How oft the fickle multitude have climbed
Those battlements, to hail some mighty lord,
Whom, ere the changing moon had run her course,
They spurned, as a base reptile.
The next leisure evening was devoted to the conclusion of the Roman
Tale.
* * * * *
The day of freedom from oppression dawned upon Rome. The short period
of repose had renewed the excitement and activity of the populace,
who, aroused by tidings of the fate of Nero, and enraged that he
had escaped their vengeance, wreaked it upon every object marked by
the favor of the tyrant Emperor. Nothing but the strictest orders,
enforced by a powerful guard of soldiers, preserved the splendid
palace, “The Golden House,” the rich abode of the luxurious Nero,
from destruction, but his statues, and those which he had caused to
be erected in honor of his chosen favorites, were demolished with the
most bitter imprecations. Again the shouts of triumph and rejoicing
would peal through the air and with the wildest enthusiasm the people
assumed the peculiar cap worn by the slaves upon their restoration to
freedom, as a token that they, too, were freed from bondage. Garlands
of laurel adorned the streets, were twined around the colonnades of
the buildings, and hung in festoons from the projecting balconies,
and, as the triumphal chariot of the new Emperor, surrounded by the
imposing array of military pomp, passed slowly through the crowded
ways, toward the Capitol, to attend the ceremonies of the day, showers
of roses descended upon him and music hailed his progress. Paeans
arose from the temples and the odor of incense made the air fragrant.
The Amphitheatre, destined that day to have been the scene of torture
and death, was left in silence and solitude, a general jubilee was
proclaimed, prisoners were released, and all executions were suspended.
Beneath a low-browed arch sat the Thessalian Sybil; her form was more
attenuated, the excitement and fatigue of the night had worn upon her
aged frame, but her still keen eyes watched the motions of the crowd
and her lips were moving with suppressed thought. A citizen, whose
lameness precluded his attendance upon the procession, was gazing upon
her as he leaned upon his crutches. “Mother,” said he, “the Destinies
have suffered your thread of life to stretch far.” She raised her eyes
to his face. “Didst thou mark the gay pageant, citizen of Rome?” “Aye,
did I; by my troth,” was the answer, “it was a goodly sight.” “It has
passed before me as a shadow,” she said, “as the mist of the morning,
indistinct and fading. It is a few days since these eyes beheld the
murdered body of your great Caesar born through these streets, in
mournful array: since these ears heard the din of civil war through
these lands, when brother fought against brother, and father against
son; heard the exultant shouts proclaiming the mighty Augustus Emperor
of Rome, and saw the massy gates of Janus closed, as the signal of
peace upon earth. I have heard rejoicing and triumph echo through
this city at the commencement of a reign, and still louder rejoicing
at its close. I have seen a stately temple arise, dedicated to thy
gods, the incense streaming from its altars, mingling with that of
one consecrated to Caligula; but a few years rolled on and he met his
death from the parasites who aided in the blasphemy. The wind which now
breathes softly around us, and which, a few short hours having passed,
may sweep the plains in its fury, is not more variable than this fickle
populace. Again and again exulting shouts and bitter curses follow
each other in quick succession and will do so till the glory of this
proud city is shrouded in the dust.” She had uttered these words in a
low, but deep and earnest tone; her head rested upon her hands and her
elbows upon her knees; the soliloquy she had commenced to the person
who had stood near her seemed to have been, in part, the utterance
of the recollections of her life, without reference to any listener.
Another citizen passing, “Thou are weatherbound, Rutilius,” addressing
the lame man, “the gods console thee; thou hast lost a glorious
spectacle.” “May the Furies seize the unwieldy Goth who crippled my
limbs!” was the answer. “Describe the show, Curio.” “Thou shouldst have
seen the noble Emperor Galba; with what a gracious dignity he accepted
the homage of the Senate, and the oaths of the soldiery, and heard
his oration to the people; how he thanked them for their suffrages;
and how the priests in their solemn array offering sacrifices, as the
smoke of the incense arose in clouds before them, sang paeans to the
deities, and the pealing notes reverberated around the lofty ceiling.
In good truth, friend, thy limbs have proved recreant in this matter.”
“Rome will thrive under the reign of this Galba,” said Rutilius. “There
will be something going on beside these dismal executions, of which
we may well be weary.” “More, by token,” said the other, when every
day renewed them. By the powers above! it joys my heart that the noble
Curtius has escaped the lions. Didst note his princely aspect when
he confronted the tyrant in the Forum? It were worse than tyranny to
immolate such a Roman.”
An aged man stood listening to the discourse. “The fangs of the
ferocious beasts,” he said, “were mercy to the inhuman cruelty of Nero.
The gods have at length awarded his doom, but the marks of his malice
and fury are deeply printed upon our city.”
“Most deeply in thy heart, old Crispus, thou hast good cause to curse
the memory of Nero.”
“Have I not! Curio,” said the old man, his gleaming eyes and trembling
limbs bespeaking his emotion, “where is my brave, my noble boy, the
support of my years, the idol of my love? Was not his life sacrificed,
daring to brave the vengeance of that human monster, to wrest the wife
of his love from even a more dreadful fate than his own, from a more
bloody beast than the one that tore his mangled limbs?” Grief soon
choked every other emotion, and large tears rolled down his withered
cheeks.
“Nay, good Crispus, nay; time has softened thy sorrow; do not renew
it.” “Rome will be at peace, now,” said Rutilius, “so, mother,”
continued he, addressing the aged woman, who had appeared sunk in
stupor, “thou mayst add another to thy list of changes.” Her vacant
gaze would have betokened inattention to his address, but, as he spoke,
she arose, though with difficulty, and her voice, though clear and
distinct, was faint. “Ye are the creatures of change,” said she; “the
idol of one hour, ye contemn the next. There is One,” and her tone
changed to a deep solemnity, “who is said to be the same yesterday,
today, and forever! Believest thou in the God of the Christians?”
“Not I, mother, and methinks if thou dost, it is well for thine aged
limbs that Nero is not Emperor of Rome.”
“The years of my life are closing,” she said; “the thick darkness which
brooded over them is dispersing, the strength of this weary body is
failing, but light dawns upon the benighted soul. Listen,” said she,
her voice becoming more firm, “ere the number of the days of my life
have again passed, thine haughty Emperors will acknowledge this God;
these gilded temples will echo with His worship, and the altars of thy
false gods be overthrown in the dust from whence they sprang.”
As they listened to her predictions with fixed attention she sank again
upon the step from which she had arisen. In a low and soft cadence
she continued: “The sweet music of my childhood’s home sounds in mine
ears, the fragrance of its fields steals over my senses, and my pulse
vibrates to the joyous measure of the dancing virgins.” Her face became
more deathly pale, her utterance more broken. “Go,” said she, “to the
noble Roman, Quintius Curtius, say to him that Sagana, the Thessalian,
with her dying breath implores a resting place beneath the cypress
which shades the grave of her mother; go; and thou, too, in thy last
need, shalt find a friend.”
Her head drooped upon a projection of rock, her eyes closed, but as her
spirit departed the rigid lines of her face relaxed and a calm, serene
expression stole over it, unknown to her life.
“’Tis the old witch of the mountain,” said Curio, “as very a Hecate as
ever took the form of an old woman.”
“I’ll not do her bidding,” said Rutilius.
“That will I,” said Crispus; “if these aged limbs will support me, if
the God of the Christians be her God, I will go on her errand for the
sake of my departed Cleia, the darling of my murdered boy; she owned
no other deity.” So saying, the good old man adjusted the mantle over
her marble features and, with slow steps, pursued his way to the Appian
palace.
“These Christians will be growing bold, now,” said Rutilius.
“Aye, that will they,” said Curio; “but it behooves them to be
cautious, for Galba, albeit not a Nero, is no friend to their rigid
doctrine.” The two citizens departed and the remains of the being
whose protracted years had now reached their end, whose life of misery
had closed in peace, were left alone. From the time when wandering
in solitary wretchedness, she had been led by a Hand which she knew
not near the secluded abode of the pious Helena, had encountered the
kind and lovely recluse, listened to her soothing consolations, and
had suffered her thoughts to rise from the polluted depths of sin and
despair, to the pure and holy Heaven of hope, her perturbed spirit had
been gradually settling into peaceful rest. From this dark world her
desires ascended to one of light and joy and, though born and reared
amidst the gloom of Paganism, the bright beams of Christianity had
pierced the shadowy cloud. Alone, in a cold and friendless world, she
had lived, beset with trials and temptations; she had now gone to an
everlasting Friend, to One whose all-seeing eye had watched her steps;
whose Almighty arm had sustained her, and who, in her last hours, had
poured consolation into her bruised and sorrowing heart.
The wild tumult of the mighty multitude reached not the peaceful home
of the revered Christian. As the sun arose in his morning splendor,
the majestic old trees, which surrounded the dwelling, cast their
gently waving shadows over the portico, where, in sweet communion, sat
the young Curtius and his sister. The breezy fragrance of the early
day was wafted as mild incense to their senses, the clear soft music
of the birds filled the air as an offering to the Giver of all good,
while afar, in the distant valleys, borne upon the murmuring gale,
was heard the mingled sounds of rural life; the shepherd’s call, the
answering flock, and lowing cattle, contrasted happily with the harsher
sounds from the extended streets of the city. At intervals, from within
the ancient, but still stately dwelling, the solemn hymn, in honor of
the noble dead, would swell in full chorus, and the rich melody would
almost lead the soul of the listener to the heaven to which it directed
its thoughts. During its pauses, some old minstrel, who had followed
the fortunes of the family, through weal and through woe, in shrill,
but animated recitative, would rehearse its greatness, its long line of
renowned ancestors, their brave exploits and princely endowments, and,
as he ended by striking some high and lofty notes upon his harp, the
pealing sounds would arouse in the breasts of the faithful retainers of
the illustrious departed a portion of the enthusiastic animation with
which they had followed their lords to the field of battle. The pride
of birth, though subdued and regulated by the power of religion, glowed
in the hearts of the young listeners, in whose persons were united the
almost regal houses from whom they counted their descent.
“This spot, my sister,” said Curtius, “is all that is left us of the
worldly wealth of our ancestors, but the legacy they have bequeathed of
incorruptible virtue, of integrity not to be bribed by the allurements
of pleasure, or the rewards of ambition, their patriotism, and
undaunted bravery, joined to the still richer one of our pious father,
makes us heirs of an inheritance not to be weighed with the riches of
this world. And mark, sweet sister,” he continued, “the ruling hand of
God. Yesternight, the setting sun saw the tyrant Emperor surrounded
with the riches of a tributary world; from the banks of the Tiber
to the farthest shores of Britain, he ruled with despotic sway; yet
his power and splendor have vanished as a tale that is told; while
the prisoner, whose anticipations of the light of this day, but for
mighty support, must have been of agony and terror, is restored to the
blessings of life and liberty.”
“Oh, my brother,” said Cleone, “we have awakened from a dream of
misery, and a life of grateful praise shall be devoted to our God.”
“Mark yet again, my Cleone,” said the young Roman, “a few short
years since, amidst the courtly halls of Nero, moved a female, whose
transcendent beauty, and surpassing loveliness gave her an irresistible
influence over the heart of the capricious Emperor, and her sway was
undisputed, for it was gentle and unassuming, and, even malice found
no room for censure. Ere the love of change, caprice, or estranged
affection had doomed her to disgrace, or perhaps, a worse fate, guided
by a mysterious Providence, her heart was subdued by the power of
truth. She became a Christian, and disdained to be longer a slave to
the imperious will of the tyrant. The marble floors no longer echoed
her light footstep, the places that had known her, knew her no more,
and the bright, the admired and queenly Valeria was lost to the
infamous courts of Nero. But, in the lowly homes of the poor, by the
couch of the sick and dying, the abode of the sorrowful and despairing,
a sweet and ministering spirit, teaches content to the humble, soothes
the distress, and points with a blissful hope to a happy home in
heaven.”
As he ceased speaking their mother approached, followed by an
attendant, wearing the badge of the Flavian family.
“A messenger from your friend, my son.” “Health and long life, from my
lord Flavius,” said he. “He commends him to the noble Curtius, and his
honored family, the duties of his post, near the Emperor, prevents his
personal presence at this time, but he craves permission to join them
in celebrating the obsequies of their noble kinsman.”
“Return our most hearty thanks,” said Curtius, “we will await his
presence.” “On my way hither,” said the messenger, “I encountered the
aged Crispus, who sought thy presence, noble Curtius, hearing the last
request of Sagana, the Thessalian Sybil, who is even now dead, that she
might lay by the side of her parent, in her last resting place. The
weary old man had gained the foot of the hills, and rested awhile, ere
he commenced the ascent. There I overtook him, and offered to relieve
him of his task. He has now returned to watch the body, which lies
under the Arch, near the Preatorium, until thy further orders.”
“She has then gone to her rest,” said the matron. “The thread upon
which hung her protracted life has been severed by the exciting scenes
of the past night. May the peace which has so lately dawned upon her
soul rest and abide there! Let her last wish, my Curtius, be fulfilled,
and, glory to the God of mercy, who has not suffered her sun to set in
the dark cloud of Pagan superstition.”
Soft music from within stole upon the air, and sweet voices sang:
Warrior! rest; thy toil is o’er,
The trumpet’s sound calls thee no more,
The Eagle Standard floats on high,
But closed is its defender’s eye.
Strewn flowers above the honored dead,
Shed fragrance o’er his hallowed bed;
Let the unfading Amaranth twine
With Cypress and the Eglantine.
Glory to Him, whose home of love
Waits to receive his soul above!
Glory to Him, whose mighty power
Supports the Christian’s dying hour!
Christian! now thy warfare ends;
Thy God his gracious love extends;
Through Him the victory is won;
The triumph gained, the conflict done.
The reign of the depraved and barbarous persecutor of the Christians
had closed with the succession of Servius Galba, a new era had dawned
upon their fortunes; and, although the “blood of the Martyrs” had
proved “as seed to the Church,” yet the season of peace and quiet,
which now ensued served to foster and ripen the Christian graces,
which, in those days of cruelty and inhuman bigotry acquired a stern
and almost gloomy character. The mild and beautiful religion of
our Saviour, when allowed its free course, in the sweet scenes of
domestic life, shone with a more benignant lustre, and its votaries,
no longer shuddering with the terror incident to human nature, at the
consequences of avowing their faith, fearlessly taught and practised
its heaven-born precepts.
The virtues of the noble family whose fortunes we have been following,
were expanded beneath the rays of the sun of prosperity, and, for
ages, some of the most undaunted defenders of the Christian faith were
ranked among its descendants. Connected with illustrious and powerful
houses, they were no longer exposed to persecution themselves, and,
were enabled, by their influence, not only to promote the rapidly
progressing cause of Christianity, but to save many of its disciples
from suffering in the days of trial, which ensued in some of the
subsequent reigns.
* * * * *
We have now closed our tale of the early Christians,” said Herbert,
“and, tho’ it is a simple story, and pretends to no romance or mystery,
yet it is not destitute of a moral.” “Very far from it,” said Mrs.
Wilson, “who can read the short, but well authenticated account of the
death of Nero, and contrast it with that of the aged Christian, or
even with the last moments of the erring but misguided Sybil, without
saying, ‘Let my death be that of the righteous.’”
“Well, my little brother,” said Herbert, addressing Charles, “you have
very kindly abstained from criticisms during the course of our reading.
Now tell us if you have discovered any discrepancies, through the
narrative, as you are now, no doubt, by your acquaintance with Roman
history, able to discover.” “You are laughing at me, Herbert, but I
will tell you one error. It was not Nero, I believe, who compelled the
Senate to sanction the election of his horse to the consulship, but
Heliogabas.” “I think you are right,” said Herbert. “He was, however,
a kindred spirit; and now, we will compare notes upon our improvement
this winter; beginning with you, Charles, of whose progress I can, in
some measure report, being your instructor.” “And, besides my regular
lessons,” said Charles, “I have read more than half through Rollins
Ancient History aloud to Susan.” “And,” said Susan, “besides listening
to Charles, while I sewed, I have reviewed the History of England, and
read Cowper’s Task, not to mention reading the newspaper, etc., etc.,
and all this in addition to my Latin lesson with Herbert.” “Please do
explain those et ceteras, my pretty cousin.” “Not I,” she replied, “I
cannot burden my memory with any more of my multifarious occupations.”
“You have forgotten that we have read the Pilgrim’s Progress again.”
“Ah! true,” said Susan, “and the life of the good old dreamer; now, for
as good an account of your winter studies, my dear sister and cousin;
but I am inclined to believe you will be deficient unless you dignify
with the name of study the art of making bread, puddings, and pies,
etc.” “One of the most useful studies, Susan,” said Herbert, “only not
leave the rest undone.” “Do not imagine we have become mere household
automatons,” said Elizabeth. “In addition to a tolerable stock of the
knowledge to which Susan refers, we have read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall
of the Roman Empire and Hunter’s Sacred Biography, besides reaping some
benefit from Charles’ reading.” “And I have initiated Elizabeth into my
little stock of French,” said Mary, “but, Herbert, we shall not allow
you to be sole catechist; we shall require an account of the manner
in which you have spent your solitary hours, which, I am sure, have
not been few.” “Must I make full confession,” said he. “Full and free,
without prevarication or equivocation.” “Seriously, then, dear Mary, it
requires no little labor to retain my position in my class, the other
members of which are now pacing the halls of old Harvard, in addition
to those pleasant employments enjoyed in common with the rest of you.”
“Setting apart a little time,” said Susan, laughing merrily, “devoted
to the Muses. Ah! Herbert, I have made the discovery, partly by my
own sagacity, and partly by the tell-tale expression of Aunt Wilson’s
countenance, that you are the author of much of the poetry which has
entertained us this winter.” “’Twas but the amusement of a passing
hour, dear Susan, and if it has been a source of interest to you, an
important end is attained.” “And you must continue that interest, my
son,” said Mrs. Wilson, “if it will not interfere with other duties. I
think,” added she, addressing Mary and Susan, “that your parents will
approve your winter employment, and that in after time you will review
them without regret.” “That I am sure we shall,” said Mary.