Shortly after Sabinus reappeared, and bidding adieu to our tonsor, we walked with him towards the paternal mansion,—and we soon reached it; for, as I have already said, it was but a little way out from the village.

The dwelling was modest enough, having no external ornament but a single portico, with a few statues ranged between its pillars. We entered by this portico, and found the feeble old man sitting by himself in an apartment immediately adjacent, wherein the beams of the moon, having partial access, were mingled with the subdued light of a painted lamp suspended from the ceiling. The father of my friend had all the appearance of sinking apace; yet he received me with an air, not of cheerfulness, but of kindness. The breeze found admission through the open pillars, and his countenance exhibited in its wan and faint lines the pleasure with which the coolness affected him. Beside him were placed baskets of roses, gathered from the abundance of his gardens. The young Vernæ, who from time to time brought in these flowers, came into the chamber with a decent appearance of sobriety and concern; but they were never long gone before we could hear them [pg 250]laughing again at their play.—“Poor children,” quoth the old man; “why should they trouble themselves with thinking of the not remote victim of Orcus?”—To which the Centurion replied, somewhat softening that loud and cheerful tone with which he was accustomed to address all persons—“Courage, my dear father, you must not speak so. Cerberus, I perceive, has only been making an ineffectual snap at you, and you will be growing younger after all this.”

At which the old man shook his head, without any external sign of emotion, and replied, in a low monotonous voice,—“Younger in the wrong way, my boy; for I become every day smaller in body, and feebler, and less able to do any thing to help myself. Nor am I unconscious that I have seen my due proportion of time. And yet, oh! fast sliding gentle brook, which I see between these paternal trees—I am still loath to exchange thee for Styx, and to lose the cheerful and sacred light of the sun and moon. I wish only I were once more able to repair with thy stream to the banks of father Tiber, that I might salute the good Emperor, who has been so kind to my son, and who would treat even an old broken-down, and long-retired soldier, like myself, with more favour than is to be expected from Rhadamanthus. As clouds let down their drops, so the many-peopled earth lets fall dismissed ghosts upon the Stygian shore.”

While he was saying things in the same strain, an ancient Egyptian, who seemed to have the chief management of every thing, came into the chamber, and after desiring some of the boys to bring forth refreshments, took his place on a low stool by the foot of his master’s [pg 251]couch. “Come, Tarna,” said the Centurion, “what has become of all your philosophy? Why do you not inspire our friend with less of gloominess? Why is it that you do not bring out for his use some of those old stories, with which, when I was young, you were more willing to treat my ears than they were to attend?”

“Nay,” said the invalid, before the Egyptian could make any answer,—“I liked well to listen to his Epicurean theories when I was able to walk about the fields; but now I would rather have him be silent. Do not trouble me any more, good Tarna, with any of your speeches. Allow me to believe as all my fathers did, and to contemplate not only the sepulchre in which their urns are placed, but the same dim regions in which many dear shades expect the greeting of a descendant.”

“To me,” said the slave modestly, “it still seems, that by the rushing shower of atoms which moves every where through space, the mind is soothed, as by the sound of a great river carrying continually the watery offspring of the mountains into the bosom of ocean. The mind, sirs, appears to me to be calmed by the contemplation of infinity, even as the ear of an Egyptian sleeper is calmed by the eternal music of rolling Nilus. It mingles itself with that which it contemplates; it perceives—it feels itself to be a liquid part of that vast endless stream of universal being: a part which has been casually arrested and detained, but which will soon mingle again and be scattered away in a thousand fragments, to wander, no one knows whither, through the great all-receiving void—not to lose existence, for in that my dear master entirely [pg 252]misunderstands me—but to cease from feeling as a Sabinus, or a Tarna.”

The old man kept regarding his Egyptian with a placid smile; but I could not help interposing: “What is this you have said? Do you assert that I can cease to be Valerius, to feel as Valerius, and yet not lose my existence? Can I be, and yet not be myself?”

“Most easily,” replied he; “the divided fragments may move about for a thousand years, before it befall any of them to be stopped in some future combination of atoms. These, it is manifest, only tremble and suffer when they form part of a soul, but are immediately released from all pain or mischance, when this confinement and cohesion are at an end, and they, being dispersed, regain liberty and wander about singly, as of yore; for, as our great dispeller of delusion says—When death is, we are not. If, therefore, Sabinus shrinks from the fear of death, it is an idle fear. Does he not perceive that when death arrives, Sabinus is no longer to be found. Whatever its effects may be, they must affect not him, but an army of innumerable disjointed essences, in no one of which could he by any means be able to recognize himself.”

“To make a short story out of a very long one,” interrupted the Centurion; “life, you think, is not worthy of the name of existence—that being so, it is no wonder you should think lightly of death.”

“Mistake me not,” quoth the sage; “no—life is existence; I not only admit that, but I assert that it is the business of every man, and the sole true object of wisdom, to render life, while it endures, pleasant. Earthly pleasure consists in a bland juxta-position of atoms [pg 253]necessarily, though not permanently, connected; the removal of pain implies that quiescence which pervades the nobleness of the unenclosed All. To exist in this shape, we are compelled; it is our business to render our existence as near an approach to felicity as we may.”

“Fill your cup, Tarna,” quoth the Centurion; “I am no great philosopher, yet methinks I can see the drift of this part of your story. Fill up your goblet, most venerable Epicurean, and see (if it be not below your dignity,) whether the atoms, which, by a fortuitous and temporary juxta-position have formed your throat, will not feel their corners very philosophically softened by the rushing of a little rivulet of good Falernian—one cup of which, saving your presence, I hold to be more worthy of wetting my guttural atoms, than all the water that ever sported its music between Memphis and Alexandria.”

While the slave and the Centurion were thus discoursing, the old man appeared to taste, as it were, the pleasure of a renovated existence, in contemplating the brown health and strong muscular fabric of the inheritor of his name. The hearty masculine laugh with which my friend usually concluded his observations, was, I take leave to think, richer music to his ears than ever Egyptian heard in the dark rollings of the Nile, or Epicurean dreamt of in the airy dance of atoms. I suspect he was more reconciled to the inevitable stroke of fate, by considering that he was to leave such a representative behind him, than by any argument which his own superstition, or the philosophy of his attendant, could suggest. In return for this obvious [pg 254]admiration, the Centurion, without question, manifested every symptom of genuine affection. Yet, I think, the instinctive consciousness of his own strength made the piety of the robust son assume an air more approaching to that of patronage, than might have been altogether becoming. If such a fault there were, however, it escaped the notice of the invalid, who continued, till Tarna insisted upon his retiring, to gaze upon my friend, and listen to his remarks, with looks of exultation.

The Centurion withdrew with his father, so that I was left alone with Tarna for some time; and it was then that, in my juvenile simplicity, I could not help expressing my surprise at finding in servile condition a man possessed of such acquirements as his, and addicted to such pursuits.

“It would argue little,” he replied, “in favour of such pursuits, if they tended only to make me repine at the place which has been allotted me—no matter whether by the decree of fate, or the caprice of fortune. And after all, I am not of opinion that any such external circumstances can much affect the real happiness of any one. Give to him that has been born a slave, what men are pleased to call his freedom; in a few weeks he will become so much accustomed to the boon, that he will cease to think of it. Heap wealth upon him; to wealth also he will gradually become habituated. Rank—power—with all it is the same. It is in the mind only that the seat of happiness is placed; and there it never can be, unless in companionship with thoughts that look down upon, and despise being affected by trifling things.”

[pg 255]

“And are such,” said I, “the views of all those who follow your sect?”

“I wish it were so,” he replied; “but ere you remain long in the city, you will meet with not a few, philosophers only in the name, who, having small means of subsistence, but being desirous of leading a luxurious and agreeable life, become teachers of such doctrines as may accord best with the vicious inclinations of those who are most likely to entertain them. These persons assume too often the name of Epicureans. They are seen every where at feasts crowned with myrtle, and fawning upon gouty senators; and whenever a boar’s-head appears, they are sure to call it worthy of Meleager. Their conversation is made up of stale jests about Charon and his boat, and the taking of Auguries; and, when finally inebriated, they roll upon the ground like those animals, to whom, in consequence of the proceedings of such hypocritical pretenders, the ignorant have dared too often to liken the wisest of mankind. Such things I disdain—I am satisfied to remain, as I was born, in the rank of Æsop, Epictetus, Terence.”

By this time the Centurion had returned. He had a lamp in his hand; and he interrupted our conversation. “Come, we start betimes, Caius; and you too, my sweet cock of Cyrene, I think you had better fold your wings, and compose yourself upon your roost.”

Oh, enviable temperament! said I to myself—you liken the slave to a bird. Methinks yourself are more deserving of the simile. The light and the air of heaven are sufficient to make you happy—your wings [pg 256]are ever strong—their flight ever easy—and the rain of affliction glides off them as fast as it falls. Sleep softly, kind heart. It is only the troubles of a friend that can ever disturb your serenity.

[pg 257]