 | LETTER V. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome |  |
5. LETTER V.
You could not but suppose, my Curtius, when you came
to the end of my last letter, that I should soon write again,
and not leave you ignorant of the manner in which I passed
the evening at the palace of Zenobia. Accordingly,
knowing that you would desire this, I had no sooner tied
and sealed my epistle, than I sat down to give you those
minute recollections of incident and of conversation in
which you and Lucilia both so much delight, and which
indeed, in the present instance, are not unimportant in
their bearing upon my future lot. But this I shall leave
to your own conjectures. A tempest of rain makes me a
necessary prisoner to the house, but the pleasant duty of
writing to you spreads sunshine on all within my room.
I trust in the gods that you are well.
Of the banquet in that Egyptian hall, and its immediately
attendant circumstances, I need not tell you. It
was like other feasts of ceremony, where the niceties of
form constantly obtrude themselves, and check too much
the flow of conversation. Then, too, one's mind is necessarily
distracted, where the feast is sumptuous, by the
rarity of the dishes, the richness of the service, and the
pomp and stir of the attendance. Never was it my fortune
in Rome to recline at a table of more imperial
service was of pure gold, most elaborately carved, and
covered with designs illustrative of points of the Egyptian
annals. Our wine cups were also of gold, enriched with
precious stones; and for each kind of wine, a different
cup, set with jewels, typical of the character of the wine
for which it was intended. These were by the hand of
Demetrius. It was in all respects a Roman meal, in its
fashions and conduct, though the table was spread with
many delicacies peculiar to the Orientals. The walls and
ceiling of the room, and the carpets represented, in the
colors of the most eminent Greek and Persian artists,
scenes of the life and reign of the great Queen of Egypt,
of whom Zenobia reckons herself a descendant. Cleopatra
was all around, above, and beneath. Music at
intervals, as the repast drew toward a close, streamed in
from invisible performers, and added a last and crowning
charm. The conversation was light and sportful, taking
once or twice only, and accidentally, as it were, a political
turn. These graceful Palmyrenes act a winning part
in all the high courtesies of life; and nothing could be
more perfect than their demeanor, free and frank, yet
never forgetful of the presence of Zenobia, nor even of
me, a representative in some manner of the majesty of
Rome.
The moon, nearly at her full, was already shining
bright in the heavens, when we left the tables, and walking
first for a time upon the cool pavements of the porticos
of the palace, then descended to the gardens, and separating
in groups, moved away at will among their endless
windings. Zenobia, as if desiring some private conference
with her great teacher, left us in company with
Longinus. It was my good and happy fortune to find
myself in the society of Julia and Fausta, with whom I
of the garden — for nearer the palace there was still to be
heard the sounds of merriment, and of the instruments,
furnishing a soft and delicious entertainment for such as
chose to remain longer in the palace. Of the rest of the
company, some like ourselves wandered among the labyrinthian
walks of this vast pleasure-ground, while others,
already weary, or satisfied with enjoyment, returned early
to their homes.
The evening, shall I say it, was worthy of the company
now abroad to enjoy it. A gentle breeze just swayed the
huge leaves of the — to me — strange plants which overhung
the paths, and came, as it here always seems to
come, laden with a sweetness which in Rome it never
has, unless added by the hand of Art. Dian's face shone
never before so fair and bright, and her light, coming to
us at frequent turns in our walk, through the spray of
numerous fountains, caused them to show like falling
diamonds. A divine repose breathed over the whole
scene. I am sure our souls were in harmony with it.
`Princess,' said I, `the gardens of Nero can have presented
no scenes more beautiful than these. He who designed
these avenues, and groups of flowers and trees,
these frequent statues and fountains, bowers and mimic
temples, and made them bear to each other these perfect
proportions and relations, had no less knowledge, methinks,
of the true principles of taste, and of the very
secrets of beauty, than the great Longinus himself. The
beauty is so rare, that it affects the mind almost like
greatness itself. In truth, in perfect beauty there is
always that which overawes.'
`I cannot say,' replied Julia, `that the learned Greek
was the architect and designer of these various forms of
beauty. The credit, I believe, is rather due to Periander,
the highest genius. Yet it is at the same time to be said,
that the mind of Longinus presided over the whole. And
he took not less delight in ordering the arrangements of
these gardens, than he did in composing that great treatise,
not long published, and which you must have seen
before you left Rome. He is a man of universal powers.
You have not failed to observe his grace — not less than
his abilities — while we were at the tables. You have
seen that he can play the part of one who would win the
regards of two foolish girls, as well as that of first minister
of a great kingdom, or that of the chief living representative
and teacher of the philosophy of the immortal
Plato.'
`For myself,' I replied, `I could hardly withdraw myself
from the simple admiration of his noble head and
form, to attend, so as to judge of it, to what fell from his
lips. It seems to me that if a sculptor of his own Greece
sought for a model of the human figure, he could hope to
find none so perfect as that of Longinus.'
`That makes it the foolisher and stranger,' said
Fausta, `that he should toil at his toilet as he so manifestly
does. Why can he not rely, for his power over
both men and women, upon his genius, and his natural
graces. It might be well enough for the Stagyrite to
deck his little person in fine clothes, and to cover his fingers
with rings — for I believe there must be something
in the outward appearance to strike the mere sensual eye,
and please it, either natural or assumed, or else even
philosophers might go unheeded. I doubt if upon my
fingers there be more or more glowing rings than upon
those of Longinus. To be sure, one must admit that his
taste is exquisite.'
`In the manners and dress of Longinus,' said I, `as
the power of custom. They were both, in respect to such
things, in a state of indifference — the true philosophical
state. But what happened? Both became instructors and
companions of princes, and the inmates of royal palaces.
Their manners and costume were left, without a thought,
I will dare to say, on their part, to conform themselves to
what was around them. Would it not have been a more
glaring piece of vanity, if in the palace of Philip, Aristotle
had clothed himself in the garb of Diogenes — or if
Longinus, in the presence of the great Zenobia, had appeared
in the sordid attire of Timon?'
`I think so,' said Julia.
`Your explanation is a very probable one,' added
Fausta, `and had not occurred to me. It is true, the
courts may have dressed them and not themselves. But
never, I still must think, did a rich dress fall upon more
willing shoulders than upon those of the Greek, always
excepting, Julia, Paul of Antioch.'
`Ah, Fausta,' said Julia, `you cannot, do what you
will, shake my faith in Paul. If I allow him vain, and
luxurious, and haughty, I can still separate the advocate
from the cause. You would not condemn the doctrine of
Aristotle, on the ground that he wore rings. Nor can I
altogether, nor in part, that of Paul, because he rolls
through the city in a gilded chariot, with the attendance
of a prince. I may blame or despise him — but not
therefore reject his teaching. That has a defence independent
of him. Policy, and necessity of time and place,
have compelled him to much which his reason disproves.
This he has given me to believe — and has conjured me
on this, as on all subjects, to yield my mind only to evidence,
apart from all personal considerations. But I did
not mean to turn our conversation in this direction. Here,
retreat. This is my bower for meditation, and frequently
for reading, too. Let us take this seat. Observe how
through these openings we catch some of the prominent
points of the city. There is the obelisk of Cleopatra;
there the tower of Antonine; there the Egyptian Pyramid;
and there a column going up in honor of Aurelian;
and in this direction, the whole outline of the palace.'
`Yet are we at the same time shut out from all the
world,' said I. `Your hours must fly swiftly here. But
are your musings always solitary ones?'
`Oh no — I am not so craving as that of my own
society: sometimes I am joined by my mother, and not
seldom by my sweet Fausta here,' said she, at the same
time affectionately drawing Fausta's arm within her own,
and clasping her hand; `we do not agree, indeed, upon
all the subjects which we discuss, but we still agree in
our love.'
`Indeed we do, and may the gods make it perpetual;
may death only divide us!' said Fausta with fervor.
`And may the divinity who sits supreme above,' said
Julia, `grant that over that, not even death shall have
power. If any thing makes existence valuable, it is love.
If I should define my happiness, I should say it in one
word, Love. Without Zenobia, what should I be? I
cannot conceive of existence, deprived of her, or of her
regard. Loving her, and Fausta, and Longinus as I do
— not to forget Livia and the dear Faustula — and beloved
by all in return — and my happiness scarcely seems
to admit of addition.'
`With what pain,' said I, `does one contemplate the
mere possibility that affections such as these are to last
only for the few years which make up the sum of human
life. Must I believe, must you believe, that all this fair
each other by so many ties, are to be separated, and both
of you to be divided from Zenobia, and all of us to all fall
into nothingness, silence, and darkness? Rather than
that, would that the life we now enjoy might be immortal!
Here are beautiful objects, among which one might
be willing to live forever. I am never weary of the moon
and her soft light, nor of the balmy air, nor of the bright
greens of the herbage, nor of the forms of plain and mountain,
nor of the human beings, infinite in the varieties of
their character, who surround me wherever I go. Here
now have I wandered far from my home, yet in what
society and in what scenes do I find myself! The same
heaven is above me, the same forms of vegetable life
around me, and what is more, friends already dear as
those I have left behind. In this very spot, were it but
as an humble attendant upon the greatness of the queen,
could I be content to dwell.'
`Truly, I think you might,' cried Fausta, `having
chosen for yourself so elysian a spot, and filled it with
such inhabitants, it is no great proof of a contented spirit
that you should love to inhabit it. But how many such
spots does the world present? — and how many such inhabitants?
The question I think is, would you be ready to
accept the common lot of man as an immortal one? I can
easily believe that many, were they seated in these gardens,
and waited on by attendant slaves, and their whole
being made soft and tranquil, and exempt from care and
fear, would say, `Ensure me this, and I ask no more.'
For myself, indeed, I must say it would not be so. I
think not even the lot of Zenobia, enthroned as she is
in the hearts of millions, nor yet thine, Julia, beloved not
less than Zenobia, would satisfy me. I have now all that
my utmost desires crave. Yet is there a part of me, I
confess myself restless and unsatisfied. No object, no
study, no pursuit, no friendship — forgive me Julia — and
she kissed her hand — no friendship even, satisfies and
fills me.'
`I do not wonder,' said Julia.
`But how much unhappiness is there spread over the
earth,' continued Fausta: `I, and you, and Piso perhaps,
too, are in a state of dissatisfaction. And yet we are perched,
as it were, upon the loftiest heights of existence. How
must it be with those who are so far inferior to us as multitudes
are in their means of happiness. From how many
ills are we shielded, which rain down sharp-pointed, like
the hail storms of winter, upon the undefended heads of
the poor and low! They, Piso, would not, I think, pray
that their lot might be immortal.'
`Indeed I think not,' said I. `Yet, perhaps, their lot
is not so much more miserable than yours, as the difference
in outward condition might lead one to think. Remember,
the slave and the poor do not feel as you would,
suddenly reduced to their state. The Arab enjoys his
sleep upon his tent floor, as well as you, Princess, beneath
a canopy of woven gold, and his frugal meal of date or
pulse tastes as sweet, as to you do dainties fetched from
Rome, or fished from the Indian seas: and eating and
sleeping make up much of life. Then the hearts of the
great are corroded by eares and solicitudes which never
visit the humble. Still, I do not deny that their condition
is not far less enviable than ours. The slave who
may be lashed, and tormented, and killed at his master's
pleasure, drinks from a cup of which we never so much as
taste. But over the whole of life, and throughout every
condition of it, there are scattered evils and sorrows which
pierce every heart with pain. I look upon all conditions
excluding ills which are the lot of all, that I could ask to
live forever, even in the gardens of Zenobia.'
`I do not think we differ much, then,' said Fausta, `in
what we think of human life. I hold the highest lot to be
unsatisfying. You admit all are so, but have shown me
that there is a nearer approach to an equality of happiness
than I had supposed, though evil weighs upon all. How
the mind longs and struggles to penetrate the mysteries of
its being! How imperfect and without aim does life
seem! Every thing beside man seems to reach its utmost
perfection. Man alone appears a thing incomplete and
faulty.'
`And what,' said I, `would make him appear to you a
thing perfect and complete? What change should you
suggest?'
`That which rather may be called an addition,' replied
Fausta, `and which, if I err not, all wise and good men desire
— the assurance of immortality. Nothing is sweet;
every cup is bitter; that which we are this moment drinking
from, bitterest of all, without this. Of this I incessantly
think and dream, and am still tossed in a sea of doubt.'
`You have read Plato?' said I.
`Yes, truly,' she replied — `but I found little there to
satisfy me. I have enjoyed, too, the frequent conversation
of Longinus, and yet it is the same. Would that he were
now here! The hour is serene, and the air which comes
in so gently from the West, such as he loves.'
As Fausta uttered these words, our eyes at the same
moment caught the forms of Zenobia and Longinus, as
they emerged from a walk very near, but made dark by
overhanging and embowering roses. We immediately
advanced toward them, and begged them to join us.
`We are conversing,' said Julia, `upon such things as
know what you can say upon the same themes.'
`We will sit with you gladly,' said the queen; `at least
for myself I may say it, for I am sure that with you I shall
find some other subjects discussed beside perplexing
affairs of state. When alone with Longinus — as but
now — our topic is ever the same.'
`If the subject of our discourse, however, be ever the
same,' said the Greek, `we have this satisfaction in reflecting
upon it, that it is one that in its nature is real and
tangible. The well-being of a nation is not an undefined
and shadowy topic, like so many of those which occupy
the time and thoughts of even the wise. I too, however,
shall gladly bear a part in whatever theme may engross
the thoughts of Julia, Fausta, and Piso.'
With these words, we returned to the seats we had left,
which were not within the arbor of Julia, but were the marble
steps which led to it. There we placed ourselves, one
above and one beside another, as happened — Zenobia
sitting between Fausta and Julia, I at the feet of Julia,
and Longinus on the same step with myself, and next to
Fausta. I could hardly believe that Zenobia was now the
same person before whom I had in the morning, with
little agitation, prostrated myself, after the manner of
the Persian ceremonial. She seemed rather like a friend
whom I both loved and revered. The majesty of the
queen was gone; there remained only the native dignity
of beauty, and goodness, and intellect, which, though it
inspires reverence, yet is there nothing slavish in the feeling.
It differs in degree only, from that sentiment which
we entertain toward the gods; it raises rather than depresses.
`We were speaking,' said Julia, resuming the subject
which had engaged us, `of life and of man — how unsatisfactory
were, man; and we agreed, I believe, in the opinion, that
there can be no true happiness, without a certain assurance
of immortality — and this we are without.'
`I agree with you,' said Longinus, `in all that you can
have expressed concerning the unsatisfactoriness of life,
regarded as a finite existence, and concerning the want of
harmony there is between man and the other works of
God, if he is mortal; and in this also, that without the
assurance of immortality, there can, to the thinking mind,
be no true felicity. I only wonder that on the last point
there should exist in the mind of any one of you doubts so
serious as to give you much disturbance. I cannot, indeed,
feel so secure of a future and then unending existence,
as I am sure that I live now. What I am
now I know; concerning the future, I can only believe,
and belief can never possess the certainty of knowledge.
Still, of a future life I entertain no doubts that distress me.
My belief in it is as clear and strong as I can well conceive
belief in things invisible and unexperienced to be.
It is such as makes me happy in any thought or prospect
of death. Without it, and life would appear to me like
nothing more to be esteemed than a short, and often
troubled or terrific dream.
`So I confess it seems to me,' said Fausta. `How
should I bless the gods, if upon my mind there could rest
a conviction of immortality strong like yours! The very
certainty with which you speak, seems, through the power
of sympathy, to have scattered some of my doubts. But,
alas! they will soon return.'
`In what you have now said,' replied Longinus, `and
in the feeling you have expressed on this point, do I found
one of the strongest arguments for the immortality of the
soul.'
`I do not comprehend you,' said Fausta.
`Do you not, Fausta,' asked Longinus, `intensely desire
a life after death?'
`I do indeed. I have just expressed it.'
`And do not you too, Zenobia, and Piso, and Julia?'
`Surely, and with intensity,' we answered; `the question
need scarcely be asked.'
`I believe you,' resumed Longinus. `You all earnestly
desire an immortal life — you perpetually dwell upon the
thought of it, and long for it. Is it not so with all who
reflect at all upon themselves? Are there any such, have
there ever been any, who have not been possessed by the
same thoughts and desires, and who, having been greatly
comforted and supported by them during life, have not at
death relied upon them, and looked with some good degree
of confidence toward a coming forth again from
death? Now I think it is far more reasonable to believe
in another life, than in the delusiveness of these expectations.
For I cannot suppose that this universal expectation
will be disappointed, without believing in the wickedness,
nay, the infinite malignity, of the Supreme Ruler,
which my whole nature utterly refuses to do. For what
more cruel, than to create this earnest and universal longing,
and not gratify it? Does it not seem so?'
We all admitted it.
`This instinctive desire,' continued Longinus, `I cannot
but regard as being implanted by the Being who
created us. It can proceed from no other. It is an
instinct, that is, a suggestion or inspiration of God. If it
could be shown to be a consequence of education, we
might refer it for its origin to ingenious philosophers.
But it exists where the light of philosophy has never shone.
There have been none, of whom history has preserved
even obscurest traditions, who have wanted this instinct.
be disappointed. I trust much to these tendencies of our
nature. This is the best ground for our belief of a
God. The arguments of the schools have never succeeded
in establishing the truth, even to the conviction of a philosophical
mind, much less a common one. Yet the truth
is universally admitted. God, I think, has provided for
so important an article of faith in the structure of our
minds. He has not left it to chance, or special Revelation.
So, too, the determinations of the mind concerning
virtue and vice, right and wrong, being for the most part
so accordant throughout the whole race — these also I
hold to be instinctive.'
`I can think of nothing,' said Fausta, `to urge against
your argument. It adds some strength, I cannot but
confess, to what belief I had before. I trust you have yet
more that you can impart. Do not fear that we shall be
dull listeners.'
`I sit here a willing and patient learner,' said Zenobia,
`of any one who will pour new light into my mind. Go
on, Longinus.'
`To such a school,' said he, `how can I refuse to
speak? Let me ask you, then, if you have never been
perplexed by the evils of life, such as either you have
yourselves experienced, or such as you have witnessed?'
`I have, indeed,' said Fausta, `and have deeply deplored
them. But how are they connected with a future
existence?'
`Thus,' replied Longinus, `as in the last case, the
benevolence of the Supreme God cannot be sustained
without the admission of the reality of a future life. Nor
only that, but, it seems to me, direct proof may be adduced
from the existence and universality of these evils to
establish the blackest malignity. So that to me, belief in
the idea of divine malignity, and it cannot therefore
be much stronger than it is.'
`How can you make that clear to us?' said Fausta; `I
should truly rejoice if out of the evils which so darken the
earth, any thing good or beautiful could be drawn.'
`As this dark mould,' rejoined the philosopher, `sends
upwards, and out of its very heart, this rare Persian rose,
so does hope grow out of evil, and the darker the evil
the brighter the hope, as from a richer and fouler soil
comes the more vigorous plant and larger flower. Take
a particular evil, and consider it. You remember the
sad tale concerning the Christian Probus, which Piso,
in recounting the incidents of his journey from Rome to
Palmyra, related to us while seated at the tables.'
`Indeed, I did not hear it,' said Zenobia; `so that
Piso must, if he pleases, repeat it.'
`We shall willingly hear it again,' said Julia and
Fausta.
And I then related it again.
`Now do you wonder,' resumed Longinus, when I had
finished, `that Probus, when one after another, four children
were ravished from his arms by death, and then, as
if to crown his lot with evil, his wife followed them, and
he was left alone the world, bereaved of every object
to which his heart was most fondly attached, do you wonder,
I say, that he turned to the heavens and cursed the
gods? And can you justify the gods so that they shall not
be chargeable with blackest malignity, if there be no
future and immortal state? What is it to bind so the
heart of a parent to a child, to give that affection a force
and a tenderness which belong to no other tie, so that
anxieties for its life and welfare, and cares and sacrifices
for its good, constitute the very existence of the parent,
and then forever disappoint and blast it, but malignity?
Yet this work is done every hour, and in almost every
heart; if for children we lament not, yet we do for others
as dear.'
Tears to the memory of Odenatus fell fast from the eyes
of Zenobia.
`Are we not then,' — continued Longinus, without
pausing — `are we not then presented with this alternative,
either the Supreme God is a malignant being, whose
pleasure it is to torment, or, there is an immortal state, where
we shall meet again with those, who, for inscrutable purposes,
have been torn from our arms here below? And
who can hesitate in which to rest? The belief, therefore,
in a future life ought to be in proportion to the difficulty
of admitting the idea of divine malignity. And this idea
is so repulsive — so impossible to be entertained for one
moment — that the other cannot, it seems to me, rest upon
a firmer foundation.'
`Every word you speak,' said Zenobia, `yields pleasure
and instruction. It delights me, even when thickest beset
by the cares of state, to pause and contemplate for a moment
the prospects of futurity. It diffuses a divine calm
throughout the soul. You have given me new food for
my thoughts.'
`I will add,' said Longinus, `only one thing to what I
have said, and that is, concerning the incompleteness of
man, as a divine work, and which has been mentioned by
Fausta. Is not this an argument for a future life? Other
things and beings are finished and complete — man only
is left, as it were, half made up. A tree grows and bears
fruit, and the end of its creation is answered. A complete
circle is run. It is the same with the animals. No
one expects more from a lion or a horse than is found in
and among no people, has it been satisfactorily determined
what man is, or what are the limits of his capacity
and being. He is full of contradictions, and of incomprehensible
organization, if he is considered only in relation
to this world. For while every other affection finds
and rests in its appropriate object, which fully satisfies
and fills it, the desire of unlimited improvement and of
endless life — the strongest and best defined of any of the
desires — this alone is answered by no corresponding
object: which is not different from what it would be, if
the gods should create a race like ours, having the same
craving and necessity for food and drink, yet never provide
for them the one or the other, but leave them all to
die of hunger. Unless there is a future life, we all die of
a worse hunger. Unless there is a future life, man is a
monster in creation — compared with other things, an
abortion — and in himself, and compared with himself,
an enigma — a riddle — which no human wit has ever
solved, or can ever hope to solve.'
`This seems unanswerable,' said Fausta; `yet is it no
objection to all such arguments, which we ourselves construct,
that the thing they establish is too great and good
almost to be believed, without some divine warrant. It
does to me appear almost or quite presumptuous to think
that for me, there is by the gods prepared a world of
never-fading light, and a never-ending joy.'
`When,' replied the Greek, `we look at the lower forms
of man which fall under our observation, I confess that
the objection which you urge strikes me with some
force. But when I think that it is for beings like you to
whom I speak, for whom another and fairer world is to
be prepared, it loses again much of its force. And when
I think of the great and good of other times, of Homer and
and of what the mind of man has in them, and in others
as great and good, accomplished, the objection which you
urge loses all its force. I see and feel that man has been
made not altogether unworthy of a longer life and a happier
lot than earth affords. And in regard to the ignorant,
the low, and the almost or quite savage, we are to
consider that the same powers and affections are in them
as in us, and that their inferiority to us is not intrinsic
and essential, but as it were accidental. The difference
between the soul of Plato and yonder Ethiopian slave, is
not in any original faculty or power; the slave here equals
the philosopher; but in this, that the faculties and powers
of Plato were strengthened, and nurtured, and polished,
by the hand of education, and the happy influences of a
more civilized community, all which to the slave has been
wanting. He is a diamond just as it comes from the
mine; Plato like that one set in gold, which sparkles with
the radiance of a star, Fausta, upon your finger. But,
surely, the glory of the diamond is, that it is a diamond;
not that Demetrius has polished and set it. Man has
within him so much of the god, that I do not wonder he
has been so often deified. The great and excellent
among men, therefore, I think not unworthy of immortality,
for what they are; the humble, and the bad, for
what they may so easily become, and might have been,
under circumstances but slightly altered.'
`I cannot,' said Julia, as Longinus closed, `deny
strength and plausibility to your arguments, but I cannot
admit that they satisfy me. After the most elaborate
reasoning, I am still left in darkness. No power or wit
of man has ever wholly scattered the mists which rest
upon life and death. I confess, with Socrates, that I
want a promise or a revelation to enable me to take the
fear of fatal shipwreck. If your reasonings, Longinus,
were only accompanied with authority more than that of
man, if I could only believe that the Divinity inspired
you, I could then rest contented and happy. One word
authoritatively declaring man's immortality, a word which
by infallible token I could know to be a word from the
Supreme, would to me be worth infinitely more than all
the conjectures, hopes, and reasonings of all the philosophers.
I fully agree with you, that the instincts of our
nature all point both to a God and to immortality. But
the heart longs for something more sure and clear, at least
my woman's heart does. It may be that it is the woman
within me which prompts the feeling — but I wish to lean
upon authority in this great matter; I wish to repose
calmly in a divine assurance.'
`In that, princess,' I could not help saying, `I am a
woman too. I have long since lost all that regard for the
gods in which I was so carefully nourished. I despise
the popular superstitions. Yet is there nothing which I
have found as yet to supply their place. I have searched
the writings of Plato, of Cicero, of Seneca, in vain. I
find there indeed, wisdom, and learning, and sagacity,
almost more than human. But I find nothing which can
be dignified by the name of religion. Their systems of
morals are admirable, and sufficient perhaps to enable one
to live a happy or fortunate life. But concerning the soul
of man, and its destiny, they are dumb, or their words, if
they utter any, are but the dark speeches of an oracle.'
`I am happy that I am not alone,' said Julia; `and I
cannot but think that many, very many, are with me. I
am sure that what most persons, perhaps, who think and
feel upon these subjects want, is, some divine promise
or revelation. Common minds, Longinus, cannot appreciate
Phædo. And, besides, the cares and labors of life do not
allow time to engage in such inquiries, even if we supposed
all men to have capacity for them. Is it not necessary
that truths relating to the soul and futurity should
rest upon authority, if any, or many, beside philosophers
are to embrace them? And surely, if the poor and ignorant
are immortal, it is as needful for them, as for us, to
know it. It is, I conceive, on this account, that the religion
of the Christians has spread so rapidly. It meets our
nature. It supplies authority. It professes to bring annunciations
from Heaven of man's immortality.'
`It is for that reason,' replied Longinus, `I cannot
esteem it. The very term revelation offends. The right
application of reason effects all, it seems to me, that what
is called revelation can. It perfectly satisfies the philosopher,
and as for common minds, instinct is an equally
sufficient guide and light.'
`I cannot but judge you, Longinus,' said Julia, `wanting
in a true fellow feeling for your kind, notwithstanding
all you have said concerning the nature and powers of
man. How is it, that you can desire that mankind should
remain any longer under the dominion of the same gross
and pernicious errors that have for so many ages oppressed
them! Only consider the horrors of an idolatrous religion
in Egypt and Assyria, in Greece and in Rome —
and do you not desire their extermination? — and what
prospect of this can there be, but through the plain authoritative
language of a revelation?'
`I certainly desire with you,' replied Longinus, `the
extermination of error, and the overthrow of horrible and
corrupting superstitions; and of nothing am I more sure
than that the reason of man, in un olding and constantly
improving ages, will effect it. A plain voice from Heaven,
work. But this voice, as thought to be heard in Christianity,
is not a plain voice, nor clearly known to be a
voice from Heaven. Here is the Bishop of Antioch set
upon by the Bishops of Alexandria and Cesarea, and
many others, as I learn, who accuse him of wrongly receiving
and falsely teaching the doctrines of Christ; and
for two hundred years has there prevailed the like uncertainty
about the essence of the religion.'
`I look not with much hope to Christianity,' said
Fausta. `Yet I must first inform myself more exactly
concerning it, before I judge.'
`That is spoken like Fausta,' said Julia; `and it is
much for you to say who dislike so heartily that Paul,
whom I am constantly wishing you to hear.'
`Whenever he shall lay aside a little of his pomp, I
may be willing to listen,' replied Fausta; `but I could
ill brook a discourse upon immortality from one whose
soul seems so wedded to time.'
`Well,' said Julia, `but let us not be drawn away from
our subject. I admit that there are disputes among the
Christians, but like the disputes among philosophers, they
are about secondary matters. There is no dispute concerning
the great and chiefly interesting part of the religion
— its revelation of a future life. Christians have
never divided here, nor on another great point, that Christ
the founder of the religion was a true messenger from
God. The voice of Christianity on both these points is a
clear one. Thus, I think, every one will judge, who, as
I have done, will read the writings in which the religion
is found. And I am persuaded it is because it is so plain a
voice here, that it is bidding fair to supercede every other
form of religion. And that it is a voice from God, is, it
seems to me, made out with as much clearness as we
was a messenger from God, was shown by his miracles.
How could it be shown otherwise? I can conceive of no
other way in which so satisfying proof could be given of
the agency and authority of God. And certainly there is
evidence enough, if history is to be believed, that he
wrought many and stupendous miracles.'
`What is a miracle?' asked Longinus.
`It is that,' replied Julia, `which being done or said,
furnishes satisfactory proof of the present interposing power
of God. A man who, by a word spoken, can heal sick
persons, and raise to life dead ones, can be no other than
a messenger of God!'
`Why not of some other superior being — perhaps a
bad one?'
`The character, teaching, objects, acts of Christ, make
it unlikely, if not impossible, that he should have been
sent by any bad intelligence. And that he came not only
from a good being, but from God, we may believe on his
own word.'
`His goodness may have been all assumed. The whole
may be a deception.'
`Men do not sacrifice their lives merely to deceive, to
play a child's game before the world. Christ died, to
show his attachment to his cause, and with him, innumerable
others. Would they have done this merely to impose
upon mankind? And for what purpose? — for that of
teaching a religion inculcating the loftiest virtue! But I
do not set myself forward as a champion of this new religion,'
continued Julia, plainly disturbed lest she might
have seemed too earnest; `would that you, Longinus, could
be persuaded to search into its claims. If you would but
read the books written by the founders of it, I am sure
you would say this at least, that such books were never
Jesus Christ. You who profess yourself charmed with
the poetry of the Jewish Scriptures, and the grandeur of
the sentiments expressed in them, would not be less impressed
by the gentler majesty, the mild, sweet dignity of
the person and doctrine of Christ. And if the reasonings
of Socrates and Plato have any power to convince you of
the immortality of the soul, how must you be moved by
the simple announcements of the truth by the Nazarene,
and above all by his resurrection from the dead! Christianity
boasts already powerful advocates, but I wish it
could say that its character and claims had been examined
by the great Longinus.'
The soft yet earnest, eloquent tones of Julia's voice fell
upon pleased and willing ears. The countenance of the
Greek glowed with a generous satisfaction, as he listened
to the reasoning of his fair pupil, poured forth in that noble
tongue it had been his task and his happiness to teach
her. Evidently desirous, however, not to prolong the conversation,
he addressed himself to the queen.
`You are pleased,' said he, `you must be, with the aptness
of my scholar. Julia has not studied dialectics in
vain. Before I can feel myself able to contend with her,
I must study the books she has commended so — from
which, I must acknowledge, I have been repelled by a
prejudice, I believe, rather than any thing else, or more
worthy — and then, perhaps, I may agree in opinion with
her.'
`In truth,' said Zenobia, `Julia is almost or quite a
Christian. I knew not, daughter, that Paul had made
such progress in his work. But all have my full consent
to cherish such form of religious faith as most approves
itself to their own minds. I find my highest satisfaction
in Moses and the prophets. Happy shall I be if Julia find
there is no beneficent power, or charm in the religions of
Greece or Rome, or Persia, or Egypt, to cause any of us
to adhere to them, though our very infancy were instructed
in their doctrines.'
`It is not, I assure you,' said Julia, `to Paul of Antioch
that I owe such faith in Christ as I have, but to the Christian
books themselves; or if to any human authority beside,
to St. Thomas, the old hermit of the mountain, to whom I
would that every one should resort who would draw near
to the purest living fountain of Christian knowledge.'
`I trust,' said I, `that at some future time I may, with
your guidance, or through your influence, gain admittance
to this aged professor of the Christian faith. I confess
myself now, since what I have heard, a seeker after Christian
knowledge.'
`Gladly shall I take you there,' replied the princess,
`and gladly will St. Thomas, receive you.'
We now at the same time rose from our seats. Zenobia,
taking the hand of Fausta, walked toward the
palace; Longinus, with folded arms, and as if absorbed by
the thoughts which were passing through his mind, began
to pace to and fro beneath the thick shadows of a group
of orange trees. I was left with Julia.
`Princess,' said I, `it is yet early, and the beauty of
the evening makes it wrong to shut ourselves up from the
sight of so fair a scene: shall we follow farther some of
these inviting paths?'
`Nothing can be more pleasant,' said she; `these are
my favorite haunts, and I never am weary of them, and
never did they seem to me to wear a more lovely aspect
than now. Let me be our guide, and I will lead you by
a winding way to Zenobia's Temple, as we call it, for the
have now left is mine.'
So we began to walk toward the spot of which she
spake. We were for some time silent. At length the
princess said: `Roman, you have now seen Zenobia, both
as a queen and a woman. Has fame done her more than
justice?'
`Great as her reputation is in Rome,' I replied, `fame
has not, to my ear at least, brought any thing that more
than distantly approaches a true and faithful picture of her.
We have heard much indeed — and yet not enough — of
her surpassing beauty, of the vigor of her understanding,
of her vast acquirements in the Greek learning, of the
wisdom and energy of her conduct as a sovereign queen,
of her skill in the chase, of her bravery and marshal bearing,
when, at the head of her troops, she leads them to the
charge. But of this union of feminine loveliness with so
much of masculine power, of this womanly grace, of this
winning condescension, — so that it loses all the air of
condescension, — to those even much beneath her in every
human accomplishment as well as in rank, of this I
had heard nothing, and for this I was not prepared.
When, in the morning, I first saw her seated in all the
pride of oriental state, and found myself prostrate at her
feet, it was only Zenobia that I saw, and I saw what I
expected. But no sooner had she spoken, especially no
sooner had she cast that look upon you, princess, when
you had said a few words in reply to me, than I saw not
Zenobia only, but the woman and the mother. A veil
was suddenly lifted, and a new being stood before me.
It seemed to me that that moment I knew her better than
I know myself. I am sure that I know her. Her countenance
all living with emotion, changing and working
with every thought of her mind, and every feeling of her
is not known at Rome.'
`I am sorry for it,' said Julia; `if they only knew her,
they could never do her harm. You, Piso, may perhaps
do much for her. I perceive, already, that she highly
regards you, and values your opinion. If you are willing
to do us such service, if you feel interest enough in our
fate, speak to her, I pray you, with plainness, all that you
think. Withhold nothing. Fear not to utter what you
may deem to be most unpalatable truths. She is candid
and generous as she is ambitious. She will at least hear
and weigh whatever you may advance. God grant, that
truth may reach her mind, and reaching, sway it!'
`I can now think of no higher satisfaction,' I replied,
`than to do all I may, as a Roman, in your service. I
love your nation; and as a Roman and a man, I desire
its welfare and permanent glory. Its existence is necessary
to Rome; its ruin or decay must be, viewed aright,
but so much injury to her most vital interests. Strange,
how strange, that Zenobia, formed by the gods to draw
her happiness from sources so much nobler than any
which ambition can supply, should turn from them, and
seek for it in the same shallow pool with Alexander, and
Aurelian, and the hireling soldier of fortune!'
`Strange indeed,' said Julia, `that she who can enter
with Longinus into the deepest mysteries of philosophy,
and whose mind is stored with all the learning of the
schools, should still love the pomp of power better than
all. And Fausta is but her second self. Fausta worships
Zenobia, and Zenobia is encouraged in her opinions, by
the kindred sentiments of that bright spirit. All the influence,
Piso, which you can exert over Fausta will reach
Zenobia.'
`It seems presumptuous, princess,' said I, `to seek to
to our bent. Yet surely they are in the wrong.'
`It is something,' quickly added the Princess, `that
Longinus is of our mind; but then again Zabdas and
Gracchus are a host on the other part. And all the power
and pride of Palmyra are with them, too. But change
Zenobia, and we change all. Oh how weary am I of
ambition, and how sick of greatness! Willingly would
I exchange all this for an Arab's tent, or a hermit's cell.'
`The gods grant that may never be,' I replied; `but
that you, princess, may yet live to sit upon the throne of
Zenobia.'
`I say it with sincerity, Roman — that prayer finds no
echo in my bosom. I have seen enough of power, and of
the honors that wait upon it. And when I say this, having
had before my eyes this beautiful vision of Zenobia
reigning over subjects as a mother would reign over her
family, dealing justly with all, and living but to make
others happy — you must believe me. I seek and love a
calmer, humbler lot. — This, Piso, is the temple of Zenobia.
Let us enter.'
We approached and entered. It was a small building,
after the model of the temple of Vesta at Tivoli, constructed
of the most beautiful marbles, and adorned with
statues. Within, were the seats on which the queen was
accustomed to recline, and an ample table, covered with
her favorite authors, and the materials of writing.
“It is here,' said Julia, `that, seated with my mother,
we listen to the eloquence of Longinus, while he unfolds
the beauties of the Greek or Roman learning; or, together
with him, read the most famous works of former ages.
With Homer, Thucydides, and Sophocles for our companions,
we have here passed precious hours and days,
and have the while happily forgotten the heavy burden of
They are her life, and from all we have read would she
ever draw somewhat that should be of service to her in
the duties of her great office.'
Returning to the surrounding portico, we stood and for
a time enjoyed in silence the calm beauty of the scene.
As we stood thus, Julia gazing upon the objects around
us, or lost in thought, I — must I say it: — seeing scarce
any thing but her, and thinking only of her — as we stood
thus, shouts of merry laughter came to us, borne upon the
breeze, and roused us from our reverie.
`These sounds,' said I, `cannot come from the palace;
it is too far, unless these winding walks have deceived
me.'
`They are the voices,' said Julia, `I am almost sure,
of Livia and Faustula, and the young Cæsars. They
seem to be engaged in some sport near the palace. Shall
we join them?'
`Let us do so,' said I.
So we moved toward that quarter of the gardens whence
the sounds proceeded. A high wall at length separated
us from those whom we sought. But reaching a gate, we
passed through and entered upon a lawn covered as it
seemed with children, slaves, and the various inmates of
the palace. Here, mingled among the motley company,
we at once perceived the queen, and Longinus and Fausta,
together with many of those whom we had sat with at the
banquet. The centre of attraction, and the cause of the
loud shouts of laughter which continually arose, was a
small white elephant with which the young princes and
princesses were amusing themselves. He had evidently
been trained to the part he had to perform, for nothing
could be more expert than the manner in which he went
through his various tricks. Sometimes he chased them
would affect to stumble, and so fall and roll upon the
ground; then springing quickly upon his feet, he would
surprise some one or other lurking near him, and seizing
him with his trunk would hold him fast, or first whirling
him in the air, then seat him upon his back, and march
gravely round the lawn, the rest following and shouting;
then releasing his prisoner, he would lay himself
upon the ground, while all together would fearlessly
climb upon his back, till it was covered, when he would
either suddenly shake his huge body, so that one after
another they rolled off, or he would attempt to rise
slowly upon his legs, in doing which, nearly all would
slip from off his slanting back, and only two or three succeed
in keeping their places. And other sportive tricks,
more than it would be worth while for me to recount, did
he perform for the amusement of his play-fellows. And
beautiful was it to see the carefulness with which he
trod and moved, lest any harm might come to those children.
His especial favorite was the little flaxen-haired
Faustula. He was never weary with caressing her, taking
her on his trunk, and bearing her about, and when he set
her down, would wait to see that she was fairly on her
feet and safe, before he would return to his gambols.
Her voice calling out `Sapor, Sapor,' was sure to bring
him to her, when, what with words and signs, he soon
comprehended what it was she wanted. I myself came in
unwittingly for a share of the sport. For as Faustula came
bounding by me, I did as those are so apt to do who know
little of children — I suddenly extended my arms and
caught her. She, finding herself siezed and in the arms
of one she knew not, thought, as children will think, that
she was already borne a thousand leagues from her home,
and screamed; whereupon at the instant, I felt myself
and which drew them together with such violence that
instinctively I dropped the child, and at the same time
cried out with pain. Julia, standing next me, incontinently
slapped the trunk of the elephant, for it was that
twisted round me, with her hand, at which, leaving me, he
wound it slightly round the waist of the princess, and held
her his close prisoner. Great laughter from the children
and the slaves testified their joy at seeing their elders,
equally with themselves, in the power of the elephant.
Milo being of the number, and in his foolish exhilaration
and sportive approbation of Sapor's feats having gone up to
him and patted him on his side, the beast, receiving as an
affront that plebeian salutation, quickly turned upon him,
and taking him by one of his feet held him in that displeasing
manner — his head hanging down — and paraded
leisurely round the green, Milo making the while hideous
outcry, and the whole company, especially the slaves and
menials, filling the air with screams of laughter. At
length Vabalathus, thinking that Milo might be injured,
called out to Sapor, who thereupon released him, and he
rising and adjusting his dress, was heard to affirm, that it
had never happened so while he was in the service of Gallienus.
These things for the little Gallus.
Satisfied, now, with the amusements of the evening,
and the pleasures of the day, we parted from one another,
filled with quite different sentiments from those which had
possessed us in the morning. Do members of this great
human family ever meet each other in social converse,
and freely open their hearts, without a new and better
strength being given to the bonds which hold in their embrace
the peace and happiness of society? To love each
other, I think we chiefly need but to know each other.
and so we live as strangers and enemies, when
knowledge would have led to intimacy and Friendship.
Farewell!
| LETTER V. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome | |