I was shocked by the horrible details of the persecution which the Christian world had suffered from the detestable Nero; and of the crucifixion of Peter, the murder of Paul and the martyrdom of many prominent disciples. What Lelius had begun at the private instigation of a sorcerer on the little stage of Antioch, too insignificant for historical notice, had been repeated by the butcher of Rome on the theatre of the world.

During this terrible persecution my sisters had been driven from Marseilles. Flying for their lives, they reached the bleak and distant shores of Britain. There they planted the gospel banner and preached Christ to the pagan natives. There they were still living at the last accounts, lights in the darkness, warmth in the coldness around them.

Mary Magdalen had refused to fly from the Roman tyrants. Roused to a wild pitch of religious enthusiasm by the atrocities perpetrated upon her fellow-Christians, she rushed defiantly into the presence of the heathen officers and demanded the pleasure and the glory of dying for the name of Christ. Seeking martyrdom, she escaped it. Astounded at this eloquent and brave woman with disheveled hair and face flashing a wild spiritual light, the persecutors pronounced her mad, and refused to put her to death.

She retired to a mountain in Spain and occupied a cave overlooking the sea. There she lived in solitude and prayer, wearing out soul and body in contrition for the sins of her early youth. Her sanctity and power of healing were so great, that many pilgrims came from remote places to receive her benediction or be healed by her touch.

Helena, the beautiful syren from whom my soul had so narrowly escaped, deserted Simon for Lelius, and Lelius for some Roman general, and this last for a low favorite of Caligula. She was finally swallowed up in that hideous whirlpool of Roman life, which was kept in motion by the unbridled passions of male and female monsters, such as the world has rarely seen.

Simon Magus had been driven from Antioch at the instigation of Helena, who had unbounded control over the Roman legate. He retired into Samaria, where he acquired great power and fame by his magic and sorceries. Thousands of people in that rude country admitted his claim to divine power. It was there that he came into contact with the disciples of Christ.

He did not attribute these singular changes to the right cause. He believed that Jesus was only a magician more powerful than any or all others—one who, by some mysterious method had monopolized the subtle forces of spirit over matter. He therefore came to the disciples of Jesus, and was baptized into the Church. When he thought he had sufficiently ingratiated himself with the apostles, he offered them a large sum of money for the magical secret by which they healed the sick and raised the dead.

Peter answered him indignantly:

“Thy money perish with thee, because thou hast thought that the gift of God may be purchased with money!”

After that exposure he went to Rome, where his magical powers seemed to revive in the infernal atmosphere of that wicked city. His conduct became more and more eccentric, insolent and presumptuous. He was clearly obsessed by devils. He manifested great aversion to the name of Christ, and professed to repeat all of his miracles with the greatest ease. He announced in the height of his madness, that he would ascend to heaven with a chariot and horses on a certain day. The amphitheatre was crowded to suffocation. It was said that he rose about forty feet in the air, when his chariot and horses fell back into the arena and crushed him to death.

I had never known the earthly heaven of home and wife and child. I had no country; no resting place; for little Bethany also was laid in ashes. My old friends and my old enemies were dead. The little church to which I belonged in heart, was the feeblest of all religious powers; and even that would have repudiated and expelled me on a full declaration of my faith. The most advanced man in the world, I was the most desolate.

My face, my thoughts, my heart turned fondly to Britain. The last time I beheld my sisters was on that eventful night in Bethany, when they gave the supper to Jesus, and when Mary unwittingly anointed him for his burial. I must see them again! It was a long, dangerous, desolate journey for a poor old man to make alone. But my sisters called to me at evening from the golden shadows of the west, and beckoned to me in the night through the twinkling of the northern stars.

I sailed from Antioch to Rome. Not a Christian cared enough for the old man with heretical opinions, to pay a friendly visit or give a kindly farewell to him whom Christ had raised from the dead. As the ship passed close to one of the great piers, some old convicts who were working upon it recognized me and waved me a hearty good-bye. With tears in my eyes I kissed my hand to my only friends in the world.

To my great surprise and pleasure, this disciple whom Jesus loved, and to whose care he committed his mother, agreed with almost everything I had to say. He broke the seal I had imposed upon my lips; for he had a sacred thirst for spiritual knowledge which I felt constrained to gratify. He received my doctrines of the resurrection of the spiritual instead of the natural body, of judgments in the spiritual and not in the natural world, and the grand central truth of all truths—the supreme divinity and absolute fatherhood of Jesus Christ.

John regretted deeply the dissensions which had already distressed the little Church, and foresaw the errors which would probably arise from certain dubious phrases and unwarranted doctrines which had crept into its theology. My whole story, he said, was so beautiful that it ought to be true; and if true, it certainly ought to be beautiful.

Thus John endorsed the very teachings for which Paul thought me insane!

Just as I was starting for Britain, news was brought from that cold region which rendered my journey unnecessary.

My sisters were dead!

Conjoined in their lives! united in their death!

Beautiful spirits, clad always in virgin white! Brides of Christ! Twin-stars of heaven! Farewell!—until this old body also shall drop into the dust, and the strong bond of spiritual affinity shall draw us together again, and bind us, to each other for ever!

John, the beloved disciple, was only visiting Rome. He lived at Ephesus. He now entreated me to accompany him home and spend the remnant of my days in the peaceful shade of his humble cottage. I thanked him warmly, but declined his invitation. There was one more person upon earth whom I felt a strong desire to see. That person was Mary Magdalen, the last link which connected me with the past. The hunger of an old man’s heart for home and friends, for sympathy and love, was reduced to this. It was all that was left me.

My feelings toward Mary Magdalen had become clearly defined in the last ten years of my captivity. The sad things of the past were buried and forgotten. I had outlived, outgrown the self-righteous conceit that I was better than she. Yea, I had discovered that she was far better than I. I was thoroughly ashamed of the neglect, almost amounting to scorn, with which I had treated her in my youth. Her grand devotion to the cause of Christ, her fiery zeal, her contrition, her penances, her humility, her self-sacrifice, her solitude, haunted my imagination. The martyrdom of her life was continually before me.

I resolved to make a pilgrimage to her shrine; for I now regarded her as the saint and myself as the repentant sinner. I would not mention love to a heart so sorely stricken with the wounds of conscience and the sorrows of life. I would tell her nothing. I would leave all that to the revealing light of the spiritual world, which was now so near us both.

I would merely see her and weep with her over the old, sweet memories of Jesus and Martha and Mary. I would live near her. I would work for her, without her knowledge. I would make her comfortable without her seeing whence it came. I would visit her in sickness. I would close her eyes in death. All the rest should be buried deep, deep in the recesses of a heart which had not grown old.

I reached Marseilles and surveyed with silent grief the ashes of the convent my sisters had built. I employed a snug little boat and coasted along, west and south-west, until we reached the shores of Spain, where the spurs of the Pyrenees jut out into the Great Sea.

Landing at a little village, I was directed to a considerable mountain near by. I made the ascent before the heat of the day. The path made a sudden turn from a crag which stood a thousand feet above the water; and I found myself at the dark mouth of a cave. Near the entrance, on the right, was a wooden cross planted in a little bed of violets, wildly overgrown. The sky was clear and beautiful. A perfect silence reigned around. My heart throbbed as I approached the last earthly home of the friend of my sisters.

In that dim and damp and empty cavern, lay a human body, stretched upon a couch of stone. It was clad in rusty black, with a black veil thrown over the face. She had been long, long dead; for the feet which protruded from her robe were bones and not feet. A scourge of leather thongs had fallen from her hands. Engraven deeply in the moist rock of the wall, just above her prostrate figure, was the single word,

Magdalen.

I advanced no nearer. I knelt in prayer. I did not weep. He who has lived in both worlds, cannot be greatly stirred by the mutations of this. I turned away, thinking of our beautiful house in the heavens, and sighing to myself,

“It is well! It is well!”

My heart now turned to John. I sailed from Marseilles, bound for Alexandria, where I expected to take ship for Ephesus. We never reached Alexandria. After we passed the island of Sicily a series of terrible storms commenced, and our little vessel was driven about like a feather on the sea. Our hardships were great, and our labor in vain. After many days our vessel sprang a leak, and we were compelled to abandon her, or go to the bottom with her. Our boat stood bravely for the shore, where some lofty mountains loomed up through the night air. We were capsized, and I lost consciousness. When I recovered my senses it was daylight. The little boat was beached quite near me. My companions were all drowned. I was utterly alone.

I was wrecked at the foot of the western range of Mount Lebanon, on the coast of Phenicia. I found a large and dry cave half-way up the first great spur that overlooks the sea. I have made this my home. I turned fisherman for a living—for I had lost all with the ship—and the little boat was serviceable for that. I exchanged my fish with the people a little way from the coast, for other articles more needed.

Thus I have lived for several years. Here I have written this manuscript. I have chosen the Greek language for its composition, because I am familiar with it, and because I believe the words of Eschylus and Homer will be more durable than the marbles of Athens.

One more page and it will be finished. Its inspiration withdrawn from me, my life will be more desolate than ever. I shall seal it up carefully, and conceal it in some safe place for the eyes and ears of a future generation wiser and better than this. I shall then turn to Death and say, “I salute thee.”

I shall not wait long. After I left my prison in Antioch and mingled with the turbulent tide of human life, my spiritual visions left me, my spiritual senses were closed. They are opening again. I have the old, beautiful dreams. I hear the same heavenly music. I see the same auroral and rainbow flashes of light. These now are prophecies of death—nay, rather of life, of heaven. The gates stand ajar.

My eyes, my hopes, my heart are steadily fixed on that Land of Beauty, where the Son of the Desert will be united to Martha; and John the Baptist to Mary; and Lazarus to Magdalen; and all—all to Christ!