Chapter IIProud, imperial Rome!
The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,
Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,
The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,
And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,
Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,
All alike have felt the blighting pressure.
It was on a bright and beautiful evening, just as the delightful sun of Italy was declining, that Cleone, a young Roman maiden, walked with her mother along the pleasant banks of the Tiber. They had chosen a retired walk for many reasons, one of which was that retirement better suited their dispositions, and another that Rome was, at that time, filled with a dissolute nobility, whose wills were almost their only law. Cleone and her mother were descendants of ancient and noble families, who had counted amongst their numbers grave and influential senators, warlike and victorious soldiers, and even mingled their blood with the powerful kings and dictators of Rome; but time, with its changing scenes, had reduced them in power and wealth, though oppression and poverty had not taken from them the proud consciousness of former greatness. “My daughter,” said the matron, “look at that glorious sun, though declining, though its splendor will shortly be obscured, yet it will rise again, with renewed and more brilliant light, and shed joy and happiness with its glad beams. So, dearest, shall the sun of our fortunes, though now almost disappearing, again rise, and the virtues of our own Curtius pour light and warmth on all within their influence. Believe this, my own Cleone, and let the thought disperse those clouds of melancholy, believe that your mother is a prophetess, and this time of good.” “Mother,” said Cleone, “I will try to have faith in your augury, but my brother is in a prison, in the power of a tyrant; how can we hope?” “He is under the protecting power of that Being in whom we trust, who has comforted us in affliction, and preserved us in danger, and who will not now forsake us. He, whose power can melt the flinty rock, can soften even the hard heart ofa Nero. Do you remember, Cleone, the deathbed of your father, when, laying his hand on the youthful head of our Curtius, after commending us to his love and protection, he blessed him in the name of the only living and true God. ‘Even,’ said he, ‘though called to the death of a martyr, let him never forsake the God of his father.’ The prayer of the dying saint has been heard; midst temptations, in the view of danger and death the undaunted youth has never been shaken in his fidelity to his God, and by his noble courage has forced even the haughty tyrant and his minions to respect.” “Oh, that I could restore him to you, dear mother. Last night I woke from disturbed slumber; the bright beams of the moon rested upon my couch, all was calm and still, the very air breathed peace, but the thought of my darling brother, shut out from all this loveliness, and exposed to the unwholesome damps of a dungeon, weighed heavy upon my mind. I threw myself upon my knees, I prayed God that he would save him from the cruel Emperor. Oh, mother, I did not again lie down until peace and comfort entered my mind, and I felt that if he lived or died, I could say, ‘Thy Holy will be done,’ but mother, I cannot always say so.” Thus communing they had arrived at a lovely spot, surrounded by trees whose luxuriant foliage almost touched the ground. Here they seated themselves upon the bank; the beautiful appearance of the river, as the bright sky was reflected upon the waters, the songs of the birds over their heads, the buzzing of innumerable insects, and the hum of the city, softened by distance, tranquillized their minds. “My Cleone, join your voice to this chorus, and sing our evening hymn.” Obedient to her mother’s wish, she sang, with sweet melody, the simple strain:
The shades of night are closing o’er us,God of Heaven, watch our sleep!For the sake of the Lord JesusWilt thou still thy servants keep?Lord! though dangers may surround us,We are safe beneath thy care.Thy blest angels may attend us;Holy Father, bow thine ear!
The shades of night are closing o’er us,God of Heaven, watch our sleep!For the sake of the Lord JesusWilt thou still thy servants keep?Lord! though dangers may surround us,We are safe beneath thy care.Thy blest angels may attend us;Holy Father, bow thine ear!
The shades of night are closing o’er us,God of Heaven, watch our sleep!For the sake of the Lord JesusWilt thou still thy servants keep?Lord! though dangers may surround us,We are safe beneath thy care.Thy blest angels may attend us;Holy Father, bow thine ear!
The shades of night are closing o’er us,
God of Heaven, watch our sleep!
For the sake of the Lord Jesus
Wilt thou still thy servants keep?
Lord! though dangers may surround us,
We are safe beneath thy care.
Thy blest angels may attend us;
Holy Father, bow thine ear!
As the low, sweet voice of Cleone died upon the air, a slight rustling of the bushes startled them and, turning quickly, they beheld a woman whose fixed and earnest gaze was riveted upon them. Leaning upon a staff, enveloped in a dark gray mantle, the hood of which covered her head, she appeared lost in thought. Her grey locks and the deep furrows of her face betokened extremeage, while her eyes, black, deep-set and piercing, showed that her mind still retained its powers. Her attention seemed fixed upon Cleone, whose countenance expressed terror at her unexpected appearance. “Lady,” said she, and her deep and hollow voice sounded as from the tomb, “do not fear; your voice has awakened feelings which I thought long since dead. Years of sin and misery seemed like a dream as I listened, and a youth of innocence and love was present to my thought. Thanks, maiden, for the momentary trance. Scion of the noble house of Curiatii, a dark cloud hangs heavy over your fortunes; He in whom you trust can disperse it. The gray moss waves on the lofty towers of the Atili, but their stones are yet firm and unbroken; the stately pine is decaying, but the young sapling is yet vigorous, and its shoots will press upward, the lamp of life glimmers but faintly in the breast of the aged, and will soon be extinguished, yet a bright spark remains in the young and noble to rekindle the ancient blaze. Lady, hearken to the prophecy of one who, though sinful and despairing, forgets not the remnant of the illustrious house that reared her childhood.” “You are unhappy, mother,” said the matron in the soothing tone of kindness, “but you must not say despairing. He who has offered up his life for us, who has borne our sins upon the cross, has left us the blessed assurance that all who repent need not despair.” “Aye,” said the Sybil, while a strong shudder shook her frame, “you are a Christian; enough,” and her eyes gleamed with almost terrific wildness; “away,” and, waving her hand, she disappeared among the trees. A moment of deep silence succeeded her departure, which was broken by Cleone. “Is not this frightful, mother? Who can this woman be? and does she mean us good or evil?” “Her words would seem to imply good to us, my daughter, but dark and, I fear, unrepented wickedness burthens her mind, benighted indeed, if without the cheering ray of hope. Who she is I know not; tradition tells of those who have leagued themselves with the powers of darkness, but there was kindness in her words; let us think of her no more, my dearest, but quickly retrace our steps. We have already left our kind uncle too long.” “Ah, we will not linger, dear mother, he is so feeble.” The twilight deepened around them as they bent their way to their home, but the moon was rising in unclouded splendor and its mild beams diffused a brilliancy around the landscape more beautiful than that of day. “How many, my Cleone, have listened to the murmur of these waves and watched the reflection of these moonbeams; how many noble and gifted beings whom we have been taught to love and admire, have, perhaps upon this very spot, gazed upon this same lovely scene. This same quiet and sparklingsky has shone upon the form of many a noble Roman whose heart was devoted to his country. Time moves on in his never-resting course and, centuries hence, my daughter, this river will roll on, as it now does, this sky sparkle with the same brilliancy, and beings, within whose forms the current of life flows as warmly as it now does in ours, will watch the unceasing motion of this stream and admire this pure and lovely firmament as we do.”
The family of the Curiatii, once powerful in Rome, was now represented by the young Quintius Curtius and his sister; civil wars and oppressions had reduced their numbers and torn from them their possessions and these, the last of an illustrious race, were even dependent upon the charity of an almost superannuated old man, the uncle of his mother. Their father, while serving in the Roman bands in Judea, had become a convert to Christianity and, while his children were yet young, had died in the full faith of the Christian’s hope, bequeathing them, as he believed, a rich legacy, in commending them to that Being who has said: “Leave thy fatherless children to me,” and, with a firm confidence that their mother would educate them in the “nurture and admonition of the Lord.” Most faithfully had that tender mother redeemed her pledge to her dying husband, and, with a noble fortitude, she had endured every privation and cheerfully made every sacrifice for the eternal welfare of those beloved children, and with that joy which only the Christian parent can feel, she had seen them, while growing in their loveliness, devoting themselves to the service of the God of their father. Who has not shuddered at the atrocious cruelties of the reign of Nero? The wicked tyrant, whose greatest happiness seemed to consist in causing the misery of his fellow-beings, and where is the heart that has not beat in sympathy with the sufferings of those Christian martyrs, who, with a firm and unshaken constancy, endured the torments inflicted by that monster in human form, even until death, rather than deny the “Lord who bought them.” Educated in retirement, the young Curtius had for some time escaped notice, but as he grew in years and, through the influence of friends, had been introduced into public life, he was no longer shielded by obscurity. In his noble countenance was portrayed his high and commanding talents and vice and wickedness shrank abashed from the quick glance of his eye. Is it, then, to be wondered that he became an object of dislike to the infamous emperor and that the cruel tyrant sought an excuse to gratify his feelings of hatred, for, without an excuse, even Nero dared not attack the virtuous young Roman who was equally the object of love and admiration. That excuse was not long wanting, forthe undaunted youth feared not to confess Christ before men, and that alone was crime of the deepest dye in the Pagan court of Nero. Summoned before the emperor, his firm yet respectful deportment and calm and decided answers commanded the admiration of all, even of the tyrant himself, who, with the strange inconsistency of his character, could even admire and applaud where he hated and had determined to destroy. But it would be greater matter of triumphs to Nero to induce the high-souled Curtius to renounce his religion than to take his life and, therefore, summoning to his aid those bland and persuasive manners he could so well assume, he, during many interviews, attempted to sap the foundation of that virtue, which was based upon a principle, enduring as eternity, till, finding every effort ineffectual, his rage knew no bounds, and the young Christian was closely confined, debarred from the sight of his mother and sister, and only respited until the imperial ruffian had contrived new modes of torture to enhance the bitterness of death. But, although cast into the dreariest dungeon, and apparently deprived of every comfort, this son of a sainted father was not only resigned to his fate, but even triumphant in the thoughts of martyrdom, and, though deprived of the sight of those friends so dear to his heart, felt a sweet serenity in the conviction that he was the object of their fervent prayers and fondest solicitude. Who can estimate the unspeakable consolation he derived from the invisible presence of that Saviour who has promised, “I will never leave you comfortless,” who has said, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
“You will read more, you will not leave off yet, Herbert,” said Charles. “Our time is expended,” said Herbert, “and, in order to enjoy pleasure, we must not prolong it until it becomes wearisome.” “Wearisome!” said Susan, “we should not even think of the idea.” “I could almost wish,” said Elizabeth, “to have been one of the first Christians, even amidst all their dangers. Such firm confidence, such joyful hope, and holy love would seem cheaply gained by all their sufferings.” “I almost believe,” said Mary, “that placed in their situation, I, too, could have risen above fear; that I could almost rejoice to die in such a cause.” “Their situation was indeed peculiar,” said Mrs. Wilson. “The power of God was with them and supported them. He was their refuge and strength, their present help, therefore they did not fear. Left to our own weakness we are as nothing, supported by his mighty arm, we are powerful, invincible.” “My curiosity,” said Susan, “is much excited by the old woman, and I shall like to find out who she is.” “You called her a Sybil, Herbert,” saidCharles. “There is a story in my History of Rome of a woman who went to one of the kings to sell some mysterious books, which he refused to purchase. She went away and burned some, then came back and asked the same price for those remaining, and continued to do so till she had burned a good many, and, at last, the king bought those that were left, and they were considered of so much value that officers were appointed to take care of them and they were consulted upon all important matters.” “You are right, Charles,” said Herbert, “there is such a relation, and perhaps we may class this amongst the romance of history. Time and the mists of tradition have rendered it impossible to learn how much truth is connected with these fables, but we know that in the ancient days of Rome, much reliance was placed upon those who pretended to a knowledge of future events, and, perhaps, the general belief in such knowledge induced many of wild imaginations to believe themselves endowed with this prophetic spirit. You may suppose, Susan, if you wish, to break the illusions of fancy that this ancient female was one of those fanatical beings, who had cheated herself into the belief that she was set apart as one of those mystical oracles.” “Oh, no,” said Susan, “do not break any illusions; I am very willing to believe that she was the identical Sybil, who offered those books to the refractory king.” “Your imagination, dear cousin,” said he, “has indeed taken a wide circuit, and we will let the curtain of mystery be spread, for the present, over the story.”