CHAPTER V.
The orator received us with less coldness than I could have expected. I suppose his knowledge that our morning had been spent in Rubellia’s company, had in some measure softened his feelings of jealousy towards his son; and perhaps he had given me credit for advice, to the merit of which I had no claim. But he remained not long at table after supper was concluded, being summoned to discourse in private with a client:—so that Sextus and I were left to spend the evening as it might please ourselves; for as to Xerophrastes, he had not as yet made his appearance, and we took it for granted he had remained at the mansion of Fabricius, for the purpose of consoling with philosophical controversies his bereaved brother of Ionia.
We retired, therefore, into the apartment of my young friend; but he could not read a page without coming upon some verse which made him throw down the scroll to ruminate on the charms of his Sempronia. When he took up his lute, his fingers seemed to evoke only the most melancholy sounds. It was only in the exercise of the foil, that he succeeded in banishing from his thoughts the troubles of his situation; but both of us having contended till [pg 197]we were breathless, were soon compelled to sit down, and then the unhappy boy’s exhausted body seemed to communicate a new debility to his mind. We sat for the most part in silence, (for I soon found that I could not say any thing capable of interesting him,) until the shades of evening had quite darkened the chamber, and then we walked together, not less silently, in the adjoining open gallery, until the moon had arisen from above the tall poplars around the Pantheon and Baths of Agrippa, and diffused her radiance over all the beautiful gardens and noble edifices that lay beneath us down to the brink of the river. Lassitude of spirit then, if not expectation of sleep, rendered Sextus desirous of retiring to his couch; so, having exhorted the youth to wrestle with his grief, and to call hope to his aid, I at length left him to himself. But as for me, I had as yet no feeling of weariness, and, besides, I remembered the promise I had made to Dromo in the morning.
I was very much surprised, indeed, that the Cretan had not as yet come to me, and made inquiry concerning him of Boto; but hearing that the man was absent from the house, I thought from this there was the more likelihood of his being engaged in some scheme, the result of which I should by and by learn from his own lips. I dismissed my Briton, therefore, and prepared to read by my watch-light, and while I was considering what I should read, I remembered the scroll I had received from Tisias, which forthwith I took from the place in which I had locked it up on the morning of the preceding day. There fell from out of it, as I unfolded it, a letter sealed, but without any superscription. This I of course considered as meant only [pg 198]for the eye of Athanasia; so I kissed the parchment her fingers were destined to touch, and, before I began to read, restored it to its receptacle.
More than one of you, my young friends, have already heard me speak, on another occasion, of the impression which that night’s reading made upon my mind, and been told, from my own lips, what book it was that was contained in the scroll of Tisias; the rest of you will judge for yourselves with what astonishment it was that I, who had at the best expected to unfold some obscure treatise of Asiatic lore, some semi-barbarous exposition of mystical riddles, found myself engaged in the perusal of a plain and perspicuous narrative of facts, written evidently by a man of accomplishment and learning, and in Greek of which the most elegant penman of these times could have had no occasion to be ashamed. In a word, it was the Gospel of the holy physician St Luke which had been put into my hands; and at this day I am still grateful that this was the first of the Christian books which I had an opportunity of seeing; for such had been my education, that I am afraid others, not less worthy of the true faith, might have repelled me by the peculiarities of their composition, as well as by the acquaintance with many things, to me then entirely unknown, which they take for granted in the style of their commencement. Here, however, there was enough only of mystery, the more effectually to stimulate my curiosity, while the eagerness with which I engaged myself in its gratification, was abundantly repaid from the beginning, both by the beauty of the simple narrative itself, and the sublimity of the conceptions embodied and evolved in its course.
Considering the book which I was reading, as one merely of human origin and invention, I could not help regarding it with such admiration, that it appeared to me above all things wonderful, I had never seen it mentioned by any of the writers of the age, or heard it spoken of by any of those who, in my presence, since I came to Rome, had talked concerning the faith and doctrines of the persecuted Christians. But this was not all. At least, said I to myself, there is something here which deserves to be inquired into and examined. Of things such as these, if told falsely, it must needs have been—nay, it must still be, easy to prove the falsehood. It is impossible that, in the days of Tiberius, any such events should have occurred in Palestine, without being more or less submitted to the inspection of Roman eyes. This is no wild tale, handed down from the dark ages of a barbarous race. Here I have a Roman Centurion described as among the witnesses of this man’s miraculous power, and acknowledging the divinity of his benevolence. Here, at least, must have been one spectator without prejudices, otherwise than against this Prophet of Nazareth. Of a surety, the legends of Rome herself contain many tales which demand a much greater measure of indulgence; since the wonders they narrate appear to have been oftentimes attended with no beneficial consequences, either to individuals or to the state; whereas here the occasion seems always to have been such as might justify the interference of supernatural might. The power of this person seems to have been exerted only for good; and his precepts are full of such godlike loftiness as neither Socrates, nor Plato, nor any of those Greek sages, who [pg 200]bowed in reverence to the hoary wisdom of Egypt and India, would have disdained to admire.
The doubts, suspicions, and distrusts, with which such thoughts were mingled,—the under-current of reluctance with which I felt myself all along contending,—were such as you may more easily imagine than I can describe.
As the narrative went on, however, you will have no difficulty in supposing that my attention became more and more rivetted, and that, occupied with the strange events and sublime scenes it unfolds—and agitated by turns with the pity, the wonder, the terror, and the admiration that matchless story must ever awaken,—I had forgotten every thing beyond the page of the volume on which my finger was fixed.
It was only the rustling of Dromo’s cloak against the edge of my chair, that made me aware my privacy was disturbed. His hands seemed to be busied in tightening his girdle even before he was able to speak, and the first words he uttered, were—“Come, sir—this is no time for study. I have acquaintance with some of the soldiers at the Capene Gate, and they will let us pass through; but they are relieved at the next watch, and then we shall have no chance.”—“And why,” said I, hastily thrusting the scroll into my bosom—“why, Dromo, or for what purpose should we desire to pass through the Capene Gate at the dead hour of night?”—“Come,” said he; “there is no time for explanation. It is simply because it is the dead hour of night that we must pass through the gate; for it would do nobody any good to pass through at any other time. Come—or abandon Sextus to his fate.”
Thus adjured, I could not oppose any obstacle to his zeal. The chained porter was lying asleep across the threshold; but Dromo had already found means to have the door opened, so he leaped lightly over the man, and I imitated his agility. The Cretan then locked the gate on the outside, by means of a key which he carried in his bosom; and I followed his rapid steps without farther question.
This cunning varlet, (who seemed, indeed, to move as if he had a natural aversion to every open place,) threaded one obscure lane after another, keeping always, where the moonlight had any access, to the dark side of the way; a person better skilled than myself might well have been somewhat puzzled; as for me, I had not the least conception whither I was going. Close, however, did I adhere to him; and we reached the Capene Port, which is on the south side of the city, not many bow-shots from the Anio, before I could have imagined it possible to traverse so great a space.
Here Dromo told me to wait for him a single moment, and stepped down into a cellar, in which a light was burning; but he staid not long, and when he returned to me, I observed that his style of walking was more clumsy than usual, which, indeed, was not to be wondered at, considering that he had now to carry, not only himself, but two huge skins of wine, intended, as I at once suspected, for the purpose of facilitating our passage. I told him my suspicion in a whisper; but he made no answer, except by handing to me one of his burdens. So laden, we crept on as well as we could to the portal, beneath the shadow of which two Prætorians were pacing, their armour ringing audibly upon [pg 202]them amidst the silence of the night.—Silently did the well-oiled hinges turn, and very silently stooping did we step beneath the lintel of the Capene Gate, which as silently was again made fast.
As we advanced among the funereal monuments which line the Appian Way on either side, Dromo stood still every now and then for a moment, as if to listen; but whatever he might have heard, or expected to hear, I perceived nothing, except here and there the howl of a dog, or the lazy hooting of the night-owl, from the top of some of the old cypresses that rose between us and the moon.
At last he seemed to catch the sound he had been expecting, for he started suddenly; and laying his finger on his lip, crept to the parapet.
The ground behind was more desolate of aspect than any part of that which we had traversed—stoney and hard, with here and there tufts of withered fern; and immediately below the wall two human figures were visible. The one was sitting on the ground, wrapped in a dark cloak which entirely concealed the countenance: the other was a half-naked boy, holding in a string a little new-shorn lamb, which with one of his hands he continually caressed. But forthwith the sitter arose, and throwing away the cloak, displayed the gray tangled tresses of an old woman, and two strong boney arms, one of which was stretched forth with an impatient gesture towards the stripling, while the other was pointed upwards to the visible moon. “Strike,” said she, “strike deeply—beware lest the blood tinge your feet or your hands;”—and I recognized at once the voice of the same Pona that had [pg 203]attracted my notice in the morning, at the foot of the Palatine.
The boy drew forth instantly a knife from his bosom, whose glittering blade was buried in the throat of the yearling, and it was then first that I perceived a small ditch dug between the boy and the woman, into which, the lamb’s throat being held over it, the blood was made to drop from the wound. So surely had the blow been given, that not one bleat escaped from the animal, and so deeply, that the blood flowed in a strong stream, dashing audibly upon the bottom of the trench. And while it was dropping, the old woman muttering a sort of chant to Hecate, as I gathered, showered from her girdle I know not what of bones or sticks, mingled with leaves and roots, which afterwards she seemed to be stirring about in the blood with one of the tall strong stems of the fern that grew there. The wildness of her gestures was such, that I could not doubt she had herself some faith in the efficacy of the foul charms to which she had resorted; nor could I see her stirring that trench of innocent blood, without remembering the still more ruthless charms, whose practice the poets of Italy have ascribed to such hoary enchantresses. The dreariness of the midnight wind, too, as it whistled along the bare and steril soil around us, and the perpetual variations in the light, by reason of the careering of those innumerable clouds, and the remembrance of the funereal purposes for which, as it seemed, all this region was set apart—the whole of this together produced, I know not how, a certain pressure upon my spirits, and I confess to you, I felt, kneeling there by the side of my now trembling Cretan, as if I owed him no [pg 204]great thanks for having brought me that night beyond the Capene Gate.
It seemed as if the goddess, to whom the witch’s song had been addressed, did not listen to it with favourable ear; for the clouds gathered themselves more thickly than ever, while the wind howled only more loudly among the tombs, and the half-scared owl sent up a feebler hooting. Notwithstanding, the old woman continued fixed in the same attitude of expectation, and the stripling still held the well-nigh drained throat of his lamb above the trench. By degrees, however, the patience of both seemed to be exhausted; and there arose between them an angry altercation. “Infernal brat of Hades!” quoth the witch, “look ye, if you have not stained your filthy hands, and if the thirsty shadows be not incensed, because you have deprived them of some of the sweet blood which they love!”—“Curse not me, mother,” replied the boy—“Did you think, in truth, that the blood of a stolen lamb would ever propitiate Hecate?”—“Imp!” quoth she, “Hold thy peace, or I will try whether no other blood may make the charm work better!”—“Beware!” quoth the boy, leaping backwards—“beware what you do! I am no longer so weak that I must bear all your blows.”
“Stop,” cried I, “for there are eyes that you think not of, to take note of your wickedness;” and in my vehemence I shook one of the great loose stones that were on the top of the wall, which rolled down and bounded into the ditch beside them; and the woman, huddling her cloak over her head, began to run swiftly away from us, along the wall over which we were leaning. The boy only stood still for a moment, and [pg 205]looked upwards towards the place where we were, and then he also fled, but in the opposite direction; and Dromo said to me in a very piteous whisper, but not till both were out of sight,—“Heaven and earth! was ever such madness as to scare the witch from her incantation? Alas! for you and for me, sir—and, most of all, alas for Sextus—for I fear me after this we shall have no luck in counteracting the designs of Rubellia.”
“Rubellia! what? can you possibly imagine Rubellia to have any thing to do with this madness?”
“Imagine?” quoth he; “do you need to be told, that if things had gone well with that woman and her ditch, we should never have been able to preserve Sextus from her clutches?”
“By the rod of Hermes, good Dromo!” said I, “this will never do. I shall believe much on your credit, but not things quite so extravagant as this.”
He made no reply save a long, incredulous, and, I think, contemptuous whistle, which seemed to reach the ears of every owl between us and the Appian; with such a hooting and screeching did they echo its note from every cypress. And when Dromo heard that doleful concert, his dread redoubled within him, for he shook from head to foot, while I held his arm in mine; until, at last, he seemed to make one violent effort, and springing on his feet, said—“Come, Master Valerius, let us behave after all like men!”—I smiled when he said so—“The hour has not yet come, if my Calabrian friend is to be trusted, at which the lady was to visit Pona in her dwelling. It is but daring a little more. If she has seen and known us already, then nothing can endanger us farther; and if she hath not, we may [pg 206]escape again.”—“Well spoken,” said I, “most shrewd Dromo, and like yourself; but what is it that you would have us to do?”—“The first thing,” he replied, “is what has already been too long delayed.”
The Cretan produced from under his cloak a long fictitious beard, which he immediately proceeded to fix upon his own face with a string. A thin tall cap of black cloth was next brought forth, which he fastened in like manner around his brows; and a little piece of chalk, with which he once or twice rubbed over his black bushy eye-brows, completed a disguise beneath which I should certainly have sought in vain to discover any trace of the natural countenance of Dromo. In short, after a few changes in the folding of his cloak, there stood before me a figure so venerably mysterious, that had I met it unawares at midnight, in the neighbourhood of so many tombs, I am not sure, although of no superstitious temper, that I could have regarded it without awe.
“Come now, good Master,” quoth he, “you are taller than I, pluck me a branch from the nearest tree, and I think you shall confess I make a decent Soothsayer.” In this it was easy to gratify him; for there was an old willow just a few yards off, and its boughs were so dry with age, that I soon abstracted a very proper wand for him. After receiving which, he stood for a moment leaning on it in a dignified fashion, as if to rehearse an attitude worthy of his new vocation; and then said—“Well, sir, I think if the Lady Rubellia comes now, we shall be tolerably prepared for her. But I have no disguise for you; therefore, the moment you hear a footstep, be sure you wrap your [pg 207]face in your gown, and stand behind me, for so shall you best consult both your own concealment, and the dignity of this Assyrian. There is no other way by which she can come from the Suburra, therefore we might stay very well where we are; but I think it might be still better to await her coming where there are either tombs or larger trees to cast a shade over our equipage, in case the moon should take it into her head to be more kind to us than she was to Pona.”—“By all means,” said I, “most venerable man—and besides, the wind is rather chilly, therefore I shall be well pleased to have shelter as well as shade.”
“You shall have both,” quoth he; “there is a thick grove of pines only a little way on. I believe there is a very grand tomb in the midst of them, in case you should prefer to sit under it.—By the bye,” he continued, after some little pause, “it is odd enough that it should be so; but I believe it is the very place where all that race of the Sempronii, to which a certain young damsel belongs, have been burnt and buried ever since Rome was a city. You cannot see their tomb yet; but that is only from the thickness of the trees, some of which are, I suppose, even older than itself. Now I remember me, it was just there that they set up two winters ago the funeral pile of old Caius—I mean the father of the Lady Athanasia, whom you saw at Capito’s villa. They are a very noble race, and although none of the richest now-a-days, there is not a prouder in Rome. I saw the procession at that old man’s funeral myself, and I think the images of his ancestors that they carried before him, would have reached half way from hence to the Great Road. Grim, dusty figures, I trow they were; [pg 208]but I doubt not there had been many a haughty captain among them when they were alive.”
These words were spoken as we were moving onwards towards this same grove of pines, and before he had made an end of speaking, we could clearly hear the wind sighing among their branches, and along the dry underground. And on coming to them I found that he had said truly there was a tomb in the midst of them, for a very noble, high, circular tower was indeed there, which, from the grayness of its walls, and luxuriance of ivy, had the appearance of being at least as ancient as any of the surrounding trees. The only method of access to the inside, seemed to be by means of a winding stair, which rose on the exterior from the ground to the summit—a method not unusual in Roman sepulchres—and it was on one of the steps of this stair that I seated myself, where, between the shaded wall on the one side, and the pine branches on the other, I was effectually concealed. As for Dromo, I know not whether it was that he coveted not exactly such close proximity to the stones of such an edifice; but instead of ascending with me, he took up a position beside one of the largest pines over against me.
Although the moon had got rid of her clouds, and the sky, where any of it could be seen, was abundantly brilliant, the natural darkness of that funereal grove was such, that very little difference could be produced in the midst of it by any variation on the face of any nightly luminary. The tower itself received some of the moonbeams on its carved surface; but its contemporary trees participated not in any such illumination,—one solemn shade covering all things beneath the [pg 209]influence of their growth. “I can scarcely see you, Dromo,” said I; “but I think that speck must be your beard, and if so, I beg you would tell me what it is you really have in view by all this preparation? Do you expect me to stay here on a tomb-stone all night, merely because you wish to have an opportunity of terrifying poor Rubellia by some ghost-like howl or other when she passes you?—which, by the way, it seems by no means certain she will do at all. Or what is your purpose?”—“Hush!” was his answer; “ask no questions, but hem thrice if you hear a footstep—for young ears are the keenest.” Accordingly silence was kept so strictly, that, in spite of the chillness of the stone on which I sate, I presently fell into a sort of dozing slumber.
By degrees, however,—nor, considering the hour and the fatigue I had undergone, is it wonderful that it should have been so,—my sleep must have become sufficiently profound, for I did not at first, on waking from it, very well remember either where I was, or for what purpose I had come thither. And, indeed, I have little doubt my slumbers might have continued till day-break, but for the interruption I am now to mention.
And yet it seemed as if even in my sleep I had been prepared for this by some strange anticipation, for although it was a near sound of singing voices that dispelled my slumbers, and made me start from the stone on which I had placed myself, I could not help feeling as if that sound were not altogether new to me;—whether it were that the half-sensible ear had been already ministering indistinctly to the dreaming spirit, or that some purely fantastic prelude had been vouch[pg 210]safed to the real music. I started up suddenly, that much is certain, and listened with astonishment, yet not altogether with such surprise as might have been expected to attend a transition so hasty from sleep to waking, and from silence to the near neighbourhood of sounds at once so strange and so sweet. With breathless curiosity, nevertheless, with awe, and not entirely I think without terror, did I listen to the notes which seemed to ascend out of the habitation of the noble dead into the nightly air—wild, yet solemn, as if breathed from the bosom of a stately repose and a pensive felicity; insomuch, that almost I persuaded myself I was hearing the forbidden sounds of another world, and the thought came over me,—yet almost I think at that moment without farther disturbing me,—what fearful interpretations the old poets have affixed to such untimely communion, and how the superstition of all antiquity has shrunk from its omen.
My first impulse, after a moment had elapsed, was to call on Dromo, and I did so, at first in a low whisper, and then two or three times more loudly—but all equally in vain, for no answer was returned; and though I strained my eyes in gazing on the place where I had last seen him, yet there I could perceive no trace whatever of any human figure. The moonlight indeed shewed with more distinctness than before the tall stem of the old pine-tree against which he had been leaning; but no motion, nor the least appearance of whiteness, could either my eyes or my imagination discover there. I might easily, you will say, have stept across the road, and entirely satisfied myself; but I know not well [pg 211]what it was that nailed me to the place where I stood, and prevented me even from once thinking of doing so. The calm sepulchral music, my friends, still continued to stream from the recess of the mausoleum, and painless awe held me there, as if by a charm incontrollable. I gazed upwards, and beheld the moon riding above the black pine tops, in a now serene and cloudless heaven. The wind also had passed away, as it appeared, with the clouds it had agitated. The bird of night was asleep on her unseen bough; and all was silent as death, except only the dwelling of the departed; and a certain indescribable delight was beginning, as I gazed and listened, to be mixed with the perturbation wherewith at first I had been inspired.
And I know not how long I might have stood so, but while I was yet listening to this mysterious music, there was mingled with its expiring cadence the sound of a heavy footstep on the staircase above me, and looking up, I perceived in the moonlight the figure of a man, clad in a white gown, but having a naked sword stretched forth in his hand, immediately over the place whereon I was standing. I obeyed the first natural impulse, and leaped downwards swiftly on seeing him; but this availed me nothing, for he also leaped, and almost before my feet had touched the ground, I felt the grasp of his hand upon my shoulder, and that so strongly, that I perceived plainly there was as little possibility of escape as of resistance. I made therefore no farther effort, but suffered him to do with me as he pleased; and he, on his part, said not a single word, but still retaining his hold, pointed with his sword to the same steps from which I had descended, and com[pg 212]pelled me to mount them before him, up to the very summit of the round tower.
“Why is this, sir?” said I; “and whither do you conduct me?”
“Peace,” was all his answer; and, in like manner as he had made me climb the exterior, so also he compelled me to begin the descent of a similar flight of steps, which led down from an aperture above, into the interior of the edifice. And although I must confess to you that I obeyed not this silent guidance without considerable fear, yet I strove as well as I could to control myself. I moved with a step in which I think not there could be perceived any trembling.
Yet you will admit that even had I been master at that moment of less firmness, I might have been excusable; for looking down, I perceived that a lamp was burning in the midst of the sepulchral tower far below me, and saw sitting around it a company of eight or ten persons, at whose mercy, it was quite visible, I must be placed. Neither, if I might judge from the demeanour of the person that was bringing me into their assembly, did there appear to be any great room for dependance on them; for, as to themselves, not one of them looked up towards me as I was stepping down, and being wrapped in their cloaks, I had no means of discovering what manner of persons they were. The way in which I had been treated, however, by one of their number, was a sufficient evidence, either that they conceived themselves to have been injured by my being there, or that they were capable of taking some undue advantage of my helpless condition. The calmness of their attitudes, and the recollection of the sounds [pg 213]that I had heard, inclined me to the former of these suppositions; and when I perceived that not one of them stirred, even till I had reached the lowmost step of the interior staircase, in this, without question, I already felt myself considerably strengthened.
“Behold,” said my guide, as I at length touched the marble floor of the mausoleum itself—“Behold proof, and that living, that my suspicions were not quite so groundless as you were pleased to imagine. Here is a man whom I found listening, even on the very steps of this tower. It is for you to decide what shall be done with the eaves-dropper.”
With this the whole company sprung at once to their feet, and I perceived evidently, from the surprise expressed in their looks and attitudes, that until that moment not one of them had been aware of my approach. I was about to speak, and declare my innocence of any treachery, or even of any knowledge concerning the purpose of their meeting; but before I could do so, one of them, and I think the oldest of all that were present, having in an instant recovered the tranquillity which my arrival had disturbed, said to me in a voice of the utmost gentleness, “Young man, what has brought thee hither, or who sent thee? Art thou indeed a spy, and was it thy purpose to betray our assembly?”
“Sir,” said I, “I know nothing of your assembly, or of its purpose; I fell asleep by accident on the outside of this tower, and, when I awoke, the music that I heard detained me.”
“Examine the stripling,” quoth he that had conducted me—“examine his person.”—“His looks belie [pg 214]him,” replied the senior, “if you have cause for suspicion. But if you will it so, search the young man.” And with that my guide, laying his unsheathed sword upon a table, or altar of black marble, proceeded to search my garments, and finding in my bosom the scroll which I had received from Tisias, he glanced on it for a moment, and then handing it to the senior, said, “Now, sirs, doubt ye if ye will.”—“Before heaven—it is the book of the holy Luke!” said the other; “this is indeed suspicious. How came this scroll into thy hands, young man? Art thou aware that one of the books of the Christians has been found in thy bosom?”—“I know it,” said I; “it is one of the books of their faith, and I have read in it this evening for the first time.”—“Then thou art not thyself a Christian?”—“I received the book from one Christian,” said I, waiving the question; “and I made promise to deliver it into the hands of another?”—“Name the Christian who gave thee this book!” said my stern guide.—“Tisias of Antioch,” I replied; “the same who died yesterday in the Amphitheatre.”—“Yes,” quoth he, again; “and I suppose it was there he gave it to you. Every one knows the name of Tisias. Name, if you please, the person to whom you are to deliver the book.”—“You shall pardon me,” said I, “that I will not. You may call me an eaves-dropper, if you will; but you shall find I am no traitor. It is a Roman—a noble Roman lady to whom I must give this book; and I would not tell you her name although you should slaughter me here in this tomb, which I have entered living and without guilt.” And having said this, I folded my arms, and stood still, abiding their will.
But scarcely had I finished these words, ere I felt a small trembling hand laid upon my shoulder, and looking round, I perceived Athanasia herself, who whispered into my ear,—“Valerius, was the book for me? If so, you may say it boldly, and I will vouch for your word.”—“For you, lady,” I answered in the same tone, “and for none other. You well know that I was present in his prison the night before his death; so far at least you can confirm what I have said.”
“Sir,” said she, addressing the old man that had before questioned me, “I know this young man: and I believe what he has said, and will be answerable for his fidelity. It was he that went in to our friend the other night in his prison, and the book was intrusted to him by the old man, that it might be given into my hands. His name is Valerius—Caius Valerius—and he is by birth a noble Roman.”
“Say you so, lady?” interrupted my original conductor; “then I ask his pardon. I have wronged Caius Valerius; but both you and he must forgive me, for it must be confessed he was found in a very extraordinary situation.”
“Even so,” I replied, “I have nothing to complain of. I perceive that I am present in an assembly of Christians; but he shall do me much wrong that thinks I bear any enmity to them,—or, from all that I have yet seen or read, to the faith which they profess. I have read part of that book,” I continued, “for I made promise to Tisias that I should do so before giving it to Athanasia; and I trust I shall still be permitted by her to read more of it before it is finally demanded from me.”—“Oh, read it!” said Athanasia, gently again whis[pg 216]pering to me. “Oh yes, read the book, Valerius, and may God enlighten the reader.” And so saying, she herself took up the scroll from the table on which it was lying, and gave it again into my hands.—“There was also a letter for you,” said I, receiving it, “but that I left at home.”—“No matter,” said Athanasia, “you shall give me the letter and the book both together hereafter.”
“In the meantime,” said I, “I suppose it were better I should retire.”
“Young sir,” said the senior, “that is as you please; in a little while we shall all be moving towards the city. Stay with us till then, if such be your will; that which you may hear, can at least do you no harm. Already, I doubt not, you have seen enough to despise the ignorant calumnies of our enemies.”
When he had said so, the old man walked to the side of the sepulchre, and took out from behind one of the urns that stood there, (ranged in their niches,) a small casquet, which, returning, he placed before him on the marble table. Then, opening the casquet, he brought forth a silver goblet, and a salver containing some little pieces of bread; and, untying from his neck a massive cross of gold, he set that also on the table, between the cup and the salver. In brief, the Christian priest, (for such, as you already see, he was,) had finished his preparation, and was about to commence the administration of the blessed Eucharist. And when all the rest were kneeling before the table, Athanasia, laying her hand upon my arm, beckoned to me to kneel by her side; and so indeed I would have done in my ignorance, had not the priest himself pointed to [pg 217]a station a few yards behind the lady, to which, accordingly, I drew back—apart from those who were to be privileged with the participation of those holy symbols.
Scarcely had they composed themselves in their places, and listened to the first words of the appointed service, when I, standing there by myself, thought, unless my ears deceived me, there must be some one on the outer stair-case of the tower; and my eyes instinctively, I suppose, were fixed upon the aperture, which, as I have told you, was in the high roof above the circle of the niched walls. Here, however, when I first looked, there was nothing to be seen, but the round spot of the sky, far up in the midst of the marble roof; but while I was looking steadfastly, that space was suddenly diminished; and a dog bayed, and at the same moment a voice which I well knew, screamed, “I have them—I hold them—let them burst the net if they can.”
The cry of Pona disturbed effectually the Christian priest, and the whole of those that were with him. Rising up hastily from their knees, they stood all together around the table, while the old man, having kissed both the cup and the cross, restored them as quickly as he could to the casket from which they had been taken. But while the priest was doing this, he that found me on the stair appearing to revert into his suspicion, and looking sternly upon me where I stood, said, “Is this then the innocence which we spared! Is this the noble Roman for whom Athanasia pledged herself? Speak, brethren, what shall be done to this traitor, by whom, even more than by those dogs of the tombs, it is a shame for us that we have been [pg 218]hunted?” Saying so, the man lifted up his sword again, and it seemed as if he would have smitten me to the ground without farther question. But Athanasia threw herself swiftly between him and me. “For shame, Cotilius,” said she; “such suspiciousness is unworthy of a Roman knight.”—“You say well, noble damsel,” quoth the old priest, interrupting her; “but you might say also that such cruelty is unworthy of a soldier of Christ. Peace, peace, children; there is no evil in the youth, nor, if there were, would it be our part to avenge it.”
While he was saying this, three or four blazing torches were thrust down into the place from above, and Athanasia, laying her hand upon my arm, said, “Look up, Caius, I see helmets.—Alas! am I not already here? why, if they will slay me, should they drag me away now from the tomb of my fathers?” I felt the trembling of her hands, and she leaned upon my shoulder. I know not, I will confess to you, whether at that moment I tasted more of pleasure or of pain.
But by this time several of the soldiers had already begun to descend into the tower, and before another minute had elapsed, we found ourselves surrounded by the flame of their torches. And he that seemed to lead the party, after counting us one by one, said, turning to his companions, “Well, an old woman has told the truth for once—here are even more I think than she warned us of.—Come along, worthy people, you must not keep the Tribune waiting for you all night, and our watch is well-nigh expired already. Come, mount the stair—it will take a good half hour yet, I believe, to [pg 219]lodge you all safely in the Tullian—And do you,” he added, laying his hand on the hilt of Cotilius’ sword—“do you, brave sir, allow me to save you the trouble of carrying this bauble.” Nor was the stern knight so foolish as to dispute the command; but having yielded up his sword, he forthwith began to ascend, one or two spearmen preceding him with their torches. The priest followed, and so did the rest; the last being Athanasia and myself.
On every side around the old tower, when I looked from the summit of it, I perceived foot soldiers drawn up in a double line, while the road along which I had come with Dromo, was occupied by a band of horsemen, one of whom moved forward when he saw us descending, as if to take cognizance of the number and quality of the surprised assembly. His long cloak being muffled about his ears as he sate, and the shadow of his helmet falling deeply, I did not at first suspect who it was; but he had not counted half the party to the superior Officer behind him, ere I recognized him from the sound of his voice; and who, think ye, should it be but my good friend Sabinus?
The Centurion, when his eye detected me, checked his horse so sharply that the animal bounded into the air; and, “Valerius!” quoth he, “ha! by the life of Cæsar, what is the meaning of this? Valerius in a Christian synagogue! By all the gods, there must be some mistake.” But before I, in my confusion, could make any answer to these exclamations, his eye chanced to glance on Athanasia, who, trembling, still retained the support of my arm; whereupon, “Ha! ha!” said he, in a quite different tone of voice, “there is a lady in [pg 220]the case.” And then, stooping in his seat, he whispered, half laughing, into my ear, “My most hypocritical smooth-face, you shall see what is the consequence of bringing these transatlantic pranks of yours to Rome. By Hercules, you wild dog, it may cost you some little trouble to get out of this scrape.”
Having said so, he turned his horse, and rejoining the troop, appeared to enter into close conversation with him who sate at the head of the line. Of what my friend said, I could catch nothing more than certain vehement oaths, while, all the time, the Tribune (for such he was) continued to shake his head, in a way significant at once of doubt and determination. The end was, that he pointed with his sword; and Sabinus forced his horse backwards, at one plunge, into the place from which he had advanced.
Our party were immediately separated one from another. I saw the priest lifted on a mule and hurried away towards the city, with a horseman on each hand of him. The fiery Cotilius, and one or two more, were compelled to follow, with similar attendance, in the same direction; others, again, had their horses’ heads turned more to the westward—but all departed at speed, and were soon lost to my view among the projections of the tombs. The last that remained to be disposed of were Athanasia and myself, and for a moment I had some hope that we might perhaps be intrusted to the same guards; but this hope was in vain, and after I perceived that it was so, scarcely even was time permitted to me for bidding her farewell. To kiss her hand, and to whisper a single word of parting hope into her ear, was all I could do. A tear rolled from her [pg 221]cheek and fell upon my hand; yet she smiled faintly upon me, and “Hope,” said she—“yes, dear Valerius, Hope and Faith both go with me.” And with that the pale maiden was separated from the arm to which she had trusted, and I saw her also mounted and borne away rapidly. A moment after, I found myself, in like manner, seized and lifted upon a horse, and almost before I could look around me, we had escaped from the flare of the torches, and the crowd of the soldiery, and were stretching at a rapid pace, I knew not whither, although I suspected, from the width of the road, that we had regained the Appian.
But I have forgotten to mention to you, that just at the moment when they were lifting Athanasia upon the mule that was to bear her from my sight, my eye caught a glimpse of the witch Pona, who was sitting at the root of one of the pine-trees, close to the tower. And behind her stood, leaning against the tree, a figure wrapped in a rich red cloak, which I suspected to be a female also, but could not be certain, because the countenance was concealed in the folds of the garment. To this person, whoever it might be, the witch turned round eagerly, while the soldiers were carrying off Athanasia. I saw no more, for, as I have told you, immediately afterwards I also was carried away.
CHAPTER VI.
Our hasty pace had not borne us to any great distance from the place where all these things occurred, ere the sky, which, as ye have heard, had all that night been sufficiently variable, began to exhibit appearances which my two companions interpreted as significant of the approach of one of those nocturnal storms, to which, at that season of the year, the fair heaven of Italy is peculiarly subject. That they apprehended somewhat of this sort, I perceived from their looks, as they stopped for a moment to draw the hoods of their mantles over their brazen helmets; for words they uttered none, either to me or to each other, until our journey drew near its close. For me, however, the numberless agitations through which I had passed in the course of the few preceding hours, had, I suppose, communicated an unnatural measure of ardour to my boyish blood; for neither did I feel the night-breeze chill me as we rushed through it, nor partook, in any sort, of the desire my companions testified to cover themselves from the rain, which seemed to be about to discharge itself out of all those black and lowering clouds now gathered above our heads from every region of the heavens. When, on the contrary, the first heavy drops fell, I bared my [pg 223]forehead with the eagerness of one who, in a parched region, comes suddenly upon the margin of a well-spring. Nor did this sensation subside even after the storm had thickened to the utmost, and the dusty roads had drunk abundantly of the plashing rain. The strong wind blew with redoubled coolness upon my moistened neck—the rain-drops dashed on my hot hands; and I perceived, that, as is the nature of those animals, the thunder which was mustering in the air, filled my horse one moment with dread, and the next with a blind fierceness. At last the thunder shouted over-head, and its echoes spread wide and far on either side, until they seemed to be absorbed to the left in the remote depths of the Appenine, and on the right hand in the measureless bosom of the Western Sea—of which, as we galloped along the hill side, the broad lightning (unless my fancy deceived me) revealed ever and anon a distant and melancholy glimpse.
We had passed a hill covered with towns, villages, and stately mansions, (which I afterwards learned was no other than the famous Alban,) ere the storm subsided beneath the influence of the reddening dawn. Yet even then we slackened not our pace, although the horses were by this time not a little exhausted with the swiftness of their motion, and the weight of their wet riders. On rode we in the growing light of the morning; but I perceived ere long that we had left the wide and magnificent Appian Way, and were pursuing the line of a narrower road, which seemed to carry us more and more westward.
We halted for a moment on the brow of a declivity, where three paths separated; and I perceived that [pg 224]among my guides there was some little uncertainty as to which of these it behoved them to follow. While they were muttering together, I looked and beheld at length the wide sea heaving far below, over what appeared to me to be a forest as mighty as I had ever seen in my native island.
Old hoary oaks leaned on either hand quite over the narrow path-way, into which (after their brief pause of consultation) my conductors directed our course. Here and there, such a shield had those huge leafy boughs extended over the road, that the dust rose from amongst the feet of our horses as if all that night not one drop of rain had fallen there; although elsewhere, in the absence of such mighty trees, the water lying across the path in pools testified abundantly that the tempest had not spared the forest any more than the champaign. Vast waving gulfs of bay and ilex, with here and there some solitary pine raising itself proudly in the midst, seemed to stretch away on either hand between the groves of those gigantic oaks.
The path we followed carried us ever deeper and deeper into the bosom of the woods; and, at length, so buried were we in the windings of their stifling shade, that I had lost all notion of the direction in which I was moving; until, after two or three hot hours, weary man and jaded horse were, I believe, equally delighted with snuffing once more the open current of the air. We reached not the edge of the forest, however, before I could hear distinctly the dashing of the Mediterranean waves; and the last ascent we climbed laid open to my view a long sweep of the rolling waters, and their rocky coast garnished every where with the richness of super[pg 225]incumbent woods. Far, very far, in the distant north, I thought I could recognize some of the stately towers of Ostium, bosomed apparently within the billows over which they presided. All between was one wide waste of wood and rock, save here and there a watch-tower perched on the margin, and whitened half-way up with the foam of the yet uncalmed sea.
Then, nor ever could I look upon the waters of the great deep, without something of that filial yearning which seems so natural to every native of our sea-girt island. But neither could I contrast the condition in which I now approached it, with the gay and hopeful mood in which I had so lately left it behind me, without many thoughts more sad and serious than as yet had frequently visited my bosom. What a strange brood of visions had passed before my eyes, since, but a few days before, I stept for the first time, light of heart, beneath the shadow of those far-off bulwarks! What new emotions had arisen, in the interval! How had every sense been gratified! how had every dream of imagination been exceeded! Yet what a void had been revealed within!—Alas! said I to myself, why is it that I have been subjected to all these novelties? Had I not done better to have remained, after all, where life flowed ever calmly—where affection hung over me like a protecting buckler, and my soul could sleep in the security of unbroken faith! But this was only for a moment. The thoughts of Athanasia haunted me more deeply and more firmly. I thought over every word she had spoken—every look of hers rose up in succession, with all the vividness of a beautiful and a troubled dream. I seemed to feel, as if she were yet present beside me, [pg 226]the trembling of her pale fingers upon my shoulder—I kissed the hand on which her parting tear had fallen, as if it were yet wet with the dear moisture. When I thought of the perils in which she must now be enveloped—of the pains she must have suffered—must at that moment be suffering,—it was as if I could have burst bands of iron, like flax, from off my hands. When a glimpse of the darker future opened before me, I shuddered, and, urging my poor horse onwards in the recklessness of total abstraction, I perceived that even my guides pitied the agony of my despair.
CHAPTER VII.
We stopped before one of the watch-towers which, as I have told you, I had seen scattered along the edge of the sea. But this, when we came up to it, appeared larger than I had expected to find any of them. The narrow way, alongst which we had been riding, brought us close to its gate, on the side towards the land; but the rock shelving rapidly on the other side, gave it the semblance, at a little distance, of being suspended over the waves.
It was a building of rude, and apparently very antique structure, the under part square, but the upper circular; as is, for the most part, the old Roman fashion in such erections. And this, indeed, I doubt not, might have stood there long enough to have shewn a beacon, when some fleet of Syracuse or Carthage darkened the blue sea over against the Lestrigonian bay renowned in old song, or the snow-white promontory of Gaieta.
One of the soldiers dismounted, and began to knock rather violently at the door; but some little time elapsed ere any sound from within responded to the clamour he raised. At last a hard and withered face made its appearance at a little opening above the door, and then the helmets passed, I suppose, for a sufficient warrant, for in a twinkling we heard the bolts creaking; the old [pg 228]postern was soon set ajar, and forth stepped the venerable keeper. Imagine a tall, skinny man of threescore years, with a face as dry and yellow as ye have seen on the outside of a pye, and hair as white as ever the skill of a confectioner could represent, and legs bearing the same proportion to the feet, which the shaft of Saturn’s scythe usually does to its blade. Clothe the nether part of this figure in Dacian, or Gaulish breeches, throw a somewhat threadbare cloak over his shoulders, and to finish the outfit, deck his head with a casque of the Macedonian cut, that is to say, sitting close above the ears, and topped with a bristling plume of horse hair. The Warder stood with dignity, and listened with gravity, while one of my Prætorians whispered his message. On its conclusion, he shrugged his shoulders, and regarding me with a glance made up, I think, in pretty equal proportions, of surprise and contempt, signified by the motion of his hand that we might all three enter. He whistled at the same moment, and there came forth a comely damsel, who, with many blushes and smiles, took possession of the reins of our horses.—“Stand there,” quoth he, “stand there, little Cestia, and see if there be never a handful of corn to be got for the prince’s cattle,—stand there, and we shall be with you again anon.” And then he also whispered something into the maiden’s ear, and I saw her looking at me from under her eyelids with an expression of very uncommon curiosity. Two or three curly-pated urchins, of different sizes, joined her at the same moment, and to them, in her turn, the maiden whispered; whereupon the eldest of the children retreating behind her, eyed me earnestly along the skirt of her tunic, while the [pg 229]younger ones continued to gaze where they were, with looks of open stupidity and wonder. Of all this I could make nothing at the moment, but when we had got fairly into the inside of the tower, I heard the children whispering to each other, “A Christian! A Christian! A Jew! A Jew!”
The lower part of the tower, into which I had now been conducted, seemed to form nothing more than one huge, bare, and quadrangular apartment, serving, I supposed (and rightly) at once as hall and vestibule to the upper chambers contained within the walls. A small flight of steps, in one of the corners, seemed to afford the only means of access to what was above; but from the position of a door immediately below these, it was we inferred that there were vaults under ground. Close beside this door there stood, upon a very rude pedestal, a still more rude bust, either of Jupiter, of Apollo, or of Hercules. The workmanship was such, that I could not be very certain which of the family it was intended to represent, nor whether the principal appendage was a club, a lyre, a bow, or a thunder-bolt; but it did not escape my observation, that the old keeper crept as close as he could to the sacred stone, as soon as I stepped over the threshold.
One of the little boys that had come out to the door on our arrival, busied himself in setting forth a wooden board, whereon he placed in great order a huge piece of yellow cheese, and a heap of crisp white cakes of rye. A large jug of water also garnished the mess; but there seemed to be a little less of diligence, or more of difficulty, about the wine. After some pause, however, the mistress of the garrison appeared. A string of amber [pg 230]beads floated to and fro on the ocean of her bosom. She had fine golden bracelets on her arms too, but they were only half seen, being almost buried in fat; and she wore a flaxen wig, which did not entirely conceal the dark bristles below. At the girdle of the amazon hung, on the right side, the much desiderated bunch of keys, being balanced on the left by a dagger and toothpick case, almost of equal dimensions.
“Will you drink to Cæsar, young man?” cried the matron, ere the sitting had been much prolonged; “will you drink honestly to the Emperor, in case you also have a full cup given you? and, by the by, I think you must have almost as much need of it as the rest.” And, with this courteous invitation, I heard her whisper to one of my guards,—“By Jove, ’tis a proper lad, after all; is this true that they have told me of him? Why, I believe, the young man has a red edge to his gown. What is his name? who is he?”—I heard him answer,—“By the life of Cæsar, you know as much about him as any of us. There was a whole cluster taken last night a little way beyond the Capene-Gate, and he was one; but what they were about, or who he is, I know not, only he is certainly somebody, for I saw our Centurion salute him.”—“I saw him with Sabinus,” whispered the other—“I am quite sure of it, the last day the Amphitheatre was open; they sate together, and appeared familiar.”—“I pray you, sir,” quoth the lady, raising her voice,—“I pray you fill your cup, and here I pledge you to our better acquaintance. You shake your head—well. But what must be, must; and while you are with us, we may at least be good friends.”—“Thanks,” said I, complying with her com[pg 231]mand; “Here, then, is health to all present; and fair health to the great Trajan, says no one here more heartily than I.”—I drank off the wine, and setting down the goblet, I believe I said, “Excellent, by Jove,” or something of that sort; for they all started when they heard what I said, and the old woman called out lustily, “Fill him another cup to the brim, whether he be Christian or not. The young man at least swears by the gods, and drinks to Cæsar.”
“The old man,” observed one of the soldiers,—“he that was killed the other day in the Amphitheatre—he might have saved his head, even at the last moment, if he would have done as much.”—“Well, well,” quoth she again; “let every one mind his own matters. Husband, bring down your book, and let the new-comer enter his name with his own hand.”
Having drained his cup, the keeper rose, and ere long returned with a musty scroll of parchment, which, having blown away the dust from it, he presented to me. I glanced over the record, and found in it the names of various persons, all apparently entered in their own handwriting; and most of them, as I could perceive, bearing date in the troublous reign of Domitian. The last was that of Marcus Protius Lamontanus, who, as it seemed, had been set free from his confinement immediately on the accession of Nerva; and immediately under this I wrote my own name, with that of my birthplace. The keeper read, and said, “So preserve me the power of Jove! A Valerius! and born in Britain! Can you be the son of the same Valerius who was Centurion in the ninth legion under Agricola?”—“You have guessed rightly—I am the same.”—“Then [pg 232]the more is the pity,” he replied, in a grave voice, “that you should have entered, in such a case as this, the dwelling of one that was a true soldier beneath the eagle of your father. But forgive me if in any thing we have been disrespectful.”—“There is no occasion,” said I, “for any such apology. I am here as a prisoner, and have been treated with all courtesy beyond what a prisoner could expect.”
“By Hercules!” interrupted the spouse, “I thought I had some knowledge of the face—Well, I hope ten years hence he will be as fine a man as his father was the day he slew the Caledonian giant, and tumbled him from his chariot in front of all the line—yes, in sight of Galgacus himself. It was the same day,” said she, turning to her lord, “that you were taken prisoner, and driven away into the woods.”—“As witness these marks,” quoth the man; and with that he stripped open his tunic, and displayed part of his breast, stamped with various figures of blue and yellow, after the northern fashion, and bearing withal the traces of two formidable wounds.
The woman redoubled her kindness; but not wishing to interrupt festivity, I soon requested her to shew me the place where I was to be confined. And, indeed, as you may imagine, I had by this time not a little need of repose.
Both she and her husband accordingly rose to usher me to my prison. I gave money to the soldiers, and requested them to inform Sabinus of the place to which I had been conveyed; but did not choose to write any thing, either to him or to Licinius, until I should have had a little time for reflection.
CHAPTER VIII.
My fatigue brought speedy sleep; and so profound, that before I again unclosed my eyes, the calm sea was already purple below me, and the sun about to set. But neither purple sea, nor golden sky, nor all the divine tranquillity of the evening air, could sooth my mind into repose, after I had once awaked to a sense of the situation into which I had been brought—I should say rather of the situation in which Athanasia was placed. For myself, I could not in seriousness fear any calamity worthy of the name,—if such should come, it must be my business to wrestle with it as I might. But to think of her, young, beautiful, innocent; and of all to which she might be exposed amidst the rude hands in which I had left her!
Some time had passed before my attention was attracted by a conversation carried on in the chamber below me, in which you will not be surprised that I should have felt myself interested, even although the distance was such that I could not distinguish one word that was said. I knew from the first moment that it was impossible I should be mistaken—I was perfectly certain it was Sabinus himself, who was talking with the old woman; and I at once suspected that the worthy [pg 234]Centurion, having learned from the soldiers who carried me off, to what place they had conveyed me, had undertaken this speedy journey, for the purpose of comforting me in my confinement. The kindness with which he had treated me from the beginning of our acquaintance had been such, that I could have no occasion to wonder at his exerting himself to discover me; but I confess this alacrity was more than I had been prepared for, and I waited only for the moment when he should enter my apartment to throw myself upon his bosom, and intrust all my troubles to him, as to a friend and a brother. There was something, however, which I could not at all comprehend in the merriment which seemed to be reigning below on his arrival. Peals of female laughter interrupted the uniform hearty tone of the Centurion’s voice; and the feeble treble of the old Warder himself was stretched ever and anon in attempt at a chuckle.
At last in they came, and Sabinus, embracing me affectionately, thrust into my hand a piece of parchment, which I perceived to be nothing less than an order for my immediate release. Then taking off his riding-cap, and rubbing with his handkerchief his most audacious and soldier-looking brows, “My dear boy,” quoth he, “I see you are going to thank me—but wound not modesty by fine speeches. There was war before Helen—have a better care another time, and don’t pay Rome such a poor compliment, as to say that you can find nobody to charm you but a Christian damsel, and no place for flirtation but a gloomy tomb lined with urns and lachrymatories. My honest friend here was quite frightened with the idea of having such [pg 235]an unbelieving reprobate as they said you were, under the same roof with her children. But now her fears are dispelled, for good souls are always tolerant to the little vagaries of young blood; so thank your hostess, my lad, kiss her hand, take one cup to the hearth of the old tower, and tighten your girdle.”
“Well!” quoth the woman; “who should have thought when the soldiers brought him in with such mystery, that it was all for kissing by moonlight! I protest to Venus, they would have made me believe he had been caught eating an infant; but still I cannot quite pardon him. Well—well—we must e’en take good hope he will mend ere he dies.”
“Die?” cried the Centurion; “do you talk of dying to one that has scarcely yet begun to live!—Come, come, Caius, I hope, after all, you may never get into a worse scrape.”
“And if I do,” said I, “I hope I shall always be equally fortunate in my jailers.”
“By the beard of Jove!” quoth Sabinus, “it needs no great skill to see that you have been fortunate in that respect. I swear that, if the truth were known, you are almost as unwilling to leave this tower now, as you were last night to be torn away from another.”
“Oh, Master Kæso,” quoth she again, “when will you have done with your joking? Well, your father loved a jest in his time himself; but now he, I suppose, is quiet enough. And he, good old man, how does he wear?—Can he still sit in his porch of a fine morning, and listen to the news, as he used to do, with his cup at his knee?”
“I trust the old grasshopper can still chirp when the [pg 236]sun shines. But to tell you the truth, it is long since I have seen him; and if this young blade has no objection, I mean to pay him a visit this very night. I am only just come home from Britain, and have not yet had leisure to salute my Lares.”
I said something about being anxious to return as soon as possible to Rome; but the Centurion answered me with another shout, “Come, come; she’s safe enough. I suppose you think every one gets out of jail as easily as yourself.”
I found it was out of the question to disapprove of any of the schemes of Sabinus; so, having saluted the hostess, and flung my purse to her children, (who, by the way, still regarded me with looks of apprehension,) I accompanied him with a good grace to the gate. I made inquiry before I went forth concerning the old jailer likewise; but I could easily gather from the expression of face with which his wife accompanied her indistinct reply, that he had, long before that time, reached a state in which she felt little desire to exhibit him. The Centurion whistled as he stepped across the threshold, and there forthwith drew near a soldier, wearing the Prætorian helmet, (now sufficiently familiar to my sight,) and leading in his hand three horses. In the rear, I recognized, not without satisfaction, the busy countenance of my friend Dromo, whose ass did not appear quite so eager to join the party as its rider. A few sturdy thumps, however, at last brought the Cretan close to us, who saluted me with great appearance of joy, and then whispered into my ear, “Great Jove! we must keep silence for the present. What a story I have to tell; and I suppose there is one to hear [pg 237]likewise—but all in good season. We must not crack nuts before monkeys. I have a letter for you,” he added, “from Sextus, and another from Licinius.”
The Centurion sprung on his trusty war-horse, who seemed to rejoice in the feeling of his weight; and we were soon in motion. I asked no questions either about the course or distance, but rode by his side so silently, that he bestowed on me many good-natured rebukes, for suffering a little affair of love to distress me so greatly. “Cheer up now,” quoth he, “and do not make me repent of carrying you to my father’s house, by shewing the old man, who has had enough of troubles, such a countenance as must make him think of Orcus, even although he did not know himself to be near its gates. It is more than a year since I have seen him.”
This sort of speech he repeated so often, that I thought the best way would be to tell him frankly the true history of the adventure, from whose immediate consequences he had delivered me. I told him, therefore, every thing about both Tisias and Athanasia, and, indeed, kept nothing from him in the whole matter, except only what referred to the impression made on my own mind by what I had read of the Christian book,—for, as to this subject, it was one which I totally despaired of being able to make him in any measure comprehend,—and besides, the state of my own mind was still so uncertain in regard to it, and my information so imperfect, that I could not trust myself with speaking of it to any one, until I should have had leisure for more both of reading and of reflection.
He preserved silence for some minutes, and then said, [pg 238]“In truth, Caius, you have distressed me. I thought it was merely some little frolic born of an hour, to be forgotten in a day; but I cannot refuse you my sympathy. Would I had more to offer!”—“Dear Sabinus,” said I, “I know not how to thank you. You saw me but a few days ago the merriest young fellow that ever trod the pavement of Rome—happy in the moments that passed, and full of glad hopes for all that were to come; but now I feel myself quite changed. Almost I wish I had never left my British fields; and yet I should never have seen Athanasia.”—“Poor fellow!” quoth he, laying his hand on the mane of my horse, “I perceive there is, indeed, no trifling in your case. Compose yourself; whatever chances there may be in your favour will never be bettered by despondence.” He paused a little, and proceeded—“The worst of the whole is this new bitterness against these Christians. Except during Nerva’s time, there was always some punishment to be feared by them, in case of being detected; but there was a way of managing things in almost every case, and people were well enough disposed to grant immunities which were always attended with some good to the Fisk. Nero and Domitian, to be sure, acted otherwise—but these were madmen; and even they did so only by fits and starts. But now, when a prince like Trajan has taken up the matter, it is no wonder that one should consider it more seriously. One cannot help fancying he must have had some good reason before he began—that is one thing; and having once begun, he is not the man to drop it lightly—which is a more weighty consideration. Do you think there is positively no chance of her giving [pg 239]up this dream, when she finds what it has exposed her to?”
“No,” said I; “I am sure she will not, nor can I wish it would be otherwise with her.”
“Well,” he resumed, “I enter into your feelings so far, my friend, even on that point. I cannot imagine you to have been so deeply smitten with a girl of a flighty unsteady character. But then this is not a case to be judged of on common principles. It is no light thing to be exposed to such examinations as are now set afoot for these people; and if she behaves herself so resolutely as you seem to expect, what is the end of it? I consider it highly probable—for there is no friendship in uncandid speaking—that, in spite of all her friends can do, they will banish her at the very least; scarcely dare I speak of it, but even worse than banishment has heretofore befallen Romans—ay, Roman ladies too,—and these as high in birth and place as Athanasia.”
“My dear Sabinus,” said I, “do not imagine that now for the first time all these things are suggested to me. Imagine rather, how, unable for a moment to expel them from my mind, I have spent these miserable hours. Her friends, too, what must not be their alarm!”
“The thing was so done,” quoth the Centurion, “that I think it is impossible it should have made much noise as yet. If there was in the family no suspicion that the lady had any connection with these people, they must be in perfect perplexity. I lay my life they take it for granted she has had some private intrigue, and has gone off with her lover.”
“Alas!” said I, “when they hear the truth, it will be still worse than this in their eyes. Yet it appears fit that no time should be lost in making them acquainted with the real state of the case. O Sabinus, I foresee that in all these things I shall have need of your counsel and your help.”
“You shall have them both, my dear boy,” said he,—“you shall have them both to the uttermost. But there is no question at all about the propriety of telling the relations all you know. Licinius is probably well acquainted with them. I am almost sorry for having prevented your immediate return to the city; and yet one night will soon be over.”
“But Athanasia herself——”
“Ah! that indeed is a point of some difficulty. It was merely from having remembered who the men were that rode off with you, that I was enabled to learn so soon whither you yourself had been conveyed. But the party consisted of a few men out of almost every one of our cohorts,—those, in short, that were on duty, scattered up and down in different parts of the city; and I may not find it very easy to discover who had the care of any other individual.”
“But Athanasia——”
“True,” said he, “I had not thought of it. There was but one female besides herself. That will furnish a clue. You may rely on it, I shall easily find out the place to which they have taken her; but then where, and at what distance that may be, Heaven only knows; for it seemed as if every prisoner were to be carried to a separate place of confinement. At all events, even if we knew where she is, we could do nothing at present. [pg 241]Come, cheer up, now you have unburdened yourself of all this load. I shall be ready to start as early as ever you please in the morning.”
By this time the moon was in full splendour, and nothing could be more beautiful than the scenery of the native place of Sabinus, as we drew near to its precincts. A little gentle stream, which kissed our path, did not desert us as we entered the village, but murmured all through its humble street. Street, indeed, I should not say; for there were dwelling-houses on the one side only, the other being occupied with gardens, in the midst of which I saw the Doric portico of a small temple. In front of this a bridge crossed the stream, and there we were met by a troop of maidens, who seemed to be moving toward the sacred place with some purpose of devotion, for they were singing in alternate measures, and in their hands they carried garlands. Some recognized Sabinus, and, without interrupting their chant, saluted him with their laughing eyes. We halted our horses, and saw them proceed all together into the hallowed enclosure, which they did, not by means of the bridge, although they were close by it, but by wading hand in hand through the stream below; whose pebbles, as it appeared from the evenness of their motion, dared not to offer any violence to the delicate feet that trod upon them. “Happy creatures,” said I to the Centurion; “of a surety they think these moonbeams shine on nothing but glad faces like their own. Alas! with what heart does poor Athanasia at this moment contemplate this lovely heaven!”—“Nay, Valerius,” quoth he, “if people were not to be contented with their own share of sorrow, would the world, think ye, [pg 242]be worth living in? I hope Athanasia herself will ere long sing again by the moonlight.—But stop, here is my own old haunt, the abode of our village barber, and now I think of it, perhaps it might be as well that you and Dromo should remain here for a moment, till I ride on to the house, and let them know you are coming, for the sudden sight of strange faces might alarm the old folks at this hour.”
He had scarcely said so, when the tonsor himself, hearing, I suppose, the sound of our horses’ feet, ran out with his razor and basin in his hand, to see what might be the matter. “Ah, good Virro,” quoth the Centurion, “with joy do I once more behold your face. Well, the girls still sing, and Virro still shaves; so every thing, without question, goes well.”—“The Centurion himself!” replies the barber; “so Venus smile upon me, it is Kæso Sabinus, who I began to think would never come back again.—Here, boy, bring out a cup of the best. Alight, I pray you—well, at least, you shall kiss the rim of the goblet.”—“I will,” said he, “I promise you, my good friend, and that in a minute or two; but I must first salute my father; and, in the meantime, I leave with you in pledge, good Virro, my excellent friend here, and the most knowing Cretan that ever landed at Brundusium.—Dismount, Valerius, I shall be with you again ere Virro can half smoothen the chin of Dromo, which even this morning shewed no small need of trimming.”—“Well, well,” said the tonsor, “eagles will have their own way. Be speedy.”
The Centurion had set the spur to his charger; and we, in obedience to his command, submitted ourselves [pg 243]to the guidance of the oily-faced little barber. A stripling was already holding two horses at the door, but another came out and took care of our animals, and we entered, exchanging courteous salutations, the tonsorial penetralia.
They were occupied by as various and talkative a company, as the imagination of Lucilius ever assembled in such a place. In the middle of the room, which was spacious, though low-roofed, hung a huge shield of brass, with a dozen mouths of flame blazing around the edge of its circumference, close beside which sat a man with a napkin tucked about his neck, the one side of whose visage, still besmeared with a thick coat of lather, testified that the curiosity of Virro had induced him to abandon a yet uncompleted job. The half-trimmed physiognomy, however, displayed no sign of impatience, and the barber himself seemed not to think any apology necessary, for he resumed his operations with an air of great cheerfulness, saying, “Neighbours all, here is Kæso Sabinus, that is now the Centurion, come once more to gladden the old village with his merry face, and that, I promise you, is prettily tanned since we knew him first.”
This piece of news appeared not a little to interest several of those who were sitting under the tonsor’s roof. “Ha!” said one, “the noble Centurion! Well, has he brought home a wife with him at last? for the talk was, that he had been seen at the Amphitheatre, paying great court to one of the richest ladies in Rome.”
“A wife?” says Virro, “no, no, centurions and barbers can do without wives. But if he is to have one, I shall be happy to hear she is rich; for centurions, [pg 244]after all, sometimes carry most of their silver upon their helmets, as we do most of our brass on our basins.”—“Indeed,” said I, “I never heard of it before.”
“If it please you, friend,” said another of them, “is this the same Sabinus that has lately been in Britain?”—“Britain,” quoth an ancient dame; “I never heard that name before—Britain! I know it not—I know not where he hath been, but they told me it was over the sea, perhaps in Palestine.”—“Tut, dame,” interrupted the barber, (who was now busy on Dromo,) “you think every one goes to Palestine, because your own boy carried a spear with Titus; but you know they ruined the city, and killed all the Jews and Christians, and there is no occasion for sending Centurions thither now.”—“Killed all the Jews and Christians, said you?” quoth another. “I think the old dame has the better of you as to that point at least, Virro. Not Trajan himself will ever be able to kill them all; the superstition spreads like a pestilence. It was but last night that a hundred of them were taken together in one place, eating human flesh.”—“Human flesh!” quoth the barber. “Oh, ye gods, why do ye endure such barbarians!”
“Human flesh!” echoed Dromo, springing from his seat, and I looked at him, and saw that the barber in his horror had made in truth a deep incision upon the cheek of the poor man. The blood, oozing from the cut, had already traced a river of crimson upon the snowy surface of his well-soaped chin. It was this that had deranged the philosophic composure and customary phlegm of my Cretan; and no wonder; but the enthusiastic tonsor took no notice of what had occurred.—[pg 245]“Great Jove,” he proceeded, and he pointed to the roof with his razor as he spake—“Great Jove! I adjure thee! are all thy lightnings spent; is there never a thunderbolt remaining?”
“In the meantime,” quoth one of the bystanders, “they are in the hand not of Jove, but of Trajan, and he, I think, cannot now be accused of treating these wretches with too much lenity. You have all heard of that Tisias?”—“We have,” cried another; “but what was a single individual to this great assembly? what a sight will it be the day they are all executed!”
“I think,” said the same person who had inquired whether our Centurion were the Sabinus that had been in Britain,—“I think you are overrating the numbers of that assembly. I heard of no more than a dozen.”
This stranger (for such he seemed) had probably taken that day a considerable journey, for his tunic and boots were covered with dust. He was attired in the plainest manner, but notwithstanding, there was something about him which gave one the idea of rank superior to the company in which he was seated; and his complexion was so dark that I could not help thinking to myself,—I am not the only provincial in the room; here is certainly some well-born African or Asiatic.
“You have not told me, however,” said he, after a pause, “whether or not this be the Sabinus that was lately in Britain.”—“Sir,” said I, “it is the same; I myself came in the same ship with him, but a few days ago. He is a Centurion in the Prætorian Bands.”—“Yes,” replied the stranger, “I guessed in truth, it must be the same; for I remember no other of that [pg 246]rank bearing the same name.”—“If you are acquainted with him,” said I, “you may have an opportunity of seeing him immediately, for I expect him here every moment to conduct me to his father’s villa, which is hard by.”
“Well,” quoth the barber, who by this time had ended, without fresh misadventure, the trimming of the Cretan—“well, I hope he will stay for a moment when he does come, and then we shall be sure to hear the truth as to this story about the Christian assembly. They may talk as they please, but may Jove devote me, if I had Cæsar’s ring upon my finger for one night, this should be the last of them.”—“And how, friend,” said the stranger, “by what means, if I may ask you, should you propose so speedily to do away with this fast-spreading abomination?”—“Look ye, sirs,” quoth he, “I would place myself thus in my tribunal”—(he took his seat at a little table, beside a goblet of wine, as he spake,) “I would seat myself thus in the midst of a field, as Cato and the great Censors of old used to do. I would cause Rome to be emptied—man, woman, and child should pass before me; and every one that did not acknowledge the gods as he passed, by all the gods! he should sprawl upon a tree in presence of all the people. What avails watching, prying, spying, and surprising? I should make shorter work of it, I trow.”
“You may say what you will,” said one who had not before spoken, “I cannot bring myself to believe every thing I hear concerning their superstition.”—“Ay, goldsmith,” quoth the barber, “you were always fond of having an opinion of your own; and, pray, what is it that you have had occasion to know about the [pg 247]Christians, more than the rest of us who hear you? If you mean that you have seen some of them die bravely in the Amphitheatre, why, that we have all heard of at least, and I think nobody disputes it.”—“No, master barber,” replied he, “that is not what I was thinking of. I have seen your common thief-knave, when he knew he could do no better, brace you his nerves for the extremity, and die like a Hercules. I would rather judge of a man by his living than his dying.”—“True,” rejoins Virro; “and pray, what have you got to tell us about the life, then, of the Christians?”—“Not much,” said he, “you shall hear. My old mother (peace to her manes) was passing the Salarian one day last year, and there came by a hot-headed spark, driving four abreast in a chariot as fiercely as Nero in the Circus. He called out, that I believe, but the dame was deaf, and whether he tried to pull up, I know not, but the horses trod upon her as she fell. Another of the same sort came close behind, and I have been told they were running a race; but however that might be, on they both passed like a whirlwind, and my poor mother was left by herself among the flying dust. But the gods had mercy on her; they sent a kind heart to her aid. She was carried into one of the stateliest villas on that side of Tiber, and tended for six weeks by a noble lady, as if she had been not my mother, but her own; and this lady, friends—by Jove I suspected it not for long after—this lady was a Christian; but I shall not say how I found it out, nor would I mention the thing at all but among honest men. But where were these you spoke of taken?—I should like to know who they were.”
“They were taken,” said the stranger, “not far from [pg 248]the Appian Way, within one of the old monuments there,—a monument, it is said, of the Sempronii.”—“Of the Sempronii?” cried the goldsmith, “Phœbus Apollo shield us!” and from that moment he became as silent as hitherto he had been communicative.
The swarthy stranger, the silence yet continuing, arose from his seat, laid a piece of money upon the table, and moved towards the door. The barber also rose up, but he said to him, “Sit still, I pray you, my friend;” at the same time beckoning with his finger to the goldsmith, who, with a very dejected countenance, followed him into the street. What passed between them there, we perceived not; but the artificer re-entered not the chamber till some moments after we had heard the departing tread of the stranger’s horses. When he did come in again, he had the appearance of being in great confusion.
CHAPTER IX.
Shortly after Sabinus reappeared, and bidding adieu to our tonsor, we walked with him towards the paternal mansion,—and we soon reached it; for, as I have already said, it was but a little way out from the village.
The dwelling was modest enough, having no external ornament but a single portico, with a few statues ranged between its pillars. We entered by this portico, and found the feeble old man sitting by himself in an apartment immediately adjacent, wherein the beams of the moon, having partial access, were mingled with the subdued light of a painted lamp suspended from the ceiling. The father of my friend had all the appearance of sinking apace; yet he received me with an air, not of cheerfulness, but of kindness. The breeze found admission through the open pillars, and his countenance exhibited in its wan and faint lines the pleasure with which the coolness affected him. Beside him were placed baskets of roses, gathered from the abundance of his gardens. The young Vernæ, who from time to time brought in these flowers, came into the chamber with a decent appearance of sobriety and concern; but they were never long gone before we could hear them [pg 250]laughing again at their play.—“Poor children,” quoth the old man; “why should they trouble themselves with thinking of the not remote victim of Orcus?”—To which the Centurion replied, somewhat softening that loud and cheerful tone with which he was accustomed to address all persons—“Courage, my dear father, you must not speak so. Cerberus, I perceive, has only been making an ineffectual snap at you, and you will be growing younger after all this.”
At which the old man shook his head, without any external sign of emotion, and replied, in a low monotonous voice,—“Younger in the wrong way, my boy; for I become every day smaller in body, and feebler, and less able to do any thing to help myself. Nor am I unconscious that I have seen my due proportion of time. And yet, oh! fast sliding gentle brook, which I see between these paternal trees—I am still loath to exchange thee for Styx, and to lose the cheerful and sacred light of the sun and moon. I wish only I were once more able to repair with thy stream to the banks of father Tiber, that I might salute the good Emperor, who has been so kind to my son, and who would treat even an old broken-down, and long-retired soldier, like myself, with more favour than is to be expected from Rhadamanthus. As clouds let down their drops, so the many-peopled earth lets fall dismissed ghosts upon the Stygian shore.”
While he was saying things in the same strain, an ancient Egyptian, who seemed to have the chief management of every thing, came into the chamber, and after desiring some of the boys to bring forth refreshments, took his place on a low stool by the foot of his master’s [pg 251]couch. “Come, Tarna,” said the Centurion, “what has become of all your philosophy? Why do you not inspire our friend with less of gloominess? Why is it that you do not bring out for his use some of those old stories, with which, when I was young, you were more willing to treat my ears than they were to attend?”
“Nay,” said the invalid, before the Egyptian could make any answer,—“I liked well to listen to his Epicurean theories when I was able to walk about the fields; but now I would rather have him be silent. Do not trouble me any more, good Tarna, with any of your speeches. Allow me to believe as all my fathers did, and to contemplate not only the sepulchre in which their urns are placed, but the same dim regions in which many dear shades expect the greeting of a descendant.”
“To me,” said the slave modestly, “it still seems, that by the rushing shower of atoms which moves every where through space, the mind is soothed, as by the sound of a great river carrying continually the watery offspring of the mountains into the bosom of ocean. The mind, sirs, appears to me to be calmed by the contemplation of infinity, even as the ear of an Egyptian sleeper is calmed by the eternal music of rolling Nilus. It mingles itself with that which it contemplates; it perceives—it feels itself to be a liquid part of that vast endless stream of universal being: a part which has been casually arrested and detained, but which will soon mingle again and be scattered away in a thousand fragments, to wander, no one knows whither, through the great all-receiving void—not to lose existence, for in that my dear master entirely [pg 252]misunderstands me—but to cease from feeling as a Sabinus, or a Tarna.”
The old man kept regarding his Egyptian with a placid smile; but I could not help interposing: “What is this you have said? Do you assert that I can cease to be Valerius, to feel as Valerius, and yet not lose my existence? Can I be, and yet not be myself?”
“Most easily,” replied he; “the divided fragments may move about for a thousand years, before it befall any of them to be stopped in some future combination of atoms. These, it is manifest, only tremble and suffer when they form part of a soul, but are immediately released from all pain or mischance, when this confinement and cohesion are at an end, and they, being dispersed, regain liberty and wander about singly, as of yore; for, as our great dispeller of delusion says—When death is, we are not. If, therefore, Sabinus shrinks from the fear of death, it is an idle fear. Does he not perceive that when death arrives, Sabinus is no longer to be found. Whatever its effects may be, they must affect not him, but an army of innumerable disjointed essences, in no one of which could he by any means be able to recognize himself.”
“To make a short story out of a very long one,” interrupted the Centurion; “life, you think, is not worthy of the name of existence—that being so, it is no wonder you should think lightly of death.”
“Mistake me not,” quoth the sage; “no—life is existence; I not only admit that, but I assert that it is the business of every man, and the sole true object of wisdom, to render life, while it endures, pleasant. Earthly pleasure consists in a bland juxta-position of atoms [pg 253]necessarily, though not permanently, connected; the removal of pain implies that quiescence which pervades the nobleness of the unenclosed All. To exist in this shape, we are compelled; it is our business to render our existence as near an approach to felicity as we may.”
“Fill your cup, Tarna,” quoth the Centurion; “I am no great philosopher, yet methinks I can see the drift of this part of your story. Fill up your goblet, most venerable Epicurean, and see (if it be not below your dignity,) whether the atoms, which, by a fortuitous and temporary juxta-position have formed your throat, will not feel their corners very philosophically softened by the rushing of a little rivulet of good Falernian—one cup of which, saving your presence, I hold to be more worthy of wetting my guttural atoms, than all the water that ever sported its music between Memphis and Alexandria.”
While the slave and the Centurion were thus discoursing, the old man appeared to taste, as it were, the pleasure of a renovated existence, in contemplating the brown health and strong muscular fabric of the inheritor of his name. The hearty masculine laugh with which my friend usually concluded his observations, was, I take leave to think, richer music to his ears than ever Egyptian heard in the dark rollings of the Nile, or Epicurean dreamt of in the airy dance of atoms. I suspect he was more reconciled to the inevitable stroke of fate, by considering that he was to leave such a representative behind him, than by any argument which his own superstition, or the philosophy of his attendant, could suggest. In return for this obvious [pg 254]admiration, the Centurion, without question, manifested every symptom of genuine affection. Yet, I think, the instinctive consciousness of his own strength made the piety of the robust son assume an air more approaching to that of patronage, than might have been altogether becoming. If such a fault there were, however, it escaped the notice of the invalid, who continued, till Tarna insisted upon his retiring, to gaze upon my friend, and listen to his remarks, with looks of exultation.
The Centurion withdrew with his father, so that I was left alone with Tarna for some time; and it was then that, in my juvenile simplicity, I could not help expressing my surprise at finding in servile condition a man possessed of such acquirements as his, and addicted to such pursuits.
“It would argue little,” he replied, “in favour of such pursuits, if they tended only to make me repine at the place which has been allotted me—no matter whether by the decree of fate, or the caprice of fortune. And after all, I am not of opinion that any such external circumstances can much affect the real happiness of any one. Give to him that has been born a slave, what men are pleased to call his freedom; in a few weeks he will become so much accustomed to the boon, that he will cease to think of it. Heap wealth upon him; to wealth also he will gradually become habituated. Rank—power—with all it is the same. It is in the mind only that the seat of happiness is placed; and there it never can be, unless in companionship with thoughts that look down upon, and despise being affected by trifling things.”
“And are such,” said I, “the views of all those who follow your sect?”
“I wish it were so,” he replied; “but ere you remain long in the city, you will meet with not a few, philosophers only in the name, who, having small means of subsistence, but being desirous of leading a luxurious and agreeable life, become teachers of such doctrines as may accord best with the vicious inclinations of those who are most likely to entertain them. These persons assume too often the name of Epicureans. They are seen every where at feasts crowned with myrtle, and fawning upon gouty senators; and whenever a boar’s-head appears, they are sure to call it worthy of Meleager. Their conversation is made up of stale jests about Charon and his boat, and the taking of Auguries; and, when finally inebriated, they roll upon the ground like those animals, to whom, in consequence of the proceedings of such hypocritical pretenders, the ignorant have dared too often to liken the wisest of mankind. Such things I disdain—I am satisfied to remain, as I was born, in the rank of Æsop, Epictetus, Terence.”
By this time the Centurion had returned. He had a lamp in his hand; and he interrupted our conversation. “Come, we start betimes, Caius; and you too, my sweet cock of Cyrene, I think you had better fold your wings, and compose yourself upon your roost.”
Oh, enviable temperament! said I to myself—you liken the slave to a bird. Methinks yourself are more deserving of the simile. The light and the air of heaven are sufficient to make you happy—your wings [pg 256]are ever strong—their flight ever easy—and the rain of affliction glides off them as fast as it falls. Sleep softly, kind heart. It is only the troubles of a friend that can ever disturb your serenity.