Chapter I
A home on Ocean’s sounding shore
Would be the home for me,
Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,
’Tis the music of the Sea.
There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who were born upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat and sunshine of a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness and refreshment in the breezes which float over its waters never to be forgotten by the wanderer from his native home, and even the hollow murmuring of its waves, when presaging an approaching storm, and their wild roar when the tempest is abroad in its fury, is remembered with a sort of pleasure as being the lullaby for many a calm and sound night’s sleep. In sickness, when far away from the land of his birth, the exile will remember its pure and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps, fancy himself treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air upon his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the location of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as long as memory remains.
“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister.
“Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, “you forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love that orchard, how many merry plays we have had among those trees, and how many stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beautiful shells we picked up upon the little beach, at the foot of the rocks,”—“But that was in the summer, Mary, when you know it is pleasant out doors, and that was when we were so young, and so easily amused, but now it is so very different, and then Aunt Wilson is so very, very pious—Oh; she will not let us read anything but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.”
This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton possessed to view it with indifference. The illness of their father, the necessity of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, and his wish that his wife should accompany him, were the reasons which had induced him to trust his daughters, during his absence, to the care of his sister, a widow lady of much respectability, who resided near the sea-coast, and, who, since the death of her husband, had devoted her time and talents to the education of her children, two sons and a daughter; and, it was after bidding a sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding themselves shut up in the carriage, which was to convey them to their winter home, that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest of the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society, and always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter after she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dispersed by the gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she had listened to the arrangement which had consigned her to the care of her aunt through that season which she had anticipated with so much delight with a dissatisfaction and gloom, which prevented her from seeing anything pleasant in their winter abode, or seizing upon any circumstances to soften her disappointment. Not so with Mary; with as lively a disposition as her sister, she still possessed the happy talent of extracting pleasure from any situation, and enjoying herself under almost any circumstances, and now endeavored, with earnest kindness, to bring to her remembrance many little events of their early youth, connected with their aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring her tranquility, and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their destined home, Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant recollection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing of the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly air, and the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the bright light, which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling of their aunt. The carriage now turned into the lane which led to the house, and they were greeted at the porch by the kind old Philip, whose hair seemed not a shade whiter, nor his face a whit more wrinkled than when, five years before, two lively little girls, they bade him “good-bye,” at that very door. They had hardly time to return his good humored smile, when they were surrounded by the rest of the family, and the affectionate caresses of their aunt, the joyous welcome of their cousins, and even the broad smile which displayed the white teeth of black Phoebe, made them feel that they had, indeed, as Philip said, “Got home again,” and caused Susan to forget her sad forebodings. The transition from the cold darkness of the evening without to the pleasant warmth and cheerful light of the sitting room was delightful, and, in a short time Susan found herself seated among a circle of lovely and beloved friends, all striving to make her happy, and all happy together, and, when, after an evening of the most charming sociability, she found herself alone with her sister, she acknowledged that she was never more entertained than she was this evening.
A bright and pleasant morning sun after a night of uninterrupted and tranquil repose, rendered sweet by the fatigue of the preceding day, restored all the gay cheerfulness of Susan, and she received the kind greetings of her friends, and their affectionate inquiries, with all her wonted good humor. A livelier party never surrounded a breakfast table, from the mother to the youngest of Mrs. Wilson’s children, the light-hearted Charles, a sprightly, intelligent boy of thirteen. Her eldest, a son, a member of the University, had returned to his home to spend the winter vacation. Herbert Wilson was a noble specimen of the youth of New England, active and enterprising, uniting to a fine constitution, habits of industry and order, and already ranking high among the talented sons of his native State. Elizabeth, the daughter, was the counterpart, in disposition, of her cousin Mary; she was the friend and companion of her mother, and the loving counsellor of her brothers. The clouds of the preceding evening had dispersed; it was one of those delightful days which sometimes occur in November; a walk was proposed to the seashore, and with light and happy hearts, the young party, after crossing the brow of the hill, which separated them from the ocean, beheld its vast expanse stretched before them in boundless majesty. The sands, covered with shells, sparkled in the sunbeams; far off, in the distance, were seen the white sails of ships, some leaving their native shores, and some returning to them, and, in the southwest, rose the dome of the State House and many spires of Boston, from whence, on a clear morning, might be heard the cheerful sound of bells. On the smooth beach that united the shore with the beautiful peninsula of Nahant, were seen sportsmen with their guns, in pursuit of the wild fowl, which were wheeling in hurried circles above their heads, and, here and there, a fishing boat, lying upon the surface of the water, while its owner was engaged in his customary employment of fishing. “How delightful,” said Susan, “I could not have believed it would have been so pleasant here in November. I think I shall be quite contented here, after all.” “But reflect, my cousin,” said Herbert, “this is one of our days of sunshine, what will you say in the days of storm and tempest, when the waves dash against these rugged rocks, and the rain pours in torrents or snow darkens the atmosphere?” “Oh,” said the listening Charles, “you would not be discontented then, for, you know, the days are short, and soon pass away, and the evenings are so pleasant. Oh, cousin Susan! you don’t know anything about those winter evenings.” “Do tell me about them, Charlie, do tell me,” said the lively Susan. “Well, then, Herbert reads”—“Stop, stop, my little man,” said Herbert, “do not let Susan waste all her pleasure in anticipation, but, I hope, dear cousin of mine, to convince you that our happiness is not dependent upon the weather, or upon local situation, and, that, years hence, perhaps, on some bright day, in the most delightful season of the year, or, when surrounded, it may be with everything to make your life happy, you will look back to this winter in retirement as one of the bright spots in your existence.” “I am half inclined to believe you, dear Herbert, but we will walk faster, for I think Mary and Elizabeth have found a prize.” Charles now bounded over the sands, and, upon joining his sister and cousin, found them engaged in examining a shell fish of singular construction. “Why, it is nothing but a horseshoe,” said he. “Uncle Bill says they call them so because they look like one, and, look, Herbert, there is Uncle Bill himself, with a basket of clams. Hurrah! Uncle Bill, what will you do with your clams?” He then ran to join a man who was coming from the edge of the water, where he had been employed in procuring the contents of his basket. He was slightly built, of a florid complexion, and a mild sensible countenance, but a certain wandering and restless expression indicated an unsettled mind. As Herbert greeted him kindly his eyes lighted with animation, and his respectful salute to the young ladies had an air of good breeding, unusual in a person in his apparent condition of life. To the repeated question of Charles as to what he would do with his clams, he said he would carry some to Phoebe, that she might make him a chowder. “That is the very thing, Uncle Bill; hurrah for clam chowder, and I’ll go forward and tell her,” said Charles, and he ran on, followed more slowly by Uncle Bill. “There is something singular in the appearance of that man,” said Mary. “There is something singular in his history,” said Herbert. “Sometime, on one of those stormy days of which I have forewarned Susan, I will tell you the outlines of it.” “Oh, no outlines,” said Susan, “tell me all the particulars, all the little shades of the story. I do not like rough sketches, I have not imagination enough to fill them up.” “I will tell you all I myself know of his life,” said Herbert, “and it is an illustration of the caprice and coquetry of which some of your sex are accused.” “A love story; that will be grand,” said Susan, “only it is a pity that the hero is an old clam merchant.”
A cheerful walk returned them to their home, where each resorted to their usual avocations, Herbert to pursue his studies and instruct Charles, Elizabeth to attend to and learn the necessary duties of a housewife, and during their morning walk she had contrived to inspire Mary with a desire to emulate her in becoming a complete cook and housekeeper, and thus give her kind mother an agreeable surprise on her return. Susan, also, was forming many plans for her winter pursuits, among which, one was commencing the study of Latin, under the instruction of Herbert, and another of working, in worsted, a cover for a family Bible, with the names of her parents wrought upon it, in imitation of the one which laid upon her aunt’s table, and which she thought would please her father and mother. Thus the day passed, and when the family surrounded the tea table, health and cheerfulness glowed in every countenance, and Susan forgot every cause of discontent. After the tea things were removed. “Now,” said Charles, “now for the story, Herbert.” “What,” said Susan, “about Uncle Bill?” “No, no, not now,” said Charles, “a story about Rome, in the time of the early Christians. I am studying the history of Rome in Latin, and Herbert promised he would read a story about it.” “In that case, Charles,” said Mrs. Wilson, “you will be able to detect any deviations from the truth of history.” “But, may I speak, mother, when I think I find anything that is not true?” “There will be times, my dear, when Herbert will pause awhile, and then you can make your remarks.” “There is a peculiar charm,” said Herbert, “in retracing the records of antiquity, for we lose sight, in the distance, of all roughness and inequalities, and our imagination only rests upon the smooth and distant perspective. I remember journeying with my father, many years ago, through the northern part of this State, and when I remarked to him that the hills which we saw around us looked as if they were highly cultivated, their surface appearing so even and delightful, here and there dotted with clumps of trees, he repeated the words of the poet, ‘’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.’ ‘If, my son, you were there, upon those very spots that appear so pleasant, you would be disappointed by their rugged and uneven appearance, perhaps deformed with unsightly stumps, or with patches of rock.’” “So it is with the romance of history,” said Elizabeth, “but, if we are too critical in our remarks, we should lose much pleasure.” “True,” said Herbert, “and therefore, not to spoil the appetite of Charles for our little tale, we will not proceed with our illustrations.” Herbert produced his manuscript, the little circle arranged themselves at their different employments, and silence ensued, while in a clear voice he commenced reading a tale of which the scene was laid in the days of Nero, the tyrant of Rome, and the malignant persecutor of the Christians.
Chapter II
Proud, 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.
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 of a 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 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 extreme age, 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 sparkling sky 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, for the 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,” said Charles. “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.”