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AURELIAN;
OR,
ROME IN THE THIRD CENTURY
IN LETTERS OF LUCIUS M. PISO, FROM ROME, TO FAUSTA,
THE DAUGHTER OF GRACCHUS, AT PALMYRA.
BY
WILLIAM WARE,
AUTHOR OF "ZENOBIA," "JULIAN," ETC.
_FIFTH EDITION._
_TWO VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE._
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JAMES MILLER,
(SUCCESSOR TO C. S. FRANCIS & CO.)
647 BROADWAY.
1874.
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1838,
By CHARLES S. FRANCIS,
in the Clerk's office of the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866,
By MARY WARE,
in the Clerk's office of the Southern District of New York.
NOTICE.
This book--a sequel to Zenobia--published nearly ten years ago under the
name of 'Probus,' was soon republished, in several places abroad, under
that of 'Aurelian.' So far from complaining of the innovation, I could
not but regard it as a piece of good fortune, as I had myself long
thought the present a more appropriate title than the one originally
chosen. Add to this, that the publisher of the work, on lately proposing
a new edition, urgently advised the adoption of the foreign name, and I
have thought myself sufficiently warranted in an alteration which
circumstances seemed almost to require, or, at least, to excuse.
W. W.
* * * * *
AURELIAN.
The record which follows, is by the hand of me, NICOMACHUS, once the
happy servant of the great Queen of Palmyra, than whom the world never
saw a queen more illustrious, or a woman adorned with brighter virtues.
But my design is not to write her eulogy, or to recite the wonderful
story of her life. That task requires a stronger and a more impartial
hand than mine. The life of Zenobia by Nicomachus, would be the portrait
of a mother and a divinity, drawn by the pen of a child and a
worshipper.
My object is a humbler, but perhaps also a more useful one. It is to
collect and arrange, in their proper order, such of the letters of the
most noble LUCIUS MANLIUS PISO, as shall throw most light upon his
character and times, supplying all defects of incident, and filling up
all chasms that may occur, out of the knowledge which more exactly than
any one else, I have been able to gather concerning all that relates to
the distinguished family of the Pisos, after its connection with the
more distinguished one still, of the Queen of Palmyra.
It is in this manner that I propose to amuse the few remaining days of a
green old age, not without hope both to amuse and benefit others also.
This is a labor, as those will discover who read, not unsuitable to one
who stands trembling on the verge of life, and whom a single rude blast
may in a moment consign to the embraces of the universal mother. I will
not deny that my chief satisfaction springs from the fact, that in
collecting these letters, and binding them together by a connecting
narrative, I am engaged in the honorable task of tracing out some of the
steps by which the new religion has risen to its present height of
power. For whether true or false, neither friend nor foe, neither
philosopher nor fool, can refuse to admit the regenerating and genial
influences of its so wide reception upon the Roman character and
manners. If not the gift of the gods, it is every way worthy a divine
origin; and I cannot but feel myself to be worthily occupied in
recording the deeds, the virtues, and the sufferings, of those who put
their faith in it, and, in times of danger and oppression, stood forth
to defend it. Age is slow of belief. The thoughts then cling with a
violent pertinacity to the fictions of its youth, once held to be the
most sacred realities. But for this I should, I believe, myself long ago
have been a Christian. I daily pray to the Supreme Power that my
stubborn nature may yet so far yield, that I may be able, with a free
and full assent, to call myself a follower of Christ. A Greek by birth,
a Palmyrene by choice and adoption, a Roman by necessity--and these are
all honorable names--I would yet rather be a Christian than either.
Strange that, with so strong desires after a greater good, I should
remain fixed where I have ever been! Stranger still, seeing I have moved
so long in the same sphere with the excellent Piso, the divine
Julia--that emanation of God--and the god-like Probus! But there is no
riddle so hard for man to read as himself. I sometimes feel most
inclined toward the dark fatalism of the stoics, since it places all
things beyond the region of conjecture or doubt.
Yet if I may not be a Christian myself--I do not, however, cease both to
hope and pray--I am happy in this, that I am permitted by the Divine
Providence to behold, in these the last days of life, the quiet
supremacy of a faith which has already added so much to the common
happiness, and promises so much more. Having stood in the midst, and
looked upon the horrors of two persecutions of the Christians--the first
by Aurelian and the last by Diocletian--which last seemed at one moment
as if it would accomplish its work, and blot out the very name of
Christian--I have no language in which to express the satisfaction with
which I sit down beneath the peaceful shadows of a Christian throne, and
behold the general security and exulting freedom enjoyed by the many
millions throughout the vast empire of the great Constantine. Now,
everywhere around, the Christians are seen, undeterred by any
apprehension of violence, with busy hands reërecting the demolished
temples of their pure and spiritual faith; yet not unmindful, in the
mean time, of the labor yet to be done, to draw away the remaining
multitudes of idolaters from the superstitions which, while they
infatuate, degrade and brutalize them. With the zeal of the early
apostles of this religion, they are applying themselves, with untiring
diligence, to soften and subdue the stony heart of hoary Paganism,
receiving but too often, as their only return, curses and threats--now
happily vain--and retiring from the assault, leading in glad triumph
captive multitudes. Often, as I sit at my window, overlooking, from the
southern slope of the Quirinal, the magnificent Temple of the Sun, the
proudest monument of Aurelian's reign, do I pause to observe the labors
of the artificers who, just as it were beneath the shadow of its
columns, are placing the last stones upon the dome of a Christian
church. Into that church the worshippers shall enter unmolested;
mingling peacefully, as they go and return, with the crowds that throng
the more gorgeous temple of the idolaters. Side by side, undisturbed and
free, do the Pagans and Christians, Greeks, Jews, and Egyptians, now
observe the rites, and offer the worship, of their varying faiths. This
happiness we owe to the wise and merciful laws of the great Constantine.
So was it, long since, in Palmyra, under the benevolent rule of Zenobia.
May the time never come, when Christians shall do otherwise than now;
when, remembering the wrongs they have received, they shall retaliate
torture and death upon the blind adherents of the ancient superstition!
These letters of Piso to Fausta the daughter of Gracchus, now follow.
LETTER I.
FROM PISO TO FAUSTA.
I am not surprised, Fausta, that you complain of my silence. It were
strange indeed if you did not. But as for most of our misdeeds we have
excuses ready at hand, so have I for this. First of all, I was not
ignorant, that, however I might fail you, from your other greater friend
you would experience no such neglect; but on the contrary would be
supplied with sufficient fulness and regularity, with all that could be
worth knowing, concerning either our public or private affairs. For her
sake, too, I was not unwilling, that at first the burden of this
correspondence, if I may so term it, should rest where it has, since it
has afforded, I am persuaded, a pleasure, and provided an occupation
that could have been found nowhere else. Just as a flood of tears brings
relief to a bosom laboring under a heavy sorrow, so has this pouring out
of herself to you in frequent letters, served to withdraw the mind of
the Queen from recollections, which, dwelt upon as they were at first,
would soon have ended that life in which all ours seem bound up.
Then again, if you accept the validity of this excuse, I have another,
which, as a woman, you will at once allow the force of. You will not
deem it a better one than the other, but doubtless as good. It is this:
that for a long time I have been engaged in taking possession of my new
dwelling upon the Coelian, not far from that of Portia. Of this you
may have heard, in the letters which have reached you; but that will not
prevent me from describing to you, with more exactness than any other
can have done it, the home of your old and fast friend, Lucius Manlius
Piso; for I think it adds greatly to the pleasure with which we think of
an absent friend, to be able to see, as in a picture, the form and
material and position of the house he inhabits, and even the very aspect
and furniture of the room in which he is accustomed to pass the most of
his time. This to me is a satisfaction greater than you can well
conceive, when, in my ruminating hours, which are many, I return to
Palmyra, and place myself in the circle with Gracchus, Calpurnius, and
yourself. Your palace having now been restored to its former condition,
I know where to find you at the morning, noon, and evening hour; the
only change you have made in the former arrangements being this: that
whereas when I was your guest, your private apartments occupied the
eastern wing of the palace, they are now in the western, once mine,
which I used then to maintain were the most agreeable and noble of all.
The prospects which its windows afford of the temple, and the distant
palace of the queen, and of the evening glories of the setting sun, are
more than enough to establish its claims to an undoubted superiority;
and if to these be added the circumstance, that for so long a time the
Roman Piso was their occupant, the case is made out beyond all
peradventure.
But I am describing your palace rather than my own. You must remember my
paternal seat on the southern declivity of the hill, overlooking the
course of the Tiber as it winds away to the sea. Mine is not far from
it, but on the northern side of the hill, and thereby possessing a
situation more favorable to comfort, during the heats of summer--I
loving the city, as you well know, better if anything during the summer
than the winter months. Standing upon almost the highest point of the
hill, it commands a wide and beautiful prospect, especially toward the
north and east, the eye shooting over the whole expanse of city and
suburbs, and then resting upon the purple outline of the distant
mountains. Directly before me are the magnificent structures which crown
the Esquiline, conspicuous among which, and indeed eminent over all, are
the Baths of Titus. Then, as you will conjecture, the eye takes in the
Palatine and Capitol hills, catching, just beyond the last, the swelling
dome of the Pantheon, which seems rather to rise out of, and crown, the
Flavian Amphitheatre, than its own massy walls. Then, far in the
horizon, we just discern the distant summits of the Appenines, broken by
Soracte and the nearer hills.
The principal apartments are on the northern side of the palace, opening
upon a portico of Corinthian columns, running its entire length and
which would not disgrace Palmyra itself. At the eastern extremity, are
the rooms common to the family; in the centre, a spacious hall, in the
adorning of which, by every form of art, I have exhausted my knowledge
and taste in such things; and at the western extremity, my library,
where at this moment I sit, and where I have gathered around me all in
letters and art that I most esteem. This room I have decorated for
myself and Julia--not for others. Whatever has most endeared itself to
our imaginations, our minds, or our hearts, has here its home. The books
that have most instructed or amused; the statuary that most raises and
delights us; the pictures on which we most love to dwell; the
antiquities that possess most curiosity or value, are here arranged, and
in an order that would satisfy, I believe, even your fastidious taste.
I will not weary you with any more minute account of my new dwelling,
leaving that duty to the readier pen of Julia. Yet I cannot relieve you
till I have spoken of two of the statues which occupy the most
conspicuous niche in the library. You will expect me to name Socrates
and Plato, or Numa and Seneca--these are all there, but it is not of
either of them that I would speak. They are the venerable founders of
the Jewish and Christian religions, MOSES and CHRIST. These statues, of
the purest marble, stand side by side, at one extremity of the
apartment; and immediately before them, and within the wondrous sphere
of their influences stands the table at which I write, and where I
pursue my inquiries in philosophy and religion. You smile at my
enthusiasm, Fausta, and wonder when I shall return to the calm sobriety
of my ancient faith. In this wonder there are a thousand errors--but of
these hereafter. I was to tell you of these sculptures. Of the statue of
Moses, I possess no historical account, and know not what its claim may
be to truth. I can only say, it is a figure truly grand, and almost
terrific. It is of a size larger than life, and expresses no sentiment
so perfectly as authority--the authority of a rigorous and austere
ruler--both in the attitude of the body and the features of the
countenance. The head is slightly raised and drawn back, as if
listening, awe-struck, to a communication from the God who commissioned
him, while his left hand supports a volume, and his right grasps a
stylus, with which, when the voice has ceased, to record the
communicated truth. Place in his hands the thunderbolt, and at his feet
the eagle, and the same form would serve for Jupiter the Thunderer,
except only that to the countenance of the Jewish prophet there has been
imparted a rapt and inspired look, wholly beyond any that even Phidias
could have fixed upon the face of Jove. He who wrought this head must
have believed in the sublimities of the religion whose chief minister he
has made so to speak them forth, in the countenance and in the form; and
yet who has ever heard of a Jew sculptor?
The statue of Christ is of a very different character; as different as
the Christian faith is from that of the Jewish, notwithstanding they are
still by many confounded. I cannot pretend to describe to you the holy
beauty that as it were constitutes this perfect work of art. If you ask
what authority tradition has invested it with, I can only say that I do
not know. All I can affirm with certainty, is this, that it once stood
in the palace of Alexander Severus, in company with the images of other
deified men and gods, whom he chiefly reverenced. When that excellent
prince had fallen under the blows of assassins, his successor and
murderer, Maximin, having little knowledge or taste for what was found
in the palace of Alexander, those treasures were sold, and the statue of
Christ came into the hands of a distinguished and wealthy Christian of
that day, who, perishing in the persecution of Decius, his descendants
became impoverished, and were compelled to part with even this sacred
relic of their former greatness. From them I purchased it; and often are
they to be seen, whenever for such an object they can steal away from
necessary cares, standing before it and renewing, as it would seem,
their vows of obedience, in the presence of the founder of their faith.
The room is free to their approach, whenever they are thus impelled.
The expression of this statue, I have said, is wholly different from
that of the Hebrew. His is one of authority and of sternness; this of
gentleness and love. Christ is represented, like the Moses, in a sitting
posture, with a countenance, not like his raised to Heaven, but bent
with looks somewhat sad and yet full of benevolence, as if upon persons
standing before him. Fraternity, I think, is the idea you associate with
it most readily. I should never suppose him to be a judge or censor, or
arbitrary master, but rather an elder brother; elder in the sense of
wiser, holier, purer; whose look is not one of reproach that others are
not as himself, but of pity and desire; and whose hand would rather be
stretched forth to lift up the fallen than to smite the offender. To
complete this expression, and inspire the beholder with perfect
confidence, the left hand rests upon a little child, who stands with
familiar reverence at his knee, and looking up into his face seems to
say, 'No evil can come to me here.'
Opposite this, and at the other extremity of the apartment, hangs a
picture of Christ, representing him in very exact accordance with the
traditional accounts of his features and form, a description of which
exists, and is held by most authentic, in a letter of Publius Lentulus,
a Roman of the same period. Between this and the statue there is a
close resemblance, or as close as we usually see between two heads of
Cæsar, or of Cicero. Marble, however, is the only material that suits
the character and office of Jesus of Nazareth. Color, and its minute
effects, seem in some sort to degrade the subject. I retain the picture
because of its supposed truth.
Portia, as you will believe, is full of wonder and sorrow at these
things. Soon after my library had received its last additions, my mother
came to see what she had already heard of so much. As she entered the
apartment, I was sitting in my accustomed seat, with Julia at my side,
and both of us gazing in admiration at the figures I have just
described. We were both too much engrossed to notice the entrance of
Portia, our first warning of her presence being her hand laid upon my
head. We rose and placed her between us.
'My son,' said she, looking intently as she spoke upon the statues
before us, 'what strange looking figures are these? That upon my left
might serve for Jupiter, but for the roll and the stylus. And why place
you beings of character so opposite, as these appear to have been, side
by side? This other upon my right--ah, how beautiful it is! What
mildness in those eyes, and what a divine repose over the form, which no
event, not the downfall of a kingdom nor its loss, would seem capable to
disturb. Is it the peace loving Numa?'
'Not so,' said Julia; 'there stands Numa, leaning on the sacred shield,
from the centre of which beams the countenance of the divine Egeria.'
'Yes, I see it,' replied Portia; and rising from her seat, she stood
gazing round the apartment, examining its various appointments. When her
eye had sought out the several objects, and dwelt upon them a moment,
she said, in tones somewhat reproachful, as much so as it is in her
nature to assume:
'Where, Lucius, are the gods of Rome? Do those who have, through so many
ages, watched over our country, and guarded our house, deserve no honor
at your hands? Does not gratitude require at least that their images
should be here, so that, whether you yourself worship them or not, their
presence may inspire others with reverence? But alas for the times!
Piety seems dead; or, with the faith that inspires it, it lives, but in
a few, who will soon disappear, and religion with them. Whose forms are
these, Lucius? concerning one I can now easily surmise--but the other,
this stern and terrific man, who is he?'
'That,' I replied, 'is Moses, the founder of Judaism.'
'Immortal gods!' exclaimed Portia, 'the statue of a Jew in the halls of
the Pisos! Well may it be that Rome approaches her decline, when her
elder sons turn against her.'
'Nay, my mother, I am not a Jew.'
'I would thou wert, rather than be what I suppose thou art, a Christian.
The Jew, Lucius, can boast of antiquity, at least, in behalf of his
religion. But the faith which you would profess and extend, is but of
yesterday. Would the gods ever leave mankind without religion? Is it
only to-day that they reveal the truth? Have they left us for these many
ages to grope along in error? Never, Lucius, can I believe it. It is
enough for me that the religion of Rome is old as Rome, to endear it to
my heart, and commend it to my understanding. It is not for the first
time, to-day, that the gods have spoken.'
'But, my dear mother,' I rejoined, 'if age makes truth, there are older
religions than this of Rome. Judaism itself is older, by many centuries.
But it is not because a religion is new or old, that I would receive or
reject it.' The only question is, does it satisfy my heart and mind, and
is it true? The faith which you engrafted upon my infant mind, fails to
meet the wants of my nature, and upon looking for its foundations, I
find them not.'
'Is thy nature different from mine, Lucius? Surely, thou art my own
child! It has satisfied me and my nature. I ask for nothing else, or
better.'
'There are some natures, mother, by the gods so furnished and filled
with all good desires and affections, that their religion is born with
them and is in them. It matters little under what outward form and
administration of truth they dwell; no system could injure them--none
would greatly benefit. They are of the family of God, by birth, and are
never disinherited.'
'Yes, Portia,' said Julia, 'natural and divine instincts make you what
others can become only through the powerful operation of some principle
out of, and superior to, anything they find within. For me, I know not
what I should have been, without the help which Christianity has
afforded. I might have been virtuous, but I could not have been happy.
You surely rejoice, when the weak find that in any religion or
philosophy which gives them strength. Look, Portia, at that serene and
benignant countenance, and can you believe that any truth ever came
from its lips, but such as must be most comforting and exalting to those
who receive it?'
'It would seem so indeed, my child,' replied Portia, musingly, 'and I
would not deprive any of the comforts or strength which any principle
may impart. But I cannot cease to think it dangerous to the state, when
the faith of the founders of Rome is abandoned by those who fill its
highest places. You who abound in leisure and learning, may satisfy
yourselves with a new philosophy; but what shall these nice refinements
profit the common herd? How shall they see them to be true, or
comprehend them? The Romans have ever been a religious people; and
although under the empire the purity of ancient manners is lost, let it
not be said that the Pisos were among those who struck the last and
hardest blows at the still stout root of the tree that bore them.'
'Nothing can be more plain or intelligible,' I replied, 'than the
principles of the Christian religion; and wherever it has been preached
with simplicity and power, even the common people have readily and
gratefully adopted it. I certainly cannot but desire that it may
prevail. If any thing is to do it, I believe this is the power that is
to restore, and in a still nobler form, the ancient manners of which you
speak. It is from Christianity that in my heart I believe the youthful
blood is to come, that being poured into the veins of this dying state,
shall reproduce the very vigor and freshness of its early age. Rome, my
mother, is now but a lifeless trunk--a dead and loathsome corpse--a new
and warmer current must be infused, or it will soon crumble into dust.'
'I grieve, Lucius, to see you lost to the good cause of your country,
and to the altars of her gods; for who can love his country, and deny
the gods who made and preserve it? But then who am I to condemn? When I
see the gods to hurl thunderbolts upon those who flout them, it will be
time enough for us mortals to assume the robes of judgment. I will hope
that farther thought will reclaim you from your truant wanderings.'
Do not imagine, Fausta, that conversations like this have the least
effect to chill the warm affections of Portia towards us both. Nature
has placed within her bosom a central heat, that not only preserves her
own warmth, but diffuses itself upon all who approach her, and changes
their affections into a likeness of her own. We speak of our differing
faiths, but love none the less. When she had paused a moment after
uttering the last words, she again turned her eye upon the statue of
Christ, and, captivated by its wondrous power, she dwelt upon it in a
manner that showed her sensibilities to be greatly moved. At length she
suddenly started, saying:
'If truth and beauty were the same thing, one need but to look upon this
and be a believer. But as in the human form and face, beauty is often
but a lie, covering over a worse deformity than any that ever disfigures
the body, so it may be here. I cannot but admire and love the beauty; it
will be wise, I suppose, not to look farther, lest the dream be
dissolved.'
'Be not afraid of that, dearest mother; I can warrant you against
disappointment. If in that marble you have the form of the outward
beauty, here, in this roll, you will find the inward moral beauty of
which it is the shrine.'
'Nay, nay, Lucius, I look no farther or deeper. I have seen too much
already.'
With these words, she arose, and we accompanied her to the portico,
where we walked, and sat, and talked of you, and Calpurnius, and
Gracchus.
Thus you perceive I have told you first of what chiefly interests
myself: now let me turn to what at this moment more than everything else
fills all heads in Rome--and that is Livia. She is the object of
universal attention, the centre of all honor. It is indescribable, the
sensation her beauty, and now added to that, her magnificence, have made
and still make in Rome. Her imperial bearing would satisfy even you; and
the splendor of her state exceeds all that has been known before. This
you may be surprised to hear, knowing what the principles of Aurelian
have been in such things; how strict he has been himself in a more than
republican simplicity, and how severe upon the extravagances and
luxuries of others, in the laws he has enacted. You must remember his
prohibition of the use of cloth of gold and of silk, among other
things--foolish laws to be suddenly promulged among so vain and corrupt
a population as this of Rome. They have been the ridicule and scorn of
rich and poor alike; of the rich, because they are so easily violated in
private, or evaded by the substitution of one article for another; of
the poor, because, being slaves in spirit, they take a slave's pride in
the trappings and state of their masters; they love not only to feel but
to see their superiority. But since the eastern expedition, the
reduction of Palmyra, and the introduction from abroad of the vast flood
of foreign luxuries which has inundated Rome and Italy itself the
principles and the habits of the Emperor have undergone a mighty
revolution. Now, the richness and costliness of his dress, the splendor
of his equipage, the gorgeousness of his furniture, cannot be made to
come up to the height of his extravagant desires. The silk which he once
denied to the former Empress for a dress, now, variously embroidered,
and of every dye, either hangs in ample folds upon the walls, or
canopies the royal bed, or lends its beauty to the cushioned seats which
everywhere, in every form of luxurious ease, invite to repose. Gold,
too, once prohibited, but now wrought into every kind of cloth, or solid
in shape of dish, or vase, or cup, or spread in sheets over the very
walls and ceilings of the palace, has rendered the traditions of Nero's
house of gold no longer fabulous. The customs of the eastern monarchs
have also elevated or perverted the ambition of Aurelian, and one after
another are taking place of former usages. He is every day more
difficult of access, and surrounds himself, his palaces, and apartments,
by guards and officers of state. In all this, as you will readily
believe, Livia is his willing companion, or rather, I should perhaps
say, his prompting and ruling genius. As without the world at her feet,
it would be impossible for her insane pride to be fully satisfied, so in
all that is now done, the Emperor still lags behind her will. But
beautifully, it can be denied by none, does she become her greatness,
and gives more lustre than she receives, to all around her. Gold is
doubly gold in her presence; and even the diamond sparkles with a new
brilliancy on her brow or sandal.
Livia is, of all women I have ever seen or known; made for a Roman
empress. I used to think so when in Palmyra, and I saw her, so often as
I did, assuming the port and air of imaginary sovereignty. And now that
I behold her filling the very place for which by nature she is most
perfectly fitted, I cannot but confess that she surpasses all I had
imagined, in the genius she displays for her great sphere, both as wife
of Aurelian, and sovereign of Rome. Her intellect shows itself stronger
than I had believed it to be, and secures for her the homage of a class
who could not be subdued by her magnificence, extraordinary as it is.
They are captivated by the brilliancy of her wit, set off by her
unequalled beauty, and, for a woman, by her rare attainments, and hover
around her as some superior being. Then for the mass of our rich and
noble, her ostentatious state and imperial presence are all that they
can appreciate, all they ask for, and more than enough to enslave them,
not only to her reasonable will, but to all her most tyrannical and
whimsical caprices. She understands already perfectly the people she is
among; and through her quick sagacity, has already risen to a power
greater than woman ever before held in Rome.
We see her often--often as ever--and when we see her, enjoy her as well.
For with all her ambition of petty rule and imposing state, she
possesses and retains a goodness of heart, that endears her to all, in
spite of her follies. Julia is still her beloved Julia, and I her good
friend Lucius; but it is to Zenobia that she attaches herself most
closely; and from her she draws most largely of the kind of inspiration
which she covets. It is to her, too, I believe, that we may trace much
of the admirable wisdom--for such it must be allowed to be--with which
Livia adorns the throne of the world.
Her residence, when Aurelian is absent from the city, is near us in the
palace upon the Palatine; but when he is here, it is more remote, in the
enchanted gardens of Sallust. This spot, first ennobled by the presence
of the great historian, to whose hand and eye of taste the chief
beauties of the scene are to be traced, then afterward selected by
Vespasian as an imperial villa, is now lately become the chosen retreat
of Aurelian. It has indeed lost a part of its charms since it has been
embraced, by the extension of the new walls, within the limits of the
city; but enough remain to justify abundantly the preference of a line
of emperors. It is there that we see Livia most as we have been used to
do, and where are forcibly brought to our minds the hours passed by us
so instructively in the gardens of Zenobia. Often Aurelian is of our
company, and throws the light of his strong intellect upon whatever
subject it is we discuss. He cannot, however, on such occasions,
thoroughly tame to the tone of gentle society, his imperious and almost
rude nature. The peasant of Pannonia will sometimes break through, and
usurp the place of emperor; but it is only for a moment; for it is
pleasing to note how the presence of Livia quickly restores him to
himself; when, with more grace than one would look for, he acknowledges
his fault, ascribing it sportively to the fogs of the German marshes. It
amuses us to observe the power which the polished manners and courtly
ways of Livia exercise over Aurelian, whose ambition seems now as
violently bent upon subduing the world by the displays of taste, grace,
and magnificence, as it once was to do it--and is still indeed--by force
of arms. Having astonished mankind in one way, he would astonish them
again in quite another; and to this later task his whole nature is
consecrated with as entire a devotion as ever it was to the other. Livia
is in all these things his model and guide; and never did soldier learn
to catch, from the least motion or sign of the general, his will, than
does he, to the same end, study the countenance and the voice of the
Empress. Yet is there, as you will believe knowing the character of
Aurelian as well as you do, nothing mean nor servile in this. He is ever
himself, and beneath this transparent surface, artificially assumed, you
behold, feature for feature, the lineaments of the fierce soldier
glaring forth in all their native wildness and ferocity. Yet we are
happy that there exists any charm potent enough to calm, but for hours
or days, a nature so stern and cruel as to cause perpetual fears for the
violences in which at any moment it may break out. The late slaughter in
the very streets of Rome, when the Coelian ran with the blood of
fifteen thousand Romans, butchered within sight of their own homes, with
the succeeding executions, naturally fill us with apprehensions for the
future. We call him generous, and magnanimous, and so he is, compared
with former tyrants who have polluted the throne--Tiberius, Commodus, or
Maximin; but what title has he to that praise, when tried by the
standard which our own reason supplies of those great virtues? I confess
it was not always so. His severity was formerly ever on the side of
justice; it was indignation at crime or baseness which sometimes brought
upon him the charge of cruelty--never the wanton infliction of suffering
and death. But it certainly is not so now. A slight cause now rouses
his sleeping passions to a sudden fury, often fatal to the first object
that comes in his way. But enough of this.
Do not forget to tell me again of the Old Hermit of the mountains, and
that you have visited him--if indeed he be yet among the living.
Even with your lively imagination, Fausta, you can hardly form an idea
of the sensation which my open assertion of Christian principles and
assumption of the Christian name has made in Rome. I intended when I sat
down to speak only of this, but see how I have been led away! My letters
will be for the most part confined, I fear, to the subjects which
engross both myself and Julia most--such as relate to the condition and
prospects of the new religion, and to the part which we take in the
revolution which is going on. Not that I shall be speechless upon other
and inferior topics, but that upon this of Christianity I shall be
garrulous and overflowing. I believe that in doing this, I shall consult
your preferences as well as my own. I know you to be desirous of
principles better than any which as yet you have been able to discover,
and that you will gladly learn whatever I may have it in my power to
teach you from this quarter. But all the teaching I shall attempt will
be to narrate events as they occur, and state facts as they arise, and
leave them to make what impression they may.
When I just spoke of the sensation which my adoption of the Christian
system had caused in Rome, I did not mean to convey any idea like this,
that it has been rare for the intelligent and cultivated to attach
themselves to this despised religion. On the contrary, it would be true
were I to say, that they who accept Christianity, are distinguished for
their intelligence; that estimated as a class, they rank far above the
lowest. It is not the dregs of a people who become reformers of
philosophy or religion; who grow dissatisfied with ancient opinions upon
exalted subjects, and search about for better, and adopt them. The
processes involved in this change, in their very nature, require
intelligence, and imply a character of more than common elevation. It is
neither the lowest nor the highest who commence, and at first carry on,
a work like this; but those who fill the intermediate spaces. The lowest
are dead as brute matter to such interests; the highest--the rich, the
fashionable, the noble, from opposite causes just as dead; or if they
are alive at all, it is with the rage of denunciation and opposition.
They are supporters of the decent usages sanctioned by antiquity, and
consecrated by the veneration of a long line of the great and noble.
Whether they themselves believe in the system which they uphold or not,
they are equally tenacious of it. They would preserve and perpetuate it,
because it has satisfied, at any rate bound and overawed, the multitude
for ages: and the experiment of alteration or substitution is too
dangerous to be tried. Most indeed reason not, nor philosophize at all,
in the matter. The instinct that makes them Romans in their worship of
the power and greatness of Rome, and attachment to her civil forms,
makes them Romans in their religion, and will summon them, if need be,
to die for the one and the other.
Religion and philosophy have accordingly nothing to hope from this
quarter. It is those whom we may term the substantial middle classes,
who, being least hindered by prejudices and pride of order, on the one
hand, and incapacitated by ignorance on the other, have ever been the
earliest and best friends of progress in any science. Here you find the
retired scholar, the thoughtful and independent farmer, the skilful
mechanic, the enlightened merchant, the curious traveller, the
inquisitive philosopher--all fitted, beyond those of either extreme, for
exercising a sound judgment upon such questions, and all more interested
in them. It is out of these that Christianity has made its converts.
They are accordingly worthy of universal respect. I have examined with
diligence, and can say that there live not in Rome a purer and more
noble company than the Christians. When I say however that it is out of
these whom I have just specified, that Christianity has made its
converts, I do not mean to say out of them exclusively. Some have joined
them in the present age, as well as in every age past, from the most
elevated in rank and power. If in Nero's palace, and among his chief
ministers, there were Christians, if Domitilla, Domitian's niece, was a
Christian, if the emperor Philip was a Christian, so now a few of the
same rank may be counted, who openly, and more who secretly, profess
this religion. But they are very few. So that you will not wonder that
when the head of the ancient and honorable house of the Pisos, the
friend of Aurelian, and allied to the royal family of Palmyra, declared
himself to be of this persuasion, no little commotion was observable in
Rome--not so much among the Christians as among the patricians, among
the nobility, in the court and palace of Aurelian. The love of many has
grown cold, and the outward tokens of respect are withheld. Brows
darkened by the malignant passions of the bigot are bent upon me as I
pass along the streets, and inquiries, full of scornful irony, are made
after the welfare of my new friends. The Emperor changes not his
carriage toward me, nor, I believe, his feelings. I think he is too
tolerant of opinion, too much a man of the world, to desire to curb and
restrain the liberty of his friends in the quarter of philosophy and
religion. I know indeed on the other hand, that he is religious in his
way, to the extreme of superstition, but I have observed no tokens as
yet of any purpose or wish to interfere with the belief or worship of
others. He seems like one who, if he may indulge his own feelings in his
own way, is not unwilling to concede to others the same freedom.
* * * * *
As I was writing these last sentences, I became conscious of a voice
muttering in low tones, as if discoursing with itself, and upon no very
agreeable theme. I heeded it not at first, but wrote on. At length it
ran thus, and I was compelled to give ear:
Patience, patience--greatest of virtues, yet hardest of practice! To
wait indeed for a kingdom were something, though it were upon a bed of
thorns; to suffer for the honor of truth, were more; more in itself, and
more in its rewards. But patience, when a fly stings, or a fool speaks,
or worse, when time is wasted and lost, is--the virtue in this case
mayhap is greater after all--but it is harder, I say, of practice--that
is what I say--yet, for that very reason, greater! By Hercules! I
believe it is so. So that while I wait here, my virtue of patience is
greater than that of these accursed Jews. Patience then, I say,
patience!'
'What in the name of all antiquity,' I exclaimed, turning round as the
voice ceased, 'is this flood of philosophy for? Wherein have I
offended?'
'Offended!' cried the other; 'Nay, noble master, not offended. According
to my conclusion, I owe thee thanks; for while I have stood waiting to
catch thy eye and ear, my virtue has shot up like a wild vine. The soul
has grown. I ought therefore rather to crave forgiveness of thee, for
breaking up a study which was so profound, and doubtless so agreeable
too.'
'Agreeable you will certainly grant it, when I tell you I was writing to
your ancient friend and pupil, the daughter of Gracchus.'
'Ah, the blessings of all the gods upon her. My dreams are still of her.
I loved her, Piso, as I never loved beside, either form, shadow, or
substance. I used to think that I loved her as a parent loves his
child--a brother his sister; but it was more than that. Aristotle is not
so dear to me as she. Bear witness these tears! I would now, bent as I
am, travel the Syrian deserts to see her; especially if I might hear
from her mouth a chapter of the great philosopher. Never did Greek,
always music, seem so like somewhat more divinely harmonious than
anything of earth, as when it came through her lips. Yet, by Hercules!
she played me many a mad prank! 'Twould have been better for her and for
letters, had I chastised her more, and loved her less. Condescend, noble
Piso, to name me to her, and entreat her not to fall away from her
Greek. That will be a consolation under all losses, and all sorrows.'
'I will not fail to do so. And now in what is my opinion wanted?'
'It is simply in the matter of these volumes, where thou wilt have them
bestowed. The cases here, by their superior adorning, seem designed for
the great master of all, and his disciples; and it is here I would fain
order them. Would it so please thee?'
'No, Solon, not here. That is designed for a very different Master and
his disciples.'
Solon looked at me as if unwilling to credit his ears, hoping that
something would be added more honorable to the affronted philosopher and
myself. But nothing coming, he said:
'I penetrate--I apprehend. This, the very centre and post of honor, thou
reservest for the atheistical Jews. The gods help us! I doubt I should
straight resign my office. Well, well; let us hope that the increase of
years will bring an increase of wisdom. We cannot look for fruit on a
sapling. Youth seeks novelty. But the gods be thanked! Youth lasts not
long, but is a fault daily corrected; else the world were at a bad pass.
Rome is not fallen, nor the fame of the Stagyrite hurt for this. But
'tis grievous to behold!'
So murmuring, as he retreated to the farther part of the library, with
his bundle of rolls under his arm, he again busied himself in the labors
of his office.
I see, Fausta, the delight that sparkles in your eye and breaks over
your countenance, as you learn that Solon, the incomparable Solon, is
one of my household. No one whom I could think of, appeared so well
suited to my wants as librarian, as Solon, and I can by no means convey
to you an idea of the satisfaction with which he hailed my offer; and
abandoning the rod and the brass tablets, betook himself to a labor
which would yield him so much more leisure for the perusal of his
favorite authors, and the pursuit of his favorite studies. He is already
deep in the question, 'whether the walls of Troy were accommodated with
thirty-three or thirty-nine gates,' and also in this, 'what was the
method of construction adopted in the case of the wooden horse, and what
was its capacity?' Of his progress in these matters, I will duly inform
you.
But I weary your patience. Farewell.
* * * * *
Piso, alluding in this letter to the slaughter on the Coelian Hill,
which happened not long before it was written, I will add here that
whatever color it may have pleased Aurelian to give to that affair--as
if it were occasioned by a dishonest debasement of the coin by the
directors of the mint--there is now no doubt, on the part of any who are
familiar with the history of that period, that the difficulty originated
in a much deeper and more formidable cause, well known to Aurelian
himself, but not spoken of by him, in alluding to the event. It is
certain, then, that the civil war which then befel, for such it was, was
in truth the breaking out of a conspiracy on the part of the nobles to
displace Aurelian--'a German peasant,' as they scornfully designated
him--and set one of their own order upon the throne. They had already
bought over the chief manager of the public mint--a slave and favorite
of Aurelian--and had engaged him in creating, to serve the purposes
which they had in view, an immense issue of spurious coin. This they had
used too liberally, in effecting some of the preliminary objects of
their movement. It was suspected, tried, proved to be false, and traced
to its authors. Before they were fully prepared, the conspirators were
obliged to take to their arms, as the only way in which to save
themselves from the executioner. The contest was one of the bloodiest
ever known within the walls of the city. It was Aurelian, with a few
legions of his army, and the people--always of his part--against the
wealth and the power of the nobility, and their paid adherents. In one
day, and in one battle, as it may be termed, fifteen thousand soldiers
and citizens were slain in the streets of the capital. Truly does Piso
say, the streets of the Coelian ran blood. I happily was within the
walls of the queen's palace at Tibur; but well do I remember the horror
of the time--especially the days succeeding the battle, when the
vengeance of the enraged conqueror fell upon the noblest families of
Rome, and the axe of the executioner was blunted and broken with the
savage work which it did.
No one has written of Aurelian and his reign, who has not applauded him
for the defence which he made of his throne and crown, when traitorously
assailed within the very walls of the capital; but all unite also in
condemning that fierce spirit of revenge, which, after the contest was
over and his power secure, by confiscation, banishment, torture and
death, involved in ruin so many whom a different treatment would have
converted into friends. But Aurelian was by nature a tyrant; it was
accident whenever he was otherwise. If affairs moved on smoothly, he was
the just or magnanimous prince; if disturbed and perplexed, and his will
crossed, he was the imperious and vindictive tyrant.
LETTER II.
FROM PISO TO FAUSTA.
You need not, dear Fausta, concern yourself on our behalf. I cannot
think that your apprehensions will be realized. Rome never was more calm
than now, nor apparently has there ever a better temper possessed its
people. The number of those who are sufficiently enlightened to know
that the mind ought not to be in bondage to man, but be held answerable
to God alone for its thoughts and opinions, is becoming too great for
the violences and cruelties of former ages to be again put in practice
against us. And Aurelian, although stern in his nature, and
superstitious beyond others, will not, I am persuaded, lend himself
either to priests or people to annoy us. If no principle of humanity
prevented him, nor generosity of sentiment, he would be restrained, I
think, by his attachments to so many who bear the hated name.