shower of atoms which moves every where through space, the mind is
soothed, as by the sound of a great river carrying continually the watery
offspring of the mountains into the bosom of ocean. The mind, sirs,
appears to me to be calmed by the contemplation of infinity, even as the
ear of an Egyptian sleeper is calmed by the eternal music of rolling
Nilus. It mingles itself with that which it contemplates; it perceives—it
feels itself to be a liquid part of that vast endless stream of universal
being: a part which has been casually arrested and detained, but which
will soon mingle again and be scattered away in a thousand fragments, to
wander, no one knows whither, through the great all-receiving void—not to
lose existence, for in that my dear master entirely misunderstands me—but
to cease from feeling as a Sabinus, or a Tarna.”
The old man kept regarding his Egyptian with a placid smile; but I could
not help interposing: “What is this you have said? Do you assert that I
can cease to be Valerius, to feel as Valerius, and yet not lose my
existence? Can I _be_, and yet not be _myself_?”
“Most easily,” replied he; “the divided fragments may move about for a
thousand years, before it befall any of them to be stopped in some future
combination of atoms. These, it is manifest, only tremble and suffer when
they form part of a soul, but are immediately released from all pain or
mischance, when this confinement and cohesion are at an end, and they,
being dispersed, regain liberty and wander about singly, as of yore; for,
as our great dispeller of delusion says—When death is, we are not. If,
therefore, Sabinus shrinks from the fear of death, it is an idle fear.
Does he not perceive that when death arrives, Sabinus is no longer to be
found. Whatever its effects may be, they must affect not him, but an army
of innumerable disjointed essences, in no one of which could he by any
means be able to recognize himself.”
“To make a short story out of a very long one,” interrupted the Centurion;
“life, you think, is not worthy of the name of existence—that being so, it
is no wonder you should think lightly of death.”
“Mistake me not,” quoth the sage; “no—life _is_ existence; I not only
admit that, but I assert that it is the business of every man, and the
sole true object of wisdom, to render life, while it endures, pleasant.
Earthly pleasure consists in a bland juxta-position of atoms necessarily,
though not permanently, connected; the removal of pain implies that
quiescence which pervades the nobleness of the unenclosed ALL. To exist in
this shape, we are compelled; it is our business to render our existence
as near an approach to felicity as we may.”
“Fill your cup, Tarna,” quoth the Centurion; “I am no great philosopher,
yet methinks I can see the drift of this part of your story. Fill up your
goblet, most venerable Epicurean, and see (if it be not below your
dignity,) whether the atoms, which, by a fortuitous and temporary
juxta-position have formed your throat, will not feel their corners very
philosophically softened by the rushing of a little rivulet of good
Falernian—one cup of which, saving your presence, I hold to be more worthy
of wetting my guttural atoms, than all the water that ever sported its
music between Memphis and Alexandria.”
While the slave and the Centurion were thus discoursing, the old man
appeared to taste, as it were, the pleasure of a renovated existence, in
contemplating the brown health and strong muscular fabric of the inheritor
of his name. The hearty masculine laugh with which my friend usually
concluded his observations, was, I take leave to think, richer music to
his ears than ever Egyptian heard in the dark rollings of the Nile, or
Epicurean dreamt of in the airy dance of atoms. I suspect he was more
reconciled to the inevitable stroke of fate, by considering that he was to
leave such a representative behind him, than by any argument which his own
superstition, or the philosophy of his attendant, could suggest. In return
for this obvious admiration, the Centurion, without question, manifested
every symptom of genuine affection. Yet, I think, the instinctive
consciousness of his own strength made the piety of the robust son assume
an air more approaching to that of patronage, than might have been
altogether becoming. If such a fault there were, however, it escaped the
notice of the invalid, who continued, till Tarna insisted upon his
retiring, to gaze upon my friend, and listen to his remarks, with looks of
exultation.
The Centurion withdrew with his father, so that I was left alone with
Tarna for some time; and it was then that, in my juvenile simplicity, I
could not help expressing my surprise at finding in servile condition a
man possessed of such acquirements as his, and addicted to such pursuits.
“It would argue little,” he replied, “in favour of such pursuits, if they
tended only to make me repine at the place which has been allotted me—no
matter whether by the decree of fate, or the caprice of fortune. And after
all, I am not of opinion that any such external circumstances can much
affect the real happiness of any one. Give to him that has been born a
slave, what men are pleased to call his freedom; in a few weeks he will
become so much accustomed to the boon, that he will cease to think of it.
Heap wealth upon him; to wealth also he will gradually become habituated.
Rank—power—with all it is the same. It is in the mind only that the seat
of happiness is placed; and there it never can be, unless in companionship
with thoughts that look down upon, and despise being affected by trifling
things.”
“And are such,” said I, “the views of all those who follow your sect?”
“I wish it were so,” he replied; “but ere you remain long in the city, you
will meet with not a few, philosophers only in the name, who, having small
means of subsistence, but being desirous of leading a luxurious and
agreeable life, become teachers of such doctrines as may accord best with
the vicious inclinations of those who are most likely to entertain them.
These persons assume too often the name of Epicureans. They are seen every
where at feasts crowned with myrtle, and fawning upon gouty senators; and
whenever a boar’s-head appears, they are sure to call it worthy of
Meleager. Their conversation is made up of stale jests about Charon and
his boat, and the taking of Auguries; and, when finally inebriated, they
roll upon the ground like those animals, to whom, in consequence of the
proceedings of such hypocritical pretenders, the ignorant have dared too
often to liken the wisest of mankind. Such things I disdain—I am satisfied
to remain, as I was born, in the rank of Æsop, Epictetus, Terence.”
By this time the Centurion had returned. He had a lamp in his hand; and he
interrupted our conversation. “Come, we start betimes, Caius; and you too,
my sweet cock of Cyrene, I think you had better fold your wings, and
compose yourself upon your roost.”
Oh, enviable temperament! said I to myself—you liken the slave to a bird.
Methinks yourself are more deserving of the simile. The light and the air
of heaven are sufficient to make you happy—your wings are ever
strong—their flight ever easy—and the rain of affliction glides off them
as fast as it falls. Sleep softly, kind heart. It is only the troubles of
a friend that can ever disturb your serenity.
_CHAPTER X._
I was in bed before Dromo interrupted my reflections by saying, in a low
tone of considerable confidence, “And now, Master Valerius, do you still
continue, as much as two days ago, to disbelieve in philtres and despise
enchantresses? You see what, with all my precaution, has come of this
connection between Rubellia and the Neapolitan.”
“In truth, Dromo,” I replied, “it is visible that Pona had some share in
leading the soldiers to the Sempronian Sepulchre; but I am doubtful if
that had any thing to do with the private affairs of the lady Rubellia. As
to that matter, I confess myself entirely in the dark.”—“Dark indeed,”
quoth he, “must your observation have been, if you have yet to learn that,
but for that accursed witch, nothing of all this had befallen; but if
there be an edict against the Christians, there are twenty laws against
sorcery; and that both Pona and she that consulted her shall know well ere
long, if they do not as yet know it; or may Cretan change places with
Bœotian!”—“Say on, good Dromo,” I replied, “I am all ears; and as you
appear to have been all eyes, I shall probably soon be more enlightened.”
“Well,” quoth he, “I am glad to find that you are in a mood to listen to
me decently. You remember where I took my station when you mounted those
unfortunate steps upon the tower. I had not stood there many minutes
before I heard somebody approaching; and having no doubt it was Rubellia,
I was preparing myself for giving her such a salutation as I thought would
put a speedy end to her wandering for that night. On came the steps, but
no Rubellia. No; it was Xerophrastes himself; and although he had laid
aside the Greek mantle, and donned a boatman’s black cloak for the nonce,
I promise you I knew his stately gait well enough beneath all these new
trappings. It was no part of my job, however, to attempt frightening the
stoic.”—“And so you let him pass without doing any thing?”—“I did; I
confess I gave one or two groans after he had gone on a few paces, but I
did not observe him much quicken his walk, and I believe, to do the man
justice, he set it all down to the wind rustling among the trees. But I
thought not much of him at all, to speak the truth; for, said I to myself,
Well, if it be as I have suspected for these two blessed days, and this
master long-beard is really in league with the widow, the chances are, she
herself is not far behind him. I lay by, therefore, and expected in
silence till I should hear another tread; and in the meantime I spoke to
you once or twice across the path, but you made me no answer, for which
you know your own reasons.”—“The reason,” said I, “was a very simple one,
I assure you. I had fallen asleep, and no wonder, for you know how long I
had been a watcher.”—“Well,” said he, “I guessed as much, and it was
nothing but the born tenderness of my disposition, which made me cease
from offering you any disturbance. I thought I should surely be enough
single-handed for the widow; and besides, in case of need, I knew your
waking would always be in my power.”
“Admirably reasoned, Dromo,” said I; “and so it seems no need came, for
you certainly never awakened me; for which I may thank the bonds from
which the Centurion’s kindness has just set me free. But you have atoned
abundantly—I pray you, get on with your tale.”
“Presently,” he resumed, “I heard footsteps, indeed, my good master, and
not footsteps alone, but voices; and I moved from the place as hastily as
I could, till I came to a tree, the branches of which, springing low on
the trunk, offered an opportunity for mounting, which I should have been a
Bœotian indeed had I neglected. I mounted, and hiding myself as well as I
could among the boughs, awaited the arrival of the party, which
consisted—ay, stare if you will—of Xerophrastes and the widow, walking in
front, in earnest talk by themselves,—and the Neapolitan in the rear. They
halted, and though they spoke low, I could hear them distinctly.”—“And
what, in the name of Heaven, said they?”
“‘Are you sure,’ said the widow, ‘that this is indeed the girl whom Sextus
went to see at the Villa? Can there be no mistake?’—‘Mistake, lady, there
is none,’ replied the Stoic. ‘Pona was at the villa with her basket, and
she saw them all walking together in the garden.’—‘And this little
Christian,’ said the lady as if to herself, ‘it is she that has cost me
all this trouble! It is for this Athanasia that I have been insulted as
never woman was by man, and they are both here in the tower!’—‘They are,
lady,’ quoth the witch; ‘they are both in the tower, for I saw her go in
by her self first, and then in went some dozen of those muffled
blasphemers, and, last of all, went in he himself. I saw him not enter
indeed, but I swear to you, that I saw him here not twenty paces from
hence, and he had with him that cunning slave of his, (meaning myself,
sir,) whose ugly face, (the foul woman added,) I would know although it
were disguised beneath all the washes that were ever mixed in the
seething-pots of Calabria.’—‘But what,’ interrupted our long-beard, ‘what
will Licinius say? At least, my lady and my friend Pona will take good
care that no suspicion rests upon me. Sextus is a silly boy, without
taste, judgment, or discretion; but Licinius is acute and powerful.’—‘Fear
not,’ said Rubellia; ‘fear not, dear Xerophrastes. Nobody shall appear in
the matter except Pona, and she tells you she has already given warning at
the Capene Gate. There are always a hundred men stationed on the Cœlian.
Nothing can save them!’
“These words were scarcely out of her mouth, ere the soldiers were heard
approaching. Xerophrastes ascended with great agility a tree just over
against mine; Rubellia retreated among the pines; and Pona alone awaited
the guard. I would have periled a limb to have been able to give you the
alarm; but little did I suspect, that had I sought you where I left you, I
should have sought in vain.—How, I pray you, did you contrive to get into
the accursed tower?”
I told him I should give him the story another time at full length, and
mentioned briefly what had occurred. And then the Cretan proceeded with
his narrative.
“I leave you to guess, Valerius, how my heart beat when I saw the witch
lead the soldiers straight to the place where I supposed you were still
sitting—with what anxiety I saw the tower surrounded—its tenants brought
out,—with what astonishment I saw you led out, the last of their number.—I
had neither time to think by what means all this had happened, nor the
least power to interfere. I saw you all mounted—guarded—borne away.
Whither they carried you, I was unable to make the smallest conjecture. I
saw Sabinus speak to you, and then I had hope,—but that too failed. In
brief, I did not venture from my tree till the whole assembly, not
forgetting Xerophrastes, had departed; and you may judge what a story I
had to tell Sextus when I reached home.
“Instead of waiting to ponder and hesitate, as he used to do when his own
matters perplexed him, he went from me straight to his father. But before
they had done with their conversation, Sabinus himself arrived, and he was
immediately taken into the same chamber where they were. Licinius and he
went out together soon afterwards, and I think they walked towards the
Palatine; but whithersoever they went, they had a good deal of work before
them, for the day had advanced considerably before they returned. The
Centurion’s horses were brought to the door shortly after; my master
desired me to accompany him; and gave me letters for you, which I had
almost forgotten to deliver.”
Such was the story of the faithful Cretan. The letter of Licinius I have
still preserved:—
“Since our Sabinus desires that I should write to you, although his own
kindness renders it unnecessary that I should do so, I cannot refuse. I
understand little, my Valerius, of what has brought you into this
condition, from which, not without difficulty overcome, you are,
notwithstanding, speedily to be delivered. I guess, that hastiness of
various sorts, not, however, entirely without excuse in a person of your
age, has been the means of implicating you in the affairs of a sect,
equally unworthy of your communication, whether you consider the country
in which their superstition originated, or the barbarities with which it
is stained. But even for beauty, my young friend, it becomes not a Roman,
least of all a Valerius, to forget what is due to the laws of Rome, and
the will of the Prince. Consider with yourself how nearly you have escaped
serious evil. Return to us, and forget what has passed, except for the
lesson it must teach you. Of Rubellia and Xerophrastes I am unwilling to
believe, without farther examination, what has been told me by my slave
Dromo. We shall speak of that and other matters, when (which I hope will
be early to-morrow) you once more give me the pleasure of seeing you. I
have then much to say. Farewell.”
_BOOK III. CHAPTER I._
Day was far advanced before the Centurion and myself once more drew near
to the city. When we reached the first declivity beyond the Anio, the sun
was about to sink behind the Janicular. The innumerable sounds of the
capital, blended together into one mighty whisper, seemed only to form
part of the natural music of the air, and might almost have been
confounded with the universal hum of insects. We rode slowly down the
hill, the base of which is ever darkened by the solemn groves of the
Appian.
We advanced in silence through that region of melancholy magnificence. I
scarcely knew whether I should be able of myself to recognize, among so
many similar edifices, the mausoleum of the Sempronii, and some feeling
rendered me unwilling to put any questions concerning it to Sabinus.
But while we were moving leisurely, we heard of a sudden a clang of
cymbals among the trees, a little to the right hand, and the Centurion,
saying, “What company can this be?” led the way down a narrow path
branching from the main road. This path was winding and dusky, being edged
on either side with pines and cypresses, so that for some space we saw
nothing; and the cymbals having ceased again, the Centurion said, “I
suppose it is some funeral; they have probably completed every thing, and
have seen out the last gleam among the embers. Let us get on, for perhaps
we may be kept back by their procession, if they are already returning.”
We quickened our pace accordingly, till a sharp turning of the road
discovered to us a great number of persons who were standing silent, as if
in contemplation of some ceremony. Several persons on horseback seemed,
like ourselves, to have had their progress interrupted; but they were
sitting quietly, and making no complaint. The silence of the whole
assembly was indeed such, that Sabinus motioned to me to ask no questions,
adding, in a whisper, “Take off your cap; it is some religious rite—every
body is uncovered.”
The Centurion, however, was not a person to be stopped thus, without
wishing to understand farther the cause of the interruption. The one side
of the road was guarded by a high wall, to the top of which a number of
juvenile spectators had climbed;—the other by a ditch of great breadth,
and full of water, beyond which was a grove of trees; and I saw him eyeing
the ditch, as if considering whether, by passing it, it might not be
possible, without disturbing the crowd, to get nearer the object of their
attention, or at least to make progress in our journey. At last he
beckoned to me to follow him, and the bold equestrian at one leap passed
easily. I imitated the example, and so did the Prætorian soldier, his
attendant, who had now come up to us; but as for Dromo, he was obliged to
remain behind.
Ere we reached the bottom of the declivity, I perceived that we had come
close to the Sempronian monument, and that the ceremony, whatever it might
be, was taking place in front of the tower. We gave our horses to the
soldier, and contrived to gain the bank over against it—the same place, in
fact, where the Cretan slave had taken his station among the pine-trees,
on the night when all those things occurred of which I have spoken to you.
Like him, we placed ourselves as quietly as we could behind the trees,
and, indeed, for our purpose, there could have been no better situation.
We were contented, however, to occupy it as much as possible without
attracting observation; for it was evident, in spite of the curiosity that
detained so great a multitude near at hand, there must be something
mysterious or ominous of nature in that which was taking place, since not
one of the crowd had dared to come forward, so as to be within hearing of
the officiators.
And these, indeed, were a melancholy group. For men, and women, and
children of every age, to the number it may be of an hundred, appeared all
standing together in garments of black; while, in the midst of them, and
immediately by the base of the tower, two or three veiled priests, with
their necessary assistants, seemed to be preparing for sacrifice a black
bull, whose hoofs spurned the dust as they held him, and his gilded horns
glittered in the light of the declining sun. Sabinus no sooner discovered
the arrangement of the solemn company, than he whispered to me, “Be sure,
these are all the kindred of the Sempronii. Without question they have
come to purify the mausoleum, and to avert the vengeance of the violated
Manes. Behold,” said he, “that stately figure, close to the head of the
animal on the right hand; that, I know, is Marcia Sempronia, Priestess of
Apollo. Without doubt, these by her are her brothers.”
“Some of her near relations they must be,” I made answer; “for observe you
that girl whose face is wrapped in her mourning veil, and whose sobs are
audible through all its folds? I had one glimpse of her countenance, and I
am sure it is young Sempronia, the cousin and companion of Athanasia,—the
daughter of Lucius the senator.”
“Poor girl,” replied Sabinus, “from my heart I pity her. They are all
joining hands, that the nearest of the kindred touching the priest, his
deed may appear manifestly to be the deed of all.”
At this moment, one of the officiators sounded a few mournful notes upon a
trumpet. The priest who held the axe, clave at one blow the front of the
bull. The blood streamed, and wine streamed with it abundantly upon the
base of the mausoleum; and then, while we were yet gazing on the
convulsions of the animal, the trumpet sounded a second time, and the
whole company sung together, the priest leading them.
The shadows of the tower and of the pine trees lay strongly upon them, and
I thought there was something of a very strange contrast between the
company and their chant, on the one hand, and the beautiful sculptures,
full of all the emblems of life and happiness, on the other, with which,
according to the gay dreams of Grecian fancy, the walls of the funereal
edifice itself had here and there been garnished. Fauns, and torch-bearing
nymphs, and children crowned with garlands, and wreathed groups and
fantastic dances, seemed to enliven almost to mockery the monumental
marbles; but one felt the real gloominess both of death and of
superstition, in the attitudes and accents of the worshippers. It was thus
they sung:—
Ye Gods infernal! hear us from the gloom
Of venerable depths remote, unseen;
Hear us, ye guardians of the stained tomb,
Majestic Pluto—and thou, Stygian Queen,
On the dark bosom leaning of great Dis—
Thou reconciled Star of the Abyss.
Blood, not for you, unholy hands have poured,
Ye heard the shriek of your insulted shrine;
Barbarian blasphemies, and rites abhorred,
Pollute the place that hath been long divine;
Borne from its wounded breast an atheist cry
Hath pierced the upper and the nether sky.
With blood of righteous sacrifice again
The monumental stone your suppliants lave.
Behold the dark-brow’d bull—Behold him slain!
Accept, ye powers of the relenting grave,
The sable current of that vital stream;
And let the father’s hope upon the children gleam.
And ye, that in the ever dusky glades
Of Hades, wandering by Cocytus’ shore,
Ancestral spirits—melancholy shades—
With us the tresspass of the tomb deplore;
Oh! intercede—that terror and disgrace
May not possess (as now) your resting-place.
What though the liquid serpent of the deep
Between lie coil’d in many a glittering ring:
Not unobserved of your pale eyes we weep,
Nor to deaf ears this doleful chant we sing;
Strong is the voice of blood through night to go,
Through night and hell, and all the realms below.
Then hear us, kindred spirits—stately Sire
And pensive Mother! wheresoe’er ye glide;
If ever solemn pile and soaring fire
In freedom sped you to the Stygian tide,—
Have pity on your children: let the breath
Of living sorrow melt the frozen ear of death.
For Her that, sprung like us from your high line,
Hath mingled in the sacrifice of guilt,
Ye know that angry star, her natal sign,
To expiate whose curse this blood is spilt;
If not suffices this atoning blood,
Oh, steep the thought of her in Lethe’s flood.
Beneath that current lazy and serene,
In whose unfathomable waters lie
The slumbering forms of horrors that have been
In Hades, and in Ocean, Earth, and Sky—
With long forgotten curse and murder old,
Steep that lost daughter’s errors manifold.
Once more for you an hallowed flame there burns.
Once more for you an hallowed stream there flows;
Despise not our lustrations of your urns,
Nor let unhoused Manes be our foes!
Above the children of your lineage born,
Hover not, awful ghosts, in anger and in scorn.