Fact and fiction a collection of stories |
A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN.
Suggested by a well known Anecdote in the Ecolesiastical
History of Eusebius. |
 | Fact and fiction |  |
A LEGEND OF THE APOSTLE JOHN.
Suggested by a well known Anecdote in the Ecolesiastical
History of Eusebius.
Morning rose bright and clear on Ephesus, that
beautiful city of the Ancients, which Pliny calls the
Light of Asia. From the jutting points of lofty rocks
on the mountain sides rose the massive and majestic
pillars of Doric temples, embowered in verdant foliage,
while the lighter and more elegant Ionian shafts shot
up from the plain below, like graceful architectural
flowers. Brilliant sunbeams streamed tremulously
through the porticos, and reflected themselves in golden
gleams on a forest of marble columns. The airy
summits of the mountains smiled in serene glory beneath
the lucid firmament. Troops of graceful swans
and beautiful white sea-doves floated on the sparkling
waters of the Cayster, running joyfully into the bright
bosom of the Ægean. Maidens bearing Etruscan
vases on their heads, went and came from the fountains,
gliding majestically erect among the crowd of
merchants, or the long processions of priests and worshippers.
Here and there, a Roman soldier rode
through the busy streets, his steel trappings and glittering
harness shining in the distance like points of fire.
Strong and deep rolled the sonorous chant of bass
voices from a Jewish synagogue, mingled with the
temple of Diana came up a plaintive strain, a modulated
murmur, as of distant waves rippling to music;
slowly swelling, slowly falling away, floating off in
sweet echoes among the hills. There was a farewell
sadness in this choral hymn, as of a religion passing
away in its calm intellectual beauty, conscious that it
had no adequate voice for the yearnings and aspirations
of the human heart.
And then, as ever, when the want of a more spiritual
faith began to be widely felt, it was already in
existence. From the solemn shadows of Judaism,
the mild form of Christianity had risen, and the Grecian
mind was already preparing to encircle it with
the mystic halo of a golden Platonism.
In the court of an artificer of Ephesus, there met
that day an assembly of converts to the new and despised
faith. Under the shadow of an awning, made
by Paul the tent-maker, they talked together of Jesus,
the holiness of his example, and the wide significance
of his doctrines. It was a season of peculiar interest
to the infant Church; for John, the disciple whom
Jesus especially loved, had just returned from banishment.
He was a man of ninety years, with hair and
beard of silvery whiteness. His serious countenance
beamed with resignation and love; but his high forehead,
earnest eye, and energetic motions, showed
plainly enough that his was not the serenity of a languid
and quiet temperament. Through conflict he
had attained humility and peace. His voice told the
same story; for it was strong, deep, and restrained,
though sweetly toned, and full of musical inflections.
digging in the mines of Patmos. Many eyes were
moistened with tears, as they gazed on his beloved
and venerated countenance; for it brought sad memories
of the hardships he had endured by the cruel orders
of Domitian. He made no allusion to privations
or sufferings, but spoke only of the heavenly
visions, and the indwelling glory, that had been with
him in the Isle of Patmos; how in the darkest mines
the heavens opened, and in the narrowest prisons
angels came and moved the stone walls afar off, so
that he saw them not; and this he urged as proof how
little power man has over a spirit at peace with God.
Of those who hung upon his words, the emotions
of two were especially visible. One was a young
maiden, who sat on a divan at his feet, and leaning on
one arm gazed upwards in his face. She was closely
veiled, but the outlines of her figure, imperfectly revealed
through the ample folds of her rich dress, gave
indication of personal grace. As she bent earnestly
forward, her drapery had fallen back, and showed an
arm of exquisite proportions, its clear soft olive tint
beautifully contrasted by a broad bracelet of gold.
She reclined partially on the shoulder of her old
nurse, who was seated behind her on the same divan.
Both ran great risk in visiting that Christian assembly;
for Miriam's father was the wealthiest Jew in
Ephesus; his was the highest place in the synagogue,
and few of her thousand merchants could count so
many ships. Narrow and bigoted in his own adherence
to forms and traditions, he was the last man on
earth to permit a woman to question them. But the
how little life there was in his solemn observances.
Her nurse, a Galilean by birth, had told marvellous
stories of the holy Nazarene, who had cured her father
of blindness. With strict injunctions of secrecy, she
lent her a copy of St. John's Gospel; and in this the
young enthusiastic girl at once recognised the deeper
and more spiritual teachings for which her sould had
yearned. And so it came that the daughter of a
wealthy house in Ephesus sat at the feet of the apostle,
in the despised assembly of the Christians.
The other person who seemed most remarkably
moved by the inspired eloquence of John, was a young
Greek of superb beauty. His form was vigorous and
finely proportioned. The carriage of his head was
free and proud, and there was intense light in his large
dark eyes, indicating a soul of fire. Indeed his whole
countenance was remarkable for transparency and
mobility of expression. When indignant at tyranny
or insult, he looked like a young war-horse rushing
to battle; but at the voice of tenderness, the dilated
nostril subsided, and the flashing eye was dimmed
with tears.
This constant revelation of soul particularly attracted
the attention of the venerable apostle; for he saw
in it a nature liable to the greatest dangers, and capable
of the highest good. After he had dismissed the
assembly, with his usual paternal benediction, “Little
children, love one another,” he stepped forward, and
laying his hand affectionately on the head of the
young Greek, said, “And thou, my son, art thou too
a Christian?” With emphasis full of feeling, the
Pleased with the earnest humility of this answer, the
apostle drew his arm within his own, and they retired
to an inner apartment to converse together. During
this confidential conversation, the young man made a
full and free revelation of his soul, in all its strength
and weakness. At times, his daring and fiery words
startled the more subdued nature of the meek disciple;
but at the same moment, the crystalline frankness of
his heart excited the warmest and most confiding
affection. From that time, it was observable that the
apostle treated him with more marked tenderness than
he evinced toward any other of his converts. A few
months after, feeling that duty required him to take a
long journey to comfort and strengthen the surrounding
churches of Asia, he called his flock together, and
bade them an affectionate farewell. At parting, he
placed the hand of the young Greek within the hand
of the presiding elder, and said solemnly, “To thy
care I consign my precious, my beloved son, Antiorus.
In the Epicurean gardens he has learned that pleasure
is the only good; from Christians let him learn that
good is the only pleasure. Be to him a father; for
at my return I shall require his soul at thy hands.”
The bishop promised, and the young man wept as he
kissed his venerable friend.
The apostle was gathering his robe about him, and
fastening his girdle, preparing to walk forth, when
Miriam glided timidly before him, saying in a tremulous
tone, “My father, bless me before you go.” She
removed her veil, and stooped to kiss his hand. The
veil dropped again instantly, but the sudden action
beauty. He had no time to analyze the features; but
he saw that her contour was noble, and that her large
almond-shaped eyes, of the darkest brown, were singularly
brilliant, yet deep and serene in their expression.
The tones of her voice, too, thrilled through
his soul; for they were like a silver bell, softening
language into music. For an instant, she caught the
beaming glance of his eye, and an electric spark fell
from it into her heart. Henceforth, each observed the
other's motions, and each was indistinctly conscious
of pervading the other's being. The customs of the
times, combined with her maidenly reserve, rendered
it difficult to form a personal acquaintance. But
Antiorus had a Greek friend, whose dwelling adjoined
the gardens of Miriam's father; and the house of
this friend became singularly attractive to him. Here
he could sometimes catch the sound of her voice, accompanied
by her harp, as she sang to her father the
psalms of David. At last, he ventured to speak to
her, as they left the assembly of the Christians. He
timidly asked her if she would play, on the next Sabbath
evening, the same psalm he had heard on the
preceding Sabbath. She started, and made no answer.
The crimson suffusion of her face he could
not see. But when the Sabbath came, softly on the
evening air arose his favourite psalm, with a deeper
expression, a more sweet solemnity than ever. While
the strings yet vibrated, his Phrygian flute gently answered,
in a simple Grecian air, the utterance of a
soul tender and sad. Tear-drops fell slowly on the
strings of Miriam's harp; but she alone knew that
into the sanctuary of the Jewish maiden. How
dear was now her harp, since his soul had kissed the
winged messengers it sent from hers! Again and
again, harp and flute responded to each other. Their
young hearts were overflowing with new and heavenly
emotions, which music alone could utter. For
music is among the arts what love is among the passions;
a divine mediator between spirit and matter; a
flowery spiral, descending from the highest sanctuary
of the soul into the outer court of the senses, returning
again from the senses to the soul, twining them
together in perpetual bloom and fragrance.
But music has the vagueness of all things infinite;
and they who talked together in tones, earnestly
desired to speak in words. At the Christian
assemblies too strict decorum was observed, to admit
of conversation between them. Into her father's
house he could not gain entrance; or if he did, she
would be carefully secluded from the gaze of a Gentile.
And so at last, by help of the over-indulgent
nurse, there came meetings in the garden, while all
the household slept. Under the dim light of the stars,
they talked of the new faith, which had brought them
together. He loved to disclose to her mind the
moonlight glory of Plato, showing a world of marvelous
beautv in shadowy outline, but fully revealing
nothing. While she, in soft serious tones, spoke of
the Hebrew prophets, complaining that they seemed
like an infinite glow, forever expressing a want they
never satisfied. Beautiful and majestic was their
utterance, but it was not high and deep enough to
clung to the sublime all-embracing doctrines of Christ.
From these high themes, they came gradually to
speak of their affection for each other. There was
no desecration in this mingling of emotions; for genuine
love is as holy as religion; and all round the
circling horizon of our mysterious being, heaven and
earth do kiss each other.
One night, their stolen interview in the garden was
interrupted by a noise on the house-top; and fearing
they were suspected or observed, they resolved to be
more prudent. Weeks passed, therefore, and they
saw each other only at the meetings of the Christians,
rendered doubly precious by the obstacles which elsewhere
separated them. There was another reason
why they thought more of each other's presence, than
they would have done had the good apostle John been
with them. As a deep rich musical voice will sometimes
join itself to a company of timid and wavering
singers, and gradually raise the whole chorus to its
own power and clearness, so the influence of his holy
and living soul elevated the character of every assembly
he joined. With him, something of unction and
fervour had departed from the Christian meetings, and
still more of calm assured faith. More fear of the
world was visible, more anxiety to build up a respectable
name. The lovers felt this, though they had not
distinctly defined it; and being less elevated by the
religious services, their thoughts were more consciously
occupied with each other. But their mutual absorption
passed unobserved; for Miriam was always
closely veiled, and if she dropped a rose, or Antiorus
the watchful and sympathizing nurse. These silent
manifestations of course made the concealed flame
burn all the more fervently. Perpetual separation
was so wearisome, that at last Miriam, in the plenitude
of her love and confidence, granted his urgent
entreaty to walk with him once, only once, in disguise,
when all were sleeping. He had a proposition to
make, he said, and he must have an opportunity to
talk freely with her. In the garb of Greek peasants
they joined each other, and passing through the least
frequented streets, sought the mountains by a solitary
path. In a concealed nook of rock, under the shadow
of broad-leaved trees, they spoke together in agitation
and tears. Love is ever a troubled joy; a semi-tone
changes its brightest strains into plaintive modulations.
Miriam wept, as she told her beloved that they must
part forever. She had come only to tell him so, and
bid him farewell. As yet she had not courage to
confess that she was promised to a wealthy kinsman,
a stern old Pharisee; but her father had told her, that
day, that immediate preparations must be made for
the wedding. The enamoured Greek spoke with fiery
indignation, that her father should dare thus to seal
up the treasures of her large warm gushing heart,
for the sake of preserving wealth in the family. To
her timid suggestion that obedience was due to parents,
he insisted upon a higher obedience to the divine
law in the soul. In such a union as she spoke of, he
said there was positive pollution, which no law or
custom could cleanse; for the heart alone could sanctify
the senses. The maiden bent her head, and felt
sense of degradation whenever the odious marriage
was forced upon her thoughts. He took her hand,
and it trembled within his, while he spoke to her of
flight, of secret marriage, and a hidden home of love
in some far-off Grecian isle. He drew her gently
toward him, and for the first time her lovely head
rested on his bosom. As she looked up fondly and
tearfully in his face, he stooped to kiss her beautiful
lips, which trembling gave an almost imperceptible
pressure in return. Faint and timid as was this first
maiden kiss, it rushed through his system like a
stream of fire. The earthly portion of love proclaimed
ascendency over the soul, and tried him with a
fierce temptation. She loved him, and they were
alone in the midnight. Should he ever be able to
marry her? Might not this stolen and troubled interview
be, as she said, the last? He breathed with
difficulty, his whole frame shook like a tree in the
storm; but she lay on his bosom, as ignorant of the
struggle, as if she had been a sleeping babe. Rebuked
by her unconscious innocence, he said inwardly
to the tempting spirit, “Get thee behind me! Why
strivest thou to lead me into evil?” But the spirit
answered, “The sin is wholly of man's making.
These Christians are too ascetic. The Epicurean
philosophy better agrees with nature.”
The scene seemed to have entered into a league
with the tempting spirit. Nothing interrupted the
drowsy moon-stillness, save the pattering of a little
rill that trickled from the rocks, the amorous cooing
of two ring-doves awake in their nests among the
conversing passionately with the moon. The maiden
herself, saddened by a presentiment, that this bliss
was too perfect to last, and melted into unusual tenderness
by the silent beauty of the night, and the
presence of the beloved one, folded her arm more
caressingly about his waist, till he felt the beating of
her heart. With frantic energy, he pressed his hand
against his throbbing brow, and gazed earnestly into
the clear arch of heaven, as if imploring strength to
aid his higher nature. Again the tempter said, “Thy
Epicurean philosophy was more in harmony with
nature. Pleasure is the only good.” Then he remembered
the parting words of St. John, “Good is
the only pleasure.” A better influence glided into
his soul, and a still small voice within him whispered,
“Thou hast no need to compare philosophies and
creeds, to know whether it be good to dishonour her
who trusts thee, or by thy selfishness to bring a stain
on the pure and persecuted faith of the Christians.
Restore the maiden to her home.” The tempter veiled
his face and turned away, for he felt that the young
man was listening to an angel.
With a calm sad voice, spoke the tempted one, as he
gently and reverently removed the beloved head from
his breast. Taking Miriam by the hand, he led her
out from the deep shadow of the trees, to the little rill
that gurgled near by, and gathering water in his hands,
he offered her to drink. As she stood there in the
moonlight, drinking from his hand, the shadow of the
vines danced across her face, and fluttered gracefully
over the folds of her white dress. At that moment,
an arrow whizzed throgh the air, and with a groan
the maiden fell backward on the arm that was hastily
extended to save her from falling.
They were standing near a portion of Mt. Prion,
whence marble had been dug for the numerous edifices
of the city. It was full of grottoes, with winding
mazes blocked up with fragments of stone. The first
thought of Antiorus was to retreat hastily from the
moonlight that had made them visible, and the next
was to conceal his senseless burden within the recesses
of the grotto, here and there made luminous by fissures
in the rocks. Carefully he drew the arrow from
the wound, and bound it tightly with his mantle. He
gathered water from the dripping cavern, and dashed
it in her face. But his efforts to restore life were unavailing.
Regardless of his own safety, he would
have rushed back to the city and roused his friends,
but he dared not thus compromise the fair fame of
her who had loved him so purely, though so tenderly.
Perhaps the person who aimed the arrow might have
mistaken them for others; at all events, they could
not have been positively known. In a state of agonized
indecision, he stepped to the entrance of the
grotto, and looked and listened. All was still, save
the pattering of water-drops. Presently he heard a
sound, as of feet descending the path from the mountains.
With long strides, he bounded up to meet the
advancing stranger, and with energetic brevity begged
for assistance to convey a wounded maiden to some
place of safety, away from the city. The stranger
said he had companies, who would bring a litter from
The minutes seemed hours to Antiorus, till his return;
for though all hope of restoring the precious life was
well nigh extinct, he felt continual dread of being discovered
by the unseen foe, who had aimed the fatal
arrow. At last, the promised assistance came, and
they slowly ascended the mountain with their mournful
burden. After pursuing a winding rugged path
for some distance, they entered a spacious cavern. A
lamp was burning on a table of rock, and several men
were stretched on the ground sleeping. The litter
was gently lowered, and Antiorus bent in agony over
the senseless form so lately full of life and love. Not
until every means had been tried that ingenuity could
devise, would he believe that her pure and gentle
spirit had passed from its beautiful earthly frame forever.
But when the last ray of hope departed, he
gave himself up to grief so frightfully stormy, that
the rude dwellers in the cave covered their eyes, that
they might not witness the terrible anguish of his
sensitive and powerful soul. In his desperate grief,
he heaped upon himself all manner of reproaches.
Why had he sought her love, when it was almost
sure to end unhappily? Why had he so selfishly
availed himself of her tenderness, when the world
would judge so harshly of the concessions she had
made to love? Then, in the bitterness of his heart,
he cursed the world for its false relations, its barriers
built on selfishness and pride. But soon, in the prostration
of deep humility, he forgave all men, and
blamed only his own over-leaping nature. Through
all his changes of mood, ran the intensely mournful
for thee!”
But it is kindly ordered that human nature cannot
long remain under the influence of extreme
anguish; its very intensity stupifies the soul. When
Antiorus became calm from exhaustion, the man who
had guided him to the mountain spoke in low tones
of the necessity of burial. The mourner listened
with a visible shudder. While he could gaze on her
beautiful face, so placid in the sleep of death, it seemed
as if something remained to him; but when that
should be covered from his gaze forever, oh how fearfully
lonely the earth would seem! By degrees,
however, he was brought to admit the necessity of
separation. He himself gathered green branches for
the litter, and covered it with the fairest flowers. He
cut a braid of her glossy hair, and his tears fell on it
like the spring rain. In a green level space among
the trees, they dug a deep grave, and reverently laid
her within it, in her peasant robes. The doves cooed
in the branches, and a pleasant sound of murmuring
waters came up from the dell below. The mourner
fashioned a large cross, and planted it strongly at the
head of the grave. He sought for the most beautiful
vines, and removing them in large sods, twined them
about the cross. He sobbed himself to sleep on the
mound, and when his companions brought him food,
he ate as though he tasted it not.
The strong ardent nature of the young Greek, his
noble beauty and majestic figure, commanded their
involuntary respect, while the intensity of his sorrow
moved even their slow sympathies. But when several
him concerning his future prospects and intentions.
The subject thus forced upon his reluctant thoughts
was a painful one. He dared not return openly to
Ephesus; for whether his secret interviews with Miriam
had been suspected by her family, or not, her
sudden disappearance, connected with his own, must
of course have given rise to the most unfavourable
rumours. Of the effect on the little community of
Christians, already so unpopular, he thought with exceeding
pain. And these dark suspicious-looking men,
that dwelt in caverns, who were they?
They soon resolved his doubts on this subject; for
their leader said boldly, “We are robbers. You are
in some way implicated in the death of this young
woman, and you dare not return to Ephesus. Remain
with us. We have seen your strength, and we like
your temper. Stay with us, and you shall be our
leader.”
The proposition startled him with its strangeness,
and filled his soul with loathing. He, on whose fair
integrity no stain had ever rested, he become a robber!
He, who had so lately sat at the feet of the holy apostle,
and felt in his inmost heart the blessed influence
of the words, “Love your enemies, do good to them
that hate you”—was it proposed to him to arm himself
against unoffending brethren? Concealing his
abhorrence, by a strong effort, he thanked the robber
for the kindness he had shown him in his great distress,
and promised to repay him for it; but he told
him mildly that his habits and his feelings alike unfitted
him for a life like theirs. He would return to
plans. The men seemed dissatisfied with their
leader's courtesy to the stranger, and grumbled something
about his going to guide the magistrates to their
cavern in the mountains. Antiorus turned proudly
toward them, and with strong convincing earnestness
replied, “You cannot deem me base enough thus to
recompense your kindness.” His voice became lower
and deeper with emotion, as he added, “Reverently
and tenderly you have treated her who sleeps; and
the secret that thus came to my knowledge shall never
be revealed. I would die rather than divulge it.”
The men stood silent, awed by the dignity of his bearing
and the clear truthfulness of his words. After a
slight pause, their leader said, “We believe you; but
there are doubtless those in Ephesus who would pay
a handsome sum to gain tidings from you. You may
keep your secret, if you like; but it cannot be concealed
that you and the beautiful maiden were no
peasants. What if we put the magistrates on your
track?”
Looking him openly and fearlessly in the eye, Antiorus
replied, “Because you have not so lost your
manly nature. A voice within you would forbid you
to persecute one already so crushed and heart-broken.
You will not do it, because I am in your power, and
because I trust you.” This appeal to the manliness
that remained within them, controlled their rough natures,
and the bold frankness of his eyes kindled their
admiration. Clasping his hand with rough cordiality,
the leader said, “We will not inform against you, and
we will trust you to go to Ephesus.” “Let him seal
murmured several voices. The leader folded his arms
across his breast, and answered slowly and proudly,
“The simple word of such a man is more sacred to
him than the most terrible oaths.” The countenance
of the impetuous young Greek became at once illuminated.
Seizing the hand of the robber-captain, he
said, “My friend, you are worthy of a better occupation.”
“Perhaps so,” replied the other, with a deep
sigh; “at least, I thought so once.”
* * * * * * *
Under the shadow of evening, and disguised in
dress, Antiorus ventured to return to Ephesus. The
first house he entered was the one adjoining the gardens,
where he had so often listened to Miriam's
harp. The moment he was recognised, all eyes looked
coldly on him. “Why hast thou come hither?”
said his once friendly host. “Already my house has
been searched for thee, and I am suspected of aiding
thy designs by bringing thee within hearing of the
gardens. Curse on thy imprudence! Were there not
women enough in the streets of Ephesus, that thou
must needs dishonour one of its wealthiest families?”
In former times, the sensitive young man would
have flashed fire at these insulting words; but now
he meekly replied, “You judge me wrongfully. I
loved her purely and reverently.” His friend answered
sarcastically, “Perhaps you learned this smooth
hypocrisy at the meetings of the Christians; for there,
I understand, to my great surprise, it has been your
habit to attend. What name they give to such transactions
I do not care to know. It is enough to say
For a moment a deep flush went over the young
man's expressive countenance, and his eye kindled;
but he turned away, and silently departed; lingering
for a moment with fond reluctance, on the steps of the
terrace he had so often mounted rapidly, buoyant with
love and hope.
With a sorrowful heart, he sought the dwelling of
the Christian elder, to whom St. John had so affectionately
confided him, at parting. As soon as he
made himself known, a severe frown clouded the face
of the bishop. “What impudence has brought thee
hither?” he exclaimed. “Hast thou not sufficiently
disgraced the Church by thy wickedness, without presuming
to disgrace it further by thy presence?”
“You judge me too harshly,” replied the young man,
meekly. “Imprudent I have been, but not wicked.”
“Where hast thou hidden thy paramour?” said the
bishop impatiently. The eyes of the young Greek
glowed like coals of fire, his nostrils expanded, his
lips quivered, his breast heaved, and his hand strongly
clenched the staff on which he leaned. But he constrained
himself, and answered with mournful calmness,
“I have no paramour. She on whose innocent
name you have breathed an epithet so undeserved, has
passed from earth to heaven, pure as the angels who
received her.”
In answer to further inquiries, he frankly repeated
the whole story, not concealing the temptation, which
had so nearly conquered him. In reply, the bishop
informed him that suspicion had been awakened previous
to their imprudent midnight ramble. The attendance
meetings had been discovered; her absence on that
fatal night had been detected; the nurse fled in terror;
the betrothed husband of Miriam went forth madly
into the streets, vowing revenge; her father believed
he had traced the fugitives on board a ship bound to
Athens, whither he had sent spies to discover them.
Whether the Jewish lover had fired the arrow or not,
it was impossible to tell; but should it be known that
Miriam was dead, her death would unquestionably be
charged on Antiorus, and the effect would be to renew
the popular hatred against the Christians, with
redoubled vigour. At present, believing her to be in
Athens, it was the policy of her family to keep the affair
from the public, as much as possible.
Antiorus expressed the utmost contrition for his
imprudence, but averred most solemnly that he had in
no way violated his conscience, or his Christian obligations.
He begged the bishop for credentials to some
distant Christian Church, where by a life of humility
and prayer, he might make himself ready to rejoin
his beloved Miriam.
The bishop, vexed at an affair so likely to bring
discredit on his own watchfulness, listened coldly, and
replied, “For the prosperity of the Church, it is very
necessary to obtain and preserve a good name. We
must avoid the appearance of evil. Appearances are
very much against you. You are young and of fiery
blood. You have been an Epicurean, whose doctrines
favour unbridled pleasure. You say that your
love for this maiden was pure; but what proof have
we, save your own word?” Antiorus raised his head
more is needed? Have I ever spoken falsely to
friend or foe?” “I know not,” answered the bishop.
“Young men do not usually decoy maidens into hidden
grottoes, at midnight, for purposes as pure as the
angels.”
Alas, for his less noble nature! He knew not the
value of the warm heart he was thus turning to gall.
The young man bent upon him a most intense and
searching gaze. He thought of that fearfully strong
temptation in the lonely midnight hour; of his extreme
reluctance to bring suspicion on the character
of the Christian Church; of his conquest over himself;
of his reverential love for the pure maiden; of
his virtuous resolutions, and his holy aspirations. He
had opened his whole heart to this father of the
Church, and thus it had been received! Would
Christ have thus weighed the respectability of the
Church against the salvation of a human soul? Were
these beautiful doctrines of love and forgiveness mere
idle theories? Mere texts for fine speeches and eloquent
epistles? A disbelief in all principles, a distrust
of all men, took possession of him. With a deep
sigh, he gathered his robe about him and departed.
He walked hastily, as if to run away from his own
mad thoughts. Ascending an eminence, he paused
and looked back on the city, its white columns dimly
visible in the starlight. “There is no one there to
love me,” said he. “I am an orphan; no mother or
sister to comfort my aching heart. I have had great
projects, great hopes, sublime aspirations; but that is
all over now. No matter what becomes of me. I
they at least believed me.”
He was received in the mountain cavern with an
uproarious burst of joy. They drank wine and caroused,
and with loud acclamations proclaimed him
king of their band. His heart was sick within him,
but with wild desperation, he drank to their pledge.
That night, when all the riotous crew were sleeping,
he stole forth into the midnight, and stood alone on
the mountain side, gazing mournfully upon the stars,
that looked down upon him with solemn love. Then
tossing his arms wildly above his head, he threw himself
on the ground with a mighty sob, exclaiming,
“Oh, if she had but lived, her pure and gentle spirit
would have saved me!”
Hark! Is that a faint whispering of music in the
air? Or is it memory's echo of Miriam's psalm?
Now it dies away in so sad a cadence—and now it
rises, full of victory. It has passed into his heart;
and spite of recklessness and sin, it will keep there a
nestling-place for holiness and love.
* * * * *
When the apostle John returned to Ephesus, his
first inquiry of the bishop was, “Where is the beloved
son I committed to thy charge?” The elder, looking
down, replied, with some embarrassment, “He is
dead!” “Dead!” exclaimed the apostle, “How did
he die?” The elder answered with a sigh, “He is
dead in trespasses and sins. He became dissolute,
was led away by evil companions, and it is said he is
now captain of a band of robbers in yonder mountains.”
With a voice full of sorrowful reproach, the
cared for the precious soul that Christ and I committed
to thy charge? Bring me a horse and a guide to
the mountains. I will go to my erring son.” “I pray
you do not attempt it,” exclaimed the elder. “You
will be seized by the robbers and perhaps murdered.”
“Hinder me not,” replied the venerable man. “If
need be, I will gladly die to save his soul, even as
Christ died for us. I will go to my son; perchance
he will listen to me.”
They brought him a horse, and he rode to the
mountains. While searching for the cavern, one of
the robbers came up and seized him rudely, exclaiming,
“Who art thou, old man? Come before our
captain, and declare thy business.”
“For that purpose I came hither,” replied the
apostle. “Bring me to your captain.”
Antiorus, hearing the sound of voices, stepped
forth from the mouth of the cavern; but when he
saw John, he covered his face and turned quickly
away. The apostle ran toward him with outstretched
arms, exclaiming, “Why dost thou fly from me, my
son? From me, an old unarmed man? Thou art
dear to me, my son. I will pray for thee. If need
be, I will die for thee. Oh, trust to me; for Christ
has sent me to thee, to speak of hope, forgiveness,
and salvation.”
Antiorus stood with his face covered, and his strong
frame shook in his armour. But when he heard the
words forgiveness and hope, he fell on the ground,
embraced the old man's knees, and wept like a child.
The apostle laid his hand affectionately on that noble
thou art baptized again, my dear son—baptized in thy
tears. The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The
Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace.”
After speaking together for a few moments, they
retired to Miriam's grave, and there the young man
laid open all his sinning and suffering heart. In conclusion,
he said, “There seems ever to be within me
two natures; one for good, and one for evil.” “It is
even thus with us all,” replied the apostle. “But
thou, my father,” rejoined Antiorus, “thou canst not
imagine how I have sinned, or what I have resisted.
Thy blood flows so calmly. Thou art too pure and
holy to be tempted as I have been.”
“Hush, hush, I pray thee, my son,” replied the
apostle. “How I have struggled is known only to
Him who seeth all the secrets of the heart. Because
my blood has not always flowed so calmly, therefore,
my son, have I been peculiarly drawn toward thee in
the bonds of pity and of sympathy. Thy wild ambition,
thy impetuous anger, are no strangers in my
own experience; and that midnight temptation so
brought back a scene of my youth, that it seemed
almost like a page of my own history.” “Of thine!”
exclaimed the young man, with an accent of strong
surprise. In a voice low and tender, he added, “Then
thou hast loved?” The white-haired man bowed his
head upon his hands, and with strong emotion answered,
“Oh, how deeply, how tenderly.”
There was silence for some moments, interrupted
only by the quiet lullaby of the waters, rippling in the
said, in a low reverential tone, “Does love end here,
my father? Shall we know our loved ones among
the angels of heaven? Do they witness our conflicts?
Do they rejoice over our victories?”
Hark! Is that music in the air? Or is it a memory
of the psalm? How distinctly it swells forth in joy,
how sweetly it breathes of love and peace! The listener
smiles; for he seems to hear a harp in the heavens.
The two beautiful ones, the young and the old, stand
with clasped hands, looking upward into the sky.
The countenance of the apostle was radiant with
spiritual light, as he said, “Let us believe and hope.”
They knelt down, embracing each other, and offered
a silent prayer, in the name of him who had brought
immortality to light.
Antiorus bade his wild comrades farewell, with exhortations,
to which the apostle added words that were
blessed in their gentleness; for the former leader of
the band turned from the evil of his ways, and became
a zealous Christian. The young Greek went to the
church in Corinth, bearing affectionate credentials from
the beloved apostle. Many years after, hearing that
the family of Miriam had gone to a Syrian city, he
returned to Ephesus. The cross had been removed
from the mountain, but he planted another on the well-remembered
spot. Near by, he built a little cabin of
boughs, where an opening in the thick groves gave
glimpses of the marble columns of Ephesus, and the
harbour of Panormous sparkling in the sun. Many
came to talk with him concerning the doctrines of
Plato, and the new truths taught by Jesus. He received
mixed not with the world, except to visit the sick and
suffering, or to meet with the increasing band of Christians
in the plain below. He was an old man when
he died. The name of Miriam had not passed his lips
for many years; but when they buried him beside the
mountain cross, they found a ringlet of black hair in
a little ivory casement next his heart.
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