“How’s this, boy? Why are the props removed from this frail plant?”
“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant,
depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”
“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,
Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,
And, if we grow too wild, with judgment true
And constant love, he prunes till all is right.
At the first convenient opportunity Herbert resumed the tale of the
early Christians.
From the scenes of confusion we have described, we will return to the
Appian palace, where lay, in peaceful rest, the remains of its honored
master. The domestics were busied in preparing the funeral honors for
one, so revered and beloved; some in arranging boughs of Cypress before
the doors; others in adorning, with rare and beautiful flowers, the
couch of the deceased, or in distributing aromatic plants about the
apartment. The soft night breeze stole through the open windows, the
air seeming to breath the sweet peace which surrounded the deathbed of
the aged saint. The heart of one mourner in this quiet mansion, was
bowed down with grief, but she was not left alone with her sorrows; the
kind recluse remained with her, shared her grief, and sought to soothe
her anguish. Absorbed in their anxieties, they sat in the portico,
which commanded a view of the imperial palace, and, upon the steps,
with her dark eyes fixed upon them, sat the female, whose predictions
caused the guilty tyrant to tremble; but the wild expression of her
eye was now softened, and her whole aspect changed. “He has gone to
his rest,” said she, “and light and gentle will the sod repose upon his
breast, for it was the abode of kindness, and sweet will be the requiem
over his remains, for it will be the lamentation of the poor and
afflicted.” Then, turning to Sister Helena, to whom she did not seem
a stranger, she said, “The spirit of the good and just must ascend to
the heaven of your faith; but where is the final resting place of the
guilty soul?” “Mother,” said she, “there is time left for us, who are
still inhabitants of earth, to repent and forsake our sins.” “Say you
so?” said the woman, and her earnest gaze and trembling limbs betrayed
her emotion. “But what is lengthened time to me? Listen to the tale of
one whose life has been a long, long day of misery. Thessaly was the
land of my birth; my infancy was bright as the dreams of the morning;
but the destroyer came; the Romans, like the ravening wolves, poured
upon our plains; my father fell, defending the home of my childhood,
and my mother, with the wretched being, before you, was enslaved by the
conquerors. Borne down by misery, she sank beneath the weight, and,
while exposed in your market place, for sale to the highest bidder,
I saw my last friend expire, and, the unfeeling crowd estimated the
loss to the owner. I stood alone amid the multitude, my heart swelled
in agony, but hate for the oppressor, and desire of revenge prevailed
over all; I clasped my throat, that I, too, might die and disappoint,
still more, our brutal enslaver, but, as I tightened my hold, and
all things grew dim around me, a hand grasped my arm and a voice of
compassion saluted my ear. After a few words with my master, I became
the property of Marcus Curtius; he pitied my distress; he caused the
remains of my mother to be interred, and, each day, her child was
permitted to deck her grave with flowers. I was reared with kindness,
but, to, all, save my protector and his immediate family, my heart was
bitter with hatred. In the dreams of my disturbed slumbers, the home
of my happiness would appear before me, its fertile fields, its rich
groves of olives and figs, the vine-covered porch, the sweet songs of
my country; then the scene of my father’s death, my mother’s dying
glance, and I awoke in agony and despair; revenge in any form was the
only object of my thought. This passion I nurtured, and when civil
wars drenched the country in blood, when the family of my protector
was dispersed, opportunities of gratifying it were daily presented. I
did not embrue my hands in blood, but my heart exulted in the woes of
the enslavers of my country; I did not take life, but I did not save
it, when it was in my power. Years rolled on; I had no home, for I
abhorred the haunts of mankind. The mountain cave was my shelter, the
wild fruits of the mountain my food; but, almost unknown to myself
one tie was yet unsevered. The mild glance of pity, bestowed upon
me, when helpless and alone in the world, was never forgotten, and
the occasional kind word, and look of sympathy had sank deep into my
heart. I still cherished a kindly remembrance of the house of him who
had saved me, perhaps, from a worse fate than death. In my wanderings
I encountered a being as wretched as myself; she taught me to gratify
my ruling passion by attempting to dive into futurity, to render the
life of man more wretched, by foretelling the events which are to come.
In the depths of the forest, in the recesses of the mountain would we
invoke the power of fiends, with the malice of demons would we prepare
spells to impose upon the credulity of the ignorant, and, with horrid
glee, aggravate the grief of mankind, of the wretched. Is there hope,”
said she, rising, “for such as I am, with the God of purity and love
whom you worship?” “Even so,” was the mild and soothing response of
Sister Helena. “He has been leading you by a way which you knew not.
He has been removing all your stays, that you may be stayed only upon
Him; your father, country, mother, the protectors of your youth, every
joy and comfort, and now, at the close of a long life, He calls you to
Himself. Though the sins be as crimson, they shall be white as wool.”
The Sybil bent her head; the sweet hope of mercy softened her heart;
all was quiet around, among the aged trees, whose branches shaded
the venerable mansion, a nightingale had chosen her seat, and, at
intervals, poured forth her soft melody. During the silence, solemn
music arose from the apartments within, and a chorus of voices sang the
following hymn:
Mourn not for him, whose lengthened years
Have closed in holy peace;
His home is now where neither tears
Nor sorrows find a place.
Like as the sun, in glory bright
Sank ’neath the glowing sky,
To rise again, with morning light
And greet us in the sky.
So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,
So glorious will he rise,
Jesus has pointed him the way
To bliss beyond the skies.
The sounds died away, and when the aged woman raised her head, her
moistened eyes expressed her emotion. “To find objects,” she continued,
“on whom to wreak any vengeance I again sought the abodes of man;
my predictions were heard with awe and terror; many a young heart,
throbbing with hope and visions of bliss, have I caused to beat with
dreaded anticipations of evil, and blasted many a dream of happiness.
My unhallowed occupation was attended with danger, and, at one time my
life was in jeopardy. I was threatened with torture and death, and,
publicly exposed, was upon the point of meeting a deserved doom, when
Nero, passing the spot, caused inquiries to be made as to the cause
of the tumult. His was a heart exulting in all the evil passions of
human nature, and the being at enmity with all the world might claim
kindred sympathy with him. He ordered my release, and, when with sullen
disdain, I denounced him, and foretold his crimes, he jeeringly said
I should be under his protection, and forbade any interference with my
vocation. But, amidst all my misery and crime, I did not forget the
family which had shown me kindness. I followed their career in weal or
woe; their enemies were doubly mine. Wandering in search of food, at
one time a fierce wolf sprang from his lurking place, and an instant
more would have ended my guilty life, but an unerring arrow, from an
unseen hand, struck his heart, and he lay dead at my feet. A young
Roman emerged from the thicket, and my eye immediately recognized,
in his noble countenance, one of the only race whose features raised
a kindly feeling in my breast. He gazed upon my haggard form with
wonder. “Give God glory,” said he, “He has saved you from a dreadful
death.” “My life is a burden,” was my sullen answer, “I give thanks
to no being. I own no God, and man is my deadly enemy.” Again I saw
the same pitying expression of countenance, which had saved me when
a child. “If,” said he, “man has injured you, God is your avenger;
if you have injured him, God is your judge, and if you are wretched,
God will be your comforter.” It was the son of your love; for whose
blood the tyrant thirsted, who saved me from the savage beast; whose
words first caused a ray of hope to enter this dark heart.” “And must
this son, perish?” said the mother, in the piercing accents of grief,
“must I never again see him? and my Cleone,” and anguish checked her
utterance. “The hours of the life of his persecutor are numbered,”
said the Sybil, “and not by my vain art do I know this. The city is
even now in commotion; the Senate have decreed his death; hear ye not
those sounds of wild uproar? Hear ye not the shouts of the soldiers?”
They listened with intense attention, and the distant cries of “Death
to the tyrant” were plainly distinguishable amidst the hoarse clamor
of the mob; and occupied by the most anxious suspense, it was some
moments ere the matron observed the sinking form of the recluse and
her deathly paleness. She was prevented from summoning assistance
by her sudden arousing to exertion. “His death, mother?” said she,
“didst thou say his death? Will they not leave him the possibility
of repentance? Would I might see him, even now!” “To what purpose,”
said the aged Sybil, “his heart is as the flinty rock upon which the
wild waves of the ocean have beaten for ages. Thy life might be the
forfeit.” “Mother! the smile and word of kindly sympathy sank deep;
never to be eradicated from thy remembrance; Nero! this tyrant of Rome;
this monster so detested by humanity, was kind to her, who now would
sacrifice life so she might kindle a spark of hope in his benighted
soul.” The sounds from the now fully aroused multitudes of Rome were
increasing to deafening outcries, and the attendants surrounded their
mistress. “There are footsteps approaching,” said one, and, issuing
from the shaded pathway, Cleone and the faithful domestic, who had,
with Lucius Flavius, accompanied her to the palace, stood before
them. The heartfelt thanksgiving of her mother, as she clasped her in
a close embrace, the joyous welcome of the domestics, the tears of
gratitude, which stood upon the cheeks of the recluse, seemed even to
awake sympathy in the stern heart of the Sybil. “But your brother, my
Cleone?” “He will be saved, my own dear mother. Nero has commanded his
release, and he will soon be restored to us.” The simultaneous burst
of triumph around, showed the affection borne to their noble young
master, and words would fail to express the joy and thankfulness which
pervaded the breast of the pious mother. “I leave you for a space, dear
friends,” said Helena, “I leave you, rejoicing in the grace of God, and
if we meet no more on earth, let me greet you in a happier home above.
There,” said she, raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, “there shall
be no more death, neither sorrow nor sighing.” “And thou art going?”
said the Sybil. “To perform my duty,” said she, and disappeared in the
thicket.
At this time the principle streets of Rome presented a spectacle of
intense interest. A legion of the army, bearing the Imperial Eagle,
the long tufts of their helmets waving in the breeze, preceded a car,
guarded by cavalry, whose burnished armor reflected every ray of
light, in which was seated Servius Galba, the newly elected Emperor of
Rome. At intervals the brazen trumpets poured forth their triumphant
notes, the deafening shouts of thousands swelled upon the air, and
mingled cries of victory and execration burst from the countless
multitude. As the imposing procession approached the palace of Nero,
the tumult increased, the rumor spread that its detested master had
fled, and the terrible cry of “death” resounded on every side. The
brilliant illumination of the splendid building had faded into gloom,
the music had ceased, and its inhabitants had dispersed in terror.
Such are the vicissitudes of greatness. The despotic Emperor, whose
mandates, but a few hours before, were obeyed with servile fear, to
whose debasing pleasures the riches of the world were subservient,
and for the gratification of whose malice thousands had expired in
agonizing tortures, was now a despised fugitive, a proscribed criminal,
proscribed alike by the laws, as well as the justice of his injured
country. Amidst this tumult, with hearts throbbing with praise and
thanksgiving to God, the young Christians, after Curtius had been so
unexpectedly released from his prison, parted for a short time; Curtius
to make glad the hearts nearest and dearest to him by his return home,
and Flavius to fulfil his engagement with Nero, to intercede with the
new Emperor for the life of the miserable and despicable tyrant.
Avoiding the excited populace, two persons had, by the most obscure
passages, approached the Imperial Palace; the one an aged man, wrapped
in a dark tunic and supporting his steps by a staff, the other a
female, closely enveloped and cautiously shielded from observation. As
they drew near the colossal entrance their course was arrested by a
sentry and, on requiring admittance to the presence of Nero, they were
answered by derision.
“Admittance for a grey cowl! by my faith, no; but for this gear,” said
he, “I will warrant a passage, though shaded by a hood and enshrouded
in a frieze mantle.”
“Peace, rude brawler,” said the aged man, “attend to thy vocation.”
“My vocation now,” said the fierce soldier, “is to silence such
greybeards as thou,” but, as he raised his truncheon, the female,
raising her hood, and stepping before her companion, said:
“Wouldst thou harm one to whom the Father of all things has allotted
so long a term of life? Suffer us to pass to the presence of Nero and
accept the thanks of one who has no other guerdon to bestow.”
Struck by the transcendent beauty of the suppliant and awed by her
manner, he lowered his weapon, but still refused admittance to her
companion.
“If his tongue wag not too freely,” said he, “yonder bench may afford
him a resting place; for thee, fair one, if it chooseth thee, thou mayst
try thy fortune within, but, by the powers of Erebus, I warn you not
to pursue the venture. Dost thou hear the commotion and uproar of the
city? and the near approach of the tumult? Within the palace there
is confusion: the lights are extinguished and, methinks, there is
danger in the wind. Best retrace thy way, pretty one, with thy crusty
fellow-traveler; his journey of life is too nearly ended to be an able
protector for thee.”
“If there is danger, friend, why dost thou stay to encounter it?”
“I am a Roman soldier,” said he, proudly; “my post is here and, come
what may, I shall retain it.”
“I, too, soldier, have my post of duty; for thee, father, I pray thee
return by the unfrequented path we traced on our way hither.”
“I leave thee not, my daughter,” said the old man, “but will rest my
wearied limbs a brief period; in the meantime, may the Lord bless thy
purpose!”
“Amen, holy father,” said the recluse, for with the hope that at
this moment of terror the stubborn heart of Nero might be led to
contrition, she, who had once been as the day-star of his life, had
now sought his presence, fearless of her own risk, in confronting his
revengeful rage.
A slave guided her steps through the lofty halls, whose arched ceilings
glittered with representations of the starry firmament, while showers
of sweet fragrance filled the air with odors. Ere they had passed far
they encountered many slaves who, with hurried steps, were hastening to
the entrance.
“How go matters now, Curio?” said the guide.
“Lacca has returned,” said the one addressed. “The Legions are in
motion; Servius Galba is proclaimed Emperor and Nero has fled. Save
thyself, Arrius, hearest thou not the approach of the insurgents?”
“Nero fled!” said the startled guide. “A truce to thine errand, then,
fair lady. Thou art too late.”
“Too late indeed,” she said, clasping her hands in anguish. “Yet, stay,
friend.” It was vain, for the alarmed servitor had followed his fellow
slaves; and uncertain and distressed, she stood irresolute, which way
to shape her course. At this moment the Sybil stood before her.
“Said I not his hour of mercy had passed?” said she. “A night of
hopeless gloom has closed around him, and clouds envelope the sweet
star of mercy. Said I not so?”
“Hope is not lost, mother,” said the recluse. “Shall we limit the power
of the Omnipotent? There is yet hope, even for Nero.” The roar of
inflamed and furious thousands now broke upon their ears. The Palatine
hill was surrounded and, with speed unparalleled in one so aged, the
Sybil drew her companion along a narrow entrance to a secluded path
which led through the magnificent gardens of the palace, now deserted
by all save straggling bands of fugitives. “Stay, mother,” said the
recluse, “Father Paulo is left behind. He awaits us near yon column.”
As they drew near the aged priest rose from his reclining posture.
“Blessings on His Name, daughter, for that he hath returned thee in
safety. Let no harrowing fears perplex thee for him whom thou hast
sought to save; he hath sown the wind and he must reap the whirlwind.
“His Holy Name be blessed,” said the recluse; and, in silence, they
passed on their way. The soft plashing of the fountains, whose lucid
drops sparkled in the moonbeams, the dewy freshness of the lawns, and
the gentle breathing of the night air contrasted with the wild fury
behind them and the storm of unbridled vengeance which now encompassed
the palace and shook even its foundation, soothed the perturbed spirit
and hushed each murmuring passion to peace.
Herbert closed the book. “It must be deeply interesting,” said he, “to
visit this ancient city. Its scenes are so intimately connected with
events of history which are familiar to us from childhood, and so many
of its features must remain unaltered. The ancient tombs are still
there, the same old pavements are frequently unearthed which were trod
by those heroes whose names are familiar to us as ‘household words,’
and whose stones have been swept by the royal purple. The Tiber will
still pursue its winding course, and the lofty Apennines still bound
the prospect, although time demolishes its mighty works of art.” “Was
not Virgil born under the Roman government, Herbert?” said Charles. “He
was, and highly favored by Augustus Caesar, the most powerful monarch
of Rome.” “Do you think there were such delightful rural scenes in
those times as he describes in his Pastorals?” said Susan. “In the
earlier days of Rome,” said Herbert, “before luxury and its attendant
vices had enervated and destroyed the energies of the country, the
employments of the husbandman and shepherd formed the principal
occupations of the people; to excel in agriculture was to acquire a
title to public respect, and some of their most powerful dictators
and bravest commanders were ‘taken from the plough.’ At the time to
which our story refers, husbandry was regarded with less respect than
in former times. The cultivation of the fields was often committed to
the care of slaves; the introduction of foreign luxuries had paved the
way for crime in all its forms, and from that time the progress of the
nation was downward. The pleasant scenes of country life, described by
Virgil, were probably drawn from nature, embellished, perhaps, with a
poet’s license.” “But the beauty of these Arcadian scenes,” said Mrs.
Wilson, “is associated in our minds with the idea of innocence and
virtue; we believe they were happy, surrounded by these scenes of rural
beauty, because they were good.” “True,” said Herbert, “let us but
imagine their delightful groves, their breezy hills and green pastures
to be the resorts of vice and crime, the charm is broken at once; we no
longer dream of the beauty of the ‘spreading beech,’ the rich taste of
the ‘golden apples,’ or the sweet murmuring of the ‘mossy fountains’;
instead of the bright sunshine of peace and happiness, the gloomy
clouds of sin and misery would disfigure every beauty.” “Such is the
effect of virtue,” said his mother, “every charm is heightened by its
presence, and every beauty destroyed by its absence.” “How pleasant,”
said Susan, “to read Virgil’s description of a northern winter, over
a bright fire!” “The pleasures of his winter evenings, however,” said
Mary, “were confined to frolic and play, and their refreshments to
‘acid cider and beer’; how different from our evenings, where there are
‘fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness.’” “Yes,” said Elizabeth,
“and, to continue your quotation:
“‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull;
Not such as, with a frown, forbids the play
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’”