A winter in retirement

by Hannah Blaney Washburn

“The gardener, sir, removed them, for, he said, the plant, depending on their kindly aid, grew feeble, tho’ luxuriant.”

“Aye, ’tis e’en so”; and thus, with watchful care,

Our Heavenly Father takes away our props,

And, if we grow too wild, with judgment true

And constant love, he prunes till all is right.

At the first convenient opportunity Herbert resumed the tale of the early Christians.

From the scenes of confusion we have described, we will return to the Appian palace, where lay, in peaceful rest, the remains of its honored master. The domestics were busied in preparing the funeral honors for one, so revered and beloved; some in arranging boughs of Cypress before the doors; others in adorning, with rare and beautiful flowers, the couch of the deceased, or in distributing aromatic plants about the apartment. The soft night breeze stole through the open windows, the air seeming to breath the sweet peace which surrounded the deathbed of the aged saint. The heart of one mourner in this quiet mansion, was bowed down with grief, but she was not left alone with her sorrows; the kind recluse remained with her, shared her grief, and sought to soothe her anguish. Absorbed in their anxieties, they sat in the portico, which commanded a view of the imperial palace, and, upon the steps, with her dark eyes fixed upon them, sat the female, whose predictions caused the guilty tyrant to tremble; but the wild expression of her eye was now softened, and her whole aspect changed. “He has gone to his rest,” said she, “and light and gentle will the sod repose upon his breast, for it was the abode of kindness, and sweet will be the requiem over his remains, for it will be the lamentation of the poor and afflicted.” Then, turning to Sister Helena, to whom she did not seem a stranger, she said, “The spirit of the good and just must ascend to the heaven of your faith; but where is the final resting place of the guilty soul?” “Mother,” said she, “there is time left for us, who are still inhabitants of earth, to repent and forsake our sins.” “Say you so?” said the woman, and her earnest gaze and trembling limbs betrayed her emotion. “But what is lengthened time to me? Listen to the tale of one whose life has been a long, long day of misery. Thessaly was the land of my birth; my infancy was bright as the dreams of the morning; but the destroyer came; the Romans, like the ravening wolves, poured upon our plains; my father fell, defending the home of my childhood, and my mother, with the wretched being, before you, was enslaved by the conquerors. Borne down by misery, she sank beneath the weight, and, while exposed in your market place, for sale to the highest bidder, I saw my last friend expire, and, the unfeeling crowd estimated the loss to the owner. I stood alone amid the multitude, my heart swelled in agony, but hate for the oppressor, and desire of revenge prevailed over all; I clasped my throat, that I, too, might die and disappoint, still more, our brutal enslaver, but, as I tightened my hold, and all things grew dim around me, a hand grasped my arm and a voice of compassion saluted my ear. After a few words with my master, I became the property of Marcus Curtius; he pitied my distress; he caused the remains of my mother to be interred, and, each day, her child was permitted to deck her grave with flowers. I was reared with kindness, but, to, all, save my protector and his immediate family, my heart was bitter with hatred. In the dreams of my disturbed slumbers, the home of my happiness would appear before me, its fertile fields, its rich groves of olives and figs, the vine-covered porch, the sweet songs of my country; then the scene of my father’s death, my mother’s dying glance, and I awoke in agony and despair; revenge in any form was the only object of my thought. This passion I nurtured, and when civil wars drenched the country in blood, when the family of my protector was dispersed, opportunities of gratifying it were daily presented. I did not embrue my hands in blood, but my heart exulted in the woes of the enslavers of my country; I did not take life, but I did not save it, when it was in my power. Years rolled on; I had no home, for I abhorred the haunts of mankind. The mountain cave was my shelter, the wild fruits of the mountain my food; but, almost unknown to myself one tie was yet unsevered. The mild glance of pity, bestowed upon me, when helpless and alone in the world, was never forgotten, and the occasional kind word, and look of sympathy had sank deep into my heart. I still cherished a kindly remembrance of the house of him who had saved me, perhaps, from a worse fate than death. In my wanderings I encountered a being as wretched as myself; she taught me to gratify my ruling passion by attempting to dive into futurity, to render the life of man more wretched, by foretelling the events which are to come. In the depths of the forest, in the recesses of the mountain would we invoke the power of fiends, with the malice of demons would we prepare spells to impose upon the credulity of the ignorant, and, with horrid glee, aggravate the grief of mankind, of the wretched. Is there hope,” said she, rising, “for such as I am, with the God of purity and love whom you worship?” “Even so,” was the mild and soothing response of Sister Helena. “He has been leading you by a way which you knew not. He has been removing all your stays, that you may be stayed only upon Him; your father, country, mother, the protectors of your youth, every joy and comfort, and now, at the close of a long life, He calls you to Himself. Though the sins be as crimson, they shall be white as wool.” The Sybil bent her head; the sweet hope of mercy softened her heart; all was quiet around, among the aged trees, whose branches shaded the venerable mansion, a nightingale had chosen her seat, and, at intervals, poured forth her soft melody. During the silence, solemn music arose from the apartments within, and a chorus of voices sang the following hymn:

Mourn not for him, whose lengthened years

Have closed in holy peace;

His home is now where neither tears