Damascus.

Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

How cheering it is, my dear Cornelius, after a long and perilous voyage, and the fearful pitchings of a frail vessel, to feel your accustomed security of footstep, and trace in the wide plains and lofty mountains the varying forms of nature’s loveliness, doubly enchanting after a temporary separation. Such were my emotions after landing on the shore of Berytus, heightened by the delightful and unexpected surprise of meeting an old friend in a strange land.

Sulpicius behaved toward us in the most elegant and hospitable manner, and so swiftly did the interval between arrival and departure fly, that the scene of parting salutation was in sad contrast with the joy of our first greeting. But as I have revived these recollections, let me give a hasty sketch of what passed on the second evening of our landing. Having gathered around the tables to the evening repast, cheerfulness reigned triumphant. Tossed for days upon the whirling waters, we were now in conscious security gaily, assembled in the harmonious circle, with not a care to distract, and every reasonable pleasure to elevate. The music ceasing, Lactantius observed he was sure he had heard that strain before, he thought, when off the coast of Cyprus.

“Yes,” I replied, with a smile, “Lactantius you are right, I also heard it.”

“Ah!” said he, “I believed every eye had been closed in sleep. It was my custom at the dead hour of night, that time so fruitful of meditation and of better thoughts—when silence reigns and unarmed repose throws her soft mantle over every living thing; and the air robbed of its noon day heat grows cool and balmy, to order before me the events of the day, and mark wherein I had done amiss. Pardon me, Lactantius, this was not all, have I not heard you, on more than one occasion, breathe passages not of poetry only, but of bright description and solid thought? Come, I call upon you, in the name of those around, should you approve, to narrate the story of our voyage.”

“Yes! a good thought,” they cried. “And interweave,” says Marcus, “as much poetry in the narration as you are wont.”

“Stay,” cries Sulpicius, “if you mean by poetry, play of fancy, at the expense of geography, I should heartily prefer the unpainted narrative, for how is it that travellers love the wonderful so much, and delight to make the storms more dangerous, the mountains higher, and the valleys greener than nature ever made them?”

“Such Sulpicius, is not my meaning,” rejoined Marcus, “but only that one so competent to color nature as she should be colored, should perform the task, and who, if he but wave the gay wand of fancy, may bring before you every hill in its greenness, and temple in its sculptured whiteness, so that you might almost believe you saw them on the painter’s easel, or starting up in beautiful reality at your feet.”

“Stop Marcus, the subject of this undeserved eulogy is present, and if you say another word I shall hesitate whether to begin, since our friends may form expectations which cannot be realised.”

With this he described the whole course of our voyage, from our embarkation at Constantinople to our landing at Berytus, its perils and its pleasures: the countries we saw, the cities we visited, in that full and flowing style for which he is so celebrated. At one moment he would bring so faithfully to our eye, the terrors of that night on which we were so near engulphed, that the shudder of fancied danger shot through our veins, and the billows almost seemed to toss us, so vividly can a master’s hand summon up an image of those horrors one has but lately passed through. Indeed at one part of the recital, Fortunatus who was present, uttered a smothered cry to the sailors, as if he was again acting the part of a commander upon his ship. At this strange ejaculation, notwithstanding the exciting story, we could not repress our laughter; Lactantius himself joining in the general merriment. When he began to describe the different cities we had entered, he used considerable action, and so clearly did he bring the representation to our view that in pointing, as if to the real object, we instinctively followed with our eyes the motion of his fingers, as it were, in expectation that the rising walls of some palace, or the rich scenery of some wooded valley, would meet our gaze. Such is that silent homage which we unknowingly pay to eloquent genius.

When he had finished, some expression of pleasure or admiration burst from every tongue, and Sulpicius ordered us to fill our glasses to Lactantius, accompanying this token of friendship with other marks of high wrought satisfaction, such as he displays only on those occasions, when his feelings are strongly enlisted in the object of them.

“Lactantius,” he remarked, “having always at my elbow a ready scribe, who, committing to parchment with the most wonderful facility all that falls from the lips of those distinguished men from Rome, Constantinople, or other great cities, who in their travels may chance to honor me with a visit, I have been enabled to accumulate a rich collection, over which, whether as memorials of genius or of friendship, I linger, whenever I peruse them, with fresh delight. This day’s conversation, as it fell from your lips, is already deposited on the precious pile.”

Here I perceived an uneasy play upon the features of my friend; as I quickly traced the cause, for it was none other than his retiring diffidence, I felt anxious to change the topic of our conversation. The announcement of a stranger’s name, repeated, however, in so low a tone that I did not hear it, diverted the attention of the company. Entering, he walked toward the couch of Sulpicius, and we were all struck, at the first glance, with his commanding air and dignified deportment. An ample forehead, dark and piercing eye, and venerable beard, that sported with by a passing wind, carelessly floated about the graceful folds of his tunic, elicited instantaneous respect.

“I come,” he said, addressing himself to Sulpicius, “to seek the great Lactantius, and understanding he was present, took the liberty of entering without ceremony.” Sulpicius with this, rose, kindly welcomed and invited him to join us at the tables, but politely refusing, he continued,—“I come to consult him upon a subject which I hold to be entitled to the friendly countenance of every lover of generosity and toleration, be he of whatever faith.”

With this Lactantius arose and joined him, and as he clasped his hand, there seemed so much Christian sincerity in his manner, that a tear sparkled in the eye of the stranger, but it passed away, and his settled demeanor was resumed. When they had left, a hundred conjectures sprang up, as to what might be the object of this interview. But Sulpicius informed us he was an eminent citizen of Berytus, that he had held a responsible office under one of the last Emperors, embracing, however, the creed of that new sect called Christians, he fell into disgrace, and stood in jeopardy of his life, but was saved through the earnest intercession of an influential friend residing at Baalbec, and a solemn promise to retire into distant and perpetual banishment. Upon the death of the Emperor he returned from exile, and would have been re-instated in all his former dignities, but tiring of the turmoil of public life he preferred the quiet of retirement, and the peaceful enjoyment of domestic bliss. But you have not given us, observed Valerius, your conjecture of the object of his visit, nor the name of that worthy citizen whose intervention was so happy in its results. The object of the interview is doubtless to arouse the feelings, or invoke the powerful aid of Lactantius in the establishment of a Christian Colony, or perhaps in the building of some Christian temple, since Constantine has proved so munificent in the erection of the most gorgeous edifices to the Christian’s God. The name of the citizen whose good offices were so fortunate, was Æmelianus of Heliopolis. When this name was mentioned, I noticed that the countenance of Lucretia became pale, and her lip was compressed, as if in the suppression of some hidden emotion, but its cause I was not able to divine.

The sun upon the following day shining through the windows’ tapestry, awoke me by his reddening beams, and warned me to rise and behold the grandeur at my feet. Throwing the lattice open, I beheld a panorama unequalled in sublimity and beauty by any thing I had ever seen. Berytus stretched away below me, sparkling with shining domes, glistening house tops, and here and there arose some marble monumental pillar, or an obelisk, commemorative of some signal event, which, peeping from their encircling grove, appeared to rest upon its summit like flakes of freshly fallen snow. Beyond the city lay the ocean, with many a sail, but dimly visible upon its heaving bosom; behind me rose, towering and precipitous, eternal Lebanon, bathed in a flood of various lights, like a vestment dyed with many colors, and the pines which crown its heights, spreading their fringy leaves against the clouds, borrowed all their hues.

With nature clothed in gladness, and the scented freshness of the morning air, filled with the warbling of birds, you may entertain surprise when I tell you, that my feelings were those of sadness, for I reflected that this great city must, in its turn, as other cities have, either sink into insignificance, or become much diminished in splendor, and its thousands of busy people, with the unerring certainty of the rising sun, be gathered generation after generation, to their fathers, while the hoary mountain at whose base it lay, would through all time raise its head in haughty glory. How vain to boast of immortality, how vain to live solely for ambition’s sake, when the fame of the hero rests upon the mercy of a parchment, or the treacherous reliance of tradition. A convulsion of the earth may overthrow a temple, the pride of centuries, the boast of a nation—a spark consume a city, and time’s wasting finger in the interval of but a few years, destroy the golden record of genius, however perpetuated, so that the celebrity of the orator, and the works of the poet, shall have but a flickering existence, and finally shall perish from the recollection of their countrymen.

The morning of our departure being now at hand, we began our journey from Berytus, through Baalbec to Damascus, and as it lay through a rocky region, we knew it would be rough and wearisome, but when we remembered the grandeur of nature, the mountains, valleys, forests, temples, palaces, we should behold, we trusted we would be able to drive away fatigue.

Among those who performed the journey with us, were Lactantius, Marcus, and Valerius; also Cornelia, and Placidia, the daughter of Lucius Sergius, and their kinswoman Lucretia.

Lucius having purchased a chariot, the ladies accompanied him by another route, the rest of us having bought chargers at the market place of Berytus, well accustomed to the rocky pathway, determined to travel by the via Antoniana, cut at some spots into the solid rock, through the liberality of Antoninus, who has left in this country endless works of art, which I hope may remain imperishable monuments to his genius, generosity, and enterprise. The journey from Berytus to Baalbec by this route is of more than a day—arduous and perilous—but as I said, the traveller finds an ample return for all his toil, in the awful sublimity of countless rocky peaks, which cap these hoary mountains with an imperishable crown. Rising into the clouds, they seem to bear the fleecy vapors upon their broad summits, while their terrible height obscures the morning sun, and for the while hides their base in impenetrable darkness, and even throws a gloom upon the troubled bosom of the ocean, which occasionally lashes their everlasting foundations in its fury. Ocean always in motion, mountains ever at rest, both as thou wert a thousand years ago—unchangeable! what a fruitful comment upon the perishable creations of man’s feeble arm.

Crossing the river Lycus, which having its birth among the purest fountains, and finding its channel in the hollow of a deep cleft of the mountains, shoots beneath your feet with impetuous dashings, we after a space arrived at the banks of the purple Adonis. You may remember it was near this river, that he, from whom it derives its name, came to his end. Many temples have been dedicated in these wild regions to the memory of Adonis, and to her who the poets tell us mourned so bitterly for his loss. Having passed over Lebanon, we fell upon luxuriant gardens; endless groves of olive trees; purpled vineyards; hill sides clad with trees laden with ripe fruit, that shining from their dark surrounding foliage, were bright with every tint of heaven, from the richest golden to the deeply blushing red. Such was this enchanting prospect, heightening in its beauty at each succeeding step, and when at last we came in full view of the great Baalbec, or as some call Heliopolis of Phenicia or of Assyria, built upon the level of a broad and verdant plain, and starting from among deep embosoming thickets, our admiration was irrepressible. High and conspicuous above the city walls rose that greatest temple of the world, the Temple of the Sun, now lit with his departing beams; and we could plainly trace its portico, its courts, and surrounding temples. In one spot a monument or an obelisk upreared itself, or the gilded dome of some Palace, shining like a Pharos above the dark enshrouding groves.

Having approached the northern gate of the city, we were obliged to pass through established ceremonies ere we secured an entrance. This enabled me to examine the beautiful architecture of this noble portal. Four Corinthian pillars upon an elevated basement, supported a heavy architrave, with niches between their intercolumniations, filled with two statues, one representing the founder of the city, King Solomon in royal robes, the other Sheba. In the centre hung a lofty brazen gate, covered with massive mouldings cast in brass, one I recollect much resembling that upon the great shield in the temple of Mars at Constantinople. So weighty was this structure, that it must have proved a labor of years to construct it, as it surely would one almost of months to batter it down. It looked impenetrable. On beholding this gate, I could not but fancy it opened into some new region, that when drawn aside, I should be presented with a scene novel and wonderful. Directly the immense mass began to yield, and the harsh rattling of its bars and chains, and the low rumbling of its enormous hinges, reminded me of distant, deep mouthed thunder. Its ponderous folds were now fully opened to admit us, and the issue realised what fancy had portrayed, for an exhibition of the gayest kind was passing before us. Young and ardent charioteers in streaming and many colored robes, and mounted upon chariots, richly inlaid with sparkling gems and gold, were driving their highly mettled coursers in various directions, through the broad and noble avenues, some of which seemed to terminate at this northern gate. So rapid and complicated were the movements of these young votaries, that it was matter of wonder to me they did not come in dreadful conflict. Others on prancing steeds were displaying their gallant horsemanship. Here you saw a gathering group of youthful citizens at some athletic sport, and there a little knot of philosophers, who may be readily distinguished by their long mantles, grave countenances, and earnest conversation, as if in the hot discussion of some exciting topic. You may have noticed after an attendance at the theatre for hours, with nothing to fix your wandering gaze, except the curtain of the Proscenium, how gladly you have hailed the lifting of it, revealing the actors in full dress, and all the dazzling arrangements of the Drama. Such were my sensations at this moment. Asking for the house of a kinsman of Sergius, some friendly citizen informed us he had just left him at the baths, but that he had perhaps returned, and he would conduct us to his mansion. Arriving there, we found the owner at his hall of entrance, when instantly recognising Sergius, he pressed us immediately to dismount, else, as he alleged, we would violate the customs of Heliopolis. Not choosing at the very first, to violate so hospitable a custom, we cheerfully entered the splendid mansion, and as gladly were we received. Having assembled in the Hall, after the freshening influences of the bath, we were greeted by a number of distinguished citizens, who, were invited to meet us, as eminent Romans upon our journey through Syria. Under such favorable auspices though wholly undeserved as they respect your friend Servilius, it was not long ere we cemented a friendship. “Highly welcome!” exclaimed Mobilius, (for this was his title,) upon his first acquaintance, for on such good terms did he seem to be with himself and those around him. “Highly welcome to Baalbec, but this you will not find a very Christian spot, while these priests of Heliopolitan Jove are so numerous: Is it true,” he continued in the same breath, “and you must bring the latest news, that Constantine intends to close our temples, and convert them into others, for the observance of the rites of this new sect called Christians?”

“There was such a rumor my friend,” replied Lactantius, “but of its truth I cannot speak, would it were correct.”

At this, his eye flashed and I plainly saw, he was a true convert to the worship of the sun.

“You would not speak thus,” he said, “had you ever witnessed the splendid ceremonies of our religion,” and whispering to him as if bestowing a peculiar mark of confidence, “you shall if you wish from a secret undiscoverable nook, see all,” and darting a quick enquiring glance, he added in the same low whisper, though distinct enough to be heard by me, “you may be a convert.”

“I will behold the spectacle,” was Lactantius’ brief reply. I doubted not but that this great warrior in a self denying cause, had in this ready compliance, some wise purpose, possibly, to persuade this youthful votary of the danger of his faith, or to convert him to his own: and such I believed was partly Mobilius’ design, so I felt there would be no difficulty in securing a share of this undiscoverable nook, for I was eager to witness these strange ceremonies. But I have exhausted my parchment, and I fear your patience, so I shall reserve my account until the next epistle, which I hope may find you as I trust this does in continued prosperity and health. Farewell.

———

BY MRS. CATHARINE H. W. ESLING.

———

OR, FIRST AND LAST LOVE.

“What a beautiful creature Clara Fletcher is!” exclaimed Mr. Tressayle.

“Beautiful!” replied the lady by whom he stood, tossing her head disdainfully, “why la!” and she raised her glass to her eye, “I think she’s positively plain looking.”

“Beautiful indeed!” echoed her mamma, a fat, vulgar looking woman, the flaunting colors of whose dress, betrayed her character at once, “why now, I do say, Mr. Tressayle, it’s astonishing—it is—how a gentleman of such tone as you, should think that pert Miss Fletcher any thing but common-like. Why do look at her hair now, I’d be bound she done it up herself—and then her dress, why that stuff,” said she, with a contemptuous curl of her lip, “couldn’t have cost a dollar a yard. Do you think it could, Araminta, my dear?”

Mr. Tressayle was decidedly the most fashionable man at Saratoga. With a fine person, a handsome countenance, the most courtly manners, and more than all supposed to be possessed of a fortune as extensive as his establishment was fashionable, he was looked up to by all as the match of the season. The Belvilles, therefore, with whom he was now conversing, were not a little flattered by the attentions which he paid them. True they were the wealthiest family at the Springs; but then Mr. Belville had made his princely fortune as a distiller. Originally the keeper of a green-grocer’s shop, he had risen afterward into an obscure tavern-keeper, and from thence by slow gradations, he had become a wine-merchant, a distiller, a usurer, and a millionaire. Latterly, his lady, discarding the shop, and affecting to despise tradesmen’s wives, had set up for a woman of fashion, and nothing gave her, in her eyes, more importance than the attentions obviously paid by Mr. Tressayle to her only child, Araminta Melvina Belville, a long, scraggy young lady of about two-and-twenty, but who affected the manners of “sweet sixteen.” The devotion of Tressayle to such a being was indeed surprising to all who did not know how involved was his fortune.

What reply might have been made by Tressayle to this remark we know not, for his answer was cut short by the appearance of no less a personage than Mr. Belville.

“How are you, Tressayle, fine girls here, eh!” said this gentleman, slapping the young man somewhat familiarly on the shoulder, “deuced handsome gal that, just come in, and has fell heiress to a cool three hundred thousand. By Jove she’s a lucky thing to get the hunk of money old Snarler made in the East India trade.”

“Clara Fletcher heiress to Mr. Snarler!—you surprise me,” said Tressayle, “I thought he had sworn to cut off her mother, who was his sister, you know, and all her family with a shilling, merely for marrying Mr. Fletcher, who, though poor, was in every respect a gentleman.”

“Ay, so he did—so he did, but he died at last—d’ye see?—without a will,—and so Clara Fletcher, the only daughter of his only sister, cuts into his fortune fat.”

“It’s singular I never heard of this before,” said Tressayle, half musingly.

“Mamma, la! if I don’t think Mr. Tressayle has seen Miss Fletcher before,” whispered the daughter behind her fan; and then raising her voice and simpering and blushing as Tressayle looked down on overhearing her, she continued, “dear me, you haven’t been listening all the while, have you? But do tell, Mr. Tressayle, who is that young man talking with her?”

“I believe it is Mr. Rowley.”

“Gad is he the feller,” broke in Mr. Belville, “that published the poems so many people are cracking up? Why he isn’t much after all I guess. For my part I don’t see why some people get praised for writing poetry—it’s nothing—I could do it myself if I’d try,” said he, with a sneer. “I don’t think this Mr. Rowley a man of talent; no poet is.” And finishing his sentence with a supercilious look at the subject of his remarks, the ci-devant green-grocer, inflated with the consciousness of his wealth, thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, and marched off to join another group.

“Why, my dear Miss Fletcher, how d’ye do?” said the shrill voice of Mrs. Belville, at this moment, as Mr. Rowley led his beautiful partner to a seat near the pretender to ton, “how have you been this age? Why how well you are looking. Laws me, and so you know Mr. Tressayle. Well now I do say how quiet you’ve all kept it.”

It was as Mrs. Belville said. Clara Fletcher had scarcely replied to the vulgar address of her neighbor by a distant though polite inclination of her head, before she caught the eyes of Tressayle fixed upon her with a look of mingled inquiry and delight, and as he bowed and stepped forward a slight blush passed over her beautiful cheek, and a scarcely perceptible tremor of the voice might have been detected in replying to his salutation.

That night mother and daughter held a long consultation, the result of which was, that Miss Fletcher might prove a formidable rival, and that therefore no arts were to be omitted to detach the fashionable and wealthy Mr. Tressayle from her suite.

Meanwhile, Tressayle reached his room, and throwing himself abstractedly into a large fautieul, sat for nearly an hour, with his face leaning on his hand. At length he started up, and pacing the room rapidly, exclaimed, as if continuing a train of thought,

“It is no use denying it, Clara Fletcher is far more beautiful than I ever dreamed she could be. Yes! and I once loved her,—at least I told her so. I wonder if she would refuse me now,” and he paused before the glass. “Pshaw! it is idle to think so. True, she is not more than half as wealthy as this inanimate little fool, Miss Belville; but, then, there is the vulgar mother, and coarse father of the latter. Clara has none of these. I never saw their vulgarity so plainly as I did to-night. Ah! I forgot, there is that coldness I showed to Clara when her other uncle disappointed every one’s expectations in omitting her in his will. I’m cursedly afraid she’s not forgotten it. But, then, how could one know she would ever become an heiress? It’s deucedly unlucky, now I think of it, that I never called on her in New York, after my return from Europe. But ‘faint heart never won fair lady;’ and, besides, if Clara ever loved me, as I really think she once did, it’s not so difficult a matter for Henry Tressayle to re-kindle that affection in her bosom. Besides, I’m really making a heroic sacrifice in giving up a fortune twice as large for my old flame.”

From that time Tressayle was almost ever at the side of the beautiful Clara Fletcher. He rode with her, sang with her, danced with her, promenaded with her, and did this too, without a rival, for her former suitor, Mr. Rowley had been compelled to return to New York by business, and few cared to enter the lists against so resistless a beau as Tressayle. Every body declared that they were already affianced lovers, or they soon would be so, except the Belvilles, whose chagrin could not be concealed, and who sneered even at the probability of such a thing.

Tressayle, however, was not so well satisfied with his progress as was the world at large. His knowledge of the sex told him that the conduct of Clara toward him, was not exactly that of one whose affections he had anew engaged. She was too easy, too composed, possessed of too much quiet calmness at all times, not to awaken uneasy suspicions, lest her love was not yet gained. Still, however, she did nothing to shew any distaste for Tressayle’s society, and his own vanity led him on in the pursuit.

Nor was his love any longer a mere matter of calculation to Tressayle. It had become a necessity—it had grown into a passion. If ever he loved a woman, that woman had been Clara Fletcher, and when it had become known that she was not her uncle’s heiress, it was not without a struggle that Tressayle left her. But supremely selfish, and with a fortune impaired by extravagance, he looked at it as an impossibility that he should marry except to an heiress. Now, however, all his old feelings toward Clara were revived, and revived too in ten-fold force. Her fortune was no longer an obstacle. Yes, Tressayle loved; loved for the first time; loved with more than the fervor of which such a man might be thought capable. He could endure his suspense no longer, and determining to propose at once for Clara, he chose for his purpose, an afternoon when they rode out unaccompanied together.

Words cannot describe the eloquence with which the lover—for Tressayle’s talented, though selfish mind, was capable of the highest eloquence—poured forth his passion in the ear of his mistress. But it drew no answering emotion from Clara. A slight blush perhaps tinged her cheek a moment, but her eye calmly looked into his own, and her voice was firm and clear, as she replied,

“Listen to me, Tressayle,” she said. “I am young still, but I was once younger. You remember it well. Then I met you, and—need I disguise it?—you spake to me of love. I know it was but once you said so, but it was after you had paid attention to me which you knew, as well as I, was more eloquent than words. I had never seen one whom I thought your equal, and I loved you. Stay—hear me out. I loved you with all the ardor of a girl’s first love. But how was it returned? While I thought only of you,—while a word from you was my law—while the day seemed gloomy without your presence—while, in short, I gave to you freely every emotion of my heart, you were coolly calculating how much my fortune would be, and preparing, as you subsequently did, to discard me altogether in case I was not my uncle’s heiress—”

“Oh, Clara, Clara, hear me.”

“Yes, Tressayle, but listen first, and then I will hear you. You left me without cause when my uncle’s will was opened and I was found to have been overlooked. I need not tell you the agony of my heart on discovering your character. Let that pass. Reason conquered at last. They say a first love,” continued the beautiful girl, looking at her companion until his eye quailed before the calm dignity of her own, “can never be conquered; but believe me it is a mistake. When the object of that love is unworthy, it is not impossible. And now, Tressayle, you understand me. You are to me as a stranger. Never can I love you again. I am, moreover, the affianced bride of Mr. Rowley.”

Tressayle could not answer a word. Mortification and shame overpowered him, and he was glad when he saw that they were near the termination of their ride.

The first person they met on alighting was Mr. Belville. Ashamed of himself and stung to the very quick, Tressayle took advantage to propose to the millionaire for his daughter.

“Gad, and are you the only ignorant man here of your loss of fortune?” said Mr. Belville, superciliously. “But I forgot the mail came in while you were riding with Miss Fletcher. Good morning, sir.”

Tressayle hurried to his room, opened his letters, and found that the Bank in which he was a large stockholder was broken. In two hours he had left Saratoga.

H. J. V.

A BALLAD.

SUNG BY MRS. WATSON,

THE MUSIC ARRANGED BY S. NELSON.

———

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.