School, T was the in- dividual chosen for their Chief. I was just then entering on my twenty-fourth year, and no instance had ever before occurred, of a person so young being selected for that of- fice. Youth, however, and the personal advantages that adorn it, were not, it may be supposed, among the least valid recommendations to a sect that included within its circle all the beauty as well as the wit of Athens, and which, though dignifying its pursuits with the name of philosophy, was little else than a pretext for the more refined cultiva- tion of pleasure. * THE EPICUREAN. 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 Pleasure. The purer part of this doctrine had long evaporated, and the tempe- rate Epicurus would have as little recognised his own sect in the assemblage of refined voluptuaries who now usurped its name, as he would have known his own quiet Garden in the luxurious groves and bowers among which the meet- ings of the School were now held. Many causes concurred, at this period, besides the at- tractiveness of its doctrines, to render our school by far the most popular of any that still survived the glory of Greece. It may generally be observed, that the prevalence, in one half of a community, of very rigid notions on the subject of religion, produces the opposite extreme of laxity and infidelity in the other ; and this kind of reaction it was that now mainly contributed to render the doctrines of the Garden the most fashionable philosophy of the day. The rapid progress of the Christian faith had alarmed all those, who, either from piety or worldliness, were inte- rested 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 in- crease of zeal and activity, throughout the constituted authorities and priesthood of the whole Heathen world. What was wanting in sincerity of belief was made up in THE EPICUREAN. 6 rigour ; — the weakest parts of the Mythology were those, of course, most angrily defended, and any reflections, tend- ing to bring Saturn, or his wife Ops, into contempt, were punished with the utmost severity of the law. In this state of affairs, between the alarmed bigotry of the declining Faith, 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 other- wise, in the old religion, and were too indolent to inquire into the sanctions of the new, should take refuge from the severities of both in the arms of a luxurious philo- sophy, which, leaving to others the task of disputing about the future, centred all its wisdom m the full 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 distinguished for their taste and splendour ; and it was my ambition, not merely to imitate this example, but even to render the anniversary now celebrated under my auspices, so brilliant as to efface the recollection of all that had preceded it. Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a scene The grounds that formed the original site of the Garden b 2 4 THE EPICUREAN. had received, from time to time, considerable additions ; and the whole extent was now laid out with that perfect taste, which understands how to wed Nature with Art, without sa- crificing any of her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, lead- ing through wildernesses of shade and fragrance — glades, opening, as if to afford a playground for the sunshine — temples, rising on the very spots where Imagination her- self would have called them up, and fountains and lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace, — such was the variety of feature 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 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 fru- gality and temperance. Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of the Garden, stood four white Doric temples, in one of which was col- lected a library containing all the flowers of Grecian lite- rature ; while, in the remaining three, Conversation, the Song, and the Dance, held, uninterrupted by each other, THE EPICUREAN. O their respective rites. In the Library stood busts of all the most illustrious Epicureans, both of Rome and Greece — Horace, Atticus, Pliny the elder, the poet Lucretius, Lucian,and the lamented biographer of the Philosophers, lately lost to us, Diogenes Laertius. There were also the portraits, in marble, of all the eminent female votaries of the school — Leontium and her fair daughter Danae, Themista, Philsenis, 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 pro- nouncing the customary oration to the memory of our Master (in which it was usual to dwell upon the doctrines he had inculcated), endeavoured to attain that art, so useful before such an audience, of lending to the gravest sub- jects a charm, which secures them listeners even among the simplest and most volatile. Though study, as may be supposed, engrossed but little the nights or mornings of the Garden, yet all the lighter parts of learning — that portion of its attic honey, for which the bee is not compelled to go very deep into the flower — was rather zealously cultivated by us. Even here, how- ever, the young student had to encounter that kind of distraction, which is, of all others, the 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, thus described : — 0 THE EPICUREAN. " As o'er the lake, in evening's glow, That temple threw its lengthening shade, Upon the marble steps below There sat a fair Corinthian maid, Gracefully o'er some volume bending; While, by her side, the youthful Sage Held back her ringlets, lest, descending, They should o'ershadow 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 chil- dren, floated, as through a liquid parterre. Between two of these boats a mock combat was perpe- tually carried on ; — their respective commanders, two blooming youths, being habited to represent Eros and An- teros ; the former, the Celestial Love of the Platonists, and the latter, that more earthly spirit, which usurps the name of Love among the Epicureans. Throughout the whole evening their conflict was maintained with various success ; the timid distance at which Eros kept aloof from his lively antagonist being his only safeguard against those darts of fire, with showers of which the other as- sailed him, but which, falling short of their mark upon the lake, only scorched the few flowers on which they fell, and were extinguished. In another part of the gardens, on a wide glade, illu- minated only by the moon, was performed an imitation of THE EPICUREAN. 7 the torch-race of the Panathenaea, by young boys chosen for their fleetness, and arrayed with wings, like Cupids ; while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, with each a star on her forehead, represented the movements of the planetary choir, and imbodied the dream of Pythagoras into real motion and song. At every turning some new enchantment broke unex- pectedly on the eye or ear; and now, from the depth of a dark grove, from which a fountain at the same time issued, there came a strain of sweet music, which mingling with the murmur of the water, seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over its flow; — while, at other times, the same strain appeared to come breathing from among flowers, or was heard suddenly from under ground, as if the foot had just touched some spring that set its melody in motion. It may seem strange that I should now dwell upon all these trifling details ; but they were, to me, full of the future ; and every thing connected with that memorable night — even its long-repented follies — must for ever live fondly and sacredly in my memory. The festival con- cluded with a banquet, at which, as master of the Sect, I presided ; and being, myself, in every sense, the ascend- ant spirit of the whole scene, gave life to all around me, and saw my own happiness reflected in that of others. THE EPICUREAN. CHAPTER II. The festival was over ; — the sounds of the song and dance had ceased, and I 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 melan- choly ; — an imagination that, even in the midst of mirth and happiness, presented saddening thoughts, and threw the shadow of the future over the gayest illusions of the present. Melancholy was, indeed, twin-born in my soul with Passion ; and not even in the fullest fervour of the latter, were they ever 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 annihilation came to mingle themselves with even the most smiling scenes through which love and enjoyment led me. My very passion for pleasure but deepened these gloomy thoughts. 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 earthly delight assumed, in my eyes, a mournful preciousness ; and pleasure, like the THE EPICUREAN. 9 flower of the cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbourhood of death. This very night my triumph, my happiness had seemed complete. I had been the presiding genius of that volup- tuous scene. Both my ambition and my love of pleasure had drunk deep of the rich cup for which they thirsted. Looked up to, as I was, by the learned, and loved by the beautiful and the young, I had seen, in every eye that met mine, either the acknowledgment of bright triumphs al- ready 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 perishable- ness of myself and all around me had every instant re- curred to my mind. Those hands I had pressed — those eyes, in which I had seen sparkling a spirit of light 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 Stealing amid our mirth to say, That all, in which we most rejoice, Ere night may be the earth-worm's preyj — But for this bitter— only this — Full as the world is brimm'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 ! 10 THE EPICUREAN. Such was the description I gave of my own feelings, in one of those wild, passionate songs, to which this mixture of gaiety and melancholy, in a spirit so buoyant, naturally gave birth. And seldom had my heart surrendered itself to this sort of vague sadness more unresistingly than at the present moment, when, as I paced thoughtfully among the fading lights and flowers of the banquet, the echo of my own step was all that now sounded, where so many gay forms had lately been revelling. The moon was still up, the morning 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 yet bent the knee. Leaning against the pedestal of the statue, 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, wherefore was it that Man alone must fade and perish, while they, so much less won- derful, less godlike than he, thus still live on in radiance unchangeable and for ever ! — " Oh, that there were some spell, some talisman," I exclaimed, " to make the spirit that burns within us deathless as those stars, and open to it a career like theirs, burning and inextinguishable throughout all time ! n While thus indulging in wild and melancholy fancies, I THE EPICUREAN. 1 1 felt that lassitude which earthly pleasure, however sweet, leaves behind — come insensibly over me, and at length sunk at the base of the statue to sleep. But even in sleep, the same fancies still haunted me ; and a dream, so distinct and vivid as to leave behind it the impression of reality, thus presented itself to my mind. I found myself suddenly transported to a wide and desolate plain, where nothing appeared to breathe, or move, or live. The very sky that hung above it looked pale and extinct, giving the idea, not of darkness, but of light that had died ; — and had that whole region been the remains of some older world, left broken up and sunless, it could not have presented an aspect more dead and desolate. The only thing that bespoke life, throughout this melancholy waste, was a small spark of light, that at first glimmered in the distance, but, at length, slowly approached the bleak spot where I stood. As it drew nearer, I could see that its small, but steady, gleam came from a taper in the hand of an ancient and venerable man, who now stood, like a pale messenger from the grave, before me. After a few moments of awful silence, during which he looked at me with a sadness that thrilled my very soul, he said, u 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 V9 No sooner had he uttered these words, than the deathlike hue of his cheek at once brightened into a smile of more than human promise ; while the small torch he held in his 12 THE EPICUREAN. hand sent forth a glow of radiance, by which suddenly the whole surface of the desert was illuminated ; — the light spreading even as far as the distant horizon's edge, along whose line were now seen gardens, palaces, and spires, all as bright as the rich architecture of the clouds at sunset. Sweet music, too, came floating in every direction, through the air, and, from all sides, such varieties of enchantment broke upon me, that, with the excess alike of harmony and of radiance, I awoke. That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly neither unusual nor strange. A belief in superhuman agency seems natural and necessary to the mind ; and, if not suffered to flow in the obvious channels, it will find a vent in some other. Hence, many who have doubted the existence of a God, have yet implicitly placed them- selves under the patronage of Fate or the stars. Much the same inconsistency I was conscious of in my own feel- ings. Though rejecting all belief in a Divine Providence, 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 accidental coin- cidences, which make the fortune of soothsayers and pro- phets, dreams, more than once, had been to me Oracles, truer far than oak Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. 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, THE EPICUREAN. 13 and even sunk deeper into my memory with every effort I made to forget it. In vain was it that I mocked 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, in the midst of all my enjoyment, came the cold and saddening consciousness of mortality, and, along with it, the recollection of this vi- sionary promise, to which my fancy, in defiance of reason, still continued to cling. At times, indulging in reveries, that were little else than a continuation of my dream, I even contemplated the possible existence of some mighty secret, by which our youth, if not perpetuated, might be at least prolonged, and that dreadful vicinity of death, within whose circle love pines and pleasure sickens, might be for a while averted. " Who can tell," I would ask, " but that in Egypt, that region of wonders, where Mystery hath yet unfolded but half her treasures, — where still remain, undeciphered, upon the pillars of Seth, so many written secrets of the antediluvian world — who knows but that some powerful charm, some amulet, may there lie hid, whose discovery, as this phantom hath promised, but awaits my coming, — some compound of the same pure atoms, that shine in the living stars, and whose infusion into the frame of man might render him also unfading and immortal !" Thus did I sometimes speculate, in those fond rambling moods, when the life of excitement in which I was en- gaged, acting upon a warm heart and vivid fancy, pro- 14 THE EPICUREAN. duced an intoxication of spirit, during which I was not wholly master of myself. I felt this bewilderment, too, not a little increased by the constant struggle between my own natural feelings, and the cold, mortal creed of my sect — in endeavouring to escape from whose deadening bondage I but broke loose into the realms of fantasy and romance. Even in my calmest and soberest moments, however, that strange vision for ever haunted me ; and every effort I made to chase it from my recollection was unavailing. The deliberate conclusion, therefore, to which I came at last, was, that to visit Egypt was now my only resource ; that, without, seeing that land of wonders, I could not rest, nor, until convinced of my folly by disappointment, be reasonable. Without delay, accordingly, I announced to my friends of the Garden, the intention I had formed to pay a visit to the land of Pyramids. To none of them, however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary im- pulse that actuated me; — knowledge being the object that I alleged, while Pleasure was that for which they gave me credit. The interests of the School, it was feared, might suffer by my absence ; and there were some ten- derer ties, which had still more to fear from separation, But for the former inconvenience a temporary remedy was provided ; while the latter a skilful distribution of vows and sighs alleviated. Being furnished with recom- mendatory letters to all parts of Egypt, I set sail in the summer of the year 257, A.D., for Alexandria. THE EPICUREAN. 15 CHAPTER III. To one, who so well knew how to extract pleasure from every moment on land, a sea-voyage, however smooth and favourable, appeared the least agreeable mode of losing time that could be devised. Often indeed did my imagi- nation, in passing some isle of those seas, people it with fair forms and loving hearts, to which most willingly would I have paused to offer 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 be- came less prosperous ; and we had a specimen of the be- nevolence of the divinities of the Nile, in the shape of a storm, or rather whirlwind, which had nearly sunk our vessel, and which the Egyptians on board declared to be the work of their deity Typhon. After a day and night of danger, during which we were driven out of our course to the eastward, some benigner influence prevailed above ; and, at length, as the morning freshly broke, we saw the beautiful city of Alexandria rising from the sea, with its 16 THE EPICUREAN. proud Palace of Kings, its portico of four hundred co- lumns, and the fair Pillar of Pillars, towering in the midst to heaven. After passing in review this splendid vision, we shot rapidly round the Rock of Pharos, and, in a few minutes, found ourselves 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 languor in the first waking movements of that voluptuous city — whose houses and temples lay shining in silence around the harbour — that sufficiently attested 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 I was from the contemplation of my own lovely Athens, I yet felt a glow of admiration at the scene around me, which its novelty, even more than its magnificence, inspired. Nor were the luxuries and delights, which such a city promised, among the least of the considerations upon which my fancy dwelt. On the contrary, every thing around me seemed prophetic of love and pleasure. The very forms of the architecture, to my Epicurean imagination, appeared 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 though Egypt might THE EPICUREAN. 17 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 miscellany of nations, religions, and sects, that had ever been brought together in one city. Beside the school of the Grecian Platonist was seen the oratory of the cabalistic Jew; while the church of the Christian stood, undisturbed, over the crypts of the Egyp- tian Hierophant. Here, the adorer of Fire, from the East, laughed at the less elegant superstition of the worshipper of cats, from the West. Here Christianity, too, had learned to emulate the pious vagaries of Pa- ganism ; and while, on one side, her Ophite professor was seen bending his knee gravely before a serpent, on the other was heard a Nicosian contending, with no less gravity, that there was no chance whatever of salvation out of the pale of the Greek alphabet. Still worse, the uncharitableness of Christian schism was already, with equal vigour, distinguishing itself; and I heard every where, on my arrival, of the fierce rancour and hate, with which the Greek and Latin churchmen were then perse- cuting each other, because, forsooth, the one fasted on the seventh day of the week, and the others fasted upon the fourth and sixth ! To none, however, of these different creeds and sects, except in as far as they furnished food for ridicule, had I time to pay much attention. I was now in the most c 18 THE EPICUREAN. luxurious city of the universe, and gave way, without re- serve, to the various seductions that surrounded me. My reputation, both as a philosopher and a man of pleasure had preceded my coming; and Alexandria, the second Athens of the world, welcomed me as her own. I found my celebrity, indeed, act as a talisman, that opened all hearts and doors at my approach. The usual novitiate of acquaintance was dispensed with in my favour, and not only intimacies, but loves and friendships, ripened as ra- pidly in my path, as vegetation springs up where the Nile has flowed. The dark beauty of the Egyptian women possessed a novelty in my eyes that enhanced its other charms : and the hue left by the sun on their rounded cheeks seemed but an earnest of the genial ardour he had kindled in their hearts — Th' imbrowning of the fruit, that tells, How rich within the soul of sweetness dwells. Some weeks now passed in such constant and ever- changing pleasures, that even the melancholy voice deep within 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, as the novelty of these gay scenes wore off, the same vague and gloomy bodings began to mingle with all my joys ; and an inci- dent that occurred, at this time, during one of my gayest revels, conduced still more to deepen their gloom. THE EPICUREAN. 19 The celebration of the annual festival of Serapis hap- pened to take place during my stay, and I was, more than once, induced to join the gay multitudes that flocked to the shrine at Canopus on the occasion. Day and night, as long as this festival lasted, the great 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 and follies of earth, in honour of heaven. I was returning, one lovely night, to Alexandria. The north wind, that welcome visiter, had cooled and fresh- ened the air5 while the banks, on either side of the stream, sent forth, from groves of orange and henna, the most de- licious 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 suddenly broken by the sound of some female voices, coming mingled with laughter and screams, from the gar- den of a pavilion, that stood, brilliantly illuminated, upon the bank of the canal. On rowing nearer, I perceived that both the mirth and the alarm had been caused by the efforts of some playful girls to reach a hedge of jasmine which grew near the water, and in bending towards which they had nearly fallen into the stream. Hastening to proffer my assist- c 2 20 THE EPICUREAN. ance, I soon recognised the voice of one of my fair Alex- andrian friends, and, springing on the bank, was sur- rounded by the whole group, who insisted on my joining their party in the pavilion, and having flung the tendrils of jasmine, 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 Alex- andrian society. The unexpectedness of the meeting added new zest to it on both sides ; and seldom had I ever felt more enlivened, myself, or contributed 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 bright 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 of the banquet. She took no share, I observed, 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 neighbour the cause of it, but she looked grave and was silent. In the mean time, jthe lyre and the cup went round ; THE EPICUREAN. 21 and a young maid from Athens, as if inspired by the pre- sence of her countryman, took her lute, and sung to it some of the songs of Greece, with a warmth of feeling that bore me back to the banks of the Ilissus, and, even in the bosom of present pleasure, drew a sigh from my heart for that which had passed away. It was daybreak ere our delighted party rose, and most unwillingly re-embarked to return to the city. We were scarce afloat, when it was discovered that the lute of the young Athenian had been left behind ; and, with a heart still full of its sweet sounds, I most readily sprang on shore to seek it. I hastened at once to the banquet-room, which was now dim and solitary, except that — there, to my astonishment, was still seated that si- jent figure, which had awakened my curiosity so strongly during the night. A vague feeling 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 upon its brow stirred. By the light of a dying 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 life- less, was a skeleton! Startled and shocked, I hurried back with the lute to the boat, and was almost as silent as that shape itself during 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 ; and, even on 22 THE EPICUREAN. such occasions, it had been the practice of the luxurious Alexandrians to disguise this memorial of mortality in the manner just described. But to me, who was wholly un- prepared for such a spectacle, it gave a shock from which my imagination did not speedily recover. This silent and ghastly witness of mirth seemed to imbody, as it were, the shadow in my own heart. The features of the grave were thus stamped upon the idea that had long haunted me, and this picture of what I was to be, now associated itself constantly 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 ve- nerable Spirit, and his words, " Go to the shores of the dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seek- est," were for ever before my mind. But as yet, alas, I had done nothing towards realizing the proud promise. Alexandria was not Egypt; — the very soil on which it now stood was not in existence, when already Thebes and Memphis had numbered ages of glory. " No ;" I exclaimed, " beneath the Pyramids of Mem- phis, or in the mystic Halls of the Labyrinth, can I alone hope to find those holy arcana of science, of which the antediluvian 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 EPICUREAN. 23 CHAPTER IV. Egypt was, perhaps, the country beyond all others, from that mixture of the melancholy and the voluptuous, which marked the character of her people, her religion, and her scenery, to affect deeply a fancy and temperament like mine, and keep both for ever tremblingly alive. Wherever I turned, I beheld the desert and the garden, mingling together their desolation and bloom. I saw the love-bower and the tomb standing side by side, as if, in that land, Plea- sure and Death kept hourly watch upon each other. In the very luxury of the climate there was the same sadden- ing 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 been so long the familiar inmate of my soul. When I sailed from Alexandria, the inundation of the Nile was at its full. The whole valley of Egypt lay covered by its flood : and, as, looking around me, I saw in the light of the setting sun, shrines, palaces, and monuments, en- 24 THE EPICUREAN. circled by the waters, I could almost fancy that I beheld the sinking island of Atalantis, on the last evening its temples were visible above the wave. Such varieties, too, of animation as presented themselves on every side ! — While, far as sight could reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever bless'd this sphere, Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry 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 their hands : While, there, rich barks— fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts — Glide with their precious lading 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. 