No More Learning

' The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap
All around us ; we but feel our way to err :
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap :
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections : now we clap"
Our hands, and cry, "Eureka ! it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
Alas, the lofty city ! and alas,
The trebly hundred triumphs, and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page ! but these shall be Her resurrection : all beside, decay.
Alas for earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! . . .
Cypress and ivy, weed and wall flower grown. Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes steeped In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reaped
From her research hath been, that these are walls — Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty falls.
There is the moral of all human tales ; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past.
First Freedom and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here , Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words ! draw near,
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for here There is such matter for all feeling : — Man !
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
THE RUINS OF ROME.
This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van
Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled !
Where are its golden roofs ! where those who dared to build ?
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base !
What are the laurels of the Caesars' brow ? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus' or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars : they had contained
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned, The Roman globe, for after none sustained,
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstained
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race,
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep —
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero !
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed ; But long before had Freedom's face been veiled,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; Till every lawless soldier who assailed
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. . . .
380
THE RUINS OF ROME.
Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wonderous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. . . .
A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared ;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,
And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ?
Alas ! developed, opens the decay,
When the colossal fabric's form is neared :
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
Which streams too much on all years, man have reft away.
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, And the low night breeze waves along the air. The garland forest, which the gray walls wear,
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;
When the light shines serene but doth not glare,
Then in this magic circle raise the dead :
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread.
" While stands the Coliseum, Eome shall stand ; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ;
And when Rome falls — the World. " From our own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
THE PASSING OF HUMANITY. 881
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unaltered all;
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill,
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will.
THE PASSING OF HUMANITY.
Bt PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
(From " Adonais. ")
[Perot Btsshe Shelley, English poet, was born in Sussex, August 4, 1792, and educated at Eton and at University College, Oxford, whence he was expelled for a tract on the "Necessity of Atheism. " His first notable poem, "Queen Mab," was privately printed in 1813. He succeeded to his father's estate in 1815. " Alastor " was completed in 1816 j "The Revolt of Islam," " Rosalind and Helen," and "Julian and Maddalo," in 1818; "Prometheus Unbound," "The Cenci," "The Coliseum," "Peter Bell the Third," and the "Mask of Anarchy," in 1819 ; " CEdipus Tyrannus " and the " Witch of Atlas," in 1820 ; "Epipsychidion," "The Defense of Poetry," "Adonais," and "Hellas," in 1822. He was drowned at sea July 8, 1822. ]
Go thou to Rome, — at once the paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness ;
And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness,
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access,
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.
And gray walls molder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in heaven's smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce-extinguished breath.
Here pause. These graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned
THE PASSING OF HUMANITY.
Its charge to each ; and, if the seal is set
Here on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is why fear we to become ?
The One remains, the many change and pass ; Heaven's light forever shines, earth's shadows fly ;
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity, — Until Death tramples it to fragments. Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart ? Thy hopes are gone before ; from all things here
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart. A. light is past from the revolving year
And man and woman ; and what still is dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near :
'Tis Adonais calls ! Oh, hasten thither !
No more let life divide what death can join together.
That light whose smile kindles the universe,
That beauty in which all things work and move,
That benediction which the eclipsing curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which, through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given. The massy earth and sphered skies are riven 1
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar !
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
POEMS OF PRUDENTIUS. 383
POEMS OF PRUDENTIUS.
[Marcus Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, the chief of Christian Roman poets, was born in northern Spain, a. d. 348. He was a lawyer, then a civil and criminal judge, finally in high office at the imperial court. The date of his death is unknown. In his later years he became deeply religious, and devoted his remaining years to composing religious poetry. ]
The Martyrdom of St. Eulalia.
(Translated by Thomas Dale. )
Firmly she spoke, unshrinking still, Nor sigh nor tear gave sign of pain,
While from each wound a trickling rill Soiled her pure limbs with crimson stain.
At last the closing torture came ; — Untrembling yet from many a wound,
Strongly she met the cruel flame,
And felt it wrap her round and round.
'Tis sad to see her scented hair,
Its last dark glossy ringlets show ;
And leave that ivory shoulder bare, And o'er her modest bosom flow.
The flame is feeding on her charms —— See o'er her head the waving pyre ;
Oh ! see, she clasps it in her arms,
And drinks, with dying lips, the fire.
'Tis past — she sinks — she moves no more — Why sudden turn surrounding eyes ;
Whence came that dove that flutters o'er, Then seeks on milk-white wing the skies ?
Eulalia — loved one — they who watched Thy body turn to dust again,
Beheld thine innocent spirit snatched To realms beyond the reach of pain.
In vain the flames' red spires may brighten, The tyrant may his rage increase,
Thine ashes round the stake may whiten, But thou, sweet maiden, art at peace.
384
POEMS OF PRUDENTIUS.
— The Tyrant heard the pinion's beat, And when that hovering dove he saw,
He started from his guilty seat, And shrunk away in sudden awe.
— And now the tearful scene is over — Of friend or funeral bereft,
The pure, cold snows have fall'n to cover All that is of Eulalia left.
Beneath the weeping heavens she lies, Sepultured in a whiter shroud
*****
Than falls to those whose obsequies Are followed by a gorgeous crowd.
Years have gone o'er — around her grave A goodly city now hath grown ;
Behold her tomb, where Ana's wave Still strives to kiss the sacred stone.
There is the virgin's marble bust, Encircled oft by dewy eyes ;
Snatched from that spot, the holy dust In many a pilgrim bosom lies.
There, chased in gold, is many a wreath, Engemmed is many a flow'ret fair ; They sparkle still, and incense breathe,
As summer had her palace there.
But 'twas in winter when she died, — And winter hath his flow'ret too,
Oh ! pluck the crocus in his pride, And on her tomb the vi'lets strew.
And virgins weave the bard a wreath
Of simple flowers — for such are meet —
And he a choral strain shall breathe, Fearful, and soft, and low — yet sweet
Then thou, Eulalia, shalt look down, Haply from yon blue heaven the while,
And see the early chaplets strewn, And smile a more angelic smile.
A CREEK SLAVE
FROM THE PAINTING BV NONNENBRUCH
THE GREEK SLAVE.
On a Baptismal Font.
On this sad spot — here, where the conscious ground, Foul with the blood of martyrs oft hath been,
A never-failing stream shall still be found,
Whose stainless wave can cleanse from every sin.
Let him, whose heavy soul yet yearns to mount,
Whose hot breast burns for heaven, still seek this spot,
Let him but wash in this eternal font,
His hands are pure, and all their crimes forgot.
Here, where the lightened sinners' thanks are breathed, Of olden time were fearless martyrs crowned, —
Yea, where the holy warrior's head was wreathed By trembling hearts, is kindly pardon found.
The joyful waters sparkle o'er the brim,
Where martyrs' wounds once poured a crimson flood,
And blest are both — and sacred still to Him, Who shed for us that water and that blood !
Ye who have had, when here, asked-for grace, And found this hallowed spot a heaven afford,
What boots it whether to your resting-place, The way was oped by water or the sword ?
THE GREEK SLAVE.
By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Thbt say Ideal beauty cannot enter
The house of anguish. On the threshold stands An alien Image with enshackled hands,
Called the Greek Slave ! as if the artist meant her (That passionless perfection which he lent her,
Shadowed, not darkened, where the sill expands)
To so confront man's crimes in different lands With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the centre, Art's fiery finger, and break up ere long
The serfdom of this world ; Appeal, fair stone,
From God's pure heights of beauty against man's wrong I
Catch up in thy divine face, not alone
East griefs but west, and strike and shame the strong,
By thunders of white silence, overthrown. vol. vii. — 25
386 POKMS OF CLAUDIAN.
POEMS OF CLAUDIAN.
[Claudius Claudianus, the last Roman poet of any eminence, was not a Roman, but an Egyptian, probably of Alexandria, and did not write in Latin till he went to Rome in 395, probably between thirty and forty years old. He then adopted the profession of court poet, and glorified his inglorious trade by his poetic fertility and variety, his fine taste, and his splendid rhetorical force and glow. He had also the fortune of a subject worthy his panegyrics from first to last, — Stilicho, the great Vandal minister and general of the emperor Hono- rius, in whose fall and death in 408 he may have been involved, though there is no trace of him after 404 ; indirectly, however, it is arguable that he withdrew from the public gaze when Stilicho's power began to wane, and wrote no more for several years. He was certainly dead by 425. ]
The Old Man of Verona.
(Translated by Cowley. )
Happy the man who his whole time doth bound Within th' inclosure of his little ground : Happy the man whom the same humble place (Th' hereditary cottage of his race)
From his first rising infancy has known,
And by degrees sees gently bending down,
With natural propension to that earth
Which both preserved his life and gave him birth ; Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set,
Could ever into foolish wand'rings get ;
He never dangers either saw or feared ;
The dreadful storms at sea he never heard :
He never heard the shrill alarms of war,
Or the worse noises of the lawyer's bar :
No change of Consuls marks to him the year ;
The change of seasons in his calendar :
The cold and heat winter and summer shows, Autumn by fruits, and spring by flow'rs, he knows : He measures time by landmarks, and has found
For the whole day the dial of his ground :
A neighb'ring wood, born with himself, he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees :
He's only heard of near Verona's name,
And knows like the Indies, but by fame
Does with like concernment notice take
Of the Red Sea and of Benacus' lake
Thus health and strength he third age enjoys, And sees long posterity of boys.
About the spacious world let others roam,
The voyage life longest made at home.
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POEMS OF CLAUDIAN.
Fesqennine Veeses on the Nuptials of Honoeius.
(Translated by Thomas Dale. ) L
0 Prince ! — more fair than Venus' star Amid the dimmer orbs of night,
Who, deadlier than the Parthian far,
Canst draw the bow with guileful might,
Canst wind the fiery steed at will, With more than a Gelonian skill, How shall the poet praises find
To paint thy body and thy mind ?
Leda had rather suckled thee
Than Castor, star of chivalry ;
Thetis in thee had found more joy Than in her own unconquered boy ; Delos, when thee she once hath seen, Shall worship less her Phoebus' mien, And Lydia deem thee more divine Than e'en her rosy god of wine :
For when in exercise' full pride, Fearless thou thread'st the forest wide, And the wind wantons in thy hair,
And the awed lion leaves his lair,
Yet seems a dying pride to feel
When he hath sunk beneath thy steel, Venus, enslaved, forgets her truth, Pledged to the hapless hunter youth, And Cynthia feels redoubled pain, More pale than for her Virbius slain.
When, the day's heat and labor o'er, Thy languid limbs at rest are laid,
Beneath the arching sycamore,
Or some sequestered cavern's shade ;
And thou hast not forbid to creep
Upon thy lids th' officious sleep, —
How many a watching nymph shall pine, And wish her glance were met by thine ; How many a Naiad steal the bliss
That's hidden in a secret kiss 1
What though, in Scythian realms, afar, The overawed barbarian bow
POEMS OF CLAUDIAN.
And drop his implements of war
At sight of that commanding brow, —
And, on his undefended plains, — Resignedly receive thy chains ;
Go — if thy unslaked courage wills, 'Mid wintry Caucasus' hoar hills, — Go, — where the frozen plains obey The Amazon — more cold than they ; And, careless of her Sire and Name, At length the haughty virgin dame, The proud Hyppolite, shall yield
To thee her yet unconquered shield,
And, sighing — though the trumpet sound — Chop her keen ax upon the ground —
What violence could never move,
Shall melt before the touch of Love ;
— Happy, beyond the tongue of verse,
Could she but match in such a line ; For blest is she, who calls thee hers, —
Thrice blest, when thou shalt call her thine.
ii.
Oh ! let the Spring, that was in haste to go, Fly to return, and gild this happy day ;
In liquid music let the waters flow,
And sweeter cadence ring from every spray :
Smile, ye Ligurian plains — smile, festive Rome ; Ye hills, let sunny wreaths your brows inclose,
Amid your Alpine peaks, let roses bloom, And lend their blushes to the virgin snows.
O'er Adige' wave the coral message floats,
And Mincius, as his winding stream he leads,
Is listening to the joy -rebounding notes,
And scarcely whispers to his trembling reed.
It echoes down the alder-fringed Po ; Old Tiber dances at the joyous sound ;
And at her lordly master's nuptials, lo!
Rome's stately towers with smiling chaplets crowned I
Let the far land, from whence our hero sprung — The fervid skies of wild and distant Spain —
Let that famed hall, with early laurels hung, Hear and reecho the triumphant strain.
POEMS OF CLAUDIAN.
Thence came thy sire — thy sire, when thou hast plighted Thy troth, sweet Bride — thence, Prince, thy mother came
Now, like two streams that meet, long disunited, Your race shall flow in one continued fame.
Ye groves of Boetis, smile a brighter green ; Thou, Tagus, roll in all thy pride of gold ; King of your line — beneath the blue serene,
Let Ocean his paternal orgies hold.
Realms of the West and East — your toils forget; Let wine and mirth your every hour employ ;
Let Phoebus, from his rising till he set, Laugh to see nothing on his way but joy.
And thou, rude North wind, wither not one wreath, Be still thou East — nor thou, 0 South, arise,
But let young Zephyr, only, dare to breathe, In breath as gentle as the lover's sighs.
m.
Yea, Stilicho, thy whitening hair
Is wont the shining casque to wear ;
But lay thy frowning helmet down,
And put thee on a festive crown ;
No longer with the trumpets' sound
Thy palace' blazing arches ring ;
The torch that Hymen loves to bring
Hath sprinkled its bland light around ; Those charms, which erst thou took'st away, Again thou giv'st, this happy day,
— Let malice rage — but vainly still —
Let envy take what hue she will.
What erst Serena was to thee,
Shall Mary to Honorius be.
IV.
Lo ! Hesper, how, to Venus dear
His silvery-shining lamp he rears ; He marks the blushing virgin's fear, And smiles to see her maiden tears.
POEMS OF CLAUDIAN.
Yes ; soothe her, bridegroom. — Well he knows, Though smiles for such an hour were meeter, These tears, like dewdrops to the rose,
Shall make her morning lip the sweeter.
He, of the thorn must take no heed, Who would not let the bud go free ; And he, who would on honey feed, Must never mark the angry bee.
As, when the rain clouds make retreat, The sudden day seems doubly clear, So, there can be no kiss so sweet
As one that's ushered by a tear. —
— "War, I have known thee," shalt thou cry, " The humbled foe — the victor's bliss ;
But never flashed young warrior's eye
For conquest half so blest as this. " —
Love, on thy couch, himself enthrones ; Reveal him — for he made ye one — And hear her tongue respond, in tones That silence' self might dote upon.
Speak him — in many a broken sigh; Breathe all affection's holiest balm ; — Oh ! clasp, with more of constancy Than e'er the ivy clasped the palm.
And when her languid lids shall close,
And in oblivious bliss she lies,
Thy breath — like sleep's — shall shed repose Upon her silken-fringed eyes, —
— At the first peep of blushing morn, The joyous strain shall be renewed,
And gladness on each brow be worn,
And mirth unlaced, and garlands strewed.
Nymphs — grant the smile, extend the hand; Swains — warriors — put on all your pride ; Winds waft the voice, from land to land ;
" Honorius hath brought home his bride. "
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY. 391
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN THE FIFTH CENTURY.
(From the Letters of Apollinaris Sidonlus : translated by Thomas Hodgkin, in " Italy and her Invaders," with his comments. )
Caius Sollius Sidonius Apollinaris, poet, ecclesiastic, courtier, and letter- writer, was born at Lyons about 430. His father-in-law AVitus having become one of Count Ricimer's puppet emperors, he went to Rome in his train, was made governor, patrician, and senator, and by suppleness, effusive panegyrics, and real ability kept high office under Majorian and Anthemius. In 472 he was made bishop of Clermont in Auvergne, and renounced all his civil dignities to devote himself to this charge. He died between 480 and 490. His literary im mortality is based on his letters, and most on those he cared least about — those which give tantalizing glimpses, all too few, of the beginnings of fusion among the barbarian invaders and the Roman provincials into the Burgundian French. ]
The Fortune Hunter.
In the early days of the episcopate of Sidonius, a certain Amantius asked him for letters of introduction to Marseilles. With his usual good nature, Sidonius gave him a letter to Graecus, bishop of that city, describing him as a poor but honest man, who transacted what we should call a commission busi ness in the purchase of cargoes arriving at the seaports of Gaul. He had been lately appointed a reader in the church, — a post which was not incompatible with his transactions in busi ness, — and this gave him an additional claim on the good offices of the two bishops. The letter concluded with the ex pression of a hope that Amantius might meet with splendid success as a merchant, and might not regret exchanging the cold springs of Auvergne for the fountain of wealth flowing at Marseilles.
Not long after, Sidonius discovered that he had been im posed upon by a swindler ; that the modest young man who desired an introduction to Marseilles was in fact too well known at Marseilles already, and that the honest broker was an impu dent and mendacious fortune hunter. Having occasion to write again to Graecus, who had asked him for " one of his long and amusing letters," he thought that he could not do better than send him the history of Amantius, though the bishop of Mar seilles must have been already in good part acquainted with it, and the bishop of Arverni must have been conscious that the part which he had played did not reflect great credit on his
392 ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY.
shrewdness. —After a complimentary preface, the letter pro ceeds thus :
" His native country is Auvergne ; his parents are persons in a somewhat humble position in life, but free and unencumbered with debt ; their duties have been in connection with the service of the church rather than of the state. The father is a man of extreme frugality, more intent on saving up money for his children than on pleasing them. This lad accordingly left his home and came to your city with a very slender equipment in all respects. Notwithstanding this hindrance to his ambitious projects, he made a fairly successful start among you. St. Eustachius, your predecessor, welcomed him with deeds and words of kindness, and put him in the way of quickly obtaining comfortable quarters. He at once began to cultivate assidu ously the acquaintance of his neighbors, and his civilities were well received. He adapted himself with great tact to their different ages, showing deference to the old, making himself useful to his coevals, and always exhibiting a modesty and sobriety in his moral conduct which are as praiseworthy as they are rare in young men. At length, by well-timed and frequent calls, he became known to and familiar with the lead ing personages of your city, and finally even with the count himself. Thus the assiduous court which he paid to greatness was rewarded with ever-increasing success ; worthy men vied in helping him with their advice and good wishes ; he received presents from the wealthy, favors of one kind or another from all, and thus his fortune and his hopes advanced ' by leaps and bounds.
'
"It happened by chance that near the inn where he was lodging there dwelt a lady of some fortune and high character, whose daughter had passed the years of childhood, yet had scarcely reached the marriageable age. He showed himself very kind to this girl, and made, as her youth allowed him to do, trifling presents to her of toys and trash that would divert a girl ; and thus, at a very trifling expense, obtained a firm hold on her affections. Years passed on ; she became old enough to be a bride. To make a long story short, you have on the one side a young man, alone, poorly off, a stranger, a son who had skulked away from home not only without the consent, but even without the knowledge, of his father ; on the other, a girl not inferior to him in birth, and superior to him in fortune ; and this fellow, through the introduction of
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY. 393
the bishop because he was a reader, by favor of the count because he had danced attendance in his hall, without any investigation as to his circumstances by the mother-in-law because his person was not displeasing to her daughter, woos and wins and marries that young lady. The marriage articles are signed, and in them some beggarly little plot of ground which he happened to possess near our borough is set forth with truly comic pomposity. When the solemn swindle was accomplished, the poor beloved one carried off his wealthy rpouse, after diligently hunting up all the possessions of his late father-in-law and converting them into money, besides adding to them a handsome gratuity drawn from the easy generosity of his credulous mother-in-law, and then, unrivaled humbug that he was, he beat a retreat to his own native place.
" Some time after he had gone, the girl's mother discovered the fraud, and had to mourn over the dwindling proportions of the estates comprised in her daughter's settlement, at the very time when she should have been rejoicing over the augmented number of her grandchildren. She wanted to institute a suit for recovery of her money, on the ground that he had fraudu lently overstated his property ; and it was in fact in order to soothe her wrath that our new Hippolytus set forth for Mar seilles, when he first brought you my letter of introduction.
" Now, then, you have the whole story of this excellent young man ; a story, I think, worthy of the Milesian Fables or an Attic comedy. It remains for you to show yourself a worthy successor of Bishop Eustachius by discharging the duties of patronage to the dear youth whom he took under his protection. You asked me for a lengthy letter, and therefore if it is rather wordy than eloquent you must not take it amiss. Condescend to keep me in your remembrance, my Lord Pope. "
What was the issue of the quarrel between the amatory Amantius and his mother-in-law we are not informed ; but as he acted twice after this as letter carrier between Sidonius and Graecus, we may conjecture that the affair of the settlement took some time to arrange.
Debtor akd Creditor ; the Courtier Turned Devout.
Sidonius wishes health to his friend Turnus.
Well indeed with your name, and with your present business, harmonizes that passage of the Mantuan poet —
394 ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY.
Turnus ! what never god would dare To promise to his suppliant's prayer, Lo, here, the lapse of time has brought E'en to your hands, unasked, unsought.
Long ago, if you remember, your (late) father Turpio, a man of tribunician rank, obtained a loan of money from an officer of the palace named Maximus. He deposited no security either in plate or in mortgage on land ; but as appears by the written instrument prepared at the time, he covenanted to pay twelve per cent to the lender, by which interest, as the loan has lasted for ten years, the debt is more than doubled. But your father fell sick, and was at the point of death : in his feeble state of health the law came down upon him harshly to compel him to refund the debt : he could not bear the annoyance caused by the collectors, and therefore, as I was about to travel to Tou louse, he, being now past hope of recovery, wrote asking me to obtain from the creditor at least some moderate delay. I gladly acceded to his request, as Maximus was not only an acquaintance of mine, but bound to me by old ties of hospitality. I therefore willingly went out of my way to my friend's villa, though it was situated several miles from the highroad. As soon as I arrived he himself came to meet me. When I had known him in times past he was erect in his bearing, quick in his gait, with cheery voice and open countenance. Now how greatly was he changed from his old self ! His dress, his step, his bashfulness, his color, his speech, all had a religious cast : besides, his hair was short, his beard flowing : the furniture of his room consisted of three-legged stools, curtains of goat's-hair canvas hung before his doors : his couch had no feathers, his table no ornament ; even his hospitality, though kind, was fru gal, and there was pulse rather than meat upon his board. Cer tainly, if any delicacies were admitted, they were not by way of indulgence to himself, but to his guests. When he rose from table I privily inquired of his attendants what manner of life was this that he was leading, — a monk's, a clergyman's, or a penitent's. They said that he was filling the office of priest, which had been lately laid upon him by the good will of his fellow-citizens, notwithstanding his protests.
When day returned, while our slaves and followers were occupied in catching our beasts of burden, I asked for an op portunity for a secret conversation with our host. He afforded
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY. 395
it : I gave him an unexpected embrace, and congratulated him on his new dignity: then with my congratulations I blended entreaties. I set forth the petition of my friend Turpio, I urged his necessitous condition, I deplored the extremities to which he was reduced, —extremities which seemed all the harder to his sorrowing friends because the chain of usury was tightening, while the hold of the body upon the soul was loosen ing. Then I begged him to remember his new profession and our old friendship, to moderate at least by a short respite the barbarous insistence of the bailiffs barking round the sick man's bed: if he died, to give his heirs one year in which to indulge their grief without molestation; but as hoped, Turpio should recover his former health, to allow him to restore his exhausted energies by a period of repose.
was still pleading, when suddenly the kind-hearted man burst into flood of tears, caused not by the delay in recovering his debt, but by the peril of his debtor. Then suppressing his sobs, " God forbid," said he, " that as clergyman, should claim that from sick man which should scarcely have insisted upon as soldier from man in robust health. For his children's sake, too, who are also objects of my pity, anything should happen to our friend, will not ask anything more from them than the character of my sacred calling allows. Write them to allay their anxiety and that your letters may obtain the more credit, add letter from me, in which will engage that what ever be the result of this illness (which we will still hope may turn out favorably for our brother), will grant year's delay for the payment of the money, and will forego all that moiety which has accrued by right of interest, being satisfied with the simple repayment of the principal. "
Hereupon poured out my chief thanks to God, but great thanks also to my host, who showed such care for his own con science and good name: and assured my friend that whatso ever he relinquished to you he was sending on before him into heaven, and that by refraining from selling up your father's farms, he was buying for himself kingdom above.
Now, for what remains, do you bestir yourself to repay forth with the principal at least of the loan, and thus take the best means of expressing the gratitude of those who, linked to you by the tie of brotherhood, haply by reason of their tender years, scarcely yet understand what a boon has been granted them. Do not begin to say, " have joint heirs in the estate the divi
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896 ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY.
sion is not yet accomplished : all the world knows that I have been more shabbily treated than they : my brother and sister are still under age: she has not yet a husband, nor he a cura tor, nor is a surety found for the acts and defaults of that curator. " All these pretexts are alleged to all creditors, and to unreasonable creditors they are not alleged amiss. But when you have to deal with a person of this kind, who fore goes the half when he might press for the whole, if you prac tice any of these delays you give him a right to redemand as an injured man the concessions which he made as a good- natured one. Farewell.
Barbarian Life.
Sidonius wishes health to (his brother-in-law) Agricola.
You have many times asked me to write to you a letter describing the bodily appearance and manner of life of The- odoric, king of the Goths, whose love for our civilization is justly reported by common fame. I willingly accede to your request, so far as the limits of my paper will allow, and I praise the noble and delicate anxiety for information which you have thus exhibited.
Theodoric is "a noticeable man," one who would at once attract attention even from those who casually beheld him, so richly have the will of God and the plan of nature endowed his person with gifts corresponding to his completed pros perity. His character is such that not even the detraction which waits on kings can lessen the praises bestowed upon it. If you inquire as to his bodily shape, he has a well-knit frame, shorter than the very tallest, but rising above men of middle stature. His head is round and domelike, his curling hair retreats a little from the forehead towards the top. He is not bull-necked. A shaggy arch of eyebrows crowns his eyes ; but if he droops his eyelids, the lashes seem to fall well- nigh to the middle of his cheeks. The lobes of his ears, after the fashion of his nation, are covered by wisps of overlying hair. His nose is most beautifully curved ; his lips are thin, and are not enlarged when the angles of his mouth are dilated ; if by chance they open and show a regular, but rather promi nent set of teeth, they at once remind you of the color of milk. He cuts every day the hairs which grow at the bottom of his nostrils. At his temples, which are somewhat hollowed
Interior of a Roman's House Photogravure from an etching
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY. 397
out, begins a shaggy beard, which in the lower part of his face is plucked out by the roots by the assiduous care of his barber. His chin, his throat, his neck, all fleshy without obesity, are covered with a milk-white skin, which, when more closely inspected, is covered with a youthful glow. For it is modesty, not anger, which so often brings this color into his face.
His shoulders are well turned, his arms powerful, his fore arms hard, his hands widespread : he is a well set-up man, with chest prominent and stomach drawn in. You can trace on the surface of his back the points where the ribs terminate in the deeply recessed spine. His sides are swollen out with prominent muscles. Strength reigns in his well-girded loins. His thigh is hard as horn ; the leg joints have a very mascu line appearance ; his knee, which shows but few wrinkles, is especially comely. The legs rest upon full round calves, and two feet of very moderate size support these mighty limbs.
You will ask, perhaps, what is the manner of his daily life in public. It is this. Before dawn he attends the celebration of divine service by his (Arian) priests, attended by a very small retinue. He shows great assiduity in this practice, though, if you are admitted to his confidence, you may per ceive that it is with him rather a matter of habit than of religious feeling. The rest of the morning is devoted to the care of the administration of his kingdom. Armed nobles stand round his chair ; the crowd of skin-clothed guards are admitted to the palace, in order to insure their being on duty ; they are kept aloof from the royal presence that their noise may not disturb him, and so their growling talk goes on before the doors, shut out as they are by the curtain, though shut in by the railings. Within the inclosure are admitted the ambas sadors of foreign powers : he hears them at great length, he answers in few words. In negotiation his tendency is to delay, in action to promptitude.
It is now the second hour after sunrise : he rises from his throne and spends his leisure in inspecting his treasury or his stables. If a hunting day is announced, he rides forth, not carrying his bow by his side — that would be beneath his kingly dignity — but if in the chase, or on the road, you point out to him beast or bird within shooting distance, his hand is at once stretched out behind him, and the slave puts into it the bow with its string floating in the air ; for he deems it a womanish
398 ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY.
thing to have your bow strung for you by another, and a child ish thing to carry it in a case. When he has received it, some times he bends the two ends towards one another in his hand, sometimes he lets the unknotted end drop to his heel, and then with quickly moving finger tightens the loose knot of the wan dering string. Then he takes the arrows, fits them in, sends them forth, first desiring you to tell him what mark you wish him to aim at. You choose what he has to hit, and he hits it. If there is a mistake made by either party, it is more often the sight of the chooser than the aim of the archer that is at fault.
If you are asked to join him in the banquet (which, how ever, on non-festal days, is like the entertainment of a private person), you will not see there the panting servants laying on the groaning table a tasteless heap of discolored silver. The weight, then, is to be found in the conversation rather than in the plate, since all the guests, if they talk of anything at all, talk of serious matters. The tapestry and curtains are some times of purple (cloth), sometimes of cotton. The meats on the table please you, not by their high price, but by the skill with which they are cooked ; the silver by its brightness, not by its weight. The cups and goblets are so seldom replenished that you are more likely to complain of thirst than to be accused of drunkenness. In short, you may see there Greek elegance, Gallic abundance, Italian quickness, the pomp of a public per sonage, the assiduity of a private citizen, the discipline of a king's household. Of the luxury which is displayed on high days and holidays I need not give you any account, because it cannot be unknown even to the most unknown persons. Let me return to my task.
The noontide slumber, when the meal is ended, is never long, and is frequently omitted altogether. Often at this time he takes a fancy to play at backgammon : then he collects the counters quickly, views them anxiously, decides on his moves skillfully, makes them promptly, talks to the counters jocularly, waits his turn patiently. At a good throw he says nothing, at a bad one he laughs ; neither good nor bad makes him lose his temper or his philosophical equanimity. He does not like a speculative game either on the part of his adversary or himself, dislikes a lucky chance offered to himself, and will not reckon on its being offered to his opponent. You get your men out of his table without unnecessary trouble, he gets his out of yours
ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY. 399
without collusion. You would fancy that even in moving his counters he was planning a campaign. His sole anxiety is to conquer.
When a game is on hand, he drops for a little time the severity of royal etiquette, and invites his companions in play to free and social intercourse. To tell you what I think, he fears to be feared. At the end he is delighted to see the vexa tion of a conquered rival, and takes credit to himself for having really won the game, when his opponent's ill temper shows that he has not yielded out of courtesy. And here notice a strange thing : often that very complacency of his, arising from such a trifling cause, insures the successful carriage of serious business. Then petitions, which have well-nigh been shipwrecked by the injudiciousness of those who favored them, suddenly find a harbor of safety. In this way, I myself, when I have had somewhat to ask of him, have been fortunate enough to be beaten, and have seen my table ruined with a light heart, because I knew that my cause would triumph.
About the ninth hour (three o'clock) comes back again all that weary turmoil of kingship. The suitors return, the guards return whose business it is to remove them. Everywhere you hear the hum of claimants ; and this is protracted till nightfall, and only ceases when it is cut short by the royal supper. Then the petitioners, following their various patrons, are dis persed throughout the palace, where they keep watch till bed time arrives. At the supper sometimes, though rarely, comic actors are introduced who utter their satiric pleasantries : in such fashion, however, that none of the guests shall be wounded by their biting tongues. At these repasts no hydraulic organs blow, no band of vocalists under the guidance of a singing mas ter intone together their premeditated harmony. No harpist, no flute player, no choir master, no female player on the tam bourine or the cithara, makes melody. The king is charmed only by those instruments under whose influence virtue soothes the soul as much as sweet sounds soothe the ear. When he rises from table the royal treasury receives its sentinels for the night, and armed men stand at all the entrances to the palace, by whom the hours of his first sleep will be watched over.
But what has all this to do with my promise, which was to tell you a little about the king, not a great deal about his manner of reigning ? I really must bid my pen to stop, for you did not ask to be made acquainted with anything more
400 ROMAN AND PROVINCIAL LIFE IN FIFTH CENTURY.
than the personal appearance and favorite pursuits of Theodo- ric : and I sat down to write a letter, not a history. Fare well.
The Burgundians.
While our poet was residing at Lyons (apparently) he was asked by one of his friends, an ex-consul named Catulinus, to compose an epithalamium, perhaps for his daughter's marriage.
In a short humorous poem of apology, Sidonius incidentally touches off some of the physical characteristics of the Burgun dians by whom he was surrounded ; and who, it is important to observe, troubled him not by their hostility, but by their too hearty and demonstrative friendship.
Ah me ! my friend, why bid me, e'en if I had the power,
To write the light Fescennine verse, fit for the nuptial bower ? Do you forget that I am set among the long-haired hordes, That daily I am bound to bear the stream of German words, That I must hear, and then must praise with sorrowful grimace (Disgust and approbation both contending in my face),
Whate'er the gormandizing sons of Burgundy may sing,
While they upon their yellow hair the rancid butter fling?
Now let me tell you what it is that makes my lyre be dumb :
It cannot sound when all around barbarian lyres do hum.
The sight of all those patrons tall (each one is seven feet high), From my poor Muse makes every thought of six-foot meters fly. Oh ! happy are thine eyes, my friend ; thine ears, how happy those ! And oh ! thrice happy I would call thine undisgusted nose.
'Tis not round thee that every morn ten talkative machines Exhale the smell of onions, leeks, and all their vulgar greens. There do not seek thy house, as mine, before the dawn of day, So many giants and so tall, so fond of trencher play
That scarce Alcinous himself, that hospitable king,
Would find his kitchen large enough for the desires they bring. They do not, those effusive souls, declare they look on thee
As father's friend or foster sire — but, alas ! they do on me.
But stop, my Muse ! pull up ! be still ! or else some fool will say " Sidonius writes lampoons again. " Don't you believe them, pray I
HERO AND LEANDER. 401
HERO AND LEANDER. By MUSJEU8.
(Translated by Christopher Marlowe. )
[Mns^us lived probably about the fifth century a. d. The following poem, 340 lines in the original, is all we have or know of him. ]
On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, In view and opposite two cities stood, Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might ; The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offered as a dower his burning throne,
Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ;
Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove, Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath : Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives : Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast : And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone. She ware no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white. Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she,
And branched with blushing coral to the knee :
Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold, Such as the world would wonder to behold :
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which as she went would cherup through their bills. vol. vu. — 26
HERO AND LEANDER.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined,
And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true ; so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother :
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest.
****** On this feast day, — 0 cursed day and hour ! —
When Hero went through Sestos, from her bower To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
As after chanced, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this had Venus none :
The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, Wherein was Proteus carved ; and overhead
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
Where by one hand lightheaded Bacchus hung, And with the other wine from grapes outwrung. Of crystal shining fair the pavement was ;
The town of Sestos called it Venus' glass :
****** For know, that underneath this radiant flower
Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower ;
Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed,
To dally with Idalian Ganymede,
And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud ; Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net
Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set ; Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy ; Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy
That now is turned into a cypress tree,
Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
And in the midst a silver altar stood :
There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,
Veiled to the ground, veiling her eyelids close ;
And modestly they opened as she rose :
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head ; And thus Leander was enamored.
Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed,
Till with the fire, that from his countenance blazed, Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook :
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.
HERO AND LEANDER. 403
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stript long e'er the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win ; And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect :
The reason no man knows ; let it suffice,
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate the love is slight :
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight ?
He kneeled ; but unto her devoutly prayed :
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
" Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him ; " And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him. He started up ; she blushed as one ashamed ;
Wherewith Leander much more was inflamed.
He touched her hand ; in touching it she trembled :
Love deeply grounded hardly is dissembled.
These lovers parled by the touch of hands :
True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled, The air with sparks of living fire was spangled;
And night, deep-drenched in misty Acheron,
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day) : And now begins Leander to display
Love's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears ; Which, like sweet music, entered Hero's ears ;
And yet at every word she turned aside,
And always cut him off, as he replied.
******
These arguments he used, and many more ; Wherewith she yielded, that was won before. Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war : Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus having swallowed Cupid's golden hook,
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook : Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,
And would be thought to grant against her will. So having paused awhile, at last she said,
" Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid ? Aye me I such words as these should I abhor,
And yet I like them for the orator. "
With that Leander stooped to have embraced her,
404
HEKO AND LEANDER.
But from his spreading arms away she cast her, And thus bespake him : " Gentle youth, forbear To touch the sacred garments which I wear. Upon a rock, and underneath a hill,
Far from the town (where all is whist and still, Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand, Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land, Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
In silence of the night to visit us),
My turret stands ; and there, God knows, I play With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.
A dwarfish beldam bears me company,
That hops about the chamber where I lie,
And spends the night, that might be better spent, In vain discourse and apish merriment : —
Come thither. "
As she spake this, her tongue tripped, For unawares " Come thither " from her slipped ;
And suddenly her former color changed,
And here and there her eyes through anger ranged ; And, like a planet, moving several ways
At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart :
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made heaven stoop to have a touch, Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vowed spotless chastity ; but all in vain :
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings ;
Her vows about the empty air he flings :
All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent,
And shot a shaft that burning from him went ; Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully,
As made love sigh to see his tyranny ;
And, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turned,
And wound them on his arm, and for her mourned.