Chapter XI
Glory, the glory of the world, its triumphs and its prideWhat are its fleeting honors worth?
Glory, the glory of the world, its triumphs and its prideWhat are its fleeting honors worth?
Glory, the glory of the world, its triumphs and its prideWhat are its fleeting honors worth?
Glory, the glory of the world, its triumphs and its pride
What are its fleeting honors worth?
Meeting again at evening, and each being engaged in some useful avocation, Herbert continued their course of reading the tale of the early Christians.
With a hasty step Lucius Flavius pursued his way through the streets of the city, thronged with persons of every rank and degree, on whose countenances might be traced emotions of every different kind. In some, the wondering stare of idle curiosity mingled with the vacant look of indifference as to what events were transpiring; in others, the animated glance of triumphant success, with the look and gesture of determined vengeance. Here stood a group whose debauched features and downcast expression proclaimed that they were companions of the infamous pleasures of Nero, and that in his downfall they lamented the loss of a protecting patron, and there, a crowd, who having been deeply injured by the tyrant, were venting their impotent rage by mutilating his statues, and tearing down the garlands which had decorated them. The name of Nero, repeated, was coupled with the deepest execrations, but Flavius stopped not to inquire his fate. Forcing his way through the dense multitude, which surrounded the palace of Servius Galba, he required of a guard to be admitted to his presence, and while awaiting the return of his messenger contemplated, with interest, the scene before him. The brilliant illumination of the building cast a broad light upon the adjacent objects, and a radiant reflection was thrown back from the glittering armor of the long lines of soldiers. The roar of the rapidly increasing crowd sounded from afar like the tempestuous waves of the ocean, while the strict discipline of the army prevented any demonstrations of disorder immediately around the palace. Amidst the distant uproar, the name of Galba was reiterated with joyful acclamations, mingled with deep and terrible denunciations of death for the tyrant. Such, thought the young Roman, is the mutability of greatness; but his reflections were interrupted by a favorable answer to his request for admittance, and he followed an attendant to the presence of the Emperor. Surrounded by some of the most powerful and influential citizens of Rome, with the flush of successful ambition upon his brow, and a proud joy flashing from his eyes, stood Servius Galba, arrayed inthe imperial purple, and a crown of laurel upon his head. Advancing a few steps to meet and receive the congratulatory homage of the young noble, he said, with an exulting smile, “The Fates have been propitious, my lord Flavius, the reign of despotism and disgrace is at an end; the Senate have confirmed the election of the Army, and we will commence our reign by an act of clemency towards that obnoxious sect, who are turning the world upside down by their heresys. It might perhaps be policy,” said he, addressing those who were near, “to extend mercy to some of these offenders, we find, after long experience in these matters, that opposition but increases their obstinacy.” “The young Roman, Quintius Curtius, is already liberated, noble Galba,” said Flavius, “and I now appear to offer my service to return you most hearty thanks for your intercession, and to perform a condition, upon the fulfilment of which the miserable tyrant insisted ere he granted the life of my friend.” “Aye,” said Galba, “he released him, then; he treated my intercession with insolent contumely, and by his arrogant menaces hastened the consummation of the events to which I alluded in our last interview. Perhaps it is best so; but, my friend, caution this young fanatic; he has talents and noble abilities, if rightly applied, and if he will not, by his imprudent enthusiasm, thwart my measures, for your sake, I will see to his advancement.” This was said in a lower tone, then aloud. “But this condition which has been imposed by the imperious homicide; what is its purport?” “Merely, noble Emperor, that I should intercede with you that his life might be spared, which petition I now humbly lay before you, representing that his power is now impotent, that mercy is the attribute of heaven, and that, imitating this attribute, when power is given us so to do, we may the more boldly claim it in our hour of need.” “You say well, noble Flavius, but this matter is beyond my control. The Senate have decreed the punishment, which, severe and harsh as it may seem, is so richly his due. He is sentenced to be dragged through the streets he has degraded by his infamous excesses, and disgraced by his outrageous cruelties, scourged, and then thrown from the Tarpeian Rock. I have, however,” said he, addressing Flavius in a confidential tone, “caused my freedman to follow and warn him of this decree, and he may yet escape its horrors by a voluntary death.” “A most dreadful alternative,” said Flavius, “but, may he not yet elude it? He is not destitute of partisans.” “It is not possible,” said the Emperor, “the avenues are guarded, he has been traced to his villa, and escape is impracticable. This has been an eventful night, my countrymen, may the dawn see Rome fully emancipated from her disgraceful thraldom. For the present, Lucius Flavius, farewell, preparations must be made forthe ceremonies of the day; you shall be instructed as to our future proceedings.”
The first faint appearance of the dawn of day was seen, the fleecy clouds were dispersing before the gradual approach of light, and the thin mist arose around the tops of the mountains, when, at the entrance of a rugged ravine, skirted by the highroad, stood a man partially concealed by a clump of trees, apparently watching for the appearance of some one. He was pale and haggard, and, at every distant noise would cower into his retreat, and listen with the most intense eagerness. The sweet sounds of the morning had commenced in the soft twitterings of the birds over his head, and its breezy breath played upon his parched lips and feverish brow, but without bestowing serenity to his spirit, or affording refreshment to his wearied frame. His impatience seemed to increase as the shades of night gave way before the rosy hues that betokened the approach of day, and as those tokens rapidly increased, as the tops of the mountains, and the distant spires of the city caught the first gleam of the rising sun, as the far off horn of the shepherd was heard collecting his flock for their rich pasture, it almost amounted to agony. It was Anicetus, the freedman, the wretched agent of his wretched master, who, flying from fear of the vengeance due to his crimes, here awaited the coming of one, who, formerly his fellow servant, he believed would not betray him, and, from whom he might learn, with certainty, the state of the public mind. What, to him, was the smiling face of nature or the bright beams of the sun? Midnight gloom and lowering tempest would have been more congenial to his guilty soul. As he stood motionless, his heavy eyes cast upon the ground, and his knit brow shaded in gloom, a squirrel sprang from the covert upon a decayed branch directly before him, as the sprightly animal stood, with his fearless innocent eyes, glancing around, the miserable man gnashed his teeth, and in the impotence of his rage that any living thing should be happy, aimed a blow, which the active animal eluded, the next instant standing upon the topmost bough of a lofty tree, chattering in his joyous glee. The thought of happiness was hateful to him, as he remembered the scene he had just left, and the imminent danger of his own situation. He had seen the master whom, from his earliest childhood he had instructed in evil, to whose base and wicked passions he had ever been subservient, but, to whom, if his corrupt heart ever felt the sensation of affection, he was more attached than to any living thing, breathe out his guilty soul in all the horrors of despair; had seen him dreading the approach of death, and evading its final grasp by every futile expedient. He had assisted in gathering a funeral pile in that garden, where so much luxuryhad reigned, and which had so often been the resort of crime and pollution; he had prepared the deadly draught at the command of the abject Emperor, and had seen him reject it in horror. He had joined in chanting a dirge for the dead; a dirge for the master, in whose veins at that moment the current of life was warm and glowing and, with trembling hand had opened those veins, that life might pass away with the red stream; then, with hurried alarm, arrested its flow by strong bandages, as the ghastly and shuddering tyrant, shrinking from the abyss over which his wretched soul was hovering, asserted that his time had not yet come. To close the frightful scene, he, in the last moment, held the glittering weapon, while Nero, the tyrant of his country, the bitter and untiring persecutor of the unoffending Christians, rushed upon its point, and closed that life, which had been a curse to the world; and now, he found himself alone, exposed to a just and terrible retribution, which awaited his own crimes, and his connivance at those of another. But now, the tramp of a horse became distinctly audible, and a rider, wearing the livery of Servius Galba, appeared, in rapid motion, for the city. As he approached the thicket its occupant moved forward, evidently wishing to be seen. “Ha!” said the horseman, stopping, “you here, Anicetus, like a wolf in his lair? By Jupiter, old acquaintance, it would have been well to have lived, so that you need not fear to be seen.” “No more of that,” said the freedman, in a sullen tone, “did you perform the service I requested?” “We laid the body upon the pile you had collected, and, kindling the flame, the thick smoke arose in the morning air, grim and black as the pit of Erebus.” “That is a good deed done, comrade; I owe you much; his body is then beyond their reach, ’twas his last request; I can trust you, old friend, what is my safest course?” “Leave Rome behind you; track your way through the most unfrequented paths to some distant land, and, in quitting your country, leave all your sins and ill-gotten treasures, that you may travel light. You will not be safe here an hour, the scent is up, and the hunters will not flag.” “Say you so, then farewell to Rome; thanks to the gods, there are other skies, the air of this place seems damp and unwholesome.” “The atmosphere is clearing, friend, it will work itself pure shortly. Farewell. Fear not that I shall betray you. May the gods prompt you to lead a better life, and provide you a better master.” He pursued his way to the city, and the dark and guilty man, plunging into the ravine, was lost to sight.
“The environs of Rome,” said Herbert, “once so delightful, are now but a dreary waste, with no human habitation or fertile fields; the melancholy ruins of former greatness, scattered hereand there, but add to the desolation and the poisonous exhalations from stagnant marshes have driven almost all life from its desert soil.” “Why should this air be so infectious?” said Mary; “it surely was not so in former times, for, had it been, the Roman territories would not have been so populous.” “The lands around the city in the bright days of Rome,” said Herbert, “were highly cultivated; they were drained of their superabundant moisture, trees were planted and rich vineyards cherished; the whole extent of territory around the great emporium was like a garden, supplying the wants of the immense population; the inhabitants lived under their own vines and fig trees, and had every inducement to industry, and every encouragement to render their soil as fertile as possible, and peace and prosperity was the consequence. But, when powerful, barbarous nations, allured by the riches and splendor of Rome, and probably foreseeing that her inhabitants, enervated by luxury and long-continued prosperity, would become an easy prey to their rapacity, poured upon the rich and beautiful plains of Italy, devastation and ruin marked their course. The fruitful trees were cut down, the vineyards defaced, the drains and aqueducts destroyed, the inhabitants slain, or, saving themselves by flight, and their pleasant dwellings leveled with the ground. Disheartened and discouraged, the Roman people no longer possessed the energy to combat with their fate. They forsook their ruined plains and the noxious vapors arising from the deserted fields, producing disease and pestilence, gave up all thought of repairing the ravages of war. The mischief has been gradually increasing and threatens, at some future day, to make the “Eternal City,” as it has been named, like Babylon of old, the residence of only noisome reptiles.” “It is sad,” said his mother, “to reflect upon the fate of these mighty nations, and to know that their downfall was the consequence of their crimes. May luxury, with its long train of evils, be far from our own native land!” “Shall I interpret your looks, Susan?” remarked Herbert, smiling; “you are thinking that, though luxury may be a great evil, you would rather prefer a little of it; that you should not exactly like the frugal meals of the old Romans, ‘a radish and an egg, under an oak.’” “You are partly right, Herbert,” said she, “notwithstanding their simplicity, patriotism and bravery, and all that sort of things, there is something revolting in some of their manners and customs; witness the little ceremony used in procuring their wives in those early days.” “That was when Rome was first founded, Susan,” said Charles. “Those were not what Herbert calls the bright days of Rome.” “True, true, my little critic,” said Herbert: “simplicity, in the days referred to by Susan, was barbarism, andpatriotism and bravery then were often questionable virtues.” “Were there any such really brave and good men, at those times, as Gen. George Washington?” said Charles. “Their greatest and best men,” said Mrs. Wilson, “had not that light to guide them which he possessed. The paths, to him like noonday, were to them enveloped in shadowy gloom; but in no age has there ever lived a man who more truly deserved to be ‘first in the hearts of his countrymen’ than Washington, the pride and boast of America. His firm and steady prudence, his sound discretion and unwavering integrity, his noble courage, and, above all, his unswerving trust in Providence, render him the model of all greatness. Other conquerors sought their own aggrandizement; he, only that of his country; they trampled on all laws, human and divine, to attain their purposes; his great aim and object was the happiness of the world as well as that of his beloved country.” “The death of Washington,” said Herbert, “proved the estimation in which he was held by the nation. They knew not, until then, how much they had relied upon his penetrating judgment and firm perseverance, his incorruptible integrity and unshaken patriotism; that star was removed whose steady ray had uniformly pointed to the path of true glory and a mist seemed for a time to envelope the world. The most enthusiastic honors were paid to his memory; his loss was deplored from one extremity of the country to the other; even prattling babes were clothed in the symbols of mourning and, had this great and good man lived in the days of heathen Rome, he would have been deified and honored as a god. Orators, in eloquent language, poured forth his praises and poets chose their noblest strains for his honor: malice and envy found no place for their innuendos and the smoothing hand of time was not needed to fix his glorious character.”