Proud, imperial Rome!
The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,
Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,
The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred
Christians,
And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,
Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,
All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
It was on a bright and beautiful evening, just as the delightful sun of
Italy was declining, that Cleone, a young Roman maiden, walked with her
mother along the pleasant banks of the Tiber. They had chosen a retired
walk for many reasons, one of which was that retirement better suited
their dispositions, and another that Rome was, at that time, filled
with a dissolute nobility, whose wills were almost their only law.
Cleone and her mother were descendants of ancient and noble families,
who had counted amongst their numbers grave and influential senators,
warlike and victorious soldiers, and even mingled their blood with
the powerful kings and dictators of Rome; but time, with its changing
scenes, had reduced them in power and wealth, though oppression and
poverty had not taken from them the proud consciousness of former
greatness. “My daughter,” said the matron, “look at that glorious sun,
though declining, though its splendor will shortly be obscured, yet it
will rise again, with renewed and more brilliant light, and shed joy
and happiness with its glad beams. So, dearest, shall the sun of our
fortunes, though now almost disappearing, again rise, and the virtues
of our own Curtius pour light and warmth on all within their influence.
Believe this, my own Cleone, and let the thought disperse those clouds
of melancholy, believe that your mother is a prophetess, and this
time of good.” “Mother,” said Cleone, “I will try to have faith in
your augury, but my brother is in a prison, in the power of a tyrant;
how can we hope?” “He is under the protecting power of that Being in
whom we trust, who has comforted us in affliction, and preserved us
in danger, and who will not now forsake us. He, whose power can melt
the flinty rock, can soften even the hard heart of a Nero. Do you
remember, Cleone, the deathbed of your father, when, laying his hand on
the youthful head of our Curtius, after commending us to his love and
protection, he blessed him in the name of the only living and true God.
‘Even,’ said he, ‘though called to the death of a martyr, let him never
forsake the God of his father.’ The prayer of the dying saint has been
heard; midst temptations, in the view of danger and death the undaunted
youth has never been shaken in his fidelity to his God, and by his
noble courage has forced even the haughty tyrant and his minions to
respect.” “Oh, that I could restore him to you, dear mother. Last night
I woke from disturbed slumber; the bright beams of the moon rested upon
my couch, all was calm and still, the very air breathed peace, but the
thought of my darling brother, shut out from all this loveliness, and
exposed to the unwholesome damps of a dungeon, weighed heavy upon my
mind. I threw myself upon my knees, I prayed God that he would save
him from the cruel Emperor. Oh, mother, I did not again lie down until
peace and comfort entered my mind, and I felt that if he lived or died,
I could say, ‘Thy Holy will be done,’ but mother, I cannot always say
so.” Thus communing they had arrived at a lovely spot, surrounded by
trees whose luxuriant foliage almost touched the ground. Here they
seated themselves upon the bank; the beautiful appearance of the river,
as the bright sky was reflected upon the waters, the songs of the birds
over their heads, the buzzing of innumerable insects, and the hum of
the city, softened by distance, tranquillized their minds. “My Cleone,
join your voice to this chorus, and sing our evening hymn.” Obedient to
her mother’s wish, she sang, with sweet melody, the simple strain:
The shades of night are closing o’er us,
God of Heaven, watch our sleep!
For the sake of the Lord Jesus
Wilt thou still thy servants keep?
Lord! though dangers may surround us,
We are safe beneath thy care.
Thy blest angels may attend us;
Holy Father, bow thine ear!
As the low, sweet voice of Cleone died upon the air, a slight rustling
of the bushes startled them and, turning quickly, they beheld a woman
whose fixed and earnest gaze was riveted upon them. Leaning upon a
staff, enveloped in a dark gray mantle, the hood of which covered
her head, she appeared lost in thought. Her grey locks and the deep
furrows of her face betokened extreme age, while her eyes, black,
deep-set and piercing, showed that her mind still retained its powers.
Her attention seemed fixed upon Cleone, whose countenance expressed
terror at her unexpected appearance. “Lady,” said she, and her deep
and hollow voice sounded as from the tomb, “do not fear; your voice
has awakened feelings which I thought long since dead. Years of sin
and misery seemed like a dream as I listened, and a youth of innocence
and love was present to my thought. Thanks, maiden, for the momentary
trance. Scion of the noble house of Curiatii, a dark cloud hangs heavy
over your fortunes; He in whom you trust can disperse it. The gray
moss waves on the lofty towers of the Atili, but their stones are
yet firm and unbroken; the stately pine is decaying, but the young
sapling is yet vigorous, and its shoots will press upward, the lamp
of life glimmers but faintly in the breast of the aged, and will
soon be extinguished, yet a bright spark remains in the young and
noble to rekindle the ancient blaze. Lady, hearken to the prophecy
of one who, though sinful and despairing, forgets not the remnant of
the illustrious house that reared her childhood.” “You are unhappy,
mother,” said the matron in the soothing tone of kindness, “but you
must not say despairing. He who has offered up his life for us, who
has borne our sins upon the cross, has left us the blessed assurance
that all who repent need not despair.” “Aye,” said the Sybil, while
a strong shudder shook her frame, “you are a Christian; enough,” and
her eyes gleamed with almost terrific wildness; “away,” and, waving
her hand, she disappeared among the trees. A moment of deep silence
succeeded her departure, which was broken by Cleone. “Is not this
frightful, mother? Who can this woman be? and does she mean us good
or evil?” “Her words would seem to imply good to us, my daughter, but
dark and, I fear, unrepented wickedness burthens her mind, benighted
indeed, if without the cheering ray of hope. Who she is I know not;
tradition tells of those who have leagued themselves with the powers of
darkness, but there was kindness in her words; let us think of her no
more, my dearest, but quickly retrace our steps. We have already left
our kind uncle too long.” “Ah, we will not linger, dear mother, he is
so feeble.” The twilight deepened around them as they bent their way to
their home, but the moon was rising in unclouded splendor and its mild
beams diffused a brilliancy around the landscape more beautiful than
that of day. “How many, my Cleone, have listened to the murmur of these
waves and watched the reflection of these moonbeams; how many noble
and gifted beings whom we have been taught to love and admire, have,
perhaps upon this very spot, gazed upon this same lovely scene. This
same quiet and sparkling sky has shone upon the form of many a noble
Roman whose heart was devoted to his country. Time moves on in his
never-resting course and, centuries hence, my daughter, this river will
roll on, as it now does, this sky sparkle with the same brilliancy, and
beings, within whose forms the current of life flows as warmly as it
now does in ours, will watch the unceasing motion of this stream and
admire this pure and lovely firmament as we do.”
The family of the Curiatii, once powerful in Rome, was now represented
by the young Quintius Curtius and his sister; civil wars and
oppressions had reduced their numbers and torn from them their
possessions and these, the last of an illustrious race, were even
dependent upon the charity of an almost superannuated old man, the
uncle of his mother. Their father, while serving in the Roman bands in
Judea, had become a convert to Christianity and, while his children
were yet young, had died in the full faith of the Christian’s hope,
bequeathing them, as he believed, a rich legacy, in commending them
to that Being who has said: “Leave thy fatherless children to me,”
and, with a firm confidence that their mother would educate them in
the “nurture and admonition of the Lord.” Most faithfully had that
tender mother redeemed her pledge to her dying husband, and, with a
noble fortitude, she had endured every privation and cheerfully made
every sacrifice for the eternal welfare of those beloved children,
and with that joy which only the Christian parent can feel, she had
seen them, while growing in their loveliness, devoting themselves to
the service of the God of their father. Who has not shuddered at the
atrocious cruelties of the reign of Nero? The wicked tyrant, whose
greatest happiness seemed to consist in causing the misery of his
fellow-beings, and where is the heart that has not beat in sympathy
with the sufferings of those Christian martyrs, who, with a firm and
unshaken constancy, endured the torments inflicted by that monster in
human form, even until death, rather than deny the “Lord who bought
them.” Educated in retirement, the young Curtius had for some time
escaped notice, but as he grew in years and, through the influence
of friends, had been introduced into public life, he was no longer
shielded by obscurity. In his noble countenance was portrayed his
high and commanding talents and vice and wickedness shrank abashed
from the quick glance of his eye. Is it, then, to be wondered that
he became an object of dislike to the infamous emperor and that the
cruel tyrant sought an excuse to gratify his feelings of hatred, for,
without an excuse, even Nero dared not attack the virtuous young Roman
who was equally the object of love and admiration. That excuse was not
long wanting, for the undaunted youth feared not to confess Christ
before men, and that alone was crime of the deepest dye in the Pagan
court of Nero. Summoned before the emperor, his firm yet respectful
deportment and calm and decided answers commanded the admiration of
all, even of the tyrant himself, who, with the strange inconsistency
of his character, could even admire and applaud where he hated and
had determined to destroy. But it would be greater matter of triumphs
to Nero to induce the high-souled Curtius to renounce his religion
than to take his life and, therefore, summoning to his aid those
bland and persuasive manners he could so well assume, he, during many
interviews, attempted to sap the foundation of that virtue, which was
based upon a principle, enduring as eternity, till, finding every
effort ineffectual, his rage knew no bounds, and the young Christian
was closely confined, debarred from the sight of his mother and sister,
and only respited until the imperial ruffian had contrived new modes
of torture to enhance the bitterness of death. But, although cast into
the dreariest dungeon, and apparently deprived of every comfort, this
son of a sainted father was not only resigned to his fate, but even
triumphant in the thoughts of martyrdom, and, though deprived of the
sight of those friends so dear to his heart, felt a sweet serenity in
the conviction that he was the object of their fervent prayers and
fondest solicitude. Who can estimate the unspeakable consolation he
derived from the invisible presence of that Saviour who has promised,
“I will never leave you comfortless,” who has said, “Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
* * * * *
“You will read more, you will not leave off yet, Herbert,” said
Charles. “Our time is expended,” said Herbert, “and, in order to
enjoy pleasure, we must not prolong it until it becomes wearisome.”
“Wearisome!” said Susan, “we should not even think of the idea.” “I
could almost wish,” said Elizabeth, “to have been one of the first
Christians, even amidst all their dangers. Such firm confidence, such
joyful hope, and holy love would seem cheaply gained by all their
sufferings.” “I almost believe,” said Mary, “that placed in their
situation, I, too, could have risen above fear; that I could almost
rejoice to die in such a cause.” “Their situation was indeed peculiar,”
said Mrs. Wilson. “The power of God was with them and supported them.
He was their refuge and strength, their present help, therefore they
did not fear. Left to our own weakness we are as nothing, supported
by his mighty arm, we are powerful, invincible.” “My curiosity,” said
Susan, “is much excited by the old woman, and I shall like to find out
who she is.” “You called her a Sybil, Herbert,” said Charles. “There
is a story in my History of Rome of a woman who went to one of the
kings to sell some mysterious books, which he refused to purchase. She
went away and burned some, then came back and asked the same price for
those remaining, and continued to do so till she had burned a good
many, and, at last, the king bought those that were left, and they were
considered of so much value that officers were appointed to take care
of them and they were consulted upon all important matters.” “You are
right, Charles,” said Herbert, “there is such a relation, and perhaps
we may class this amongst the romance of history. Time and the mists
of tradition have rendered it impossible to learn how much truth is
connected with these fables, but we know that in the ancient days of
Rome, much reliance was placed upon those who pretended to a knowledge
of future events, and, perhaps, the general belief in such knowledge
induced many of wild imaginations to believe themselves endowed with
this prophetic spirit. You may suppose, Susan, if you wish, to break
the illusions of fancy that this ancient female was one of those
fanatical beings, who had cheated herself into the belief that she was
set apart as one of those mystical oracles.” “Oh, no,” said Susan, “do
not break any illusions; I am very willing to believe that she was the
identical Sybil, who offered those books to the refractory king.” “Your
imagination, dear cousin,” said he, “has indeed taken a wide circuit,
and we will let the curtain of mystery be spread, for the present, over
the story.”