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Valerius. A Roman Story

by J. G. Lockhart · English · Gutenberg #44330 · 576,954 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Valerius. A Roman Story

Author: J. G. Lockhart


        
Release date: December 1, 2013 [eBook #44330]
                Most recently updated: June 15, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44330


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VALERIUS. A ROMAN STORY ***





                               BLACKWOOD’S

                             STANDARD NOVELS

                          ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

                                 VALERIUS





                                VALERIUS

                             A ROMAN STORY


                              NEW EDITION


                       WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
                           EDINBURGH AND LONDON






                                VALERIUS.





                           _BOOK I. CHAPTER I._


Since you are desirous, my friends, that I should relate to you, at length
and in order, the things which happened to me during my journey to Rome,
notwithstanding the pain which it must cost me to throw myself back into
some of the feelings of that time, I cannot refuse to comply with your
request. After threescore years spent in this remote province of an
empire, happy, for the most part, in the protection of enlightened, just,
and benevolent princes, I remember, far more accurately than things which
occurred only a few months ago, the minutest particulars of what I saw and
heard while I sojourned, young and a stranger, among the luxuries and
cruelties of the capital of the world, as yet imperfectly recovered from
the effects of the flagitious tyranny of the last of the Flavii.

My father, as you have heard, came with his legion into this island, and
married a lady of native blood, some years before the first arrival of
Agricola. In the wars of that illustrious commander, during the reigns of
Vespasian and Titus, he had the fortune to find opportunities of
distinguishing himself; but when his general was recalled, by the jealousy
of Domitian, he retired from public life, and determined to spend the
remainder of his days in peace, on the lands which belonged to him in
right of his wife here in Britain. He laid the foundations of the house in
which I have now the pleasure of receiving you; and here, in the
cultivation of his fields, and in the superintendence of my education, he
found sufficient employment for an active, though no longer an ambitious
mind. Early in the reign of Trajan he died. Never did either Roman or
British dwelling lament a more generous master.

I cannot pretend to regret the accident which immediately afterwards
separated me from a gentle mother—never to see her more upon the earth.
Yet deeply was the happiness of my returning hour stained by that
privation. It is the common rule of nature, that our parents should
precede us to the grave; and it is also her rule, that our grief for them
should not be of such power as to prevent us from entering, after they are
gone, into a zealous participation both of the business and the pleasures
of life. Yet, in after years, the memory of that buried tenderness rises
up ever and anon, and wins rather than warns us to a deliberate
contemplation of our own dissolution.

Towards the end of the winter following the death of my father, there
arrived letters which engaged anxious consideration. They were from
members of his family, none of whom either my mother or myself had seen.
It was explained, especially by Caius Licinius, the lawyer, (who was near
of kin to our house,) that by the death of a certain Patrician, Cneius
Valerius by name, I had become legally entitled to a very considerable
fortune, to claim and take possession of which, demanded my immediate
presence in the metropolis. My rights, said this jurist, were indeed
called in question by another branch of the family, but were I on the
spot, his professional exertions, with whatever interest he or any of his
friends could command, should be at my service, for the sake of my father
and of my name.

The love of travel had never before been excited in my bosom; but now that
I knew I was so soon to embark for Italy, the delights which I might there
hope to experience came crowding upon my imagination. The dark and
pine-clad banks of my native Anton, said I, shall now be exchanged for
that golden-waved Tiber, of which so many illustrious poets have sung.
Instead of moving here among the ill-cemented and motley fabric of an
insulated colony, and seeing only the sullen submission of barbarians on
the one hand, or the paltry vanity of provincial deputies on the other, I
shall tread the same ground with the rulers of the earth, and wear, among
native Romans, the gown of my ancestors. I shall behold the Forum, which
has heard the eloquence of Cicero and Hortensius; I shall ascend to the
Capitol, where Cæsar triumphed; I shall wander in the luxurious gardens of
Sallust, or breathe the fresh air in the fields of Cato: I shall gaze upon
the antique majesty of temples and palaces, and open my eyes on all that
art and nature have been able to heap together through eight centuries,
for the ornament of the chosen seat of wisdom and valour.

A single trusty slave was selected to accompany me. It was not certainly
on account of his accomplishments that Boto had been chosen for this duty;
for although he had lived all his days in the vicinity of the colonists at
Venta, there was scarcely a person within the bounds of the British Belgæ
that spoke worse Latin. He was, however, a man of natural sagacity,
possessing shrewd discernment concerning whatever things had fallen under
his customary observation; and he shewed no symptom either of diffidence
respecting his qualifications for this new office, or of regret at being
separated from those in whose company many years of gentle servitude had
glided over his sun-burnt countenance. It was reported to me, that he
invited several of our rustics to drink with him in one of the out-houses,
where his exultation knew no limits. He was going to Rome, for his young
master very well knew he could never get on in such a journey without the
helping eye and hand of Boto; and he had a brother in Italy already, (he
had gone over with a distinguished legionary some ten years before,) and
from him (for he would of course meet with him as soon as our arrival
should be known) he would receive all requisite information concerning the
doings of the great city. The usefulness which, he doubted not, I should
be constrained to acknowledge in his manifold qualifications, would,
without all question, entitle him to some signal reward—perhaps nothing
less than manumission on his return.

Two days passed more quickly than any I ever remember to have spent amidst
a strange mixture of mirth, and sorrow, and noisy preparation.

Where that single tall naked pine now stands buffeted by the wind, then
grew a thick grove, of which that relic alone survives. It was there that
I turned round to gaze once more on the quiet verdure of these paternal
fields, and our small pastoral stream glistening here and there beneath
the shady covert of its margin.

I had at first intended to cross over to Gaul, and traversing that
province, enter Italy, either by the route of the Alps, in case we could
procure convenient guides and companions, or by some vessel sailing from
Marseilles or Forum Julii to Ostium. But the advice of one of my
neighbours, who had himself been a great traveller, made me alter this
plan, and resolve to commit myself to the care of an experienced mariner
who was just about to sail for Italy, by the way of the pillars of
Hercules, in a vessel laden chiefly with tin; and on reaching the
Clausentum, I found this man, with several passengers, ready for the
voyage.

For the first three or four days, I was so afflicted by the motion of the
vessel, that I could bestow little attention on any external object; my
eyes were so confused and dazzled, that I saw nothing beyond the corner of
the deck on which I had caused my carpets to be laid; and a few
ejaculations to Castor and Pollux were all the articulate sounds that I
uttered. By degrees, however, the weight of my depression began to be
alleviated; and at intervals, more particularly during the night watches,
if I was not altogether in possession of myself, I was at least well
enough to enjoy a sort of giddy delight in watching the billows as they
rose and retreated from the prow. There were moments, also, in which the
behaviour of Boto, under this new species of calamity, could furnish me,
as it had already done the more hardy of my fellow-voyagers, with store of
mirth. Near us frequently, upon the deck, sat a Captain of the Prætorian
Bands, who, more than any other of these, displayed a florid complexion
and cheerful eye, unalterable by the fluctuation of the waters. This
Sabinus had served in all the wars of Agricola, and accompanied him even
in his perilous circumnavigation of the islands which lie scattered to the
north of Britain. He had also gone back to Rome with his commander, not,
like him, to extenuate imperial jealousy by the affectation of indolence,
but to seek for new occupation on some other disturbed frontier of the
Empire. In Syria and Cappadocia he had spent some years; after which, he
had attended the Emperor himself through Mæsia and Illyricum, and all
those countries he traversed and retraversed, during that shameful contest
in which so many Roman eagles were made the prey of barbarous enemies, and
which terminated at last in that cowardly treaty, by which Domitian
granted a diadem to Decebalus, and condescended to place the Roman Senate
among the tributaries of a Dacian. Our friend had also strutted his part
in that gorgeous triumph, or rather succession of triumphs, by which the
defeated and disgraced Prince, on his return from the Ister, mocked the
eyes and ears of the incredulous and indignant Romans. In a word, he had
partaken in all kinds of fortune, good and evil, and preserved his
rubicundity and equanimity unaltered in them all. Having attained to a
situation of some dignity, he had now been visiting Britain on a special
message from the new Emperor, and was returning in the hope that no future
accident of fortune, or princely caprice, would ever again make it
necessary for him to quit the shows and festivities of the capital.

This good-natured man sat down beside my suffering peasant, endeavouring
to withdraw his attention from the pangs of his sickness, by pointing out
the different boats which came in view as we held on from the Gobæan
rocks, keeping close to the shore as we went, in order to shun, as well as
we could, the customary fury of the Aquitanic Ocean. “Behold these
fishing-vessels,” he would cry, “which have undoubtedly been upon the
coast of Rutupia for oysters, or it may be about the mouth of yonder
Ligoris for turbot, and are now stretching all their canvass to get home
with their booty to Italy. Smooth be your winds and fair your passage, oh
rare fish!” To which the downcast Boto would reply, “Lavish not, oh
master, your good wishes upon the mute fish, which have been tossed about
all their lives, but reserve them rather for me (unhappy) who am thus
tormented in an unnatural and intolerable manner;” or perhaps, “Speak not,
I beseech you, of oysters, or of turbot, or of any other eatable, for I
believe I shall never again feel hungry, so grievously are all my internal
parts discomposed. Oh, that I had never left my native fields, and
bartered the repose of my whole body for the vain hope of gratification to
my eyes!”

By degrees, however, custom reconciled all of us to the motion of the
bark, and the weather being calm during the greater part of the voyage, I
enjoyed, at my leisure, the beauties, both of the sea, and of the shores
alongst which we glided. From time to time, we put in for water and other
necessaries, to various sea-ports of the Spanish Peninsula; but our stay
was never so long at any place as to admit of us losing sight of our
vessel. Our chief delight, indeed, consisted in the softness and amenity
of the moonlight nights we spent in sailing along the coasts of
Mauritania,—now the dark mountains of the family of Atlas throwing their
shadows far into the sea—and anon, its margin glittering with the white
towers of Siga, or Gilba, or Cartenna, or some other of the rich cities of
that old Carthaginian region. On such nights it was the custom of all the
passengers to be congregated together upon the deck, where the silent
pleasures of contemplation were, from time to time, interrupted by some
merry song chanted in chorus by the mariners, or perhaps some wild
barbarian ditty, consecrated by the zeal of Boto to the honour of some
ancient indigenous hero of the North. Nor did our jovial Prætorian disdain
to contribute now and then to the amusement of the assembly, by some
boisterous war-song, composed, perhaps, by some light-hearted young
spearman, which our centurion might have learned by heart, without any
regular exertion, from hearing it sung around many a British and Dacian
watch-fire.

Thus we contrived to pass the time in a cheerful manner, till we reached
the Lilybæan promontory. We tarried there two days to refit some part of
our rigging, and then stretched boldly across the lower sea, towards the
mouth of the Tiber. We were becalmed, however, for a whole day and night,
after we had come within sight of the Pharos of Ostium, where, but for the
small boats that came out to us with fresh fish and fruit, we should have
had some difficulty in preserving our patience; for, by this time, our
stock of wine was run to the last cup, and nothing remained to be eat but
some mouldy biscuit which had survived two voyages between Italy and
Britain. During this unwelcome delay, the Prætorian endeavoured to give me
as much information as he could about the steps necessary to be pursued on
my arrival in the city. But, to say truth, his experience had lain chiefly
among martial expeditions and jovial recreations, so that I could easily
perceive he was no great master of the rules of civil life. From him,
however, I was glad to find, that the reputation of Licinius was really as
great at Rome as it had been represented in our province; and, indeed, he
treated me with a yet greater measure of attention after he was informed
of my relationship to that celebrated jurist.

Early in the morning, a light breeze sprung up from the west, and with
joyful acclamations the sails were once again uplifted. The number of
mariners on board was insufficient for impelling the heavily laden vessel
altogether by the force of oars, but now they did not refuse to assist the
favouring breeze with strenuous and lively exertion. The Prætorian cheered
and incited them by his merry voice, and even the passengers were not
loath to assist them in this labour. My slave, among the rest, joined in
the toil; but his awkwardness soon relieved him from his seat on the
bench; a disgrace which he would have shared with his master, had I been
equally officious.

Ere long, we could trace with exactness those enormous structures by which
the munificence of Augustus had guarded and adorned that great avenue of
nations to the imperial city. Those mountains of marble, projected on
either side into the deep, surpassed every notion I had formed of the
extent to which art may carry its rivalry of nature. Their immovable
masses were garnished here and there with towers and battlements, on which
the Prætorian pointed out to me the frame-work of those terrible
catapults, and other engines of warfare, of which no specimens have ever
been seen in Britain.

No sooner had we stept upon the shore, than we were surrounded by a great
throng of hard-favoured persons, who pulled us by the cloak, with
innumerable interrogations and offers of service. Among these, the
varieties of form, complexion, and accent, were such, that we could not
regard them without especial wonder; for it appeared as if every tribe and
language under heaven had sent some representative to this great seaport
of Rome. The fair hair and blue eye of the Gaul or German, might here be
seen close by the tawny skin of the Numidian or Getulian slave, or the
shining blackness of the Ethiopian visage. The Greek merchant was ready,
with his Thracian bondsman carrying his glittering wares upon his back;
the usurer was there, with his arms folded closely in his mantle; nor was
the Chaldean or Assyrian soothsayer awanting, with his air of abstraction
and his flowing beard.

Boto, as if alarmed with the prevailing bustle, and fearful lest some
untoward accident should separate us, kept close behind me, grasping my
gown. But our good friend Sabinus did not long leave us in this
perplexity; for, having hastily engaged the master of a small barge to
carry him to Rome, he insisted that I should partake of this easy method
of conveyance. We found the vessel small but convenient, furnished with a
red awning, under which cushions and carpets were already stretched out
for our repose. The oars were soon in motion, and we began to emerge from
among the forest of masts with a rapidity which astonished me; for the
multitude of vessels of all sizes, continually crossing and re-crossing,
was so great, that at first I expected every moment some dangerous
accident might occur.

By degrees, however, such objects failed to keep alive my attention; the
sleeplessness of the preceding night, and the abundance of an Ostian
repast, conspiring to lull me into a gentle doze, which continued for I
know not what space. I awoke, greatly refreshed, and found we had made
considerable progress; for the continual succession of stately edifices
already indicated the vicinity of the metropolis. The dark green of the
venerable groves, amidst which the buildings were, for the most part,
embosomed, and the livelier beauties of the parterres which here and there
intervened between these and the river, afforded a soft delight to my
eyes, which had so long been fatigued with the uniform flash and dazzle of
the Mediterranean waves, and the roughness of the sea-beaten precipices.
The minute and elaborate cultivation every where visible, the smoothness
of the shorn turf on the margin, the graceful foliage of the ancient
planes and sycamores,—but, above all, the sublimity of the porticos and
arcades, and the air of established and inviolable elegance which pervaded
the whole region, kept my mind in pleasurable wonder. Here and there, a
gentle winding conducted us through some deep and massy shade of oaks and
elms; whose branches, stretching far out from either side, diffused a
sombre and melancholy blackness almost entirely over the face of Tiber.
Loitering carelessly, or couched supinely, beneath some of these hoary
branches, we could see, from time to time, the figure of some stately
Roman, or white-robed lady, with her favourite scroll of parchment in her
hand. The cool and glassy rippling of the water produced a humming music
of stillness in the air, which nothing disturbed, save only the regular
dash of the oars, and, now and then, the deep and strenuous voice of our
cautious helmsman. Anon would ensue some glimpse of the open champaign,
descending with all its wealth of golden sheaves to the very brink of the
river—or, perhaps, the lively courts of a farmyard stretching along the
margin of some tributary streamlet—or some long expanse of level meadow,
with herds of snow-white heifers. I could not gaze upon the rich and
splendid scene without reverting, with a strange mixture of emotions, to
the image of this my native land; its wild forests, shaggy with brushwood
and unprofitable coppice, through which of old the enormous wild deer
stalked undisturbed, except by the adder of the grass, or the obscene fly
of the thicket; its little patches of corn and meadow, laboriously rescued
from the domain of the wild beast, and rudely fortified against his
continual incursions;—the scattered hamlets of this Brigian valley, and my
own humble villa—then humbler than it is now. Trees, and temples, and
gardens, and meadows, and towns, and villages, were, ere long, lost in one
uniform sobriety of twilight; and it was already quite dark, when the
centurion, pointing to the left bank, said, “Behold the Gardens of Cæsar:
beyond, is the Portian Gate, and the street of the Rural Lares. In a few
moments we shall see the lights of the Sublician Bridge, and be in the
city.” At these words I started up, and gazing forward, could penetrate
through the mists of evening into the busy glare of a thousand streets and
lanes, opening upon the river. The old wall was already visible; where,
after having swept round the region towards the Vatican and Janicular
Hills, it brings the last of its turrets close down to the Tiber, over
against the great dock-yards by the Field of Brutus.

Through a forest of triremes, galleys, and all sorts of craft, we then
shot on to the bridge—beneath the centre arch of which our steersman
conducted us. Beyond, such was the hum of people on the quays, and such
the star-like profusion of lights reflected in the water, that we doubted
not we had already reached the chief seat of the bustle of Rome. On,
however, we still held our course, till the theatre of Marcellus rose like
a mountain on our right. It was there that we ran our bark into the shore,
not far from the little bridge—the third as you ascend the river—which
conducts to the Island and the Temple of Æsculapius. While our friend was
settling matters with the master, and the attendants were bringing out our
baggage, I stood by myself on the elevated quay. Here a long tier of
reflected radiance bespoke, it may be, the vicinity of some splendid
portico—of palace, or temple, or bath, or theatre; there a broad and
steady blaze of burning red, indicated the abode of artizans, resolved, as
it seemed, on carrying their toil into the bosom of the night.
Between—some speck of lustre betrayed, perhaps, the lamp of the solitary
student, or the sober social hour of some peaceful family, assembled
around the hearth of their modest lares. Behold me then, said I, in the
capital of the globe; but were I to be swallowed up this moment in the
waves of Tiber, not one of all these lights would be dimmed.




                              _CHAPTER II._


Being told that my relation had his residence at no great distance, the
friendly Sabinus insisted upon escorting me thither in safety. We walked,
therefore, along two or three proud streets, which brought us near to the
Pantheon of Agrippa, and there the house was easily pointed out to us; its
porch decorated with recent palm-branches, which the Centurion said must
have been placed there by the joyful hands of some fortunate client. Here
having thanked this kind person, and left honest Boto among the crowd of
slaves in the vestibule, I was speedily conducted into the presence of the
Patrician.

I found him in a small upper chamber, lighted by a single silver lamp
suspended from the roof, enjoying, as it appeared, repose and relaxation
after the exertions of the day. He was reclining when I entered; and
although supper was long over, some fruits and other trifling things still
remained on the board. At table with him there was no one present,
excepting a Greek of solemn aspect, whom he introduced to me as the
superintendent of his son’s education, and Sextus himself, a modest and
ingenuous youth, who sat at the lower extremity of his father’s couch. He
was indeed a very mild and amiable young man, and I had more pleasure,
after a space, in surveying his features, than the more marked lineaments
of the other two. At first, however, nothing riveted my attention so much
as the energetic physiognomy of the Senator. The forepart of his head was
already quite bald, although the darkness of the short curls behind
testified that age was not the cause of this deformity. His eyes were
black and rapid, and his eyebrows vibrated in a remarkable manner, not
only when he spoke, but even when he was silent; indicating, as it
appeared, by their transitions, every new train of thought and imagination
within his mind. His style of conversation was quick and fervid, and his
gestures vehement as he spake; it being apparent, that, from restlessness
and vanity of disposition, he was continually exercising a needless
measure of mental activity and anxiety. Not satisfied with his own
sufficient richness of ideas, no thought could be expressed which he did
not immediately seize upon, and explain, even to him by whom it had been
first suggested, with much fluency and earnestness of illustration. On the
other hand, the guest, who wore a long beard reaching to his girdle,
preserved in all things an uncommon demureness of manner, restraining
every salient movement of his mind, and watching, with the gravity of a
Numa, the glancing eyes and sharp features of his patron. A roll of yellow
parchment graced his left hand, but the other was employed in selecting
from the table such articles as were most agreeable to his palate.
Licinius, although meagre in person, and at that time parched with
declamation, seemed to live in such a state of intellectual excitement,
that he thought little either of eating or drinking; therefore, the
Athenian, resigning, for the most part, his share of the conversation,
amused himself, in exchange, with the more trivial gratifications
abandoned to him by his host. Nor, if one might draw any conclusion from
his complexion and figure, was this the first occasion on which
Xerophrastes had exercised that species of humility.

When Licinius had inquired of me concerning my native place, and also
given a few words to the affairs which had brought me to the city, his
conversation was naturally directed to subjects more new to me, if not
more interesting to him. “You would observe,” said he, “the palm branches
at my door. They were won to-day by a five hours’ harangue before the
Centumviri. It is only in contests such as these that men of my order have
now any opportunity to exercise themselves, and preserve some remembrance
of those ancient worthies and great public characters that once adorned
the state. To these things, therefore, young kinsman, I entirely devote
myself; nor aim, like other citizens of rank, at passing the day in
diversion, and ending it with luxuries. At supper my table is furnished
with moderate fare, while in other houses I know not how many roasted
boars and pompous sturgeons have been regaling with the rich perfume of
their sauces and stuffing, guests who love the meat more than the man who
gives it. This learned person knows how laborious is my course of life,
and what an impatient crowd awaits my appearance every morning. His pupil
will, I hope, tread in the same steps, and afford to a future generation
the image of the former Licinius.” With these, and the like discourses, he
occupied our ears till it was time to retire; and then intimated that he
had allotted to me an apartment which he expected I would continually
occupy during my residence in the city. But being informed that I had a
British slave with me, he insisted on having this man sent for, that he
might see him, as he expressed it, before the genuine unsophisticated
barbarian had been corrupted by keeping company with the cunning menials
of the metropolis. Whereupon, it was commanded that Boto should come up,
and he was forthwith ushered in by a certain leering varlet, with rings in
his ears, whose face resembled some comic mask in the habitual archness of
its malicious and inquisitive look.

Not few were the bows and scrapes with which my Briton entered these
penetralia; nor was the astonishment inconsiderable with which the orator
regarded Boto. “So, friend,” said Licinius,—“and you have ventured to come
to Rome, without so much as shaving your beard?” But the merry and
good-natured tone in which these words were uttered, having somewhat
reassured the bashful rustic, he gave a sly side-look towards the
philosopher, (who, I think, had never once glanced at him,) and replied to
Licinius, “Pardon me, O master, for coming thus into your presence; but I
knew not, till Dromo told me, that beards were worn in Rome only by goats
and the wisest of mankind.” The words of the barbarian amused the
orator—but, turning round to his own slave, “Ah! Dromo,” said he, “do I
already recognize the effects of your teaching?—beware the whip, corrupt
not this good Briton, at your peril.” He then asked of Boto various
questions concerning his recent voyage; to all of which he made answers
after his own fashion, sufficiently sagacious. Great contempt, however,
was depicted on the face of the silent stoic during this conversation;
which he, no doubt, looked upon as a very unworthy condescension on the
part of Licinius; till at last, having, in a leisurely manner, poured out
the last of the flagon, Xerophrastes arose from his couch and departed. As
he withdrew, he unfortunately struck his knee on the corner of the table,
which elicited from his stubborn features a sudden contortion. This,
however, he immediately smoothed of, twisting his involuntary stoop into
an obeisance to the Senator.

Young Sextus conducted me to my chamber; and we conversed together with
easy juvenile confidence for some time before he left me.




                              _CHAPTER III._


My sleep was sound and sweet; nevertheless, when the morning began to
dawn, I was awakened by its first glimmerings, and found that my thoughts
became at once too busy to admit of a return to slumber. I therefore
arose, and went to walk in an open gallery, with which my chamber was
connected. This gallery commanded a prospect of a great part of the city,
which at that hour appeared no less tranquil than stately, nothing being
in motion except a few small boats gliding here and there upon the river.
Neither as yet had any smoke begun to darken the atmosphere; so that all
things were seen in a serene and steady light, the shadows falling broadly
westward over streets and squares—but pillars, and obelisks, and arches,
rising up every where with unsullied magnificence into the bright air of
the morning. The numerous poplars and other lofty trees of the gardens,
also, seemed to be rejoicing in the hour of dew and silence; so fresh and
cheerful was the intermixture of their branches among the piles of white
and yellow marble. Near at hand, over the groves of the Philoclean
Mansion, I could see the dome of the Pantheon, all burnished with living
gold, and the proud colonnades of the Flaminian Circus, loaded with armies
of brazen statues. Between these and the river, the theatres of Pompey and
Marcellus, and I know not how many temples, were visible. Across a more
crowded region, to the westward, my eye ascended to the cliffs and towers
of the Capitol; while, still farther removed from me, (although less
elevated in natural situation,) the gorgeous mansion of the Emperor was
seen, lifted up, like some new and separate city, upon its enormous fabric
of arcades. Behind me, the Flavian Amphitheatre, the newest and the most
majestic of all Roman edifices, detained the eye for a space from all that
lay beyond it—the splendid mass of the Esquiline—and those innumerable
aqueducts which lie stretched out, arch after arch, and pillar after
pillar, across the surrounding plain.

As I stood upon a projecting balcony, I heard some person stepping softly
along the floor, and, being screened by some pillars, looked back into the
gallery without subjecting myself to observation in return. The noise, I
found, was occasioned by one of the slaves of Licinius, (the same I had
remarked over night,) who had an air of anxious vigilance on this
occasion, looking about from side to side as if afraid of being detected
in some impropriety. I heard him tap at one of the apartments adjoining my
own, and young Sextus, opening the door, eagerly asked, “Well, Dromo, good
Dromo, what news?—Have you seen or heard any thing of her?—Speak low, I
beseech you, and remember that my preceptor is near.” “Which preceptor?”
replied Dromo; “count me your best, and I will teach you how to manage all
besides.”—“Hush!” whispered the young man; “he may be astir with these
eternal parchments.”—“Be easy,” returned the slave; “I have found out
facts which will serve to bridle that tongue at any time.”—“Dromo,” said
Sextus, “have a care; remember the thong of sleek leather which hangs at
the foot of the stair-case; and many is the time I have saved you from it;
for which you may, perhaps, have to thank the beauty of her who has
rendered you necessary to me, as much as my own good nature. But no more
idle words at present—what have you to tell me?”

“I have just been down,” answered he, “to the herb-market. I had made my
bargain, and was coming away, when I met one of old Capito’s men, driving
an ass laden with articles from the country. So I asked if he was carrying
a present to his master’s brother. He said he had brought nothing for
Lucius but a letter; and that he believed its purport was to invite the
two young ladies, to come out to-day and enjoy the beauty of the season. I
no sooner got this information, than I ran hither as swiftly as my legs
would carry me. You can easily go out, as if by chance, to pay your
respects to the Patrician.”

“Ah, Sempronia!” sighed Sextus, “shall I approach you at last?—What will
she think when she sees me there?—Oh, how will she speak to me?”

While he was uttering these words, Dromo suddenly started, and came
peeping on tiptoe towards the place where I stood. I stepped from behind
my pillar, and said to the astonished youth, “Fear not, Sextus, that I
shall intermeddle with your secrets, or make any use of what I have
accidentally overheard. But I wish you would satisfy my curiosity, and
inform me who is this lady, and what may be the meaning of all this
concealment?”

Here Dromo, perceiving that his young master was a good deal confused,
came forward and said, “From observing your looks last night, when I was
making a handle of yon barbarian to torture our friend of the porch, I
think you are a good-natured person, who would not willingly bring any of
us into trouble. The truth is, that Licinius wishes my young master here
to marry a certain lady, who has already had wet eyes over the ashes of a
first husband; but who is of noble birth, and very rich. Now Sextus, being
only eighteen, does not like this great lady so well as she likes him; and
has, in fact, lost his heart elsewhere.”—“Dromo,” answered I, taking young
Sextus by the hand as I spoke, “this is a pretty common sort of story; but
I shall take no side till I have seen both of the ladies; and the sooner
your ingenuity can bring that about, the more shall I be beholden to
you.”—“We shall try,” replied the slave, observing that I had overcome the
reluctance of the lover; “but in the meantime I observe that the clients
are beginning to assemble in the porch, to await the forthcoming of
Licinius. Go, therefore, and get some breakfast, for, by and by, you will
both be expected to accompany the Senator to the Forum, to hear him plead;
which, between ourselves, will be a six hours’ job for you, unless you
manage matters dexterously.”

This hint produced a visible effect on Sextus; but we went down together
immediately to an apartment, where some bread and grapes were prepared for
us; and there, with much ingenuousness, he opened his heart to me. But
what surprised me most of all, was to hear, that although he had been
enamoured of Sempronia for several months, and was well acquainted with
several of her relations, he had never yet seen her, except at certain
places of public resort, nor enjoyed any opportunity of making known his
passion.

While I was expressing my astonishment at this circumstance, we were
interrupted by Xerophrastes, who came to inform us that Licinius, having
already descended into the hall, was about to issue forth, and desirous of
my company, if no other occupation detained me. We accordingly followed
the philosopher, and found his patron where he had indicated, pacing to
and fro, in the highest state of excitation, like a generous steed about
to scour the field of battle. The waxen effigies of his ancestors stood at
one end of the hall, some of them defaced with age; and upon these he
frequently fixed his ardent eyes. Seeing me enter, he immediately cried
out, “Come hither, young friend, and I shall presently conduct you to a
scene worthy, above all others, of the curiosity of a stranger.”

With this, arranging his gown, and putting himself into a dignified
attitude, he ordered the porter, who stood chained by the door, to throw
wide its massy valves; which being done, the litigants and consulters, who
were without, received the orator with acclamations, and surrounded him on
all sides. Some of the poorer ones, I observed kissing the hem of his
garment, and dodging wistfully at his elbows, without ever attracting a
word or look from him; while those of a higher class came forward more
familiarly, seeking to impress particular circumstances upon his memory,
and paying him compliments on the appearance he had made the day before in
the Centumviral Court. Encircled by this motley group, he walked towards
the great Forum, followed at a little distance by Sextus, the preceptor,
myself, and some freedmen of his household. In moving on, we passed, by
accident, the door of another great pleader, by name Bruttianus, who stood
there attended in a similar manner. When he perceived Licinius, this man
took from his door-post a green palm-branch, and waved it towards us in a
vaunting manner; but our friend, saluting him courteously, cried out, with
his sharp and cutting voice, “We shall try it again.” Whereon
Xerophrastes, immediately stepping up to his patron, began thus, “How this
vain-glorious person exposes himself!—he is certainly a weak man; and his
tones, by Hermes, are more detestable than those of an African fowl.”—At
which words, Sextus tipped me the wink; but I did not observe that
Licinius was at all displeased with them. Yet, soon after, Bruttianus
having overtaken us, the processions were joined, and the two pleaders
walked the rest of the way together in a loving manner, exchanging
complimentary speeches; to which Xerophrastes listened with edifying
gravity of visage.

At length we entered that venerable space, every yard of whose surface is
consecrated to the peculiar memory of some great incident in the history
of Rome. Young Sextus allowed me to contemplate for some time, with silent
wonder, the memorable objects which conspired to the decoration of this
remarkable place; but after the first gaze of astonishment was satisfied,
proceeded to point out, in order, the names and uses of the principal
structures which rose on every side over its porticos—above all, of its
sublime temples—into whose cool and shady recesses the eye could here and
there penetrate through the open valves. Nor did the ancient rostrum from
which Tully had declaimed, escape our observation—nor within its guarding
rail of silver, the rising shoots of the old mysterious fig-tree of
Romulus—nor the rich tesselated pavement which covered the spot that had
once yawned an abyss before the steady eye of Curtius—nor the resplendent
Milliary pillar which marked the centre of the place. In a word, had the
gathering crowds permitted, I could have willingly spent many hours in
listening to the explanation of such magnificent objects; but these, and
the elevated voice of Licinius, who was just beginning his harangue, soon
compelled me to attend to things of another description.

Within one of the proud ranges of arcade, on the side nearest to the
Capitoline stairs, a majestic Patrician had already taken his seat on an
elevated tribunal—his assessors being arranged on a lower bench by his
side, and the orators and clients congregated beneath. When I heard the
clear and harmonious periods of my kinsman; when I observed with what
apparent simplicity he laid his foundations in a few plain facts and
propositions; with what admirable art he upreared from these a
superstructure of conclusions, equally easy as unexpected; when he had
conducted us to the end of his argument, and closed with a burst of
passionate eloquence, in which he seemed to leave even himself behind him,
I could not but feel as if I had now for the first time contemplated the
practised strength of intellect. Yet I have lived to discover that the
talent which so greatly excited my wonder is often possessed from nature,
or acquired through practice, in a measure which at that time would have
afforded me scarcely inferior delight, by men of no extraordinary rank.

The keen and lively gestures of the fervid Licinius, whose soul seemed to
speak out of every finger he moved, and who appeared to be altogether
immersed in the cause he pleaded, were succeeded by the solemn and
somewhat pompous stateliness of Bruttianus, who made a brief pause between
every two sentences, as if he were apprehensive that the mind of the judge
could not keep pace with the stream of his illustrations, and looked round
ever and anon upon the spectators with a placid and assured smile, rather,
as it seemed to me, to signify his approbation of their taste in
applauding him, than his own pleasure in their applauses. Nevertheless, he
also was a splendid speaker, and his affectation displeased the more,
because it was evidently unworthy of his understanding. While he was
speaking, I observed that the Stoic preceptor was frequently shifting his
place among the crowd, and muttering every where expressions of high
contempt. But this did not disgust me so much as the fixed attitude of
ecstasy in which he listened to the discourse of his own patron, and the
pretended involuntary exclamations of his delight. “Oh, admirable
cadence!” he would say, “I feel as if I were draining a honey-comb. Oh,
harmonious man, where have I, or any other person here, sucked in such
sweetness!” These absurd phrases, however, were caught up forthwith, and
repeated by the numerous young men who hung upon the skirts of the orator,
and seemed, indeed, to be drinking in nectar from the speech, if one might
judge from their countenances. From their taking notes in their tablets
from time to time, and from the knowing looks they assumed at the
commencement of every new chain of argument, I guessed that these might be
embryo jurisconsults, preparing themselves by their attendance for future
exertions of the same species; and, indeed, when I listened to their
conversation at the close of every speech, I thought I could perceive in
their tones and accents, studied mimicry of the natural peculiarities of
Licinius, Bruttianus, and the other orators. Altogether, the scene was as
full of amusement as of novelty, and I could willingly have remained to
the end of the discussion. But my eyes chanced to fall upon young Sextus,
and I could not but see that his mind was occupied in matters remote from
the business of the Forum. He stood with his arms folded in his gown, and
his eyes fixed upon the ground, only lifting them up from time to time
with an impatient air towards a side entrance, or to observe by the
shadows on the porticos what progress the sun was making.

Perceiving, at length, that Xerophrastes had his back turned to us, and
that his father was engaged with his tablets, he plucked me by the sleeve.
I understood his meaning, and followed him quickly through the crowd; nor
did we look back till we had left the noise of the Forensic assembly
entirely behind us. “I am depriving you,” he said, “of no great
gratification, for that old creature is, indeed, possessed of much natural
shrewdness, but he is bitter from observing that his reputation is rather
eclipsed by younger people, and looks like some worn-out and discarded
cat, grinning from the top of the wall at the dalliance of some sleeker
rival. You could find no delight in the angry sneerings of such an envious
person; and his age would prevent you, at the same time, from willingly
giving way to contemptuous emotions. I will be your guide to the villa.
But if any questions be asked on our return, you can say I was anxious to
shew you something of the other regions of the city.”

He hurried me through noble streets, and past innumerable edifices, before
each of which I would gladly have paused. Nevertheless, seeing him wrapped
up in anxious thoughts, I did not oppose myself to his inclinations; and
ere long, having passed the Hill of Gardens, I found that we had gained
the eastern limit of the city.




                              _CHAPTER IV._


A sharp walk of about an hour and a half on the Salarean Way, brought us
within sight of the Suburban of Capito.

A lofty wall protected the fields of this retirement from the intrusive
eyes of passengers. We entered by a small side-door, and found ourselves,
as if by some magical delusion, transported from the glare of a Roman
highway, into the depth and silence of some primeval forest. No nicely
trimmed path conducted our feet. Every thing had at least the appearance
of being left as nature had formed it. The fern rustled beneath us as we
moved; the ivy was seen spreading its careless tresses from tree to tree;
the fawn bounded from the thicket. By degrees, however, the gloom
lessened, till at length, over an open space of lawn, we perceived the
porch of entrance, and a long line of colonnade. We passed under the
porch, and across a paved court where a fountain was playing, into the
great hall, which commanded all the other side of the place—a noble
prospect of elaborate gardens gradually rising into shady hills, and lost
in a distance of impenetrable wood.

Here a freedman attended us, who informed us that Capito had retired into
a sequestered part of the grounds with some friends from the city; but
that if we chose we could easily join him there. We assented, and,
following his guidance, ere long traversed no narrow space of luxuriant
cultivation. From one perfumed terrace we descended to another; till,
having reached a certain green and mossy walk, darkened by a natural
arching of vines and mulberries, the freedman pointed to a statue at the
farther end, and told us it stood over against the entrance of his
master’s summer-house. When we reached the statue, however, we could
perceive no building. The shaded avenue terminated in face of a
precipitous rock, from which there fell a small stream that was received
in a massive basin, where the waters foamed into spray without
transgressing the margin. A thousand delicious plants and far-sought
flowers clustered around the base of the rock and the brink of the
fountain, and the humming of innumerable bees mingled with the whispers of
the stream. We stood for a moment uncertain whether we should move on or
retire, when we heard one calling to us from beyond; and passing to the
other side of the basin, descried, between the rock and the falling water,
a low entrance into what seemed to be a natural cave or grotto. We
stooped, and found ourselves within one of the most luxurious retirements
ever haunted by the foot of Dryad. A sparry roof hung like a canopy of
gems and crystals over a group of sculptured Nymphs and Fawns, which were
placed on a rustic pedestal within a circular bath shaped out of the
living stone. Around the edge of the waveless waters that slumbered in
this green recess, were spread carpets rich with the dyes of Tyrian art,
whereon Capito was reposing with his friends. He received Sextus with
kindness, and me with politeness, introducing us both to his companions,
who were three in number—all of them, like himself, advanced in years, and
two of them wearing long beards, though their demeanour was destitute of
any thing like the affected stateliness of our friend Xerophrastes. These
two, as our host informed us, were Greeks and Rhetoricians—the third, a
Patrician of the house of the Pontii, devoted, like himself, to the
pursuits of philosophy and the pleasures of a literary retirement.

They were engaged, when we joined them, in a conversation which had sprung
from the perusal of some new metaphysical treatise. One of the Greeks, the
more serene-looking of the pair, was defending its doctrines with
earnestness of manner, although in a low and measured cadence of voice;
the other espoused the opposite side, with quickness of utterance and
severe animation of look; while the two lordly Romans seemed to be
contenting themselves, for the most part, with listening, although it was
not difficult to perceive from their countenances, that the one sided in
opinion with the Stoic, and Capito himself with the Epicurean.

They all arose presently, and proceeded to walk together, without
interrupting the conversation, along the same shaded avenue which Sextus
and myself had already traversed. He and I moved along with them, but a
little in their rear—my companion being still too much abstracted to
bestow his attention on what they were saying; while I myself, being but
little an adept in such mysteries, amused myself rather with the exterior
and manners of the men, than with the merits of the opinions they were
severally defending. The Greeks were attired in the graceful costume of
their country, which was worn, however, far more gracefully by the
Epicurean than his brother,—the materials of his robe being delicate, and
its folds arranged with studied elegance, whereas the coarse garment of
the Stoic had apparently engaged less attention. Nevertheless, there was a
more marked difference between the attire of Capito and that of Pontius
Mamurra; for the former was arrayed in a tunic of the whitest cloth,
beneath which appeared fine linen rollers, swathing his thighs and legs,
to protect them, as I supposed, from the heat and the insects, and a pair
of slippers, of dark violet-coloured cloth, embroidered with silver
flowers; while the other held his arms folded in the drapery of an old but
genuine toga, which left his yet strong and sinewy nether limbs exposed to
the weather, all except what was covered by his tall black sandals and
their senatorian crescents.

As we passed on, our host from time to time directed the attention of his
visiters, more particularly of the two Greeks, to the statues of bronze
and marble, which were placed at convenient intervals along the terraces
of his garden. The symmetry of these figures, and the graceful simplicity
of their attitudes, inspired me with I know not what of calm and soothing
pleasure such as I had never before tasted, so that I thought I could have
lingered for ever amidst these haunts of philosophic luxury. The images
were, for the most part, portraits of illustrious men—Greeks, Romans—sages
and heroes; but beautiful female forms were not wanting, nor majestic
representations of gods and demi-gods, and all the ethereal imaginations
of the Grecian poets. Seeing the name of Jupiter inscribed upon one of the
pedestals, I paused for a moment to contemplate the glorious
personification of might and wisdom, depositing, at the same time, a
handful of roses at the feet of the statue—upon which I could observe that
my behaviour furnished some mirth to the Epicurean Demochares; while, on
the contrary, Euphranor, the disciple of the Porch, approved of what I
did, and rebuked his companion for saying any thing that might even by
possibility disturb the natural piety of an innocent youth. But the Roman
Stoic stood by with a smile of stately scorn; and utter indifference was
painted on the countenance of Capito. At another time, Sextus having staid
behind to examine the beauties of a certain statue of Diana, which
represented the goddess stretched out in careless slumber on the turf,
with a slender grayhound at her feet, the Epicurean began to rally me on
having a taste inferior to that of my friend, whose devotion, he said,
could not be blamed, being paid to an exquisite imitation of what the
great Nature of things had decreed should ever be the most agreeable of
all objects in the eyes of a person of his age.—“Whereas you,” continued
he, “appear to be more occupied with deep-hung eye-brows, ambrosial
beards, and fantastic thunderbolts, and the other exuberances of Homeric
imagination.”

To this reproach I made no reply, but Capito immediately began to recite
some verses of a Hymn of Calimachus, in which both the Greeks joined him;
nor could any thing be more delightful than the harmonious numbers. A
sudden exclamation of my friend, however, interrupted them, and Capito,
looking up a long straight pathway, said, “Come, Valerius, we shall see
whether you or Sextus is the more gallant to living beauties, for here
come my nieces. I assure you, I know not of which of them I am the more
proud; but Sempronia has more of the Diana about her, so it is probable
she may find a ready slave in our Sextus.”

We advanced, and the uncle, having tenderly saluted them, soon presented
us to their notice. Sextus blushed deeply when he found himself introduced
to Sempronia, while in her smile, although she looked at him as if to say
she had never seen him before, I thought I could detect a certain
half-suppressed something of half-disdainful archness—the colour in her
cheeks, at the same time, being not entirely unmoved. She was, indeed, a
very lovely girl, and in looking on her light dancing play of features, I
could easily sympathize with the young raptures of my friend. Her dress
was such as to set off her charms to the utmost advantage, for the bright
green of her Byssine robe, although it would have been a severe trial to
any ordinary complexion, served only to heighten the delicious brilliancy
of hers. A veil, of the same substance and colour, richly embroidered with
flowers of silver tissue, fell in flowing drapery well-nigh to her knees.
Her hair was almost entirely concealed by this part of her dress, but a
single braid of the brightest nut-brown was visible low down on her
polished forehead. Her eyes were black as jet, and full of a nymph-like
vivacity.

The other, Athanasia, was not a dazzling beauty. Taller than her cousin,
and darker-haired, but with eyes rather light than otherwise, of a clear,
somewhat melancholy gray—with a complexion paler than is usual in Italy, a
demeanour hovering between cheerfulness and innocent gravity, and attired
with a vestal simplicity in the old Roman tunic, and cloak of white
cloth—it is possible that most men might have regarded her less than the
other. A single star of diamonds, planted high up among her black hair,
was the only ornament she wore.

At the request of the younger lady, we all returned to the grotto, in the
neighbourhood of which, as I have already mentioned, our tasteful host had
placed the rarest of his exotic plants, some of which Sempronia was now
desirous of inspecting. As we paced again slowly over those smooth-shaven
alleys of turf, and between those rows of yews and box, clipped into
regular shapes, which abounded in this more artificial region, the
conversation, which the appearance of the cousins had disturbed, was
resumed; although, as out of regard to their presence, the voices of the
disputants preserved a lower and milder tone than before. I must confess,
however, that mild as was the manner of the discourse, I could not help
being somewhat astonished, that a polite Roman could permit such topics to
be discussed in the hearing of females; above all, that he did not
interpose to prevent Demochares from throwing out so many sarcastic
reflections concerning the deities whose statues decorated the garden. A
beautiful Mercury, in particular, which we all paused to admire, elicited
many observations, that I could easily see were far from being agreeable
to the fair cousins. But greatest of all was my wonder at the behaviour of
Capito himself, who, after we had again entered that delightful grotto,
turned himself to me as if peculiarly, and began a deliberate and
ingenious piece of declamation concerning the tenets of his favourite
philosophy;—such as the fortuitous concourse of atoms, the transitory and
fluctuating nature of all things, and the necessity of snatching present
enjoyments, as nothing permanent can be discovered whereon to repose the
mind. With great elegance, indeed, did he enlarge on these golden
theories, nor did he fail to intersperse his discourse with many exquisite
verses from Lucretius and other poetical followers of his sect. Such,
however, was the earnestness of his declamation, that I could not help
believing him to be quite sincere to what he said, and asked him, not
without anxiety, whether he had all his life been an Epicurean, or whether
it was only of late that he had espoused that discipline.

“Valerius,” said he, “the question is not discreditable to your tender age
and provincial education. To be born wise, Fate or Heaven has denied to
the human race. It is their privilege to win wisdom for themselves; the
fault is their own, if they do not die wise. When the stripling enters
upon the theatre of the world, bright hopes are around him, and he moves
onward in the buoyancy of conscious power. The pride of young existence is
the essence and extract of all his innumerable sensations. Rejoicing in
the feeling of the real might that is, it is his delight to think—to
dream—of might existing and exerted as for ever. New to the material, but
still more to the moral world, he believes in the stability of all things
whose transitory nature has not been exhibited before him. New to the
tricks of mankind, he believes that to be said truly, which, why it should
be said falsely, he is unable to conjecture. For him, superstition has
equal potency to darken the past, and illuminate the future. At that early
period, when ignorance is of itself sufficient to produce a certain
happiness, the ambition is too high to admit such doctrines as I have no
shame in avowing. But time moves on, and every hour some tender plant is
crushed beneath his tread. The spirit clings long to its delusions. The
promise that is destroyed to-day springs into life to-morrow in some new
shape; and Hope, like some warring deity of your poets, bleeds and sickens
only to revive again. But disappointment at length gathers to itself the
vigour of an enduring form. The horizon becomes colder around us—the soul
waxes faint and more faint within. It is then that man begins to recognize
the true state, not of his own nature alone, but of all things that
surround him—that having tasted much of evil, he is taught to feel the
value of good—and weaning himself from vain-glorious dreams, learns the
great lesson of wisdom, to enjoy the moments as they pass—to snatch some
solid pleasure, at least, amidst a world of vision and imagination; so, in
a word, as the poet has expressed it, he may not have reason to complain
in the hour of death that he has never lived.

“In me,” he continued, “you behold one that has gone through the
experience necessary to produce an entire acquiescence in these doctrines.
I am one of those, Valerius, who have resolved to concentrate, after this
fashion, the whole of my dreams upon the hour that is. There are not
wanting, indeed, here and elsewhere, persons who profess the same
theories, only in the view of finding excuse and shelter for the practice
of vice. But till it be proved that the practice of vice is the best means
of enjoyment, in vain shall it be asserted that our doctrine is
essentially adverse to virtue. The mistakes or the misdeeds of individuals
must be estimated for nothing; for where is the doctrine that may not be
shewn to have been defended by impure livers? The founder of our sect is
acknowledged, by its most virulent enemies, to have been the most
blameless of men, and they, I must take leave to believe, can never be
sincere friends of virtue, who doubt, that he who is a true worshipper of
pleasure, may also be the worshipper of virtue.”

There was a certain something, as I thought, more like suppressed
melancholy than genuine hilarity, in the expression of the old man’s face,
as well as in the tone of his voice, while he gave utterance to these
sentiments; nor did any of those present appear desirous of protracting
the argument; although I did not imagine from their looks that any of them
had altered their opinion. What, however, I could not help remarking in a
particular manner, was the gentle regret painted in the countenance of the
elder niece, while Capito was speaking. The maiden sate over against him
all the while, her cheek supported on her left hand, with an expression of
tender affection. From time to time, indeed, she cast her eye upward with
a calm smile, but immediately resumed her attitude of pensive abstraction.
Her uncle took her hand in his when he had done speaking, and kissed it
gently, as if to apologize for having said any thing disagreeable to her.
She smiled again upon the sceptic, and walked by herself, (for I could not
help following her with my eye,) down into a dark walk of pines that
branched off at the right hand from the entrance into the grotto. There I
saw her stoop and pluck a pale flower. This she placed in her bosom, and
then rejoined us with a more cheerful aspect; after which, we all walked
towards the villa. Nor did it escape my notice, that, although Sempronia
appeared willing to avoid Sextus as we went, it always happened, by some
accident or other, that he was nearer to her than any other person of the
company.

They were both at a little distance behind the rest of the party, when
Euphranor addressed himself to me, saying, “Is not this youth, your
companion, the same that is under the guidance of a certain
Xerophrastes?”—“The same,” said I, “and a wary, sage-looking Athenian is
his tutor. I believe he also is of the Porch.”—“No doubt,” interrupted
Demochares; “he has a beard that Zeno might have been proud of, and walks
as if he conceived himself to be the chief pillar of the Porch, if not the
Porch itself.”—“Who shall prevent Demochares from having his jest?”
replied Euphranor. “The man is by birth a Thessalian, and his gutturals
still remind one strongly of his native hills.”—I would gladly have heard
more of it, but he was interrupted by the nearer approach of the rest.




                               _CHAPTER V._


Before the hour of taking the bath, we exercised ourselves for some time
in the tennis-court, where I could not but admire, especially after having
heard Capito philosophise, the vigour and agility displayed by him as well
as his companions. I was then conducted into the baths, where, after being
washed and perfumed in the most luxurious manner, I was arrayed in an
elegant supper-garment by one of the slaves of our host. At table we were
joined again by the ladies, who both reclined on the same couch with their
uncle. Three comely youths attended us, in short tunics, and girt with
napkins of fine linen; but, during the repast, an ancient female slave
stood in silence behind the couch of the young ladies. A small fountain of
alabaster played between two tall candelabra of the same material, at the
farther end of the apartment; and a young damsel stood beside them,
swinging slowly from time to time a silver censer, from which clouds of
delicate odour rolled up to the mirrored roof.

In all things the feast was splendid; but there was no appearance of
useless or vain ostentation. Every thing was conducted in a style of great
calmness and order, without the least formality. The repast interrupted
not the conversation, which went on in a manner to me equally instructive
as entertaining; although I must confess the presence of Athanasia
sometimes rendered me inattentive to what was spoken. I could not divest
myself of the idea, that some unknown circumstance was pressing on the
mind of the fair creature, and that when she smiled upon those who
addressed her, it was sometimes to conceal her ignorance of that which had
been said.

Being asked by Capito, I endeavoured, among other things, to inform him
and his friends, as far as I could, concerning the then condition of this
island, which, more particularly after the exploits of Agricola, had come
to be a subject of some interest. In return, the chief topics which then
occupied the capital were discussed by them, as I perceived, in a great
measure on my account; and I listened with delight to the praises, which
they all agreed on bestowing on the new Emperor. Many anecdotes were
narrated, which tended to strengthen the feelings of admiration, with
which I had already been accustomed to contemplate his character. But
others were told, as the conversation went on, which I could not so easily
reconcile with the idea I had formed of him.

For example, I was somewhat disturbed with what they told me concerning
his treatment of the Christians, who, as we understood in Britain, had
been suffered to live in tranquillity ever since Nerva acceded to the
empire. But now, from the circumstances related, it appeared that the mild
and humane Trajan had taken up, in regard to this sect, the whole aversion
of Domitian; every day some cruel catastrophe was made known of some
person who had adopted their tenets. Being ignorant of the nature of those
tenets, and having heard only in general terms that they were of Jewish
origin, dark, and mystical, I was at a loss to account for the extreme
hatred of the Prince, or rather for his condescending to give himself so
much trouble concerning a matter so obscure and seemingly trifling.

Capito, however, assured me, that although I might have good occasion to
wonder at the steps taken by the Emperor, it would no longer be said by
any one, that the progress of the Christian sect deserved to be considered
as a matter either of obscurity, or of no consequence. “On the contrary,”
said he, “from what you have just heard of the numbers and quality of
those that have lately suffered various punishments, you cannot hesitate
to admit that the head of the empire has been justified in considering it
as a subject worthy his attention.”

“We have adopted the gods of many nations,” said Pontius Mamurra, “nor do
I see why, because the Jews have been unfortunate in a contest with Rome,
we should take it for granted that theirs are unworthy of respect. If,
however, as we have heard asserted, he who embraces this creed becomes an
infidel in regard to the deities of Rome, I say Cæsar does well in
refusing toleration to the intolerant superstition. Domitian was a tyrant,
and a monster of humanity; the late prince was wise and good; and yet it
may be, that, in regard to these Christians, the principle of Domitian’s
conduct was right in the main, and that of Nerva’s wrong. But you, Capito,
regard both sides of the question, I have no doubt, with the same
indifference.”

“I hope,” replied Capito, “I shall never regard with indifference any
question, in which the interest of the empire and the honour of Trajan are
concerned. But if you mean only that I am indifferent about the nature of
this Syrian superstition, you are in the right. I have no knowledge of its
dogmas, nor desire to have. I presume they have their share of that old
eastern barbarity, in the shady places of which the elder Greeks used to
think they could discover the outlines of something really grand and
majestic.”

“It may be so,” said Mamurra; “but if the superstition be found dangerous
to the state, the Prince does well in repressing its progress. That is the
only question of which I spake.”—“There is, indeed, no other,” said
Capito; “I thought of none.”—“And how do you answer it, dear uncle?” said
Athanasia, (lifting herself up, for the first time, to take part in the
conversation.)—“Nay, my love,” said the old man, “to answer that is the
business of Cæsar, and of the Senate. I only regret, that blood should be
shed, and citizens exiled; above all, in the reign of a just and merciful
Prince.—Sempronia,” continued he, “what is that strange story your father
was telling about one of the daughters of Serennius?”

“They only allege,” replied Sempronia, with a smile, “that Tertulla had a
flirtation with a handsome young Greek, and the Greek happened to be a
Christian,—and she was converted by the Greek,—and she was found out in
going with him to some secret assembly of these people, in a vault by the
Vatican Hill,—and her father has been glad to send her to Corsica, partly
to escape the lawyers, and partly, I suppose, in hopes that the quietness
of the island, and the absence of handsome young Christians, may perhaps,
in time, restore poor Tertulla to her right mind—This is all. Do you think
that a strange story, uncle?” “Not, if it be exactly as you have told it,
Sempronia. What says Athanasia?” Athanasia answered gravely, that she was
sorry for Tertulla, and had never heard any thing of the young Greek
before.

By this time, the increasing darkness of the chamber had warned me that we
ought to be thinking of our return. I had more than once looked towards
Sextus, but he refused to meet my eye. When I was on the point of
speaking, Sempronia, starting from her couch, exclaimed, that she was sure
there was thunder in the skies; and presently flash after flash gleamed
along the horizon. All sat silent, as if awe-struck; but Sempronia was the
only one that seemed to be in terror from the tempest. Nevertheless, my
eyes rested more on Athanasia, who looked paler than she had done,
although her countenance preserved its serenity. “How awful,” said I, “is
the voice of Jupiter!” Athanasia folded her arms upon her bosom, and
lifting her eyes to heaven, said in a whisper,—“How awful is the voice of
God!” She then dropt her hand on the end of her couch, and half
unconsciously taking hold of it in mine, I asked her if she was afraid.
“No,” said she, “I am not afraid, but the heaviness of the air makes me
faint, and I never can listen to thunder without feeling something
extraordinary within me.”

Capito said, he could not think of our going into the city that evening,
and that we must all make up our minds to remain in the villa. The
countenance of Sextus brightened up, and he looked to me as if to ask my
assent. I was easily persuaded, and our host despatched a messenger to
inform Licinius of the cause of our absence. The old man then led us into
another apartment, which was richly furnished with books and paintings.
Here he read for some time out of one of the poets, to a party, none of
whom, I am afraid, were very attentive in listening to him, till, the hour
of rest being come, we were conducted to our several apartments, Sextus
and myself, indeed, being lodged in the same chamber.

We were no sooner left alone than I began to rally my friend on the beauty
of his mistress, and the earnest court he had been paying her. The youth
listened with blushes of delight to her praises, but seemed not to have
the least idea that he had been so fortunate as to make any impression on
her mind. On the contrary, he scarcely appeared to be aware of having done
any thing to attract attention from her, and expressed astonishment when I
assured him, that his behaviour had been such as could not possibly admit
of more than one explanation in the eyes of a person so quick and
vivacious as the lovely Sempronia.

After we had both retired to our beds, and the lights were extinguished,
we still continued for some time to talk over the incidents of our visit,
and the future prospects of Sextus and his love; until at length sleep
overpowered us in easy bonds, and agreeable dreams followed, I doubt not,
in the hearts of us both, the thoughts and sights of a delightful day.
Mine surely were delightful, for they were all of Athanasia. Yet, even in
the visions of the night, I could never gaze on her face without some
strange impression of mystery. I saw her placid smile—I heard the sweet
low cadence of her voice—but I felt, and I could not feel it without a
certain indescribable anxiety, that her deep thoughts were far away.




                              _CHAPTER VI._


I awoke early, and drew near to the bed of Sextus; but seeing that he was
fast asleep, and that a quiet smile was on his lips, I could not think of
awakening him. The sun shone bright into the apartment, and I resolved to
walk forth and breathe the balmy air of the garden.

The moisture was still heavy on the green paths, and the birds were
singing among glittering leaves; the god-like statues stood unscathed in
their silent beauty. I walked to and fro, enjoying the enchantment of the
scene;—a new feeling of the beauty of all things seemed to have been
breathed into my soul; and the pensive grace of Athanasia hovered over my
imagination, like some presiding genius of the groves.

I found myself near the favourite grotto, and had stood over against its
entrance for some space, contemplating the augmented stream as it fell
from the superincumbent rock, and regretting the ravage which the nightly
tempest had made among the delicate flowers round its basin. Twice I
thought I heard the murmurs of a voice, and twice I persuaded myself that
it was only the rippling of the waters; but the third time I was satisfied
that some person must be near. I passed between the water and the rock,
and beheld the fair creature that had been occupying so many of my
thoughts, kneeling far within the grotto, as it seemed, in supplication.
To disturb her by advancing farther, would have been impious; to retire,
without the risk of disturbing her, almost impossible; but I remained
there fixed to the spot, without perhaps considering all these things as I
should have done. The virgin modesty of her attitude was holy in my eyes,
and the thought never occurred to me, that I might be doing wrong in
permitting myself to witness the simple devotions of Athanasia. “Great
God, listen to my prayers,” was all I understood of what she said; but she
whispered for some moments in a lowly and fervent tone, and I saw that she
kissed something with her lips ere she arose from her knees. She then
plunged her hands into the well, by whose brink she had knelt, and turned
round to the light. “Athanasia, forgive me,” was already on my lips; but
on seeing me, she uttered a faint cry and fell prostrate upon the marble.
I rushed forward, lifted up her head, and laved water from the fountain,
till I saw her lips tremble. At last she opened her eyes, and after gazing
on me wildly for a moment, she gathered her strength, and stood quite
upright, supporting herself against the wall of the grotto. “Great
heavens!” cried I, “in what have I offended, that I should be rendered the
cause of affliction to Athanasia? Speak, lady, and say that you forgive
me.”

“I thought,” said she, with a proud calmness, “that Valerius was of
Roman—of Patrician blood. What brings him to be a spy upon the secret
moments of a Patrician maiden?”—Then bursting into a tone of unutterable
fervour, “Speak,” said she, “young man, what have you heard? How long have
you stood here? Am I betrayed?”

“Witness, heaven and earth!” cried I, kneeling, “and witness every god,
that I have heard nothing, except to know that you were praying. I have
only seen you kneeling, and been guilty of gazing on your beauty.” “You
heard not the words of my prayer?” said she. “No, not its words,
Athanasia, nor any thing of its purpose.” “Do you swear this to me, young
man?” “Yes, I swear by Jupiter and by Rome—as I am a man and a Roman, I
know not, neither do I desire to know, any thing of what you said. Forgive
me for the fault of my indiscretion—you have no other to forgive.”

Athanasia paused for a moment, and then resuming more of her usual tone of
voice, (although its accents were still somewhat disturbed and faltering,)
said to me, “Valerius, since the thing is so, I have nothing to forgive.
It is you that must pardon me for my suspicion.” “Distress me not,
Athanasia,” said I, “by speaking such words.” “From this hour, then,” said
she, “what has passed here is forgotten. We blot it from our
memories;”—and with that, as if in token of the paction, she extended to
me her hand. I kissed it as I knelt, and swore that all things were safe
with me; but added, as I arose, “that I was afraid I should be promising
more than I should be able to perform,—did I say I should be able to
forget any hour, or any place, where I had seen Athanasia.” “Nay,” said
she, “no compliment, or I shall begin to suspect you of insincerity.” I
was then about to withdraw from the grotto; but seeing a scroll of
parchment lying at the feet of Athanasia, I stooped, and presented it to
her, saying, “I was afraid she might forget it.” She took it eagerly, and
saying, “Of that there was no danger,” placed it in her bosom, within the
folds of her tunic. She was then gathering up her black tresses, and
fastening them hastily on the back part of her head, when we heard the
sound of footsteps not far off, and beckoning to me to remain where I was,
she darted from me, and in a moment vanished among the trees. I waited for
a few minutes, and then stepping forth, beheld her walking at a distance,
beside her sister, in the direction of the villa. They were soon lost
among the paths, and I returned alone into the grotto.

I sat down beside the dark well, wherein she had dipt her hands, and mused
in a most disturbed mood on all the particulars of this strange and
unexpected interview. Every motion of her features—every modulation of her
voice, was present with me; I had gathered them all into my heart, and I
felt that I must cherish them there for ever. From the first moment I saw
her, my eyes had been constrained to gaze upon her with an interest quite
novel to me; but now I knew that she could not smile, without making my
heart faint within me, and that the least whisper of her voice was able to
bring tears into mine eyes. Now I thought of my own unworthiness, and
could not help saying to myself, “Why should a poor ignorant provincial,
such as I am, be torturing myself with the thoughts of such a creature as
this?” Then, again, some benign glance of hers would return before me, and
I could not help having some faint hopes, that her innocent heart might be
won to me by faithful unwearied love. But what always threw me back into
despair, was the recollection of the mystery that I knew hung over her
mind, although what it was I could not know. That she had been saying
something in her prayers which could not be overheard without betraying
her, she had herself confessed. What could be this secret, so cherished in
dread, and in darkness?—A crime?—No crime could sully the clear bosom of
her innocence. No consciousness of guilt could be concealed beneath that
heavenly visage. But perhaps she had been made the confidante of some
erring,—some unhappy friend. Perhaps, in her prayer, she had made mention
of another’s name, and implored the pardon of another’s guilt. Last of
all, why might it not be so, that the maiden loved, and was beloved again;
that she might have some reason to regard any casual betrayal of her
affection as a calamity; and that, having uttered the name of her lover in
her secret supplications, her terrors might all have been occasioned by
her apprehensions of my having overheard it? And yet there was something
in the demeanour of Athanasia, that I could not bring myself to reconcile
entirely with any one of these suppositions. Had she feared that I had
overheard any confession of guilt,—even of the guilt of another,—surely
some semblance of shame would have been mingled with her looks of terror.
Had she apprehended only the discovery of an innocent love, surely her
blushes would have been deeper, and her boldness less. Yet the last
solution of the difficulty was that which haunted me the most powerfully.

When I came forth into the open air, I perceived that the sun was already
high in heaven, and proceeded in haste towards the villa, not doubting
that Sextus and Capito would be astonished by the length of my absence. I
found them and the ladies walking under the northern colonnade, having
returned, as they told me, from a fruitless search after me through almost
the whole of the garden. I looked to Athanasia, as if to signify that she
well knew where I might have been found; but, although I saw that she
understood my meaning, she said nothing in explanation. Sextus drew me
aside shortly after, and told me, that his father had sent to inform him,
that our presence was necessary in the city before supper-time, to attend
a great entertainment which was to be given that evening by the lady whose
cause he had successfully pleaded in the Forum on the preceding day; which
lady, I now for the first time learned, was no other than the same Marcia
Rubellia, to whom his father was very anxious the youth should be married.
The success of this pleading had increased very much the wealth of the
lady, and, of course, as Sextus well knew, the anxiety of Licinius for the
proposed union; and to remain at the villa any longer, was, he said,
entirely impossible, since he already suspected his father had not been
quite pleased with him for leaving the Forum the day before, without
staying to hear out a cause in which his duty, if not his inclination,
ought to have made him feel so greatly interested.

We bade adieu, therefore, to our kind host and the young ladies, not
without more reluctance than either of us durst express, and ready
promises to return soon again to the villa. We found Dromo and Boto
waiting for us at the gate, the former of whom looked unutterable things,
while the latter appeared to be as joyful in seeing me again, as if we had
been parted for a twelvemonth. The two slaves were mounted on asses, but
they led horses for our conveyance; so we mounted with all speed, and were
soon beyond the beautiful enclosures of Capito. As soon as we were fairly
out of sight of the house, Dromo began to ply Sextus with innumerable
questions about the result of the visit, all of them in bad Greek; that,
as he said, there might be no chance of what passed being understood by
the Druid; for by that venerable designation, he informed us, the
primitive Boto had already come to be best known in the vestibule of
Licinius. “Ah!” quoth he, “there is no need for many words; I am sure my
young master has not been behindhand with himself. If he has, it is no
fault of mine, however. I put Opportunity into his hands, and she, you
know, as the poets say, has only one lock of hair, and that is in front.”

Sextus being very shy of entering into particulars, I found myself obliged
to take upon me the satisfying of the curiosity of this inquisitive
varlet, which I did in a manner that much astonished Sextus, who by no
means suspected, that in the midst of my own attention to the other
cousin, I had been able to take so much notice of what passed between him
and Sempronia. However, the gentle youth took a little raillery all in
good part, and we laughed loudly in unison at the triumphant capers which
the whip of Dromo made his poor ass exhibit, in testimony of his
satisfaction with the progress which all things appeared to be making. We
reached the city about three hours after noon, and were told by the slaves
in attendance, that Xerophrastes had gone out some time before, and that
Licinius was already busy in arraying himself for the feast of Rubellia.




                              _CHAPTER VII._


Her mansion was situated about the middle of the Suburra, in a
neighbourhood nowise splendid, and itself distinguished, on the side
fronting to the street, by no uncommon marks of elegance or opulence. A
plain brick wall covered almost the whole of the building from the eye of
the passenger; and what was seen deserved the praise of neatness, rather
than of magnificence. Nevertheless, the moment one had passed the gate,
and entered the court, one could not help perceiving, that taste and
wealth had been alike expended abundantly on the residence; for the broad
terrace and gallery behind were lavishly adorned, the one with sculpture
and the other with paintings; and the gardens, which these overlooked,
appeared to be both extensive and elaborate.

We were conducted through several pillared halls, and then up a wide
staircase, of somewhat sombre magnificence, into the chamber where the
company were already in part assembled, and busy in offering their
congratulations to the mistress of the feast. She was so much engaged with
their flatteries that she did not at first perceive our entrance; but as
soon as she knew who had come, the chief part of her attention was divided
between her victorious advocate and his blushing son.

Rapidly as we have been advancing in our imitation of the manners of the
capital, our island, most unquestionably, has never yet displayed any
thing that could sustain the smallest comparison with what then met my
eyes in the stately saloon of this widow. The group around her was gay and
various, and she was worthy of forming its centre; young and handsome,
dressed in a style of the utmost splendour, her deportment equally elegant
and vivacious. Her complexion was of that clear rich brown which lends to
the eye a greater brilliancy than the most exquisite contrast of red and
white; and over which the blood, when it does come into the face, diffuses
at once the warmest and the deepest of blushes. Her hair appeared to be
perfectly black, unless where the light, streaming from behind, gave an
edging of glossy brown to the thick masses of her curls. Her robe of
crimson silk was fastened by a girdle, which seemed to consist of nothing
but rubies and emeralds, strung upon threads of gold. She wore a tiara
that rose high above her tresses, and was all over resplendent with
flowers woven in jewellery; and around her delicate wrists and ankles were
twined broad chains of virgin gold, interspersed with alternate wreaths of
sapphire. Her form was the perfection of luxury; and although I have said
that her deportment was in general lively and brilliant, yet there was a
soft seriousness that every now and then settled in her eyes, which gave
her, for a moment, a look of melancholy that seemed to me more likely to
be in harmony with the secret nature of her disposition. I watched her in
particular when she spoke to Sextus; her full rich-toned voice was then
merry, and her large eyes sparkled; but when she was engaged with any
other person, she could not help gazing on the beautiful youth in silence;
and then it was that her countenance wore its deepest expression of
calmness—I had almost said, of sadness.

I had been gazing on her, I know not how long, from another part of the
room, when I heard a hearty chuckle from behind me, and thought I could
not be unacquainted with the voice. Looking round, I saw, not without
delight, the stately figure of my Prætorian Captain, Sabinus, whose
cheerful eye soon distinguished me, and who forthwith came up to salute me
in the most friendly manner. I introduced him to Licinius and Sextus, the
former of whom expressed himself as being much gratified with the
attention the centurion had shewn to me during our voyage; so that I felt
myself, as it were, no longer a stranger in the place; and the lutes and
trumpets at that moment announcing that supper was ready to be served up,
I took care to keep close to Sabinus, and to place myself near him on the
couch.

The room in which the feast was prepared, communicated by a pair of brazen
folding doors, richly sculptured, with that in which the company had
assembled; but from it, although the sun had not yet gone down, all light
was excluded, excepting what streamed from golden candelabra, and broad
lamps of bronze suspended overhead from the high and painted ceiling. The
party might consist of about twenty, who reclined along one demi-circular
couch, the covers of which were of the softest down, and the frame-work
inlaid with ivory;—the part of the room enclosed by its outline being
occupied with the table, and an open space to which the attendants had
free access. We had no sooner taken our seats than a crowd of slaves
entered, carrying large boards upon their heads, which being forthwith
arranged on the table, were seen to be loaded with dishes of gold and
silver, and all manner of drinking vessels, also with vases of rare
flowers, and urns of perfume. But how did the countenance of Sabinus
brighten, when the trumpet sounded a second time as if from below, and the
floor of the chamber was suddenly, as it were, pierced in twain, and the
pealing music ushered up a huge roasted boar, all wreathed with stately
garnishings, and standing erect on his golden platform as on a chariot of
triumph! “Ah! my dear boy,” cries he, “here comes the true king of beasts,
and only legitimate monarch of the woods. What should we not have given
for a slice of him when we were pent up, half-starved and fainting, in
that abominable ship of ours?—All hail, most potent conqueror! but whether
Germanic or Asiatic be thy proper title, I shall soon know, when that
expert Ionian has daintily carved and divided thee.” But why should I
attempt to describe to you the particulars of the feast? Let it suffice,
that whatever idea I had formed of Roman profusion was surpassed, and that
the splendour of the entertainment engaged the attention of all except
Rubellia herself, who, reclining immediately above Sextus, kept her eyes
fixed almost all the time it lasted, upon his luxuriant curls of dark
hair, unless when she caused the young damsel, her cup-bearer, to pour out
to her wine in a goblet of onyx, which she touched with her lips, and then
handed to the indifferent boy. When the supper was half over, the
folding-doors were again thrown open, and there entered a group of maidens
and beautiful youths, who danced before us to the music of the lute, and
scattered crowns of roses at the feet of Rubellia and her guests. She
herself placed one of them on the head of Sextus, and another on that of
his father, who lay on the other side of her, and then caused a large cup
of wine to be carried all around, whereof each of us tasted, and drank to
the health of the orator, in whose honour the entertainment was made. The
ladies that were present imitated the example of the hostess, and crowned
such as were by them; but Sabinus and I, not being near enough to any of
them, received that courtesy from some of the dancing maidens. Libations
were poured out abundantly on the marble floor, and all the gods were
invoked to shower down their blessings on Rubellia, and those that had
been so fortunate as to serve her. Sweet strains of music resounded
through the tall pillars of the banqueting-room, and the lamps burned
heavily in an atmosphere overloaded with perfumes.

It appeared to me, from the beginning, that my friend Sabinus witnessed,
not without some feelings of displeasure, the excessive attentions which
Rubellia lavished on young Sextus; and I gathered, from the way in which
he every now and then looked towards them during the supper, that, had the
place permitted, he would not have allowed such things to go on without
some comment. But when we had left the banqueting-room, and removed to
another apartment, where, amidst various entertainments of dancing, music,
and recitation, Rubellia still retained close to herself the heir of
Licinius, the centurion made to himself abundant amends for the previous
restraint to which his temper had been subjected. “Confess now,” said he,
“that she is a lovely creature, and that your British beauties are tame
and insipid, when compared with such a specimen of Roman fascination; and
confess, withal, that this curled boy is either the most ignorant, or the
most insusceptible of his sex. Good heavens! in what a different style was
she treated by the old magistrate, whose very bust there, in the corner,
looks quite blank and disconsolate with its great white eyes, while she,
that sate for so many months pale and weeping by his bed-side, is thinking
of nothing but to bestow all the wealth he left her on a beardless
stripling, who appears to regard the bust and the beauty with almost equal
indifference.—Alas! poor old withered Leberinus, little did you imagine
that so small a phial would suffice to hold all her tears. My only wonder
is, that she still permits your marble image to occupy even a corner of
her mansion; but, no doubt, you will soon be sent on your travels. I dare
say, some cold pedestal in the garden will, ere long, be the best birth
you need look for.—Well, well, you see what fools we may be made by the
cunning of these pretty crocodiles. I trust my dotage, when it does come,
will not shew itself in the same shape with that of my good old friend. I
hope the ghost of the worthy Prætor will not frown unseen the night she
takes this Adonis to her arms. If I were in his place, I should give her
curtains a pretty shake. By Hermes! it would not be a pretty monument and
a flowery epitaph that would make me lie still.”

“How long is it,” said I, “since this venerable magistrate died? Surely
she has allowed him the decency of a tenmonth’s grief, before she began to
give suppers, and perceive the beauty of Sextus?” “Whether it be a
tenmonth ago or not,” replied the Centurion, “is more than I can take upon
me to decide; all I know is, that it appears to me as if it were but
yesterday that I supped here, (it was just before I set off for Britain,)
and saw the young lady reclining, even at table, with those long black
curls of her’s, in the bosom of the emaciated Leberinus. By Jupiter! the
old man would not taste a drop of wine unless she kissed the cup—she
coaxed every morsel he swallowed down his throat, and clasped the garland
round his bald pate with her own fingers; ay, twice before that sleek
physician—that solemn-faced Greek, whom you see at this moment talking
with your kinsman, advised her to have him carried to his bed. For all the
gravity of his looks, I would lay a trifle, that worthy Bœotian has his
own thoughts about what is passing, as well as I. But the worst-pleased
face in the whole room is, I think, that of old Rubellius himself yonder,
who has just come in, without, it is evident, being aware that any feast
was going forward. Without question, the crafty usurer is of opinion he
might have been invited. I promise you, I can interpret the glances of
that gray-headed extortioner; and well I may, for it is not the first time
I have had an opportunity of studying them. Ay, ay, quoth he to himself,
she may do as she will with the bonds of Leberinus; but she might have
remembered, that a codicil can be easily tacked to the end of a living
man’s testament.”

“But, after all,” said I, “one must admit, that if she married old
Leberinus to please her father, the widow has some right to choose her
second husband according to the pattern of her own fancy.” “Oh! by all
means,” answered he; “let her please herself; let her make a fool of
herself now, if she will. She may perhaps learn, some time or other, that
it is as possible to have too young a husband, as to have too old a one.”
“Come now,” said I, “Sabinus, confess that if she had selected some
well-made, middle-aged man—some respectable man—some man of note and
distinction, you would have judged less harshly of poor Rubellia.” “Ah!
you cunning dog,” said he; “who would have thought that you had brought so
much wickedness from that new world of yours? But do you really think she
will wed Sextus? The boy appears strangely cold. I should not wonder, when
all is done, if the match were more of the orator’s seeking than his own.”
“I can only tell you,” said I, “that I have never heard Licinius mention
any thing about it; and, I dare say, Sextus would be very sorry to think
of losing his liberty for the sake of the wealth of Leberinus—ay, or for
that of old Rubellius to boot.” “Young friend,” quoth he, “you are not
quite acquainted with the way in which these matters are managed at Rome.
If we had you six weeks at the other side of the Viminal, we should teach
you better.”

I know not how long this sort of talk might have lasted; but Licinius put
an end to it by joining us, and soon engaged the worthy Centurion, and
several more of us, with some lively, but unintelligible discussion on the
merits of some new edict, of which none of us had ever heard, or were
likely ever to hear any thing again. We were glad to escape from the
lawyer into another room, where some Greek slaves were performing a sort
of comic pantomime, that appeared to give more delight to old Rubellius
than any other of the spectators. As for Sextus, I saw plainly that he was
quite weary of the entertainment, and anxious to get away; but we were
obliged to remain till after Licinius was gone, for it was evident that he
wished his son to see out the last. But no sooner had we heard his chariot
drive off, than the young man and I took leave of the lady, and withdrew.
Sabinus lingered a moment behind us, and then joined us in the vestibule,
from which, his course lying so far in the same direction as ours, we all
proceeded homewards on foot.

We had proceeded along the street of the Suburra for a considerable space,
and were already beneath the shade of the great Temple of Isis and
Serapis, (which stands on the northern side of the Esquiline Hill, nigh
over against the Amphitheatre of Vespasian,) when, from the opposite side
of the way, we were hailed by a small party of soldiers, who, as it turned
out, had been sent from the Prætorian camp in search of Sabinus, and one
of whom had now recognized his gait and stature, notwithstanding the
obscurity of the hour. The Centurion went aside with the leader of these
men for some moments, and then informed us that it was very fortunate they
had so easily recognized him, as the business on which they had been sent
was such as did not admit of being negligently dealt with. “To-morrow,”
said he, pointing to the Amphitheatre before us, “that glorious edifice is
to be the scene of one of the grandest shows exhibited by Trajan since his
accession to the empire. It is the anniversary of the day on which he was
adopted by Nerva, and the splendour of the spectacle will be in proportion
to the gratitude and veneration with which he at all times regards the
memory of that excellent benefactor. But there are some parts of the
exhibition that I am afraid old Nerva, could he be present to behold them,
would not regard with the same feelings as his successor.” “Surely,” said
I, “the beneficent Trajan will not stain the expression of his gratitude
by any thing unworthy of himself, or that could give displeasure to
Nerva?” “Nay,” replied the Centurion, “it is not for me to talk about any
thing that Trajan chooses to do being unworthy of Trajan; but you well
know that Nerva would never suffer any of the Christians to be molested
during his reign, and now here are some of these unhappy fanatics, that
are to be compelled either to renounce their faith in the face of the
assembly to-morrow, or to die in the arena. It is to inspect the condition
of these unfortunates, who, I know not for what reason, are confined in a
dungeon below the ramparts in the vicinity of our camp, and to announce to
them the final determination of their fate, that I, as Centurion of the
night, have now been summoned. If you are curious to see the men, you are
at liberty to go with me, and I shall be obliged to you for your company.”

My curiosity having been excited in regard to the new faith and its
adherents, I was very desirous to accept of this offer. Nor did Sextus any
sooner perceive that such was my inclination, than he advised me to
gratify it, undertaking, at the same time, to satisfy his father, in case
of any inquiry, that I was in a place of safety, and under the protection
of Sabinus. With him, therefore, and with his Prætorians, I proceeded
along various streets which led us by the skirts of the Esquiline and
Viminal Hills, on to the region of the Mounds of Tarquin, over against
which, as you have heard, the great camp of those bands is situated;—if
indeed that ought of right to be called by the name of a camp, which is
itself a city of no slender dimensions, and built with great splendour of
architecture, spread out beyond the limits of Rome, for the accommodation
of that proud soldiery. There my friend took me into his chamber, and
furnished me with a cloak and helmet, that I might excite no suspicion by
accompanying him on his errand. The watch-word of the night also was given
me, _Silent faith_; and proceeding again, we shortly reached the place
where the Christians were lying.




                             _CHAPTER VIII._


Entering the guard-room, we found it crowded with spearmen of Sabinus’s
band, some playing at dice, others carousing jovially, many wrapt up in
their mantles, and asleep upon the floor; while a few only were sitting
beneath the porch, with their spears in their hands, and leaning upon
their bucklers. From one of these, the Centurion, having drawn him aside,
made inquiry concerning the names and condition of the prisoners, and
whether as yet they had received any intelligence as to the morrow. The
soldier, who was a grave man, well stricken in years, made answer, “that
the men were free-born and of decent estate, and that he had not heard of
any thing else being laid to their charge, excepting that which concerned
their religion. Since they have been here,” he continued, “I have been
several times set on watch over them, and twice have I lain with one of
them in his dungeon; yet have I heard no complaints from any of them, for
in all things they are patient. One of them only is to suffer
to-morrow—but for him I am especially concerned, for he was known to me of
old, having served often with me when I was a horseman in the army of
Titus, all through the war of Palestine, and at the siege of Jerusalem.”

“And of what country is he?” said Sabinus. “Is he also a Roman?” “No,
sir,” answered the spearman, “he is no Roman; but he was of a troop of the
allies that was joined often to our legion, and I have seen him bear
himself on the day of battle as well as any Roman. He is by birth a Greek
of the Syrian coast; but his mother was of the nation of the Jews.” “And
yet, although the son of a Jewess, he was with us, say you, at the siege
of Jerusalem?” “Even so,” replied the man; “and not he only, but many
others; for the Jews were divided against themselves; and of all them that
were Christians, not one abode in the city, or gave help to defend it. As
this man himself said, the oracles of the Christians, and their prophets,
had of old given warning that the city must fall into the hands of Cæsar,
by reason of the wickedness of that people; therefore, when we set our
camp against Jerusalem, these all passed out from the city, with their
wives and children, and dwelt safely in the mountainous country until the
fate was fulfilled. But some of their young men fought in our camp, and
did good service, because the place was known to them, and they had
acquaintance with all the secrets of the Rock. Of these, this man was one.
He and all his household had departed from the ancient religion of the
Jews, and were believers in the doctrines of the Christians, for which
cause he is now to suffer; and of that, although I have not spoken to him
this evening, I think he has already received some intelligence, for
certain of his friends passed in to him, and they covered their faces as
they went in, as if weeping.” “Are these friends still with him?” said
Sabinus. “Yes,” answered he, “for I must have seen them had they come
forth again. Without doubt, the two women are still with him in his
dungeon.” “Women?” quoth Sabinus; “and of what condition think you they
may be?” “That I know not,” replied the soldier; “for, as I have said,
they were muffled in their mantles. But one of them, at least, is a Roman,
for I heard her speak to him that is by the door of the dungeon.” “How
long is it,” said the Centurion, “since they went in to the prisoner?”
“More than an hour,” replied the soldier, looking at the water-clock that
stood beneath the porch; “and if they be Christians, they are not yet
about to depart, for they never separate without singing together, which
is said to be their favourite manner of worship.”

He had scarcely uttered these words, when the soldiers that were carousing
within the guard-room became silent, and we heard the voices of those that
were in the dungeon singing together in a sweet and lowly manner. “Ah,
sir!” said the old soldier, “I thought it would be even so—there is not a
spearman in the band that would not willingly watch here a whole night,
could he be sure of hearing that melody. Well do I know that soft
voice—Hear now, how she sings by herself—and there again, that deep strong
note—that is the voice of the prisoner.”

“Hush!” quoth the Centurion, “heard you ever any thing half so divine? Are
these words Greek or Syrian?” “What the words are I know not,” said the
soldier; “but I know the tune well.—I have heard it played many a night
with hautboy, clarion, and dulcimer, on the high walls of Jerusalem, while
the city was beleaguered.” “It is some old Jewish tune then,” said
Sabinus; “I knew not those barbarians had had half so much art.”

“Why, as for that, sir,” replied the man, “I have been all over Greece and
Egypt—to say nothing of Italy—and I never heard any music like that music
of the Jews. When they came down to join the battle, their trumpets
sounded so gloriously, that we wondered how it was possible for them ever
to be driven back; and then, when their gates were closed, and they sent
out to beg their dead, they would play such solemn awful notes of
lamentation, that the plunderers stood still to listen, and their warriors
were delivered to them with all their mail as they had fallen.” “And the
Christians also,” said Sabinus, “had the same tunes?” “Oh yes, sir—why,
for that matter, these very tunes may have been among them, for aught we
know, since the beginning of their nation. I have stood sentinel with this
very man, and seen the tears run down his cheeks by the star-light, when
he heard the music from the city, as the Jewish captains were going their
rounds upon the battlements.” “But this, surely,” said the Centurion, “is
no warlike melody.” “I know not,” quoth the old soldier, “whether it be or
not—but I am sure it sounds not like any music of sorrow,—and yet what
plaintive tones are in the part of that female voice!” “The bass sounds
triumphantly, in good sooth.” “Ay, sir, but that is the old man’s own
voice—I am sure he will keep a good heart to the end, even though they
should be singing their farewell to him. Well, the Emperor loses a good
soldier, the hour Tisias dies. I wish to Jupiter he had not been a
Christian, or had kept his religion to himself. But as for changing
now—you might as well think of persuading the Prince himself to be a Jew.”

“That last high strain, however,” quoth Sabinus, “has ended their singing.
Let us speak to the women as they come out; and if it be so that the man
is already aware of what is to be done to-morrow, I see not why we should
trouble him with entering his cell. He has but a few hours to live, and I
would not willingly disturb him.” “I hear them coming,” said the soldier.
“Then do you meet them,” said Sabinus, “and tell them that the Centurion
wishes to speak to them ere they go away—we will retire out of hearing of
the guard.”

With that he and I withdrew to the other side of the way, over against the
door of the prison; and we stood there waiting for the women under a
fig-tree, close by the city wall. In a few minutes two persons, arrayed as
the soldier had described, drew near to us; and one of them, without
uncovering her countenance, said,—“Master, we trust we have done no evil
in visiting the prisoners; had it been so, surely we should not have been
permitted to enter without question.”

These words were spoken in a voice tremulous, as if with grief rather than
with terror; but I could not help starting when I heard them. However, I
commanded myself, and heard in silence what Sabinus replied.—“Be not
alarmed,” said he; “there is no offence committed, for no orders have been
issued to prevent these men from seeing their friends. I sent for you, not
to find fault with what you have done, but only to ask whether this
prisoner has already been told that the Emperor has announced his
resolution concerning him, and that he must die to-morrow, in the
Amphitheatre of Vespasian, unless he renounce his superstition.”—“He knows
all,” answered the same voice; “and is prepared for all.”

“By heavens! Valerius,” whispered Sabinus; “it is no mean person that
speaks so—this is the accent and the gesture of a Roman lady.” Then
raising his voice, “In that case there is no need for my going into the
dungeon; and yet, could I hope to say any thing that might tend to make
him change his purpose, I would most gladly do so. The Emperor is as
humane as he is just, and unless when rebellious obstinacy shuts the gates
of mercy, he is the last that would consent to the shedding of any
blood.—For this Tisias, of whose history I have just been hearing
something, I am in a particular manner interested, and to save him, I wish
only I had power equal to my inclination. Is there no chance of convincing
him?”—“He is already convinced.”—“Could his friends do nothing?”—“His
friends have been with him,” said the voice.—This last sentence was spoken
so distinctly, that I knew I could no longer be mistaken; and I was on the
brink of speaking out, without thinking of the consequences that might
occur, when she that had spoken, uttered a faint cry, and dropping on her
knees before Sabinus, said,—“Oh, sir! to us also be merciful, and let us
go hence ere any one behold us!”—“Go in peace, lady,” answered the
Centurion, “and henceforth be prudent as well as kind;” and they went away
from us, and were soon lost to our sight in the windings of the street.

We stood there for some moments in silence, looking towards the place
where they disappeared. “Strange superstition,” said Sabinus; “what
heroism dwells with this madness!—you see how little these men regard
their lives;—nay, even women, and Roman women too—you see how their nature
is changed by it.”—“It is, indeed, a most strange spectacle,” said I; “but
what is to be the end of it, if this spirit become diffused widely among
the people?”—“In truth I know not,” answered the Centurion; “as yet we
have heard of few who had once embraced this faith, renouncing it out of
fear for their lives.”—“And in the days of Nero and Domitian,” said I,
“were not many hundreds of them punished even here in the capital?”—“You
are within the mark,” said he; “and not a few of those who were sent into
exile, because of their Christianity, were, as you may have heard, of no
ordinary condition. Among these there were Flavius Clemens, the Consular,
and his wife, Domitilla; both of whom I have often seen in my youth—both
relations to the family of Vespasian—whom, notwithstanding, all the
splendour of the imperial blood could not save from the common fate of
their sect. But Nerva suffered all of them to live in peace, and recalled
such as were in exile, excepting only Domitilla, whose fate has been
regretted by all men; but I suppose it was not at first judged safe to
recal her, lest any tumult should have been excited in her name, by those
that regretted (and I am sorry to say these were not a few) the wicked
license of which they had been deprived by the death of her tyrannical
kinsman, and the transition of the imperial dignity into another line. She
also with whom we have been speaking, is, I am sure, a Roman lady of
condition; and you may judge of her zeal, when you see it brings her
hither at midnight, to mingle tears and prayers with those of an obscure
Asiatic. Did you observe, that the other female both walked and stood
behind her.”

“I observed all this,” answered I. But little did Sabinus suspect that I
had observed so much more than himself had done. Before parting from him,
I said I should still be gratified with being permitted to see the
prisoner; and although he declined entering himself, he accordingly gave
command that the door of his dungeon should be opened for me, requesting
me, at the same time, to refrain from saying any thing more than was
necessary for the explaining the apparent purpose of my visit,—the
communication, namely, of Trajan’s decree.

The Centurion withdrew to his camp; and the same old spearman with whom we
had conversed at the Porch, carried a torch in his hand, and shewed me the
way into the dungeon.

Between the first door and the second, which appeared to be almost
entirely formed of iron, there intervened a few broad steps of mason-work;
and upon the lowest of these, I stood waiting till he should open the
inner door. Several keys were applied before he discovered the right one;
but at last the heavy door swung away from before him so speedily, that
the air, rushing out of the vault, extinguished the torch; insomuch, that
we had no light excepting that which streamed from an aperture high up in
the wall of the dungeon itself; a feeble ray of star-light alone—for the
moon had, long ere this time, been gone down—which, nevertheless, sufficed
to shew us to the prisoner, although we at first could see nothing of him.

“Soldiers,” said the old man, in a voice of perfect calmness, “for what
reason are you come?”—“We come,” said my companion, “by command of the
Centurion, to inform you of things which we would willingly not have to
tell—To-morrow Trajan opens the Amphitheatre of Vespasian.”—“My comrade,”
said the prisoner, “is it your voice I hear? I knew all this already; and
you know of old that I fear not the face of death.”—“I know well, Tisias,
you fear not death; yet why, when there is no need, should you cast away
life? Think well, I beseech you, and reserve yourself for a better
day.”—“The dawn of that better day, Romans, already begins to open upon my
eyes. I see the east red with the promise of its brightness. Would you
have me tarry in darkness, when I am invited to walk forth into the
light?”—“Your words rejoice me,” answered the spearman; “and I am sure all
will rejoice in hearing that you have at length come to think thus—Trajan
himself will rejoice. You have but to say the word, and you are
free,”—“You mean kindly,” said the old man, rising from his pallet, and
walking towards us as far as his fetters permitted; “but you are much
mistaken—I have but to keep silence, and I am free.”—“Alas! what mean you?
Do you know what you say? You must worship the gods in the morning, else
you die.”—“Evening, and morning, and for ever, I must worship the God that
made heaven and earth. If I bow down to the idols of Trajan, I buy the
life of a day at the price of death everlasting. Tempt me not in your
kindness: I fell once. Great God, preserve me from falling! I have bade
farewell to my friends already. Leave me to spend these few hours by
myself.—Leave me to prepare the flesh for that from which the spirit
shrinks not.” So saying, he extended his hand to the spearman, and the two
old men embraced each other before me.

“Prisoner,” said I, “if there be any thing in which we can serve you,
command our aid. We have already done our duty; if we can also do any
thing that may give ease to your mind now, or comfort to your kindred, you
have but to speak.”—“Sir,” replied he, “I see by the eagle wings on your
helmet, that you are one in authority, and I hear by your voice that you
are young. There is a certain thing, concerning which I had some purpose
to speak to this old brother.”—“Speak with confidence,” said I; “although
I am a Roman, and bear all loyalty to Cæsar, yet this Prætorian helmet is
not mine, and I have but assumed it for the sake of having access to your
prison. I am no soldier of Trajan: Whatever I can do for you without harm
to others, speak, and I will do it. I will swear to you——” “Nay, sir,”
said he, “swear not—mock not the God of heaven, by invoking idol or
demon—I believe your word—but, since you will hear, there is no need why
any other should be witness to my request.”—“I will retire,” said the
other, “and keep watch at the door. I am but a poor spearman, and this
young patrician can do more than I.”—“Be it so,” said the prisoner, a
second time embracing him; “I would not willingly expose you to any
needless danger; and yet I see not what danger there is in all that I have
to ask.”

With this the spearman withdrew; and being left alone with Tisias, I took
his hand, and sitting down beside him on his pallet, shortly explained to
him the circumstances under which I had come thither.

“Young sir,” said he, “I know not what is about the sound of your voice,
and the frankness of your demeanour, that makes me feel confidence enough
to intrust you with a certain thing, which concerns not myself, nor any
hope of mine, for that were little—but the interests of one that is far
dearer to me than I can express, and who, I hope, will live many happy
days upon earth, after I shall have sealed my belief in the message of
God, by blood that has of old been exposed a thousand times to all mortal
perils, for the sake of worthless things. But a very short while ago, and
I might have executed this thing for myself; but weakness overcame me at
the moment of parting.”

“If it be any thing which you would have me convey to any one, say where I
may find the person,” said I, “and be assured I shall deliver it in
safety.”

“Sir,” he proceeded, “I have here with me certain writings, which I have
carried for these twenty years continually in my bosom. Among these, is
one of the sacred books of the faith for which I am to die, and I would
fain have it placed in the hands of one to whom I know it will be dearest
of all for the sake of that which it contains; but, I hope, dear also for
the sake of him that bequeaths it. Will you seek out a certain Roman lady,
and undertake to give into her own hands, in secret, the scroll which I
shall give you?”—“I will do my endeavour,” said I; “and if I cannot find
means to execute your command, I shall destroy the book with my own hands
before I quit Rome—for my stay here is uncertain.”—“If you cannot find
means to do what I ask safely,” he replied, “I do not bid you destroy the
book—_that_ is yours to do with as it shall seem good to you—but I conjure
you to read it before you throw it away. Nay, even as it is, I conjure you
to read it before you seek to give it to her whose name I shall
mention.”—“Old man,” said I, “almost I believe that I already know her
name, and more besides. If it be so that I have conjectured aright, be
assured that all you ask shall be fulfilled to the letter; be assured
also, that I would die with you to-morrow, rather than live to be the
cause or instrument of any evil thing to her that but now visited you in
your dungeon.”—“Alas!” cried the old man, starting up, “lay not this also,
O Lord! upon my head. Let the old bear witness—but let the young be
spared, to serve thee in happier years upon the earth!”—“Be not afraid,”
said I, “if it was Athanasia, no one suspected it but myself; and I have
already told you that I would die rather than bring evil upon her head.”

“Yes,” he answered, after a pause—“it was, indeed, Athanasia. Who is it
but she that would have left the halls of nobles, and the couches of
peace, to breathe at midnight the air of a dungeon, that she might solace
the last moments of a poor man, and, save the bond of Christ, a stranger!
But if you have known her before, and spoken with her before, then surely
she must indeed be safe in your hands. You know where she dwells—that I
myself know not. Here is the scroll, from which that noble maiden has
heard my humble voice essay to expound the words of eternal life. I charge
you to approach her with reverence, and give into her own hands my dying
bequest; yet, as I have said, deliver it not to her till you have yourself
read what it contains.”—“Christian,” said I, placing the writing in my
bosom, “have no fear—I will read your book, and ere two nights have gone
over my head, I shall find means to place it in the hands of Athanasia;
and now, farewell.”—“Nay, not yet for the last time. Will you not come in
the morning, and behold the death of a Christian?”—“Alas!” said I, “what
will it avail that I should witness the shedding of your blood? The Prince
may have reason to regard you as an offender against the state; but I have
spoken with you in your solitude, and know that your heart is noble. Would
to Heaven, that by going thither I could avert your fate!”—“Methinks,
sir,” he replied, “it may be weakness—but yet methinks it would give me
some farther comfort in my death, to know that there was at least one
Roman there, who would not see me die without pity; and besides I must
have you constrain yourself, that you may be able to carry the tidings of
my departure. Her prayers will be with me, but not her eyes. You must tell
Athanasia the manner of my death.”—“For that cause,” said I, “I will
constrain myself, and be present in the Amphitheatre.”—“Then, farewell,”
said he; “——and yet go not. In whatsoever faith you live,—in whatsoever
faith you die, the blessing of an old man and a Christian can do you no
harm.” So saying, the old man stood up, and leaning his hand on my head as
I sat, pronounced over me a blessing which I never shall forget. “The Lord
bless thee—the Lord enlighten thy darkness—the Lord plant his seed in thy
kind heart—the Lord give thee also to die the death of a Christian!”

When he had said so, he sat down again; and I departed greatly oppressed
in spirit, yet feeling, I know not how or why, as I would rather have lost
many merry days, than that dark and sorrowful hour. The soldiers in the
guard-room were so much engaged in their different occupations, that they
heeded me not as, dropping my borrowed habiliments, I stept silently to
the gate; and I was soon out of sight of their flaming watch-fires, and
far from the sounds of their noisy mirth.




                              _CHAPTER IX._


The Roman streets were totally silent and deserted. It was the first time
that I had been in the presence of a human being, foreseeing distinctly,
and quietly waiting, the termination of his mortal existence, and I could
not help asking of myself, how, under similar circumstances of terror, I
should have been able to sustain my spirits?—to what resources I should,
in such a moment, look for the support which seemed to have been
vouchsafed so abundantly to this old man; by what charm, in fine,—by what
tenet of philosophy, or by what hope of religion,—I should, in the midst
of life, be able to reconcile myself to a voluntary embrace of death! To
avoid disgrace, indeed, and dishonour, said I, I think I could be Roman
enough to dare the worst; but this poor man is willing to die, rather than
acknowledge, by one offering on the altar, the deities in whose worship
all his Greek ancestors have been trained; yet who, except perhaps a few
obscure individuals that have adopted the same new superstition, would
think this man dishonoured by returning to the religion of his fathers?
Deep, indeed, must be his conviction of the truth of that which he
professes to believe—serious indeed must be his faith, and high his trust.
What if, after all, his faith should be true, and his trust wise? And the
gentle Athanasia!—She too a Christian! Might not this mystery be hereafter
explained to me by her lips?

Musing and meditating thus, it was no wonder that I, who knew so little of
Rome, should have soon wandered from the straight way to the home of my
kinsman. But that I at last caught, at the turning of a street, a glimpse
of the Flavian Amphitheatre, which I had before passed on my way from the
feast of Rubellia, I might, perhaps, have wandered long. I had some notion
how that grand edifice was situated with respect to the house of Licinius,
and therefore moved towards it immediately, intending to pass straight
down from thence into the Sacred Way. But when I came close to the
Amphitheatre, I found that, surrounded on all sides by a city of sleep and
silence, that region was already filled with all manner of noise and
tumult, in consequence of the preparations which had begun to be made for
the spectacles. The east hardly yet indicated dawn; but the torches and
lanterns of workmen and artificers were in motion every where. On one
side, the whole way was blocked up with a throng of waggons; the
conductors, almost all Ethiopians and Numidians, lashing each other’s
horses, and exchanging, in their barbarous tongues, outcries of wrath and
execration. The bellowings that resounded from any of the waggons, which
happened to be set in motion amidst the throng, intimated that savage
beasts were confined within them; and when I had discovered this, and then
regarded the prodigious multitude of the vehicles, I cannot say what
horror came over me at thinking what cruel sights, and how lavish in
cruelty, were become the favourite pastimes of the most refined of
nations. I recognized the well-known short deep snort of the wild boar,
and the long hollow bark of the wolf; but a thousand fierce sounds,
mingled with these, were new to my ears. One voice, however, was so grand
in its notes of sullen rage, that I could not help asking a soldier, who
sate on horseback near me, from what monster it proceeded. The man
answered, that it was a lion; but then what laughter arose among some of
the rabble, that had overheard my interrogation; and what contemptuous
looks were thrown upon me by the naked negroes, who sate grinning in the
torch-light, on the tops of their carriages! Then one or two of the
soldiers would be compelled to ride into the midst of the confusion, to
separate some of these wretches, fighting with their whips about
precedence in the approach; and it seemed to me that the horses could not
away with the strong sickly smell of the wild beasts; for they would
prance, and caper, and rear on end, and snort as if panic-struck, and dart
themselves towards the other side; while some of the riders were thrown
off in the midst of the tumult, and others, with fierce and strong bits,
compelled the frightened or infuriated animals to endure the thing they
abhorred—in their wrath and pride forcing them even nearer than was
necessary. In another quarter, this close-mingled pile of carts and horses
was surmounted by the enormous heads of elephants, thrust up into the air,
some of them with their huge lithe trunks lashing and beating (for they,
too, as you have heard, would rather die than snuff in the breath of these
monsters of the woods,) while the tiara’d heads of their riders would be
seen tossed to and fro by their contortions. What a cry of cursing, what
cracking of whips and cords, what blowing of horns, and whistling and
screaming; and all this mixed with what roaring and howling from the
savage creatures caged in darkness!

I went, however, for a moment, into the Amphitheatre, by a little
side-way, where admission was cheaply obtained. Here, as yet, all things
were in order, for the hour had not yet come for giving the wild beasts
entrance to the huge dens prepared for them. A few carpenters only were
seen in one corner, erecting a sort of low stage, and singing merrily, of
whom, when I made inquiry concerning the purpose of that erection, one of
these fellows also began to jeer; “Whence come you, good sir, that you do
not know a common scaffold when you see it? It is surely not the first
time that a Christian has had his head chopped off in the Flavian?”—“By
Pluto, I am not so sure about that matter,” quoth another. “I don’t know
whether any of the dogs were ever beheaded here or not; if they have been,
I can only say it was better than they deserved.”—“There spoke a true
man,” cries a third. “No, no; keep beheading for Romans—let citizens have
their own. Things are come to a pretty pass, when they shew us nothing but
tigers against tigers. By Jove, I would rather see one of those
misbelieving Atheists set right before the mouth of a true Getulian lion’s
cage, and hear his bones cracked ere all be over,—I say, I would rather
see that, than fifty of your mere beast fights.”—“After all,” rejoined the
first, “it must be allowed that our Cæsar had a fine eye for the
Amphitheatre.”—“Who doubts it?” says the other. “Rome has never seen any
thing that deserved to be called a show, since he was killed by sneaking
traitors. They say, Nero was still better at that sort of work; but ‘let
the skinless Jew believe,’ as the saying is. I desire to see no better
sport than Domitian gave us the very week before his death. We shall never
live to see his like again!”—“Come, boys,” rejoins one of the rest; “no
despairing! I had begun to think that these good princes, as they call
them, would never shew us a bit of real sport again. Here, now, is at
least something. Who can tell what may follow? and, besides, if the worst
come to the worst, we shall still have lions against lions, tigers against
tigers, Dacians against Dacians, and now and then a Jew or a Christian, or
whatever you please to call him, exhibited _solus_ on such a stage as
this. Come, come, don’t make matters worse than they are.”

The ruffians shewed that they knew well enough I was displeased, and I
half regretted, as I strode away from them, the want of that Prætorian
helmet, which would have preserved me from the insolence of their mirth.
However, I was well pleased to gain a distance at which I could no longer
be troubled with them, and walked with rapid steps along the wide streets,
over which morning was now beginning to shine; while the air, agitated
with a quick breeze, refreshed my cheeks and temples—of which I had need,
being heated with the glare and noise, and, perhaps, faint, too, after the
manner of the young, from want of sleep.

I was admitted into the house by Dromo, who seemed to have been looking
out for me; for he opened the door almost before I had time to knock at
it. He regarded me as I entered with a very cunning face; insomuch, that I
comprehended without difficulty, he believed me to have spent the night in
some scene of debauch; but he, nevertheless, attended me, without saying a
word, into my chamber. He then assumed a countenance of great reflection,
and advised me, with much appearance of friendly concern, to go to bed,
even although I could not stay long there; “because,” said he, “you will
feel much fresher when you get up; and let me tell you, you must be up
early, for I have already been with Licinius, who intends to send Sextus
with a present to Rubellia immediately after breakfast; and you may be
sure he will insist on your company, for he can do nothing without you.
Ah! had it not been for a certain pretty creature, the young gentleman
would not, I am confident, have permitted you to be going the rounds in
this way by yourself. But I take it something amiss, and shall tell him
so, that he did not depute me (who am not particularly enamoured just at
present) to go with you, and take care of your safety. I only wonder how
you have got home so well as it is.”—“Indeed,” said I, “good Dromo, I
cannot help wondering a little at that myself—for I have been all through
the city, and lost my way half-a-dozen times over, and yet here you see I
am.”—“The more reason,” quoth the slave, “that you should send some little
offering to Mercury’s Temple over the way, in the morning—a few sesterces
will be sufficient—and if you have no objections, I shall willingly take
care of them for you. Mercury is the guardian of all that travel about in
the dark; and besides, he is the special patron of love expeditions. But
to say the truth, you are not the only person that owes a gift to that
shrine; for the worthy sage—Xerophrastes—he, too, has been a
night-wanderer—and he has not yet come in. I have my doubts whether, when
he does so, he will be as sober as you are; but I must take care to be at
my post, and admit him in silence, for the time is not yet come to uncloak
his doings. Trust me, this is not the only vagary I have set down to his
account—all in good time. But what says my master Valerius, touching the
offering to the great God Hermes?”

I saw, by the knave’s face, that it was necessary the sesterces should be
forthcoming. “Here they are,” said I, “good Dromo; and remember, that
although Mercury, among other things, is the god of thieves also, he will
not be well pleased if you curtail his offering.” “Never mind,” answered
the varlet, as he was shuffling out of the room, “Mercury and I understand
each other of old. Go to bed, and try to get a little of your own old
British red into your cheeks again; for Licinius has a hawk’s eye, and
will be sure to have his suspicions, if he sees you come down with such a
haggard look. Remember you have not a beard to cover half your face, and
all your iniquities.”

So saying, he left me to my couch, indeed, but not to slumber; for busy
thoughts kept me broad awake, till, after the lapse of perhaps an hour,
young Sextus entered my apartment, already arrayed with more than usual
elegance, to execute, however unwillingly, the message of his father. He
had in his hand a small casket of open ivory-work, which he flung down on
my bed, saying, “Get up, dear Valerius, and save me at least from the pain
of going alone with these gewgaws. Would to Heaven my father would marry
her himself, and then I should have no objection to carry as many caskets
as he pleases. But do you get up and assist me; and as we go along, you
shall tell me what you have seen and heard in company with your jovial
Prætorian.”

I was soon ready, and ascended, along with my young friend, the chariot
which Licinius had commanded to be ready. I told him, as we glided through
the streets, as much as I judged expedient; and, in particular, when I
perceived that our charioteer was making a circuit, in order to avoid the
neighbourhood of the Amphitheatre, I could not help expressing to him the
effect which had been produced in my mind, by my casual inspection of the
preparations. “I am afraid, then,” said he, “that you will scarcely be
willing to witness the exhibition itself; and yet I would fain have you to
overcome your aversion, both because, whatever you may think of such
things, it is not fitting that you should go from Rome without once, at
least, seeing how they are conducted; and more particularly, because I
much suspect Rubellia intends to be present at the festival—in which case
I should be sorry to be compelled to attend upon her without you; and as
to leaving her at the gate of the Amphitheatre, that, you know, would be
quite impossible, unless I wished openly to contradict the wishes of my
father.”

I assured him he should not want any comfort my presence could afford him;
although not without, at the same time, expressing my astonishment that he
should consider it at all probable that his dainty Rubellia would choose
to sit among the spectators of an exhibition so abounding in circumstances
of cruelty, and, as I had understood, forbidden to her sex. “Nay,”
answered he, “laws and edicts are made to be broken in such cases; and as
for the cruelty of the scene, there is scarcely a lady in Rome that would
be more scrupulous on that head than my widow. To tell you the truth, one
of the things that makes me most unwilling to go, is the fear that
Sempronia also may be there; and, perhaps, when she sees me with Rubellia,
give credence to some of the reports which have been circulated (not
without my father’s assent, I think, if all were known,) about this odious
marriage, which I swear to you shall never take place, although Licinius
were to drive me from his door, and adopt a stranger.”—“Sextus,” I made
answer, “if Sempronia thinks there is any thing serious between the widow
and you, she must think you a pretty rascal, for the violent love you made
to herself at the Villa. But I am sure she will easily perceive, by your
countenance, that you do not regard Rubellia, handsome as she is, with any
extraordinary admiration; whereas—if you were not conscious of it, I am
sure she must have been so—there was never a face of more passionate love
than yours, all the time you were in _her_ company. And, even now, the
very mention of her name calls a glow into your cheeks,—yes, and even into
your eyes,—that I think would flatter Rubellia, could she excite such
another, more than all the jewels of all the caskets your father will ever
send.”—“Distract me not, O Valerius!” said the youth,—“distract me not
with speaking of that too lovely, and, I fear, too scornful girl. Do you
not perceive that we have at last struck into the Suburra, and are quite
near to Rubellia’s house?”—“It is so,” said I, looking out of the
carriage, “and I suspect you are right in thinking she means to be present
at the Amphitheatre, for there is a crowd of urchins about her gate, and I
perceive a brilliant group of equipages has attracted them. She purposes
to go in all her splendour.”—“Good Heavens!” replied he, “I believe all
the world is to be there. I never passed so many chariots; and as for the
rabble, see what a stream of heads continues pouring down out of every
alley. My only hope is, that Rubellia may arrive too late for the best
situations, and perhaps disdain to witness the spectacle from any inferior
part of the Amphitheatre; and yet she must have interest, no doubt, to
have secured good accommodation beforehand.”

We were just in time to meet Rubellia stepping from her portico with a gay
cluster of attendants. On seeing us, however, she beckoned with her
finger, and said, “Oh, are you come at last? Well, I must take Valerius
with myself, for I insist upon it that I shall be best able to point out
what is worthy of his notice; and you, Sextus Licinius, come you also into
my chariot; we will not separate you from your Orestes.” She said so with
an air of sprightly ease and indifference, and sprung into the carriage.
An elderly lady, with a broad merry face, went into it also, but there was
still room for Sextus and myself; and the rest of the party followed in
other vehicles that were waiting.

The crowd by this time had so accumulated, that our horses could not
advance but at leisurely pace; but the noise of the multitude as they
rushed along, and the tumult of expectation visible on every countenance,
prevented us from thinking of any thing but the festival. The variety,
however, and great splendour of the equipages, could not but attract my
attention. Now it was an open chariot, drawn by milk-white Thessalian
horses, in which reclined some gorgeous female, blazing with jewellery,
with a cluster of beautiful boys or girls administering odours to her
nostril; and perhaps some haughty Knight or Senator now and then offering
the refreshment of his flattery. Then, perhaps, would come rumbling along,
a close clumsy waggon, of the old-fashioned matronly sort, stuck full with
some substantial plebeian family—the fat, comfortable-looking citizen, and
his demure spouse, sitting well back on their cushions, and having their
knees loaded with an exulting progeny of lads and lasses, whose faces
would, every now and then, be thrust half out of the window, in spite of
the mother’s tugging at their skirts. And then, again, a cry of “Place,
place,” and a group of lictors, shoving every body aside with their rods,
before the litter of some dignified magistrate, who, from pride or gout,
preferred that species of motion to the jolting of a chariot. Such a
portly person as this would soon be hurried past us, but not before we had
time to observe the richness of the silken cushions on which he lay
extended, or the air of majesty with which he submitted himself to the fan
of the favoured freedman, whose business it was to keep those
authoritative cheeks free from the contamination of common dust and flies.
Anon, a jolly band of young gallants, pushing their steeds along, to not a
few of whom the fair Rubellia would vouchsafe her salutation. But wherever
the carriage was stopped for an instant, it was wonderful to see the
number of old emaciated men, and withered hags, that would make their way
close up to the windows, imploring wherewithal to obtain a morsel. The
widow herself leaned back on these occasions, as if to avoid the sight;
but she pointed to a bag of small coin that hung in a corner of the
chariot, and from it Sextus distributed to the one side, and I to the
other; and yet it was impossible to give to every one; we were surrounded
all the way with a mingled clamour of benedictions from those that had
received, and execrations from those that had got nothing, and noisy
ever-renewed solicitations from that ever-swelling army of mendicants. At
last, however, we arrived in safety at the western gate—the same around
which I had, the night before, witnessed such tumultuous preparation. One
of the officers in waiting there, no sooner descried the equipage, than he
caused a space to be laid open for its approach, and himself advanced to
hand Rubellia into the interior, but she whispered to Sextus and me, by no
means to separate from her in the crowd.




                               _CHAPTER X._


Behold me, therefore, in the midst of the Flavian Amphitheatre, and
seated, under the wing of the luxurious Rubellia, in a very convenient
situation. There was a general silence in the place, because proclamation
had just been made that the gladiators, with whose combats the exhibition
was to commence, were about to enter upon the arena, and shew themselves
in order to the people. As yet, however, they had not come forth from that
place of concealment to which so many of their number would never return;
so that I had leisure to collect my thoughts, and survey for a moment,
without disturbance, the mighty and most motley multitude, piled above,
below, and on every side around me, from the lordly senators, on their
silken couches, along the parapet of the arena, up to the impenetrable
mass of plebeian heads which skirted the horizon, above the topmost wall
of the Amphitheatre itself. Such was the enormous crowd of human beings,
high and low, that when any motion went through their assembly, the noise
of their rising up or sitting down might be likened to the sullen roaring
of the sea, or the rushing of a great night-wind in a forest. Not less
than eighty thousand human beings, they told me, were here met together.
Such a multitude could no where be regarded, without inspiring a certain
indefinable sense of majesty; least of all, when congregated within the
wide sweep of such a glorious edifice, and surrounded on all sides with
every circumstance of ornament and splendour, befitting an everlasting
monument of Roman victory and imperial munificence. Judge, then, with what
eyes all this was surveyed by me, who had but of yesterday emerged from a
British valley—who had been accustomed all my life to consider as among
the most impressive of spectacles, the casual passage of a few scores of
legionaries through some dark alley of a wood, or awe-struck village of
barbarians.

Trajan himself was already present—his ivory chair distinguished only by
its canopy from that of the other Consul who sate over against him; tall
and majestic in his demeanour; grave, sedate, and benign in countenance,
as you have seen in his medals and statues. He was arrayed in a plain
gown, and appeared to converse quite familiarly, without affectation of
condescension, with such Patricians as had their places near him; among
whom Sextus and Rubellia pointed out many remarkable personages to my
notice; as Adrian, afterwards emperor; Pliny, the orator, a man of courtly
presence, and lively, agreeable aspect; and, above all, the historian
Tacitus, the worthy son-in-law of our Agricola, in whose pallid
countenance I could easily recognize the depth, but sought in vain to
discover any traces of the sternness of his genius. Of all the then proud
names that were whispered into my ear, could I recollect or repeat them
now, how few would awaken any interest in your minds! Those, indeed, which
I have mentioned, have an interest that will never die. Would that the
greatest and the best of them all were to be remembered only for deeds of
greatness and goodness!

The proclamation being repeated a second time, a door on the right hand of
the arena was laid open, and a single trumpet sounded, as it seemed to me,
mournfully, while the gladiators marched in with slow steps, each
man—naked, except being girt with a cloth about his loins—bearing on his
left arm a small buckler, and having a short straight sword suspended by a
cord around his neck. They marched, as I have said, slowly and steadily;
so that the whole assembly had full leisure to contemplate the forms of
the men; while those skilled in such business were fixing, in their own
minds, on such as they thought most likely to be victorious, and laying
wagers concerning their chances of success, with as much unconcern as if
they had been contemplating irrational animals, or rather, indeed, I
should say, so many pieces of ingenious mechanism. The diversity of
complexion and feature exhibited among these devoted athletes, afforded at
once a majestic idea of the extent of the empire, and a terrible one of
the purposes to which that wide sway had often been made subservient. The
beautiful Greek, with a countenance of noble serenity, and limbs after
which the sculptors of his country might have modelled their symbols of
graceful power, walked side by side with the yellow-bearded savage, whose
gigantic muscles had been nerved in the freezing waves of the Elbe or
Ister, or whose thick strong hair was congealed and shagged on his brow
with the breath of Scythian or Scandinavian winters. Many fierce Moors and
Arabs, and curled Ethiopians, were there, with the beams of the southern
sun burnt in every various shade of swarthiness upon their skins. Nor did
our own remote island want her representatives in the deadly procession,
for I saw among the armed multitude—not surely without some feelings of
more peculiar interest—two or three gaunt barbarians, whose breasts and
shoulders bore uncouth marks of blue and purple, so vivid in the tints,
that I thought many months could not have elapsed since they must have
been wandering in wild freedom along the native ridges of some Silurian or
Caledonian forest. As they moved around the arena, some of these men were
saluted by the whole multitude with noisy acclamations, in token, I
suppose, of the approbation wherewith the feats of some former festival
had deserved to be remembered. On the appearance of others, groans and
hisses were heard from some parts of the Amphitheatre, mixed with
contending cheers and huzzas from others of the spectators. But by far the
greater part were suffered to pass on in silence;—this being in all
likelihood the first—who could tell whether it might not also be the last
day of their sharing in that fearful exhibition!

Their masters paired them shortly, and in succession they began to make
proof of their fatal skill. At first, Scythian was matched against
Scythian—Greek against Greek—Ethiopian against Ethiopian—Spaniard against
Spaniard; and I saw the sand dyed beneath their feet with blood streaming
from the wounds of kindred hands. But these combats, although abundantly
bloody and terrible, were regarded only as preludes to the serious
business of the day, which consisted of duels between Europeans on the one
side, and Africans on the other; wherein it was the well-nigh
intransgressible law of the Amphitheatre, that at least one out of every
pair of combatants should die. Instead of shrinking from these more
desperate brutalities, the almost certainty of their termination seemed
only to make the assembly gaze on them with a more intense curiosity and
delight. Methinks I feel as if it were but of yesterday, when,—sickened
with the protracted terrors of a conflict, that seemed as if it were never
to have an end, although both the combatants were already covered all over
with hideous gashes,—I at last bowed down my head, and clasped my hands
upon my eyes. I had scarcely done so, when Rubellia laid her hand upon my
elbow, whispering, “Look, look, now look,” in a voice of low, steady
impatience. I did look, but not to the arena: No; it was upon the
beautiful features of that woman’s face that I looked, and truly it seemed
to me as if they presented a spectacle almost as fearful. I saw those rich
lips parted, those dark eyes extended, those smooth cheeks suffused with a
steadfast blush, that lovely bosom swelled and glowing; and I hated
Rubellia, for I knew not before how utterly beauty can be brutalized by
the throbbings of a cruel heart. But I looked round to escape from the
sight of her;—and the hundreds of females that I saw fixed with equal
earnestness on the same horrors, taught me, even at the moment, to think
with more charity of that pitiless gaze of one.

At that instant all were silent in contemplation of the breathless strife;
insomuch, that a groan, the first that had escaped from either of the
combatants, although low and suppressed, sounded distinctly amidst the
deep hush, and being constrained to turn once more downwards, I beheld
that, at length, one of the two had received the sword of his adversary
quite through his body, and had sunk upon the sand. A beautiful young man
was he that had received this harm, with fair hair, clustered in glossy
ringlets upon his neck and brows; but the sickness of his wound was
already visible on his drooping eye-lids, and his lips were pale, as if
the blood had rushed from them to the untimely outlet. Nevertheless, the
Moorish gladiator who had fought with him had drawn forth again his
weapon, and stood there awaiting in silence the decision, whether at once
to slay the defenceless youth, or to assist in removing him from the
arena, if perchance the blood might be stopped from flowing, and some hope
of recovery even yet extended. There arose, on the instant, a loud voice
of contention; and it seemed to me as if the wounded man regarded the
multitude with a proud, contemptuous glance, being aware, without
question, that he had executed all things so as to deserve their
compassion, but aware, moreover, that even had that been freely vouchsafed
to him, it was too late. But the cruelty of their faces, it may be, and
the loudness of their cries, were a sorrow to him, and filled his dying
breast with loathing. Whether or not the haughtiness of his countenance
had been observed by them with displeasure, I cannot say; but those who
had cried out to give him a chance of recovery, were speedily silent, and
Cæsar looking round, and seeing all the thumbs turned downwards, was
constrained to give the sign, and forthwith the young man, receiving again
without a struggle the sword of the Moor into his gashed bosom, breathed
forth his life, and lay stretched out in his blood upon the place of
guilt. With that a joyous clamour was uplifted by many of those that
looked upon it, and the victorious Moor, being crowned with an ivy
garland, was carried in procession around the arena by certain young men,
who leaped down for that purpose from the midst of the assembly. In the
meantime, those that had the care of such things, dragged away, with a
filthy hook, the corpse of him that had been slain; and then, raking up
the sand over the blood that had fallen from him, prepared the place, with
indifferent countenances, for some other tragedy,—while all around me, the
spectators were seen rising from their places, and saluting each other;
and there was a buzz of talking as universal as the silence had been
during the combat; some speaking of this thrust and that ward, and paying
and receiving money lost and won; some already discoursing of other
matters, as if nothing uncommon had been witnessed; while others, again,
appeared to be entirely occupied with the martial music which ever struck
up majestically at such pauses, beating time upon the benches before them,
or joining their voices with the proud notes of the trumpets and clarions.
Rubellia talked gaily with Sextus, inviting him to ridicule me with her,
for the strangeness of behaviour I had displayed.

The sun, by this, had already mounted high in the heavens, and the glare
became so intolerable, that men could no longer fight on equal terms;
which being perceived, Cæsar gave command to look after the wild beasts,
and, in the meantime, (for I heard his voice distinctly,) to give warning
to the Flamens that they should have their altar set forth.




                              _CHAPTER XI._


Upon this, Trajan, with those immediately about his person, withdrew; but
Rubellia told me he had only gone to the Palatine by the subterraneous
path, for the purpose of taking some refreshment, and that there was no
doubt he would return in time to witness the rest of the spectacle. This
example, however, was followed in some sort by a great part of the
spectators, for some departed altogether from the Amphitheatre, while many
more were seen moving from place to place, crossing from one vomitory to
another, and paying their respects to different parties of friends, who
had occupied places at a distance from them during the combats. In the
meantime, servants of Trajan’s household were observed giving directions
in the arena to a great number of persons, who afterwards began to
distribute baskets of dried fish, bread, and other eatables, among such as
chose to accept of them; while viands of a more costly description were
introduced among the wealthy, by slaves and freedmen of their own. Neither
were the bearers of water-jars idle, nor the street hawkers of fruit;
least of all, those whose traffic is in snow,—of whom, I believe, hundreds
were scrambling in all quarters over the benches, whistling shrilly, as is
their method, to announce the article in which they dealt.

The Lady Rubellia was not one of those who would ever leave her friends
destitute of the means of refreshment on such an occasion as this; and
accordingly two or three of her household were soon with us, bearing jars
of sweet-meats, baskets of fruit, flasks of wine, with other appurtenances
of a luxurious collation. We had scarcely begun to taste of these things,
when our attention was attracted by some one striding, with great
activity, from one row of benches to another behind us, and looking round,
I discovered the rosy countenance of Sabinus, whose anxiety to join us
was, as I immediately suspected, the cause of this exertion. An ordinary
person would have sought some circuitous method of approach, rather than
attempt the sheer descent from one of the stone parapets which rose
immediately in our rear; but the brawny limbs of the Centurion shrunk not
from that adventurous leap, and, in a word, I soon found him seated beside
us, bowing and smiling to Rubellia with his usual mixture of boldness and
suavity. He delayed not from participation in her delicacies; but lifting
a goblet of Falernian, drank down, without stopping, till he could see the
foundation of its interior gold. His fingers also soon became acquainted
with the receptacles of fruit and confectionary; and I was half-inclined
to some suspicion, that he might perhaps have remained in his original
situation, had he not chanced to observe the slaves of Rubellia, as they
came up the vomitory, with their comely-looking, napkin-covered baskets
upon their heads. As it was, his arrival was acceptable, except perhaps to
Rubellia, who I thought looked as if she were not overmuch pleased with
the interruption his mirthful talk occasioned to the conversation on which
she had been endeavouring to fix the attention of young Licinius.

For that, however, another interruption had been already prepared in
another part of the assembly, from which our Xerophrastes also had taken
cognizance of our position. There was such a crowd, however, immediately
below us, that I know not whether the philosopher would ever have been
able to make his way to the region where we sat, had it not been that we
heard his voice in disputation, and entreated those that opposed his
passage, if possible, to make room for him. The first glimpse we had of
his countenance, shewed us that the squeeze had been giving him serious
inconvenience, for the drops of perspiration stood visible on his bald
front. The persons whom he was addressing, however, seemed to listen with
such unconcern, that it was impossible not to feel somewhat displeased
with them, for treating so disrespectfully one whom his venerable aspect
might have entitled to more courtesy. In vain did he represent to them,
(for we heard his strong voice distinctly every now and then,) that it was
not for the sake of any personal ease or convenience he was desirous of
penetrating into an upper part. In vain did he reiterate “My pupil”—“my
disciple”—“my young scholar, Sextus Licinius”—“the son of Caius
Licinius”—“the son of the great orator Caius Licinius is there.” In vain
did he enlarge upon the constancy of attention which philosophers owe to
those who are placed by the hands of parents under their superintendence.
No sooner, however, did Sextus and I begin to shew the interest we took in
his situation, than Sabinus raised himself up on the bench, and called
aloud on those that surrounded the Stoic, with a voice of much sternness
and authority, to let him pass immediately at their peril.

Many eyes were forthwith turned towards us; and whether it were the
dignity and haughtiness of the Centurion’s voice and attitude, or that his
garb alone gave him much weight in the assembly, the resistance was
relaxed, and Xerophrastes enjoyed an opportunity of almost entirely
recovering his usual serenity of aspect before he reached us. The first
thing he did was to accept of a cup which I held out to him, and then with
much courtesy did he thank us all, but most the Centurion, for the part he
had taken in working out his deliverance from the hands, as he expressed
it, of those inhuman and illiterate persons; “while you,” he continued,
“brave warrior, have shewn that in your breast, as in that of
Epaminondas—of Alexander—and of your own Julius—the reverence of the
muses, and of divine philosophy, does not disdain to inhabit with the
ardour of active patriotism, and the spirit-stirring delights of Mars.”

“As for that,” said Rubellia, with a smile, “all the world knows that
Sabinus is quite a philosopher—he was just beginning a very learned
harangue when we were attracted by your voice in the crowd; and you have
the more reason to thank him, because he was cut very unseasonably short,
in consequence of the distress in which we perceived you.”

“Most noble lady!” replied the Stoic, “you know not how much you have
delighted me; from the first moment, indeed, that my eyes rested upon the
countenance of your heroic friend, I suspected that he had subjected
himself to some other discipline besides that of camps. I saw the traces
of thought, lady—and serious contemplation. The mind can never exercise
its faculties, without conveying some symptoms of those internal
operations to the external surface of the visage. The soul can never
energize habitually, without betraying its activity in the delicacy and
acumen, which the more elegant and susceptible parts of the corporeal
frame acquire during those elaborate and mysterious processes of thought.
I saw, therefore, and suspected. But what thanks are not due to you, for
having so agreeably confirmed me in this happy suspicion! Of a surety, the
noise and tumult of the camp is not so well adapted for the theoretic or
contemplative life, as perfect leisure and retirement; yet, who shall
doubt that the soul of great energy can overcome all such disadvantages?
Who shall think that the spirit of Socrates did not eagerly philosophize
during the campaign he served?—Who shall say that the Stagyrite must have
suspended his acute, although imperfect investigations, even although he
had accompanied his royal pupil across the Hellespont, and attended all
the motions of his victorious army, instead of staying at home to teach
the youth of Greece?—Who, finally,” said he, casting his courteous eyes
full on the Prætorian, “shall suspect but that this generous warrior has
been effectually advancing the growth of philosophic science, within his
own mind at least,—if not composing works, in his intervals of leisure,
destined hereafter to benefit and instruct the world, even although he may
have been attending the flight of the Eagle from utmost Britain to the
desert frontiers of the Parthian?”—“Nobody, indeed,” replied the sportive
lady—“nobody, indeed, who has enjoyed any opportunity of being acquainted
with the Centurion, can have any doubt on that head.—Sabinus,” she
continued, turning towards him, “what treatise are you at present engaged
with? Come, now, speak out, and truly;—are you still busy with your peri
tês Phuseôs tou oistrou bakchikou,(1) that you were quoting from the other
night?—or are you deep in ‘_the delight of contemplation_?’—or——”—“Not at
all,” quoth the Centurion, interrupting her; “I am only deep in _love_——”
Saying so, he laid his hand in a very tender fashion upon his breast, and
even, as I thought, began to throw a little sentiment into his eyes; but
he had no opportunity of going on with his speech, for Xerophrastes had no
sooner heard him utter the word _love_, than he immediately began to pour
out a new rhapsody.

“Love!” quoth he; “Ha! love:—in good sooth, a noble subject, and one
concerning which not a few laudable treatises have been composed. Yet,
without question, much remains to be done in this matter; and I should be
most proud if the illustrious Sabinus would vouchsafe to me a perusal of
his speculations. Without question,” he continued, “you have commenced
with a proper definition and division of the subject. You have
distinguished betwixt what is properly called _love_, and the other more
or less kindred affections, with which hallucinating writers have too
often committed the error of confounding it. You have described, in the
first place, the difference between it and the _Storgé_ or natural
affection which parents have for their offspring—an affection in which not
a few of the irrational tribes appear (if physiologists may be trusted) to
be even superior to the human race.”—“Hens, for example,” quoth the
Centurion, with a face of infinite gravity.—“Even so—_hens_,” continued
the sage; “an apt illustration.—I perceive, indeed, lady,” whispered he to
Rubellia, “that you have not deceived me concerning the attainments of
this your noble friend.—Hens—a most acute illustration!—See you now, O
Sextus!” he went on, “it is not the characteristic of true philosophy to
despise those illustrations which are drawn from the affairs of ordinary
life, and the common surfaces of things. No: it is rather her part to shew
forth her own intrinsic excellence and splendour, by raising that which is
in itself low and customary, to unexpected dignity, by her methods of
felicitous application. See you, now, with what unexampled skill this
hero—this philosopher, I should rather say—may I presume to add, this
brother philosopher?—has illustrated the nature of love in this treatise
of his, by introducing the domestic habits of your common household fowl.
Such things should not pass unheeded by the young aspirants to learning,
because these, more than any other circumstances, may furnish them with
encouragement to proceed in their course, by shewing how many of the
materials of philosophy lie every where under the eyes of the most common
traveller of the path of life; and how assuredly it is the fault of the
individual himself, if he neglect the means of spiritual advancement,
which are sure to be afforded in whatever situation may chance to have
been assigned to him.”

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you,” said Rubellia; “but Sabinus has
almost finished the grapes while you have been speaking; and I would only
just beg to suggest, that it is the fault of the individual, Xerophrastes,
if he neglects the means of corporeal refreshment, which may yet be
afforded to him by what remains in the basket.”

“Most kind lady,” resumed he, “your benevolence is worthy of your
nobility.—But you know not how much the philosophy I have embraced, tends
to lessen the natural desire of man for such things as you allude
to—nevertheless,” he continued, “I will not refuse to partake yet farther
of your bounty; for I have been sorely dealt with in the multitude, as
yourselves witnessed.”

So saying, he took hold of the basket, and began to feel in the bottom of
it, but found very little to his purpose; for, to say the truth, the rest
of the party had been almost as eager in their attentions to it as the
Centurion. A few slender bunches, notwithstanding, were still there, one
of which the philosopher thrust into his mouth, and the rest he concealed
beneath one of the folds of his huge mantle, until he should have made an
end of his criticism. Meantime, the natural language of the broad, jovial,
unreflective countenance of our worthy Centurion, seemed considerably at
variance from the notion of his attainments and pursuits, which this merry
lady had been instilling into the pedagogue. Rubellia herself, however,
appeared to enjoy the thing far more keenly than either Sextus or I;
insomuch, that I was afraid Xerophrastes would penetrate through the joke
she was playing off upon him, before he had given himself his full swing
in commendation of the Prætorian. But Sabinus, on his side, was, as it
seemed, of opinion, that he had already heard enough of such
disquisitions; for he had scarcely seen out the last cup of Falernian, ere
he began to give hints that he wished very much to descend into the arena,
for the purpose of observing the animals about to be exhibited, while they
were yet in their cages. Xerophrastes, however, even when he had heard him
signify this desire, appeared still to be resolved on considering him as
one of the philosophic order of mankind; for he at once offered to
accompany him, saying, that the visit was of course intended for the
gratification of some scientific curiosity, and that therefore he should
think himself culpable did he neglect the opportunity.

“Come, then,” quoth the good-natured Sabinus, “by all means prepare
yourself for the descent; but at least allow me to precede you, that there
may be no risk of untimely obstructions.”—“Most assuredly, noble
Centurion,” replied Xerophrastes, “in this, as in all things, I shall be
proud to be enumerated among your followers. My pupil, also,” he added,
“and his friend, will no doubt accompany us, that they may benefit by our
discourse on whatever may be subjected to observation.”—“Venerated
friend,” said Rubellia, “would you leave the ladies by themselves in the
midst of the Amphitheatre? I hope Sextus Licinius, at least, will consider
our weakness, and remain for our protection.”

She laid her hand on my companion’s arm, with a look which was decisive.
Her ancient crony whispered something about the impropriety of leaving
only one of the party to attend upon two females; but I took advantage of
her low tone to pretend ignorance of that hint, and rose with the
Centurion.

“Go quickly,” said Sextus, “for the interval must be well-nigh at an end;
and if those that have gone out begin to rush in again, you may have
difficulty in regaining your places.”—“Give fear to the winds,” quoth
Sabinus; “am not I with them, that know every lion-feeder in Rome? No
chance of the exhibition recommencing without my having sufficient
warning. It is not for nothing that I have lost and won so many thousand
sesterces in the Amphitheatre. Would to Hercules as much respect were paid
to experience every where else, as in the Arena to your true old Better.
Already, I perceive that half a dozen of those knowing characters down
below, about the entrances to the dens, have detected me. They must fancy
my purse is in a poor state indeed, when I don’t seem to think it worth
while to take even a single peep at the cages. Come, worthy brother in
philosophy, and you, my fellow-voyager, let us be alert, lest we arrive
after Platæa.”

We obeyed with due alacrity, and, leaving the reluctant Sextus to his
fate, touched presently the margin of the arena. We had no sooner arrived
there, than an old skin-dried limping Numidian, with a bit of lion’s hide
fastened round his loins—one who, from his leanness and blackness, had
very much the appearance of having been baked to a cinder, drew to the
Centurion, with many nods and significant grins of recognition. Sabinus,
on his part, seemed noways backward to acknowledge this acquaintance; but,
on the contrary, began to talk volubly with him in a strange sort of
broken dialect, chiefly composed, as I afterwards learned, of Punic
vocables. After this had lasted some minutes, he took Xerophrastes and me
by the hand, and seemed to introduce us to the Numidian, who then desired
us all to come down, and he would conduct us to a place where we should
see something not unworthy of being seen. About to follow these
directions, I felt my gown seized from behind, and looking round, observed
that it was my faithful Briton, who, from the heat and confusion of his
aspect, appeared not to have come thither without a considerable struggle.
Sabinus seeing him, said, “Ah! my old friend Boto, how have you come to
this part of the Amphitheatre? We must not leave you behind us, however:
Of a surety, you have never seen a lion—you shall descend along with your
master; and who knows but we may persuade Xerophrastes that you also are a
brother philosopher?”—“Most noble Centurion,” replied the grateful slave,
“I saw you and my master from the very topmost bench, where I have been
sitting for these three hours with Dromo, and I was determined to draw
near to you, if it were possible. To go from this place up to yonder
quarter would perhaps be impossible; but it is never a very difficult
matter to go down in this world; so, saving your reverence, I trundled
myself over the benches, and when heads were in my way, I trundled myself
over them too.”—“It is well, good Briton,” quoth the Centurion—by this
time we had crossed the arena—“and now prepare to exercise your eyes as
well as you already have exercised your limbs; for know, that very near to
you is the abode of nobler animals than even your lord hath ever
observed.”

With this the African opened one of the iron doors edging the arena, and
having received some money, admitted us to the sight of a long flight of
marble steps, which appeared to descend into the bowels of the earth, far
below the foundation of the Amphitheatre. “Come along, masters,” quoth he;
“we had better go down this way, for we shall have a better view of the
animals so, than on the other side. My master, Sabinus, will tell you all,
that old Aspar knows as much about these things as any Numidian in the
place.”—“Indeed, since friend Bisbal is gone,” quoth the Centurion, “there
is not another of these that is to be compared to you.”—“Ah!” replied
Aspar, “Bisbal was a great man; there is not a feeder in Rome that is
worthy to tie the latchet of his sandals, if he were alive.”—“Why, as to
that,” said the other, “old Bisbal was very seldom worth a pair of sandals
worth the tying, when he was alive; but, come on, we have no great leisure
for talking now, and Aspar shall shew a lion with any Bisbal that ever
wielded whip.—Come on.”

We soon reached a large vaulted place, apparently below the Amphitheatre,
the sides of which were almost entirely covered with iron-gratings,—while
up and down the open space were strolling many strange groupes of men,
connected in different capacities with the bloody spectacles of the arena.
On one hand, we saw some of the gladiators, who had already been
combating, walking to and fro with restless and agitated steps, as if they
had not yet been able to recover themselves from the excitement into which
their combats had thrown them. Even of such as had been victorious, I
observed that not a few partook in all these symptoms of uneasiness; and
the contrast thus exhibited to the haughty mien of calmness they had so
lately been displaying, affected me with a strange sense of the irrational
and inhuman life these unhappy persons were condemned by folly or
necessity to lead. The blood had forsaken the lips and cheeks of others,
and from the fixed stare of their eyes, it appeared that their minds were
entirely withdrawn from every thing passing around them. Their limbs, so
recently nerved to the utmost show of vigour, were now relaxed and
unstrung, and they trod the marble floor with heavy and straggling feet.
But they that appeared to me to be in the most wretched state, were such
as, they told us, expected to be led forth shortly to contend with the
wild beasts, in whose immediate vicinity they were now walking. The
summons to battle with a human opponent calls into action the fierceness
and the pride of man; but he that has to fight with a beast, how should he
not be weighed down with the sense of mortal degradation; how should the
Reason that is in him not fill him, in such a prospect, with dispiriting
and humbling, rather than with strengthening and stimulating thoughts?
Howbeit, the Centurion, although the most good-natured of mankind, being
rendered from custom quite callous to these things, immediately entered
into conversation with some of those unfortunates, in a tone of coolness
and unconcern that shocked me the more, because it did not seem in the
smallest degree to shock them. Among other topics, he enlarged at much
length to one of them upon the best method of evading the attack of a
tiger.

“Look ye now,” said he, “there are some that are always for taking things,
as they call it, in good time,—these will be pointing their swords before
the creature makes his spring; but I have seen what comes of that, and so
has old Aspar here, if he would be honest enough to confess it. The true
way is to watch his eye when he is setting; let him fairly fix upon his
mark, and spring; but at the moment when he is taking his leap, then is
the time for the gladiator to start aside, and have at him with a
side-thrust. Your side-thrust is the only one I would lay an _as_
upon.”—“Yea,” quoth the grinning Aspar,—“it was always on your cool steady
side-thrust, the moment he had sprung, that the great Bisbal used to stake
himself. Ha! ha! I was fond of the side-thrust in my day myself; but I got
a scratch once—witness my poor leg, masters,—and since then I am a poor
feeder.”—“I was always clear for the side-thrust,” quoth Sabinus. “I never
saw it fail but twice, and then, to be sure, the men died; but they could
have had no chance at all with the frontguard; and it is always
something,” continued he, clapping one of the poor expecting gladiators on
the back,—“it is always something to have a chance. Be sure you try him
with the side-thrust, if it come to your turn to-day.”

The poor creature—he also was an African—lifted up his head on being so
addressed, and shewed all his white teeth in a melancholy attempt at a
smile; but said not a word in reply, and forthwith became as downcast as
before. But the Centurion took little or no heed of the manner in which
his advice had been received. He contemplated the man’s figure for a
moment, as if to form some judgment concerning the measure of his
strength; and after doing the like in regard to some of his companions,
commanded Aspar to shew us where the prime lions of the day were reposing.

The Numidian seized a long pole that was leaning against one of the
pillars of the vault, and led us to a certain part of the grated wall,
behind which was the den, wherein six monstrous Atlantic lions were kept.
I looked in upon them with wonder, and not without dread, through the iron
net-work of the doors. An imperfect gleam of light descended from above
upon their tawny hides and glaring eyes. They, like the gladiators, seemed
also to be preparing for the combat; but not like them in fear, nor in
cold dewy tremors; for the deprivation of food, which they had been made
to suffer in prospect of the exhibition, had roused all the energies of
their savage natures; insomuch, that a sulky and yearning rage seemed to
spread through every nerve and sinew of their gigantic frames, and to make
them paw their quadrangular prison with long and pliant strides. They
moved, however, as yet in total silence; so that Boto having fixed his
eyes upon them, took courage to approach the grate,—slowly, nevertheless,
and with a face that appeared to lengthen an inch for every inch he
advanced. But when he had almost touched the bars, one of the huge lions
came forward towards him, with something between a growl and a sigh, which
made Boto spring backward with great and surprising agility, and with such
force, that both he and Xerophrastes, who happened unfortunately to have
been standing a little way behind him, were overthrown at all their length
upon the floor.

The Centurion, and the limping old keeper, burst into laughter; but
Xerophrastes rising, and shaking his garment, said, with some warmth,
“Think not, O Sabinus, that any sudden start of fear has thus ridiculously
stretched me upon the floor; but attribute the mischance only to this rude
offspring of British earth, whose unreclaimed natural feelings are still
shamefully affected by natural causes.”—“Castor and Pollux,” quoth the
Centurion,—“you take every thing too seriously, my friend.”—“I take it not
seriously,” replied he, with admirable gravity. “My philosophy forbids me
to do so; it has steeled me against externals.”—“Has it so, in faith!”
rejoined the Centurion. “I think some of your equanimity is, in fact,
owing to the trifling circumstance, that you have in reality received no
injury whatever from your tumble. And as to steeling, let me tell you, I
think the iron in the grated door there is much better placed, than in the
bosom of a philosopher; for, in the door, it serves the purpose of
preventing all harm; but if these animals were once out, all the mental
steel of which you boast would not save every bone in your body from being
cracked in the twanging of a bow-string.”—“You speak,” replied
Xerophrastes, “as if you had embraced the tenets of a sect not worthy of
the lovers of wisdom—You speak as if the artificial contrivances of human
workmen were all in all. An iron cage may confine wild beasts; but can
cages be made for all those misfortunes to which mankind are liable, and
against which the force of the mind is their only means of defence? Can
you cage the Eumenides, when they come to avenge a life spent in ignoble
indolence and degrading luxury?”—“In truth,” replied the Centurion with a
smile, “I have never seen the Eumenides except once, and that was in the
theatre of Athens. But Boto, perhaps, has been more fortunate. Did you
ever see the Eumenides, good Boto?” “No, master,” replied, stupidly, the
perplexed Boto, “I never was at the theatre.”

“Ye gods!” exclaimed the Stoic, “of a surety this Britain must have been
the last spot rescued from the dominion of Chaos!”

But while we were yet contemplating those enormous animals, and amused
with the awkward gestures of Boto, the trumpets were blown in the
Amphitheatre, and no sooner did the sound of them penetrate into the
vaults, than it was evident, from the bustle which ensued, that the
Emperor had returned to his place. With all speed, therefore, did we
reascend to the upper air, leaving the gladiators in the act of mustering
in their respective quarters of the gloomy vault; and the feeders not less
busied in preparing their beasts for the expected combat. Had we not been
under the protection of Sabinus, we should have attempted in vain to
regain our places; but he being an acknowledged and current authority,
known in every department of the Amphitheatre, the door-keepers, and other
functionaries, durst refuse him nothing; room was made for us where no
room appeared; and, in a word, we shortly found ourselves once more seated
by the side of Rubellia and Sextus.




                              _CHAPTER XII._


The day was by this time considerably advanced; and, in spite of the
awnings spread all over head, the rays of the sun were so powerful, that
the marble benches felt hot to the touch, wherever they were exposed to
them; and altogether there was such a glare and fervour throughout the
place, that my eyes began to be weary of gazing; and very gladly would I
have retired, rather than remain to see out the rest of the exhibition.
Nevertheless, there was no appearance of any one having gone away in
weariness; but, on the contrary, the seats, and even the passages, seemed
to be more crowded than they had been in the anterior part of the morning.

The arena was vacant, when I looked down upon it; but in a short time, a
single old man, who, as Rubellia told me, had, without doubt, been found
guilty of some atrocious wickedness, was led forth from a small wicket on
the one side, and presently his fetters being struck off, those that
conducted him retired, leaving him alone upon the sand. The eyes of this
malefactor refused at first to look steadfastly on the objects around him,
and it seemed to me that he had probably been long confined in some dark
place, so grievously did the dazzling splendour, reflected from the floor
and walls, appear to bewilder and confound him. Nevertheless, after a
brief space, he seemed in some measure to recover himself, and assumed a
posture of resignation, leaning with one hand against the parapet, as if
he needed support to uphold himself. Pallid and extenuated were the
outlines of the old man’s visage, and his hair and beard exhibited not a
little of the squalidness attendant on long confinement; yet there was
something in the attitude, and even in the countenance, which made me
harbour the suspicion that he had not, at some former period, been
altogether unacquainted with the luxuries and refinements of social life.
The beauty, indeed, of the mould in which his form had originally been
cast, might, perhaps, have been the sole cause of these casual
demonstrations of elegance; yet it was impossible not to regard the man
with greater interest, by reason of the contrast suggested between what he
once perhaps had been, and what he now was.

A feeling of the same sort seemed to pervade many more in the assembly;
and I heard a continual whispering among those around me, as if there was
a general anxiety to learn something of the history of the man. No one,
however, appearing to be able to say any thing concerning this, I kept my
eyes fixed upon himself, awaiting the issue in silence. Judge then, what
was my surprise, when one of the heralds of Trajan, having commanded that
there should be silence in the amphitheatre, said, “Let Tisias of Antioch
come forth, and answer to the things that shall be alleged against him.”
To which the old man, that was alone in the arena, immediately made
reply,—“Here am I—my name is Tisias of Antioch.”—In vain, however, even
after hearing the well-remembered voice, did I attempt to persuade myself
that the face was such as I had pictured within myself; for, as to seeing
it, I have already told you that utter darkness prevailed in the dungeon
all the time I was there with him.

Then arose the Prefect of the city, who had his place immediately under
the chair of Cæsar, and said in a voice, which, although not loud, was
heard distinctly all through the Amphitheatre,—“Tisias of Antioch, being
accused of blasphemy and contempt for the Gods, has been brought hither,
either to refute this charge, by doing homage at the altar of Jupiter Best
and Greatest; or, persisting in his rebellion, to suffer openly the
punishment which the laws have affixed to such perversity. Let him remain
where he is until the Flamens invite all to join in the sacrifice.”

Tisias, hearing these words, stept forth into the middle of the arena, and
folding his arms upon his breast, stood there composedly, without once
lifting up his eyes, either to the place from which the Prefect had
spoken, or to any other region of the Amphitheatre. The situation in which
he stood was such, that I commanded, where I sate, a full and distinct
view of every movement of the old man’s countenance, and assuredly my eyes
were in no danger of being directed away from him. For a few moments there
was perfect silence throughout the assembly, until at length the same
herald made proclamation for the doors to be thrown open, that the priests
of Jupiter might have access. There was heard forthwith a noise, as of the
turning of some heavy machinery, and a part of the ground-work of the
arena itself appeared to be giving way, right over against that quarter in
which Tisias had his station. But of this the purpose was soon manifested,
when there arose from underneath into the space thus vacated, a wooden
stage, or platform, covered all over with rich carpetings, whereof the
centre was occupied by a marble altar, set forth already with all the
usual appurtenances of sacrifice, and surmounted on one side by a gigantic
statue of bronze, in which it was easy to recognize the features of the
great Phidian Jupiter. Neither had the altar any sooner made its
appearance there, and the sound of the machinery, by which its great
weight had been lifted, ceased to be heard, than even as the herald had
given command, the main gates of the Amphitheatre were expanded, and
thereby a free passage prepared for the procession of the Flamens. With
that, all those that were present in the Amphitheatre, arose from their
seats and stood up, and a sweet symphony of lutes and clarions ushered in
the sacred band to the place appointed for them. And, first of all, there
marched a train of fifty beautiful boys, and then an equal number of very
young maidens, all, both boys and maidens, arrayed in white tunics, and
having their heads crowned with oaken garlands, and bearing in their hands
fresh branches of the oak tree, which, above all the other trees of the
forest, is, as you have heard and well know, held dear and sacred to
Jupiter. Then these youthful bands were separated, and they arranged
themselves, the boys on the right, and the girls on the left hand of the
altar, some of them standing on the arena itself, and others on either
side, upon the steps of the platform whereon the altar was fixed; and
beautiful, indeed, was their array, and comely and guiltless were their
looks; and much modesty was apparent, both in the downcast eyes and closed
lips, with which some of them stood there to await the issue of their
coming, and in the juvenile admiration wherewith others of them were
regarding the wide and splendid assemblage around them; insomuch, that I
could not but feel within myself a certain dread and fearfulness, when I
saw the feet of so many tender and innocent ones placed there upon the
same hot and guilty sand, which had so often drunk the blood of fierce
beasts and cruel malefactors—alas!—which had drunk the blood of the
innocent also—and which was yet to drink thereof abundantly.

And after them there came in the priests themselves of Jupiter, arrayed in
the white garments of sacrifice, walking two by two, the oldest and
principal of them coming last. And behind them again, were certain younger
assistants, clothed also in white, who led by a cord of silk inwrought
with threads of silver, a milk-white steer, without spot or blemish, whose
horns were already gilt, and his broad brows crowned with oak leaves and
roses. And last of all entered the Vestal Virgins, none of whom had ever
before been seen by me, and they also walked two by two; and no one could
contemplate without veneration the majesty of their demeanour. With broad
fillets were they bound around the forehead, and deep flowing veils hung
down to their feet, entirely covering their faces and their hands;
nevertheless, their dignity was apparent; and it was not the less
impressive, by reason of the great mystery in which all things about them
appeared to be enveloped.

Imagine, therefore, to yourselves, how magnificent was the appearance of
all things, when youths and damsels, and priests and vestals, had taken
their places, according to the custom of their sacred observances; and all
that innumerable company of spectators yet standing up in the
amphitheatre, the choral-hymn was begun, in which every voice there was
united, except only that of Tisias the Christian. Now, it was the soft low
voices of the young maidens that sounded, and then these would pause, and
give place to the clearer and more piercing notes of the boys that stood
on the other side of the altar; then again the priestesses of Vesta would
break in from afar with their equable harmony; and anon these in their
turn ceasing, the Flamens of Jupiter would lift up their strong deep
chanting, until, at the appointed signal from him that stood on the
highest step of the altar, with the cup of libation in his hand, the whole
people that were present burst in and joined in the rushing stream of the
burden, “Jupiter,—Jupiter, hear us!—hear us, Father of Gods and men!”
while the wine was poured out, gushing red upon the marble, and the
incense flung on high from fifty censers, rolled its waves of smoke all
over the surface of the arena, and quite up to the gorgeous canopy of that
resounding Amphitheatre. Magnificent, indeed, was the spectacle, and
majestic the music; yet in the midst of it, how could I take away my eyes
from the pale and solitary old man, by reason of whose presence alone all
these things were so? With calm eyes did he regard all the pageantry of
those imperial rites,—with closed lips did he stand amidst all the
shouting multitudes. He bowed not his head; he lifted not up his hand;
neither would he bend his knee, when the victim was slain before the horns
of the altar; neither would he in any thing give semblance of being a
partaker in the worship.

At length the song ceased, and there was a proclamation again for deep
silence; and the Prefect of the city, addressing himself once more to
Tisias, spoke thus:—“Impious and unhappy man, with great clemency have all
things been conducted as concerning thee. When, after long imprisonment,
and innumerable exhortations in private and in public, thou hadst always
rejected every means of safety, and spurned from thee the pardon of those
in whose hands thy being is placed, yet, notwithstanding of all thine
obstinacy and continual rebellion, was it determined, that, in the face of
all the people, thou shouldst once more have free grace offered to thee,
provided only thou shouldst, when all the assembly worshipped, join thy
voice with them, and bow thy head also toward the altar of Jupiter.
Nevertheless all that now hear me shall bear witness, that, with open and
visible contumacy, thou hast rejected this opportunity also of being
reconciled unto the prince and the empire,—that, when every knee bent, and
every voice was lifted up, thou alone hast stood upright, and thy lips
alone have been closed. If it be so, that, from some inflicted, rather
than voluntary perversion of mind, thou hast never yet been able to
understand the danger in which thou art placed, know now, that there
remains no hope at all for thee, except for a moment; and let the strong
fear of death open thine eyes, that thou mayst see where thou art, and for
what purpose thou hast been brought hither. Thou art a born subject of
Rome, and thy life can only be held by thee, in virtue of obedience to the
laws. These are clearer upon nothing, than the necessity that all men
should acknowledge the deities of Rome; and of good reason, since, if they
be despised, and their authority set at nought, by what means shall an
oath be ratified, or a pledge given; or how may the head, which counsels
and protects, be assured that the members shall not be lifted up against
it? Let silence remain in the assembly, and let Tisias of Antioch make his
election, whether he will give obedience, or suffer the penalty of
transgression.”

Then the Prefect, and all those round about Trajan, sat down, and there
was a deep silence throughout the lower region, where, for the most part,
they of condition were placed; but when the rabble, that sat above, beheld
the stern and resolute countenance with which the old man stood there upon
the arena, it seemed as if they were enraged beyond measure, and there
arose among them a fierce uproar, and a shouting of hatred; and, amidst
groans and hisses, there was a cry from innumerable voices of—“Christian!
Christian!—Blasphemer! Blasphemer!—Atheist! Atheist!—A tiger! A tiger!—Let
loose a tiger upon the Christian!”

Nevertheless, the old man preserved unmoved the steadfastness of his
demeanour, and lifting up his eyes to the place from whence the tumult
proceeded, regarded the ferocious multitude with a visage, not of anger or
of scornfulness, but rather of pity and calmness; insomuch, that I
perceived the nobles and senators were somewhat ashamed of the outcry, and
the Prefect of the city arose from his place, and beckoned with his hand,
until the people were weary of shouting, and order was, in some measure,
re-established in the Amphitheatre.

Then Tisias, perceiving that silence once more prevailed, lifted up his
hand, and bowed himself before Trajan, and the great men of authority that
were near to his chair, and said, with a firm clear voice, in the Roman
tongue, “My name, O Trajan, is Tisias—the son of Androboulos. I am a
native of Antioch, in Syria, and have in all things, except only in what
pertains to this cause, observed throughout all the years of my life the
statutes of the empire, as they, by whose accusation I have been led
hither, shall themselves be constrained to bear witness for me this day.
My father was a Greek of Macedonian extraction, being descended from one
of those that came into Syria beneath the banners of the great King
Seleucus; but he took to wife a maiden of the Hebrew nation, and in
process of time became a proselyte to the faith of her fathers.
Nevertheless, he lived in trust and honour beneath the governors appointed
by those that were before you in the empire, and brought up me and all his
children to reverence, in all things that are lawful, the authority of
Cæsar. But as to the faith of the true God, whose worshippers ye blindly
and foolishly call atheists and blasphemers, from that he neither swerved
himself, nor would permit any of those that were in his household to
depart. Now, when he had been a dweller for some time in Jerusalem, the
great city of the Jews, he began to examine into those things which were
reported publicly concerning Jesus of Nazareth, who is also called the
Christ, of which things not a few that had been eye-witnesses were then
living in that city. And when he had been satisfied from their testimony,
that those miracles, of which you have all heard, were in truth performed
in the sight of the people by Jesus, and had listened unto the words of
their teachers, and saw how they proved that the old prophets of the
Hebrews had foretold those wonderful works, he perceived that Jesus of
Nazareth was indeed the Christ of God, and the great Deliverer that had
been promised to that people, even from the beginning of their nation. And
he believed on him with all his household; and I also, from a stripling,
have, although unworthy, been a Christian; for by that name were they
first called in Antioch, the city of my birth.

“But being brought into trouble by reason of his religion, which the
rulers of the Jews abhorred, my father departed, after a time, from
Jerusalem, and dwelt with my mother in one of the villages of Palestine,
until his death. Not long after which time, the Jews rebelled against
Cæsar, and the great war began, which terminated in the overthrow of
Jerusalem, and the utter ruin of their nation. Now, when Vespasian first
came with his army into those regions, I, being without employment in the
place where we had our habitation, and having, moreover, taken up a great,
and perhaps a sinful, wrath against the Jews, on account of the sufferings
which my father had undergone among them, and of the evils which, at their
hands, our whole household had sustained, joined myself to one of the
bands of Syrian auxiliaries; and although my mother entreated me, could
not be persuaded to refrain from following the camp of Cæsar with them. Of
which thing it has often since then repented me, and in which, it may be,
I still hold myself not to have done altogether as was right; for if the
Jews had offended Cæsar, it was, indeed, a reasonable thing that Cæsar
should visit them with his vengeance; but, peradventure, it behoved not
any of them that were descended from the fathers of that people, to take
part in the warfare. Nevertheless, being then young, and, as I have said,
irritated by the sense of domestic injuries, I scrupled not to fulfil in
all things the duty of a soldier, and followed the eagles of Vespasian and
his son, even to the day when the lines were drawn around the Holy City;
and it was manifest, that the war could have no end, but in the eternal
overthrow of the power of the Jews. Neither did the length of the siege
weary me, or produce within me any sort of unwillingness; but, on the
contrary, so long as the city was beleaguered, I remained with the band in
which I had numbered myself, and did in all labours such service as my
strength would permit. Even among the soldiers that have guarded my
prison, since I was led into Rome for the sake of that accusation which
has been brought against me in the matter of my belief,—even among them, I
have seen the faces of some that were my comrades in that fierce war, and
that long beleaguerment, who also, if they be commanded, will not refuse
to bear testimony before you, that all these things are true, even as I
have said, and that I was a faithful soldier, both of Vespasian and of
Titus, unto the last. Neither, indeed, did I lay down arms immediately
when Jerusalem had been sacked, and the Temple burnt, according to the
prediction of Christ, but went with Cæsar along the sea-coast, and was
present with him all through the journeyings he made in Egypt, even to the
day when he made his great festival at Alexandria, and crowned the Ox Apis
with his own hands, in the presence of all that people. On which day it
was, that, for the first time, I also was accused of being a Christian,
and at the command of Titus himself, was interrogated by one of the rulers
of the army.

“Now with shame and confusion of face must I acknowledge, that on that day
I, from desire of life, forgot myself utterly, and being deserted of all
steadfastness, went up to the altar in presence of my judge, and offered
gifts there, whereon I was declared free of all blame; and even received
honour and commendation thereafter from them, on account of my services in
the war. But, from that day, my spirit sunk within me, and I knew not what
to do; I grew weary of all things, and determined to leave the band in
which I was serving, that I might seek out, if it were possible, the
habitation of my mother, and make atonement in secret for the wickedness
of which

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