Chapter XII

How oft the fickle multitude have climbedThose battlements, to hail some mighty lord,Whom, ere the changing moon had run her course,They spurned, as a base reptile.

How oft the fickle multitude have climbed

Those battlements, to hail some mighty lord,

Whom, ere the changing moon had run her course,

They spurned, as a base reptile.

The next leisure evening was devoted to the conclusion of the Roman Tale.

The day of freedom from oppression dawned upon Rome. The short period of repose had renewed the excitement and activity of the populace, who, aroused by tidings of the fate of Nero, and enraged that he had escaped their vengeance, wreaked it upon every object marked by the favor of the tyrant Emperor. Nothing but the strictest orders, enforced by a powerful guard of soldiers, preserved the splendid palace, “The Golden House,” the rich abode of the luxurious Nero, from destruction, but his statues, and those which he had caused to be erected in honor of his chosen favorites, were demolished with the most bitter imprecations. Again the shouts of triumph and rejoicing would peal through the air and with the wildest enthusiasm the people assumed the peculiar cap worn by the slaves upon their restoration to freedom, as a token that they, too, were freed from bondage. Garlands of laurel adorned the streets, were twined around the colonnades of the buildings, and hung in festoons from the projecting balconies, and, as the triumphal chariot of the new Emperor, surrounded by the imposing array of military pomp, passed slowly through the crowded ways, toward the Capitol, to attend the ceremonies of the day, showers of roses descended upon him and music hailed his progress. Paeans arose from the temples and the odor of incense made the air fragrant. The Amphitheatre, destined that day to have been the scene of torture and death, was left in silence and solitude, a general jubilee was proclaimed, prisoners were released, and all executions were suspended.

Beneath a low-browed arch sat the Thessalian Sybil; her form was more attenuated, the excitement and fatigue of the night had worn upon her aged frame, but her still keen eyes watched the motions of the crowd and her lips were moving with suppressed thought. A citizen, whose lameness precluded his attendance upon the procession, was gazing upon her as he leaned uponhis crutches. “Mother,” said he, “the Destinies have suffered your thread of life to stretch far.” She raised her eyes to his face. “Didst thou mark the gay pageant, citizen of Rome?” “Aye, did I; by my troth,” was the answer, “it was a goodly sight.” “It has passed before me as a shadow,” she said, “as the mist of the morning, indistinct and fading. It is a few days since these eyes beheld the murdered body of your great Caesar born through these streets, in mournful array: since these ears heard the din of civil war through these lands, when brother fought against brother, and father against son; heard the exultant shouts proclaiming the mighty Augustus Emperor of Rome, and saw the massy gates of Janus closed, as the signal of peace upon earth. I have heard rejoicing and triumph echo through this city at the commencement of a reign, and still louder rejoicing at its close. I have seen a stately temple arise, dedicated to thy gods, the incense streaming from its altars, mingling with that of one consecrated to Caligula; but a few years rolled on and he met his death from the parasites who aided in the blasphemy. The wind which now breathes softly around us, and which, a few short hours having passed, may sweep the plains in its fury, is not more variable than this fickle populace. Again and again exulting shouts and bitter curses follow each other in quick succession and will do so till the glory of this proud city is shrouded in the dust.” She had uttered these words in a low, but deep and earnest tone; her head rested upon her hands and her elbows upon her knees; the soliloquy she had commenced to the person who had stood near her seemed to have been, in part, the utterance of the recollections of her life, without reference to any listener. Another citizen passing, “Thou are weatherbound, Rutilius,” addressing the lame man, “the gods console thee; thou hast lost a glorious spectacle.” “May the Furies seize the unwieldy Goth who crippled my limbs!” was the answer. “Describe the show, Curio.” “Thou shouldst have seen the noble Emperor Galba; with what a gracious dignity he accepted the homage of the Senate, and the oaths of the soldiery, and heard his oration to the people; how he thanked them for their suffrages; and how the priests in their solemn array offering sacrifices, as the smoke of the incense arose in clouds before them, sang paeans to the deities, and the pealing notes reverberated around the lofty ceiling. In good truth, friend, thy limbs have proved recreant in this matter.” “Rome will thrive under the reign of this Galba,” said Rutilius. “There will be something going on beside these dismal executions, of which we may well be weary.” “More, by token,” said the other, when every day renewed them. By the powers above! it joys my heart that the noble Curtius has escapedthe lions. Didst note his princely aspect when he confronted the tyrant in the Forum? It were worse than tyranny to immolate such a Roman.”

An aged man stood listening to the discourse. “The fangs of the ferocious beasts,” he said, “were mercy to the inhuman cruelty of Nero. The gods have at length awarded his doom, but the marks of his malice and fury are deeply printed upon our city.”

“Most deeply in thy heart, old Crispus, thou hast good cause to curse the memory of Nero.”

“Have I not! Curio,” said the old man, his gleaming eyes and trembling limbs bespeaking his emotion, “where is my brave, my noble boy, the support of my years, the idol of my love? Was not his life sacrificed, daring to brave the vengeance of that human monster, to wrest the wife of his love from even a more dreadful fate than his own, from a more bloody beast than the one that tore his mangled limbs?” Grief soon choked every other emotion, and large tears rolled down his withered cheeks.

“Nay, good Crispus, nay; time has softened thy sorrow; do not renew it.” “Rome will be at peace, now,” said Rutilius, “so, mother,” continued he, addressing the aged woman, who had appeared sunk in stupor, “thou mayst add another to thy list of changes.” Her vacant gaze would have betokened inattention to his address, but, as he spoke, she arose, though with difficulty, and her voice, though clear and distinct, was faint. “Ye are the creatures of change,” said she; “the idol of one hour, ye contemn the next. There is One,” and her tone changed to a deep solemnity, “who is said to be the same yesterday, today, and forever! Believest thou in the God of the Christians?”

“Not I, mother, and methinks if thou dost, it is well for thine aged limbs that Nero is not Emperor of Rome.”

“The years of my life are closing,” she said; “the thick darkness which brooded over them is dispersing, the strength of this weary body is failing, but light dawns upon the benighted soul. Listen,” said she, her voice becoming more firm, “ere the number of the days of my life have again passed, thine haughty Emperors will acknowledge this God; these gilded temples will echo with His worship, and the altars of thy false gods be overthrown in the dust from whence they sprang.”

As they listened to her predictions with fixed attention she sank again upon the step from which she had arisen. In a low and soft cadence she continued: “The sweet music of my childhood’s home sounds in mine ears, the fragrance of its fields steals over my senses, and my pulse vibrates to the joyous measure of the dancing virgins.” Her face became more deathly pale, her utterance more broken. “Go,” said she, “to the noble Roman, QuintiusCurtius, say to him that Sagana, the Thessalian, with her dying breath implores a resting place beneath the cypress which shades the grave of her mother; go; and thou, too, in thy last need, shalt find a friend.”

Her head drooped upon a projection of rock, her eyes closed, but as her spirit departed the rigid lines of her face relaxed and a calm, serene expression stole over it, unknown to her life.

“’Tis the old witch of the mountain,” said Curio, “as very a Hecate as ever took the form of an old woman.”

“I’ll not do her bidding,” said Rutilius.

“That will I,” said Crispus; “if these aged limbs will support me, if the God of the Christians be her God, I will go on her errand for the sake of my departed Cleia, the darling of my murdered boy; she owned no other deity.” So saying, the good old man adjusted the mantle over her marble features and, with slow steps, pursued his way to the Appian palace.

“These Christians will be growing bold, now,” said Rutilius.

“Aye, that will they,” said Curio; “but it behooves them to be cautious, for Galba, albeit not a Nero, is no friend to their rigid doctrine.” The two citizens departed and the remains of the being whose protracted years had now reached their end, whose life of misery had closed in peace, were left alone. From the time when wandering in solitary wretchedness, she had been led by a Hand which she knew not near the secluded abode of the pious Helena, had encountered the kind and lovely recluse, listened to her soothing consolations, and had suffered her thoughts to rise from the polluted depths of sin and despair, to the pure and holy Heaven of hope, her perturbed spirit had been gradually settling into peaceful rest. From this dark world her desires ascended to one of light and joy and, though born and reared amidst the gloom of Paganism, the bright beams of Christianity had pierced the shadowy cloud. Alone, in a cold and friendless world, she had lived, beset with trials and temptations; she had now gone to an everlasting Friend, to One whose all-seeing eye had watched her steps; whose Almighty arm had sustained her, and who, in her last hours, had poured consolation into her bruised and sorrowing heart.

The wild tumult of the mighty multitude reached not the peaceful home of the revered Christian. As the sun arose in his morning splendor, the majestic old trees, which surrounded the dwelling, cast their gently waving shadows over the portico, where, in sweet communion, sat the young Curtius and his sister. The breezy fragrance of the early day was wafted as mild incense to their senses, the clear soft music of the birds filled the air as an offering to the Giver of all good, while afar, in the distant valleys,borne upon the murmuring gale, was heard the mingled sounds of rural life; the shepherd’s call, the answering flock, and lowing cattle, contrasted happily with the harsher sounds from the extended streets of the city. At intervals, from within the ancient, but still stately dwelling, the solemn hymn, in honor of the noble dead, would swell in full chorus, and the rich melody would almost lead the soul of the listener to the heaven to which it directed its thoughts. During its pauses, some old minstrel, who had followed the fortunes of the family, through weal and through woe, in shrill, but animated recitative, would rehearse its greatness, its long line of renowned ancestors, their brave exploits and princely endowments, and, as he ended by striking some high and lofty notes upon his harp, the pealing sounds would arouse in the breasts of the faithful retainers of the illustrious departed a portion of the enthusiastic animation with which they had followed their lords to the field of battle. The pride of birth, though subdued and regulated by the power of religion, glowed in the hearts of the young listeners, in whose persons were united the almost regal houses from whom they counted their descent.

“This spot, my sister,” said Curtius, “is all that is left us of the worldly wealth of our ancestors, but the legacy they have bequeathed of incorruptible virtue, of integrity not to be bribed by the allurements of pleasure, or the rewards of ambition, their patriotism, and undaunted bravery, joined to the still richer one of our pious father, makes us heirs of an inheritance not to be weighed with the riches of this world. And mark, sweet sister,” he continued, “the ruling hand of God. Yesternight, the setting sun saw the tyrant Emperor surrounded with the riches of a tributary world; from the banks of the Tiber to the farthest shores of Britain, he ruled with despotic sway; yet his power and splendor have vanished as a tale that is told; while the prisoner, whose anticipations of the light of this day, but for mighty support, must have been of agony and terror, is restored to the blessings of life and liberty.”

“Oh, my brother,” said Cleone, “we have awakened from a dream of misery, and a life of grateful praise shall be devoted to our God.”

“Mark yet again, my Cleone,” said the young Roman, “a few short years since, amidst the courtly halls of Nero, moved a female, whose transcendent beauty, and surpassing loveliness gave her an irresistible influence over the heart of the capricious Emperor, and her sway was undisputed, for it was gentle and unassuming, and, even malice found no room for censure. Ere the love of change, caprice, or estranged affection had doomed her to disgrace, or perhaps, a worse fate, guided by a mysterious Providence,her heart was subdued by the power of truth. She became a Christian, and disdained to be longer a slave to the imperious will of the tyrant. The marble floors no longer echoed her light footstep, the places that had known her, knew her no more, and the bright, the admired and queenly Valeria was lost to the infamous courts of Nero. But, in the lowly homes of the poor, by the couch of the sick and dying, the abode of the sorrowful and despairing, a sweet and ministering spirit, teaches content to the humble, soothes the distress, and points with a blissful hope to a happy home in heaven.”

As he ceased speaking their mother approached, followed by an attendant, wearing the badge of the Flavian family.

“A messenger from your friend, my son.” “Health and long life, from my lord Flavius,” said he. “He commends him to the noble Curtius, and his honored family, the duties of his post, near the Emperor, prevents his personal presence at this time, but he craves permission to join them in celebrating the obsequies of their noble kinsman.”

“Return our most hearty thanks,” said Curtius, “we will await his presence.” “On my way hither,” said the messenger, “I encountered the aged Crispus, who sought thy presence, noble Curtius, hearing the last request of Sagana, the Thessalian Sybil, who is even now dead, that she might lay by the side of her parent, in her last resting place. The weary old man had gained the foot of the hills, and rested awhile, ere he commenced the ascent. There I overtook him, and offered to relieve him of his task. He has now returned to watch the body, which lies under the Arch, near the Preatorium, until thy further orders.”

“She has then gone to her rest,” said the matron. “The thread upon which hung her protracted life has been severed by the exciting scenes of the past night. May the peace which has so lately dawned upon her soul rest and abide there! Let her last wish, my Curtius, be fulfilled, and, glory to the God of mercy, who has not suffered her sun to set in the dark cloud of Pagan superstition.”

Soft music from within stole upon the air, and sweet voices sang:

Warrior! rest; thy toil is o’er,The trumpet’s sound calls thee no more,The Eagle Standard floats on high,But closed is its defender’s eye.Strewn flowers above the honored dead,Shed fragrance o’er his hallowed bed;Let the unfading Amaranth twineWith Cypress and the Eglantine.Glory to Him, whose home of loveWaits to receive his soul above!Glory to Him, whose mighty powerSupports the Christian’s dying hour!Christian! now thy warfare ends;Thy God his gracious love extends;Through Him the victory is won;The triumph gained, the conflict done.

Warrior! rest; thy toil is o’er,The trumpet’s sound calls thee no more,The Eagle Standard floats on high,But closed is its defender’s eye.

Warrior! rest; thy toil is o’er,

The trumpet’s sound calls thee no more,

The Eagle Standard floats on high,

But closed is its defender’s eye.

Strewn flowers above the honored dead,Shed fragrance o’er his hallowed bed;Let the unfading Amaranth twineWith Cypress and the Eglantine.

Strewn flowers above the honored dead,

Shed fragrance o’er his hallowed bed;

Let the unfading Amaranth twine

With Cypress and the Eglantine.

Glory to Him, whose home of loveWaits to receive his soul above!Glory to Him, whose mighty powerSupports the Christian’s dying hour!

Glory to Him, whose home of love

Waits to receive his soul above!

Glory to Him, whose mighty power

Supports the Christian’s dying hour!

Christian! now thy warfare ends;Thy God his gracious love extends;Through Him the victory is won;The triumph gained, the conflict done.

Christian! now thy warfare ends;

Thy God his gracious love extends;

Through Him the victory is won;

The triumph gained, the conflict done.

The reign of the depraved and barbarous persecutor of the Christians had closed with the succession of Servius Galba, a new era had dawned upon their fortunes; and, although the “blood of the Martyrs” had proved “as seed to the Church,” yet the season of peace and quiet, which now ensued served to foster and ripen the Christian graces, which, in those days of cruelty and inhuman bigotry acquired a stern and almost gloomy character. The mild and beautiful religion of our Saviour, when allowed its free course, in the sweet scenes of domestic life, shone with a more benignant lustre, and its votaries, no longer shuddering with the terror incident to human nature, at the consequences of avowing their faith, fearlessly taught and practised its heaven-born precepts.

The virtues of the noble family whose fortunes we have been following, were expanded beneath the rays of the sun of prosperity, and, for ages, some of the most undaunted defenders of the Christian faith were ranked among its descendants. Connected with illustrious and powerful houses, they were no longer exposed to persecution themselves, and, were enabled, by their influence, not only to promote the rapidly progressing cause of Christianity, but to save many of its disciples from suffering in the days of trial, which ensued in some of the subsequent reigns.

We have now closed our tale of the early Christians,” said Herbert, “and, tho’ it is a simple story, and pretends to no romance or mystery, yet it is not destitute of a moral.” “Very far from it,” said Mrs. Wilson, “who can read the short, but well authenticated account of the death of Nero, and contrast it with that of the aged Christian, or even with the last moments of the erring but misguided Sybil, without saying, ‘Let my death be that of the righteous.’”

“Well, my little brother,” said Herbert, addressing Charles, “you have very kindly abstained from criticisms during the course of our reading. Now tell us if you have discovered any discrepancies, through the narrative, as you are now, no doubt, byyour acquaintance with Roman history, able to discover.” “You are laughing at me, Herbert, but I will tell you one error. It was not Nero, I believe, who compelled the Senate to sanction the election of his horse to the consulship, but Heliogabas.” “I think you are right,” said Herbert. “He was, however, a kindred spirit; and now, we will compare notes upon our improvement this winter; beginning with you, Charles, of whose progress I can, in some measure report, being your instructor.” “And, besides my regular lessons,” said Charles, “I have read more than half through Rollins Ancient History aloud to Susan.” “And,” said Susan, “besides listening to Charles, while I sewed, I have reviewed the History of England, and read Cowper’s Task, not to mention reading the newspaper, etc., etc., and all this in addition to my Latin lesson with Herbert.” “Please do explain those et ceteras, my pretty cousin.” “Not I,” she replied, “I cannot burden my memory with any more of my multifarious occupations.” “You have forgotten that we have read the Pilgrim’s Progress again.” “Ah! true,” said Susan, “and the life of the good old dreamer; now, for as good an account of your winter studies, my dear sister and cousin; but I am inclined to believe you will be deficient unless you dignify with the name of study the art of making bread, puddings, and pies, etc.” “One of the most useful studies, Susan,” said Herbert, “only not leave the rest undone.” “Do not imagine we have become mere household automatons,” said Elizabeth. “In addition to a tolerable stock of the knowledge to which Susan refers, we have read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Hunter’s Sacred Biography, besides reaping some benefit from Charles’ reading.” “And I have initiated Elizabeth into my little stock of French,” said Mary, “but, Herbert, we shall not allow you to be sole catechist; we shall require an account of the manner in which you have spent your solitary hours, which, I am sure, have not been few.” “Must I make full confession,” said he. “Full and free, without prevarication or equivocation.” “Seriously, then, dear Mary, it requires no little labor to retain my position in my class, the other members of which are now pacing the halls of old Harvard, in addition to those pleasant employments enjoyed in common with the rest of you.” “Setting apart a little time,” said Susan, laughing merrily, “devoted to the Muses. Ah! Herbert, I have made the discovery, partly by my own sagacity, and partly by the tell-tale expression of Aunt Wilson’s countenance, that you are the author of much of the poetry which has entertained us this winter.” “’Twas but the amusement of a passing hour, dear Susan, and if it has been a source of interest to you, an important end is attained.” “And you must continuethat interest, my son,” said Mrs. Wilson, “if it will not interfere with other duties. I think,” added she, addressing Mary and Susan, “that your parents will approve your winter employment, and that in after time you will review them without regret.” “That I am sure we shall,” said Mary.

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