shoulders; “but do sing, for I should fain have my maidens to hear
something truly of your music.” With that she again applied her fingers to
the lyre, and stooping over it, began to play some notes of prelude, less
sorrowful than what we had at first heard. “Ay, my dear girl,” says the
priestess, “you could not have chosen better. Heavens! how many lordly
choirs have I heard singing to that old Delian air. There are a hundred
hymns that may be sung to it—give us whichsoever of them pleases your
fancy the best.”—“I will try,” replied the maiden, “to sing the words you
have heard before. If I remember, you liked them.” Then boldly at once,
yet gently, did her voice rush into the current of that ancient strain
that you have heard so often; but it was then that I myself for the first
time heard it.
The moon, the moon is thine, O night,
Not altogether dark art thou;
Her trembling crescent sheds its light,
Trembling and pale, upon thine ancient brow.
The moon is thine, and round her orb
A thousand sweet stars minister,
Whose twinkling rays dark wells absorb,
And all the wide seas drink them far and near.
They kiss the wide sea, and swift smiles
Of gladness o’er the waters creep;
Old hoary rocks rejoice, and isles,
And there is glory on the slumbering deep
Afar. Along the black hill’s side,
Right blithe of heart the wanderers go,
While that soft radiance, far and wide,
Gleams on the winding streams and woods below.
And gaily for the fragile bark,
Through the green waves its path is shorn,
When all the murmurs of the dark
Cold sea lie calm’d beneath that gliding horn.
Yet hail, ye glittering streaks, that lie
The eastern mountain tops upon!
Hail, ye deep blushes of the sky,
That speak the coming of the bridegroom sun!
Hail to the healing beam of day,
That rouses every living thing!
The forest gulphs confess thy sway,
And upon freshening branches glad birds sing.
And loathsome forms, that crept unseen
Beneath the star-light faint and wan,
Cower in their brakes the thorns between,
Dreading that fervid eye, and its sure scan
Triumphant. Welcome life and light!
Sing rocks and mountains, plain and sea;
Fearful though lovely was the night;
Hail to more perfect beauty—hail to THEE!
“Why stop you, Athanasia?” said the priestess, finding that here she
paused,—“why do you rise up, and take your fingers from the lyre, before
you sing out the chorus?”—“No more, dear aunt—excuse me—no more. I have
already sung all that I can,” replied Athanasia.—“Nay, then,” says she,
“if you be fatigued, sing not; but join me, maidens, in the close—perhaps
it rises too high for Athanasia.”
And with that the ancient lady herself, joined by the three damsels that
had been embroidering, took up the strain, which, indeed, rose higher
towards its end
Hail to thee Phœbus, son of Jove,
Glorious Apollo, Lord of Light,
Hail, lovely in thy Delian grove,
And terrible on Delphos’ haunted height!
Hail to thee here beneath the dome,
Great Phœbus, of thy Latian shrine;
All hail from Cæsar and from Rome;
Hail by thy dearest name, God Palatine!
But as they were singing the last verse of all, Rubellia also aided their
melody with a rich strong gushing voice, which rose far above all the
others; and the silent Athanasia turning round quickly, perceived, not
without manifestation of alarm, by how many strangers her song had been
overheard. On seeing who we were, she saluted Sextus and myself with
modest courtesy, amidst her confusion; and it may be that my companion, as
well as myself, blushed at the same moment; for he could not see Athanasia
without thinking of Sempronia.
It seemed as if her confusion were not unconnected with some suspicion of
having been recognized near the Prætorian guard-house; for, after the
first glance, I in vain endeavoured to meet her eye; while on the
contrary, to Sextus she directed both looks and words, enough to provoke
visibly some not altogether benign movements in our Rubellia. Such, at
least, was my interpretation of the fair widow’s aspect, and the tone of
impatience in which she, after a minute or two had passed, began to urge
the propriety of our proceeding to the part of the imperial edifice in
which the painter was expecting us.
The priestess of Apollo hearing her say so, courteously offered to guide
us beyond the precincts of the temple, and our whole party were again in
motion; but Athanasia remained behind with the three young damsels, and I,
who walked last, saw her, ere the portal received me, preparing again to
handle the lyre, with fingers visibly trembling, and a pale countenance,
not as I thought unstained with some yet more distinct traces of keen
emotion. The sight of her agitation fixed my footstep for a moment, and it
was then that, on her casting a sudden glance round to the place where I
stood, I perceived truly that I had not been mistaken, and that the tears
were gathered within her eyelids. It was no more, however, than one
glance, for immediately she stooped again, and, dashing her fingers along
the chords of the instrument, appeared to bury her thoughts in its
harmony. I stood for a moment, and then ashamed of myself, and troubled
with her troubles and with my own, I followed the rest into the great
library which Augustus placed beneath the protection of the Palatine
Apollo. The priestess parted from us at its entrance, after pointing out a
low and massive door of bronze on the right hand, within which, as she
told me, the remains of the Sybilline prophecies are preserved, unseen by
profane eyes, watched over perpetually by the guardians of the place.
_CHAPTER III._
I had walked by the side of my young friend, and behind the Stoic, (who, I
think, was expressing, in his pompous fashion, much admiration of the
singing of Rubellia,) along one or two of the great halls in which the
library is contained, before the novelty of the objects surrounding me
made any impression even on my eyes; and even after these were in some
measure engaged, my mind still continued to dwell on that troubled aspect,
and on the notes of the uncompleted song. At length, however, the levity
of youth, and natural curiosity revived; and I began to be present, not in
body merely, in a place where there was much that might well interest the
mind. Far-receding rows of columns conducted my eyes into the interminable
recesses of that wide range of chambers, in which the records of the
thought and spirit of all past ages are piled up together; and gazing on
the loaded shelves which every where ascended into the galleries, I could
not but be affected with many new emotions. I perused glorious names on
the busts that seemed to preside over the different compartments. The high
filletted front of Homer detained for the first time my contemplation; the
eyes of the divine old man, even in sculpture, distinctly and visibly
blind, while the serenity and sanctity of the towering forehead, revealed
how the intense perception at once of the lovely and the great could
compensate for visions of earthly beauty shut out. The mild Plato, and the
imperious Stagyrite—Pindar—Simonides—Alcæus—and I know not how many more,
succeeded as we passed along—each in his own sphere, reigning by himself;
yet all connected together by a certain common air of greatness, like so
many successive princes, or contemporary heroes of the same mighty empire.
From this main range, there diverged many lesser chambers, in which we saw
studious persons engaged, each seated by himself, and having his eyes
fixed on the parchment before him. Of these, some deigned not to intimate
by the smallest movement their perception that any one had approached; but
with others Xerophrastes exchanged, as he walked, lofty salutation, and
one or two even entered, for a moment, into conversation with him. With
one of these, indeed, (an ancient of bitter aspect,) to such a length did
the colloquy extend, that we began to think we should never be able to get
our Stoic away from him; till, as our fortune would have it, it became
necessary for them to have a certain book for the purpose of reference,
and then Xerophrastes began to make inquiries concerning Parmeno, who, as
I gathered, must needs be one of those intrusted with the care of the
library.
“I am afraid,” said the other, “if we must wait for him, we shall not be
able to get that work either to-day or to-morrow; for his pupil, the son
of Fabricius, is dead, and I suppose he will now change his quarters, and
be no longer seen so often about these haunts of the muses.”
“Alas!” interrupted Sextus, “I met Fabricius in the Forum a few days ago,
and he told me his son was ill; but little did I imagine my dear companion
was so near his end! Is it indeed so?”
“Even so,” rejoined the other. “Rapid have been the shears of Atropos! It
is but a few moments since Agaso, the painter passed; and, he told me he
had been receiving orders to take a likeness, as well as he could, from
the corpse.”
“If Agaso be so engaged,” replied Xerophrastes, “I am afraid we need not
expect to find him neither in his usual place. Perhaps we had better make
inquiry for him at the dwelling of Fabricius.”
To this Sextus assented; or rather, being lost in reflection concerning
the death of his friend, he suffered himself to be conducted by the Stoic.
Passing, therefore, through one or two more apartments, we issued forth,
and drew near to the vestibule of Fabricius’ house, who, as they told me,
was a noble Roman, having the chief superintendance of the whole library,
and an intimate friend of Licinius—one whose domestic calamity could not
fail to spread much affliction through a wide circle of patrician kindred.
At the vestibule, we found assembled not a few of the young man’s
relations; but Xerophrastes immediately said, “Behold Parmeno, he is the
most afflicted; and what wonder that it should be so?”
“Alas!” said Sextus, “the bier is set forth; the last rites are to be
performed this evening.”
This Parmeno was a striking figure. Seated close by the bier, his head was
involved in his cloak, so that only his eyes and his nose could be seen,
but these of themselves expressed a decorous affliction; and the folds of
the cloak fell down over the rest of his person in great order and
dignity. On the pavement beside him was seen lying, half-unfolded, a book
inscribed with the name of Heraclitus, which he appeared to have been
reading. When Xerophrastes approached, this mourner stretched forth his
hand, and shook his head, but he did not say any thing, nor even look
towards the rest of us; and indeed to have done so, would have disturbed
the attitude in which he had placed himself. Xerophrastes, on his part,
received the proffered hand, and shaking his head in response, said, “Yes,
my Ionian friend, I may still bid thee hail and live; but I must say
farewell to the plant thou wast rearing. Farewell to the youthful promise
of Fabricius!”
On hearing these words, the sitting philosopher drew his mantle quite over
his face, and leant himself heavily against one of the fluted columns of
the vestibule, for he seemed to be much shaken. In the meantime Sextus
approached the bier, and contemplated his companion as he lay there
wreathed with melancholy garlands; his countenance bearing a natural
mixture of sadness and astonishment. Nor could I, who had never before
seen the young man, behold the spectacle without similar emotions; for his
age, as it seemed, could not have been much different from my own, and the
pale features were interesting, their expression not less amiable than
solemn.
“Alas!” said Sextus, “the last time I saw him, how differently did he
appear! We rode out together with some others to Tibur, and spent all the
day there; and as we returned by the moonlight, how joyous his
conversation! Methinks I yet hear him laughing and speaking. We parted at
the foot of the Capitoline, and never did I see him again till now.”
“Oh, fate of man!” quoth Xerophrastes; “how uncertain is life, how certain
death! Without doubt, young Fabricius had as little thought of dying as
any of your company; and yet, see now, he is arrayed for the last time,
and this juvenile gown, which he should so soon have laid aside for the
manly, is destined to be consumed with him.”
“A fine lad he was,” cries one of the standers by,—“a fine lad, and an
excellent horseman. The Martian Field did not often behold such a rider in
these degenerate days of the Roman youth.”
But while the rest were still contemplating the bier, Xerophrastes,
turning to his brother philosopher, said, “Tell me now, my learned friend,
do you still, after this mournful event, continue to reside with the elder
Fabricius? Has that excellent man any more sons to be educated, or will he
retain you only for the sake of the library, with which assuredly he will
find few so conversant as yourself?”
To which Parmeno replied, “Your question, O Xerophrastes, shews that clear
judgment concerning the affairs of men, for which you have always been
celebrated. No, my friend, the gray-haired Fabricius no longer requires my
residence here; for he is about to retire into one of his villas on the
Campanian shore, and to bury for ever his affliction in the privacy of his
woods. We are about to part, not without mutual tears; and several
Patricians have already been applying to him for his influence with me,
whom, although unworthy of so much research, they earnestly covet, and
wish to engage as the instructor of their young men. I have been sitting
here not unseen, beside this my former charge, and each is impatient to
solicit me into his service.”
“Your reputation I well know is high,” replied Xerophrastes, “and
deservedly so; more particularly, for that fine talent you have for giving
metaphysical interpretations of mythology, and for explaining the obscure
allegories of ancient poets. But for my own part, Parmeno, I find not so
much delight in abstract ideas, or in the passive contemplation of the
universe; but incline rather to study, as heretofore, that part of
philosophy which relates to action, and the morality of duty.”
“Yes, worthy Xerophrastes,” returned he, with a most languid serenity;
“and so far as I understand, you sort well in this with the stirring
disposition of your friend Licinius.”
To which Xerophrastes made answer:—“My patron Licinius is fond of action,
and I of the rules of action. He says, it is only in war, or in civil
functions of a public nature, that a person can prove himself a man. The
rest, he says, is visionary, and comes to nothing, or is a slumber of the
mind in sensuality, without thought.”
“Does he think, then,” quoth Parmeno, his wobegone countenance relaxing
into a smile,—“Does Licinius think, then, there is no sensuality in
perpetual action, and declamation and noise? To me such things appear
almost as trivial as the lazy enjoyments of Epicureans, besides being
harsh and disagreeable, and not unfrequently ridiculous. But observe, O
Xerophrastes! that I speak these things as it were abstractly, and not by
any means in disparagement of Licinius, your excellent patron and friend.”
To which the stoic replied in astonishment—“What is this you have said? Do
you assert that action is sensual?”
Then Parmeno, lifting from the pavement the book which he had been
reading, or appearing to read, said, “It is even so, most erudite
Xerophrastes. Indeed, I have always delighted in the most primitive and
remote doctrines handed down from antiquity; and among others, in the
riddles of this obscure Ephesian. Following the scope of his philosophy, I
am led to believe, that, so often as the mind impels, or is impelled by
other causes, it begins to lose sight of pure knowledge, and becomes in
danger of thinking that every thing is vain, light, and evanescent, except
what is perceived by the senses. Heraclitus well says, that Love and
Hatred govern all things. Now, when the principle of Discord prevails, it
subjects all things to the dominion of action, and to the gross
perceptions of sense. But when that of Love is prevalent, it emancipates
the struggling chaos of things from the yearning of compulsion, and from
the darkness of sensual proximity; for, between things that struggle
immediately against each other, light has no room to enter in and shine;
and therefore it is, that, when Love gains the ascendency, a new
arrangement is produced—an arrangement which, if I may so express it, is
more serene, transparent, orderly and divine, and wherein things exist in
safety from the danger of mutual destruction.”
After a preliminary cough:—“My opinion,” replied Xerophrastes, “coincides
rather with that of Empedocles. The immortal Sicilian thinks that Discord
is the only separating and arranging principle which marks the boundaries
between things, and enables them mutually to act and repel, in such a way
as to preserve order.”—“Nay, nay,” interrupted Parmeno, his hands being by
this quite disentangled from his cloak, and his countenance lighted
up,—“Nay, nay, to such doctrine I never shall assent. From Empedocles—even
from Xerophrastes, I must differ for ever on this head. The order of which
you and the Sicilian speak, is the order of darkness only, and of blind
force,—a kind of order in which fierceness and cruelty always reign.” But
Xerophrastes continued:—“And I farther concur with Empedocles in thinking,
that Love is a principle of which the predominance is more fit to turn
order into a chaos, than to produce the effects you have described.”—“Nay,
speak not against Love,” quoth Parmeno—“Speak not against Love, nor
believe that any respect is due to the dictates of Empedocles, who taught
the worst that can be taught by any man—that is to say, the alternation of
order and confusion succeeding each other throughout all time. To seek for
truth in conceptions like these, is no better than to seek repose in the
bosom of Ætna.”—“In reference to that point,” resumed Xerophrastes, “I
agree with you in your disapprobation of Empedocles. But when you say,
that Love is the source of knowledge, you much astonish me; for I have
always thought rather that its tendency is to bring confusion upon the
mind.”
“Once more,” said Parmeno—“once more, let me beseech you to say nothing
against love. You are thinking of the love of particular objects. You
speak of Cupid, and not of that heavenly Eros, who, so far from
enchaining, or tyrannizing over the mind, rather enables it to escape into
the tranquil freedom of far extended contemplation. But what is
contemplation without the knowledge of permanent forms, on which the mind
may find repose, and so keep itself from being perplexed by the shifting
aspects of the many-coloured universe? And therefore it is, O
Xerophrastes, that, sometimes laying aside Heraclitus, I study the ancient
verses of the poet, Xenophanes, who shews, by the nature of abstract
forms, that a certain unity pervades all things. Xenophanes mused of old
at Colophon, looking through the blue ether of my native Ionia.—But why
should I speak thus at length? Alas! what is the occasion of our being
here!—I perceive the approach of the poet, who was to compose an
inscription for the urn of my dear Fabricius. Yonder also is the
architect, who comes with a design for the tomb. Oh! day of wo, that I
should sit in judgment concerning the epitaph and tomb of my ingenuous
youth!”
“It is, indeed, true,” replied Xerophrastes, “that even I, in the
repercussions of our talk, had well-nigh forgotten this unhappy
occurrence; but, perhaps, there is something not after all entirely
excusable in our giving so much superiority to the affairs of
philosophical discussion. Now, however, it is evident, that we must
suspend our colloquy—And who, I beseech you, above all things, is he that
now draws near to the place of this mournful assembly, holding a horse in
his hand. Methinks I have seen his face before.”
“That you have indeed, Master,” quoth he that had come up,—“that you have;
and no longer ago than yesterday neither, if you will be pleased to give
yourself the trouble of recollecting. My name is Aspar—I am well known. If
but my excellent friend, the noble Centurion Sabinus, were here, poor old
Aspar would have no reason to complain of the want of a good word.”
“Good morrow to you, Aspar,” said Sextus; “but what is it that brings you
hither just at this moment? And for what purpose have you brought your
horse with you? for people of your sort do not in general ride in the
courts of the Palatine.”
“Alas!” quoth Aspar, “and is it you, who seem to have been one of the
contemporaries of that peerless youth—is it you that ask such a question
as this? I did not, in truth, imagine that there was any friend of young
Fabricius, who did not know his affection for little Sora. There is not
such another within twenty miles of the Capitol; but I brought her hither
merely out of regard for the family. As for myself, I should never bear to
look on her again with pleasure, after knowing the sudden manner of his
death. I wish to Heaven the filly were fairly lodged in one of the
paddocks of the Lord Fabricius himself.”
“Lead the animal round into the stables,” says Parmeno, “and I doubt not
care will be taken of her.—Yonder comes one of the buffoons of the
theatre;—he, I doubt not, is here to disgrace, if he be permitted, this
solemn scene, with ranting quotations from the tragic poets. Alas! alas! I
cannot bear all this: There also advance the officiators from the Temple
of Libitina; they have their cypress boughs ready in their hands. Oh, my
learned friend, I cannot sustain these things; let me be gone into the
mansion.”
The admirer of Heraclitus, picking up his scroll, and gathering together
the folds of his mantle, moved slowly into the house, Xerophrastes
following with similar gestures. Sextus and I also were about to take our
departure; and he, having procured from one of the slaves of the house a
myrtle garland, had already placed it upon the bier of the young
Fabricius, as the last testimonial of his concern; when there drew near
two young men, clad in long mantles of black, who, solemnly embracing my
friend, began to exchange with him many expressions of grief.
While they were thus engaged, Rubellia, who had been standing all this
while a little apart, sent a boy to inform us that the painter we were in
search of had at last made his appearance, and was anxious to proceed with
his portrait. I drew Sextus away, therefore, and soon joined the lady and
the artist; but as we were moving off thus, one of the bystanding slaves,
an old gray-headed man, came up and whispered to Sextus, “Sir, be not
deceived; these two nephews of my bereaved master are to me the most
disagreeable part of all this preparation. You have heard their
lamentation, and seen their sweeping raiment of mourning; but, be sure, a
principal subject of their reflection is the probability that one or other
of them must be adopted by Fabricius. Alas! alas! so goes all between
Lucina and Libitina. There was never a birth nor a marriage that did not
create some sorrow, nor a funeral procession that did not give rise to
some joy. Your rhetoricians talk, but what avails it all? Slaves and
masters are alike subjected to the evils of the world, and of these death
is both the last and the least.”
_CHAPTER IV._
Agaso, the painter, was a smart dapper little bandy-legged man of Verona,
dressed in a Grecian mantle, and endeavouring to look as much as possible
like a Greek. Had Xerophrastes not gone off with his brother of Ionia, I
have no doubt this man would have made his presence a sufficient excuse
for speaking nothing but Greek to us; but, even as it was, his
conversation was interlarded with an abundant intermixture of that noble
tongue. Nothing could be spoken of which Agaso did not think fit to
illustrate, either by the narration of something he himself had seen or
heard during his residence at Athens, or, at least, by some quotation from
the Grecian poets. To judge from the square, and somewhat ponderous
formation of the man’s features, Nature had not designed him for any of
the most mercurial specimens of her workmanship; but he contrived,
notwithstanding, by perpetual shrugging and grimacing, and, above all, by
keeping his eyes and eyebrows continually in motion, to give himself an
air of no inconsiderable life and vivacity.