_CHAPTER IX._
Shortly after Sabinus reappeared, and bidding adieu to our tonsor, wewalked 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 singleportico, with a few statues ranged between its pillars. We entered by thisportico, and found the feeble old man sitting by himself in an apartmentimmediately adjacent, wherein the beams of the moon, having partialaccess, were mingled with the subdued light of a painted lamp suspendedfrom the ceiling. The father of my friend had all the appearance ofsinking apace; yet he received me with an air, not of cheerfulness, but ofkindness. The breeze found admission through the open pillars, and hiscountenance exhibited in its wan and faint lines the pleasure with whichthe coolness affected him. Beside him were placed baskets of roses,gathered from the abundance of his gardens. The young Vernae, who from timeto time brought in these flowers, came into the chamber with a decentappearance of sobriety and concern; but they were never long gone beforewe could hear them laughing again at their play.--"Poor children," quoththe old man; "why should they trouble themselves with thinking of the notremote victim of Orcus?"--To which the Centurion replied, somewhatsoftening that loud and cheerful tone with which he was accustomed toaddress all persons--"Courage, my dear father, you must not speak so.Cerberus, I perceive, has only been making an ineffectual snap at you, andyou 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 doany thing to help myself. Nor am I unconscious that I have seen my dueproportion of time. And yet, oh! fast sliding gentle brook, which I seebetween 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 onlyI were once more able to repair with thy stream to the banks of fatherTiber, that I might salute the good Emperor, who has been so kind to myson, and who would treat even an old broken-down, and long-retiredsoldier, like myself, with more favour than is to be expected fromRhadamanthus. As clouds let down their drops, so the many-peopled earthlets fall dismissed ghosts upon the Stygian shore."
While he was saying things in the same strain, an ancient Egyptian, whoseemed to have the chief management of every thing, came into the chamber,and after desiring some of the boys to bring forth refreshments, took hisplace on a low stool by the foot of his master's couch. "Come, Tarna,"said the Centurion, "what has become of all your philosophy? Why do younot inspire our friend with less of gloominess? Why is it that you do notbring out for his use some of those old stories, with which, when I wasyoung, you were more willing to treat my ears than they were to attend?"
"Nay," said the invalid, before the Egyptian could make any answer,--"Iliked well to listen to his Epicurean theories when I was able to walkabout the fields; but now I would rather have him be silent. Do nottrouble me any more, good Tarna, with any of your speeches. Allow me tobelieve as all my fathers did, and to contemplate not only the sepulchrein which their urns are placed, but the same dim regions in which manydear shades expect the greeting of a descendant."
"To me," said the slave modestly, "it still seems, that by the rushingshower of atoms which moves every where through space, the mind issoothed, as by the sound of a great river carrying continually the wateryoffspring of the mountains into the bosom of ocean. The mind, sirs,appears to me to be calmed by the contemplation of infinity, even as theear of an Egyptian sleeper is calmed by the eternal music of rollingNilus. It mingles itself with that which it contemplates; it perceives--itfeels itself to be a liquid part of that vast endless stream of universalbeing: a part which has been casually arrested and detained, but whichwill soon mingle again and be scattered away in a thousand fragments, towander, no one knows whither, through the great all-receiving void--not tolose existence, for in that my dear master entirely misunderstands me--butto cease from feeling as a Sabinus, or a Tarna."
The old man kept regarding his Egyptian with a placid smile; but I couldnot help interposing: "What is this you have said? Do you assert that Ican cease to be Valerius, to feel as Valerius, and yet not lose myexistence? Can I _be_, and yet not be _myself_?"
"Most easily," replied he; "the divided fragments may move about for athousand years, before it befall any of them to be stopped in some futurecombination of atoms. These, it is manifest, only tremble and suffer whenthey form part of a soul, but are immediately released from all pain ormischance, 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 befound. Whatever its effects may be, they must affect not him, but an armyof innumerable disjointed essences, in no one of which could he by anymeans 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, itis no wonder you should think lightly of death."
"Mistake me not," quoth the sage; "no--life _is_ existence; I not onlyadmit that, but I assert that it is the business of every man, and thesole true object of wisdom, to render life, while it endures, pleasant.Earthly pleasure consists in a bland juxta-position of atoms necessarily,though not permanently, connected; the removal of pain implies thatquiescence which pervades the nobleness of the unenclosed ALL. To exist inthis shape, we are compelled; it is our business to render our existenceas 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 yourgoblet, most venerable Epicurean, and see (if it be not below yourdignity,) whether the atoms, which, by a fortuitous and temporaryjuxta-position have formed your throat, will not feel their corners veryphilosophically softened by the rushing of a little rivulet of goodFalernian--one cup of which, saving your presence, I hold to be more worthyof wetting my guttural atoms, than all the water that ever sported itsmusic between Memphis and Alexandria."
While the slave and the Centurion were thus discoursing, the old manappeared to taste, as it were, the pleasure of a renovated existence, incontemplating the brown health and strong muscular fabric of the inheritorof his name. The hearty masculine laugh with which my friend usuallyconcluded his observations, was, I take leave to think, richer music tohis ears than ever Egyptian heard in the dark rollings of the Nile, orEpicurean dreamt of in the airy dance of atoms. I suspect he was morereconciled to the inevitable stroke of fate, by considering that he was toleave such a representative behind him, than by any argument which his ownsuperstition, or the philosophy of his attendant, could suggest. In returnfor this obvious admiration, the Centurion, without question, manifestedevery symptom of genuine affection. Yet, I think, the instinctiveconsciousness of his own strength made the piety of the robust son assumean air more approaching to that of patronage, than might have beenaltogether becoming. If such a fault there were, however, it escaped thenotice of the invalid, who continued, till Tarna insisted upon hisretiring, to gaze upon my friend, and listen to his remarks, with looks ofexultation.
The Centurion withdrew with his father, so that I was left alone withTarna for some time; and it was then that, in my juvenile simplicity, Icould not help expressing my surprise at finding in servile condition aman possessed of such acquirements as his, and addicted to such pursuits.
"It would argue little," he replied, "in favour of such pursuits, if theytended only to make me repine at the place which has been allotted me--nomatter whether by the decree of fate, or the caprice of fortune. And afterall, I am not of opinion that any such external circumstances can muchaffe
ct the real happiness of any one. Give to him that has been born aslave, what men are pleased to call his freedom; in a few weeks he willbecome 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 seatof happiness is placed; and there it never can be, unless in companionshipwith thoughts that look down upon, and despise being affected by triflingthings."
"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, youwill meet with not a few, philosophers only in the name, who, having smallmeans of subsistence, but being desirous of leading a luxurious andagreeable life, become teachers of such doctrines as may accord best withthe vicious inclinations of those who are most likely to entertain them.These persons assume too often the name of Epicureans. They are seen everywhere at feasts crowned with myrtle, and fawning upon gouty senators; andwhenever a boar's-head appears, they are sure to call it worthy ofMeleager. Their conversation is made up of stale jests about Charon andhis boat, and the taking of Auguries; and, when finally inebriated, theyroll upon the ground like those animals, to whom, in consequence of theproceedings of such hypocritical pretenders, the ignorant have dared toooften to liken the wisest of mankind. Such things I disdain--I am satisfiedto remain, as I was born, in the rank of AEsop, Epictetus, Terence."
By this time the Centurion had returned. He had a lamp in his hand; and heinterrupted our conversation. "Come, we start betimes, Caius; and you too,my sweet cock of Cyrene, I think you had better fold your wings, andcompose 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 airof heaven are sufficient to make you happy--your wings are everstrong--their flight ever easy--and the rain of affliction glides off themas fast as it falls. Sleep softly, kind heart. It is only the troubles ofa friend that can ever disturb your serenity.
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