your will upon this mass of flesh and bones which I esteem no higher
than the rags that cover them. Here, in your capital, do I defy you.
Have I not conquered your armies, fired your towns, and dragged your
generals at my chariot wheels, since first my youthful arms could wield
a spear? And do you think to see me crouch and cower before a tamed and
shattered senate? The tearing of flesh and the rending of sinews are
but pastime compared with the mental agony that heaves my frame.
“The moon has scarce yet waned since the proudest of Rome’s proud
matrons, the mother upon whose breast I slept, and whose fair brow so
oft had bent over me before the noise of battle had stirred my blood,
or the fierce toil of war nerved my sinews, did with the fondest memory
of bygone hours entreat me to remain. I have seen her, who, when my
country called me to the field, did buckle on my harness with trembling
hands, while the tears fell thick and fast down the hard corselet
scales,--I have seen her tear her gray locks and beat her aged breast,
as on her knees she begged me not to return to Carthage; and all the
assembled senate of Rome, grave and reverend men, proffered the same
request. The puny torments which ye have in store to welcome me withal
shall be, to what I have endured, even as the murmur of a summer’s
brook to the fierce roar of angry surges on a rocky beach.
“Last night, as I lay fettered in my dungeon, I heard a strange ominous
sound; it seemed like the distant march of some vast army, their
harness clanging as they marched, when suddenly there stood by me
Xanthippus, the Spartan general, by whose aid you conquered me, and,
with a voice low as when the solemn wind moans through the leafless
forest, he thus addressed me: ’Roman, I come to bid thee curse, with
thy dying breath, this fated city; know that in an evil moment, the
Carthaginian generals, furious with rage that I had conquered thee,
their conqueror, did basely murder me. And then they thought to stain
my brightest honor. But, for this foul deed, the wrath of Jove shall
rest upon them here and hereafter.’ And then he vanished.
“And now, go bring your sharpest torments. The woes I see impending
over this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though every
nerve and artery were a shooting pang. I die! but my death shall prove
a proud triumph; and, for every drop of blood ye from my veins do
draw, your own shall flow in rivers. Woe to thee, Carthage! Woe to
the proud city of the waters! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of
Roman senators! thy citizens in terror! thy ships in flames! I hear the
victorious shouts of Rome! I see her eagles glittering on her ramparts.
Proud city, thou art doomed! The curse of Jove is on thee--a clinging,
wasting curse. It shall not leave thy gates till hungry flames shall
lick the fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs
crimson to the sea.”
HANNIBAL AT THE ALTAR
The last rays of the setting sun lingered on the towers of Carthage,
and tinged with a warm flush the snowy crests of the waves that flung
their gray foam to its very ramparts. Laughing maidens, bearing their
pitchers from the fountains, assembled at the gates; tired camels that
all day long had borne from distant and tributary realms vestments of
purple, fragrant gums, and dust of gold, released from their burdens,
were feeding beneath the walls; while from the deck of many a galley
the slave’s rude song floated on the evening air.
In a quiet vale, secluded, yet not distant from the city, beneath the
shadow of a palm, reclines a lovely woman; the low-voiced summer wind,
stirring the citron groves, has lulled her to rest. The ripe grapes
from a pendent vine almost touch her swelling breast. The spray of a
neighboring fountain falls in minute drops, like tears of pearl, on
her cheek, while a beautiful boy, tired with play, has nestled to her
side, half hidden by her flowing locks.
Hurried footsteps are heard in the distance, a heavy hand puts aside
the branches, and Hamilcar, the chieftain of the Carthaginian armies,
stands beneath the shadow of the palm; as he bends forward to look upon
his slumbering wife, a ripe grape, shaken by the plume of his helmet
from the cluster, falls upon the face of the sleeper, and she awakes.
Bright tears of pride and joy glitter in her dark eyes, as, seated at
his feet among the flowers, her white arm flung in careless happiness
across his sinewy knees and throbbing in his gauntleted grasp, she
gazes on the towering form and noble brow on which the stern traces
of recent conflict still linger. Tempests have bronzed his cheek,
desperate and bloody conflicts left their scars upon him; yet is he not
less dear to her than when in joy of youth they crowned the altars of
the gods with flowers, sporting among the sheaves at harvest home. Thus
she speaks:--
“My lord, is it disaster or business of the State that brings you
here? Your eye is troubled, and these iron fingers too rudely press
my flesh, as though your thoughts were dark and fraught with doubt or
danger.”
“I have left the camp to make good a purpose long since known to thee,
to devote with sacred rites this boy at the altar of Mars, and pledge
him to eternal enmity with Rome.”
“Is this the weighty business which brings thee at this twilight and
unaccustomed hour, thine armor soiled with dust, thy brow with sweat,
in such fierce haste to pluck this fair child from his mother’s breast,
and train him up to slaughter? Strange that this great empire, so full
of men and arms and fleets of war, should need the arm of childhood to
protect it. Stern man, thou lovest me not.”
“Why question thus my love? For as this breastplate does my heart
defend, so have I cherished and protected thee, while in thy fragile
beauty thou hast clung around the warrior’s stubborn strength, even as
that wreathing vine doth yonder citron clasp, adorning its protector;
but little dost thou know, fair wife, of the affairs of nations and of
camps. Beneath these shades where the cool zephyr from Trinacrian hills
breathes through spicy groves thou hast reposed; no tear has stained
thy cheek except the fountain’s pearly drops that glistened there when
I thy sleep disturbed.
“Not thus my path has lain; too well I know the Roman’s iron strength;
in times of truce and intervals of conflict I have seen his daily
life and marked his customs well. Poverty, at Carthage a disgrace, he
but rejoices in. The water of the brook to quench his thirst, the dry
leaves for his bed, and bread of simplest preparation supply his wants.
Then, as the fierce she-wolf whose dugs nourished his ancestors doth
raven for her whelps, so goes he forth to plunder and to prey among
the nations, and, for the sake of stealing that which stolen is not
worth the keeping, will life and fortune set upon a cast. Show to a
Roman senate some patch of sand within mid-Africa, some waste of Alpine
rocks, white with eternal snows, where, famished peasants watch their
starving flocks and wrestle with the avalanche for life; did Phlegethon
with all his burning waves the wretched pittance guard, and fierce
Eumenides beleaguer all the shore, yet would a Roman consul dare the
flood, do battle with the lion for his sands, and slay the shivering
goatherd for his rocks.
“The Romans turn their greedy eyes toward these fair realms; they seek
to lay in ashes these ancestral towers, where whatsoever piety reveres,
memory recalls, or old affection cherishes, is garnered and bestowed,
nor will they pause till every wave of this encircling sea, crimsoned
with the gore of matrons, of aged men, and even of the laughing and
unconscious babe, shall roll its bloody burden to the shore.
“Most unequal is the conflict. The men who reared these towers and
moistened with their blood these battlements are not; in their stead
has come a race of petty shopkeepers and sycophants, having no inner
life, no haughty purpose or generous resolve, no strength to keep what
their forefathers won. The streets are thronged with youths whose
dainty limbs are clad in flowing and embroidered robes, whose jewelled
fingers are skilful to touch the lyre, but not to press the war-horse
through ranks of thronging spearmen, to draw the Numidian arrow to the
head, and dip its thirsty point in hostile blood. The rest are veterans
gray with years, and most unfit for service, like the shepherd’s dog
that, stiff with age and pampered with good living, erects his hair
and shows his toothless jaws, making in vain a noble front before the
gaunt and wiry wolf.
“Our only hope is in the legions I have drawn from Spain, and trained
in foreign wars to conflict. But my step, once lighter than the
brindled tigers on the Libyan sands, grows heavy with weight of years
and hardships. Were I to fall, armies would lack a leader, my country
one who loves her better than himself, or wife, or child. But the blood
that mantles in this boy’s cheek is that of heroes; thine ancestors and
mine were chieftains of the olden time; and when the lion shall breed
sheep will I believe that any of our race and lineage can ever fail
their country in her hour of need. Therefore, despite thy tears, mine
own affection, and his tender age, from off thy bosom will I take this
child and as the lion brings his whelps afield with claws half-grown
and trains them on the hunters, so will I him. It is not what we
choose, but what our country needs, and sacred liberty requires, that
we must do, though in the conflict our own heartstrings break. He shall
be the enemy of Rome in soul and body and in secret thought. He shall
not feed on dainties and sleep on Tyrian purple till he becomes the
object of men’s sneers. The panther’s shaggy hide, the forest leaves,
the dry bed of some mountain brook, shall be his couch, while on my
corselet scales his cheek shall rest,--the soldier’s iron pillow; and
when with growing strength and hardihood his bones endure the harness,
behind his father’s buckler he shall learn to fight and bathe his
maiden sword in blood.”
At the altar of Mars, surrounded by a vast throng of citizens,
soldiery, and chief estates of the realm, stands Hamilcar; his helmet
down conceals his features from the crowd. On the opposite side of the
altar are his wife and her maidens; at his side the child. Placing
his little fingers on the yet quivering flesh of the victim, he said:
“Hannibal, son of Hamilcar, swear, by this consecrated blood, and in
the presence of that dread God of battles on whose altar it smokes,
that you will neither love nor make peace with any of Roman blood;
should fortune, friends, and weapons fail, you will still live and die
the inexorable enemy of Rome.”
As he paused, the clear tones of that childish voice, answering, “I
swear,” rose upon a stillness so deep that the low crackling of the
flames that fed the altar-fires were distinctly audible.
It was broken by one wild shriek of agony, as the frantic mother fell
fainting into the arms of her maidens.
The stern chieftain spake not, but, as he stooped to raise the child, a
single tear, falling between the bars of his helmet upon the upturned
face of the wondering boy, told of the agony within.
PERICLES TO THE PEOPLE
Imagine yourself at Athens, among that strange people of feverish
blood, who deify to-day the man they slaughtered but yesterday. The
voice of the herald proclaims that Pericles is to be arraigned before
the tribunal of the people. Borne along by the crowd, you enter the
hall of justice. Not a sword rattles in its scabbard; not a mailed foot
rings on the marble floor; one deep, intense, ominous silence pervades
that dangerous assembly, as Pericles, rising, thus addresses them:--
“Ye men of Athens, I come not here to plead for life, though it be
spent in exile; to entreat for a breath, though it be drawn in the
damps of a dungeon; but to refute a vile slander; to show that he who
invents and propagates a falsehood, like Sisyphus, rolls a stone to
return and crush him. Cratinus accuses me of having embezzled the money
raised for the defence of Greece, and of having expended it in adorning
the city of Athens, as a proud and vain woman decketh herself with
jewels.
“Have I not defended Greece, while Sparta and the allies were reposing
in comfort by their own firesides? He avers that I was often at the
house of Phidias to admire his statues, but insinuates that I had
a softer motive. Suppose I had; rather let him show in what I have
betrayed my country, when I have oppressed the poor, polluted myself
with bribes, or turned back in the hour of battle. He accuses me of
sacrificing the lives of brave men to my vaulting ambition, and even
affects to shed tears over those who fell, in the flower of their
youth, at Samos.
“Sacrificing! Were they machines to move at my bidding? bullocks to
be dragged up and offered at the altar of Mars? Were they Persian
mercenaries, to be driven with whips to the conflict? or were they
patriots defending their firesides, and I their elder brother? They
were the descendants of those who fell at Marathon,--men whose youthful
locks had been worn off by the helmet, and whose fingers grew to the
sword-hilt.
“The parents of those brave men did not, with reddening cheeks, behold
them lying on some feverish couch, like a sick girl, crying for
cooling drinks; but they died with their wounds in front, the broken
sword in their hand, and the shout of victory ringing in their ears.
Oh, yes! one hour of glorious conflict--when the blood leaps and the
muscles rally for the mastery, when the hero’s soul wings its way
through gaping wounds to Elysium--is worth a whole eternity of sitting
in senates and dull debates, and private bickerings, and tame, common
life.
“One day, as we were making forced marches across the isthmus in
pursuit of the Lacedæmonians, a woman, following the camp as a sutler,
with a child at her breast, fell and expired from fatigue. A soldier
raised a spear to despatch the infant. Moved with compassion, I struck
down his weapon; for I thought of my own little ones at home, whose
kisses were scarcely yet cold on my lips, and even in the confusion of
pursuit, I provided him with a nurse.
“On my return, he accompanied me, grew up with my children, fed at my
table, slept in my tent, and fought behind my shield. As a reward for
life, education, and a thousand anxious cares incurred, he has now,
by false accusation, summoned me to the tribunal of my country, to
plead for that life which has ever been held cheap in her service. What
shall be done with such a wretch? I hear you exclaim: ’Send for the
executioner! burn him to ashes! fling him from the Acropolis!’
“Cratinus, thou art that wretch; and yet methinks thou hast not
altogether the noble bearing of the patriot who rejoices that he has
been able to bring to justice the betrayer of his country; but thou
hast rather the look of some timid shepherd, who, in chasing the stag,
and pursuing the goat, has, all unwittingly, stumbled upon the lair
of the lion, and, too terrified to flee, stands shivering before the
glaring eyeball of the tawny brute.
“Thou small thing, I will not hurt thee; for, in the proud
consciousness of right, I could even pity thee. And, when again thou
liest among the slain at Megara, thy helmet cleft, the lance of the
enemy at thy throat, and thou with not strength enough to parry it,
then call for Pericles, and he will _again_ come to thy rescue.
Farewell, thou grateful child! thou faithful friend! thou manly enemy!”
ICILIUS
The intolerable oppression of the patricians, to which was now added
the tyranny of the Decemvirs, had excited a spirit of rancor in the
breasts of the Roman commons, which was gradually extending itself to
the entire army that now lay encamped in a strong position within sight
of the enemy. But so sullen was their temper that the generals feared
to lead them from their intrenchments, and the only barrier to open
mutiny seemed to be the absence of special provocation, or the lack of
a leader.
Upon the slopes of Crustumeria hung the dark masses of the Roman
legions, while the watch-fires of their enemy, gleaming through heavy
masses of foliage, lit up the vales below. But the haughty joy with
which these stern warriors were wont to hail the hour of conflict no
longer thrilled the soldiers’ breasts. By the dim light of stars men
spake in whispers; and murmurs, waxing louder as the night wore on,
like the hollow moan of surf before the gathering tempest, rose on the
midnight air.
Just as the red light, touching, tinged the mountain summits, a
warrior, clad in gory mantle from which the blood, slow dripping, had
stained his armor and clotted upon his horse’s mane, rode down the
sentry, and, bursting into the midst of the camp, shouted, “Soldiers,
protect a tribune of the people!” Those pregnant words, associated
with all of liberty the commons had ever known, were to the chafed
spirits of the soldiery as fire to flax. From every quarter of the camp
trumpets sounded to arms, the clash of steel mingled with the tramp of
hurrying feet, and, marshalled by self-elected commanders, the gleaming
cohorts closed around him. But when the helmet, lifted, revealed a
face of wondrous beauty, stained by the traces of recent grief, the
eyes flashing with the light of incipient madness, and they recognized
the features of that tribune most of all beloved by the people, tears
trembled on the cheeks of that stern soldiery, and, “Icilius!” ran in a
low wail through their ranks.
“Comrades,” he cried, “you behold no more that young Icilius who, foot
to foot and shield to shield with you, has borne the brunt of many a
bloody day, and whose life was like a summer’s morning, rich with the
fragrance of the opening buds, while every morn gave promise of new
joys, and twilight hours were in their lingering glories dressed,--but
a man sore broken, made ruthless by oppression, and so beset with
horrors that this reeling brain, just tottering on the verge of
madness, is steadied only by the purpose of revenge.
“Yesterday, Virginia, my betrothed, was by her father slain, to thwart
the lust of Appius Claudius, a guardian of the public virtue and a
ruler of the State.
“As she crosses the forum, on her way to school, that she may take
leave of her mates, and invite them to her bridal, some ruffians set
on by Appius Claudius lay hold upon her, averring that she is not the
daughter of Virginius, but of a slave-woman, the property of Marcus,
his client. The matter is brought to public trial; Appius, failing
to attain in this manner the custody of her, that he may gratify
his evil passions, commands his soldiers to take her by force. Her
friends, apprehending no violence at a legal tribunal, are without
arms. Soldiers are tearing her from her father’s embrace, when the
stern parent, preferring death to dishonor, catches a knife from the
butcher’s stall, and, crying, ’Thus only can I restore thee untainted
to thine ancestors,’ stabs her to the heart.
“The purple torrent gushing from her breast, she falls upon my
neck,--her arms embrace me,--her lips close pressed to mine, murmuring
in death my name, she dies.
“In childhood we were lovers; from her father’s door to mine was
but a javelin’s cast. We sought the nests of birds,--played in the
brooks,--chased butterflies--we clapped our hands in childish wonder
when the great eagle from the Apennines plunged headlong to the vale,
or skimmed with level wing along the flood,--and I, adventurous boy,
risked life and limb upon the jutting crag, to pluck some wild flower
that her fancy pleased.
“As generous wine by age becomes more potent, thus fared it with our
loves. For her I kept myself unstained, rushed to the battle’s front,
and honors gained, that I might lay them at her feet, and by her love
inspired, press on to worthier deeds. Like flowers whose kindred roots
intwine, whose perfume mingles on the morning air, did our affections
blend. ’Twas but three nights ago that we sat hand in hand beside the
Tiber, and listened to the song of nightingales among the elms. The
purple twilight quivering through the leaves streamed o’er her brow,
and bathed in heavenly hues her lovely form.
“There we talked of our approaching nuptials. Love ripened into
rapture. I kissed her lips, and chid the slow-paced hours that kept
us from our bliss. The marriage day was fixed. With curtains richly
wrought, and coverings of finest linen, spun by her own hands and by
her maidens’, my mother had adorned the couch.
“To that sweet home where I had hoped through happy years to cherish
her a wife, I bore her mangled corpse, gashed by her father’s hand. Her
blood bedewed the bed decked with those nuptial gifts.
“To you, mates of my boyhood, brethren in battle tried, I stretch my
hands; not in the petty interest of private wrong, but in the sacred
right of Roman liberty, of virgin purity, sweet household joys, and
in the name of those whose fair forms mingle with your dreams, in the
fierce shock of battle nerve your arms, the fragrance of whose parting
kiss yet lingers on your lips.
“The blood of age creeps slowly, and in its timid counsels interest and
fear bear sway. Shall youthful swords lie rusting in the scabbards, and
young men count the odds, when slaughtered beauty from its bloody grave
clamors for vengeance?
“Behold this mantle, drenched in the blood of her whose fingers wove it
as a gift of love,--each precious drop a tongue to shame your lingering
courage. Led by the father with his bloody knife, your comrades thunder
at the gates of Rome, while you, unworthy sons of sires who banished
Tarquin and expelled the kings, sit here deliberating whether the
virgin’s sanctity, the wife’s fair virtue, and all that men and gods
hold sacred, are worth the striking for. Consume your youth in hunger,
cold, and vigils, with spoils of conquered realms to pamper tyrants,
till, waxing wanton on your bounty, they desolate your homes; and ye,
hedged in by mercenary spears, revile your misery.”
His words were drowned in the clash of steel and the cries of
multitudes calling to arms. Tearing the bloody garments in pieces,
he flung them among the thronging battalions. “Be these your eagles.
Bind them to your helmets; and, in the spirit they inspire, strike down
the oppressor, that sweet Virginia’s unquiet ghost no more may wander
shrieking for vengeance on the midnight air, but to the silent shades
appeased return.”
DECIUS
Patriotism in the Roman breast was something more than principle; it
was a passion. The sacred fire, so far from being diminished by age,
waxed purer through the decay of the flesh, and, partaking of the
nature of a divine afflatus, expired only with life itself. After all
reasonable allowances made for the enchantment which distance flings
around the great of past ages, the instances of devotion to country,
scattered here and there through the pages of their history, fill us
with amazement. To extend its empire, contribute to its glory, repel
its enemies, no sacrifice was deemed too great. In common with other
ancient nations they believed that the blood of a human victim, smoking
upon the altar, was a sacrifice most acceptable to the gods, and in
great emergencies an argument of wondrous power. It was therefore
resorted to only when the fate of armies and nations hung trembling in
the balance.
The victims chosen were often aged, useless, or prisoners taken in war;
but when a virgin in the purity of her innocence and the glory of her
expanding charms, or a man of noble birth in the prime of manly vigor,
with high hopes and great inducements to live, voluntarily devoted
themselves to die for the State, victory was considered no longer
doubtful.
The Roman army being engaged in desperate conflict, and hard pressed
by a valiant foe, the left wing, under command of Decius, was forced
to retire; their general, determined to devote himself, arrayed in a
mantle broidered with purple, and standing with bare feet upon his
spear, cried: “Ye gods and heroes who rule over us and our enemies,
and ye infernal deities whose dwelling is in the shades beneath, I
invoke your presence. I entreat you to give victory to the Roman
armies, and strike their enemies with fear and death. I here devote
myself to mother earth and the shades of my ancestors in behalf of the
Roman republic, her legions and auxiliaries, and with myself I devote
the legions and auxiliaries of the enemy. For every drop of my blood
shed in holy sacrifice grant that theirs may flow in torrents; for my
single life, may they atone by thousands.”