A winter in retirement

by Hannah Blaney Washburn

“Aye, that will they,” said Curio; “but it behooves them to be cautious, for Galba, albeit not a Nero, is no friend to their rigid doctrine.” The two citizens departed and the remains of the being whose protracted years had now reached their end, whose life of misery had closed in peace, were left alone. From the time when wandering in solitary wretchedness, she had been led by a Hand which she knew not near the secluded abode of the pious Helena, had encountered the kind and lovely recluse, listened to her soothing consolations, and had suffered her thoughts to rise from the polluted depths of sin and despair, to the pure and holy Heaven of hope, her perturbed spirit had been gradually settling into peaceful rest. From this dark world her desires ascended to one of light and joy and, though born and reared amidst the gloom of Paganism, the bright beams of Christianity had pierced the shadowy cloud. Alone, in a cold and friendless world, she had lived, beset with trials and temptations; she had now gone to an everlasting Friend, to One whose all-seeing eye had watched her steps; whose Almighty arm had sustained her, and who, in her last hours, had poured consolation into her bruised and sorrowing heart.

The wild tumult of the mighty multitude reached not the peaceful home of the revered Christian. As the sun arose in his morning splendor, the majestic old trees, which surrounded the dwelling, cast their gently waving shadows over the portico, where, in sweet communion, sat the young Curtius and his sister. The breezy fragrance of the early day was wafted as mild incense to their senses, the clear soft music of the birds filled the air as an offering to the Giver of all good, while afar, in the distant valleys, borne upon the murmuring gale, was heard the mingled sounds of rural life; the shepherd’s call, the answering flock, and lowing cattle, contrasted happily with the harsher sounds from the extended streets of the city. At intervals, from within the ancient, but still stately dwelling, the solemn hymn, in honor of the noble dead, would swell in full chorus, and the rich melody would almost lead the soul of the listener to the heaven to which it directed its thoughts. During its pauses, some old minstrel, who had followed the fortunes of the family, through weal and through woe, in shrill, but animated recitative, would rehearse its greatness, its long line of renowned ancestors, their brave exploits and princely endowments, and, as he ended by striking some high and lofty notes upon his harp, the pealing sounds would arouse in the breasts of the faithful retainers of the illustrious departed a portion of the enthusiastic animation with which they had followed their lords to the field of battle. The pride of birth, though subdued and regulated by the power of religion, glowed in the hearts of the young listeners, in whose persons were united the almost regal houses from whom they counted their descent.

“This spot, my sister,” said Curtius, “is all that is left us of the worldly wealth of our ancestors, but the legacy they have bequeathed of incorruptible virtue, of integrity not to be bribed by the allurements of pleasure, or the rewards of ambition, their patriotism, and undaunted bravery, joined to the still richer one of our pious father, makes us heirs of an inheritance not to be weighed with the riches of this world. And mark, sweet sister,” he continued, “the ruling hand of God. Yesternight, the setting sun saw the tyrant Emperor surrounded with the riches of a tributary world; from the banks of the Tiber to the farthest shores of Britain, he ruled with despotic sway; yet his power and splendor have vanished as a tale that is told; while the prisoner, whose anticipations of the light of this day, but for mighty support, must have been of agony and terror, is restored to the blessings of life and liberty.”

“Oh, my brother,” said Cleone, “we have awakened from a dream of misery, and a life of grateful praise shall be devoted to our God.”

“Mark yet again, my Cleone,” said the young Roman, “a few short years since, amidst the courtly halls of Nero, moved a female, whose transcendent beauty, and surpassing loveliness gave her an irresistible influence over the heart of the capricious Emperor, and her sway was undisputed, for it was gentle and unassuming, and, even malice found no room for censure. Ere the love of change, caprice, or estranged affection had doomed her to disgrace, or perhaps, a worse fate, guided by a mysterious Providence, her heart was subdued by the power of truth. She became a Christian, and disdained to be longer a slave to the imperious will of the tyrant. The marble floors no longer echoed her light footstep, the places that had known her, knew her no more, and the bright, the admired and queenly Valeria was lost to the infamous courts of Nero. But, in the lowly homes of the poor, by the couch of the sick and dying, the abode of the sorrowful and despairing, a sweet and ministering spirit, teaches content to the humble, soothes the distress, and points with a blissful hope to a happy home in heaven.”

As he ceased speaking their mother approached, followed by an attendant, wearing the badge of the Flavian family.

“A messenger from your friend, my son.” “Health and long life, from my lord Flavius,” said he. “He commends him to the noble Curtius, and his honored family, the duties of his post, near the Emperor, prevents his personal presence at this time, but he craves permission to join them in celebrating the obsequies of their noble kinsman.”

“Return our most hearty thanks,” said Curtius, “we will await his presence.” “On my way hither,” said the messenger, “I encountered the aged Crispus, who sought thy presence, noble Curtius, hearing the last request of Sagana, the Thessalian Sybil, who is even now dead, that she might lay by the side of her parent, in her last resting place. The weary old man had gained the foot of the hills, and rested awhile, ere he commenced the ascent. There I overtook him, and offered to relieve him of his task. He has now returned to watch the body, which lies under the Arch, near the Preatorium, until thy further orders.”

“She has then gone to her rest,” said the matron. “The thread upon which hung her protracted life has been severed by the exciting scenes of the past night. May the peace which has so lately dawned upon her soul rest and abide there! Let her last wish, my Curtius, be fulfilled, and, glory to the God of mercy, who has not suffered her sun to set in the dark cloud of Pagan superstition.”

Soft music from within stole upon the air, and sweet voices sang: