How oft the fickle multitude have climbed
Those battlements, to hail some mighty lord,
Whom, ere the changing moon had run her course,
They spurned, as a base reptile.
The next leisure evening was devoted to the conclusion of the Roman Tale.
The day of freedom from oppression dawned upon Rome. The short period of repose had renewed the excitement and activity of the populace, who, aroused by tidings of the fate of Nero, and enraged that he had escaped their vengeance, wreaked it upon every object marked by the favor of the tyrant Emperor. Nothing but the strictest orders, enforced by a powerful guard of soldiers, preserved the splendid palace, “The Golden House,” the rich abode of the luxurious Nero, from destruction, but his statues, and those which he had caused to be erected in honor of his chosen favorites, were demolished with the most bitter imprecations. Again the shouts of triumph and rejoicing would peal through the air and with the wildest enthusiasm the people assumed the peculiar cap worn by the slaves upon their restoration to freedom, as a token that they, too, were freed from bondage. Garlands of laurel adorned the streets, were twined around the colonnades of the buildings, and hung in festoons from the projecting balconies, and, as the triumphal chariot of the new Emperor, surrounded by the imposing array of military pomp, passed slowly through the crowded ways, toward the Capitol, to attend the ceremonies of the day, showers of roses descended upon him and music hailed his progress. Paeans arose from the temples and the odor of incense made the air fragrant. The Amphitheatre, destined that day to have been the scene of torture and death, was left in silence and solitude, a general jubilee was proclaimed, prisoners were released, and all executions were suspended.
Beneath a low-browed arch sat the Thessalian Sybil; her form was more attenuated, the excitement and fatigue of the night had worn upon her aged frame, but her still keen eyes watched the motions of the crowd and her lips were moving with suppressed thought. A citizen, whose lameness precluded his attendance upon the procession, was gazing upon her as he leaned upon his crutches. “Mother,” said he, “the Destinies have suffered your thread of life to stretch far.” She raised her eyes to his face. “Didst thou mark the gay pageant, citizen of Rome?” “Aye, did I; by my troth,” was the answer, “it was a goodly sight.” “It has passed before me as a shadow,” she said, “as the mist of the morning, indistinct and fading. It is a few days since these eyes beheld the murdered body of your great Caesar born through these streets, in mournful array: since these ears heard the din of civil war through these lands, when brother fought against brother, and father against son; heard the exultant shouts proclaiming the mighty Augustus Emperor of Rome, and saw the massy gates of Janus closed, as the signal of peace upon earth. I have heard rejoicing and triumph echo through this city at the commencement of a reign, and still louder rejoicing at its close. I have seen a stately temple arise, dedicated to thy gods, the incense streaming from its altars, mingling with that of one consecrated to Caligula; but a few years rolled on and he met his death from the parasites who aided in the blasphemy. The wind which now breathes softly around us, and which, a few short hours having passed, may sweep the plains in its fury, is not more variable than this fickle populace. Again and again exulting shouts and bitter curses follow each other in quick succession and will do so till the glory of this proud city is shrouded in the dust.” She had uttered these words in a low, but deep and earnest tone; her head rested upon her hands and her elbows upon her knees; the soliloquy she had commenced to the person who had stood near her seemed to have been, in part, the utterance of the recollections of her life, without reference to any listener. Another citizen passing, “Thou are weatherbound, Rutilius,” addressing the lame man, “the gods console thee; thou hast lost a glorious spectacle.” “May the Furies seize the unwieldy Goth who crippled my limbs!” was the answer. “Describe the show, Curio.” “Thou shouldst have seen the noble Emperor Galba; with what a gracious dignity he accepted the homage of the Senate, and the oaths of the soldiery, and heard his oration to the people; how he thanked them for their suffrages; and how the priests in their solemn array offering sacrifices, as the smoke of the incense arose in clouds before them, sang paeans to the deities, and the pealing notes reverberated around the lofty ceiling. In good truth, friend, thy limbs have proved recreant in this matter.” “Rome will thrive under the reign of this Galba,” said Rutilius. “There will be something going on beside these dismal executions, of which we may well be weary.” “More, by token,” said the other, when every day renewed them. By the powers above! it joys my heart that the noble Curtius has escaped the lions. Didst note his princely aspect when he confronted the tyrant in the Forum? It were worse than tyranny to immolate such a Roman.”
An aged man stood listening to the discourse. “The fangs of the ferocious beasts,” he said, “were mercy to the inhuman cruelty of Nero. The gods have at length awarded his doom, but the marks of his malice and fury are deeply printed upon our city.”
“Most deeply in thy heart, old Crispus, thou hast good cause to curse the memory of Nero.”