I. THE JEW WHO HAD APPEALED UNTO CAESAR
ROME; in the year of the city, 814; in the year of grace, 61;
Nero on the throne; the apostles preaching Christianity; the
ancient world in the period of its highest civilization, when
petty divisions had become extinguished, and all the nations
bowed to the one central city: -- such is the time of this
story.
It was a busy, a rich, and a densely-people world. Military
roads started from the great centre, and went to the uttermost
bounds of the empire. The Mediterranean was the highway of
nations; surrounded by a girdle of populous cities, everywhere
traversed by vast fleets, and filled with the commerce of the
world.
Roman law had fashioned all the provinces into one form, and
stamped them all with one image; and those states which were
formerly ravaged by war or piracy, now, under the influence of
universal peace, grew with a rapidity that had not been known
before.
Taking a comprehensive view of this world, Spain first
attracts our attention, where, for some time, a Roman province
had been advancing so peacefully that history finds by little to
record. Culture was there, and Rome was receiving from that
quarter her Lucans, Senecas, and Trajans. Cities lined the
coast, prominent among which was Gades, which yet, as of old,
sends over the world its exports of fruit and wine and oil.
Perhaps Spain was more prosperous than now. Certainly Africa was
much more so. Along the whole northern coast there was a line of
nations, rich in culture and prosperity, possessing great
cities, which sent over to Rome its chief supplies of grain.
Carthage had arisen from its ruins on a new site, and many
capitals had grown up in places which not long before had been
the battle-grounds of barbarous tribes. Alexandria had already
reached a lofty position in science and literature, as well as
in commerce, and was yet advancing still higher. Over all the
country caravans pierced the desert, carrying civilization to
the savages beyond, and the whole land was going on in a career
of prosperity, which continued for generations with various
fortunes, till it was checked by the disasters of the falling
empire, and afterwards diverted in a new direction by Mohammedan
conquest.
From Alexandria came the largest ships and greatest fleets;
for Roman pride was yet conveying to the metropolis those
enormous Egyptian obelisks which yet remain in the modern city;
and no small part of Eastern commerce came up the Red Sea, to
send through this port, the spices, the gold, the gems, the
silks, and the rich tissues which were demanded by Roman luxury.
Nor must we forget Palestine. Long since Hellenized to some
extent, and now partly Romanized, the people saw their country
filled with the symbols of Western art and science; but, in the
presence of Greek rhetoricians and Roman soldiers, they
cherished that fierce fanaticism which blazed up in revolt at
last, and was quenched in the untold agonies of the memorable
siege of Jerusalem.
Beyond Palestine were the crowded regions of Syria and Asia
Minor, where there were cities such as Ephesus, Antioch, Smyrna,
and Damascus, with many others, which surpassed the capital
itself in splendor and magnificence, and have left ruins which
are the wonder of the modern traveller. Through these came that
great overland traffic with the farthest East, which formed a
perpetual succession of caravans between the Roman and the
Chinese provinces.
What lay beyond the nearest deserts crossed by the caravans
was a profound mystery to the Romans. Their arms had never
reduced Persia to subjection; nor had a Roman general ever gazed
on the plains of Scinde, or embarked his legions on the Persian
Gulf. The Parthians were more formidable to the Romans than the
Persians had been to the Greeks; nor did the Latin historian
ever forgive Alexander for leading his armies beyond the flight
of the Roman eagles.
The descendants of those Greeks who had thus outdone the
Romans in the farthest East, still lived with a certain vitality
in their old home. Athens was more populous than ever, and the
country was prosperous. But the glory had departed, and the
ancient genius had vanished forever. It would be a great
mistake, however, to suppose that the Greeks had sunk to a level
with the other races under the iron dominion of Rome; on the
contrary, they towered above them all.
The position of the Greeks at this time is partly instructive
and partly amusing. They were at once the scholars, the wits,
and the sharpers of the day. Their literature was studied
everywhere; their arts were everywhere admired. No one who
pretended to be anybody was ignorant of their language. It was
the universal tongue, and had penetrated into all countries.
Everything that required art, skill, ingenuity, all the finer
employments of every kind, had everywhere fallen to the lot of
the Greeks. They were the best painters, sculptors, architects,
and musicians. The master-pieces of art now preserved at Rome,
if they bear any names at all, have those of Greek artists.
Wealthy Romans sent their sons to Athens to acquire a liberal
education, or hired Greek tutors in their own houses at Rome. In
Rome the Greek was everything. In the words of the sneering
satirist, --
"Grammar, surveying, physic, shaving, art,
Rope-dancing, magic, -- all, he knows by heart."
Northward, the barbarian races were held in check, yet chafed
furiously against the barrier. The Pannonians and Dacians were
watching their opportunity. The Germans refused to be conquered.
Beyond them lay the innumerable Goths, behind whom were the
Sarmatians and Scythians, who again were pressed in their rear
by others. Among these tribes the Romans found a spirit which no
longer existed among themselves.
Gaul had settled down into an orderly Roman province, with
all the customary signs of Roman refinement. The southern coast
had been a civilized country for ages; and Massilia, which was
founded by the Greeks, centuries before, was distinguished for
its culture; while in its neighborhood were powerful cities
which have bequeathed to our times vast monuments and majestic
ruins. Beyond the sea lay Britain, now filled with war and
carnage. For this was the year of the vengeance of Boadicea,
when Suetonius had marched against the Druids, leaving the
island in his rear unprotected. Then the British queen had gone
with her daughters among the tribes, rousing them to revenge.
The country fell back into their power. Suetonius was lost to
view; and the Roman, looking toward Britain, say everything
hidden from view by the smoke of burning cities.
And what was Italy itself, the centre of this ancient world?
A vast community of cities, a network of magnificent roads; its
land cultivated like a garden, and teeming with population. In
the north were the fertile plains at the foot of the Alps, with
many stately and populous cities. Next came Etruria, where the
olive and the vine grew over all the hill-slopes and throughout
the quiet valleys. Campania was then filled with inhabitants;
the Pontine marshes were drained and cultivated; and the most
beautiful part of all the world was found then, as now, in
Naples Bay, where Roman luxury had exhausted all its resources
in contriving new sources of delight and new modes of enjoyment.
Where shall we begin? Shall it be with Paestum, where in this
age those five temples were standing, admired already as types
of hoar antiquity, but destined to a still more venerable age,
since they have come down to our day in wonderful preservation;
-- or Sorrentum, with its wonderful valley, where there is
perpetual spring throughout the year; -- or Capreae, where
Tiberius was wont to retire and devise, in hideous secrecy, new
refinements of cruelty; -- or Pompeii and Herculaneum, which the
awful fires of Vesuvius were soon to overwhelm, and bury from
the sight of man, so that they might lie hidden through the
centuries, and be exhumed in our day, to portray to us the
corrupt form of ancient civilization as it appears in their
melancholy streets? Or shall we turn to Baiae, where for
generations there assembled all that Rome possessed of genius,
of wealth, of valor, of luxury, of effeminacy, and of vice, to
present a strange mixture of sensuality and intellect, of taste
and corruption; where the massive piles even now remain which
Caligula reared from the depths of the sea, so that he might
avoid the curve of the shore, and have a straight path in
defiance of the obstacles of the ocean; -- to Misenum, with the
Roman navy at anchor, and triremes passing and repassing at all
times; -- to the Lucrine Lake, and the Elysian fields, and the
Cumaean grotto, through which Virgil makes his hero pass to the
under world; or to that steep cliff overhanging the Grotto of
Posilipo which the same poet chose for his burial-place, of whom
the well-known epitaph gives the biography, --
"I sing flocks, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave
Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave" ?
Or will our Christian instincts lead us to turn away from
these to Puteoli, to see the landing of Saint Paul, and follow
his steps to the foot of Caesar's throne?
It was drawing near to the close of a day in early spring,
when a numerous party rode on towards Rome from the direction of
Naples. First came a detachment of soldiers, at whose head was
the decurion; and immediately following them was a centurion, by
whose side rode two men. The rest of the party were civilians;
some being Roman citizens, others foreigners; some of high rank,
others of humble circumstances. They all rode on cheerfully,
with animated conversation, smiles, and frequent laughter. On
the whole, however, their character and expression appeared
rather sedate than otherwise, and it was the excitement of the
occasion which led to their mirthfulness.
The two men who rode next to the centurion were of different
race and more impressive aspect. Their faces and dress showed
that they were Jews. The centurion treated them with the utmost
respect. The one who rode nearest to him had and intellectual
face, and clear, inquiring eye. His eager glance fixed itself on
every new object which it encountered on the way, and he asked
numerous questions, which the officer politely answered. The
other traveller was of different appearance. His size was under
the average; his hair was short and crisp; his face bronzed by
exposure; his forehead broad and expansive, yet not very high;
his lips thin; his month closely shut and slightly drooping at
the corners; his jaw square and massive, and covered with a
heavy beard; his eyes gray and wonderfully piercing. He rode on,
looking fixedly at the city, now in full view, and appearing to
notice little of what was going on around him. It was a face
which one would look at a second time, -- a bold, massive,
mighty face; with restless energy, fire, and power stamped upon
every lineament; and yet wearing over all a strange serenity. In
the wrinkles of his brow, and the lines of his face, was graven
the record of long struggles and arduous toil; and yet even the
most careless observer could see that this man had come forth
out of all his troubles more than conqueror.
Such was Paul, the apostle. His companion was Luke, the
beloved physician. The officer was Julius, the centurion. The
friends were the Christians of Rome, who had come out to meet
the apostle as far as Tres Taberae and Forum Appii, at the
reception of whose warm welcome the two friends "thanked God and
took courage."
And now from afar there came the deep hum of the city, the
tread of its millions, and the roll of wheels over the stony
streets. The lofty many-storied houses rose high, and above them
rose temples and towers and monuments. In the midst was the vast
outline of the imperial palace; and high above all, the
Capitoline Hill, with its coronet of temples.
The crowd along the streets increased at every pace as they
drew nearer, until at length they were compelled to move more
slowly. The highway became less a road than a street; houses
were all around, and it was difficult to tell where the country
began and where the city ended; for the overgrown metropolis had
burst beyond its walls, and sent its miles of suburbs far out
into the plain. The road, at every step, became more thronged,
until at last it was filled to overflowing. Here came chariots
of nobles on their way to distant villas; there rolled along
ponderous carts laden with stone for building purposes; from one
direction came a band of soldiers, from another a gang of
slaves. Here came a drove of oxen, stately, long-horned,
cream-colored, -- always the boast of Italy, -- and close behind
followed a crowd of shepherds or drovers. Still the crowd
increased: asses with panniers; mules with burdens; fossors with
loads of sand from the catacombs; imperial couriers; gangs of
prisoners in chains; beggars displaying loathsome sores; priests
on their way to the temples; water-carriers; wine-sellers; all
the arts, and all the trades; -- such was the motley crowd that
now roared around them while yet they were outside the gates.
Now the road was lined on each side with tombs, among which
they passed the enormous round tower of Caecilia Metella, a
sepulchre, like the Egyptian pyramids, built for eternity. From
this spot there extended a long line of tombs, containing the
noblest dead of Rome. Our party went on and drew nearer. They
passed the Grotto of Egeria, with a grove around it, which was
hired out to the Jews. They passed the place on which tradition
says that Hannibal stood and hurled his dart over the walls; and
came near to the Porta Capena, where one of the aqueducts ran
right over the top of the gate.
What thoughts were these which so absorbed the mind of the
great apostle, that he seemed to notice nothing around him? Was
it the magnitude and splendor of the capital; or rather the vast
power of that heathenism with which he was making war?
What that society was into which he was carrying the gospel
of the Saviour, he knew well; and we, too, may know, if we
regard the pictures which are presented to us by men who wrote
not many years after this reign of Nero. There is the greatest
of Romans historians, and the mightiest of satirists. Each has
left his record. Were that record single, we might think it
exaggerated; but each is supported by the other. Were Juvenal
only before us, we might think his statements the extravagance
of a poet or a satirist; but all that Juvenal affirms is
supported and strengthened by the terrible calmness of Tacitus;
in whom there is no trace of passion, but the impartial
description of hideous reigns, drawn up by one whose own heart
that age had filled with bitterness.
What then is the picture which we find in these pages?
The simple virtues of the old republic had long since passed
away. Freedom had taken her eternal flight. The people were
debased and looked on in silence at the perpetration of enormous
crimes. After Nero's dealings with his mother, he could still be
emperor. The name of religion was applied to a system corrupt to
the inmost centre. No one believed in it who had any pretence to
intelligence. Public honor and justice were almost unknown; and
conquered provinces were only regarded as victims of oppression.
Private virtues had almost vanished; and honor and truth and
mercy were little more than empty sounds. Decency itself had
departed; and vices which cannot be named in our day were freely
practised, unchecked by public opinion. It was a society where
vice had penetrated to the heart of almost every household. That
was the most familiar thought which was the most impure. Honor
had fled from men, chastity from women, innocence from children.
And what contrasts appeared in that society to their eyes!
They saw one emperor cutting away a mountain to build an
imperial palace; and another summoning a council of state to
decide about the cooking of a fish. They saw the name and fame
and glory of the old republican heroes all forgotten by their
degenerate descendants, who now prided themselves in nothing so
much as their skill in detecting at a single taste the native
bed of an oyster or sea-urchin. Effeminate nobles wore light or
heavy finger-rings to accord with the varying temperature of the
summer and winter seasons, and yet could order a score of slaves
to be crucified as an after-dinner pastime. This was the time
when bloodthirsty myriads were watching the death-agonies of
gladiators whose vengeful kindred were raging all along the
borders of the empire; when Roman soldiers abroad were beating
back the Dacians, or marching against the Druids, in the isle of
Mona, while Boadicea led on the tribes to the vengeance of
Camulodune; and when Roman citizens at home were scrambling for
their daily dole of victuals at the doors of the great; when he
was most fortunate who was most vicious; and they obtained
wealth and honor, who by forging wills, had defrauded the widow
and the orphan; when a fierce populace, fresh from the
amphitheatre, and a nobility polluted by vices without a name,
and an emperor stained with the guilt of a mother's murder;
gazing mockingly upon the death-agonies of martyrs who died in
flames, clothed in the tunica molesta; when for year
after year, and generation after generation, all these evils
grew worse, till, in the fearful words of Tacitus, "They would
have lost memory also with their voice, if it had been possible
as well to forget as to keep silent."
It may be urged, however, that there was much virtue in spite
of all this vice. True, there was virtue, and that too of a high
order. There are names which glow with a lustre all the brighter
for the darkness that is around them. They irradiate the gloom
of Tacitus' histories; and make us exult in seeing how hard it
is for corruption to extinguish the manly or the noble
sentiment. Paetus Thrasea, Aurulenus Rusticus, Helvidius Priscus
would adorn any age. Lucan alone might have ennobled this.
Seneca's life may have been doubtful; but who can remain unmoved
at the spectacle of his death? Afterward Tacitus and Pliny
sustained their virtuous friendship, and found others like
themselves, -- kindred spirits, -- who made life not endurable
but delightful. In that age and in the subsequent one there were
good and high-hearted men; for did not the "good emperors"
succeed the "bad emperors"? Trajan would have adorned the
noblest age of the world. Marcus Aurelius stands among the first
of those who have ruled. In addition to these great characters
of history, there were no doubt many men, of an obscure order
who passed through life in an obscure way, and yet were honest
and high-minded citizens. There were, no doubt, many like
Juvenal's Umbricius, who deplored the vice around them, and
believed with him that Rome was no place for honest men; but
tried to be honest in their way. There must have been many of
these, of whom Umbricius is only a type; too plain-spoken to
succeed in a generation of flatterers, and too high-minded to
stoop to that baseness by which alone advancement could be
obtained.
Moreover Rome was not the world. Beside the capital, there
was the country. There, as Umbricius says, might be found
simplicity, virtue, and honesty. Among the simple, the
high-minded, and the frugal rustics, the vice of the city was
unknown. In the rural districts, without doubt, the great masses
of men continued as they had ever been, -- neither better nor
worse.
Let us allow all this, -- that there was this exceptional
morality in the city and this rural simplicity in the country.
What remains?
Simply this: that after all, Rome was the head, the heart,
and the brain of the world. It guided. It led the way. What
availed all else when this was incurably disorganized? Its
virtuous characters found themselves in a hopeless minority.
They could do nothing against the downward pressure all around
them. They struggled, they died; and other generations arose in
which the state of things was worse. The whole head was sick,
the whole heart faint. The life of the state, as it centred
round its heart, drew corruption from it which passed through
every fibre. Society was going to decay, and one thing along
could save the world.
That remedy was now brought by the man whom we have
described.
But now our party have passed under the dripping archway of
the Porta Capena; and the centurion conveys to his destined
abode the Jew who had appealed unto Caesar.
II. THE YOUNG ATHENIAN
Upon the slopes of the Apennines, in the vicinity of Tibur,
stood the villa of Lucius Sulpicius Labeo. From the front there
was an extensive prospect which commanded the wide Campania, and
the distant capital. The villa was of modest proportions, in
comparison with many others near it, yet of most elegant style.
The front was decorated with a broad portico, before which was a
terrace covered with flowers and shrubbery; the walks were
bordered with boxwood, which in places was cut into the forms of
animals and vases. The public road was about a quarter of a mile
away; and a broad avenue of plane-trees connected it with the
house, winding in such a way as to afford a gentle descent, and
where it joined the road there was a neat porter's house. Behind
the villa were out-houses and barns; on the right was an
extensive kitchen-garden; on the left an orchard and vineyard
surrounding the steward's house.
Other villas dotted the slopes of the mountains far and near.
The most conspicuous among these was the one immediately
adjoining, a most magnificent establishment, which far exceeded
that of Labeo in extent and splendor. This was the villa of
Pedanius Secundus, at this time prefect of the city. From the
terrace of Labeo the greater part of this estate could be seen;
but the eye rested most upon a sickening spectacle at the gates
of Secundus, where two wretched slaves hung upon the cross,
whose faint moans showed that life was not yet extinct.
It was early dawn, and the sun had not yet risen, but in the
neighboring villa the sound of voices showed that the slaves
were out for the day's labor. The villa of Labeo, on the
contrary, was all silent, and no one was visible except one
figure on the portico.
This was the mistress of the house, a lady of exquisite
beauty, who was yet in the bloom of her youth. Her manner
indicated extreme agitation and impatience. She would pace the
terrace in a restless way for a time, and then, hastening down
the steps to the terrace, she would look eagerly along the
public road as though awaiting some one.
At length her suspense ended. The sound of horse's feet came
from afar, and soon a single rider came galloping rapidly along.
He turned in to the gate-way, ran up the avenue, and in a few
minutes more had reached the house. The lady had hurried down as
soon as she saw him, and stood waiting for him, and encountered
him in the avenue. The rider leaped from his horse and
carelessly let him go. The lady seized both his hands in a
strong, nervous grasp; and, in a voice which expressed the
deepest agitation, she asked, hurriedly, --
"Well, what news?"
She spoke in Greek. For a moment the other did not reply, but
looked at her with a troubled face, which he vainly tried to
render calm.
There was a strong likeness between the two as they stood
thus, looking at one another, -- the likeness of brother and
sister. In both there were the same refined and intellectual
features of the purest Greek type, the same spiritual eye and
serene forehead. But in the woman it was softened by her
feminine nature; in the man it had been expanded into the
strongest assertion of intellectual force.
"My sweet sister," he said, at last, speaking also in Greek,
with a purity of accent that could only have been acquired by a
breeding under the shadow of the Athenian Acropolis, -- "My
sweet sister, there is no reason for such agitation. I have
heard nothing directly; but I firmly believe Labeo to be safe."
"You have heard nothing," she repeated, breathlessly. "What
am I to do?"
"Yes, dearest; I have heard good news and bad news, but
nothing from Labeo. But you are so nervous that I am afraid to
say anything. Come," -- and, taking her had affectionately, he
walked with her toward the portico.
"Helena, do you think you can bear what I have to tell?" he
asked, as they stood there together.
She looked up at his anxious face, and pressed her hand to
her heart with a quick gesture. Then she replied, in a voice of
forced calmness, --
"Cineas, suspense is worse than anything. Tell me exactly
what you have heard. Don't conceal anything. I want to know the
very worst, whatever it is."
After a brief pause, Cineas said, --
"Helena, you are right. Suspense is the worst. I have nothing
to tell you which you may not know. I know, too, your strength
of character, and I solemnly declare that I will not conceal
anything from you. At the same time I want you to see things as
they really are, and not sink at once into despair. Recall for a
moment the last letter which you received from Lucius. How long
ago was it?"
"I have not heard from Lucius for more than two months," said
Helena, "ever since they moved away from London to Camulodune to
prepare for that fatal march to Mona. Lucius spoke very
joyously, told about the Druids and their cruel rites, praised
the ability of Suetonius, and filled his letter with praises of
his genial friend Agricola, who was his tent companion."
"You know that Suetonius is one of the best generals in the
army, -- perhaps the very best after Corbulo."
"Yes," sighed Helena.
"You know, too, that his lieutenants are all men of vigor and
bravery; and his selection of such men as Agricola and Lucius
for his aids shows his shrewdness and perception."
"True, Cineas."
"Well, think on this now," said Cineas, in a voice which he
meant to be cheerful. "The only danger which you can fear is
disaster to that army. No tidings have come from it for some
time. But such a general as Suetonius can scarcely be in danger
of disaster. The reason why we have not heard is because the
Britons have been rising in insurrection in his rear, and
breaking off his communications."
Helena said nothing, but looked at her brother with unchanged
sadness.
"We ought, then, to believe that Suetonius will shortly
emerge from the gloom, and shatter the barbarian power to
pieces."
"Yes; but you have not yet told me the last news from
Britain, and how do I know what to believe or think?" said
Helena, anxiously.
"Because I wished you to bear this in mind, -- that, whatever
has happened, the army is safe and so is Labeo. Suetonius will
appear with his legions and take revenge."
"O Cineas, keep me no longer in suspense!" said Helena, in a
tremulous voice. "Tell all -- all. This suspense will kill me.
Let me know the very worst."
"My dearest sister," said Cineas, in a voice which he vainly
endeavored to render calm, "the whole of Britain is in arms
against the Romans."
Helena turned pale as death, and staggered back a few paces;
but Cineas caught her hands and held them in his.
"Can you bear to hear more?" he asked anxiously.
"All," replied the other, in a whisper.
"The whole island is at their mercy. Their leader is
Boadicea."
"Boadicea!"
"The same."
"The one who has suffered such wrongs! Just Heaven!"
"The very same. She has roused all the tribes to madness, and
they follow her wherever she leads."
"Oh!" cried Helena, "what vengeance will be sufficient for
such wrongs as hers!" She clasped her hands in agony. "No
resistance -- no -- none -- can it be possible, and Suetonius is
in Mona! And all the province is exposed to her fury!"
Cineas said nothing, and his silence gave assent.
"Tell all," said Helena, coming up more closely to him. "All
-- what of teh colonies?"
"Camulodune has been taken!"
"What of the inhabitants?"
"Every soul has perished."
Helena gave a groan, and clung to Cineas for support. He
caught her, and prevented her from falling.
"Boadicea knows no mercy, and shows none," he went on to say:
"with her two daughters she fires the hearts of her followers to
every outrage. You can imagine all. But I will tell all the
particulars that I have learned. Yet remember that, whatever I
may tell you, Labeo is safe.
"It appears that the chief vengeance of the Britons was
directed against Camulodune. The conduct of the veterans there
toward the natives had produced this result. I need not remind
you what that conduct was. The worst excesses of Roman soldiers
elsewhere were surpassed here. The place had but a handful of
soldiers when the natives rose in rebellion. Alarm and panic
spread through the city when they heard the news. The story that
has come here relates a great number of supernatural incidents,
which I will tell you so as to give it to you exactly as I have
heard it. They were these: -- The statue of Victory fell down
without cause. Women rushed frantically about, and announced
impending ruin. In the council-chamber voices were heard with
the British accent; the theatre was filled with savage howlings;
the image of a colony in ruins was seen in the water near the
mouth of the Thames; the sea was purple with blood; and at the
ebb of the tide human figures were traced in the sand.
"All these portents were described to one another among the
people of both races, with many other exaggerations. The
colonists were filled with despair, and the Britons with
triumph. The people of Camulodune sent off to Catus Decianus,
the procurator, for a reinforcement. He sent about two hundred
poorly-armed men. The veterans in Camulodune managed badly. The
people became panic-stricken; and in the midst of this the
Britons took the town, put all to the sword, and finally
captured the temple where a resistance had been made. A few
fugitives escaped, and carried the awful tidings to London."
Helena had remained perfectly silent during this narrative,
listening with feverish and breathless interest.
"I cannot understand," she said, at last, "how our soldiers
were so badly managed. It gives small hope to me," she added, in
a faint voice.
"Petilius Cerealis marched with the ninth legion to the
relief of the place," continued Cineas; "but he was routed. The
infantry were cut to pieces, and the general escaped with the
cavalry only."
Helena looked at her brother with deep and sorrowful meaning.
"O Cineas!"
This was the worst news of all. It seemed like a death blow
to her hopes; for it was not a scattered detachment that had
been lost, but an entire legion.
"It was rashness -- it was madness," said Cineas,
understanding his sister's thought, "to meet myriads of savages
with one legion. Suetonius is a general of a different stamp. He
will take vengeance for all; and thoroughly too."
"No, no, he will be shut up in Mona!" said Helena, obstinate
in her sorrow. She shuddered as she thought of what might be in
store for her husband.
"If that were so," said Cineas, quietly, "there are fifty
generals that would gladly undertake to relieve him. But think
for a moment what kind of man Suetonius is. Why, if he were shut
up in Ultima Thule, he would force a way for himself back, and
bring his army with him. No Roman general need fear disaster.
All those who have met with misfortunes have incurred them by
their own folly. But I will go on and tell the rest. The
Britons, after defeating Cerealis, rolled on like a torrent,
engulfing everything. They are advancing now toward Verulam and
London. Decianus has fled from Britain and is now in Gaul."
"Fled! the procurator fled!" cried Helena, in amazement.
"Yes; most of the troops, you know, are with Suetonius."
"Why cannot he collect those who are scattered in the
garrisons? Oh, the coward! the utter coward! After stirring up
the wretched barbarians to madness, he dreads their vengeance.
First a ruffian, then a coward." And Helena paced up and down in
her restless and excited mood, chafing and fretting, and finding
some relief in her indignation at Cerealis.
After a time, she came back to Cineas and said, --
"Cineas, if the procurator has fled, there is no hope for
Suetonius."
"Hope -- why, there is certainty," said Cineas, in as
confident a tone as he could assume. "Think for a moment: a
large number of military posts yet remain. These the Britons
have not touched. Their garrisons can be collected into a large
army. The Britons cannot carry on a siege. They are too
impatient. If they do not take a place at the first onset, they
pass on to a weaker one. All that is left for Suetonius is to
march back, to rally to his standard the scattered garrisons,
and then march against the rebels. And tell me, what chance will
they have if once a Roman army comes against them under such a
general? I tell you," -- and his voice grew more confident as he
went on, -- "I tell you, there is only one result possible, --
ruin to the rebels. Ruin -- utter, complete, total!"
There was now a long silence. Brother and sister stood near
to each other. Helena was occupied with her own thoughts. Cineas
refrained from disturbing them. He had said all that he could.
The sun had risen and was illuminating the magnificent
prospect. There lay Campania, -- a vast plain, green with
verdure, rich with groves and orchards, dotted with innumerable
houses, increasing in their multitude till they were
consolidated into the city itself. There wound the Tiber through
the plain, passing on till it was lost in the distance. There
appeared
"The Latian coast where sprung the epic war,
'Arms and the man,' whose reascending star
Rose o'er an empire; and upon the right
Tully reposed from Rome; and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight,
The Sabine farm was tilled, -- the weary bard's delight."
After a while, Helena, in her restless and troubled spirits,
began to pace the portico as before. Cineas joined her and
walked by her side. Both walked for a time in silence.
As they passed the door, a figure darted back as though to
elude observation. He then went into the atrium; and, as Cineas
and Helena passed up and down, he managed to station himself so
as to hear the greater part of what they were saying. His
complexion was swarthy, his eyes black, piercing, and sinister;
his expression malevolent and cunning. He was very large in
stature, with powerful limbs, and his dress indicated the rank
of household steward. This was the man who was acting the spy
upon these two.
After a long pause, Cineas said, "Well, I supposed I need not
ask you what you are thinking of."
"I am thinking of Lucius," said Helena, with a heavy sigh.
And then she half said and half sang to herself some mournful
lines from a Greek chorus, --
"Whom ceaselessly awaiting,
Bedewed with tears I go;
My sad heart ever bearing
Its crushing weight of woe."
"Think, Helena," said Cineas, "of what follows in the same
song; let this at least be your comfort, if you will not believe
my assurances; you know the words as well as I," --
"Fear not, my child, be not afraid;
Great Zeus on high remains;
All things he sees with eye divine,
And over all he reigns."
"Zeus!" said Helena, mournfully; "ah! there is the
difficulty. My Zeus is the Zeus of philosophy, the Supreme One,
the inconceivable, the unapproachable. All my life I have been
taught to adore Him, to worship Him with awful reverence. But do
you not see what an immeasurable distance arises to my sight,
between me and Him? O Cineas, there is something after all in
the vulgar superstitions which makes me envy those who believe
in them. See how the poor and illiterate man takes his God to
himself, and prays to him, and is comforted while he prays. The
common sailor, in a storm, makes his vow to his patron deity,
and feels comfort; he thinks that he will finally escape, and
hang up his votive tablet. But here am I in a worse storm, with
no one to whom I can look, or make a vow."
"Now," said Cineas, "you forget yourself. What! would you
give up your own lofty conception of the one true God, for all
the silly fables of the vulgar religion? Let them keep their
impure deities, their Apollo, their Neptune, their Mars, and
their Hercules. We have been taught better, and can adore the
great God of the Universe."
"Ah, but in sorrow, in sorrow, Cineas. How can we get to him?
Can we believe that he will really notice us? The poor wife of
some private soldier can perform her sacrifice, and pray to her
god, who she thinks will help her. But how can I venture to tell
my petty troubles to the Eternal One, or expect that he will
hear me? No! No! Do you not remember these words, --
"'Seest thou not, my friend,
How feeble and how slow
And like a dream they go,
This poor blind manhood drifted from its end,
And how no mortal wranglings can confuse
The harmony of Zeus?'"
"My Helena," said Cineas, gently, "you present troubles make
you forget all the lessons of your youth. Why do you choose the
most despairing utterances of the poets? Have you forgotten all
our childhood and youth, and the sublime teachings of our
glorious Theophilus? Do you not remember the divine teachings of
our revered master, about the nature of God, of the immortality
of the soul, of holiness, and of prayer? Dearest sister, never
have I ceased to be grateful for my youth, when I had such a
teacher to fill me with such thoughts, and you, too, for my
associate and companion. When Labeo took you away, I felt that I
had given up the half of my nature; since then, I have tried to
keep up that ardent youthful enthusiasm, that confidence in the
Supreme, which we used to feel together. How is it with you?
Have you lost it?"
"Ah, Cineas, I have had a very different life from that of
the enthusiastic girl whom you used to make the companion of
your own aspirations and day-dreams. I have had a very different
life from that which I used to lead in Athens."
"Do you call it dreaming, Helena?" asked Cineas, with mild
reproach in his voice, -- "all those aspirations after the good
and the beautiful, that long search after the divine?"
"Forgive me, dearest brother," said Helena, laying her hand
gently on his arm, and looking up with glistening eyes; "I did
not mean that at all; I meant that, in my married life, I have
had no time for philosophy. As a Roman matron, I have had to
take my part in maintaining the honors of the house of Sulpicius
Labeo. I have had to travel much. I have lived in Gaul, and
especially Britain, for years. I have a son, whom I must train.
Does this leave me much time, dearest Cineas, for philosophical
abstraction? But yet I have never forgotten those early
teachings. I honor and love the doctrines of the noble
Theophilus. Who could forget "The Master"? I never can, and I
cherish deep within my memory the noble sentiments which he used
to teach us. I love Plato and Pindar and Aeschylus, and
Sophocles better than ever, and prize more than before those
noble passages to which he used to direct our chief attention. I
know large portions of them by heart now, as well as I used to
in Athens. And yet dearest brother, in this life of mine and
among all my occupations, all these give me no comfort. I know
not how to approach the Supreme, and the great object of my life
is how to find out the way. Can you tell me? Perhaps you can rid
me of my greatest trouble. If you can, then tell me. You have
advanced while I have stood still; you have preserved all your
youthful enthusiasm for the Divine and the Holy. What way is
there? Let me know it."
"You overrate my powers, dearest Helena," said Cineas, with
deep thoughtfulness. "In a matter like this it is difficult to
find anything like certainty. But I will tell you all that I
can.
"You believe, don't you, that God is wise and benevolent? He
created all things. Is it not natural that he should at least be
willing to attend to the interests and well-being of his
creatures?"
"Perhaps so," said Helena, musingly; "that is, in a general
way. And yet this gives no comfort to the private individual."
"If he is just and benevolent, don't you think that he would
be willing to advance the interests and well-being of even one
individual?"
"Well, perhaps it may be so."
"He is present everywhere, and knows all things. Remember
what Socrates says in Xenophon: 'The Divine One is so great and
of such a nature that he sees and hears all things at the same
time, and is everywhere present and takes care of all things at
the same time.'"
"Yes; that is true."
"Then he sees and hears us at this moment. At this very
moment, dearest sister, he is taking care of you in Italy and
Labeo in Britain."
"There is some comfort in that thought," said Helena, after a
pause.
"He is our Maker, the Author of our being, and 'we are his
offspring,' that is, his children. Why, then, should not this
Being be willing to hear us both, or either of us, at this time?
Can you find anything better than this in the vulgar
superstitions? Can we not rely on such a One as this, and say in
our hearts to him, 'Thou didst make me. In all my sorrow I turn
to thee, and ask thee for help.' Is not this better than a vow
to Neptune or Mercury?"
"But the ignorant and superstitious feel comfort even in
making the vow," objected Helena.
"To that I will only say, in the words of Plato, 'The Deity
is not to be corrupted by bribes. He has regard only to our
souls, and not at all to our sacrifices and processions.'"
"Do you believe, then, that we may ask him for everything?"
"Not at all. He is all-wise, and may not see fit to grant it.
He has his own purposes. Submission to his will is the first and
highest duty of every one who prays to him. Do you not remember
what Socrates says in the same dialogue from which I have just
quoted: 'If the God to whom you are going to pray should
suddenly appear to you, and should ask you before you had begun
your prayers, if you would be satisfied that he should grant you
some one of the things we just spoke of; or that he should
permit you to make your own request; which would you think most
safe and advantageous for you -- whether to receive what he
should give you, or to obtain what you should ask from him?'"
"There is but one answer to that question. The All-wise
knoweth best. --
"'Oh never, never, let me raise
This feeble will of mine,
To oppose the might of Him who rules
All things with power divine!'"
"Therefore," said Cineas, "if you accept that solemn prayer
from Aeschylus you will take still more readily that which
Socrates quotes. It is the truest and the best for us. You
remember it: 'Great God! Give us the good things that are
necessary for us, whether we ask them or not; and keep evil
things from us even when we ask them from thee!'"
"But, Cineas, are there no difficulties? Can all come to God?
Is there no preparation? Will he hear all men indiscriminately?"
"I suppose," said Cineas, thoughtfully, "that there must be
preparation."
"Without doubt; but of what kind?"
"Deep meditation within the soul, and profound abstraction
for the time from all external things, together with the deepest
reverence and the most humble submission."
"Yes," answered Helena; "and you know what Socrates says
here, since you refer to him so much, for he says that the
purification of the soul is this, -- to accustom itself to
retire and shut itself up, renouncing all commerce with the body
as much as possible, and to live by itself without being chained
to the body. Now, for Socrates and Plato, and the grave
Theophilus, this was practicable. If I were like you, dearest
Cineas, it might be possible. If I were a great philosopher,
like Seneca, this would be the way for me to care for my soul,
so as to keep it pure before God. But I am a weak woman, in the
midst of maternal cares. To separate myself from these cares,
and live a life of meditative philosophy, would be wrong --
wrong to my child -- wrong to my husband. Don't you see the
painful dilemma in which I am placed?"
"I see it," answered Cineas; "but you can do this partially,
at least, so as to prevent them from engrossing all your
thoughts. 'The soul first of all, then all other things.' So
said 'The Master.'"
"Ah! you don't understand my life. All this is possible for
you, but not for me. Philosophical abstraction for me -- a Roman
matron -- impossible."
"Not quite that," said Cineas. "A virtuous life, like yours,
passed in the performance of the best and highest duties to all
around, is of itself a life-long purification of the soul."
"I try to do my best," said Helena, meekly. "And yet I find
that in my intense love for my child and husband I lose all
thoughts of the Deity. He remains to me a majestic vision, a
sublime sentiment. How can I draw near? Oh that I could find a
way to him! I think life would be doubly sweet if I could find a
way of communion between him and my poor self. I adore the
Deity, but fear him. I know not how to address him, or even by
what name."
She paused for a moment, and then continued, in a sweet, low
chant, murmuring words from those majestic choruses which were
so dear to her:
"O Zeus! -- whoever he may be --
If to be thus invoked be pleasing to him,
By this I call on him.
For weighing all things well,
When I in truth would cast away
The unavailing burden from my soul,
I can conjecture none to help save Zeus."
"Go on," said Cineas, "and see what the same one says," --
and he himself took up the strain:
"'The One who leadeth mortals
On wisdom's way;
Who bringeth knowledge out of suffering.'
"Ah! my Helena, I have often thought that thus the Deity
guides us 'on wisdom's way,' bringing for us 'knowledge out of
suffering." I firmly believe that our desire to know him is
pleasant to him; and among all the things that purify the soul,
the very best is the aspiration after God. If we desire him,
this of itself proves that we are prepared to address him.
Friends associate with one another when they have sympathies in
common. The desire to approach to God shows that in some
respects we are like him. Now like cleaves to like, and where
there is an aspiration after God, there is an approach to him."
"Yes; but will God come to us? What matters it how much we
may aspire? We can never reach him. Still he remains
inaccessible."
"The approach is something, nevertheless."
"But in my condition it does not avail. Alas! Cineas, I fear
the longings of my soul cannot be gratified. If I but knew him,
I might go to him; but how can I go to him; how can I address
him?"
"My early life," she continued, after a pause, "and your
companionship, and the instructions of 'the Master' excited
irrepressible desires within my mind, -- ideas and thoughts that
can never be subdued. You pass beyond me, brother dearest," she
added, in mournful tones; "beyond me. You are going onward and
upward in your soul's flight, while I linger near the
starting-place. you already catch glimpses of the Deity, while I
seek after him in vain. I know not how to address him, and if I
did, my first words would be 'Great God! teach me how to pray to
thee!'"
And now, as she spoke these words, a wonderful thing
occurred. In their walk along the portico, they often went to
and fro, and at this moment they reached the western extremity,
near which was a small room which opened toward the front. From
this room there came the sound of a sweet, childish voice, but
in a strangely slow and solemn tone.
"Hush!" said Helena, laying her hand on her brother's arm.
And then slowly and solemnly, in that sweet, childish voice,
as if in direct answer to the yearning cry of the mother, there
came these words:
"Our Father who art in Heaven! Hallowed be thy name. Thy
kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give
us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we
forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into
temptation, but deliver us from evil: for thine is the kingdom,
the power and the glory, forever and ever! Amen!"
Tears burst from Helena's eyes.
"What words are these! she stood listening, looking upward at
the same time, as though from a half-formed thought that she
might thus see that "Father."
III. ISSAC
When the prayer ceased, they waited in silence for more. But
no more words of prayer were heard. The voice of the child
laughing merrily soon arose, and Cineas looked up with a sigh.
"Ah, Helena," said he, "I have heard something which is
better than all my arguments. Where did Marcus learn that?"
"I don't know, unless it was from the nurse."
"The nurse!"
Cineas folded his arms, and stood fixed in thought. Helena
silently left him and went in. After a while he looked for her
and saw that she had gone.
"Yes," he murmured, "the mother must have gone to solace
herself with that sweet boy. But the nurse, -- where did she
learn that?"
He walked up and down for a little while, and then sauntered
into the house, and reclined on a couch in the Peristylium.
After a while Helena came in, followed by the boy Marcus and the
nurse. The boy was an ethereal creature, with features
strikingly like those of his mother. He had her spiritual eyes
and sweet, expressive mouth. He was not more than seven years
old, and rather tall for his age. He came bounding up to his
uncle with the air of one sure of a welcome; and Cineas took him
in his arms, and pressed him to his heart, and looked lovingly
at his beautiful face, and said a thousand caressing words.
After a short time he went running out, and singing up and down
the portico.
The nurse remained. Cineas had noticed her before, but now he
regarded her with very unusual interest. "Where," he thought,
"did that prayer originate? Had those marvellous words been
taught by her? Where did she learn them? Did she know their deep
significance?" He inwardly determined to find out from her.
She was evidently Greek; perhaps from some of the islands.
Her countenance was refined and delicate; and her hair as white
as snow. Her features in youth must have been unusually
beautiful, for now, even in age, they had a marvellous
sweetness. Cineas was most impressed by her expression. It was
that of one who had suffered profoundly from some deep sorrow;
and yet, though he had never seen a face which bore greater
traces of grief, he could not think that she was sad. It was
rather the impression of a sadness that was past; overcome by an
unalterable and almost divine patience. It was the face of
Niobe, resigned to her lot, and acquiescing in the will of
Heaven. "Could not this," he thought, "be a purified soul?" The
subject of the late conversation occurred to him; and he thought
that here was a soul which had separated itself from material
things; here was one that might hold communion with the Supreme;
one that might offer up that sublime prayer which he had heard
from Marcus. He wondered what had caused that awful sadness, now
so completely conquered; and what secret power enabled her so to
turn bitterness into sweet peace. Those eyes -- calm as the
eternal gaze of the Egyptian Sphinx -- showed no trace of
present passion or impatience. He thought that it could not have
been philosophy which thus had strengthened her, for he never
knew a woman -- or had heard of one -- who had risen to that
height of philosophic serenity to which a few gifted men had
arrived.
But his interest in this woman did not allow him to neglect
pressing duties which were before him. In spite of his
assurances to Helena, he felt that the situation in Britain was
a most critical one. That army might never emerge from the gloom
that surrounded it. Labeo might never return.
About a year before this time, when it was determined to
crush the Druid religion, Labeo had sent his wife and child away
from Britain to Rome. When he did this, he felt that a crisis
was at hand. He understood the fierce, proud nature of the
Britons, and knew that they would make a desperate resistance.
He acted as though there was danger before him. He made a will,
and appointed Cineas the guardian of the boy in the event of his
own death. He gave the documents to Helena, with instructions to
hand them over to Cineas. This she did knowing what they were.
When the absence of Suetonius had been somewhat protracted,
Helena had told Cineas of her anxiety, and he had at once left
Athens for Rome. Other circumstances influenced him in going,
but this was the immediate cause. The brother and sister had
kept up a correspondence ever since the marriage of the latter;
but they had never met during the whole time.
The joy which Helena felt at meeting with her beloved brother
for a time lessened her sadness; and his encouraging words
taught her to hope for the best. As for Cineas, he at once
determined to know how the affairs of the estate were managed,
and do what he could to promote its welfare. He had not been
there more than two weeks when the sad news came mentioned in
the previous chapter.
One man had excited his deepest distrust at the very outset.
This was the steward Hegio. A Syrian by birth, his origin was
base, and he had been a slave when he first came to Rome. By
some means he had elevated himself, and had been recommended to
Labeo, who had given him the whole charge of the estate. Cineas
had no sooner seen him than he knew that he was a villain. His
cunning, leering face and furtive eye excited the abhorrence of
the young Athenian. Moreover, the steward was not particularly
respectful. There was a half-concealed impertinence in his
manner toward Cineas, which the latter determined to chastise.
At any rate, he felt that this was not the man to control such
important interests.
He had come to the determination to have an interview with
this steward, and expel him from his office without ceremony. On
the morning of this day, he sent a summons to him to come to
him; but, to his surprise, found that he had gone to Rome.
Unwilling to disturb Helena, he went to see the librarian, a man
of whom he had formed a high opinion, although he was only a
slave.
This man was a Jew, named Isaac, whom Labeo had picked up in
Syria, under somewhat remarkable circumstances. He had been
concerned in a violent outbreak of his countrymen, and had been
condemned to death. Labeo, however, for some reason or other,
had pitied the poor wretch, and had obtained his pardon, and
saved him from the agonies of crucifixion. Thereupon the Jew
attached himself to his master and the family with the deepest
affection and fidelity. For six years he had followed them in
various places; and every year had only added to the high regard
which they had formed for him. When the family came to Rome,
Isaac accompanied them, and from the first had suspected Hegio.
He kept all his feelings to himself, however; and it was not
till the arrival of Cineas that he opened his mouth on the
subject.
He was a tall man, of majestic presence, with strongly marked
Jewish features. His beard was long, his eyes intensely lustrous
and piercing, and his forehead was marked with deep lines. His
education had been of the most varied character, and his great
natural abilities had enabled him to make the most of his
advantages. He was familiar with Greek literature and Latin
also; he was an elegant scribe, and an accurate accountant. Such
was the man upon whom Cineas now placed his chief reliance.
As he entered, the stern features of the Jew relaxed into a
smile of welcome. He was at his post in the library. It was an
elegant room, surrounded with compartments which were divided
into pigeon-holes, in each of which the scrolls were placed.
Over these compartments were marble busts of authors, and on a
large table in the centre there was the usual apparatus for
writing, binding, polishing, and ornamenting the volumes.
Cineas glanced at his work, and saw that he was engaged in
transcribing Homer.
"Isaac," said he, in a friendly tone, "what a wonderful book
this is! For I know not how many ages it has inspired the mind
and animated the life of the Greeks. All of us are familiar with
it. Philosophers and peasants, soldiers and magistrates, all
quote it. But with us it is the universal book. We think Homer
and live Homer. Do you know of any other nation that has a book
which fills such a place as this?"
Saying this, he reclined upon a couch at one end of the
apartment, and looked at the Jew.
"We Jews," said Isaac, modestly, "have a Universal Book. But
it is a collection of all our writers. It is, in fact, our
literature. We refer to it always. It inspires our hearts and
guides our lives. We live it and quote it much more than you do
Homer."
Cineas was surprised at hearing this, but a moment's thought
made him see that it was not so strange a thing that a nation
should have a literature which they prized highly.
"What books are these?" he asked.
"Our sacred writings," replied Isaac.
"Are they poetic?"
"They consist both of poetry and prose."
"Are there any epic poems among them?" said Cineas, somewhat
amused at the idea of a barbarian epic, and imagining what a
grotesque violation of all the regular rules such a production
would be.
"No," said Isaac. "We have no epic poem. Yet our earliest
history is not unlike a grand epic in its subject. Its theme is
the highest and most important conceivable. It tells how the
universe was framed by the Almighty; and how man was born. It
traces the events of the earliest ages, and shows how all
mankind have come from one source. It narrates the wonderful
origin of our nation, and its marvelous history. Perhaps some
day you may wish to read that story. I can assure you that, even
to a mind like yours, there is much that can afford instruction,
and excite admiration. And do not think it a mere outburst of
national prejudice, if I say that the man who penned this
history possessed a greater genius than Homer, and his book is
more to us than the Iliad to the Greeks."
"He may have been a great genius," said Cineas,
good-naturedly; "but he didn't write an epic poem, and so he
cannot very properly be put in comparison with Homer. I should
like very much indeed, however, to see the book of which you
speak. I have heard something about it. Was is not translated
into Greek at Alexandria?"
"It was. But I need not say that to us, who know the
original, the translation does not possess the same beauties."
"Of course not; especially in poetry. That cannot be
translated. Look at Cicero translating Aeschylus. Was there ever
a more mournful spectacle? Even Catullus failed with a few
verses of Sappho."
"And perverted it," added Isaac. "No; poetry cannot be
translated. The delicate aroma is lost when you attempt to
transmute it."
"You have spoken of prose," said Cineas, returning to the
subject. "What kind of poetry have you? Is there any dramatic?
If so, what do you do about the Unities? You cannot have
discovered those rules."
"We have at least one dramatic poem," said Isaac. "It is not
for the public stage, however, but for the secret meditation of
the earnest mind. Its theme is of the most profound that can be
entertained by the mind. In this respect it resembles the
'Prometheus,' and the 'Oedipus' more than any others of the
Greek plays. It treats of the great mystery of the government of
God. Such, you know, is the theme of 'Prometheus.' You know,
also, how Aeschylus himself has failed in his immense
undertaking. The sublimest poem of the Greeks makes the Supreme
Being a tyrant and a usurper, himself under the power of the
inexorable fates; nor can the mystery and gloom of the
'Prometheus Bound' be dispelled by the 'Prometheus Delivered.' A
benevolent being suffers excruciating torments, on account of
his very virtue, at the hands of the Supreme. What is there more
terrible than this? Aeschylus went beyond his strength. He could
not vindicate the justice of the Ruler of the skies, after so
strongly portraying his cruel tyranny. Nor is it better in the
'Oedipus.' A perfectly innocent man is drawn helplessly into the
commission of atrocious crimes, and finally dies in mysterious
agony. In this, too, the great problem is started, but is not
answered. Such works fill the mind with despair, and the dark
mystery of life grows darker.
"But in our poem it is different. The problem is presented in
the same way. A perfectly just and upright man is suddenly
involved in enormous calamity. There is the same spectacle of
unmerited wrong and suffering which appears arbitrary and
unjust; the same things which tempt man to charge his Maker with
cruelty, -- to think the All-ruler a wicked and malevolent
being. But here it is all answered, -- all answered. For the
answer is GOD! All is left to him. He speaks and vindicates
himself and all his acts. And this is the only answer, and must
ever be the only one," continued Isaac, in tones more mournful
than usual; "the only one to him who asks, 'Why do I suffer?
"'The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away,
Blessed be the name of the Lord!'
'What! shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and
shall we not receive evil?'"
Cineas had listened with the deepest attention. Isaac leaned
his head upon his hand, and was silent for a few moments.
Cineas then hinted that he saw some resemblance, in those
sentiments, to Stoicism.
"Stoicism!" said Isaac, looking up in surprise. "Far from it.
It is the very opposite. For the Stoics treat of man without
reference to God; but we look at God altogether, and lose
ourselves in him. For what are we without him? And if we once
lose sight of him, what remains but despair? But in him all
things explain themselves. He is the Infinite, the All-holy, the
All-wise. In him I put my trust."
In speaking these last words, Isaac's manner had become
changed. A deeper tone attached itself to his voice. He seemed
rather to be thinking aloud than talking to Cineas. In this
partial abstraction he raised his eyes with an expression of
unutterable reverence and devotion, and, looking upward, he
began a sort of rhythmic chant, --
"Lord thou hast been our dwelling-place
From all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world,
Even from everlasting to everlasting
Thou art God."
He ceased; and, folding his hands, looked downward again in
silence.
It would be impossible to express the mingled surprise and
awe with which Cineas listened to these words. All that he had
ever heard of the mysterious knowledge of the Egyptians and
Asiatics came to his mind. Was there much like this in those
sacred poems of which Isaac spoke? Then, indeed, his fond praise
was not undeserved.
"That," said Cineas, "is from one of your poets, I suppose.
Have you many such poems as this?"
"Many," said Isaac with emphasis; "but not dramatic. They are
chiefly lyrical. Just as in your dramatic works the loftiest
sentiments are found in the lyrical parts, so we find our
noblest conceptions of God in these. We are a religious people,
and our poets were prophets of God. With us, as with the Romans
formerly, poet and prophet were identified."
"In what possible way may your lyric poets compare with
ours?" asked Cineas, curiously. "Have you anything like our
metres?"
"We have a rhythmical system of our own invention. In former
times, when these poems were written and sung, our music was by
far the best in the world."
"What are the subjects of them?"
"There is only one subject to them all," said Isaac; "but, as
that subject is infinite, so the themes of our songs are
ever-varying."
"What is that infinite subject?" asked Cineas, only half
understanding him.
"GOD!" said Isaac, slowly and with a certain awful reverence
in his voice. "In our language it is not permitted to utter the
sublime name."
"Your poetry, then, should be deeply reverential," said
Cineas, struck with his manner, and sympathizing with the deep
feeling evinced by Isaac whenever allusion was made to the
Deity.
"I know of no such thoughts anywhere else," said he; "and you
know I am acquainted to a moderate extent with Greek poetry.
But, in all that I have ever seen, there is nothing like this
all-pervading elevation which distinguishes ours. You know well
how I admire the wonderful works of the Greek mind; they are the
perfection of human genius. Yet yours is the literature of the
intellect; ours, that of the soul. It is spiritual -- divine.
Let Pindar give utterance to the sublimest thoughts of Plato,
with his utmost pomp of imagery, and grand lyric storm of
passion, and you will understand what our poems may be."
Cineas repressed, with some difficulty, a smile at what he
deemed the most extravagant national pride. The solemn verses,
which he had heard shortly before, showed that there was some
reason for Isaac's praise; and yet, when he put his native poets
above Pindar himself, it seemed too much. "After all," thought
he, "this Asiatic can never understand the Greek mind. With all
his culture, the barbarian instinct remains."
If he had noticed Isaac more attentively, he would have seen
that he had become much changed during this conversation. Every
moment his eye glowed with a more intense lustre; his hands
clenched themselves firmly; his breathing grew more rapid. His
manner also changed. He spoke more abruptly, and often rather to
himself than to Cineas. He tone was almost authoritative at
times. That grand figure might have served as a model for Moses.
The Recollection of his nation and its glories, and all the
might of the God of Israel, burned within his heart and
transformed him. He a slave? He looked rather like one of those
heroic Hebrews, who, in the days of the Judges, had at different
times led up the people to break their bands asunder, and dash
in pieces the oppressor, like Ehud, or Gideon, or Jephthah.
"I am all curiosity to hear some more of your poetry," said
Cineas. "Can you translate some for me which would give me an
idea of it? If you can repeat any like that which you spoke a
short time since, I should like to hear it."
Isaac did not answer. He slowly rose from his seat, and stood
before Cineas. Now, for the first time, the Athenian noticed the
change that had come over the Jew. His magnificent head, with
its glowing eyes, his flowing beard and clustering hair,
together with the commanding mien which he had assumed, made him
one of the grandest beings that Cineas had ever seen. He thought
that such a head might do for Olympian Jove. He wondered at the
change, and could not understand it.
Isaac thought for a moment, and then began, in a voice which
was at first calm, but afterwards grew more and more
impassioned, --
"I will love thee, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer;
My God, my strength, in who I will trust;
My buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.
I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised:
So shall I be saved from mine enemies.
The sorrows of death compassed me,
And the floods of ungodly men made me afraid.
The sorrows of hell compassed me about;
The snares of death prevented me.
In my distress I called upon the Lord,
And cried unto my God:
He heard my voice out of his temple,
And my cry came before him even unto his ears.
Then the earth shook and trembled,
The foundations also of the hills moved,
And were shaken because he was wroth.
There went up a smoke out of his nostrils,
And fire out of his mouth devoured:
Coals were kindled by it.
He bowed the heavens also and came down:
And darkness was under his feet.
And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly:
Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness his secret place.
His pavilion round about him were dark waters
And thick clouds of the skies.
At the brightness that was before him thick clouds passed;
Hail-stones and coals of fire.
The Lord also thundered in the heavens,
And the Highest gave his voice;
Hail-stones and coals of fire.
Yea, he sent out his arrows, and scattered them;
And he shot out his lightnings and discomfited them.
Then the channels of the waters were seen,
And the foundations of the world were discovered,
At thy rebuke, O Lord,
At the blast of the breath of thy nostrils.
He sent from above, he took me,
He drew me out of many waters.
He delivered me from my strong enemy,
And from them which hated me;
For they were too strong for me.
They prevented me in the day of my calamity.
But the Lord was my stay.
He brought me forth also into a large place;
He delivered me, because he delighted in me."
The rehearsal of these words formed a memorable scene for
Cineas. After the first few lines, Isaac grew more and more
excited, until he arose to a sublime passion of fervid
enthusiasm. His clear, full voice intoned into each line, so
that it came to Cineas like the p