Читать книгу Christmas Holidays, or, a new way of spending them - Jane Margaret Strickland - Страница 4

Table of Contents

The Plan put in Practice.—The Romans in Britain.—Early Introduction of Christianity: to whom imputed.—The Foundation of the Saxon Church.—Roman Triumphs.—Temperance of Julius Cæsar.—Edward’s great Fault.—His Desultory Reading.—His Dilemma.—Constance allowed to give him a Reference.—The Example of Cæsar proves a useful Lesson to our young Epicure.—His Name at School.

The heavy rain had been followed by frost, which was succeeded by several days of snow—snow without intermission. Our boys and Bertha were very malcontent, but as grumbling cannot charm away bad weather, they were compelled to stay within, and even began to find the plans suggested by their parents for their moral and mental improvement a resource against weariness. Bertha was given some plain needlework to do from mamma’s poor-box—baby linen of a strong useful kind; and, much as the little girl disliked sewing, her charitable feelings inclined her to take more pains, and use more expedition, in this business than she would have done in anything for herself. Constance and Ellen, convinced by their sensible mother that plain work ought to form a part of feminine education, had undertaken to make papa a set of fine shirts, which they were to cut out for the first time themselves. They were surprised at seeing in the midst of their contrivances for getting wristbands and other parts, how often papa could assist them where they were at a loss themselves; but mathematicians can find almost at a glance what can be got out of certain squares and angles, without turning the cloth round, as our young sempstresses were obliged to do. Constance and Ellen did not confine themselves wholly to useful work: they were learning to illuminate in the ancient style—a captivating amusement, which permitted them to listen to Lingard’s History of England, which their brothers were reading in turns to their father.

In the “Pictorial History of England” our young artists found some charming specimens of ornamental letters and figures; though, not knowing the colours, they painted them from fancy. Of course they were never dull, not even when the dark days compelled them to give up illuminating for employments that required less light; but of the dull void of unoccupied time they knew nothing.

Mr. Beverly permitted his sons to ask any questions or to make any remarks they pleased upon the portion of history they were reading; for he wished them to take an interest in the annals of their own country; and he made them also compare the events recorded by the learned historian with the progress of civilization so ably narrated in the “Pictorial History of England.” His own extensive reading enabled him to give some additional information on many subjects.

“How I hate those Romans,” suddenly remarked Bertha. “What business had they in England?”

“They had a mission to perform, my dear child, in which they were the unconscious agents. I can almost forgive their ambition for the sake of the good they did us,—good which still continues.”

“What good, papa,” asked Bertha, “did those invading robbers do to Britain?”

“They gave us better laws, useful arts, and cleanly habits; they taught us to build towns, encouraged commerce, and finally brought us the Gospel. Pomponia Græcina, a noble Roman lady, the wife of the pro-consul Plautius, is supposed to have conferred that inestimable benefit upon Britain. Her friend Claudia, celebrated by Martial the poet for her beautiful, fair complexion, was a native of Britain, and the barbarian wife of Pudens is mentioned in conjunction with her husband, at the conclusion of St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, in the list of those to whom he sent greetings. Claudia was not only beautiful, but remarkable for feminine modesty: indeed, the merits of the British lady must have been very great to have induced a Roman senator to overlook her foreign extraction.”

“But, papa, I thought a French princess gave Christianity to Britain?” remarked Ellen.

“The marriage of Bertha to Ethelbert, the Saxon king of Kent, brought about the mission already planned by Pope Gregory for the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, as the bride of the pagan king of Kent brought St. Augustin and his brother missionaries in her train to Britain. Fortunately, the heathen spouse of Bertha was so fond of his Christian wife, that he gave up the structure in Canterbury, now known as the ancient British church of St. Martin, which he used for his stable, for the celebration of Christian worship. After a time, Bertha prevailed upon the king to listen to the preaching of St. Augustin, and, ‘as faith comes by hearing,’ the conversion of Ethelbert soon followed his attention to the doctrines taught by the Christian missionary. Civilization and wiser laws were the fruits of Christianity in Kent, and from thence overspread the island.

“It is a remarkable fact that the rise of the Roman power conduced to the promulgation of the Gospel, as its destruction afterwards led to the conversion of those heathen nations that subverted it. Kingdoms decay and conquerors perish, while the sublime truths of religion can never be destroyed, but must remain for ever.”

These digressions were useful to our young people, especially as Mr. Beverly noted down some authors in which full and interesting accounts of the early history of the British and Anglo-Saxon churches were to be found, which he wished his children to read for their own amusement and improvement.

“We have forgotten the Romans all this time,” said Constance; “you must know I like them better than the Saxons, for I have heard that we owe our beautiful forest trees chiefly to them.”

“So Loudon, in his ‘Arboretum Britannicum,’ tells us,” replied mamma; “and, indeed, he reduces our native trees to a very slender catalogue: oaks, hazels, the low-spreading indigenous fir, and a few others, are all he enumerates. Although Britain was overrun with tangled woods, yet these could not have resembled our beautiful forest lands, adorned with that infinite variety of foliage which so delights our eyes at this time. We are also indebted to these civilizing conquerors for most of our choice fruit: the cherry was brought by them from Pontus, as well as the apple and pear; the apricot from Media; the peach from Persia, or Parthia, as it was then called; grapes and figs grew in their own sunny land. Indeed, a Roman triumph exhibited the complete natural history of the countries conquered. Fruit-trees, flowers, rare perfumes; in fact, every production of nature or art was there displayed: the captives in their native costume, from the prince to the slave, appeared in a living panorama before the eyes of the Roman people. The worst feature in it was the cruel tragedy at the conclusion; for when the chariot of the victor was turned towards the Capitol, the captives were generally put to death.”

“I hope, indeed, dear mamma, that there were some exceptions?” said Constance.

“Some there were indeed, my dear; for Pompey, greater in this than in any other action of his life, would not suffer his captives to be put to death, in which he certainly outshone Cæsar, and better deserved the praise of clemency.”

“I suppose,” remarked Edward, “that the conqueror was the happiest man in Rome on the day of his triumph?”

“Cæsar was not, owing to the ribald custom that permitted the soldiers to invent anything they pleased to the disparagement of their general, if the donative, or gift, he assigned them did not satisfy their avaricious expectations. His army were not pleased with his large donative, and assailed his ears with bitter sarcasms and indelicate songs; so that he afterwards assured his private friends that the day of his great triumph was the most miserable of his life.”

“Well, but that was merely one instance,” rejoined Edward.

“Paulus Emilius, the conqueror of Persius, controlled with difficulty the intense grief he felt for the son he had just lost, and his anxiety for that beloved one he had left dying at home; and you remember, I dare say, that Persius and his captive family preceded the chariot of the victor, and were not put to death; and that the innocent children excited the pity of the populace. After the pageant was over, Paulus Emilius compared his hidden sorrow with that of the conquered Macedonian monarch, and considered the vanquished who still had his children, was happier than the victor who had been bereaved of his; and declared ‘that in this life something must always be wanting to perfect felicity.’” In territorial acquisition, she thought there was, and always must be, room for regret, even in the triumphal entry; but there was one in which feelings of the purest patriotism must have swelled the bosom of that consul who rode by the side of his colleague, without an army or laurel crown, or even the official dress denoting his high rank. She thought some of her young people would remember the incident to which she alluded. Edward, as he was interested in the Romans, and in their triumphs in particular, would relate the anecdote.

Edward blushed and was mute. Constance looked up from her work, and replied, but in a modest unassuming way, “I think, mamma, you mean the consul Nero, during the contest between the Romans and Hannibal, who, when apprised of the march of Asdrubal, to effect a junction with his brother Hannibal, did not wait for orders from the senate, but chose a select body of troops and quitted his province, notwithstanding the penalty he incurred by so doing,^[1] to save his country. He was so rapid in his march, that but for the double flourish of trumpets that denoted the presence of both consuls in the Roman camp, Asdrubal would have been ignorant of the arrival of Nero and his army, which had been received during the night by his colleague Livius Salinator.”

“The battle of Metaurus decided the fate of Rome,” remarked Mr. Beverly; “the defeat and death of Asdrubal deprived Hannibal of the means of continuing the contest with any chance of success. The senate of Carthage, always opposed to the Italian campaigns of their greatest son, had refused him the succour he demanded, and when the head of his able and devoted brother, which, by the command of Nero, had been thrown within his lines, was brought to him, he sighed and uttered these prophetic words,—‘It is like the fortune of Carthage.’”

“It was late in the autumn,” continued Constance, “when the triumph took place, but Livius Salinator alone occupied the triumphal chariot; for no consul was permitted this privilege unless his army was with him, and Nero was obliged to leave his for the protection of his province. He was allowed to visit Rome in this sort of incognito, but every eye was fixed upon the man whose patriotic promptitude had ensured the safety of his country.”

“Oh, mamma, you are right: his feelings must have been enviable at that proud moment.”

“I wish,” said the gentle Ellen, “that he had not thrown Asdrubal’s head into Hannibal’s camp.”

“My dear child,” replied mamma, “Nero was a heathen, and acted like one, and that is the only excuse we can make for his barbarous policy.”

“And I wish, Ellen, he had not played the fool in his censorship by reviving his old quarrels with Livius Salinator; for these warriors, who had forgotten their old hatred to unite for the good of their country, as soon as the peril that threatened Rome was over, made their censorship a time of disgraceful feuds and low squabbles, and covered themselves while in office with ridicule and contempt. Nothing, my dear children, is more foolish than the follies of the wise,” remarked Mr. Beverly.

“I admire Julius Cæsar,” cried Edward; “he is my hero.”

“I wish you would imitate him in his temperance in regard to eating,” remarked his father; “as you profess to admire him, I shall require you to relate an anecdote illustrative of this quality in your hero.”

Now Edward was fond of reading in a desultory way, for he never read any book through if he could help it, but dipped into it here and there. This way of reading had filled his head with an odd jumble of facts and fables. He had read a good deal about the great Roman, but to find among his miscellaneous sources of information something he was to imitate him for—a censure, too, upon his plan of getting the best of everything for himself—was not only puzzling, but positively disheartening.

“May Con help me, papa; for I am sure I shall never find it out by myself?”

“I think,” said Constance, “papa means his behaviour at a dinner-party, to which he was invited with his officers.”

“Yes I do; and as I have every work in which Julius Cæsar is mentioned, in English translations or in French, it will not be difficult for Edward to find the story out, which between this and New Year’s day he may easily do.”

We will not relate all the yawns, sighs, and murmurs of Julius Cæsar’s admirer, during his long search for this anecdote. At last, Constance was permitted to advise him to read Plutarch’s life of his hero very attentively, when he found that Cæsar had eaten asparagus served with bad oil, at the table of a rich but miserly host, without the smallest symptom of disgust, though his officers rejected the dish with contemptuous gestures and impertinent remarks.

I am afraid Edward sometimes wished his hero had been less polite, for if the young epicure was disposed to find fault with any dish he did not like, or to choose the best apple or orange, or pick for the largest piece of cake, the arch looks of Constance and Ellen, or the whispered name of Julius Cæsar from Bertha and John, obliged him to refrain from fastidiousness of appetite or greediness. The story went back with him to school, where it obtained for him the appellations rendered so illustrious by the mighty Roman. However, Edward was wholly cured of his odious fault.

[1]	It was not lawful for the consul to quit the province assigned him by the senate without permission, and Nero had not time to obtain it.