Chapter VI (3)

Demetros, as he listens to the cries of the victors, detects the accents of his native Greek. Joyous he reassures the maiden, trembling before at the power of the Brahmins, and now equally shrinking from the shouts of friends—for how knows she that she shall not be torn from her lover and delivered up to the lusts of a brutal soldiery? And even if she gains unharmed the presence of the king, may he not refuse to release or preserve her? The tumult approaches nearer—the curtains are torn rudely open by bloody hands, and the trembling pair are saved from the hands of the spoilers by a taxiarch who chances to be passing, and by him they are conducted into the presence of Alexander. The hero stood refreshing himself with wine, from the hands of the attendants, after the fatigues of the battle. Still young and small in stature, the conqueror did not evince by his general mien the genius that burned within him; his face, however, showed the marks of a sprightly disposition and of great determination, although marred by the traces of excessive drinking. Alexander was not at this period so wholly sunk in sensuality as to be incapable of an occasional act of justice, even where the supplicant was a beautiful woman. Convinced of the truth of their statements by the answers of Demetros and by his Grecian look, he promises them a return to Athens in the fleet.

All their trials, as they fondly believe, now over, they prepare for the voyage and journey to Greece. Why was it that Ganga could not share entirely in the joy of Demetros? He was but returning to his native soil, revisiting the scenes of his childhood—for him his country’s gods prepared the welcome home—he had been absent on a weary pilgrimage and now brought back one jewel, one precious treasure, for so he thought as he gazed on the lovey maiden, to the paternal hearth. What though the vestal flame of affection had been extinguished in the death of his relatives, and the hearth-stone of his race had become cold from neglect—he now brought a fresh, warm heat to re-enkindle the sacred fire which he fondly hoped would burn with ever increasing brilliancy, and unite their hearts with ever increasing warmth of affection. But she, born under the burning sun of India, ever associated the name of fire with the glowing pyre of sacrifice—she must leave her native land in which, alas! she has no bonds of affection, no ties of sympathy, save the pleasing remembrance of her innocent childhood in the wilderness, and the kind old man, her real parent, who was now no more. She could not avoid the comparison between the natural beauties of her tropic forests and the artificial embellishments of more northern Greece. Were the flowers as fragrant, the moonbeams as soft? Did the birds sing as sweetly, the streams flow as pure there as in her father-land? In vain, Demetros, you talk to the untutored child of Nature, whose poetry, whose life and happiness consist in Nature’s beauties, of the splendors of the great Attic city, the magnificence of its edifices, or the wisdom and the eloquence of its children. Will those ravishing strains of music with which the Greeks are amused at their luxurious banquets, sound as sweet to the ear of the exile as the murmuring breeze of the morning and the droning wings of the humming-bird? Can the waters of the scented bath be as pure, as limpid and refreshing as the stream of the matronly Ganges? Can the ornate roofs of the _Coutron_ be as pleasing to the eye of the bather as the vault of a tropic sky when half-seen and half-concealed by the branches thickly interwoven of the luxuriant tropic forest? And if you mourn the loss of a friend, you may at least visit and strew flowers upon his tomb, and thus derive a sadly sweet consolation. But the Indian girl must yearn in vain for the graves of her fathers—and standing on the Grecian strand, she gazes with wistful eyes over the blue sea’s _margent_ where repose the remains of Nikaiyah, the waves will bring to her sighs only hoarse tones roaring back.

And yet, what had she to wait for or to love in India? Were there not cruel priests thirsting for her blood, urged on by what they believed the voice of the gods? Besides, as her ripened intellect began to unfold in maturity, she feels those affections and aspirations peculiar to every female heart, more and more enlarged and developed, she conceives a passion, softened by the most maidenly modesty, for the noble youth who has twice rescued her from death; once from the monster while she was bathing on the coast of the Elephantine isle, and once from the glowing funereal pyre where smouldered the limbs of Nikaiyah, and who now affording her every proof of affection, offers her an asylum in his native land. These conflicting emotions disturb the heart of Ganga. But the stern voice of fate gave her but one choice—death in India or life in Greece. Nature, the love of life, prevails, and they depart for their northerly journey.

It was nearly sunset when, after following for nine months the course of the conquering Alexander down the mighty Indus, they reached the sea-shore, where eight hundred galleys and boats were, under the command of Nearchus, about to coast the southern borders on their homeward voyage, and enter the mouth of the Euphrates to join the conqueror at Babylon, where his career was to be disgracefully closed.

The rocking tide, strong at this point from the influx of the Indus, bore upon its broad bosom the fleet of the Greeks, reflecting from its glowing surface the numerous ensigns of the various chiefs. Here were the lofty _triremes_, the men-of-war, whose progress through the water was effected by oars alone—while from their bows projected the _émbola_ or hostile beaks, the iron-sheathed prows which often transfixed the vessels of the enemy—corresponding to the Roman _rostra_, which, when captured, adorned the stand of the orator as well-earned trophies. Here, too, were the lower, flat-bottomed transports, or merchant-men, who, lacking the numerous oars of the many-banked war ships, accelerated their sluggish course by sails. Here the _cheniskos_, the carved goose upon the bows, floated in its native element, seemingly in advance and the guide of the following vessel. At the bows and stern were sheltering decks; in the open centre, tier above tier, rose the seats of the laborious rowers, increasing in number as the greater height and longer sweep of the oars required more hands to control them. Here were distinct, the laboring oars-men, the officers, the sailors proper, and the marines, who were cased in heavier armor than the infantry. Demetros and Ganga, embarked in a transport, stood upon the prow watching the quiet progress of the fleet. Immediately in front of them was a vessel, whose loftiness and numerous banks of oars would have sufficiently indicated its warlike character without the distinguishing mark of the brazen helmet which gleamed at the mast-head. The sides were protected by walls of hide, designed to shelter the combatants in battle from the missiles of the enemy—the sharp beak of metal cut with scarce visible ripple through the water—the sides were painted with gay colors—the _parasemon_, the figure-head, carved upon the bow representing the threatening fangs of a serpent—behind, rose the lofty stern, and on it was sculptured the guardian image, the tutelar deity of the ship. Here the carved _Poseidon_ the Grecian Neptune, god of the whole expanse of ocean, rose as it were from his watery abode, which sparkled in the wake of the vessel beneath him. The shaggy monarch, with beard as coarse as the _algae_ of his native waters, drawn, with upright trident, in his sea-shell car, coursed over the foaming breakers, his stern visage softened by the presence of the lovely Aphrodite (Venus,) her name representing her birth (_Aphros_—from the foam of the sea.) Attendant _Eros_, with fatal quiver, nestles beside her, and with loosened cestus she guides by her charms the will of the aquatic king. Tritons and nymphs sport gayly in their train. To him the mariner sacrifices, for

“——Where’er he guides
His finny coursers, and in triumph rides,
The waves unruffle and the sea subsides.”

The fugitives as they stand gazing upon the fair scene converse of these old Hellenic _myths_, and talk of the power of Zeno, who is the Grecian Brahma. No sound is now heard but the soft breeze upon the water and the measured sweep of the oars, keeping time with monotonous beat to the song of the _trieraules_, the ship’s musician, as he encourages the rowers with the old legends of the Trojan war, as narrated by the prince of bards, the blind Chian, Homer, ever the favorite of Alexander. The plashing oars respond and chime with

“Achilles’ wrath to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered.”

Chime with the Ilian chant of the “crest-waving Hector,” and “Ares the sacker of cities.”

Absorbed in the charm of the harmony and the soft Grecian rhythm, they stand intent and heed not the passage of time until a silvery light recalls their attention to the rear, and there, beyond the bright track of the moonbeams, appear the low shores and forests of India, dim in the distance, fast sinking beneath the horizon.

* * * * *

“——————————Behold
Where on the Ægean shore a city stands,
Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil;
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence————
See there the olive grove of Academe,
Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There flowery hill Hymethus with the sound
Of bees’ industrious murmur, oft invites
To studious musing;——————
——————Within the walls then view
The schools of ancient sages; his who bred
Great Alexander to subdue the world.
Thence what the lofty, grave tragedians taught,
High actions and high passions best describing.
Thence to the famous orators repair,
Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democracy,
Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece.
To sage philosophy next lend thine ear,
From heaven descended to the low-roofed house
Of Socrates; see there his tenement,
Whom well-inspired the oracle pronounced
Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools
Of Academics old and new——————.”

* * * * *

It is the 15th of the month Bœdromion, when commence the Eleusinian Mysteries—the greater mysteries celebrated alone in the city of Cecrops—those sacred rites founded by Demeter herself (the Grecian Ceres) when wandering in long search for her daughter Persephone, she was kindly received and entertained in Attica, when she rewarded their hospitality by giving them the fruits of the earth, and these holiest and noblest institutions of the Hellenic religion. What parent bends to take a farewell of his wife and child ere he departs to perform his duties of _dadouchos_, or torch-bearer, to whom alone it was permitted to marry? The golden-hair of the Grecian father mingles with the dark locks of the woman and her son as they unite in the parting embrace. She is not of the _Autocthones_, no child of the soil, or she would join her husband in the initiation. Far other rites has she early bowed to in the flowering forests of India—these she has changed for Grecian faith, but yet yearns for something purer—may she not hope for it? Faith ever rules all hearts more or less, and often most the weakest—thus to the most erring child of earth is given return and repentance—thus to the feeblest soul the sublimest trust is granted. Will not Demetros “point to other worlds and show the way” for Ganga?

Curious the mother and the delighted child have watched day by day the progress of the Eleusinian, observed during the nine days festival, Demetros leading the procession. That first night he had entered the holy of holies—that mystic temple he had entered crowned with myrtle—there, pure and cleansed from sin, washed with holy water, he had listened to the reading, the exposition of the holy mysteries, from the rigid leaves of the stone volume which contained the divine inspiration—then followed the long processions in which the child might one day join, but never the foreign mother—the pilgrimage to the sea-shore for purification—the fasting and sacrifice—the sacred procession with baskets of pomegranates and poppy-seeds, borne on a wagon drawn by oxen—the torch procession to the temple at Eleusis—the bearing of the image of Jachus, the son of Demeter, and on the night of the sixth day the final initiation, the entrance into the lighted sanctuary, where they beheld what was permitted to no other eyes. But why cannot the mother share in the Dionysiac festival, the nocturnal orgies of Bacchus? Educated under the stern rule of temperate Brahmins, this principle of continence would be alone sufficient to restrain her, where she not also withheld by that innate modesty which belongs to every child of nature.

It is evening, and two persons recline in the cool shade on the summit of Mount Anchesmus, near the temple of Jupiter. A child sports round them occasionally, withdrawing their attention from the contemplation of the red-tinged top of the _Acropolis_, the silver stream of the Ilissus, the murmuring Cephissus and the maritime port of Piræus, where the waves of the Ægean mingle their solemn roar with the hymns of the sailors, the buzz of the populous city, and the strains of the tortoise-formed lyre.

The sun is slowly sinking in the west, with the clear radiance peculiar to happy Greece, but, as it seems to the mother, with less majesty than when it dipped its burning orb, as into Lethe’s wave, in the lotus-filled waters of the Ganges. Solemnly they converse of their happy youth when all things to come wore ever brightening hues, when future deeds surrounded them like the stars now emerging countless from the night. And now the _aulic_ tones whisper softly in the ether around them, filling all things with sweet melody, and catching the ear of the listening child; recalling to Demetros the period of infancy, when in like manner at eventide he had raised his head from the lap of his mother; to Ganga the time when, in the protecting arms of Nikaiyah, she had hearkened to the notes of the Indian nightingales.

Sadly Ganga speaks of them as those she shall never behold. Hopefully the Eleusinian priest unfolds his faith in immortality—pure and sweet fell his words on her mind, when divested of Brahmin superstition, as the placid moonbeams now silvering his golden locks and kissing the brow of the sleeping infant. Here was no hideous transmigration to pass through atoning, but all was clear and blessed as the innocent period of childhood—there, where the starry points showed glimpses of the radiant heaven, they would rejoin, in the happy company of the gods, their friends now made immortal. There, as true Olympians, enjoy the happiness of the blessed.

Their prophetic eyes seem to behold in the misty future the deified reclining, on the golden-clouds which cap the hill of Musaeus. Silently descend the shades of evening on the city of Athens, and on the pair as they muse on the mount by the temple of Jupiter.

* * * * *

Centuries have passed since the times of Elephantum and Eleusis. The “eye of Greece” now desolate, still courts the shade of Hymethus—the suns rise and set no more on the home of the Arts and the Muses—no longer gild the morning rays a glittering _Acropolis_—no longer chime the _aulic_ notes with the song of the Chian-Homer. Still wanders the Brahmin, no longer at Elephantum, in India’s groves alone, unchanged amid the changing scenes around him. Still flows the Ganges, the mightiest of eastern waters.

* * * * *

=MEMORY’S CONSOLATION.=

=BY W. W. HARNEY.=

When the beauteous rose of morning
Wears her diadem of dew,
And the foot-print of the zephyr
Rests upon the waters blue;
When the moon is softly waning
’Neath the morrow’s ruddy light,
And the cool breath of the morning
Fans the jeweled brow of night;

When the maiden morning blushes,
As it wakens from repose,
And the jealous zephyr brushes
Off the dew kiss from the rose,
Then I watch the starbeams fading,
As the light comes up the sky,
Until with the morn they whisper
That the loved one still is nigh.

When the god of day is shining
As it rides a car of light,
When the glory of the mid-day
Wears a crown of purest white—
When a train of breathing flowers
With their incense load the air,
And the breath from southern valleys
Tell of all things bright and fair;

When the snowy clouds are floating
In the summer’s sunny sheen,
And the splendor of the mid-day
Adds a glory to the scene—
Then I wander sad and lonely
’Mid the beautiful and fair,
For my soul is still with Mary,
And I feel her spirit there.

When the gentle hour of evening
Wears her robe of blue and gold,
And the castles, plains and valleys
Are in airy clouds unrolled;
When the night-birds trim their plumage,
And the flowers meet the dew—
When the moonbeam greets the sunset
In her home of crimson hue—

When the sunset and the moonlight
Are commingled into one,
Like to molten gold and crimson,
When the gorgeous day is done—
Then I think ’t is heaven’s portals
Brightly glowing in the west,
And my lost one seems to beckon
To the regions of the blest.

When the cold and fearful midnight
Wears her coronet of jet,
And a jeweled veil of darkness
Round the form of earth has met—
Or the frowning clouds are tossing
The disheveled hair of night,
And the angry lightning flashes
With a fitful, fearful light—

When the night is dark and stormy
As the passions of the soul,
And the knell of fleeted glories
Echoes in the thunder’s roll;
When the lurid lightning flashes
With its angry light above,
It is naught I see beyond it
To my lost, my early love.

* * * * *

=WE LAID HER DOWN TO REST.=

=BY C. C. BUTLER.=

The summer winds were lightly strung,
The golden eve drew near,
The gentle zephyrs sweetly sung,
To call from us a tear;
Oh! sadly sweet that mournful strain
That called her to the blest,
As ’neath the green and fertile plain
We laid her down to rest.

The smile of love that rested there
Upon her blooming cheek,
Doth shine in that bright world of prayer,
Where angels only speak.
We look to see that face in vain—
That gentle heaving breast—
But ’neath the green and fertile plain
We laid her down to rest.

That gentle voice is hushed in death—
She closed her weary eyes—
While angels watched the parting breath,
And took her to the skies.
Yes! Death, to break the golden chain,
Appeared a welcome guest—
And ’neath the green and fertile plain
We laid her down to rest.

* * * * *

=THE PEDANT:=

=OR CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE SPENT PARTLY IN CAROLINA.=

=BY HENRY HOLM, ESQ.=

(_Concluded from page 167._)