Valerius. A Roman Story

by J. G. Lockhart

I had walked by the side of my young friend, and behind the Stoic, (who, I think, was expressing, in his pompous fashion, much admiration of the singing of Rubellia,) along one or two of the great halls in which the library is contained, before the novelty of the objects surrounding me made any impression even on my eyes; and even after these were in some measure engaged, my mind still continued to dwell on that troubled aspect, and on the notes of the uncompleted song. At length, however, the levity of youth, and natural curiosity revived; and I began to be present, not in body merely, in a place where there was much that might well interest the mind. Far-receding rows of columns conducted my eyes into the interminable recesses of that wide range of chambers, in which the records of the thought and spirit of all past ages are piled up together; and gazing on the loaded shelves which every where ascended into the galleries, I could not but be affected with many new emotions. I perused glorious names on the busts that seemed to preside over the different compartments. The high filletted front of Homer detained for the first time my contemplation; the eyes of the divine old man, even in sculpture, distinctly [pg 177]and visibly blind, while the serenity and sanctity of the towering forehead, revealed how the intense perception at once of the lovely and the great could compensate for visions of earthly beauty shut out. The mild Plato, and the imperious Stagyrite—Pindar—Simonides—Alcæus—and I know not how many more, succeeded as we passed along—each in his own sphere, reigning by himself; yet all connected together by a certain common air of greatness, like so many successive princes, or contemporary heroes of the same mighty empire.

From this main range, there diverged many lesser chambers, in which we saw studious persons engaged, each seated by himself, and having his eyes fixed on the parchment before him. Of these, some deigned not to intimate by the smallest movement their perception that any one had approached; but with others Xerophrastes exchanged, as he walked, lofty salutation, and one or two even entered, for a moment, into conversation with him. With one of these, indeed, (an ancient of bitter aspect,) to such a length did the colloquy extend, that we began to think we should never be able to get our Stoic away from him; till, as our fortune would have it, it became necessary for them to have a certain book for the purpose of reference, and then Xerophrastes began to make inquiries concerning Parmeno, who, as I gathered, must needs be one of those intrusted with the care of the library.

“I am afraid,” said the other, “if we must wait for him, we shall not be able to get that work either to-day or to-morrow; for his pupil, the son of Fabricius, is dead, and I suppose he will now change his quarters, [pg 178]and be no longer seen so often about these haunts of the muses.”

“Alas!” interrupted Sextus, “I met Fabricius in the Forum a few days ago, and he told me his son was ill; but little did I imagine my dear companion was so near his end! Is it indeed so?”

“Even so,” rejoined the other. “Rapid have been the shears of Atropos! It is but a few moments since Agaso, the painter passed; and, he told me he had been receiving orders to take a likeness, as well as he could, from the corpse.”

“If Agaso be so engaged,” replied Xerophrastes, “I am afraid we need not expect to find him neither in his usual place. Perhaps we had better make inquiry for him at the dwelling of Fabricius.”

To this Sextus assented; or rather, being lost in reflection concerning the death of his friend, he suffered himself to be conducted by the Stoic. Passing, therefore, through one or two more apartments, we issued forth, and drew near to the vestibule of Fabricius’ house, who, as they told me, was a noble Roman, having the chief superintendance of the whole library, and an intimate friend of Licinius—one whose domestic calamity could not fail to spread much affliction through a wide circle of patrician kindred.

At the vestibule, we found assembled not a few of the young man’s relations; but Xerophrastes immediately said, “Behold Parmeno, he is the most afflicted; and what wonder that it should be so?”

“Alas!” said Sextus, “the bier is set forth; the last rites are to be performed this evening.”

This Parmeno was a striking figure. Seated close [pg 179]by the bier, his head was involved in his cloak, so that only his eyes and his nose could be seen, but these of themselves expressed a decorous affliction; and the folds of the cloak fell down over the rest of his person in great order and dignity. On the pavement beside him was seen lying, half-unfolded, a book inscribed with the name of Heraclitus, which he appeared to have been reading. When Xerophrastes approached, this mourner stretched forth his hand, and shook his head, but he did not say any thing, nor even look towards the rest of us; and indeed to have done so, would have disturbed the attitude in which he had placed himself. Xerophrastes, on his part, received the proffered hand, and shaking his head in response, said, “Yes, my Ionian friend, I may still bid thee hail and live; but I must say farewell to the plant thou wast rearing. Farewell to the youthful promise of Fabricius!”