Chapter VI
The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded brightness,And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air,All breathe of peace and loveliness; man’s base passions alone mar the scene.
The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded brightness,And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air,All breathe of peace and loveliness; man’s base passions alone mar the scene.
The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded brightness,And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air,All breathe of peace and loveliness; man’s base passions alone mar the scene.
The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded brightness,
And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air,
All breathe of peace and loveliness; man’s base passions alone mar the scene.
Although Mrs. Wilson lived in comparative retirement, yet her house was the abode of hospitality. Many valuable friends of her younger years, and of her husband, still kept up that friendly intercourse which had always been a source of pleasure and improvement; and among them were many, not only the most pious, but the most enlightened and amiable characters of the day. In their society the young people became accustomed to that true politeness, that delicate wit and refined conversation which is the sure index of good breeding and high intellect. While surrounded by visitors of this class they could not so much regret the loss of their evening entertainments, and, when left with only their own domestic circle, they returned to them with renewed enjoyment. Some evenings had elapsed during one of those pleasant seasons of visiting, and the continuation of the Tale, which had so interested them, had been necessarily delayed, but at length the time arrived when they were again alone and at liberty to pursue their course of reading.
“The moonbeams shone in rich splendor upon the massy walls and towers of the imperial palace and illumed the glittering arms of the guard who surrounded it. Preparations for a feast were going on and strains of soft music were heard within. Its magnificent apartments were blazing with light and sparkling with gold and silver ornaments and the fragrance of the scented draperies diffused itself through their vast extent. In an inner chamber, more gorgeously decorated, and hung with cloth of gold, the bordering of which was heavy with jewels, reclined upon a luxurious couch the infamous Nero, the lord of all this splendor, but despised and contemned by even the meanest of his subjects. His purple robe hung in rich folds over the silver drapery of his couch, his long, perfumed hair was parted over his white forehead, displaying an effeminate countenance which, to a casual observer, would show none of those traits of revengeful malice or diabolical cruelty which were the characteristics of the despoticEmperor. His jeweled fingers pressed lightly the strings of a lute and the careless indolence of his attitude expressed total indifference to everything excepting his own ease. A few attendants stood at the door and his favorite freedman waited near the couch to receive the first indications of his pleasure. “Anicetus,” said he, at length, raising his heavy eyes, in the expression of which alone might be seen the evil passions of his nature, “did you instruct my guards to admit the woman whom we encountered at the bath?” “I did, mighty Emperor,” was the answer. “Repeat to me the words of her address.” “My lord, to the best of my recollection, these were her very words: ‘The star of thy nativity wanes; wouldst thou know more? admit me ere thy revel begins.’” The complexion of Nero grew paler as he said in a low tone: “Dost thou believe in the prophetic gifts of these Sybils?” “The star of Nero will always be in the ascendant,” said the freedman. “Is not his word the law of Rome? and not of Rome only, but of the whole world?” and he bowed to the ground in cringing servility. “Nevertheless, I would hear what this woman would reveal; see that she is admitted at the time. Some wine, Anicetus. What insufferable insolence in Servius Galba to interfere in the execution of my will! His haughty ambition requires pruning.Reprieve!pardon the arrogant Christian, who has dared to brave my power! No! by Jupiter, the extremest tortures shall punish his audacity; we will see if his demeanor will retain its insulting composure. Are all my orders executed? Is everything in readiness?” “Everything, my noble lord; all has been prepared according to your directions, and your decree to that effect has been given to the impudent Christian, who will have the night to contemplate the certainty of his deserved fate.” “It is ’well,” said Nero, and a malignant smile passed across his features and, while carelessly tuning his instrument, his thoughts were apparently rioting in the prospect of the gratification of his revenge. At this moment the woman, who, by his order was suffered to enter, appeared at the door of the apartment. As the freedman met her with an impatient gesture, she waved him aside and, with a firm step and commanding air, advanced to the couch, from which Nero had started. The same dark and piercing eyes were fixed upon him which had terrified Cleone and the same deep and hollow voice sounded in his ear. “The decree of Fate is even now passing; the fiat of justice is being issued; thou, who hast arrogated to thyself the powers of life and death at the dictates of thine own base passions, tremble before a Power in whose sight thou art but as a grain of dust, more degraded than the meanest worm of the ground thou hast polluted. The Sun of the universe will arise, but notfor thee; the breeze of the mountains will refresh all nature, but its healthful influence will impart no life to thine inanimate form; Emperor of Rome! the sands of your life are few and fast ebbing!” Nero had stood motionless and as she stayed her denunciations he sank again upon his couch, but a moment elapsed, when rage and anger glowed in his countenance, before pale as marble. “Wretch!” said he, “thy fate is sealed, tortures and death await thee.” Unshrinkingly she stood before the tyrant, unawed she witnessed his deadly rage. “Yet retrace thy steps,” she said, “man of many crimes, while yet in thy power repair those evils which have not passed beyond thy influence. From the deep abyss of thy guilt and infamy look up; for, far through the fearful gloom the rays of the sweet star of mercymayreach even thee. For me, I am beyond your power; you can neither save nor destroy me. Nero, to purchase the slender chance for mercy which is yet yours I would barter life and yield it amidst all the torments the art of man could inflict. But my time has elapsed; we meet no more on earth.” So saying, before the dismayed Emperor could collect his scattered thoughts, she passed from the apartment and from the astonished gaze of the attendants who, though distant spectators of the scene, had not heard what had passed. “Draw near, Anicetus,” said Nero, as his freedman approached. “Where did Galba direct his steps when he left our presence? I liked not his haughty bearing.” “To the Senate chamber, my lord.” “Ha! are the Senate together tonight? for what purpose?” “I know not, most mighty Emperor; the doors of the chamber are closed.” “The slaves! do they dare?” He strode the apartment with hasty steps, his cheeks blanched with passion. “Discover,” said he, “the cause of this secret sitting; by my head, they shall dearly rue this audacity. Bring me the report without delay.” The freedman bent his body in obedience and withdrew. Left alone, the restless motions and perturbed demeanor of the Emperor expressed the agitation of his mind. At times he would gnash his teeth in anger, then strong lines of terror and dismay would cross his features. At length, throwing himself upon the couch, he covered his face with his hands and appeared lost in thought. The lowliest goatherd among the Appenines, who, lying down at night with but the hard ground for a pillow and a canopy of boughs for a shelter, knows not where to find his daily food, was happier than this lord of Italy. Of what avail was all this pomp to him, whose splendid robes covered a heart beating with terror and alarm? The abode of suspicion and fear, torn with the pangs of dark remorse, but still raging with the most horrid passions, to gratify which the country which he was bound to serve and protect wasmade to bleed at every pore? The meanest serf, the most degraded slave throughout this vast empire would have refused to exchange situations with this lordly tyrant could they have realized the horrors of his guilty conscience. At one moment he would devise means to crush the Senate at a single blow; then the words of the Sybil, recurring to his mind, the idea of conciliation would be uppermost, and, though his whole frame trembled with impotent rage, yet he would determine to practise his powers of dissimulation and defer the gratification of his revenge to a more fitting opportunity. The superstitious terrors of his intellect were all aroused, his cowardly heart quailed at the shadow of coming events which he knew would overwhelm him, and his revengeful passions were all in wild commotion.
A slave, bending before him, announced Lucius Flavius, and, collecting his thought, and endeavoring to smooth his brow to composure, he ordered that the patrician should be admitted.
Herbert was here interrupted by the call of some persons upon business which might detain him some time, to the great annoyance of the little party. A pleasant conversation, however, commenced upon the influence of superstition over mankind throughout all ages of the world. “Even in our enlightened age,” said Mrs. Wilson, “we find many who are slaves to superstition in some of its various forms, but its influence is milder and gradually decreasing. Within a century and a half persons whose minds were enlightened, of undoubted piety, and who would have smiled in derision at the superstitious observances of the ancient Romans, professed full faith in witchcraft, that most terrific of all delusions.” “Oh,” said Mary, “I never hear the relation of those times without a shudder. What could have been the cause of such frightful credulity?” “It is shrouded in mystery,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and, probably, in this world we shall never know. Let us be thankful that no vestiges of such infatuation are left, but the sad spot where so many victims to its maddening influence perished.” “Even here,” said Elizabeth, “we are not exempted from this universal passion; we, too, have had our renowned fortune teller.” “Oh, yes,” said Susan, “I overheard Phoebe, the other day, gravely recounting the wonderful predictions of this redoubtable Sybil.” “Was Moll Pitcher a Sybil?” said Charles. “She would have passed for one in ancient times, Charles,” said his mother, “and, with her shrewd countenance and small, black eyes, aided by her red cloak and hood, might, I think, have played her part quite respectably. Her dwelling, too, would be appropriate for such a character; desolate and dreary, at the foot of the high rock, and embellished witha tall memento of one of the monsters of the ocean, the rib of a whale. I will read some lines upon her name and character by some witty poet of the day:
MOLL PITCHER
“Ah! dost thou laugh at the familiar name?Deride and ridicule her world-wide fame?Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power,At whose dread magic even wise men cower?Laugh, if you will; the time has long gone byWhen Moll would change your laugh into a cry.Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yoreNo thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power.Should even the smile incredulous appear,Woe to its author, luckless his career!Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones,How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans!At midnight hour, when bites and itching smartAssailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart,Even his household gods seemed leagued to slayHis bosom’s peace and drive his joys away;On his own threshold his unwary feetWould stumbling slip and sad disaster meet;His faithful dog would snarl at his caress,And wholesome food with racking pains distress.Oh, witch implacable! how oft thy formAt distance seen caused the scared youth to run.How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy nameWhile toiling o’er the slowly turning cream!How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar,Foreboded evil and excited fear!Fear to the maiden, lest the raging seaHad whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy;Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beamOf Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream;Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glanceShould tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance;And even the parson grave forebore to frownAs her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form.For why? His memory this precaution lends‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’Yet oft the village gossip told a deedOf kindly pity to the poor man’s need;How Moll would stand beside the bed of deathAnd bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath,The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan,Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone.That many a smile relieved the falling tear,As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear,While her capacious pocket would bring forthRich stores of apples red to raise their mirth.Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fameStill lingers round the spot that bears her name.‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,Then started back, half tempted to return.But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic ritesAttendant on those dark and fearful nights,Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame sayThat better far ’twould be to stay away.Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form,The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan;There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear.There let the memory of her follies lie;The memory of true worth will never die.”
“Ah! dost thou laugh at the familiar name?Deride and ridicule her world-wide fame?Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power,At whose dread magic even wise men cower?Laugh, if you will; the time has long gone byWhen Moll would change your laugh into a cry.Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yoreNo thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power.Should even the smile incredulous appear,Woe to its author, luckless his career!Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones,How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans!At midnight hour, when bites and itching smartAssailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart,Even his household gods seemed leagued to slayHis bosom’s peace and drive his joys away;On his own threshold his unwary feetWould stumbling slip and sad disaster meet;His faithful dog would snarl at his caress,And wholesome food with racking pains distress.Oh, witch implacable! how oft thy formAt distance seen caused the scared youth to run.How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy nameWhile toiling o’er the slowly turning cream!How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar,Foreboded evil and excited fear!Fear to the maiden, lest the raging seaHad whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy;Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beamOf Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream;Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glanceShould tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance;And even the parson grave forebore to frownAs her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form.For why? His memory this precaution lends‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’Yet oft the village gossip told a deedOf kindly pity to the poor man’s need;How Moll would stand beside the bed of deathAnd bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath,The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan,Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone.That many a smile relieved the falling tear,As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear,While her capacious pocket would bring forthRich stores of apples red to raise their mirth.Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fameStill lingers round the spot that bears her name.‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,Then started back, half tempted to return.But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic ritesAttendant on those dark and fearful nights,Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame sayThat better far ’twould be to stay away.Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form,The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan;There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear.There let the memory of her follies lie;The memory of true worth will never die.”
“Ah! dost thou laugh at the familiar name?Deride and ridicule her world-wide fame?Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power,At whose dread magic even wise men cower?Laugh, if you will; the time has long gone byWhen Moll would change your laugh into a cry.Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yoreNo thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power.Should even the smile incredulous appear,Woe to its author, luckless his career!Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones,How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans!At midnight hour, when bites and itching smartAssailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart,Even his household gods seemed leagued to slayHis bosom’s peace and drive his joys away;On his own threshold his unwary feetWould stumbling slip and sad disaster meet;His faithful dog would snarl at his caress,And wholesome food with racking pains distress.Oh, witch implacable! how oft thy formAt distance seen caused the scared youth to run.How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy nameWhile toiling o’er the slowly turning cream!How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar,Foreboded evil and excited fear!Fear to the maiden, lest the raging seaHad whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy;Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beamOf Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream;Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glanceShould tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance;And even the parson grave forebore to frownAs her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form.For why? His memory this precaution lends‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’Yet oft the village gossip told a deedOf kindly pity to the poor man’s need;How Moll would stand beside the bed of deathAnd bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath,The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan,Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone.That many a smile relieved the falling tear,As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear,While her capacious pocket would bring forthRich stores of apples red to raise their mirth.Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fameStill lingers round the spot that bears her name.‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,Then started back, half tempted to return.But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic ritesAttendant on those dark and fearful nights,Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame sayThat better far ’twould be to stay away.Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form,The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan;There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear.There let the memory of her follies lie;The memory of true worth will never die.”
“Ah! dost thou laugh at the familiar name?
Deride and ridicule her world-wide fame?
Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power,
At whose dread magic even wise men cower?
Laugh, if you will; the time has long gone by
When Moll would change your laugh into a cry.
Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yore
No thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power.
Should even the smile incredulous appear,
Woe to its author, luckless his career!
Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones,
How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans!
At midnight hour, when bites and itching smart
Assailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart,
Even his household gods seemed leagued to slay
His bosom’s peace and drive his joys away;
On his own threshold his unwary feet
Would stumbling slip and sad disaster meet;
His faithful dog would snarl at his caress,
And wholesome food with racking pains distress.
Oh, witch implacable! how oft thy form
At distance seen caused the scared youth to run.
How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy name
While toiling o’er the slowly turning cream!
How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar,
Foreboded evil and excited fear!
Fear to the maiden, lest the raging sea
Had whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy;
Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beam
Of Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream;
Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glance
Should tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance;
And even the parson grave forebore to frown
As her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form.
For why? His memory this precaution lends
‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’
Yet oft the village gossip told a deed
Of kindly pity to the poor man’s need;
How Moll would stand beside the bed of death
And bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath,
The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan,
Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone.
That many a smile relieved the falling tear,
As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear,
While her capacious pocket would bring forth
Rich stores of apples red to raise their mirth.
Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fame
Still lingers round the spot that bears her name.
‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,
Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,
Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.
Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;
As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.
Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.
With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,
Then started back, half tempted to return.
But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic rites
Attendant on those dark and fearful nights,
Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame say
That better far ’twould be to stay away.
Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form,
The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan;
There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there
’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear.
There let the memory of her follies lie;
The memory of true worth will never die.”
“Did you ever see a witch, mother?” said Charles. “If you will listen, my son, I will tell you a story, the only one relating to a witch, which ever came to my certain knowledge.
“When I was a tiny school girl there stood a lonely little house at the foot of a rising ground on the direct road to our school house; there were no trees about it, but a few choke berries and alder bushes, for there was a marshy piece of ground there. A very small lot was cultivated as a garden by the hands of its only inhabitant, poor old ‘Aunt Lois,’ as everybody called her. Nobody knew any harm of Aunt Lois, but every body said ‘Certainly she was a witch.’ The time had passed when witches were hanged or burned, so Aunt Lois lived peaceably in her own home, but many wonderful stories were told about her, such as that she was seen churning butter in the night, and, though nothing could be nicer or sweeter than her butter, yet some wise people asserted ‘that she must have help about it which nobody knew of.’ Old Joe Hart said that he had seen a company of witches, riding onbroomsticks through the air, with Aunt Lois at their head with a cap and long cloak on, and a wand in her hand. This, he said was “just as true as anything he ever said in all his life,” but as Joe was noted for telling great stories, people would have been glad of better authority. But no part of the community was more troubled about these stories than the children belonging to the school, and, though the boys blustered a good deal and said ‘Who’s afraid?’ yet it was observed that they always kept the side of the lane farthest from Aunt Lois’s house; and, as to the girls, they would scramble over the fence and run through a swamp rather than go near it. An event, however, occurred which not only quieted their fears, but even made Lois popular in their opinion. It was a warm afternoon in the summer, when a little troop of boys and girls were returning from school, when they espied among the wet ground at the foot of the hill, near the old woman’s house, a cluster of beautiful lilies. Never were any wild flowers so much sought for as those lilies, for they were very scarce and of rare and beautiful colors. ‘I know I can get some,’ said Catherine, and, followed closely by two others, she bounded over the low wall and, without taking thought of the swamp, she sprang forward to be the first to gain the wished-for prize. But soon the ground began to give way beneath her feet, but she had almost gained the flowers, and, supposing that by one more leap she should gain sure footing, she jumped forward, but down she sank, deep, deep in the mire, and there she was planted, unable to stir her feet, and imagining her little body was going, too, she did not know where. She was near enough to clasp the tall stems of the lilies and clung to them as if for support, but the slender roots gave way and, though she had gained the desired objects, yet she would joyfully have given them up to her frightened companions, who had stopped just before they arrived at the fatal spot, could she have been safe with them. ‘Do help me, Martha; do take my hand, Susie,’ screamed the little girl, but when they dare not come further and were turning back, she began to sob and cry most piteously. But, just then, terrible to behold, Aunt Lois’s door opened and, to our great dismay, she appeared. What a scampering now ensued! The boys jumped over the wall and the girls ran, without looking back, until they had gained what they considered a safe distance from the dreaded spot, but the little girl was left, unable to stir. She covered her face with her hands to shut out the sight of the old witch, but she heard her step and the terror of she knew not what almost took away her senses. ‘For mercy’s sake, my little dear,’ said Aunt Lois, ‘why did you come into this wet, boggy place? I don’t know as I can get to you, but put out your hand.If I should get stuck here, too, we should be in a pickle.’ Catherine obeyed, for the voice of Aunt Lois sounded kind and pleasant, and, with a strong pull, she extricated the little girl, but a sad sight was displayed. Her feet were black with the mud of the swamp, but, her shoes being tied on, she did not lose them. And now, to the great terror of the children, who were watching from their hiding places, Lois carried the little girl into her house, and solemn was the consultation as we gathered together and debated upon her fate. Such long and dismal faces are seldom seen, such terrible stories were told as made the eyes of the younger children dilate with dismay. But at this moment the little Catherine was seen running toward us. ‘Aunt Lois isn’t a witch,’ said she, ‘see, she has washed my shoes and the bottom of my dress, and she has given me some doughnuts and some apples, and picked me a whole bunch of lilies.’ The charm was at an end. Aunt Lois’s cake and apples were eaten with great relish and, ever after, in the opinion of the children, Aunt Lois was ‘a grand, good old woman.’”
“I wish all witch stories would end as well as this,” said Susan. “And that all witches were as good as Aunt Lois,” said Charles.