“I like very much to hear Herbert read poetry,” said Charles. “Mother, may he read those lines called ‘Early Recollections?’ They refer to scenes in our own town, Susan, and I know you will like them.” “Why should Susan like them more than the rest of us, Charles?” said Mary. “Oh. I think they are more suited to her taste.” “I must certainly hear them,” said Susan, “if it were only to know whether Charles has judged rightly of my taste.” “I will endeavor to find them tomorrow,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and I hope they will serve to amuse you.” At the first convenient opportunity Herbert continued the tale of the early Christians.
The delicious coolness of the evening breeze, after a day of uncommon heat was, of itself, a temptation sufficient to draw many into the open air, and the streets of Rome were thronged with her citizens. Here might be seen the rich carriage, borne by slaves in livery, on whose soft and luxurious cushions reclined the haughty noble; there, the patrician, with his train of attendants, and the wealthy plebean, conscious of his inferior rank, but emulating the proud bearing of his rival. Chairs and litters passed in quick succession, and freed men and slaves jostled each other. From the stately palaces resounded the notes of revelry and mirth, and from the theatres, the sounds of music and dancing. In the opening, before one of the courts, were gathered a crowd of listeners, around one of those gifted poets, who, without forethought, composed and recited upon any given subject, with ease and gracefulness, and are rewarded not only by gratuities of money, but by the rapturous applause of their hearers. Through one of the streets passed a funeral procession, for, in Rome, all their funeral ceremonies were performed by torchlight and much pomp and parade was displayed upon the occasion in honor of the deceased. Thus life, with its shifting scenes, its hopes and fears and conflicting passions, were, at this time, in full contrast with the startling reality of death; though few heeded the solemn warning. A hasty glance, some words of condolence or commendation of the deceased, and the proud pageant was forgotten. Amidst all this bustling confusion might be seen some, apparently persons of distinction, whose air of mystery and whispering conferences portended some event of importance. Two citizens met near the Temple of Fortune; “Health and happiness, noble Varro,” said a rich patrician to a stately noble, “may the deities be propitious; have you heard the rumor?” “I have been witnessing the betrothal of my son to the daughter of Publius Dentatus, and have heard no rumor. Of what nature?” “A most happy betrothal; may their years be auspicious! The reports are of a most astounding character. It is rumored that the Senate, in full council, have condemned Nero, and, that Servius Galba, so lately returned from Spain, will be chosen, by the soldiery, as his successor.” “And, would Galba be the choice of the Senate, Licinius?” “Perhaps not, but he is the favorite of the legions from Spain, and beloved by the soldiers, generally, and they could find no fault with the choice, unless it be the severity of his manners.” “He is a good and honorable man,” said the elder, “but he will find the rank and title of Emperor but a thin gilding to the bitter pill of royalty he must swallow. But, the world will last our day, Licinius, let the wheel go round.” And they parted. At the turning of one of the streets, a knot of citizens were conferring. “How is this, Sempronius?” said one, “what will be the consequence of this decree of condemnation, of which we hear so many rumors? Will the Emperor abdicate, or have his enemies determined upon his death?” “Vengeance will not always sleep, fellow citizens,” said the one who was addressed; “Who is not an enemy to the detestable vices of Nero? and what wickedness is there in the whole catalogue of crime which he has not committed?” “Nay, Sempronius,” said a man with a stern and forbidding countenance, “he has done good service to the State, by exterminating those Christians.” “By our household deities,” said another, “I know not that, for the sect is like the Hydra of old, as fast as one is exterminated, as you say, a score appear in his place. I am for stopping these executions at once, and then we shall see if this heresy will not die of itself.” “But, said the first speaker, “will not Nero set the Senate at defiance? He has his favorites, and may yet make a stand.” “Not so,” said Sempronius, “his nature is cowardly, and at the first intimation of danger, he would shrink from it with terror. He needs no accuser but his own guilty conscience; he has waded in the blood of innocence, and will yet be deluged in its avenging waves.” The company dispersed, each in his several path.
With a hurried step, the freedman of Nero was seen ascending the steps of the palace; he was greeted by one of his fellow servants, “Whither so fast, Anicetus? One would think the avenger was at thy heels.” “He is,” said the freedman. “There is something wrong in the wind,” said the questioner, “there is some cause for so much stir and commotion in the city,” continued he, addressing one of the guards, “and the military, without the walls are in motion, for the trumpets have sounded.” “Well,” said the other, “let what will come, my duty lies here.”
We will now return to the entrance of Lucius Flavius into the apartment of Nero, in the imperial palace. With a firm and lofty step, but a respectful demeanor, the young and noble defender of innocence, advanced, supporting the sister of Curtius, who, though her complexion was pale, and her form tremulous with emotion, shrank not from the haughty and insolent regard of the tyrant. “How is this, my Lord Lucius; what fair votary of Venus have you introduced to our presence with so little ceremony? Methinks some more formal introduction were befitting so much beauty.” “Innocence, my Lord, the Emperor, may be always confident in its own resources, and sorrow has claims superior to all formal observances. The maiden before you is the sister of Quintius Curtius, and her errand is to solicit, even yet, the life and freedom of her brother.” Cleone slid from the arm of her protector, and bent her knee before Nero. “We are orphans,” said she, “my brother and myself, children of one of Rome’s noblest citizens. Our father fought his country’s battles, defended her liberty and gloried in her prosperity. Our ancestors gave their lives and treasures for her benefit, and my brother would yield his heart’s blood for the welfare of his native land; we are alone in the world; noble Emperor, grant me the life of my brother.” The sweet pleading tones of her voice, the earnest expressions of her eyes, would, it would seem, have produced some feeling, even in the hard heart of Nero; such was not the case. With a malignant sneer, he said: “And so permit him to convert you, fair damsel, to the faith of the Nazarene? By the beard of Silenus, that would be sacrilege to bind so alluring an object in the galling chains of that cynical sect. Not so, my beautiful grace; love for our country influences us to cleanse it of these fanatical reformers, who are attempting to subvert its established principles, and overturn our faith in a religion which has stood the test of ages. He must suffer for his obstinacy; but, for you, fair maiden, you shall be under especial care and protection.” With an indignant gesture, Flavius attempted to raise Cleone, but, resisting the effort, her eyes flashing, and her voice becoming more firm, “Yet a moment, haughty Emperor, your life is in my power,”—“What! ho, help here, slaves!” “Stay, Emperor,” said Flavius, “there is a secret conspiracy against your life, accidentally discovered. She only can tell you the names of the conspirators, and its details. Give to her prayers the life of her brother, and your life may be preserved.” “Refuse me,” said Cleone, “and, so sure as you are now living, so certain is your destruction.” A scowl of rage distorted the countenance of Nero. “There are ways, my haughty young dame, to compel such refractory tempers to confession.” “Before your cruel purpose could be executed,” said Cleone, “the time would have elapsed when your life might be saved. Death is fearful to all, were it only for the uncertainty of the prospect beyond. Is your conscience so pure that you dare look upon its near approach without alarm? Will you not shrink from encountering its gloom, to you the dark mystery of the future?” She was interrupted by the hasty entrance of the freedman, who, bending low before the Emperor, addressed to him some communication, which, first suffusing his face with crimson, soon left it of a deadly paleness. Fear and irresolution marked his features. He gave some hasty orders, and appeared lost in thought for a short time. At length, seeming to have formed a determination, he turned to Flavius. “Young lord,” said he, “time does not admit of delay; let this maiden give me, in a few words, the outline of this conspiracy, and then, upon one condition, I will release the Christian.” “Give us an order to that effect, my lord Emperor, and you shall know all,” and, while Cleone trembled between hope and fear, Nero wrote upon a leaf of his tablets, “Release the Christian prisoner, Quintius Curtius,” and tearing it from the book, affixed his seal, and gave the order to Flavius. Hurry and dismay marked his motions, and, turning to Cleone, he commanded her to make the disclosure. In a clear, distinct manner, she related the circumstances, and mentioned Caius Piso as the principal conspirator. He muttered between his teeth, “Let me but escape this first danger, and I will defy Piso and his retainers.” “Go,” said he, aloud, “leave the presence, yet, stay, Lucius Flavius, the condition is not yet complied with.” In a low constrained voice, he said, “I have just received intelligence of an insurrection in the army without the walls, and that the traitors have expressed their determination of deposing me, and electing Servius Galba. I know not how far the discontent extends, perhaps the Senate have dared to connive at it,” and his frame trembled, and he grew more deadly pale. “The condition I make with you is, that, if they presume to aim at my life, you will intercede. Use your influence with Galba, do you understand, do you engage to this?” “I do,” said Flavius, “as I hope for mercy myself.” “Enough,” said Nero. Almost dreading the reality of this sudden and happy change, Cleone left the presence of this dreaded tyrant of Rome; and he was left alone with his miserable thoughts; the remembrance of the past, the horrors of his dark deeds of cruelty, mingling with dismal forebodings of future retribution. Starting in his hurried walk he listened with breathless attention to the distant sounds in the city. Again, pacing the apartment in agitation, he would mutter low and almost inaudible exclamations, “No guests arrive; that is, of it itself, suspicious; the traitors! They will all forsake me; yes, I will leave the city, without delay; but, whither? To my country house; that will do, and let the excitement subside. It was well to conciliate this Flavius by releasing the Christian; his influence may do much; that Sybil! Her prophecy weighs heavy upon me; where have I seen her dark visage before?” Then he threw himself upon his couch; but, directly springing up, “What is this?” said he, “I seem sinking into an abyss? Is there a future after death? Ho! Anicetus.” As the freedman entered, he said, “Are all things prepared? Have you secured my treasures?” “All is prepared, my lord, and waiting your command.” “You, at least, Anicetus, have no reason to complain of me; can I trust you?” “I will be faithful to you till the last, my master.” “It is well,” said Nero, “hasten our immediate departure; if I live, you shall not repent your fidelity.”
Chapter VIII
I know not if it were so, but to my mind it seems
As if the grass were greener then, and brighter the sun beams.
“My dear mother,” said Herbert, as Mrs. Wilson took her usual place the next evening, “we desire your opinion. Does the fact that we read this story at intervals lessen its interest?” “It would not in my opinion,” said Mrs. Wilson. “I think a story, read in this manner, affords more real pleasure and instruction than the common practice, when the faculties become tired by the continued strain. It is a species of intoxication which, after the excitement is ended, leaves the mind tired and exhausted by over-exertion.” “I dare say you are right, dear aunt,” said Susan, “but I confess that I was disposed to quarrel with such a truth when Herbert told us he must be absent this evening, and I do not like to have Charles disappointed.” “Charles must learn to bear disappointments,” said his mother, smiling at his earnest and sober look. “I have found the lines you wished to have read, my son, and we will spend the evening in reading them.” “But,” said Charles, “I wish the good young Christian was released from his dreary dungeon.” “Never mind, dear Charles,” said Herbert, “the anticipation of happiness is very pleasant, you know.” “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “but you remember we have the very best authority for saying that ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’” “There seems to be no alternative,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and we will endeavor to evade this heart-sickness by diverting your attention to other objects, even the pleasant scenes of our own home.”
So soon as they were all in readiness, Elizabeth read the following