Chapter IX
“How’s this, boy? Why are the props removed from this frail plant?”“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,And, if we grow too wild, with judgment trueAnd constant love, he prunes till all is right.
“How’s this, boy? Why are the props removed from this frail plant?”“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,And, if we grow too wild, with judgment trueAnd constant love, he prunes till all is right.
“How’s this, boy? Why are the props removed from this frail plant?”“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,And, if we grow too wild, with judgment trueAnd constant love, he prunes till all is right.
“How’s this, boy? Why are the props removed from this frail plant?”
“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”
“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,
Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,
And, if we grow too wild, with judgment true
And constant love, he prunes till all is right.
At the first convenient opportunity Herbert resumed the tale of the early Christians.
From the scenes of confusion we have described, we will return to the Appian palace, where lay, in peaceful rest, the remains of its honored master. The domestics were busied in preparing the funeral honors for one, so revered and beloved; some in arranging boughs of Cypress before the doors; others in adorning, with rare and beautiful flowers, the couch of the deceased, or in distributing aromatic plants about the apartment. The soft night breeze stole through the open windows, the air seeming to breath the sweet peace which surrounded the deathbed of the aged saint. The heart of one mourner in this quiet mansion, was bowed down with grief, but she was not left alone with her sorrows; the kind recluse remained with her, shared her grief, and sought to soothe her anguish. Absorbed in their anxieties, they sat in the portico, which commanded a view of the imperial palace, and, upon the steps, with her dark eyes fixed upon them, sat the female, whose predictions caused the guilty tyrant to tremble; but the wild expression of her eye was now softened, and her whole aspect changed. “He has gone to his rest,” said she, “and light and gentle will the sod repose upon his breast, for it was the abode of kindness, and sweet will be the requiem over his remains, for it will be the lamentation of the poor and afflicted.” Then, turning to Sister Helena, to whom she did not seem a stranger, she said, “The spirit of the good and just must ascend to the heaven of your faith; but where is the final resting place of the guilty soul?” “Mother,” said she, “there is time left for us, who are still inhabitants of earth, to repent and forsake our sins.” “Say you so?” said the woman, and her earnest gaze and trembling limbs betrayed her emotion. “But what is lengthened time to me? Listen to the tale of one whose life hasbeen a long, long day of misery. Thessaly was the land of my birth; my infancy was bright as the dreams of the morning; but the destroyer came; the Romans, like the ravening wolves, poured upon our plains; my father fell, defending the home of my childhood, and my mother, with the wretched being, before you, was enslaved by the conquerors. Borne down by misery, she sank beneath the weight, and, while exposed in your market place, for sale to the highest bidder, I saw my last friend expire, and, the unfeeling crowd estimated the loss to the owner. I stood alone amid the multitude, my heart swelled in agony, but hate for the oppressor, and desire of revenge prevailed over all; I clasped my throat, that I, too, might die and disappoint, still more, our brutal enslaver, but, as I tightened my hold, and all things grew dim around me, a hand grasped my arm and a voice of compassion saluted my ear. After a few words with my master, I became the property of Marcus Curtius; he pitied my distress; he caused the remains of my mother to be interred, and, each day, her child was permitted to deck her grave with flowers. I was reared with kindness, but, to, all, save my protector and his immediate family, my heart was bitter with hatred. In the dreams of my disturbed slumbers, the home of my happiness would appear before me, its fertile fields, its rich groves of olives and figs, the vine-covered porch, the sweet songs of my country; then the scene of my father’s death, my mother’s dying glance, and I awoke in agony and despair; revenge in any form was the only object of my thought. This passion I nurtured, and when civil wars drenched the country in blood, when the family of my protector was dispersed, opportunities of gratifying it were daily presented. I did not embrue my hands in blood, but my heart exulted in the woes of the enslavers of my country; I did not take life, but I did not save it, when it was in my power. Years rolled on; I had no home, for I abhorred the haunts of mankind. The mountain cave was my shelter, the wild fruits of the mountain my food; but, almost unknown to myself one tie was yet unsevered. The mild glance of pity, bestowed upon me, when helpless and alone in the world, was never forgotten, and the occasional kind word, and look of sympathy had sank deep into my heart. I still cherished a kindly remembrance of the house of him who had saved me, perhaps, from a worse fate than death. In my wanderings I encountered a being as wretched as myself; she taught me to gratify my ruling passion by attempting to dive into futurity, to render the life of man more wretched, by foretelling the events which are to come. In the depths of the forest, in the recesses of the mountain would we invoke the power of fiends, with the malice of demons would we prepare spells to impose upon the credulityof the ignorant, and, with horrid glee, aggravate the grief of mankind, of the wretched. Is there hope,” said she, rising, “for such as I am, with the God of purity and love whom you worship?” “Even so,” was the mild and soothing response of Sister Helena. “He has been leading you by a way which you knew not. He has been removing all your stays, that you may be stayed only upon Him; your father, country, mother, the protectors of your youth, every joy and comfort, and now, at the close of a long life, He calls you to Himself. Though the sins be as crimson, they shall be white as wool.” The Sybil bent her head; the sweet hope of mercy softened her heart; all was quiet around, among the aged trees, whose branches shaded the venerable mansion, a nightingale had chosen her seat, and, at intervals, poured forth her soft melody. During the silence, solemn music arose from the apartments within, and a chorus of voices sang the following hymn:
Mourn not for him, whose lengthened yearsHave closed in holy peace;His home is now where neither tearsNor sorrows find a place.Like as the sun, in glory brightSank ’neath the glowing sky,To rise again, with morning lightAnd greet us in the sky.So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,So glorious will he rise,Jesus has pointed him the wayTo bliss beyond the skies.
Mourn not for him, whose lengthened yearsHave closed in holy peace;His home is now where neither tearsNor sorrows find a place.Like as the sun, in glory brightSank ’neath the glowing sky,To rise again, with morning lightAnd greet us in the sky.So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,So glorious will he rise,Jesus has pointed him the wayTo bliss beyond the skies.
Mourn not for him, whose lengthened yearsHave closed in holy peace;His home is now where neither tearsNor sorrows find a place.Like as the sun, in glory brightSank ’neath the glowing sky,To rise again, with morning lightAnd greet us in the sky.So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,So glorious will he rise,Jesus has pointed him the wayTo bliss beyond the skies.
Mourn not for him, whose lengthened years
Have closed in holy peace;
His home is now where neither tears
Nor sorrows find a place.
Like as the sun, in glory bright
Sank ’neath the glowing sky,
To rise again, with morning light
And greet us in the sky.
So bright, so peaceful, closed his day,
So glorious will he rise,
Jesus has pointed him the way
To bliss beyond the skies.
The sounds died away, and when the aged woman raised her head, her moistened eyes expressed her emotion. “To find objects,” she continued, “on whom to wreak any vengeance I again sought the abodes of man; my predictions were heard with awe and terror; many a young heart, throbbing with hope and visions of bliss, have I caused to beat with dreaded anticipations of evil, and blasted many a dream of happiness. My unhallowed occupation was attended with danger, and, at one time my life was in jeopardy. I was threatened with torture and death, and, publicly exposed, was upon the point of meeting a deserved doom, when Nero, passing the spot, caused inquiries to be made as to the cause of the tumult. His was a heart exulting in all the evil passions of human nature, and the being at enmity with all the world might claim kindred sympathy with him. He ordered my release, and, when with sullen disdain, I denounced him, and foretoldhis crimes, he jeeringly said I should be under his protection, and forbade any interference with my vocation. But, amidst all my misery and crime, I did not forget the family which had shown me kindness. I followed their career in weal or woe; their enemies were doubly mine. Wandering in search of food, at one time a fierce wolf sprang from his lurking place, and an instant more would have ended my guilty life, but an unerring arrow, from an unseen hand, struck his heart, and he lay dead at my feet. A young Roman emerged from the thicket, and my eye immediately recognized, in his noble countenance, one of the only race whose features raised a kindly feeling in my breast. He gazed upon my haggard form with wonder. “Give God glory,” said he, “He has saved you from a dreadful death.” “My life is a burden,” was my sullen answer, “I give thanks to no being. I own no God, and man is my deadly enemy.” Again I saw the same pitying expression of countenance, which had saved me when a child. “If,” said he, “man has injured you, God is your avenger; if you have injured him, God is your judge, and if you are wretched, God will be your comforter.” It was the son of your love; for whose blood the tyrant thirsted, who saved me from the savage beast; whose words first caused a ray of hope to enter this dark heart.” “And must this son, perish?” said the mother, in the piercing accents of grief, “must I never again see him? and my Cleone,” and anguish checked her utterance. “The hours of the life of his persecutor are numbered,” said the Sybil, “and not by my vain art do I know this. The city is even now in commotion; the Senate have decreed his death; hear ye not those sounds of wild uproar? Hear ye not the shouts of the soldiers?” They listened with intense attention, and the distant cries of “Death to the tyrant” were plainly distinguishable amidst the hoarse clamor of the mob; and occupied by the most anxious suspense, it was some moments ere the matron observed the sinking form of the recluse and her deathly paleness. She was prevented from summoning assistance by her sudden arousing to exertion. “His death, mother?” said she, “didst thou say his death? Will they not leave him the possibility of repentance? Would I might see him, even now!” “To what purpose,” said the aged Sybil, “his heart is as the flinty rock upon which the wild waves of the ocean have beaten for ages. Thy life might be the forfeit.” “Mother! the smile and word of kindly sympathy sank deep; never to be eradicated from thy remembrance; Nero! this tyrant of Rome; this monster so detested by humanity, was kind to her, who now would sacrifice life so she might kindle a spark of hope in his benighted soul.” The sounds from the now fully aroused multitudes of Rome were increasing to deafening outcries, and the attendantssurrounded their mistress. “There are footsteps approaching,” said one, and, issuing from the shaded pathway, Cleone and the faithful domestic, who had, with Lucius Flavius, accompanied her to the palace, stood before them. The heartfelt thanksgiving of her mother, as she clasped her in a close embrace, the joyous welcome of the domestics, the tears of gratitude, which stood upon the cheeks of the recluse, seemed even to awake sympathy in the stern heart of the Sybil. “But your brother, my Cleone?” “He will be saved, my own dear mother. Nero has commanded his release, and he will soon be restored to us.” The simultaneous burst of triumph around, showed the affection borne to their noble young master, and words would fail to express the joy and thankfulness which pervaded the breast of the pious mother. “I leave you for a space, dear friends,” said Helena, “I leave you, rejoicing in the grace of God, and if we meet no more on earth, let me greet you in a happier home above. There,” said she, raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor sighing.” “And thou art going?” said the Sybil. “To perform my duty,” said she, and disappeared in the thicket.
At this time the principle streets of Rome presented a spectacle of intense interest. A legion of the army, bearing the Imperial Eagle, the long tufts of their helmets waving in the breeze, preceded a car, guarded by cavalry, whose burnished armor reflected every ray of light, in which was seated Servius Galba, the newly elected Emperor of Rome. At intervals the brazen trumpets poured forth their triumphant notes, the deafening shouts of thousands swelled upon the air, and mingled cries of victory and execration burst from the countless multitude. As the imposing procession approached the palace of Nero, the tumult increased, the rumor spread that its detested master had fled, and the terrible cry of “death” resounded on every side. The brilliant illumination of the splendid building had faded into gloom, the music had ceased, and its inhabitants had dispersed in terror. Such are the vicissitudes of greatness. The despotic Emperor, whose mandates, but a few hours before, were obeyed with servile fear, to whose debasing pleasures the riches of the world were subservient, and for the gratification of whose malice thousands had expired in agonizing tortures, was now a despised fugitive, a proscribed criminal, proscribed alike by the laws, as well as the justice of his injured country. Amidst this tumult, with hearts throbbing with praise and thanksgiving to God, the young Christians, after Curtius had been so unexpectedly released from his prison, parted for a short time; Curtius to make glad the hearts nearest and dearest to him by his return home, andFlavius to fulfil his engagement with Nero, to intercede with the new Emperor for the life of the miserable and despicable tyrant.
Avoiding the excited populace, two persons had, by the most obscure passages, approached the Imperial Palace; the one an aged man, wrapped in a dark tunic and supporting his steps by a staff, the other a female, closely enveloped and cautiously shielded from observation. As they drew near the colossal entrance their course was arrested by a sentry and, on requiring admittance to the presence of Nero, they were answered by derision.
“Admittance for a grey cowl! by my faith, no; but for this gear,” said he, “I will warrant a passage, though shaded by a hood and enshrouded in a frieze mantle.”
“Peace, rude brawler,” said the aged man, “attend to thy vocation.”
“My vocation now,” said the fierce soldier, “is to silence such greybeards as thou,” but, as he raised his truncheon, the female, raising her hood, and stepping before her companion, said:
“Wouldst thou harm one to whom the Father of all things has allotted so long a term of life? Suffer us to pass to the presence of Nero and accept the thanks of one who has no other guerdon to bestow.”
Struck by the transcendent beauty of the suppliant and awed by her manner, he lowered his weapon, but still refused admittance to her companion.
“If his tongue wag not too freely,” said he, “yonder bench may afford him a resting place; for thee, fair one, if it chooseth thee, thou mayst try thy fortune within, but, by the powers of Erebus, I warn you not to pursue the venture. Dost thou hear the commotion and uproar of the city? and the near approach of the tumult? Within the palace there is confusion: the lights are extinguished and, methinks, there is danger in the wind. Best retrace thy way, pretty one, with thy crusty fellow-traveler; his journey of life is too nearly ended to be an able protector for thee.”
“If there is danger, friend, why dost thou stay to encounter it?”
“I am a Roman soldier,” said he, proudly; “my post is here and, come what may, I shall retain it.”
“I, too, soldier, have my post of duty; for thee, father, I pray thee return by the unfrequented path we traced on our way hither.”
“I leave thee not, my daughter,” said the old man, “but will rest my wearied limbs a brief period; in the meantime, may the Lord bless thy purpose!”
“Amen, holy father,” said the recluse, for with the hope that at this moment of terror the stubborn heart of Nero might beled to contrition, she, who had once been as the day-star of his life, had now sought his presence, fearless of her own risk, in confronting his revengeful rage.
A slave guided her steps through the lofty halls, whose arched ceilings glittered with representations of the starry firmament, while showers of sweet fragrance filled the air with odors. Ere they had passed far they encountered many slaves who, with hurried steps, were hastening to the entrance.
“How go matters now, Curio?” said the guide.
“Lacca has returned,” said the one addressed. “The Legions are in motion; Servius Galba is proclaimed Emperor and Nero has fled. Save thyself, Arrius, hearest thou not the approach of the insurgents?”
“Nero fled!” said the startled guide. “A truce to thine errand, then, fair lady. Thou art too late.”
“Too late indeed,” she said, clasping her hands in anguish. “Yet, stay, friend.” It was vain, for the alarmed servitor had followed his fellow slaves; and uncertain and distressed, she stood irresolute, which way to shape her course. At this moment the Sybil stood before her.
“Said I not his hour of mercy had passed?” said she. “A night of hopeless gloom has closed around him, and clouds envelope the sweet star of mercy. Said I not so?”
“Hope is not lost, mother,” said the recluse. “Shall we limit the power of the Omnipotent? There is yet hope, even for Nero.” The roar of inflamed and furious thousands now broke upon their ears. The Palatine hill was surrounded and, with speed unparalleled in one so aged, the Sybil drew her companion along a narrow entrance to a secluded path which led through the magnificent gardens of the palace, now deserted by all save straggling bands of fugitives. “Stay, mother,” said the recluse, “Father Paulo is left behind. He awaits us near yon column.” As they drew near the aged priest rose from his reclining posture. “Blessings on His Name, daughter, for that he hath returned thee in safety. Let no harrowing fears perplex thee for him whom thou hast sought to save; he hath sown the wind and he must reap the whirlwind. “His Holy Name be blessed,” said the recluse; and, in silence, they passed on their way. The soft plashing of the fountains, whose lucid drops sparkled in the moonbeams, the dewy freshness of the lawns, and the gentle breathing of the night air contrasted with the wild fury behind them and the storm of unbridled vengeance which now encompassed the palace and shook even its foundation, soothed the perturbed spirit and hushed each murmuring passion to peace.
Herbert closed the book. “It must be deeply interesting,” said he, “to visit this ancient city. Its scenes are so intimately connected with events of history which are familiar to us from childhood, and so many of its features must remain unaltered. The ancient tombs are still there, the same old pavements are frequently unearthed which were trod by those heroes whose names are familiar to us as ‘household words,’ and whose stones have been swept by the royal purple. The Tiber will still pursue its winding course, and the lofty Apennines still bound the prospect, although time demolishes its mighty works of art.” “Was not Virgil born under the Roman government, Herbert?” said Charles. “He was, and highly favored by Augustus Caesar, the most powerful monarch of Rome.” “Do you think there were such delightful rural scenes in those times as he describes in his Pastorals?” said Susan. “In the earlier days of Rome,” said Herbert, “before luxury and its attendant vices had enervated and destroyed the energies of the country, the employments of the husbandman and shepherd formed the principal occupations of the people; to excel in agriculture was to acquire a title to public respect, and some of their most powerful dictators and bravest commanders were ‘taken from the plough.’ At the time to which our story refers, husbandry was regarded with less respect than in former times. The cultivation of the fields was often committed to the care of slaves; the introduction of foreign luxuries had paved the way for crime in all its forms, and from that time the progress of the nation was downward. The pleasant scenes of country life, described by Virgil, were probably drawn from nature, embellished, perhaps, with a poet’s license.” “But the beauty of these Arcadian scenes,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is associated in our minds with the idea of innocence and virtue; we believe they were happy, surrounded by these scenes of rural beauty, because they were good.” “True,” said Herbert, “let us but imagine their delightful groves, their breezy hills and green pastures to be the resorts of vice and crime, the charm is broken at once; we no longer dream of the beauty of the ‘spreading beech,’ the rich taste of the ‘golden apples,’ or the sweet murmuring of the ‘mossy fountains’; instead of the bright sunshine of peace and happiness, the gloomy clouds of sin and misery would disfigure every beauty.” “Such is the effect of virtue,” said his mother, “every charm is heightened by its presence, and every beauty destroyed by its absence.” “How pleasant,” said Susan, “to read Virgil’s description of a northern winter, over a bright fire!” “The pleasures of his winter evenings, however,” said Mary, “were confined to frolic and play, and theirrefreshments to ‘acid cider and beer’; how different from our evenings, where there are ‘fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness.’” “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “and, to continue your quotation:
“‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull;Not such as, with a frown, forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’”
“‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull;Not such as, with a frown, forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’”
“‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull;Not such as, with a frown, forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’”
“‘Discourse, not trivial, yet not dull;
Not such as, with a frown, forbids the play
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.’”