CHAPTER V.

ABOVE GROUND.

To recover our reader from his long subterranean excursion, we must take him with us on another visit, to the “happy Campania,” or, “Campany the blest,” as an old writer might have called it. There we left Fabiola perplexed by some sentences which she had found. They came to her like a letter from another world; she hardly knew of what character. She wished to learn more about them, but she hardly durst inquire. Many visitors called the next day, and for several days after, and she often thought of putting before some or other of them the mysterious sentences, but she could not bring herself to do it.

A lady, whose life was like her own, philosophically correct, and coldly virtuous, came; and they talked together over the fashionable opinions of the day. She took out her vellum page to puzzle her; but she shrank from submitting it to her: it felt profane to do so. A learned man, well read in all branches of science and literature, paid her a long visit, and spoke very charmingly on the sublimer views of the older schools. She was tempted to consult _him_ about her discovery; but it seemed to contain something higher than he could comprehend. It was strange that, after all, when wisdom or consolation was to be sought, the noble and haughty Roman lady should turn instinctively to her Christian slave. And so it was now. The first moment they were alone, after several days of company and visits, Fabiola produced her parchment, and placed it before Syra. There passed over her countenance an emotion not observable to her mistress; but she was perfectly calm, as she looked up from reading.

“That writing,” said her mistress, “I got at Chromatius’s villa, on the back of a note, probably by mistake. I cannot drive it out of my mind, which is quite perplexed by it.”

“Why should it be so, my noble lady? Its sense seems plain enough.”

“Yes; and that very plainness gives me trouble. My natural feelings revolt against this sentiment: I fancy I ought to despise a man who does not resent an injury, and return hatred for hatred. To forgive at most would be much; but to do good in return for evil, seems to me an unnatural exaction from human nature. Now, while I feel all this, I am conscious that I have been brought to esteem you, for conduct exactly the reverse of what I am naturally impelled to expect.”

“Oh, do not talk of me, my dear mistress; but look at the simple principle; you honor it in others, too. Do you despise, or do you respect, Aristides, for obliging a boorish enemy, by writing, when asked, his own name on the shell that voted his banishment? Do you, as a Roman lady, contemn or honor the name of Coriolanus, for his generous forbearance to your city?”

“I venerate both, most truly, Syra; but then you know those were heroes, and not every-day men.”

“And why should we not all be heroes?” asked Syra, laughing.

“Bless me, child! what a world we should live in, if we were. It is very pleasant reading about the feats of such wonderful people; but one would be very sorry to see them performed by common men, every day.”

“Why so?” pressed the servant.

“Why so? who would like to find a baby she was nursing, playing with, or strangling, serpents in the cradle? I should be very sorry to have a gentleman, whom I invited to dinner, telling me coolly he had that morning killed a minotaur, or strangled a hydra; or to have a friend offering to send the Tiber through my stables, to cleanse them. Preserve us from a generation of heroes, say I.” And Fabiola laughed heartily at the conceit. In the same good humor Syra continued:

“But suppose we had the misfortune to live in a country where such monsters existed, centaurs and minotaurs, hydras and dragons. Would it not be better that common men should be heroes enough to conquer them, than that we should have to send off to the other side of the world for a Theseus, or a Hercules, to destroy them? In fact, in that case, a man would be no more a hero if he fought them, than a lion-slayer is in my country.”

“Quite true, Syra; but I do not see the application of your idea.”

“It is this: anger, hatred, revenge, ambition, avarice, are to my mind as complete monsters as serpents or dragons; and they attack common men as much as great ones. Why should not I try to be as able to conquer them as Aristides, or Coriolanus, or Cincinnatus? Why leave it to heroes only, to do what we can do as well?”

“And do you really hold this as a common moral principle? If so, I fear you will soar too high.”

“No, dear lady. You were startled when I ventured to maintain that inward and unseen virtue was as necessary as the outward and visible: I fear I must surprise you still more.”

“Go on, and do not fear to tell me all.”

“Well, then, the principle of that system which I profess is this: that we must treat and practise, as every-day and common virtue, nay, as simple duty, whatever any other code, the purest and sublimest that may be, considers heroic, and proof of transcendent virtue.”

“That is indeed a sublime standard to form, of moral elevation; but mark the difference between the two cases. The hero is supported by the praises of the world: his act is recorded and transmitted to posterity, when he checks his passions, and performs a sublime action. But who sees, cares for, or shall requite, the poor obscure wretch, who in humble secrecy imitates his conduct?”

Syra, with solemn, reverential look and gesture, raised her eyes and her right hand to heaven, and slowly said: “His Father, who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the good and the bad, and raineth on the just and the unjust.”

Fabiola paused for a time, overawed: then said affectionately and respectfully: “Again, Syra, you have conquered my philosophy. Your wisdom is consistent as it is sublime. A virtue heroic, even when unseen, you propose as the ordinary daily virtue of every one. Men must indeed become more than what gods have been thought to be, to attempt it; but the very idea is worth a whole philosophy. Can you lead me higher than this?”

“Oh, far!--far higher still.”

“And where at length would you leave me?”

“Where your heart should tell you that it had found peace.”