 | LETTER XVI. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome |  |
16. LETTER XVI.
I write to you, Curtius, as from my last you were
doubtless led to expect, from Emesa — a Syrian town of
some consequence, filled now to overflowing with the Roman
army. Here Aurelian reposes for a while, after the
fatigues of the march across the desert, and here justice
is to be inflicted upon the leaders of the late revolt, as by
Rome it is termed.
The prisons are crowded with the great, and noble, and
good of Palmyra. All those with whom I have for the
last few months mingled so much, whose hospitality I
have shared, whose taste, accomplishments, and elegant
displays of wealth I have admired, are now here immured
in dungeons, and awaiting that death which their virtues,
not their vices or their crimes, have drawn upon them.
For I suppose it will be agreed, that if ever mankind do
that which claims the name and rank of virtue, it is when
they freely offer up their lives for their country, and for a
cause which, whatever may be their misjudgment in the
case, they believe to be the cause of liberty. Man is then
greater in his disinterestedness, in the spirit with which he
renounces himself, and offers his neck to the axe of the
executioner, than he can be clothed in any robe of honor,
or sitting upon any throne of power. Which is greater
in the present instance, Longinus, Gracchus, Otho — or
fear that you, Curtius, were I to declare my opinion,
would hardly agree with me. Strange that such a sacrifice
as this which is about to be made, can be
thought to be necessary. It is not necessary; nor can
Aurelian himself in his heart deem it so. It is a peace-offering
to the blood-thirsty legions, who, well do I know
it — for I have been of them — love no sight so well as
the dying throes of an enemy. It is, I am told, with
an impatience hardly to be restrained within the bounds
of discipline, that they wait for the moment, when their
eyes shall be feasted with the flowing blood and headless
trunks of the brave defenders of Palmyra. I see that this
is so, whenever I pass by a group of soldiers, or through
the camp. Their conversation seems to turn upon nothing
else than the vengeance due to them upon those who
have thinned their ranks of one half their numbers, and
who, themselves shielded by their walls, looked on and
beheld in security the slaughter which they made. They
cry out for the blood of every Palmyrene brought across
the desert. My hope for Gracchus is small. Not more,
however, because of this clamor of the legions, than on
account of the stern and almost cruel nature of Aurelian
himself. He is himself a soldier. He is one of the legions.
His sympathies are with them, one of whom he so long
has been, and from whom he sprung. The gratifications
which he remembers himself so often to have sought and
so dearly to have prized, he is willing to bestow upon those
who he knows feel as he once did. He may speak of his
want of power to resist the will of the soldiers — but I almost
doubt his sincerity, since nothing can equal the terror
and reverence with which he is regarded throughout the
army — reverence for his genius, terror for his passions,
which, when excited, rage with the fury of a madman,
falls, though among his most trusted friends. To
this terror, as you well know, his bodily strength greatly
adds.
It was my first office to seek the presence of Gracchus.
I found, upon inquiry, that both he and Longinus were
confined in the same prison, and in the charge of the
same keeper. I did not believe that I should experience
difficulty in gaining admission to them, and I found it so.
Applying to the jailer for admittance to Gracchus the
Palmyrene, I was told that but few were allowed to see
him; and such only whose names had been given him.
Upon giving him my name, he said that it was one which
was upon his list, and I might enter. `Make the most of
your time,' he added, `for to-morrow is the day set for the
general execution.'
`So soon?' I said.
`Aye,' he replied, `and that is scarce soon enough to
keep the soldiers quiet. Since they have lost the Queen,
they are suspicious lest the others, or some of them, may
escape too, — so that they are well guarded, I warrant
you.'
`Is the Queen,' I asked, `under your guard? — and
within the same prison?'
`The Queen!' he rejoined, and lowering his tone,
added, `she is far enough from here. If others know it not,
I know that she is well on her way to Rome. She has let
too much Roman blood for her safety within reach of Roman
swords, I can tell you — Aurelian notwithstanding.
That butchery of the Centurious did neither any good.'
`You say to-morrow is the day appointed for the execution?'
`So I said. But you will scarce believe it when you
see the prisoners. They seem rather as if they were for
axe. But walk in. And when you would be let out,
make a signal by drawing the cord which you will find
within the inner ward.'
I passed in, and meeting another officer of the prison,
was by him shown the door that led to the cell of Gracchus,
and the cord by which I was to make the necessary
signal.
I unbarred the door and entered. Gracchus, who was
pacing to and fro in his apartment, upon seeing who his
visiter was, greeted me in his cordial, cheerful way. His
first inquiry was,
`Is Fausta well?'
`I left her well; well as her grief would allow her
to be.'
`My room is narrow, Piso, but it offers two seats. Let
us sit. This room is not our hall in Palmyra, nor the
banqueting room — this window is too small — nay, it is
in some sort but a crevice — and this ceiling is too low —
and these webs of the spider, the prisoner's friend, are not
our purple hangings — but it might all be worse. I am
free of chains, and I can walk the length of my room and
back again, and there is light enough from our chink to see
a friend's face by. Yet far as these things are from worst,
I trust not to be annoyed or comforted by them long.
You have done kindly, Piso, to seek me out thus remote
from Palmyra, and death will be lighter for your presence.
I am glad to see you.'
`I could not, as you may easily suppose, remain in
Palmyra, and you here and thus. For Fausta's sake and
my own, I must be here. Although I should not speak a
word, nor you, there is a happiness in being near and in
seeing.'
`There is. Confinement for a long period of time were
a single human countenance, and that a stranger's, upon
which you might look — especially if you might read there
pity and affection. Then if this countenance should be that
of one known and beloved, it would be almost like living
in society, even though speech were prohibited. Tyrants
know this — these walls are the proof of it. Aurelian is
not a tyrant in this sense. He is not without magnanimity.
Are you here with his knowledge?'
`By his express provision. The jailer had been furnished
with my name. You are right surely, touching
the character of Aurelian. Though rude and unlettered,
and severe almost to cruelty, there are generous sentiments
within which shed a softening light, if inconstant,
upon the darker traits. I would conceal nothing from
you Gracchus — as I would do nothing without your approbation.
I know your indifference to life. I know
that you would not purchase a day by any unworthy concession
— by any doubtful act or word. Relying with
some confidence upon the generosity of Aurelian —
`Why Lucius, so hesitating and indirect? You would
say that you have appealed to Aurelian for my life — and
that hope is not extinct in your mind of escape from this
appointed death.'
`That is what I would say. The Emperor inclines to
spare your life, but wavers. Shall I seek another interview
with him? And is there any argument which you
would that I should urge — or — would you rather that I
should forbear. It is, Gracchus, because I feared lest I
had been doing you a displeasing and undesired service,
that I have now spoken.'
`Piso, it is the simple truth, when I say, that I anticipate
the hour and the moment of death with the same indifference
and composure that I do any, the most common
in the will of the Gods — if Gods there are — or
which is the same thing in the order of events, is the
temper which, since I have reflected at all, I have cultivated,
and to which I can say I have fully attained. I
throw myself upon the current of life, untesisting, to be
wafted withersoever it will. I look with desire neither to
this shore nor the opposite, to one port nor another, but
wherever I am borne and permitted to act, I straightway
find there and in that my happiness. Not that one allotment
is not in itself preferable to another, but that there
being so much of life over which man has no control, and
cannot, if he would, secure his felicity, I think it wiser to
renounce all action and endeavor concerning it — receiving
what is sent or happens with joy, if it be good,
without complaint if it be evil. In this manner have I
secured an inward calm, which has been as a fountain
of life. My days, whether they have been dark ones, or
bright, as others term them, have flowed along a smooth
and even current. Under misfortune, I believe I have
enjoyed more from this my inward frame, than many a
son of prosperity has in the very height of his glory.
That which so disturbs the peace of multitudes — even of
philosophers — the prospect of death, has occasioned me
not one moment's disquiet. It is true, I know not what
it is — do I know what life is? — but that is no reason
why I should fear it. One thing I know — which is
this, that it will come — as it comes to all — and that I
cannot escape it. It may take me where it will, I shall
be content. If it be but a change, and I live again elsewhere,
I shall be glad; especially if I am then exempt
from evils in my condition which assail me here; if it be
extinction of being, it will but resemble those nights when
I sleep without dreaming — it will not yield any delights,
entertain, and I do not entertain either hope or fear. I
am passive. My will is annihilated. The object of my
life has been to secure the greatest amount of pleasure —
that being the best thing of which we can conceive.
This I have done by acting right. I have found happiness
— or that which we agree to call so — in acting in
accordance with that part of my nature which prescribes
the lines of duty. Not in any set of philosophical opinions;
not in expectations in futurity — not in any fancies
or dreams — but in the substantial reality of virtuous action.
I have sought to treat both myself and others in such
a way, that afterward I should not hear from either a single
word of reproach. In this way of life I have for the most
part succeeded, as any one can who will apply his powers
as he may if he will. I have at this hour, which it may
be is the last of my life, no complaints to make or hear
against myself So to in regard to others. At least I know
not that there is one living whom I have wronged, and to
whom I owe the least reparation. Now, therefore, by
living in the best manner for this life on earth, I have
prepared myself in the best manner for death, and for
another life, if there be one. If there be none — still
what I have enjoyed I have enjoyed, and it has been more
than any other manner of life could have afforded. So
that in any event, I am like a soldier armed at all points.
To me, Piso, to die is no more than to go on to live.
Both are events. To both I am alike indifferent. I
know nothing about either. As for the pain of death, it
is not worthy a moment's thought, even if it were considerable.
But it appears to me that it is not. I have many
times witnessed it, and it has ever seemed that death, so
far from being represented by any word signifying pain,
would be better expressed by one that should stand for insensibility.
is pain which often precedes it, in various forms of sickness.
But this is sickness, not death. Such pains we
often endure and recover — worse often than, apparently
— are endured by those who die.'
`I perceive then, Gracchus, that I have given you
neither pain nor pleasure by any thing I have done.'
`Not that exactly. It has given me pleasure that you
have sought to do me a service. For myself, it will weigh
but little whether you succeed or fail. Your intercession
has not displeased me. It cannot affect my good name.
For Fausta's sake —' at her name he paused as if for
strength — `and because she wishes it — I would rather
live than die. Otherwise my mind is even-poised, inclining
neither way.'
`But would it not afford you, Gracchus, a sensible pleasure,
if, supposing you are now to die, you could anticipate
with certainty a future existence? You are now, you say,
in a state of indifference — as to life or death. Above all
you are delivered from all apprehensions concerning death
and futurity. This is, it cannot be denied, a great felicity.
You are able to sit here calm and composed. But
it seems to me, if you were possessed of a certain expectation
of immortality, you would be very much animated
and transported, as it were, with the prospect of the wonderful
scenes so soon to be revealed. If with such a belief,
you could turn back your eye upon as faultless and
virtuous a life as you have passed, you would cast it forward
with feelings far from those of indifference.'
`What you assert is very true. Doubtless it would be
as you say. I can conceive that death may be approached
not only with composure, but with a bursting impatience
— just as the youthful traveller pants to leap from
the vessed that bears him to a foreign land. This would
life as we are certain that we live now. In future ages,
perhaps through the discoveries of reason — perhaps by
disclosures from superior beings, it may be so universally,
and death come to be regarded, even with affection, as
the great deliverer and rewarder. But at present it is
very different; I have found no evidence to satisfy me in
any of the systems of ancient or modern philosophers,
from Pythagoras to Seneca, and our own Longinus, either
of the existence of a God, or of the reality of a future
life. It seems to me oftentimes in certain frames of
mind, but they are transient, as if both were true;
they feel true, but that is all. I find no evidence beyond
this inward feeling at all complete and sufficient — and
this feeling is nothing, it is of the nature of a dream,
I cannot rely upon it. So that I have, as I still judge,
wisely intrenched myself behind indifference. I have
never indulged in idle lamentations over evils that could
not be removed, nor do I now. Submission is the law of
my life — the sum of my philosophy.'
`The Christians,' I here said, `seem to possess that
which all so much desire, a hope, amounting to a certain
expectation of immortality. They all, so I am informed,
the poor and the humble, as well as the rich and the
learned, live while they live, as feeling themselves to be
only passengers here, and when they die, die as those who
pass from one stage of a journey to another. To them
death loses its character of death, and is associated rather
in their minds with life. It is a beginning rather than
an ending — a commencement, not a consummation —
being born, not dying.
`So I have heard, but I have never considered their
doctrine. The Christian philosophy or doctrine, is almost
the only one of all which lay claim to such distinction,
that I suppose, by seeing it in so great proportion, the
property of the vulgar. What they so rejoiced in, it has
appeared to me, could not at the same time be what
would yield me either pleasure or wisdom. At least in
other things the vulgar and the refined seek their knowledge
and their pleasures from very different sources. I
cannot conceive of the same philosophy approving itself
to both classes. Do you learn, Piso, when the time for
the execution of the prisoners is appointed.'
`To-morrow, as I heard from the jailer.'
`To-morrow. It is well. Yet I marvel that the jailer
told not me. I am somewhat more concerned to know
the hour than you, yet to you he has imparted what he
has withheld from me. He is a partial knave. Have
you yet seen Longinus?”
`I have not, but shall visit him in the morning.'
`Do so. He will receive you with pleasure. Tell me
if he continues true in his affections for the Queen. His
is a great trial, laboring, as at first he did, to turn her
from the measures that have come to this end — now
dying, because at last, out of friendship for her, rather
than anything else — he espoused her cause. Yet it is
almost the same with me. And for myself, the sweetest
feeling of this hour is, that I die for Zenobia — and that
perhaps my death is in part the sacrifice that spares her.
Incomparable woman! how the hearts of those who have
known thee are bound to thee, so that thy very errors and
faults are esteemed to be virtues!'
Our conversation here ended, and I turned from the
prison, resolved to seek the presence of Aurelian. I did
so. He received me with urbanity as before, but neither
confirmed my hopes nor fears. I returned again to the
cell of Gracchus, with whom, in various, and to me most
day.
In the morning, with a spirit heavy and sad, burdened
indeed with a grief such as I never before had experienced,
I turned to seek the apartment of Longinus. It was
not far from that of Gracchus. The keeper of the prison
readily admitted me, saying, `that free intercourse was
allowed the prisoners with all whom it was their desire to
see, and that there were several friends of Longinus already
with him.' With these words he let fall a heavy
bar, and the door of the cell creaked upon its hinges.
The room into which I passed seemed a dungeon,
rather than any thing else or better, for the only light it
had, came from a small barred window, far above the
reach. Longinus was seated near a massy central column
to which he was bound by a chain — his friends were
around him with whom he appeared to have been engaged
in earnest conversation. He rose as I approached him,
and saluted me with that grace that is natural to him, and
which is expressive, not more of his high breeding, than
of an inward benevolence that goes forth and embraces
all who draw near him.
`Although,' said he, `I am forsaken of that which men
call fortune, yet I am not forgotten by my friends. So
that the best things remain. Piso, I rejoice truly to see
you. These whom you behold, are pupils and friends
whom you have often met at my house — if this dim light
will allow you to distinguish them.'
`My eyes are not yet so used to darkness as to see with
much distinctness, but I recognise well known faces.'
After mutual salutations, Longinus said, `Let me now
first inquire concerning the daughter of Gracchus, that
bright emanation from the Deity. I trust in the Gods
she is well.'
`I left her,' I replied, `overwhelmed by sorrow. To
lose at once country, parent and friends, is loss too great,
I fear, for her. Death to Gracchus, will be death also to
her.'
`The temper of Fausta is too sanguine, her heart too
warm. She was designed for a perpetual prosperity.
The misfortunes that overtake her friends she makes
more than her own. Others' sufferings — her own she
could bear — falling upon her so thickly, will, if they
leave her life, impart a lasting bitterness to it. It were
better perhaps that she died with us. Gracchus you
have found altogether Gracchus?'
`I have. He is in the prison as he was in his own
palace. His thoughts will sometimes wander to his
daughter — oftener than he would — and then in the
mirror of the face you behold the inward sorrow of the
heart, but it is only a momentary ruffling of the surface,
and straightway it is calm again. Except this only, and
he sits upon his hard seat in the same composure as if at
the head of the Senate.'
`Gracchus,' said Longinus in reply, `is naturally great.
He is a giant, the ills of life, the greater and the lesser,
which assail and subdue so many, can make nothing of
him. He is impenetrable, immovable. Then he has
aided nature by the precepts of philosophy. What he
wanted of insensibility to evil, he has added from a doctrine,
to which he himself clings tenaciously, to which he
refers, and will refer, as the spring of his highest felicity,
but from which I — so variously are we constituted —
shrink with unfeigned horror. Doubtless you all know it
what it is?'
`We do.'
`I grant it thus much — that it steels the mind against
pain — that it is unrivalled in its power to sear and
to be exposed to evil, and evil chiefly, it were a philosophy
to be greatly coveted. But it is deadening, benumbing
in its influences. It oppresses the soul and overlays
it. It delivers it by rendering it insensible, not by imparting
a new principle of vitality beyond the reach of
earthly ill. It does the same service that a stupifying
draught does to him who is about to submit to the knife
of the surgeon, or the axe of the executioner. But is it
not nobler to meet such pains fortified in no other way
than by a resolute purpose to bear them as well as the
nature the Gods have given you, will allow? And suppose
you shrink or give signs of suffering — that does
not impeach the soul. It is rather the Gods themselves
who cry out through you. You did not — it was your
corporeal nature — something beside your proper self. It
is to be no subject of humiliation to us, or of grief, that
when the prospect of acute suffering is before us — or
still more, when called to endure it, we give many tokens
of a keen sensibility, so it be that at the same time we remain
unshaken in our principles, and ready to bear what
we must.'
`And what,' asked the young Cleoras, a favorite disciple
of the philosopher,' is it in your case that enables you
to meet misfortune and death without shrinking? If you
take not shelter behind indifference, what other shield do
you find to be sufficient?'
`I know,' said Longinus, `that you ask this question
not because you have never heard from me virtually at
least its answer, but because you wish to hear from me
at this hour, whether I adhere with firmness to the principles
I have ever inculcated, respecting death, and
whether I myself derive from them the satisfactions I
have declared them capable to impart. It is right and
repeating and re-affirming what I have maintained and
taught. But I must be brief in what I say, more so than
I have been in replying to your other inquiries, Cleoras
and Bassus, for I perceive by the manner in which the
rays of the sun shoot through the bars of the window,
that it is not long before the executioner will make his
appearance. It affords me then, I say a very especial
satisfaction, to declare in the presence of so many worthy
friends, my continued attachment and hearty devotion to
the truths I have believed and taught, concerning the
existence of a God, and the reality of a future and immortal
life. Upon these two great points I suffer from no
serious doubts, and it is from this belief that I now
derive the serenity and peace which you witness. All the
arguments which you have often heard from me in support
of them, now seem to me to be possessed of a greater
strength than ever — I will not repeat them, for they are
too familiar to you, but only re-affirm them, and pronounce
them, as in my judgment, affording a ground for our assurance
in the department of moral demonstration, as
solid and sufficient as the reasonings of Euclid afford in
the science of Geometry. I believe in a supreme God
and sovereign ruler of the world, by whose wisdom and
power all things and beings have been created, and are
sustained, and in whose presence I live and enjoy as
implicitly as I believe the fifth proposition of Euclid's
first book. I believe in a future life with the like
strength. It is behind these truths, Cleoras, that I entrench
myself at this hour, these make the shield which
defends me from the assaults of fear and despair, that
would otherwise, I am sure, overwhelm me.'
`But how do they defend you, Longinus,' asked Cleoras,
`by simply rendering you inaccessible to the shafts which
upon the soul.'
`Were it only,' replied the philosopher, `that truth
made me insensible and indifferent, I should pray rather
to be left to the tutelage of nature. I both despise and
abhor doctrines that can do no more than this. I desire
to bless the Gods that the philosophy I have received and
taught has performed for me a far more essential service.
This elevates and expands. It renders nature as it were,
superior to itself and its condition. It causes the soul to
assert its entire supremacy over its companion, the body,
and its dwelling place the earth, and in the perfect
possession of itself to inhabit a better world of its own
creation. It infinitely increases all its sensibilities, and
adds to the constitution received from nature, what may
be termed new senses, so vividly does it come to apprehend
things, which to those who are unenlightened by this excellent
truth, are as if they had no existence, their minds
being invested with no faculty or power, whereby to
discern and esteem them. So far from carrying those
who embrace it farther toward insensibility and indifference,
which may truly be called a kind of death, it
renders them intensely alive, and it is through the transforming
energies of this new life that the soul is made not
insensible to pain, but superior to it, and to all the greater
ills of existence. It soars above them. The knowledge and
the belief that fill it furnish it with wings by which it is
borne far aloft, even at the very time that the body is in
the deepest affliction. Gracchus meets death with equanimity,
and that is something. It is better than to be
convulsed with vulgar and excessive fear. But it is a
state of the soul very inferior to what exists in those who
truly receive the doctrines which I have taught. I,
Cleoras, look upon death as a release, not from a life
of the Gods, enjoyed much, but from the dominion of the
body, and the appetites which clog the soul, and greatly
hinder it in its efforts after a perfect virtue and a true
felicity. It will open a way for me into those elysian
realms in whose reality all men have believed, a very few
excepted, though few or none could prove it. Even as
the Great Roman could call that “O glorious day,” that
should admit him to the council of the Gods, and the society
of the great and good who had preceded him, so can
I in like manner designate the day and hour which are
now present. I shall leave you whom I have known so
long; I shall be separated from scenes familiar and beloved
through a series of years; the arts and the sciences,
which have ministered so largely to my happiness, in these
forms of them I shall lose; the very earth itself, venerable
to my mind for the events which have passed upon
it, and the genius it has nurtured and matured, and beautiful
too in its array of forms and colors, I shall be conversant
with no more. Death will divide me from them
all. But it will bear me to worlds and scenes of a far
exceeding beauty. It will introduce me to mansions inconceivably
more magnificent than anything which the
soul has experience of here. Above all it will bring me
into the company of the good of all ages, with whom I
shall enjoy the pleasures of an uninterrupted intercourse.
It will place me where I shall be furnished with ample
means for the prosecution of all those inquiries which
have engaged me on earth, exposed to none or fewer of
the hindrances which have here thronged the way. All
knowledge and all happiness will then be attainable. Is
death to be called an evil, or is it to be feared or approached
with tears and regrets, when such are to be its
issues?'
`By no means,' said Cleoras, `it is rather to be desired.
If my philosophy were as deep and secure as yours, O
Longinus, I should beg to exchange places with you. I
should willingly suffer a brief pain to be rewarded so
largely. But I find within me no such strong assurance.'
`That,' replied Longinus, `is for want of reflection. It
is only by conversing with itself that the soul rises to
any height of faith. Argument from abroad is of but
little service in the comparison. I have often discoursed
with you concerning these things, and have laid open
before you the grounds upon which my convictions rest.
But I have ever taught that consciousness was the true
source of belief, and that of this you could possess yourselves
only through habits of profound attention. What
I believe I feel. I cannot communicate the strength of
my belief to another, because it is mysteriously generated
within, interweaving itself with all my faculties and
affections, and abundantly imparting itself to them, but
at the same time inseparable from them in such a sense
that I can offer it as I can a portion of my reason or my
knowledge, to any whom I might desire to benefit. It is
in truth in its origin, the gift of God, strengthened and
exalted infinitely by reflection. It is an instinct. Were
it otherwise, why could I not give to you all I possess
myself, and possess because I had by labor acquired it?
Whereas, though I believe so confidently myself, I find
no way in which to bestow the same good upon you. But
each one will possess it, I am persuaded, in the proportion
in which he prepares himself by a pure life and habitual
meditation. It will then reveal itself with new strength
every day. So will it also be of service to contemplate the
characters and lives of those who have lived illustriously,
both for their virtue and their philosophy. To study the
character of Plato, will be more beneficial in this regard
are trivial, fanciful and ingenious, rather than convincing.
And the great advantage to be derived from the
perusal of that treatise is, as it shall be regarded as a
sublime expression of the confidence with which its
author entertained the hope of immortality. It is as a part
of Plato's biography — of the history of his mind — that
it is valuable. Through meditation, through inward
purity, through the contemplation of bright examples,
will the soul be best prepared for the birth of that feeling
or conviction that shall set before you with the distinctness
and certainty of actual vision the prospect of immortality.'
`But are there, Longinus, after all, no waverings of the
mind, no imperiment doubts, no overcasting shadows,
which at all disturb your peace, or impair the vividness
of your faith? Are you wholly superior to fear — the fear
of suffering and death?'
`That is not, Cleoras, so much to ask whether I still
consider my philosophy as sufficient, and whether it be
so, as whether or not I am still a man, and, therefore, a
mixed and imperfect being. But if you desire the assurance,
I can answer you and say that I am but a man, and
therefore notwithstanding my philosophy, subject to infirmity
and to assaults from the body, which undoubtedly
occasion me some distress. But these seasons are momentary.
I can truly affirm, that although there have
been and still are conflicts, the soul is ever conqueror,
and that, too, by very great odds. My doubts and fears
are mere flitting shadows — my hope, a strong and unchanging
beam of light. The body sometimes slips from
beyond my control and trembles, but the soul is at the
very same time secure in herself and undaunted. I present
the same apparent contradiction that the soldier often
as he first springs forward to encounter the foe, but his
arm is strong and his soul determined at the very same
moment, and no death or suffering in prospect avails to
alarm or turn him back. Do not, therefore, although I
should exhibit signs of fear, imagine that my soul is terrified,
or that I am forsaken of those steadfast principles to
which I have given in my allegiance for so long a time.'
`We will not, Longinus,' said they all.
Longinus here paused, and seemed for a time buried
in meditation. We were all silent — or the silence was
broken only by the sobs of those who could not restrain
their grief.
`I have spoken to you, my friends,' he at length resumed,
`of the hope of immortality, of the strength it yields,
and of its descent from God. But think not that this hope
can exist but in the strictest alliance with virtue. The
hope of immortality without virtue, is a contradiction in
terms. The perpetuation of vice, or of any vicious affections
or desires, can be contemplated only with horror.
If the soul be without virtue, it is better that it should
perish. And if deep stained with vice, it is to be feared
that the very principle of life may be annihilated. As
then you would meet the final hour not only with calmness,
but with pleasant expectations, cherish virtue in
your souls; reverence the divinity; do justly by all; obey
your instincts, which point out the right and the wrong;
keep yourselves pure; subdue the body. As virtue becomes
a habit and a choice, and the soul, throughout all
its affections and powers, harmonizes with nature and
God, will the hope of immortality increase in strength till
it shall grow to a confident expectation. Remember that
virtue is the golden key, and the only one, that unlocks
the gates of the celestial mansions.'
I here asked Longinus if he was conscious of having
been influenced in any of his opinions by christianity. `I
know,' I said, `that in former conversations you have ever
objected to that doctrine. Does your judgment remain
the same?'
`I have not read the writings of the Christians, yet am
I not wholly ignorant of them, since it were impossible to
know with such familiarity the Princess Julia, and not arrive
at some just conceptions of what that religion is. But I
have not received it. Yet even as a piece of polished metal
takes a thousand hues from surrounding objects, so does
the mind; and mine may have been unconsciously colored
and swayed by the truths of christianity, which I have
heard so often stated and defended. Light may have
fallen upon it from that quarter as well as from others. I
doubt not that it has. For although I cannot myself admit
that doctrine, yet am I now, and have ever been, persuaded
of its excellence, and that upon such as can admit
it, it must exert a power altogether beneficial. But let us
now, for the little time that remains, turn to other things.
Piso, know you aught concerning the Queen? I have not
seen her since the day of her flight, nor have I heard concerning
her that which I could trust.'
I then related at length all that I knew.
`Happy would it have been for her and for all, had my
first counsels prevailed! Yet am I glad that fortune
spares her. May she live to hear of Palmyra once more
restored to opulence and glory. I was happy in her service.
I am now happy, if by my death, as by my life, I
can avert from her evil that otherwise might have overtaken
her. For her or for the Princess, there is no extremity
I would not endure, as there have been no services
I have not rejoiced to perform. The only favor I have
asked of Aurelian was, to be permitted a last interview
of him, that I was denied so reasonable a request.'
`Perhaps,' said I, `it is in my power to furnish the reason,
having been informed, since reaching Emesa, that the
Queen, with her attendants and the Princesses, had been
sent on secretly toward Rome, that they might be placed
beyond the risk of violence on the part of the legions.
He himself was doubtful of his power to protect them.'
`For the sake of both am I glad to hear the explanation,'
replied Longinus.
As he uttered these words, the sound of steps was heard
as of several approaching the door of the room. Then
the heavy bar of the door was let fall, and the key turned
in the wards of the lock. We knew that the last moments
of Longinus had arrived. Although knowing this so well,
yet we still were not ready for it, and a horror as of some
unlooked for calamity came over us. Cleoras wept without
restraint; and threw himself down before Longinus,
embraced his knees, and as the officers entered and drew
near, warned them away with threatening language. It
was with difficulty that Longinus calmed him. He seemed
to have lost the possession of his reason.
The jailer, followed by a guard, now came up to Longinus,
and informed him that the hour appointed for his
execution had arrived.
Longinus replied, `that he was ready to go with him,
but must first, when his chains were taken off, be permitted
to address himself to the Gods. For we ought to
undertake no enterprise of moment, especially ought we not
to venture into any unknown and untried scenes without
first asking their guidance, who alone have power to carry
us safely through.'
`This we readily grant,' replied the jailer,' who then
around the middle of his body.
Longinus then, without moving from where he sat, bent
his head and covering his face with his hands, remained
a few moments in that posture. The apartment was silent
as if no one had been in it. Even Cleoras was by that
sight taught to put a restraint upon the expression of his
feelings.
When these few moments were ended, Longinus raised
his head, and with a bright and smiling countenance, said
to the jailer that he was now ready.
He then went out in company with the guard and soldiers,
we following in sad procession. The place of execution
was in front of the camp, all the legions being
drawn around to witness it, Aurelian himself being present
among them.
Soon as we came in sight of that fatal place, and of the
executioner standing with his axe lifted upon his shoulder,
Longinus suddenly stopped, his face became pale and his
frame trembled. He turned and looked upon us who
were immediately behind him, and held up his hand, but
without speaking, which was as much as to say, `you
perceive that what I said was very likely to happen has
come to pass, and the body has obtained a momentary triumph.'
He paused, however, not long, making then a
sign to the soldiers that he was ready to proceed. After
a short walk from that spot we reached the block and the
executioner.
`Friend,' said he now to the executioner, `I hope your
axe is sharp, and that you are skilful in your art; and yet
it is a pity if you have had so much practice as to have
become very dexterous in it.'
`Ten years service in Rome,' he replied, `may well
make one so, or he must be born with little wit. Distrust
that a light one, is all I want, if it be, as it ought, a little
slanting. As for this edge — feel it if thou wilt — it
would do for thy beard.'
Longinus had now divested himself of whatever parts of
his garments would obstruct the executioner in his duty,
and was about to place his head in the prescribed place,
when he first turned to us and again held out his hands,
which now trembled no longer.
`You see,' said he, in a cheerful voice, `that the soul
is again supreme. Love and cultivate the soul, my good
friends, and you will then be universal conquerors, and
throughout all ages. It will never betray you. Now, my
new friend, open for me the gates of immortality, for you
are in truth a celestial porter.' So saying, he placed
himself as he was directed to do, and at a single blow, as
he had been promised, the head of Longinus was severed
from the body.
Neither the head nor the body was delivered to the
soldiers, or allowed to be treated with disrespect. This
favor we had obtained of Aurelian. So after the executioner
had held up the head of the philosopher, and shown
it to the soldiers, it was together with the body, given to
our care, and by us sent to Palmyra.
On this same day perished Otho, Seleucus, Gabrayas,
Nicanor — all, in a word, of the Queen's council, and
almost all of the senate. Some were reserved for execution
at another time, and among these I found, as I went
sadly toward the cell of Gracchus, was the father of
Fausta.
The keeper of the prison admitted me with a more
cheerful air than before, and with a significant shake of
the head. I heeded him but little, pressing on to meet
Gracchus.
`So,' I exclaimed, `it is not to-day' —
`No,' rejoined Gracchus, visibly moved, `nor to-morrow,
Piso. Read here.' And placing a parchment in
my hand, turned away.
It contained a full and free remission of punishment,
and permission to return immediately to Palmyra.
`The Gods be praised, the Gods be praised,' I cried as
I embraced him. `Is not this better, Gracchus?'
`It is,' said he, with emphasis, `a great boon, I do not
deny it. For Fausta's sake I rejoice — as for myself, all
is strictly true which I have said to you. But I forget
all now, save Fausta and her joy, and renewed life.
Would, Oh would that Longinus could have returned to
Palmyra with me' — and then, for the first time, Gracchus
gave way to grief, and wept aloud.
In the morning we set of for Palmyra. Farewell.
| LETTER XVI. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome | |