A Winter in Retirement

Or

Scattered Leaves

By

Hannah Blaney Washburn

Frank Allaben Genealogical Company

Forty-Second Street Building, New York

Copyright, 1914, by Frank Allaben Genealogical Company

PREFACE

The scene of this little sketch is laid in one of the most delightful of our sea-coast residences, as it respects local situation; one of the earliest settlements of New England, and the birthplace of many individuals, whose memory, though perhaps unknown to fame, is cherished by their descendants to the third and fourth generation. With the hope that it may be received with favor, and do good, the writer, who is herself a native of Lynn, offers it to the public.

H. B. W.

A WINTER IN RETIREMENT

OR

SCATTERED LEAVES

Chapter I

A home on Ocean’s sounding shore

Would be the home for me,

Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,

’Tis the music of the Sea.

There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who were born upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat and sunshine of a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness and refreshment in the breezes which float over its waters never to be forgotten by the wanderer from his native home, and even the hollow murmuring of its waves, when presaging an approaching storm, and their wild roar when the tempest is abroad in its fury, is remembered with a sort of pleasure as being the lullaby for many a calm and sound night’s sleep. In sickness, when far away from the land of his birth, the exile will remember its pure and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps, fancy himself treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air upon his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the location of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as long as memory remains.

“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister.

“Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, “you forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love that orchard, how many merry plays we have had among those trees, and how many stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beautiful shells we picked up upon the little beach, at the foot of the rocks,”—“But that was in the summer, Mary, when you know it is pleasant out doors, and that was when we were so young, and so easily amused, but now it is so very different, and then Aunt Wilson is so very, very pious—Oh; she will not let us read anything but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.”

This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton possessed to view it with indifference. The illness of their father, the necessity of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, and his wish that his wife should accompany him, were the reasons which had induced him to trust his daughters, during his absence, to the care of his sister, a widow lady of much respectability, who resided near the sea-coast, and, who, since the death of her husband, had devoted her time and talents to the education of her children, two sons and a daughter; and, it was after bidding a sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding themselves shut up in the carriage, which was to convey them to their winter home, that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest of the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society, and always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter after she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dispersed by the gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she had listened to the arrangement which had consigned her to the care of her aunt through that season which she had anticipated with so much delight with a dissatisfaction and gloom, which prevented her from seeing anything pleasant in their winter abode, or seizing upon any circumstances to soften her disappointment. Not so with Mary; with as lively a disposition as her sister, she still possessed the happy talent of extracting pleasure from any situation, and enjoying herself under almost any circumstances, and now endeavored, with earnest kindness, to bring to her remembrance many little events of their early youth, connected with their aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring her tranquility, and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their destined home, Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant recollection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing of the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly air, and the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the bright light, which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling of their aunt. The carriage now turned into the lane which led to the house, and they were greeted at the porch by the kind old Philip, whose hair seemed not a shade whiter, nor his face a whit more wrinkled than when, five years before, two lively little girls, they bade him “good-bye,” at that very door. They had hardly time to return his good humored smile, when they were surrounded by the rest of the family, and the affectionate caresses of their aunt, the joyous welcome of their cousins, and even the broad smile which displayed the white teeth of black Phoebe, made them feel that they had, indeed, as Philip said, “Got home again,” and caused Susan to forget her sad forebodings. The transition from the cold darkness of the evening without to the pleasant warmth and cheerful light of the sitting room was delightful, and, in a short time Susan found herself seated among a circle of lovely and beloved friends, all striving to make her happy, and all happy together, and, when, after an evening of the most charming sociability, she found herself alone with her sister, she acknowledged that she was never more entertained than she was this evening.

A bright and pleasant morning sun after a night of uninterrupted and tranquil repose, rendered sweet by the fatigue of the preceding day, restored all the gay cheerfulness of Susan, and she received the kind greetings of her friends, and their affectionate inquiries, with all her wonted good humor. A livelier party never surrounded a breakfast table, from the mother to the youngest of Mrs. Wilson’s children, the light-hearted Charles, a sprightly, intelligent boy of thirteen. Her eldest, a son, a member of the University, had returned to his home to spend the winter vacation. Herbert Wilson was a noble specimen of the youth of New England, active and enterprising, uniting to a fine constitution, habits of industry and order, and already ranking high among the talented sons of his native State. Elizabeth, the daughter, was the counterpart, in disposition, of her cousin Mary; she was the friend and companion of her mother, and the loving counsellor of her brothers. The clouds of the preceding evening had dispersed; it was one of those delightful days which sometimes occur in November; a walk was proposed to the seashore, and with light and happy hearts, the young party, after crossing the brow of the hill, which separated them from the ocean, beheld its vast expanse stretched before them in boundless majesty. The sands, covered with shells, sparkled in the sunbeams; far off, in the distance, were seen the white sails of ships, some leaving their native shores, and some returning to them, and, in the southwest, rose the dome of the State House and many spires of Boston, from whence, on a clear morning, might be heard the cheerful sound of bells. On the smooth beach that united the shore with the beautiful peninsula of Nahant, were seen sportsmen with their guns, in pursuit of the wild fowl, which were wheeling in hurried circles above their heads, and, here and there, a fishing boat, lying upon the surface of the water, while its owner was engaged in his customary employment of fishing. “How delightful,” said Susan, “I could not have believed it would have been so pleasant here in November. I think I shall be quite contented here, after all.” “But reflect, my cousin,” said Herbert, “this is one of our days of sunshine, what will you say in the days of storm and tempest, when the waves dash against these rugged rocks, and the rain pours in torrents or snow darkens the atmosphere?” “Oh,” said the listening Charles, “you would not be discontented then, for, you know, the days are short, and soon pass away, and the evenings are so pleasant. Oh, cousin Susan! you don’t know anything about those winter evenings.” “Do tell me about them, Charlie, do tell me,” said the lively Susan. “Well, then, Herbert reads”—“Stop, stop, my little man,” said Herbert, “do not let Susan waste all her pleasure in anticipation, but, I hope, dear cousin of mine, to convince you that our happiness is not dependent upon the weather, or upon local situation, and, that, years hence, perhaps, on some bright day, in the most delightful season of the year, or, when surrounded, it may be with everything to make your life happy, you will look back to this winter in retirement as one of the bright spots in your existence.” “I am half inclined to believe you, dear Herbert, but we will walk faster, for I think Mary and Elizabeth have found a prize.” Charles now bounded over the sands, and, upon joining his sister and cousin, found them engaged in examining a shell fish of singular construction. “Why, it is nothing but a horseshoe,” said he. “Uncle Bill says they call them so because they look like one, and, look, Herbert, there is Uncle Bill himself, with a basket of clams. Hurrah! Uncle Bill, what will you do with your clams?” He then ran to join a man who was coming from the edge of the water, where he had been employed in procuring the contents of his basket. He was slightly built, of a florid complexion, and a mild sensible countenance, but a certain wandering and restless expression indicated an unsettled mind. As Herbert greeted him kindly his eyes lighted with animation, and his respectful salute to the young ladies had an air of good breeding, unusual in a person in his apparent condition of life. To the repeated question of Charles as to what he would do with his clams, he said he would carry some to Phoebe, that she might make him a chowder. “That is the very thing, Uncle Bill; hurrah for clam chowder, and I’ll go forward and tell her,” said Charles, and he ran on, followed more slowly by Uncle Bill. “There is something singular in the appearance of that man,” said Mary. “There is something singular in his history,” said Herbert. “Sometime, on one of those stormy days of which I have forewarned Susan, I will tell you the outlines of it.” “Oh, no outlines,” said Susan, “tell me all the particulars, all the little shades of the story. I do not like rough sketches, I have not imagination enough to fill them up.” “I will tell you all I myself know of his life,” said Herbert, “and it is an illustration of the caprice and coquetry of which some of your sex are accused.” “A love story; that will be grand,” said Susan, “only it is a pity that the hero is an old clam merchant.”

A cheerful walk returned them to their home, where each resorted to their usual avocations, Herbert to pursue his studies and instruct Charles, Elizabeth to attend to and learn the necessary duties of a housewife, and during their morning walk she had contrived to inspire Mary with a desire to emulate her in becoming a complete cook and housekeeper, and thus give her kind mother an agreeable surprise on her return. Susan, also, was forming many plans for her winter pursuits, among which, one was commencing the study of Latin, under the instruction of Herbert, and another of working, in worsted, a cover for a family Bible, with the names of her parents wrought upon it, in imitation of the one which laid upon her aunt’s table, and which she thought would please her father and mother. Thus the day passed, and when the family surrounded the tea table, health and cheerfulness glowed in every countenance, and Susan forgot every cause of discontent. After the tea things were removed. “Now,” said Charles, “now for the story, Herbert.” “What,” said Susan, “about Uncle Bill?” “No, no, not now,” said Charles, “a story about Rome, in the time of the early Christians. I am studying the history of Rome in Latin, and Herbert promised he would read a story about it.” “In that case, Charles,” said Mrs. Wilson, “you will be able to detect any deviations from the truth of history.” “But, may I speak, mother, when I think I find anything that is not true?” “There will be times, my dear, when Herbert will pause awhile, and then you can make your remarks.” “There is a peculiar charm,” said Herbert, “in retracing the records of antiquity, for we lose sight, in the distance, of all roughness and inequalities, and our imagination only rests upon the smooth and distant perspective. I remember journeying with my father, many years ago, through the northern part of this State, and when I remarked to him that the hills which we saw around us looked as if they were highly cultivated, their surface appearing so even and delightful, here and there dotted with clumps of trees, he repeated the words of the poet, ‘’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.’ ‘If, my son, you were there, upon those very spots that appear so pleasant, you would be disappointed by their rugged and uneven appearance, perhaps deformed with unsightly stumps, or with patches of rock.’” “So it is with the romance of history,” said Elizabeth, “but, if we are too critical in our remarks, we should lose much pleasure.” “True,” said Herbert, “and therefore, not to spoil the appetite of Charles for our little tale, we will not proceed with our illustrations.” Herbert produced his manuscript, the little circle arranged themselves at their different employments, and silence ensued, while in a clear voice he commenced reading a tale of which the scene was laid in the days of Nero, the tyrant of Rome, and the malignant persecutor of the Christians.

Chapter II
Proud, imperial Rome!

The withering wing of Time has swept o’er all your splendor,

Your stately palaces, where once the tyrant held his midnight revels,

The amphitheatre, which echoed with the groans of martyred Christians,

And the triumphal Arch, where passed, in haughty pride, the victor,

Where, in dark despair, strode on the vanquished monarchs,

All alike have felt the blighting pressure.

It was on a bright and beautiful evening, just as the delightful sun of Italy was declining, that Cleone, a young Roman maiden, walked with her mother along the pleasant banks of the Tiber. They had chosen a retired walk for many reasons, one of which was that retirement better suited their dispositions, and another that Rome was, at that time, filled with a dissolute nobility, whose wills were almost their only law. Cleone and her mother were descendants of ancient and noble families, who had counted amongst their numbers grave and influential senators, warlike and victorious soldiers, and even mingled their blood with the powerful kings and dictators of Rome; but time, with its changing scenes, had reduced them in power and wealth, though oppression and poverty had not taken from them the proud consciousness of former greatness. “My daughter,” said the matron, “look at that glorious sun, though declining, though its splendor will shortly be obscured, yet it will rise again, with renewed and more brilliant light, and shed joy and happiness with its glad beams. So, dearest, shall the sun of our fortunes, though now almost disappearing, again rise, and the virtues of our own Curtius pour light and warmth on all within their influence. Believe this, my own Cleone, and let the thought disperse those clouds of melancholy, believe that your mother is a prophetess, and this time of good.” “Mother,” said Cleone, “I will try to have faith in your augury, but my brother is in a prison, in the power of a tyrant; how can we hope?” “He is under the protecting power of that Being in whom we trust, who has comforted us in affliction, and preserved us in danger, and who will not now forsake us. He, whose power can melt the flinty rock, can soften even the hard heart of a Nero. Do you remember, Cleone, the deathbed of your father, when, laying his hand on the youthful head of our Curtius, after commending us to his love and protection, he blessed him in the name of the only living and true God. ‘Even,’ said he, ‘though called to the death of a martyr, let him never forsake the God of his father.’ The prayer of the dying saint has been heard; midst temptations, in the view of danger and death the undaunted youth has never been shaken in his fidelity to his God, and by his noble courage has forced even the haughty tyrant and his minions to respect.” “Oh, that I could restore him to you, dear mother. Last night I woke from disturbed slumber; the bright beams of the moon rested upon my couch, all was calm and still, the very air breathed peace, but the thought of my darling brother, shut out from all this loveliness, and exposed to the unwholesome damps of a dungeon, weighed heavy upon my mind. I threw myself upon my knees, I prayed God that he would save him from the cruel Emperor. Oh, mother, I did not again lie down until peace and comfort entered my mind, and I felt that if he lived or died, I could say, ‘Thy Holy will be done,’ but mother, I cannot always say so.” Thus communing they had arrived at a lovely spot, surrounded by trees whose luxuriant foliage almost touched the ground. Here they seated themselves upon the bank; the beautiful appearance of the river, as the bright sky was reflected upon the waters, the songs of the birds over their heads, the buzzing of innumerable insects, and the hum of the city, softened by distance, tranquillized their minds. “My Cleone, join your voice to this chorus, and sing our evening hymn.” Obedient to her mother’s wish, she sang, with sweet melody, the simple strain:

The shades of night are closing o’er us,

God of Heaven, watch our sleep!

For the sake of the Lord Jesus

Wilt thou still thy servants keep?

Lord! though dangers may surround us,

We are safe beneath thy care.

Thy blest angels may attend us;

Holy Father, bow thine ear!

As the low, sweet voice of Cleone died upon the air, a slight rustling of the bushes startled them and, turning quickly, they beheld a woman whose fixed and earnest gaze was riveted upon them. Leaning upon a staff, enveloped in a dark gray mantle, the hood of which covered her head, she appeared lost in thought. Her grey locks and the deep furrows of her face betokened extreme age, while her eyes, black, deep-set and piercing, showed that her mind still retained its powers. Her attention seemed fixed upon Cleone, whose countenance expressed terror at her unexpected appearance. “Lady,” said she, and her deep and hollow voice sounded as from the tomb, “do not fear; your voice has awakened feelings which I thought long since dead. Years of sin and misery seemed like a dream as I listened, and a youth of innocence and love was present to my thought. Thanks, maiden, for the momentary trance. Scion of the noble house of Curiatii, a dark cloud hangs heavy over your fortunes; He in whom you trust can disperse it. The gray moss waves on the lofty towers of the Atili, but their stones are yet firm and unbroken; the stately pine is decaying, but the young sapling is yet vigorous, and its shoots will press upward, the lamp of life glimmers but faintly in the breast of the aged, and will soon be extinguished, yet a bright spark remains in the young and noble to rekindle the ancient blaze. Lady, hearken to the prophecy of one who, though sinful and despairing, forgets not the remnant of the illustrious house that reared her childhood.” “You are unhappy, mother,” said the matron in the soothing tone of kindness, “but you must not say despairing. He who has offered up his life for us, who has borne our sins upon the cross, has left us the blessed assurance that all who repent need not despair.” “Aye,” said the Sybil, while a strong shudder shook her frame, “you are a Christian; enough,” and her eyes gleamed with almost terrific wildness; “away,” and, waving her hand, she disappeared among the trees. A moment of deep silence succeeded her departure, which was broken by Cleone. “Is not this frightful, mother? Who can this woman be? and does she mean us good or evil?” “Her words would seem to imply good to us, my daughter, but dark and, I fear, unrepented wickedness burthens her mind, benighted indeed, if without the cheering ray of hope. Who she is I know not; tradition tells of those who have leagued themselves with the powers of darkness, but there was kindness in her words; let us think of her no more, my dearest, but quickly retrace our steps. We have already left our kind uncle too long.” “Ah, we will not linger, dear mother, he is so feeble.” The twilight deepened around them as they bent their way to their home, but the moon was rising in unclouded splendor and its mild beams diffused a brilliancy around the landscape more beautiful than that of day. “How many, my Cleone, have listened to the murmur of these waves and watched the reflection of these moonbeams; how many noble and gifted beings whom we have been taught to love and admire, have, perhaps upon this very spot, gazed upon this same lovely scene. This same quiet and sparkling sky has shone upon the form of many a noble Roman whose heart was devoted to his country. Time moves on in his never-resting course and, centuries hence, my daughter, this river will roll on, as it now does, this sky sparkle with the same brilliancy, and beings, within whose forms the current of life flows as warmly as it now does in ours, will watch the unceasing motion of this stream and admire this pure and lovely firmament as we do.”

The family of the Curiatii, once powerful in Rome, was now represented by the young Quintius Curtius and his sister; civil wars and oppressions had reduced their numbers and torn from them their possessions and these, the last of an illustrious race, were even dependent upon the charity of an almost superannuated old man, the uncle of his mother. Their father, while serving in the Roman bands in Judea, had become a convert to Christianity and, while his children were yet young, had died in the full faith of the Christian’s hope, bequeathing them, as he believed, a rich legacy, in commending them to that Being who has said: “Leave thy fatherless children to me,” and, with a firm confidence that their mother would educate them in the “nurture and admonition of the Lord.” Most faithfully had that tender mother redeemed her pledge to her dying husband, and, with a noble fortitude, she had endured every privation and cheerfully made every sacrifice for the eternal welfare of those beloved children, and with that joy which only the Christian parent can feel, she had seen them, while growing in their loveliness, devoting themselves to the service of the God of their father. Who has not shuddered at the atrocious cruelties of the reign of Nero? The wicked tyrant, whose greatest happiness seemed to consist in causing the misery of his fellow-beings, and where is the heart that has not beat in sympathy with the sufferings of those Christian martyrs, who, with a firm and unshaken constancy, endured the torments inflicted by that monster in human form, even until death, rather than deny the “Lord who bought them.” Educated in retirement, the young Curtius had for some time escaped notice, but as he grew in years and, through the influence of friends, had been introduced into public life, he was no longer shielded by obscurity. In his noble countenance was portrayed his high and commanding talents and vice and wickedness shrank abashed from the quick glance of his eye. Is it, then, to be wondered that he became an object of dislike to the infamous emperor and that the cruel tyrant sought an excuse to gratify his feelings of hatred, for, without an excuse, even Nero dared not attack the virtuous young Roman who was equally the object of love and admiration. That excuse was not long wanting, for the undaunted youth feared not to confess Christ before men, and that alone was crime of the deepest dye in the Pagan court of Nero. Summoned before the emperor, his firm yet respectful deportment and calm and decided answers commanded the admiration of all, even of the tyrant himself, who, with the strange inconsistency of his character, could even admire and applaud where he hated and had determined to destroy. But it would be greater matter of triumphs to Nero to induce the high-souled Curtius to renounce his religion than to take his life and, therefore, summoning to his aid those bland and persuasive manners he could so well assume, he, during many interviews, attempted to sap the foundation of that virtue, which was based upon a principle, enduring as eternity, till, finding every effort ineffectual, his rage knew no bounds, and the young Christian was closely confined, debarred from the sight of his mother and sister, and only respited until the imperial ruffian had contrived new modes of torture to enhance the bitterness of death. But, although cast into the dreariest dungeon, and apparently deprived of every comfort, this son of a sainted father was not only resigned to his fate, but even triumphant in the thoughts of martyrdom, and, though deprived of the sight of those friends so dear to his heart, felt a sweet serenity in the conviction that he was the object of their fervent prayers and fondest solicitude. Who can estimate the unspeakable consolation he derived from the invisible presence of that Saviour who has promised, “I will never leave you comfortless,” who has said, “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

“You will read more, you will not leave off yet, Herbert,” said Charles. “Our time is expended,” said Herbert, “and, in order to enjoy pleasure, we must not prolong it until it becomes wearisome.” “Wearisome!” said Susan, “we should not even think of the idea.” “I could almost wish,” said Elizabeth, “to have been one of the first Christians, even amidst all their dangers. Such firm confidence, such joyful hope, and holy love would seem cheaply gained by all their sufferings.” “I almost believe,” said Mary, “that placed in their situation, I, too, could have risen above fear; that I could almost rejoice to die in such a cause.” “Their situation was indeed peculiar,” said Mrs. Wilson. “The power of God was with them and supported them. He was their refuge and strength, their present help, therefore they did not fear. Left to our own weakness we are as nothing, supported by his mighty arm, we are powerful, invincible.” “My curiosity,” said Susan, “is much excited by the old woman, and I shall like to find out who she is.” “You called her a Sybil, Herbert,” said Charles. “There is a story in my History of Rome of a woman who went to one of the kings to sell some mysterious books, which he refused to purchase. She went away and burned some, then came back and asked the same price for those remaining, and continued to do so till she had burned a good many, and, at last, the king bought those that were left, and they were considered of so much value that officers were appointed to take care of them and they were consulted upon all important matters.” “You are right, Charles,” said Herbert, “there is such a relation, and perhaps we may class this amongst the romance of history. Time and the mists of tradition have rendered it impossible to learn how much truth is connected with these fables, but we know that in the ancient days of Rome, much reliance was placed upon those who pretended to a knowledge of future events, and, perhaps, the general belief in such knowledge induced many of wild imaginations to believe themselves endowed with this prophetic spirit. You may suppose, Susan, if you wish, to break the illusions of fancy that this ancient female was one of those fanatical beings, who had cheated herself into the belief that she was set apart as one of those mystical oracles.” “Oh, no,” said Susan, “do not break any illusions; I am very willing to believe that she was the identical Sybil, who offered those books to the refractory king.” “Your imagination, dear cousin,” said he, “has indeed taken a wide circuit, and we will let the curtain of mystery be spread, for the present, over the story.”

Chapter III

There is a spot, dearer than all beside;

A spot where all the joys of life abide;

Where sweet affections cluster round the heart,

Where peace and love their purest hopes impart;

That spot is Home—

Call you this Death? ’Tis Life, immortal Life.

The duties of the succeeding day were not neglected, though even the short day seemed longer in anticipation of the evening employments. Cowper has given a delightful description of the “ushering in” of a winter evening with all its pleasant accompaniments, and the truth of his lively picture was fully realized as the happy group collected around the sparkling fire. As Herbert continued the tale which had so interested them all listened with attention.

“The tender mother and much loved sister had arrived at the home now rendered solitary by the absence of the son and brother, whose love had sweetened every passing hour. As they approached the mansion of their aged relative, upon whose ancient towers the moon now cast a silvery brightness, and had ascended the eminence upon which it was situated, they stood for a moment to contemplate the scene before them. There lay the proud and magnificent city, its domes and palaces reflecting the soft brightness, and, here, the waves of the Tiber rolled at their feet, its winding course lost in the distance. On their right hand and strongly defined by the light, towered the imperial palace where abode the haughty arbiter of the fate of their Curtius, and, on their left stretched that Amphitheatre, the scene of the most horrid cruelties, drenched with the blood of martyred victims and strewn with their ashes. One thought seemed to possess their minds, one terrible reflection to agitate their bosoms, as they turned, shuddering, from this last prospect and bent their steps toward their dwelling.

“In a spacious but low apartment, bearing marks of ancient magnificence, but lighted by only a solitary lamp, lay reclined upon a couch the kind but feeble old man, so long their protector and sole friend, but now sinking by age and sorrow, for he had seen many endeared to him by the most sacred associations suffering cruel tortures and an ignominious death for Christ’s sake, and amongst them the holy apostle Paul, from whose lips he had first heard the truth proclaimed, “as it is in Jesus.” This stroke had bowed him to the earth, and, although bending in submission to the will of his Maker, his frame had yielded and he was fast hastening to his rest. The untiring watchfulness of faithful love hovered around him, smoothed his pillow and delighted in presenting to his rapt attention the joys of heaven. The walls of that apartment, which had formerly echoed with mirth and revelry, with the heavy tramp of the warrior preparing for battle against the enemies of Rome, or with the commanding voice of the Dictator, issuing mandates to his subjects, now gave back but the heavy breathing of one of the last of their descendants, a feeble old man, but in whose exhausted body dwelt a spark of ethereal fire unknown to them with all their boasted power and splendor. This feeble old man was a Christian. Near him sat a faithful domestic, watching over him in the absence of her mistress with earnest solicitude. As the matron entered the room and bent over him with anxious love, he raised his eyes and a smile of affection passed over his features. ‘Welcome, dearest daughter,’ said he. ‘I am weary of your absence; time passes heavily when I do not see those forms so dear to my heart. Where is Cleone?’ ‘Here, dearest father. You are not worse, I trust. Here is your own Cleone.’ ‘Ah, sweet child, those tones would almost recall me to life, were it indeed deserting this time-worn body; but why do I not see my Curtius? Why is he so long absent? Speak, Octavia; say, Cleone, where is Curtius?’ A look of deep distress shaded their countenances, for with sedulous care they had concealed from him the situation of that darling boy who had been, from his earliest youth, the delight of his heart. ‘Think not, dear father, that, though absent, he forgets you. Oh, no; his messages are full of love and fond remembrance and we will pray that the Lord will restore him to us in his own good time.’ ‘May the blessing of his father’s God rest upon him and you, dear children. Ah,’ said he, partly addressing those around him and partly uttering his own thoughts, ‘I could almost wish that I might live, if it were the will of God, to witness his bright career of glory, dispensing happiness and prosperity over our country and turning the hearts of the people from the worship of their heathen deities to that of the true God. Say, dear daughter, may we not believe that those ties which unite us on earth will continue in heaven, nay, even grow stronger through eternity?’ ‘Father, I cannot doubt it; it is the consoling hope of the Christian.’ ‘Aye, I shall there meet your father, my Cleone; perhaps we shall be permitted to watch over those so beloved upon earth.’ ‘Oh, father!’ said Cleone, ‘would that we might all go together.’ ‘Not so, dearest, you have yet much, I trust, to do in this world.’ He lay silent for some time, apparently in deep meditation; then, raising himself upon his couch and clasping his trembling hands, he said: ‘How long, O Lord, holy and just, shall this fair land be polluted by these abominations? The blood of thy servants has been poured out like water; grant, O Father, that it may call to Thee from the ground, not for vengeance, but for mercy upon the murderers! And the time will come,’ said he, his whole countenance glowing with the animation of youth, ‘the time is not far distant when Rome in her splendor shall bow before the cross of Jesus; when her haughty Emperors shall prostrate themselves before the Christian’s God, and her temples, now blazing with golden honors to Pagan divinities, shall echo with prayers and thanksgivings to the God of the whole earth.’ And he fell back upon his pillow, overpowered by the exulting emotions of his mind, a glow of triumphant joy still rested upon his features and even retained its station there after the heart, which had exulted in this vision of futurity, had ceased to beat and the tongue which had uttered the inspiring prophecy had become mute in death; for, even as the fervent ‘Amen’ lingered upon the lips of those around him, the spirit left its decayed tenement and returned to God who gave it.”

Herbert ceased reading and a solemn stillness prevailed for a few moments, when he repeated the following lines.

Through death’s dark and shadowy valley

He, the Lord, shall be thy guide;

He, thy Saviour, true and holy

Christians shall with thee abide;

Light shall break upon the darkness,

Strength from Him thy steps sustain,

Mighty power support they weakness,

Joy and hope remove all pain.

Hark! what strains of rapturous pleasure

Greet thee from they home above;

Christian, blessings without measure

Wait thee in that world of love.

“There is more time, yet, dear brother,” said Charles, and Herbert continued:

“In a splendid apartment, adorned with all the luxury of luxurious Rome, and showing, by its magnificence, that it was the abode of a patrician of the first order, was seated at a table a Roman citizen, evidently of high rank. Rich wines were before him, and many and deep were his libations while engaged in earnest conversation with a young noble, who was walking the apartment with an anxious hurried step. “Nay, my Flavius,” said the one who was seated, “you are too zealous in this matter. I marvel much at the change in your appearance; but a short time ago you were the life of our society; but now, by Bacchus, how you are altered; even this sparkling Falernian tempts you not, and your wit and brilliancy, which was the zest of our pleasure, is all vanished. Come, my friend, throw aside this gloom, I pray you, and, as for the young Curtius, we will see what can be done, we will see. He deserves punishment for adhering to his gloomy doctrine, though, for your sake, we will see what can be effected. Still, it is a labor of Hercules to attempt to change the purposes of our mighty Emperor when he has the pleasure of torturing one of these obstinate Christians in view.” “Do not talk of delay, noble Galba,” said the young man, “after witnessing the last scene between the Emperor and Curtius, are you not convinced no time is to be lost? Preparations are even now making for some exhibition on the morrow, and, I fear me, this heroic youth is to be the principal actor in a most cruel tragedy. Servius, you have much influence over this cruel Nero, will you not exert it to save this last descendant of an illustrious house? Will not our cheeks crimson with shame when we look upon those palaces, reared by his ancestors, when we pass the memorable spot, where the first Curtius devoted himself to his country? If we suffer this scion from such a glorious stock to perish thus? And, for what? Powers of heaven! Why has he not the same right to worship his God, as we have to bend before the shrine of Jupiter or Bacchus? He is a Roman citizen, and shielded by that name should be guarded by the laws of Rome, for he has committed no crime.” “No crime! Flavius, by the immortal Gods, you are beside yourself. It is well there is no one present to bear this report to Nero. Your life, my friend, were not worth a straw. No crime, did you say, to condemn our Deities? Speak lower, I pray you, our walls are not thick enough to conceal such a monstrous sentiment.” “Nay, Galba, this is trifling,” and a shade of deep vexation passed over the fine features of Flavius. “Will you use your power over the Emperor to save my friend, or have I overrated your friendship for me?” “You have overrated my influence with Nero. ’Tis true, he fears, but he also hates me, and, for the same cause, because he believes me a favorite with the soldiery, but, in this case, he will heed me little, I fear, for he knows he has the popular voice on his side, when he punishes these Christians, and, because he hates them with a hatred as deadly as can be cherished in the human breast.” “And what have they done to incur his hatred? Can it be on account of the conflagration in the city?” “No. For it is more than suspected that our imperial master himself caused those fires to be kindled. No, Flavius, the destruction of the whole city would not have planted in his selfish breast such a deep and malignant spite. I will tell you the whole story, for it was while you were in Britain the circumstance occurred, though I think you must have heard of the beautiful Valeria.” “I have. She was the favorite of the Emperor.” “Favorite is too cold a world, my Flavius. All the love and kindly feelings that ever found a place in the breast of the tyrant were lavished upon her. Her word was his law. Her slightest wish was gratified, and most nobly did she use her power. Was a petition for mercy offered to the Emperor, Valeria was the first to second it; was an heroic achievement to be rewarded, Valeria’s hand hastened to bestow the prize; her gentle influence hushed to repose the stormy and malignant passions rising in the breast of Nero, and Rome vainly exalted in the belief that their young ruler’s heart was filled with heaven’s own attribute, mercy, for it was reported at one time, when a warrant for the execution of a criminal was presented to him, for his signature, he shed tears, and wished he had never learned to write. Aye, this very tyrant, whom we now see surrounded by fawning parasites, and furiously sacrificing all who dare oppose or obstruct his vile inclinations, was then, or pretended to be, such an enemy to flattery, that he severely reprimanded the Senate for amending the wisdom of his measures saying, ‘Keep your approbation till I deserve it.’” “But, Valeria,” said the young noble, “how did she lose her hold upon his affections?” “Some of her relatives or friends, I believe, had become Christians, and persuaded her to hear the preaching of one of that sect, an extraordinary man, who pretended to be inspired by a Superior Being, and who was known by the appellation of the holy Paul. She was taught by him to believe that she was committing great wickedness by living with the Emperor, and secretly quitted the palace, leaving behind her all the costly gifts of the tyrant, and devoting herself to a life of prayer. From that moment the rage of the Emperor against this fanatical sect has known no bounds, and to avow one’s self a Christian is enough to draw down his fiercest indignation.” “And what has become of this female? How is it that she has not fallen a victim to this indignation?” “Her retreat has not been discovered, although every means has been employed, and, it is said, that Nero has frequently offered pardon and wealth to the victims of his hatred, if they would confess where she might be found, but in vain, for a spirit of determined obstinacy seems to be the pervading sentiment of these Galileans. Now, with this feeling of stern revenge which still rankles in his breast, what chance, think you, is there, that he will extend mercy to this young man?” “But,” said he, seeing the distress which overspread the countenance of Flavius, “my endeavors shall not be wanting. I will own to you, Flavius,” he continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, “I hate this inhuman tyrant, the blood of my ancestors boils within me when I reflect upon the degeneracy of Rome, and I have imagined that the statues of our forefathers frown upon us, as the empty pageants which please his low and vulgar mind pass our polluted streets. Are we indeed so base as to submit to the degradation of bending our knee, in servile adulation, before this mockery of royalty? Did he possess one redeeming quality, one noble virtue, we might, under that, shelter our pusillanimity, but, by the shade of Brutus, we have nought to excuse us in our mean endurance of his vile caprices. But a few weeks have passed since our venerable Senators, even in that chamber, rendered sacred by the associations, hallowed in the heart of every true Roman, were obliged to sanction the admittance of his favorite horse to the Consulship. By the memory of those most revered,” said the excited Roman, starting from his seat, “this shall not be borne!”

The countenance of the young Flavius had reflected the indignant emotions of the elder speaker, and the deep flush upon his cheek expressed his sense of the degradation of his country. “Servius Galba,” he said, in the same subdued, but earnest tone, “point but the way to relieve Rome of this disgrace, and I will be the first to follow it.” “Enough,” said Galba, “the path shall be opened; yes, by the guardian deities of our city, the despicable tyrant shall yet lick the dust he has polluted, but, my purpose is in embryo, and I had not thought to say so much, but with you, noble Flavius, the secret is safe, you shall know more in due time; perhaps the moment of our deliverance may be nearer than I thought.” “In the meantime,” said the young noble, “I may rely upon your intercession for my friend?” “You may,” said he, “I will see Nero without delay,” and Flavius left the apartment with an awakened hope for the deliverance of his friend, for he believed Nero would not dare resist the request of Servius Sulpicius Galba, the favorite of the powerful soldiery of Rome, and one of her most popular citizens. Quitting the splendid palace of the patrician, he passed hastily through the streets, until he arrived at the large and gloomy building whose walls enclosed the devoted young Christian, who had become endeared to him by his virtues, and by that strong tie which binds congenial hearts. Armed soldiers were stationed around, but no opposition was offered to the entrance of Lucius Flavius. Descending the stone staircase, and proceeding rapidly through the narrow passages, he arrived before the cell where he encountered a sentinel, who, with respect, opposed his farther progress. An order, he said, had been received from the Emperor, prohibiting all further intercourse with the prisoner. “That order, my friend, cannot refer to me. Come, my good fellow, allow me to enter for a few moments, and here is where withal to pass many a merry hour.” Half believing that the young Roman was exempted from the prohibition, and strongly tempted by the glittering bribe, the soldier, after some hesitation, withdrew the bolts, and permitted him to enter.

“Now, my little brother,” said Herbert, “I must call upon you for a display of self-denial, which you will, perhaps, think too great. Our mother’s business requires my absence for a few days; it is a pleasure to me to read the story with you, and if you will conclude to delay the interest you take in its progress until my return, we can then share it together; shall it be so?” It would be difficult to determine whose countenance was most overclouded, Susan’s or Charles’s. “Oh, certainly we will wait,” said Charles, “but I am so sorry, and, how long shall you be away, Herbert?” “Tomorrow is Saturday,” said Herbert. “I will endeavor to be at home on Wednesday, and you know, Charles, the Sabbath evening intervenes, when I should not read.” “Do not despair, dear Charles,” said his mother. “I think we may pass away the time profitably and pleasantly.” But notwithstanding this prediction, the cloud had not dispersed when they retired for the night.

The morning dawned, but not with its usual splendor. Dark and heavy clouds lowered around the horizon, and many were the signs foretelling a stormy day, but, as Herbert’s first stage was only about eight miles, the gloomy weather did not prevent his journey. Towards afternoon, the storm set in with violence, and every gloomy prognostic, so well known to those who live near the ocean, was verified. As evening drew on, Susan stood at a window, watching the wild motion of the waves, and listening to their uproar. “Are there not frequent shipwrecks upon this coast, dear aunt?” said she. “There has been but one within my recollection,” said Mrs. Wilson; “a vessel, manned principally, I believe, with seaman from Scotland, was driven from its course by a terrible storm, and dashed upon the rocks. The bodies of seven men were found upon the beach in the morning, and only one living being to lament the loss of his companions. Afterwards, five or six more were washed on shore, and they were all interred with respect and due solemnity in the public burying ground, the solitary survivor attending as chief mourner.”

Chapter IV

The sounding tempest roars, the foaming waves

Lash round the rugged coast; amid the howl

Of raging winds is heard the signal gun

Warning of danger and distress.

The thick curtains were drawn around the windows, excluding the sight, if not the sound, of the tempest without, and the cheerful group again encircled their warm and glowing fire, but much lamenting the absence of Herbert. Charles, with much animation, informed his mother that everything was well sheltered from the storm. “Philip has shut up old Brindle, snug and warm,” said he, “and I have helped him fill Robin’s crib.” “That is well, my good boy,” said his mother, “and now, after taking good care of your dependents, you can enjoy the comforts of a pleasant fireside.” Susan now recurred to the circumstance of the shipwreck and Mrs. Wilson read part of a little poem written on the occasion.

“’T’will be a wild and fearful night, mark the dark, rugged clouds;

Now Heaven protect the mariners who hang upon the shrouds,”

So spake the aged fisherman, as with a careful hand

He well secured his little boat from parting from the land.

“Look, boy, if there’s a ship in sight, my mind misgives me sore,

That many a stout, brave heart now beats that soon shall beat no more.”

“Why, Grandsire, always when it storms,” replied the thoughtless lad,

“You think about the sailor-men, and feel so very bad.

There’s not a single ship in sight, and it is true enough

I hope there is none near our coast, the weather is so rough.

I should like to be a sailor if it always would be fair,

But in a frightful storm like this I think I should not dare.”

And now they left the stormy beach and gained their lowly home.

Behind a sheltering hill it stood, secluded and alone.

A warm, bright blaze illumined the little window of the room,

And, at their steps, a smiling face peeped out into the storm.

“Grandsire and Willie both have come,” said a playful little voice,

“Come in out of the wind and rain, now mother will rejoice.

We’ve got a very charming fire, and I have parched some corn

And there is nothing now to do but sit down and be warm.”

Her grandsire kissed her rosy cheek and with a merry air

Her brother dropped his dripping hat upon her glossy hair.

They gathered round the cheerful fire and while the sullen gale

Swept mournful by, sat listening to many a piteous tale

Which the old grandsire told of days long past and gone,

When a stout and hardy sailor he had weathered many a storm;

And down the gentle mother’s cheek stole many a silent tear,

While for her absent sailor boy her heart throbbed quick with fear.

For, far away to foreign lands, her eldest one had sailed.

And oft for fear in such a storm her loving heart had failed.

The stormy wind howled fearfully around their lowly home,

The angry waves dashed on the beach their sheets of glistening foam.

That beach, whose shining sands reflect the sun’s bright sparkling ray,

Is hid from sight amidst the dark, wild, blinding spray.

“Lord, let thy holy will be done,” the pious old man said.

As calm he bent his knees in prayer before he sought his bed,

Though fearful were the stormy blasts and loud the billows’ roar.

As gathering yet new strength they fiercely beat upon the shore,

Yet, midst the wild and fearful din sweet sleep with visions bright

Hovered around their peaceful couch throughout that stormy night.

And in hope’s glowing rosy tints painted the blissful hour

When once again the wanderer’s feet shall cross his mother’s door.

Far o’er that raging ocean and amidst old Scotia’s hills,

Ah, many a kind and loving heart that night with rapture thrills.

As Hope, delusive, marks the time when prosperous and gay

Their absent loved ones shall return from o’er the distant sea;

That wished-for time will never come, for on New England’s coast

The gallant ship is ’midst the storm and howling tempest lost;

And while the mother and the wife are dreaming of the hour

That to their home the much-loved son and husband will restore.

The wind with loud and frightful roar drowns their last dying cry

And ’mid the wild and dashing waves is spent their latest sigh.

“I like the ballad style of poetry,” said Mary; “it is so natural and so many little incidents may be introduced which touch the feelings and delight the fancy.” “I am an admirer of poetry,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but I have not patience to read much of the sickly sentiment, dignified by that name, which is beginning to be the style of the present day, and I much prefer the old English ballad, with all its homely simplicity.”

After a pleasant and lively conversation the evening was closed and they retired.

The storm had gradually subsided during the night and the morning sun shone clear. The turbulent waves had receded from the shining sands, a fresh and mild breeze dispersed every vapor and the Sabbath morning, in all its calm and peaceful stillness, was again welcomed. There is no feeling more delightful to one whose taste is in unison with it than the lovely quiet of a peaceful Sabbath morning. Even nature seems hushed, the wind lulled into more tranquil murmurs, and the notes of the birds on a summer day sound sweeter and more subdued. After the breakfast table was arranged in due order Philip and Phoebe presented themselves in their Sunday attire and smiling faces, prepared to join the family in listening to the reading of the Bible, and the day was spent in the usual Sabbath duties. “Mother,” said Charles, “I liked the sermon this afternoon very much because it was about Ruth.” “It is a story of much interest,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and read in connection with other parts of the Bible, of much profit.” “Was the country of the Moabites very rich and fertile at that time?” “There is no doubt of it, my son, but it is now accursed of God and almost deserted by man. Formerly it was a land abounding in wealth and all the luxuries of life, and through its thickly populated country ran a high road where were continually passing immense caravans loaded with rich merchandise, and travellers from different nations, thus distributing wealth throughout the whole territory. But the sound of trade and commerce has long since died upon its borders, the once fruitful soil no longer yields its treasures, and the wandering Bedouin gains but a miserable subsistence amidst its sandy deserts, which now echo only the heavy trot of his camels. We can hardly recognize in the description of late travelers the land of plenty which gave refuge to the famished Bethlehemites. I will read you a few lines of a poem entitled “Ruth.”

“Where Moab’s fertile plains once lay, in glowing beauty dressed,

Now spreads a dreary, barren waste, far as the eye can rest.

There, where a nation flourished once in plenty and repose,

Scarce for the hardy camels’ feed, a scanty herbage grows.

And o’er that sandy desert roams the Arab, fierce and wild,

Where dwelt in peace the Moabite, and verdant meadows smiled.

Thy pride, O haughty nation, has thy sure destruction wrought,

And o’er thy once fair, happy land deep misery has brought.

Where are your haughty sovereigns, your luxurious people, where?

Your conquering armies, riches, splendor, mighty power?

All, all are gone, amidst thy temples creep the briars and the Thorn,

And deadly serpents hiss among thy palaces forlorn.”

“It has been a very pleasant Sabbath, dear Aunt,” said Mary, “so peaceful and quiet.” “I like to remember the Sabbaths of my youthful days,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Let me repeat some lines referring to them and you will remember, dear, that in those days lived many of our old Puritan ministers, so many of whom have now gone to their rest.”

SABBATH MORNING.

“How memory paints

That hallowed morn, in youth’s bright, happy hours!

The glorious sun seemed brighter, and the birds

Sang sweeter on that sacred day; the flowers,

Rich in their fragrance, seemed more fragrant then;

A holy quiet rested o’er the scene;

The week-day hum was hushed, no jarring sound

Disturbed the placid stillness of the hour;

The voices, which, with joyous glee, oft made

The well remembered walls echo again,

Are gentle and subdued, and even the dog,

The faithful guardian of our rights, seems now

Content to waive his noisy privilege

And, stretched at length upon the sunny step,

Blinks at the buzzing flies. In fair array

Our little flock are watching the deep tone

Of the old bell, to summon them to prayer;

But now, no longer on its ancient seat,

Rests the old church; ’tis gone; its tunnel roof,

Its reverend porches, and its shining spire

All gone; and only memory’s fond dream

Is shadowing forth its antique lineaments.”

After retiring for the night, “Well,” said Mary, “what has become of our sad forebodings for the winter?” “Do not say our forebodings, dear sister, they were mine, and I am heartily ashamed of my discontented repinings. I never worked or studied with so much interest, and since the letter arrived informing us of the great improvement in our father’s health, I have been perfectly happy.” “I never knew,” said Mary, “the full meaning of our old theme before:

“Home is the resort

Of peace and plenty, where, supporting and supported,

Polished friends and dear relations mingle into bliss.”

Chapter V

Listening thro’ the winter eve

To deeds of long past years, when the fierce Goths

Invaded Italy; over her lovely plains

Poured war and devastation; or the sad tale

Of Christian martyrs, faithful to the death.

The love of nature, with its sublime and beautiful prospects, should be sedulously cultivated in the youthful mind from the first dawn of reason. The love of reading will be the necessary consequence, and this, well directed, is one of the greatest blessings of life. For one whose cultivated imagination is delighted with descriptions of natural scenery and who is interested in the history of past ages will not often seek the haunts of dissipation for amusement. From studying and loving the rich and varied landscape of nature he is led to the contemplation of “Nature’s God,” and in the formation of the humblest insect and the rich coloring of the lowliest flower, as well as in the mightiest work of creation, will acknowledge the great Creator. Happy they whose ductile minds are thus early directed and whose maturer judgment confirms them in the sure road to peace.

The return of Herbert was hailed with joy by the assembled household and the succeeding evening he fulfilled his promise of continuing the Tale of the Early Christians.

Seated at a table in a gloomy apartment, lighted by a solitary lamp, whose ray disclosed the damp and rugged walls, with the certain prospect of a cruel death before him, and denied even the solace of a last farewell to his dearest friends, would it have been wonderful if the countenance of the lonely prisoner, which was raised at the entrance of Flavius, should have expressed a deep and settled gloom, or even the stern despair of one who had bidden adieu to hope. There are those who possess a controlling power over their emotions, who, even in moments of strong agitation or excitement, from motives of pride, or the desire of applause, or some other powerful incentive, will prevent those emotions from being discovered by assuming a calm and stoical exterior, but, it was not the haughty pride of the stoic, or the cool apathy of the philosopher, who has schooled his feelings into indifference, which met the eye of Flavius, as he encountered the serene glance of his friend. The noble brow of Curtius was placid as a sleeping infant’s, his brilliant eye reflected the heavenly peace which reigned within, and the smile of welcome with which he greeted the entrance of his friend was such as we might fancy adorned the lips of an inhabitant of the regions of undisturbed happiness. “This is indeed kind, my friend, my brother,” said he, and as he rose and extended his hand. Flavius perceived that his limbs were shackled. “Barbarous tyrant,” said the indignant youth, “is not his malice yet complete? Must these chains be added to the measure of his cruelty?” “Waste not a thought, my Flavius, they are proofs of Nero’s consideration for his poor prisoner, credentials by which he may claim a heavenly residence, as being made to follow in the footsteps of his Master. Tomorrow, I am told, is the day of my triumph.” “Curtius,” said his agitated friend, “all hope is not lost, Galba has promised his powerful intercession; it cannot fail.” “It will fail, Flavius; as well might you lure the tiger from his prey as induce the Emperor to release a Christian from torture and from death.” “And you contemplate this prospect with calmness; nay, you are even joyful in it?” “Mistake me not, my friend, life has its charms, the prospect of death, its mighty terrors; think you I can contemplate with indifference the dreary grave shutting out the bright loveliness of nature, separating me from those who are dearer to me than existence, and closing my ear to the sweet accents of affection? Not so; but the chilling shudder of these reflections is checked by the image of Him who suffered the pangs of death that we might live forever. Far through the gloomy perspective of the grave, I see the cheering, the delightful, prospect of immortal life, of a reunion with those beloved ones, an eternal reunion, and a rapturous vision of joys which eye hath not seen, and before which the momentary pangs of death dwindle into nothing. Believe me, my Flavius, were it possible for Nero to know the all-absorbing joy which fills my heart at these anticipations, he would revoke his decree, as the severest way of punishment. But,” said he, and the animated flush faded from his countenance and the hand which clasped that of Flavius, pressed it in agitation, “death has indeed its bitterness when I think of the defenceless ones I shall leave behind.” “Curtius,” said his friend, “nothing that human means can effect to save you shall be neglected. But, if all shall fail, give me, my friend, my brother, give me your sanction to become the son of your mother; the husband of your sister, and, whilst I have life, their happiness shall be my dearest object.” Curtius was silent for a moment, at length, “Flavius,” said he, “the husband of Cleone must be a Christian.” “And if a full conviction and belief that the God whom you worship is the only true God, if a deep and mortifying sense of the degraded nature of our faith, and a longing desire to possess that trust and heavenly peace which you possess, is to be a Christian, then am I one, but it is a hard thing to give up the religion of our fathers, and I feel that I have not courage to avow these sentiments, and to stem the torrent of execration which will be poured upon me.” “But the time will come, my Flavius, when you will avow the God of the Christians to be your God. Victory, victory,” said the youth, “the temples of these Pagan deities will yet be consecrated to the service of the living God, and the incense which rests in clouds, upon their shrines, will rise in pure and grateful offering to the Holy One of Israel; yes, my friend, I bequeath to you the dearest treasures I possess; be to them a faithful guardian, and the blessing of the Lord rest upon you.” The eloquent countenance of the young noble expressed the thanks he began to pour forth, when the door was thrown open, and the sentinel proclaimed that he must leave the dungeon, as an express to that effect had been received from the captain of the guard. No delay could be granted, and after a fervent embrace the friends parted, as Curtius firmly believed, for the last time. Left alone and relieved from many anxious thoughts, his mind now turned to the awful scenes of the morrow. No torments, he well knew, would be too agonizing or too horrid for the implacable Nero to invent, none too dreadful for his minions to execute, but his firm and disciplined mind had been too long accustomed to view death as the portal to never ending happiness, to shrink now from its near approach, even arrayed in its utmost terrors. Bending over the table, his thoughts became absorbed in the bright prospect of future glory, fervent aspirations of gratitude to God for raising an earthly protector for his mother and sister, mingling with his reflections, and the Emperor, amidst his splendor, might have envied his proscribed prisoner his calm and peaceful anticipations.

Our tale must now return to the deathbed of the aged Christian. Sudden indeed, as well as most painful, was this event to his affectionate friends; they had left him but an hour before, by his own request, as he expressed a fear that their unremitting attention to him would injure them, little thinking his dissolution was so near, and, as the conviction pressed upon them that the one who had supplied the place of the kindest parent, who had shared his own, even too small pittance with them, was no more, that they could no longer hear his endearing expressions, no longer see his mild eye beaming upon them, with parental love, can it be wondered that every other consideration was lost, for the time, in the sad reflection. As they bent over the couch in unutterable grief, their own sorrow was increased by that of the aged domestics, who had grown old in the service of the kind and beloved master, who now lay before them, in all the stillness of death. In those moments of deep and suffocating grief they almost lost sight of the consoling and joyful belief that their beloved parent was then rejoicing in a heaven of pure and unalloyed felicity, but, as they mingled their tears, the silence of heartfelt sorrow was interrupted by a sweet and solemn voice, repeating, “Blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord,” and Sister Helena, as she was called, a pious Christian recluse, approached and knelt with them, by the remains of the good old man. Sweet and soothing to their souls were the prayers and thanksgiving which she poured forth with fervent earnestness, and they arose from their knees, chastened and resigned. Cold and insensible must have been the feelings of those who could have listened to those aspirations unmoved, or gazed upon the inspired countenance of this extraordinary female, without almost fancying that she was indeed an angel of consolation, permitted to sojourn awhile upon earth to soothe the sorrows of the afflicted, and direct their hopes to that bright and happy home which she had quitted upon her errand of love. The brightness of her dark and expressive eyes was contrasted with the marble whiteness of her complexion, her beautiful hair, which had formerly graced the most precious pearls, and adorned costly diamonds, the gifts of royal love, was now confined by a simple braid, and the form, once decked in imperial purple, and glittering in courtly magnificence, was now wrapped in the plainest garb, the simplicity of which could not hid the loveliness of her form. In a voice of soothing sympathy, she gave some directions to the sorrowing servants, and then kindly led the bereaved relations from the chamber of death. “He has departed in peace,” said she, as they entered a retired chamber, “may our last end be like this; may we die the death of this righteous man, and now, dearest friends, the swiftly passing moments warn me to be quick in what I have to relate. Your minds, I know, are stayed upon the Rock of Ages, and though I speak of danger and death, ye will know that the Lord of all the earth will do right. Brother Ambrose, last night, brought the tidings that tomorrow is appointed for another of those awful scenes with which Rome is now familiar, and, though we know that the moment when the soul of the Christian takes its flight from this world of sorrow and wickedness is a moment which introduces it to an eternity of happiness, unalloyed and unspeakable, yet we turn with shuddering grief, from its accompaniments of pain and torture.” “Oh, tell me not,” said Cleone, with startling agony of voice and manner, “say not that our Curtius is condemned,” and overcome with grief and terror, she sank upon the ground, while the mother, with her hands clasped, and her eyes raised, prayed for strength from above. “He is indeed condemned,” said Sister Helena, “but listen, dear sisters, and see if there is not a ray of hope to lighten this gloomy hour. After learning these tidings, I left our retreat immediately to comfort you, if possible, and, with hasty steps proceeded along the private path which leads from our secluded dwelling directly by the remains of the ancient temple upon the hill. While groping my way through the ivy and thick bushes, I was startled by the sound of voices, proceeding from the ruins, and the name of the Emperor repeated with the most awful threats, and joined to the fear of discovery induced me to stop and conceal myself. That the speakers were bitter enemies to Nero was evident from their conversation, and, in a short time I gathered from it that they had entered into a conspiracy, and bound themselves by solemn oaths to take his life, and, that the moment of his leaving the amphitheatre, after the executions, was chosen to effect their purpose, as being a moment of confusion and dismay. The infamous Caius Piso, whose inveterate hate for the Emperor is so well known, I discovered, was at the head of the conspiracy, and their measures are so well concerted that they must succeed. Now, dear friends, may we not, by warning Nero of this imminent, this certain danger, save the life of your beloved Curtius? Listen, Cleone, have you courage to face this cruel Emperor, and intercede for the life of your brother? And, if he refuses to grant it to your prayers, yet you may induce him to mercy by convincing him that the means of saving his own life is in your power.” “But, do you reflect, Helena, that this inhuman tyrant may, and most probably would turn a deaf ear to all her intercessions, and force her, by torture, to confess her knowledge of this conspiracy? No, it is for me to offer myself a sacrifice for my son. I will endure every torment he can inflict, and, perhaps, when convinced that he cannot extort the secret, he will grant me the life of my child.” “Mother,” said Cleone, throwing her arms around her neck, “mother, do you doubt my resolution, my courage, my ability to endure any suffering for the sake of those so dear to me? Oh, let me go; I will throw myself at his feet; he cannot resist my supplications; he will be grateful to us for saving him from sure destruction, and reward us by restoring my brother to his home and friends.” “Hear me,” said Sister Helena, “I myself would be the intercessor, were I not certain that Nero would recognize in me one who has incurred his mostly deadly hatred, one whom he would not hesitate to sacrifice to his revengeful passions, and whose entreaties for the life of the young Christian would only be a passport for his speedy death. You, madam,” said she, addressing the distressed and almost fainting mother, “are known as a Christian. You have already been exposed to the suspicions of Nero, and have but barely escaped his cruel persecutions by a life of the strictest seclusion. Your daughter, reared in retirement, and unknown to the world, would not be so obnoxious, and she might not be unprotected. The young Flavius, the unswerving friend of Curtius, who has already braved the indignation of the tyrant, for his sake, would, without doubt, accompany and support her, and high in rank, and beloved by all parties, his influence would go far to ensure her safety. But, we have but moments to deliberate; midnight is the time appointed for these conspirators to meet and perfect their plan, and, if we resort to these, I am convinced, only means, to save the life of this dear friend, Nero must know all in season to apprehend them together.” “Do not hesitate, mother, dearest, dearest mother, let me save my brother from this awful death; I shall be safe; God will protect me; He will aid me to confront this terrible Nero.” “My Cleone, my darling child, must I expose you to this danger? Must I thrust you, as it were, into the jaws of this inhuman monster? Oh, think, dear sister, of his aggravated cruelties; remember the fate of his own mother and wife; when has any consideration stayed his barbarity? How can we expect, how can we even hope that he will lose his grasp of a victim, so completely in his power? He will sacrifice them both, and I—I shall be left childless and alone!” Tears of commiseration streamed from the eyes of the sympathizing recluse. “Be it as you please,” said she, “I cannot, dare not urge you to a measure which may indeed end as you fear; although I think it would be otherwise. I know the disposition of Nero. Alas!” said she, with shuddering grief, “who should know it so well! Amidst all his fierce cruelty, he is a very coward by nature, and nothing so perfectly unmans him as the fear of death.” “Go then, my Cleone,” said her mother, “if possible, save your brother from this dreadful doom, and if I am bereaved of both, I will pray that I, too, may join you in that heaven, where there is no separation.”

The evening was now advanced, and Herbert closed the volume. “How was it possible,” said Susan, “that Valeria, for it was she, I suppose, who bore the name of Sister Helena, could have eluded the search of the vindicative Emperor? With his exasperated feelings, he would leave no means untried to discover her, and these being joined with his great power, I cannot imagine how she could have been saved.” “Though the early Christians,” said Herbert, “when called to give a reason for the hope that was in them, were bold in conscious innocence, though they shrank not from danger or death in the service of their Master, still, they did not, needlessly, cast away their lives; but, even with the prudence of worldly wisdom, avoided exposure. Their residence was often in the most obscure places, in the depths of gloomy forests, or in caves of the earth, from whence, in the still hours of night, the sounds of praise and thanksgiving arose to Him to whom ‘the darkness is as at noonday.’ Many of these subterranean abodes are still shown, and the inscriptions upon the rugged walls prove them to have been the homes of the persecuted Christians.” “I should like to go to Rome,” said Charles, “and go into those caves, and see the ruins of that great city.” “And those ancient pavements,” said Mary, “which have been swept by the imperial purple, and visit the tombs, where rest the remains of those great and good, of whom we read.” “Now Mary is upon her hobby,” said Susan, “and she will not stop short of the Holy Land at least. If she were only an old man, with a big wig, she would be a most inveterate antiquary.” “I will sympathize with you, dear Mary,” said Elizabeth, “if to read of former ages, and their stirring events, excites so much interest, how delightful to stand upon the spots commemorated in history, but, above all, to tread in the footsteps of the Saviour, and visit the scenes hallowed by his presence.” “To stand upon the Mount of the Olive trees,” said Herbert, “to wander by the brook Cedron, and through the ancient burial places of the Jews. To linger by the shores of the sea of Galilee, and mark the swelling waters, to fix in our ‘mind’s eye’ the very place where Jesus walked upon the boisterous waves. Come evening, remind me, Mary, and I will read some lines which may interest you, as being an admirer of poetry as well as of these remembrances of bygone days.”

Chapter VI

The mild blue sky, the silvery moon, sailing in its unclouded brightness,

And the soft breeze of night, wafted upon the gentle summer air,

All breathe of peace and loveliness; man’s base passions alone mar the scene.

Although Mrs. Wilson lived in comparative retirement, yet her house was the abode of hospitality. Many valuable friends of her younger years, and of her husband, still kept up that friendly intercourse which had always been a source of pleasure and improvement; and among them were many, not only the most pious, but the most enlightened and amiable characters of the day. In their society the young people became accustomed to that true politeness, that delicate wit and refined conversation which is the sure index of good breeding and high intellect. While surrounded by visitors of this class they could not so much regret the loss of their evening entertainments, and, when left with only their own domestic circle, they returned to them with renewed enjoyment. Some evenings had elapsed during one of those pleasant seasons of visiting, and the continuation of the Tale, which had so interested them, had been necessarily delayed, but at length the time arrived when they were again alone and at liberty to pursue their course of reading.

“The moonbeams shone in rich splendor upon the massy walls and towers of the imperial palace and illumed the glittering arms of the guard who surrounded it. Preparations for a feast were going on and strains of soft music were heard within. Its magnificent apartments were blazing with light and sparkling with gold and silver ornaments and the fragrance of the scented draperies diffused itself through their vast extent. In an inner chamber, more gorgeously decorated, and hung with cloth of gold, the bordering of which was heavy with jewels, reclined upon a luxurious couch the infamous Nero, the lord of all this splendor, but despised and contemned by even the meanest of his subjects. His purple robe hung in rich folds over the silver drapery of his couch, his long, perfumed hair was parted over his white forehead, displaying an effeminate countenance which, to a casual observer, would show none of those traits of revengeful malice or diabolical cruelty which were the characteristics of the despotic Emperor. His jeweled fingers pressed lightly the strings of a lute and the careless indolence of his attitude expressed total indifference to everything excepting his own ease. A few attendants stood at the door and his favorite freedman waited near the couch to receive the first indications of his pleasure. “Anicetus,” said he, at length, raising his heavy eyes, in the expression of which alone might be seen the evil passions of his nature, “did you instruct my guards to admit the woman whom we encountered at the bath?” “I did, mighty Emperor,” was the answer. “Repeat to me the words of her address.” “My lord, to the best of my recollection, these were her very words: ‘The star of thy nativity wanes; wouldst thou know more? admit me ere thy revel begins.’” The complexion of Nero grew paler as he said in a low tone: “Dost thou believe in the prophetic gifts of these Sybils?” “The star of Nero will always be in the ascendant,” said the freedman. “Is not his word the law of Rome? and not of Rome only, but of the whole world?” and he bowed to the ground in cringing servility. “Nevertheless, I would hear what this woman would reveal; see that she is admitted at the time. Some wine, Anicetus. What insufferable insolence in Servius Galba to interfere in the execution of my will! His haughty ambition requires pruning. Reprieve! pardon the arrogant Christian, who has dared to brave my power! No! by Jupiter, the extremest tortures shall punish his audacity; we will see if his demeanor will retain its insulting composure. Are all my orders executed? Is everything in readiness?” “Everything, my noble lord; all has been prepared according to your directions, and your decree to that effect has been given to the impudent Christian, who will have the night to contemplate the certainty of his deserved fate.” “It is ’well,” said Nero, and a malignant smile passed across his features and, while carelessly tuning his instrument, his thoughts were apparently rioting in the prospect of the gratification of his revenge. At this moment the woman, who, by his order was suffered to enter, appeared at the door of the apartment. As the freedman met her with an impatient gesture, she waved him aside and, with a firm step and commanding air, advanced to the couch, from which Nero had started. The same dark and piercing eyes were fixed upon him which had terrified Cleone and the same deep and hollow voice sounded in his ear. “The decree of Fate is even now passing; the fiat of justice is being issued; thou, who hast arrogated to thyself the powers of life and death at the dictates of thine own base passions, tremble before a Power in whose sight thou art but as a grain of dust, more degraded than the meanest worm of the ground thou hast polluted. The Sun of the universe will arise, but not for thee; the breeze of the mountains will refresh all nature, but its healthful influence will impart no life to thine inanimate form; Emperor of Rome! the sands of your life are few and fast ebbing!” Nero had stood motionless and as she stayed her denunciations he sank again upon his couch, but a moment elapsed, when rage and anger glowed in his countenance, before pale as marble. “Wretch!” said he, “thy fate is sealed, tortures and death await thee.” Unshrinkingly she stood before the tyrant, unawed she witnessed his deadly rage. “Yet retrace thy steps,” she said, “man of many crimes, while yet in thy power repair those evils which have not passed beyond thy influence. From the deep abyss of thy guilt and infamy look up; for, far through the fearful gloom the rays of the sweet star of mercy may reach even thee. For me, I am beyond your power; you can neither save nor destroy me. Nero, to purchase the slender chance for mercy which is yet yours I would barter life and yield it amidst all the torments the art of man could inflict. But my time has elapsed; we meet no more on earth.” So saying, before the dismayed Emperor could collect his scattered thoughts, she passed from the apartment and from the astonished gaze of the attendants who, though distant spectators of the scene, had not heard what had passed. “Draw near, Anicetus,” said Nero, as his freedman approached. “Where did Galba direct his steps when he left our presence? I liked not his haughty bearing.” “To the Senate chamber, my lord.” “Ha! are the Senate together tonight? for what purpose?” “I know not, most mighty Emperor; the doors of the chamber are closed.” “The slaves! do they dare?” He strode the apartment with hasty steps, his cheeks blanched with passion. “Discover,” said he, “the cause of this secret sitting; by my head, they shall dearly rue this audacity. Bring me the report without delay.” The freedman bent his body in obedience and withdrew. Left alone, the restless motions and perturbed demeanor of the Emperor expressed the agitation of his mind. At times he would gnash his teeth in anger, then strong lines of terror and dismay would cross his features. At length, throwing himself upon the couch, he covered his face with his hands and appeared lost in thought. The lowliest goatherd among the Appenines, who, lying down at night with but the hard ground for a pillow and a canopy of boughs for a shelter, knows not where to find his daily food, was happier than this lord of Italy. Of what avail was all this pomp to him, whose splendid robes covered a heart beating with terror and alarm? The abode of suspicion and fear, torn with the pangs of dark remorse, but still raging with the most horrid passions, to gratify which the country which he was bound to serve and protect was made to bleed at every pore? The meanest serf, the most degraded slave throughout this vast empire would have refused to exchange situations with this lordly tyrant could they have realized the horrors of his guilty conscience. At one moment he would devise means to crush the Senate at a single blow; then the words of the Sybil, recurring to his mind, the idea of conciliation would be uppermost, and, though his whole frame trembled with impotent rage, yet he would determine to practise his powers of dissimulation and defer the gratification of his revenge to a more fitting opportunity. The superstitious terrors of his intellect were all aroused, his cowardly heart quailed at the shadow of coming events which he knew would overwhelm him, and his revengeful passions were all in wild commotion.

A slave, bending before him, announced Lucius Flavius, and, collecting his thought, and endeavoring to smooth his brow to composure, he ordered that the patrician should be admitted.

Herbert was here interrupted by the call of some persons upon business which might detain him some time, to the great annoyance of the little party. A pleasant conversation, however, commenced upon the influence of superstition over mankind throughout all ages of the world. “Even in our enlightened age,” said Mrs. Wilson, “we find many who are slaves to superstition in some of its various forms, but its influence is milder and gradually decreasing. Within a century and a half persons whose minds were enlightened, of undoubted piety, and who would have smiled in derision at the superstitious observances of the ancient Romans, professed full faith in witchcraft, that most terrific of all delusions.” “Oh,” said Mary, “I never hear the relation of those times without a shudder. What could have been the cause of such frightful credulity?” “It is shrouded in mystery,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and, probably, in this world we shall never know. Let us be thankful that no vestiges of such infatuation are left, but the sad spot where so many victims to its maddening influence perished.” “Even here,” said Elizabeth, “we are not exempted from this universal passion; we, too, have had our renowned fortune teller.” “Oh, yes,” said Susan, “I overheard Phoebe, the other day, gravely recounting the wonderful predictions of this redoubtable Sybil.” “Was Moll Pitcher a Sybil?” said Charles. “She would have passed for one in ancient times, Charles,” said his mother, “and, with her shrewd countenance and small, black eyes, aided by her red cloak and hood, might, I think, have played her part quite respectably. Her dwelling, too, would be appropriate for such a character; desolate and dreary, at the foot of the high rock, and embellished with a tall memento of one of the monsters of the ocean, the rib of a whale. I will read some lines upon her name and character by some witty poet of the day:

MOLL PITCHER

“Ah! dost thou laugh at the familiar name?

Deride and ridicule her world-wide fame?

Dost jest at sorcery and witchcraft’s power,

At whose dread magic even wise men cower?

Laugh, if you will; the time has long gone by

When Moll would change your laugh into a cry.

Know, daring sceptic, that in days of yore

No thoughtless wight ventured to brave her power.

Should even the smile incredulous appear,

Woe to its author, luckless his career!

Oh, the sharp pains which seemed to vex his bones,

How grievous ’twas to hear his piteous moans!

At midnight hour, when bites and itching smart

Assailed his flesh and saddened his poor heart,

Even his household gods seemed leagued to slay

His bosom’s peace and drive his joys away;

On his own threshold his unwary feet

Would stumbling slip and sad disaster meet;

His faithful dog would snarl at his caress,

And wholesome food with racking pains distress.

Oh, witch implacable! how oft thy form

At distance seen caused the scared youth to run.

How oft the thrifty housewife banned thy name

While toiling o’er the slowly turning cream!

How oft thy old red cloak, streaming afar,

Foreboded evil and excited fear!

Fear to the maiden, lest the raging sea

Had whelmed in death her much-loved sailor boy;

Fear to the bashful swain, let the wished beam

Of Katie’s smile should prove an empty dream;

Dread to the merchant, lest the wild, weird glance

Should tell of loss, of shipwreck and mischance;

And even the parson grave forebore to frown

As her dark eye flashed o’er his passing form.

For why? His memory this precaution lends

‘Of the unrighteous Mammon to make friends.’

Yet oft the village gossip told a deed

Of kindly pity to the poor man’s need;

How Moll would stand beside the bed of death

And bathe the pallid brow and catch the breath,

The dying breath, and soothe the last sad moan,

Breathed for the dear ones he should leave alone.

That many a smile relieved the falling tear,

As ’midst a childish group Moll would appear,

While her capacious pocket would bring forth

Rich stores of apples red to raise their mirth.

Long years have rolled away, yet Molly’s fame

Still lingers round the spot that bears her name.

‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,

Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,

Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.

Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;

As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.

Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.

With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,

Then started back, half tempted to return.

But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic rites

Attendant on those dark and fearful nights,

Though oft I’ve heard my aged grandame say

That better far ’twould be to stay away.

Now, o’er the mound, where rests her mortal form,

The wild grass waves with low and gentle moan;

There sleeps the dust, so restless once, and there

’Twill rest, no longer to excite a fear.

There let the memory of her follies lie;

The memory of true worth will never die.”

“Did you ever see a witch, mother?” said Charles. “If you will listen, my son, I will tell you a story, the only one relating to a witch, which ever came to my certain knowledge.

“When I was a tiny school girl there stood a lonely little house at the foot of a rising ground on the direct road to our school house; there were no trees about it, but a few choke berries and alder bushes, for there was a marshy piece of ground there. A very small lot was cultivated as a garden by the hands of its only inhabitant, poor old ‘Aunt Lois,’ as everybody called her. Nobody knew any harm of Aunt Lois, but every body said ‘Certainly she was a witch.’ The time had passed when witches were hanged or burned, so Aunt Lois lived peaceably in her own home, but many wonderful stories were told about her, such as that she was seen churning butter in the night, and, though nothing could be nicer or sweeter than her butter, yet some wise people asserted ‘that she must have help about it which nobody knew of.’ Old Joe Hart said that he had seen a company of witches, riding on broomsticks through the air, with Aunt Lois at their head with a cap and long cloak on, and a wand in her hand. This, he said was “just as true as anything he ever said in all his life,” but as Joe was noted for telling great stories, people would have been glad of better authority. But no part of the community was more troubled about these stories than the children belonging to the school, and, though the boys blustered a good deal and said ‘Who’s afraid?’ yet it was observed that they always kept the side of the lane farthest from Aunt Lois’s house; and, as to the girls, they would scramble over the fence and run through a swamp rather than go near it. An event, however, occurred which not only quieted their fears, but even made Lois popular in their opinion. It was a warm afternoon in the summer, when a little troop of boys and girls were returning from school, when they espied among the wet ground at the foot of the hill, near the old woman’s house, a cluster of beautiful lilies. Never were any wild flowers so much sought for as those lilies, for they were very scarce and of rare and beautiful colors. ‘I know I can get some,’ said Catherine, and, followed closely by two others, she bounded over the low wall and, without taking thought of the swamp, she sprang forward to be the first to gain the wished-for prize. But soon the ground began to give way beneath her feet, but she had almost gained the flowers, and, supposing that by one more leap she should gain sure footing, she jumped forward, but down she sank, deep, deep in the mire, and there she was planted, unable to stir her feet, and imagining her little body was going, too, she did not know where. She was near enough to clasp the tall stems of the lilies and clung to them as if for support, but the slender roots gave way and, though she had gained the desired objects, yet she would joyfully have given them up to her frightened companions, who had stopped just before they arrived at the fatal spot, could she have been safe with them. ‘Do help me, Martha; do take my hand, Susie,’ screamed the little girl, but when they dare not come further and were turning back, she began to sob and cry most piteously. But, just then, terrible to behold, Aunt Lois’s door opened and, to our great dismay, she appeared. What a scampering now ensued! The boys jumped over the wall and the girls ran, without looking back, until they had gained what they considered a safe distance from the dreaded spot, but the little girl was left, unable to stir. She covered her face with her hands to shut out the sight of the old witch, but she heard her step and the terror of she knew not what almost took away her senses. ‘For mercy’s sake, my little dear,’ said Aunt Lois, ‘why did you come into this wet, boggy place? I don’t know as I can get to you, but put out your hand. If I should get stuck here, too, we should be in a pickle.’ Catherine obeyed, for the voice of Aunt Lois sounded kind and pleasant, and, with a strong pull, she extricated the little girl, but a sad sight was displayed. Her feet were black with the mud of the swamp, but, her shoes being tied on, she did not lose them. And now, to the great terror of the children, who were watching from their hiding places, Lois carried the little girl into her house, and solemn was the consultation as we gathered together and debated upon her fate. Such long and dismal faces are seldom seen, such terrible stories were told as made the eyes of the younger children dilate with dismay. But at this moment the little Catherine was seen running toward us. ‘Aunt Lois isn’t a witch,’ said she, ‘see, she has washed my shoes and the bottom of my dress, and she has given me some doughnuts and some apples, and picked me a whole bunch of lilies.’ The charm was at an end. Aunt Lois’s cake and apples were eaten with great relish and, ever after, in the opinion of the children, Aunt Lois was ‘a grand, good old woman.’”

“I wish all witch stories would end as well as this,” said Susan. “And that all witches were as good as Aunt Lois,” said Charles.

Chapter VII

Judea’s daughters mourn her blighted soil,

Her dark-eyed sons in foreign regions toil,

But Holy is the land where Jesus trod

Sacred its soil, though desolate and sad.

A bright, clear, cold Sabbath morning dawned. The smooth snow sparkled as if sprinkled with diamonds, and the bracing atmosphere seemed to infuse new life into creation. The strict habits of our Puritan fathers, in regard to public worship, were not forgotten in the family of Mrs. Wilson, and, when, all meeting at their social evening conversation, many remarks were made upon the exercises of the day, no carping criticisms, no sarcastic observations were indulged in, or would have been permitted. Ministers, in those days, were both loved and reverenced; loved for themselves, and reverenced for their holy vocation, and, generally grew old among a people to whom they were attached by the strongest ties, whose interests were theirs, and whose children were considered their own. There is no more beautiful description of a country clergyman, and none that more generally applies to the times of which I am writing, than Goldsmith’s. The pastors, in those days, literally “allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.”

After a day spent in listening to the words of one of those emphatically good men, the evening fire was surrounded by our little company, who were comparing notes upon the services of the day. The subject was Christ choosing his disciples, and, one of the remarks of one of the speakers was, that because the first followers of Christ were probably illiterate men, it should not be inferred that learning was not necessary for ministers of the present day. Almighty power could inspire them with wisdom, without human means, and, that was then the case, but the miraculous interposition of Providence was not now granted, therefore, education was a most useful auxiliary to piety. An interesting conversation upon the subject then ensued. At length Mary reminded Herbert of his promise to read them some poetry, and he read as follows:

“The setting sun shone bright and clear on Galilee’s dark sea,

Lovely was its reflection of the clear and cloudless sky.

The fisher’s boats were scattered o’er the broad and deep expanse

And the mingled sounds of busy life re-echoed from its banks,

Here Naz’reth’s populous city stretched its crowded noisy street,

And there Capernaum’s lofty towers the passing traveler greet;

Here the wild fig tree bends beneath its luscious watery load,

And there the light green olive spreads around the mountain side.

Oh! chosen land; how lovely then thy hills and valleys seemed,

That ’midst such beauty dwelt such sin, ah! who would then have deemed,

Upon those waves, one humble bark was making for the land,

Weary and faint, its inmates joyed as they approached the strand.

A life of toil and scanty fare, these humble fishers led,

And, wearily and patiently they earned their daily bread;

The careless glance would scarce remark aught in their aspect rude

Save the dull look of untaught men, in discontented mood,

But observations practiced eye, would trace the lines of thought,

Of the sedate intelligence of minds with wisdom fraught;

Would mark the quick and varying glance of passion, strong and deep,

Though, now, within the calm, cold breast, the stormy feelings sleep;

Would note the traces of that zeal, which oft in after days

Glowed in those hearts, and warmed the world by its reflected blaze,