My Sallust--"non sum qualis eram"--I am not what I was! The events of my life have sobered the bounding blood of my youth. My health has never quite recovered its wonted elasticity ere it felt the pangs of disease, and languished in the damps of a criminal's dungeon. My mind has never shaken off the dark shadow of the Last Day of Pompeii--the horror and the desolation of that awful ruin!--Our beloved, our remembered Nydia! I have reared a tomb to her shade, and I see it every day from the window of my study. It keeps alive in me a tender recollection--a not unpleasing sadness--which are but a fitting homage to her fidelity, and the mysteriousness of her early death. Ione gathers the flowers, but my own hand wreathes them daily around the tomb. She was worthy of a tomb in Athens!
'You speak of the growing sect of the Christians in Rome. Sallust, to you Imay confide my secret; I have pondered much over that faith--I have adopted it. After the destruction of Pompeii, I met once more with Olinthus--saved, alas! only for a day, and falling afterwards a martyr to the indomitable energy of his zeal. In my preservation from the lion and the earthquake he taught me to behold the hand of the unknown God! Ilistened--believed--adored! My own, my more than ever beloved Ione, has also embraced the creed!--a creed, Sallust, which, shedding light over this world, gathers its concentrated glory, like a sunset, over the next! We know that we are united in the soul, as in the flesh, for ever and for ever!
Ages may roll on, our very dust be dissolved, the earth shrivelled like a scroll; but round and round the circle of eternity rolls the wheel of life--imperishable--unceasing! And as the earth from the sun, so immortality drinks happiness from virtue, which is the smile upon the face of God! Visit me, then, Sallust; bring with you the learned scrolls of Epicurus, Pythagoras, Diogenes; arm yourself for defeat; and let us, amidst the groves of Academus, dispute, under a surer guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty problem of the true ends of life and the nature of the soul.
'Ione--at that name my heart yet beats!--Ione is by my side as I write: Ilift my eyes, and meet her smile. The sunlight quivers over Hymettus: and along my garden I hear the hum of the summer bees. Am I happy, ask you?
Oh, what can Rome give me equal to what I possess at Athens? Here, everything awakens the soul and inspires the affections--the trees, the waters, the hills, the skies, are those of Athens!--fair, though mourning-mother of the Poetry and the Wisdom of the World. In my hall I see the marble faces of my ancestors. In the Ceramicus, I survey their tombs!
In the streets, I behold the hand of Phidias and the soul of Pericles.
Harmodius, Aristogiton--they are everywhere--but in our hearts!--in mine, at least, they shall not perish! If anything can make me forget that I am an Athenian and not free, it is partly the soothing--the love--watchful, vivid, sleepless--of Ione--a love that has taken a new sentiment in our new creed--a love which none of our poets, beautiful though they be, had shadowed forth in description; for mingled with religion, it partakes of religion; it is blended with pure and unworldly thoughts; it is that which we may hope to carry through eternity, and keep, therefore, white and unsullied, that we may not blush to confess it to our God! This is the true type of the dark fable of our Grecian Eros and Psyche--it is, in truth, the soul asleep in the arms of love. And if this, our love, support me partly against the fever of the desire for freedom, my religion supports me more;for whenever I would grasp the sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new Marathon (but Marathon without victory), I feel my despair at the chilling thought of my country's impotence--the crushing weight of the Roman yoke, comforted, at least, by the thought that earth is but the beginning of life--that the glory of a few years matters little in the vast space of eternity--that there is no perfect freedom till the chains of clay fall from the soul, and all space, all time, become its heritage and domain. Yet, Sallust, some mixture of the soft Greek blood still mingles with my faith.
