 | Probus, or, Rome in the third century |  |
LETTER I.
FROM PISO TO FAUSTA.
I am not surprised, Fausta, that you complain of my
silence. It were strange indeed if you did not. But
as for most of our misdeeds we have excuses ready at
hand, so have I for this. First of all, I was not ignorant
that, however I might fail you, from your other
greater friend you would experience no such neglect;
but on the contrary would be supplied, with sufficient
fullness and regularity, with all that could be worth
knowing, concerning either our public or private affairs.
For her sake, too, I was not unwilling, that at first the
burden of this correspondence, if I may so term it,
should rest where it has, since it has afforded, I am persuaded,
a pleasure, and provided an occupation that
could have been found nowhere else. Just as a flood of
tears brings relief to a bosom laboring under a heavy
sorrow, so has this pouring out of herself to you, in frequent
letters, served to withdraw her mind from recollections
which, dwelt upon as they were at first, would
soon have ended that life in which all ours seem
bound up.
Then again, if you accept the validity of this excuse,
I have another, which, as a woman, you will at once
allow the force of. You will not deem it a better one
than the other, but doubtless as good. It is this: that
for a long time I have been engaged in taking possession
of Portia. Of this you may have heard, in the letters
which have reached you; but that will not prevent me
from describing to you, with more exactness than any
other can have done it, the home of your old and fast
friend, Lucius Manlius Piso; for I think it adds greatly
to the pleasure with which we think of an absent friend,
to be able to see, as in a picture, the form and material
and position of the house he inhabits, and even the very
aspect and furniture of the room in which he is accustomed
to pass the most of his time. This to me is a
satisfaction greater than you can well conceive, when, in
my ruminating hours, which are many, I return to Palmyra,
and place myself in the circle with Gracchus, Calpurnius,
and yourself. Your palace having now been
restored to its former condition, I know where to find
you at the morning, noon, and evening hour; the only
change you have made in the former arrangements being
this: that whereas when I was your guest, your private
apartments occupied the eastern wing of the palace,
they are now in the western, once mine, and which I
used then to maintain were the most agreeable and noble
of all. The prospects which its windows afford of
the temple, and the distant palace of the queen, and of
the evening glories of the setting sun, are more than
enough to establish its claims to an undoubted superiority;
and if to these be added the circumstance, that
for so long a time the Roman Piso was their occupant,
the case is made out beyond all peradventure.
But I am describing your palace rather than my own.
You must remember my paternal seat on the southern
declivity of the hill, and overlooking the course of the
from it, but on the northern side of the hill, and thereby
possessing a situation more favorable to comfort, during
the heats of summer — I loving the city, as you well
know, better if anything during the summer than the
winter months. Standing upon almost the highest point
of the hill, it commands a wide and beautiful prospect,
especially toward the north and east, the eye shooting
over the whole expanse of city and suburbs, and then
resting upon the purple outline of the distant mountains.
Directly before me are the magnificent structures which
crown the Esquiline, conspicuous among which, and indeed
eminent over all, are the Baths of Titus. Then,
as you will conjecture, the eye takes in the Palatine and
Capitol hills, catching, just beyond the last, the swelling
dome of the Pantheon, which seems rather to rise out
of, and crown, the Flavian Amphitheatre, than its own
massy walls. Then, far in the horizon, we just discern
the distant summits of the Appenines, broken by Soracte
and the nearer hills.
The principal apartments are on the northern side of
the palace, opening upon a portico of Corinthian columns,
running its entire length, and which would not
disgrace Palmyra itself. At the eastern extremity, are
the rooms common to the family; in the centre, a spacious
hall, in the adorning of which, by every form of
art, I have exhausted my knowledge and taste in such
things; and at the western extremity, my library, where
at this moment I sit, and where I have gathered around
me all in letters and art that I most esteem. This room
I have decorated for myself and Julia — not for others.
Whatever has most endeared itself to our imaginations,
that have most instructed or amused; the statuary that
most raises and delights us; the pictures on which we
most love to dwell; the antiquities that possess most curiosity
or value, are here arranged; and in an order
that would satisfy, I believe, even your fastidious taste.
I will not weary you with any more minute account
of my new dwelling, leaving that duty to the readier
pen of Julia. Yet I cannot relieve you till I have
spoken of two of the statues which occupy the most
conspicuous niche in the library. You will expect me
to name Socrates and Plato, or Numa and Seneca —
these are all there, but it is not of either of them that I
would speak. They are the venerable founders of the
Jewish and Christian religions, Moses and Christ.
These statues, of the purest marble, stand side by side,
at one extremity of the apartment; and immediately
before them, and within the wondrous sphere of their
influences, stands the table at which I write, and where
I pursue my inquiries in philosophy and religion. You
smile at my enthusiasm, Fausta, and wonder when I
shall return to the calm sobriety of my ancient faith.
In this wonder there are a thousand errors — but of these
hereafter. I was to tell you of these sculptures. Of
the statue of Moses, I possess no historical account, and
know not what its claim may be to truth. I can only
say, it is a figure truly grand, and almost terrific. It is
of a size larger than life, and expresses no sentiment so
perfectly as authority — the authority of a rigorous and
austere ruler — both in the attitude of the body and the
features of the countenance. The head is slightly raised
and drawn back, as if listening, awe-struck, to a communication
his left hand supports a volume, and his right grasps a
stylus, with which, when the voice has ceased, to record
the communicated truth. Place in his hands the thunderbolt,
and at his feet the eagle, and the same form
would serve for Jupiter the Thunderer, except only that
to the countenance of the Jewish prophet there has been
imparted a rapt and inspired look, wholly beyond any
that even Phidias could have fixed upon the face of Jove.
He who wrought this head must have believed in the
sublimities of the religion whose chief minister he has
made so to speak them forth, in the countenance and
in the form; and yet who has ever heard of a Jew
sculptor?
The statue of Christ is of a very different character;
as different as the Christian faith is from that of the
Jewish, notwithstanding they are still by many confounded.
I cannot pretend to describe to you the holy
beauty that as it were constitutes this perfect work of
art. If you ask what authority tradition has invested it
with, I can only say that I do not know. All I can affirm
with certainty, is this, that it once stood in the palace
of Alexander Severus, in company with the images
of other deified men and gods, whom he chiefly reverenced.
When that excellent prince had fallen under
the blows of assassins, his successor and murderer, Maximin,
having little knowledge or taste for what was
found in the palace of Alexander, those treasures were
sold, and the statue of Christ came into the hands of a
distinguished and wealthy Christian of that day, who,
perishing in the persecution of Decius, his descendants
became impoverished, and were compelled to part with
them I purchased it; and often are they to be seen,
whenever for such an object they can steal away from
necessary cares, standing before it and renewing, as it
would seem, their vows of obedience, in the presence of
the founder of their faith. The room is free to their
approach, whenever they are thus impelled.
The expression of this statue, I have said, is wholly
different from that of the Hebrew. His is one of authority
and of sternness; this of gentleness and love.
Christ is represented, like the Moses, in a sitting posture,
with a countenance, not like his raised to Heaven,
but bent with looks somewhat sad and yet full of benevolence,
as if upon persons standing before him. Fraternity,
I think, is the idea you associate with it most
readily. I should never suppose him to be a judge nor
censor, nor arbitrary master, but rather an elder brother;
elder in the sense of wiser, holier, purer; whose look is
not one of reproach that others are not as himself, but
of pity and desire; and whose hand would rather be
stretched forth to lift up the fallen than to smite the
offender. To complete this expression, and inspire the
beholder with perfect confidence, the left hand rests upon
a little child, who stands with familiar reverence at
his knee, and looking up into his face seems to say, `No
evil can come to me here.'
Opposite this, and at the other extremity of the apartment,
hangs a picture of Christ, representing him in very
exact accordance with the traditional accounts of his features
and form, a description of which exists, and is held
by most authentic, in a letter of Publius Lentulus, a Roman
of the same period. Between this and the statue
see between two heads of Cæsar, or of Cicero. Marble,
however, is the only material that suits the character
and office of Jesus of Nazareth. Color, and its minute
effects, seem in some sort to degrade the subject. I retain
the picture because of its supposed truth.
Portia, as you will believe, is full of wonder and sorrow
at these things. Soon after my library had received
its last additions, my mother came to see what she had
already heard of so much. As she entered the apartment,
I was sitting in my accustomed seat, with Julia
at my side, and both of us gazing in admiration at the
figures I have just described. We were both too much
engrossed to notice the entrance of Portia, our first warning
of her presence being her hand laid upon my head.
We rose and placed her between us.
`My son,' said she, looking intently as she spoke upon
the statues before us, `what strange looking figures
are these? That upon my left might serve for Jupiter,
but for the roll and the stylus. And why place you beings
of character so opposite, as these appear to have
been, side by side? This other upon my right — ah,
how beautiful it is! What mildness in those eyes, and
what a divine repose over the form, which no event, not
the downfall of a kingdom nor its loss, would seem capable
to disturb. Is it the peace-loving Numa?'
`Not so,' said Julia; `there stands Numa, leaning on
the sacred shield, from the centre of which beams the
countenance of the divine Egeria.'
`Yes, I see it,' replied Portia; and rising from her
seat, she stood gazing round the apartment, examining
its various appointments. When her eye had sought
she said, in tones somewhat reproachful, as much so as
it is in her nature to assume.
`Where, Lucius, are the gods of Rome? Do those
who have, through so many ages, watched over our
country, and guarded our house, deserve no honor at
your hands? Does not gratitude require at least that
their images should be here, so that, whether you yourself
worship them or not, their presence may inspire
others with reverence? But alas for the times! Piety
seems dead; or, with the faith that inspires it, it lives
but in a few, who will soon disappear, and religion with
them. Whose forms are these, Lucius? concerning
one I can now easily surmise — but the other, this stern
and terrific man, who is he?'
`That,' I replied, `is Moses, the founder of Judaism.'
`Immortal gods!' exclaimed Portia, `the statue of a
Jew in the halls of the Pisos! Well may it be that
Rome approaches her decline, when her elder sons turn
against her.'
`Nay, mother, I am not a Jew.'
`I would thou wert, rather than be what I suppose
thou art, a Christian. The Jew, Lucius, can boast of
antiquity, at least, in behalf of his religion. But the
faith which you would profess and extend, is but of yesterday.
Would the gods ever leave mankind without
religion? Is it only to-day that they reveal the truth?
Have they left us for these many ages to grope along in
error? Never, Lucius, can I believe it. It is enough
for me that the religion of Rome is old as Rome, to
endear it to my heart, and commend it to my understanding.
have spoken.'
`But, my dear mother,' I rejoined, `if age makes
truth, there are older religions than this of Rome. Judaism
itself is older, by many centuries. But it is not
because a religion is new or old, that I would receive or
reject it. The only question is, does it satisfy my heart
and mind, and is it true? The faith which you, mother,
engrafted upon my infant mind, fails to meet the
wants of my nature, and upon looking for its foundations,
I find them not.'
`Is thy nature different from mine, Lucius? Surely,
thou art my own child! It has satisfied me and my
nature. I ask for nothing else, or better.'
`There are some natures, mother, by the gods so furnished
and filled with all good desires and affections,
that their religion is born with them and is in them.
It matters little under what outward form and administration
of truth they dwell; no system could injure
them — none would greatly benefit. They are of the
family of God, by birth, and are never disinherited.'
`Yes, Portia,' said Julia, `natural and divine instincts
make you what others can become only through the
powerful operation of some principle out of, and superior
to, anything they find within themselves. For me, I
know not what I should have been, without the help which
Christianity has afforded. I might have been virtuous,
but I could not have been happy. You surely rejoice
when the weak find that in any religion or philosophy
which gives them strength. Look, Portia, at that serene
and benignant countenance, and can you believe that
any truth ever came from its lips, but such as must be
`It would seem so indeed, my child,' replied Portia,
musingly, `and I would not deprive any of the comforts
or strength which any principle may impart. But I
cannot cease to think it dangerous to the state, when the
faith of the founders of Rome is abandoned by those
who fill its highest places. You who abound in leisure
and learning, may satisfy yourselves with a new
philosophy; but what shall these nice refinements profit
the common herd? How shall they see them to be true,
or comprehend them? The Romans have ever been a
religious people; and although under the empire the
purity of ancient manners is lost, let it not be said that
the Pisos were among those who struck the last and
hardest blows at the still stout root of the tree that bore
them.'
`Nothing can be more plain or intelligible,' I replied,
`than the principles of the Christian religion; and wherever
it has been preached with simplicity and power,
even the common people have readily and gratefully
adopted it. I certainly cannot but desire that it may
prevail. If anything is to do it, I believe this is the
power that is to restore, and in a still nobler form,
the ancient manners of which you speak. It is from
Christianity that in my heart I believe the youthful
blood is to come, that being poured into the veins of this
dying state, shall reproduce the very vigor and freshness
of its early age. Rome, mother, is now but a lifeless
trunk — a dead and loathsome corpse: a new and
warmer current must be infused, or it will soon crumble
into dust.'
`I grieve, Lucius, to see you lost to the good cause of
love his country, and deny the gods who made and preserve
it? But then who am I to condemn? When I
see the gods to hurl thunderbolts upon those who flout
them, it will be time enough for us mortals to assume
the robes of judgment. I will hope that farther thought
will reclaim you from your truant wanderings.'
Do not imagine, Fausta, that conversations like this
have the least effect to chill the warm affections of Portia
towards us both. Nature has placed within her bosom
a central heat, that not only preserves her own warmth,
but diffuses itself upon all who approach her, and changes
their affections into a likeness of her own. We
speak of our differing faiths, but love none the less.
When she had paused a moment, after uttering the last
words, she again turned her eye upon the statue of Christ,
and, captivated by its wondrous power, she dwelt upon
it in a manner that showed her sensibilities to be greatly
moved. At length she suddenly started, saying:
`If truth and beauty were the same thing, one need but
to look upon this, and be a believer. But as in the human
form and face, beauty is often but a lie, covering
over a worse deformity than any that ever disfigures the
body, so it may be here. I cannot but admire and love
the beauty; it will be wise, I suppose, not to look farther,
lest the dream be dissolved.'
`Be not afraid of that, dearest mother; I can warrant
you against disappointment. If in that marble you
have the form of the outward beauty, here, in this roll,
you will find the inward moral beauty of which it was
the shrine.'
`Nay, nay, Lucius, I look no farther or deeper. I
have seen too much already.'
With these words, she rose, and we accompanied her
to the portico, where we walked, and sat, and talked of
you, and Calpurnius, and Gracchus.
Thus you perceive I have told you first of what chiefly
interests myself: now let me turn to what at this moment
more than everything else fills all heads in Rome
— and that is Livia. She is the object of universal attention,
the centre of all honor. It is indescribable, the
sensation her beauty, and now added to that, her magnificence,
have made and still make in Rome. Her
imperial bearing would satisfy even you; and the splendor
of her state exceeds all that has been known before.
This you may be surprised to hear, knowing what the
principles of Aurelian have been in such things; how
strict he has been himself in a more than republican
simplicity, and how severe upon the extravagances and
luxuries of others, in the laws he has enacted. You
must remember his prohibition of the use of cloth of gold
and of silk, among other things — foolish laws to be suddenly
promulged among so vain and corrupt a population
as this of Rome. They have been the ridicule and
scorn of rich and poor alike; of the rich, because they
are so easily violated in private, or evaded by the substitution
of one article for another; of the poor, because,
being slaves in spirit, they take a slave's pride in the
trappings and state of their masters; they love not only
to feel but to see their superiority. But since the eastern
expedition, the reduction of Palmyra, and the introduction
from abroad of the vast flood of foreign luxuries
and the habits of the emperor have undergone a
mighty revolution. Now, the richness and costliness of
his dress, the splendor of his equipage, the gorgeousness
of his furniture, cannot be made to come up to the height
of his extravagant desires. The silk which he once
denied to the former empress for a dress, now, variously
embroidered, and of every dye, either hangs in ample
folds upon the walls, or canopies the royal bed, or lends
its beauty to the cushioned seats which everywhere, in
every form of luxurious ease, invite to repose. Gold,
too, once prohibited, but now wrought into every kind
of cloth, or solid in shape of dish, or vase, or cup, or
spread in sheets over the very walls and ceilings of the
palace, has rendered the traditions of Nero's house of
gold no longer fabulous. The customs of the eastern
monarchs have also elevated or perverted the ambition
of Aurelian, and one after another are taking place of
former usages. He is every day more difficult of access,
and surrounds himself, his palaces, and apartments, by
guards and officers of state. In all this, as you will
readily believe, Livia is his willing companion, or rather,
I should perhaps say, his prompting and ruling genius.
As without the world at her feet, it would be impossible
for her insane pride to be fully satisfied, so in all that is
now done, the emperor still lags behind her will. But
beautifully, it can be denied by none, does she become
her greatness, and gives more lustre than she receives,
to all around her. Gold is doubly gold in her presence;
and even the diamond sparkles with a new brilliancy on
her brow or sandal.
Livia is, of all women I have ever seen or known,
in Palmyra, and I saw her, so often as I did, assuming
the port and air of imaginary sovereignty. And now
that I behold her filling the very place for which by
nature she is most perfectly fitted, I cannot but confess
that she surpasses all I had imagined, in the genius she
displays for her great sphere, both as wife of Aurelian,
and sovereign of Rome. Her intellect shows itself
stronger than I had believed it to be, and secures for her
the homage of a class who could not be subdued by the
magnificence of her state, extraordinary as it is. They
are captivated by the brilliancy of her wit, set off by her
unequalled beauty, and, for a woman, her rare attainments,
and hover around her as some superior being.
Then for the mass of our rich and noble, her ostentatious
state and imperial bearing are all that they can
appreciate, all they ask for, and more than enough to
enslave them, not only to her reasonable will, but to all
her most tyrannical and whimsical caprices. She understands
already perfectly the people she is among;
and through her quick sagacity, has already risen to a
power greater than woman ever before held in Rome.
We see her often — often as ever — and when we
see her, enjoy her as well. For with all her ambition
of petty rule and imposing state, she possesses and retains
a goodness of heart, that endears her to all, in spite of
her follies. Julia is still her beloved Julia, and I her
good friend Lucius; but it is to Zenobia that she attaches
herself most closely; and from her she draws most
largely of the kind of inspiration which she covets.
And it is to her, I believe, that we may trace much of
the admirable wisdom — for such it must be allowed to
Her residence, when Aurelian is absent from the city,
is near us in the palace upon the Palatine; but when
he is here, it is more remote, in the enchanted gardens
of Sallust. This spot, first ennobled by the presence of
the great historian, to whose hand and eye of taste the
chief beauties of the scene are to be traced, then afterward
selected by Vespasian as an imperial villa, is now lately
become the chosen retreat of Aurelian. It has indeed
lost a part of its charms since it has been embraced by the
extension of the new walls within the limits of the city;
but enough remain to justify abundantly the preference
of a line of emperors. It is there that we see Livia
most as we have been used to do, and where are forcibly
brought to our minds the hours passed by us so instructively
in the gardens of Zenobia. Often Aurelian is of
our company, and throws the light of his strong intellect
upon whatever subject it is we discuss. He cannot,
however, on such occasions, thoroughly tame to the tone
of gentle society, his imperious and almost rude nature.
The peasant of Pannonia will sometimes break through,
and usurp the place of emperor; but it is only for a
moment; for it is amusing to note how the presence of
Livia quickly restores him to himself; when, with more
grace than one would look for, he acknowledges his
fault, ascribing it sportively to the fogs of the German
marshes. It amuses us to observe the power which the
polished manners and courtly ways of Livia exercise
over Aurelian, whose ambition seems now as violently
bent upon subduing the world by the displays of taste,
grace, and magnificence, as it once was to do it — and
is still indeed — by force of arms. Having astonished
quite another; and to this later task his whole nature is
consecrated with as entire a devotion as ever it was to
the other. Livia is in all these things his model and
guide; and never did soldier learn to catch, from the
least motion or sign of the general, his will, than does
he, to the same end, study the countenance and the
voice of the empress. Yet is there, as you will believe,
knowing the character of Aurelian as well as you do,
nothing mean nor servile in this. He is ever himself,
and beneath this transparent surface, artificially assumed,
you behold, feature for feature, the lineaments
of the fierce soldier glaring forth in all their native wildness
and ferocity. Yet we are happy that there exists
any charm potent enough to calm, but for hours or days,
a nature so stern and cruel as to cause perpetual fears
for the violences in which at any moment it may break
out. The late slaughter in the very streets of Rome,
when the Cœlian ran with the blood of fifteen thousand
Romans, butchered within sight of their own homes,
with the succeeding executions, naturally fill us with
apprehensions for the future. We call him generous,
and magnanimous, and so he is, compared with former
tyrants who have polluted the throne — Tiberius, Commodus,
or Maximin; but what title has he to that praise,
when tried by the standard which our own reason supplies
of those great virtues? I confess it was not always
so. His severity was formerly ever on the side of justice;
it was indignation at crime or baseness which
sometimes brought upon him the charge of cruelty —
never the wanton infliction of suffering and death. But
it certainly is not so now. A slight cause now rouses
first object that comes in his way. But enough of this.
Do not forget to tell me again of the Old Hermit of
the mountains, and that you have visited him — if indeed
he be yet among the living.
Even with your lively imagination, Fausta, you can
hardly form an idea of the sensation which my open
assertion of Christian principles and assumption of the
Christian name has made in Rome. I intended when
I sat down to speak only of this, but see how I have
been led away! My letters will be for the most part
confined, I fear, to the subjects which engross both myself
and Julia most — such as relate to the condition and
prospects of the new religion, and to the part which we
take in the revolution which is going on. Not that I
shall be speechless upon other and inferior topics, but
that upon this of Christianity I shall be garrulous and
overflowing. I believe that in doing this, I shall consult
your preferences as well as my own. I know you to be
desirous of principles better than any which as yet you
have been able to discover, and that you will gladly learn
whatever I may have it in my power to teach you from
this quarter. But all the teaching I shall attempt will
be to narrate events as they occur, and state facts as they
arise, and leave them to make what impression they
may.
When I just spoke of the sensation which my adoption
of the Christian system had caused in Rome, I did
not mean to convey any idea like this, that it has been
rare for the intelligent and cultivated to attach themselves
to this despised religion. On the contrary, it
would be true were I to say, that they who accept
that estimated as a class, and they rank far above the
lowest. It is not the dregs of a people who become reformers
of philosophy or religion; who grow dissatisfied
with ancient opinions upon exalted subjects, and search
about for better, and adopt them. The processes involved
in this change, in their very nature, require intelligence,
and imply a character of more than common
elevation. It is neither the lowest nor the highest who
commence, and at first carry on, a work like this; but
those who fill the intermediate spaces. The lowest are
dead as brute matter to such interests; the highest —
the rich, the fashionable, the noble — from opposite
causes just as dead — or if they are alive at all, it is
with the rage of denunciation and opposition. They
are supporters of the decent usages sanctioned by antiquity,
and consecrated by the veneration of a long line
of the great and noble. Whether they themselves believe
in the system which they uphold or not, they are
equally tenacious of it. They would preserve and perpetuate
it, because it has satisfied, at any rate bound and
overawed, the multitude for ages: and the experiment
of alteration or substitution is too dangerous to be tried.
Most indeed reason not, nor philosophize at all, in the
matter. The instinct that makes them Romans in their
worship of the power and greatness at Rome, and attachment
to her civil forms, makes them Romans in their
religion, and will summon them, if need be, to die for
the one and the other.
Religion and philosophy have accordingly nothing to
hope from this quarter. It is those whom we may term
the substantial middle classes, who, being least hindered
incapacitated by ignorance on the other, have ever been
the earliest and best friends of progress in any science.
Here you find the retired scholar, the thoughtful
and independent farmer, the skillful mechanic, the enlightened
merchant, the curious traveler, the inquisitive
philosopher — all fitted, beyond those of either extreme,
for exercising a sound judgment upon such questions,
and all more interested in them. It is out of
these that Christianity has made its converts. They
are accordingly worthy of universal respect. I have
examined with diligence, and can say that there live
not in Rome a purer and more noble company than the
Christians. When I say however that it is out of
these whom I have just specified, that Christianity
has made its converts, I do not mean to say out
of them exclusively. Some have joined them in the
present age, as well as in every age past, from the most
elevated in rank and power. If in Nero's palace, and
among his chief ministers, there were Christians, if
Domitilla, Domitian's niece, was a Christian, if Philip
was a Christian, so now a few of the same rank may be
counted, who openly, and more who secretly, profess
this religion. But they are very few. So that you will
not wonder that when the head of the ancient and honorable
house of the Pisos, the friend of Aurelian, and
allied to the royal family of Palmyra, declared himself
to be of this persuasion, no little commotion was observable
in Rome — not so much among the Christians
themselves as among the patricians, among the nobility,
in the court and palace of Aurelian. The love of many
has grown cold, and the outward tokens of respect are
of the bigot are bent upon me as I pass along the streets,
and inquiries, full of scornful irony, are made after the
welfare of my new friends. The emperor changes not
his carriage toward me, nor I believe his feelings. I
think he is too tolerant of opinion, too much a man of
the world, to desire to curb and restrain the liberty of
his friends in the quarter of philosophy and religion. I
know indeed on the other hand, that he is religious in
his way, to the extreme of superstition, but I have observed
no tokens as yet of any purpose or wish to interfere
with the belief or worship of others. He seems
like one who, if he may indulge his own feelings in his
own way, is not unwilling to concede to others the same
freedom.
As I was writing these last sentences, I became conscious
of a voice muttering in low tones, as if discoursing
with itself, and upon no very agreeable theme. I
heeded it not at first, but wrote on. At length it ran
thus, and I was compelled to give ear:
`Patience, patience — greatest of virtues, yet hardest
of practice! To wait indeed for a kingdom were something,
though it were upon a bed of thorns; to suffer
for the honor of truth, were more; more in itself, and
more in its rewards. But patience, when a fly stings,
or a fool speaks, or worse, when time is wasted and lost,
is — the virtue mayhap is greater after all — but it is
harder, I say, of practice — that is what I say — yet, for
that very reason, greater! By Hercules! I believe it
is so. So that while I wait here, my virtue of patience
is greater than that of these accursed Jews. Patience
then, I say, patience!'
`What in the name of all antiquity,' I exclaimed,
turning round as the voice ceased, `is this flood of philosophy
for? Wherein have I offended?'
`Offended!' cried the other: `Nay, noble master,
not offended. According to my conclusion, I owe thee
thanks; for while I have stood waiting to catch thy eye
and ear, my virtue has shot up like a wild vine. The
soul has grown. I ought therefore rather to crave forgiveness
of thee, for breaking up a study which was so
profound, and doubtless so agreeable too.'
`Agreeable you will certainly grant it, when I tell you
I was writing to your ancient friend and pupil, the daughter
of Gracchus.'
`Ah, the blessings of all the gods upon her. My
dreams are still of her. I loved her, Piso, as I never
loved beside, either form, shadow, or substance. I used
to think that I loved her as a parent loves his child — a
brother his sister; but it was more than that. Aristotle
is not so dear to me as she. Bear witness these tears!
I would now, bent as I am, travel the Syrian deserts to
see her; especially if I might hear from her mouth a
chapter of the great philosopher. Never did Greek, always
music, seem so like somewhat more divinely harmonious
than anything of earth, as when it came through
her lips. Yet, by Hercules! she played me many a
mad prank! 'T would have been better for her and for
letters, had I chastised her more, and loved her less.
Condescend, noble Piso, to name me to her, and entreat
her not to fall away from her Greek. That will be a
consolation under all losses, and all sorrows.'
`I will not fail to do so. And now in what is my
opinion wanted?'
`It is simply in the matter of these volumes, where
thou wilt have them bestowed. The cases here, by their
superior adorning, seem designed for the great master of
all, and his disciples; and it is here I would fain order
them. Would it so please thee?'
`No, Solon, not there. That is designed for a very
different Master and his disciples.'
Solon looked at me as if unwilling to credit his ears,
hoping that something would be added more honorable
to the affronted philosopher and myself. But nothing
coming, he said:
`I penetrate — I apprehend. This, the very centre
and post of honor, thou reservest for the atheistical Jews.
The gods help us! I doubt I should straight resign my
office. Well, well; let us hope that the increase of
years will bring an increase of wisdom. We cannot
look for fruit on a sapling. Youth seeks novelty. But
the gods be thanked! Youth lasts not long, but is a
fault daily corrected; else the world were at a bad pass.
Rome is not fallen, nor the fame of the Stagyrite hurt
for this. But 't is grievous to behold!'
So murmuring, as he retreated to the farther part of
the library, with his bundle of rolls under his arm, he
again busied himself in the labors of his office.
I see, Fausta, the delight that sparkles in your eye,
and breaks over your countenance, as you learn that
Solon, the incomparable Solon, is one of my household.
No one whom I could think of, appeared so well suited
to my wants as librarian, as Solon, and I can by no
means convey to you an idea of the satisfaction with
which he hailed my offer; and abandoning the rod and
the brass tablets, betook himself to a labor which would
favorite authors, and the pursuit of his favorite studies.
He is already deep in the question, `whether the walls
of Troy were accommodated with thirty-three or thirty-nine
gates,' and also in this, `what was the method of
construction adopted in the case of the wooden horse,
and what was its capacity?' Of his progress in these
matters, I will duly inform you.
But I weary your patience. Farewell.
Piso, alluding in this letter to the slaughter on the
Cœlian Hill, and which happened not long before it was
written, I will add here that whatever color it may have
pleased Aurelian to give to that affair — as if it were
occasioned by a dishonest debasement of the coin by the
directors of the mint — there is now no doubt, on the
part of any who are familiar with the history of that period,
that the difficulty originated in a much deeper and
more formidable cause, well known to Aurelian himself,
but not spoken of by him, in alluding to the event. It
is certain, then, that the civil war which then befel, for
such it was, was in truth the breaking out of a conspiracy
on the part of the nobles to displace Aurelian — `a
German peasant,' as they scornfully designated him —
and set one of their own order upon the throne. They
had already bought over the chief manager of the public
mint — a slave and favorite of Aurelian — and had engaged
him in creating, to serve the purposes which they
had in view, an immense issue of spurious coin. This
they had used too liberally, in effecting some of the preliminary
objects of their movement. It was suspected,
tried, proved to be false, and traced to its authors. Before
obliged to take to their arms, as the only way in which
to save themselves from the executioner. The contest
was one of the bloodiest ever known within the walls of
the city. It was Aurelian, with a few legions of his
army, and the people — always of his part — against
the wealth and the power of the nobility, and their paid
adherents. In one day, and in one battle, as it may be
termed, fifteen thousand soldiers and citizens were slain
in the streets of the capital. Truly does Piso say, the
streets of the Cœlian ran blood. I happily was within
the walls of the queen's palace at Tibur; but well do I
remember the horror of the time — especially the days
succeeding the battle, when the vengeance of the enraged
conqueror fell upon the noblest families of Rome,
and the axe of the executioner was blunted and broken
with the savage work which it did.
No one has written of Aurelian and his reign, who
has not applauded him for the defence which he made
of his throne and crown, when traitorously assailed
within the very walls of the capital; but all unite also
in condemning that fierce spirit of revenge, which, after
the contest was over and his power secure, by confiscation,
banishment, torture and death, involved in ruin so
many whom a different treatment would have converted
into friends. But Aurelian was by nature a tyrant; it
was accident whenever he was otherwise. If affairs
moved on smoothly, he was the just or magnanimous
prince; if disturbed and perplexed, and his will crossed,
he was the imperious and vindictive tyrant.
| Probus, or, Rome in the third century | |