There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore.
"Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat!
And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that."
All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine."
They called him "Strike-out Casey" from the mayor down the line,
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.
The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again.
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.
And Casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown.
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild.
He doffed his cap in proud disdain--but Casey only smiled.
"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began;
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one."
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.
Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night
When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" And the fifth "flew out to right."
A dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face--
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!"
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan--"Strike one!" the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee--
"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot.
But here the pitcher whirled again--was that a rifle shot?
A whack! a crack! and out through space the leather pellet flew--
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit;
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit!
Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;
But Mudville hearts are happy now--for Casey hit the ball!--_Exchange._
A Course From Trimalchio's Dinner.
By GAIUS PETRONIUS.
Translated from the Latin by HARRY THURSTON PECK, Professor of Latin,
Columbia University.
The first realistic novel of which any portion has been
preserved to modern times is the so-called "Satyricon" of
Gaius Petronius, who lived at Rome in the early part of the
first century A.D. Petronius was the favorite courtier of
the Emperor Nero. Men knew him as one who set the fashions
in dress and manners, so that he had been compared to Beau
Brummel. He was, however, under all his foppishness, a
person of much intellect, which he showed both as an
administrator in high political office and as an author.
Enemies who were jealous of him accused him to the emperor
of treason; and, knowing that his condemnation was certain,
he resolved to die by his own hands. He therefore opened a
vein and slowly bled to death, checking, however, the flow
of blood from time to time, and down to the very last
chatting and joking with his friends. A very interesting and
probably accurate pen-picture of him is given by Henryk
Sienkiewicz in his famous novel "Quo Vadis."
The "Satyricon" of Petronius was originally a lengthy novel
of which there remains to us only about a hundred pages. The
book related the adventures of two disreputable sharpers who
lived by their wits; and the portion which we still have
gives many glimpses of vagabond existence in ancient Italy.
The selection here reprinted contains part of the account of
a lavish dinner given by a vulgar old millionaire named
Trimalchio, and the guests are mainly ignorant and boastful
friends of the host, who talk and brag after their own
fashion. This passage is remarkable because it contains the
only continuous specimen of Latin slang which we now
possess, and which differs decidedly from the elegant Latin
of literature. It bears many resemblances to the English and
American slang of the present day, and makes the ancient
Romans appear almost modern. The translation is that of
Professor Harry Thurston Peck in his "Trimalchio's Dinner,"
and is reprinted here by the courteous permission of Messrs.
Dodd, Mead & Co.
_Copyright, 1898, by Dodd, Mead & Co., New York._
We had already taken our places, all except Trimalchio himself, for whom
the seat of honor was reserved. Among the objects placed before us was a
young ass made of Corinthian bronze and fitted with a sort of pack-saddle
which contained on one side pale-green olives and on the other side dark
ones. Two dishes flanked this; and on the margin of them Trimalchio's name
was engraved and the weight of the silver. Then there were little
bridge-like structures of iron which held dormice seasoned with honey and
poppy-seed; and smoking sausages were arranged on a silver grill which
had underneath it dark Syrian plums to represent black coals, and scarlet
pomegranate seeds to represent red-hot ones.
In the midst of all this magnificence Trimalchio was brought in to the
sound of music and propped up on a pile of well-stuffed cushions. The very
sight of him almost made us laugh in spite of ourselves; for his shaven
pate was thrust out of a scarlet robe, and around his neck he had tucked a
long fringed napkin with a broad purple stripe running down the middle of
it. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a huge gilt ring, and on
the last joint of the next finger a ring that appeared to be of solid
gold, but having little iron stars upon it. Moreover, lest we should fail
to take in all his magnificence, he had bared his right arm, which was
adorned with a golden bracelet and an ivory circle fastened by a
glittering clasp.
As he sat there picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, he remarked:
"Well, friends, it was just a bit inconvenient for me to dine now; but, so
as not to delay you by my absence, I have denied myself a considerable
amount of pleasure."
While we were still eating the _hors d'oeuvres_, a tray was brought in
with a basket on which a wooden fowl was placed with its wings spread out
in a circle after the fashion of setting hens. Immediately two slaves
approached and amid a burst of music began to poke around in the straw,
and having presently discovered there some pea-hens' eggs, they
distributed them among the guests.
Trimalchio looked up during this operation and said:
"Gentlemen, I had the hens' eggs placed under this fowl; but I'm rather
afraid they have young chickens in them. Let's see whether they're still
fit to suck."
So we took our spoons, which weighed not less than half a pound each, and
broke the egg-shells, which were made of flour paste. As I did so, I was
almost tempted to throw my egg on the floor, for it looked as though a
chicken had just been formed inside; but when I heard an old diner-out by
my side saying:
"There's bound to be something good here," I thrust my finger through the
shell and drew out a plump reed-bird, surrounded by yolk of egg, well
seasoned with pepper.
I was unable to eat another mouthful; and so, turning to my companion, I
tried to draw as much information out of him as possible, and to get the
run of the gossip of the house, asking, in the first place, who the woman
was who was darting here and there about the room.
"Oh," said he, "that's Trimalchio's wife. Her name is Fortunata. She has
money to burn now, but a little while ago what do you suppose she was?
Your honor will excuse me for saying so, but really in those days you
wouldn't have taken a piece of bread from her hand. And now, without any
why or wherefore, she's at the top notch and is all the world to
Trimalchio--in fact, if she should say it was night at noonday, he'd
believe her. As for Trimalchio himself, he's so rich that he doesn't know
how much money he's got; but this jade has an eye to everything, even the
things that you wouldn't think about yourself. She doesn't drink, she's as
straight as a string--in fact, a really smart woman; but she has an
awfully sharp tongue, a regular magpie on a perch. If she likes any one,
she likes him way down to the ground, and if she doesn't like him, she
just hates him! Trimalchio's estates are so large that it would tire a
bird to fly over them, and he has heaps on heaps of cash. Take his silver
plate, for instance. Why, there's more of it in his janitor's office than
most persons have in their entire outfit; and his slaves--well, sir,
they're so numerous that I don't think a tenth part of them would
recognize their own master. In fact, when it comes to money, he can buy up
any of these chumps here ten times over; and there's no reason for his
paying out money for anything at all, because he produces everything on
his own place--wool and cedar wood and pepper--why, if you were to ask for
hens' milk, you'd get it. To give you an instance: He found that he wasn't
getting very good wool, so he bought some rams at Tarentum and changed the
breed of his sheep. Again, because he wanted to have Athenian honey right
here on his estate, he imported bees from Athens, and incidentally these
improved the breed of the native bees also. Only a few days ago he wrote
and ordered mushroom-seed to be sent him from India. He hasn't a single
mule on his place that wasn't sired by a wild ass. Just see how many
cushions he has here. Every single one of them has either purple or
scarlet stuffing. That's what I call being rich. But you're not to suppose
that his associates here are to be sneezed at, for they've got plenty of
rocks too. Just look at that man who has the last place at the table. Even
he has to-day his little eight hundred thousand, and yet he started out
with nothing. It wasn't very long ago that he was a porter carrying wood
on his back through the street. But, as the saying goes, he found a fairy
wishing-cup. I never grudge a man his good luck. It only means that he
knows how to look out for himself; and this chap over here not long ago
put up his shanty for sale with this sort of an advertisement:
"'Gaius Pompeius Diogenes will let this lodging from July first, having
just bought a large house for himself.'
"Now, take the case of that other man over there who has the freedman's
place at the table. How well off do you suppose he is? I don't know
anything against him, but he's seen the time when he had his little
million; only, somehow or other, he went wrong. To-day I don't imagine he
has a hair on his head that isn't mortgaged, and it isn't his own fault
either, for there's no better man in the world; but it's the fault of his
confounded freedmen who made way with everything that he had. You know the
saying, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth,' and the other saying that 'He
who loses money loses friends.' And what a fine profession he had, too,
just as you see him now! He was an undertaker. He used to dine like a king
on wild boar with pastry and birds, and he had cooks and bakers by the
score. They used to spill more wine under his table than most men have in
their wine-cellars. In fact, he was a fairy vision rather than a man. When
his affairs got into Queer Street and he was afraid his creditors would
think that things were in a bad way, he wanted to raise some money on his
goods and chattels; so he advertised an auction of them in this fashion:
'Julius Proculus will hold an auction for the sale of his superfluous
property.'"
After this course, Trimalchio left the room for a few minutes, so that,
feeling a certain freedom in the absence of our master, we began to draw
each other into conversation. Dama, first of all, calling for a goblet,
remarked:
"A day is nothing. Night comes before you can turn around. That's why I
think there's nothing better than to go from your bed straight to the
dining-room. It's a cold climate we have here. Even a bath scarcely warms
me up. In fact, a hot drink is my wardrobe. I've had several stiff drinks
already, so that I'm loaded for bear; for the wine has gone to my head."
At this point Seleucus interrupted him, remarking:
"Well, for my part, _I_ don't take a bath every day. The cold water nips
you so that when you bathe every day your courage all oozes out of you.
But after I've swigged a toby of booze, I tell the cold to go to the
devil. But I couldn't take a bath to-day, anyhow, for I was to a funeral.
Chrysanthus, a fine man and _such_ a good fellow, kicked the bucket. I saw
him only the other day--in fact, I can hear him talking to me now. Dear
me! we go around like blown-up bladders. We're of less consequence than
even the flies, for flies have some spirit in them, while we are nothing
but mere bubbles. But as to Chrysanthus, what if he wasn't a total
abstainer? Anyhow, for five days before he died, he never threw a drink in
his face nor ate a crumb of bread. Well, well, he's joined the majority.
It was the doctors that really killed him, or perhaps just his bad luck;
for a doctor is nothing after all but a sort of consolation to your mind.
He was laid out in great style on his best bed, with his best bedclothes
on, and he had a splendid wake, though his wife wasn't sincere in her
mourning for him. But I say, what if he didn't treat her very well? A
woman, so far as she is a woman, _is_ a regular bird of prey. It isn't
worth while to do a favor for a woman, because it's just as if you'd
chucked it down a well. But love in time becomes a regular ball-and-chain
on a man."
He was getting to be rather boresome when Phileros chimed in:
"Oh, let's think of the living. Your friend has got whatever was his due.
He lived an honorable life and he died an honorable death. What has he to
complain of? From having nothing, he made a fortune, for he was always
ready to pull a piece of money out of a muck-heap with his teeth; and so
he grew as rich as a honey-comb. By Jove! I believe the fellow left a cool
hundred thousand, and he had it all in cash. I'm giving you this straight,
for I have a rough tongue. He was a man of unlimited cheek, a tonguey
fellow, and he always had a chip on his shoulder. His brother was a good
sort of chap, a friend to a friend, a man with an open hand, a generous
table. At the start he had a hard row to hoe, but his first vintage set
him on his legs again, for he sold his wine at his own price. But what
especially kept his head above water was this, that he got hold of a
legacy, and waltzed into a good deal more of it than had been really left
him. But this friend of yours, because he had quarreled with his brother,
left his fortune to some outsider. I tell you a man has to go mighty far
to get away from his relatives! Unfortunately he had slaves who blabbed
all his secrets and harmed him. A man makes a mistake who trusts others
too readily, especially if he's a business man. Nevertheless, while he
lived, he enjoyed what he had."
After Phileros had finished, Ganymedes started in:
"All this talk of yours isn't the least bit to the point. No one here
seems to care about the high price of grain. By Jove, I couldn't get a
mouthful of bread to-day! And how the drought keeps on! We've had a sort
of famine for a year. Confound the officials anyhow, who are standing in
with the bakers! 'Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' as the saying
goes. So the public has to suffer for it and their jaws get a long
vacation. Oh, if we only had those roaring blades that I found here when I
first arrived from Asia! I tell you, _that_ was life! If the flour sold
wasn't equal to the very best, they used to go for those poor devil
officials as if Jupiter himself was angry with them. I remember Safinius.
In those days he used to live down by the old archway, when I was a boy.
He was hot stuff! Wherever he went he used to make the ground smoke! But
he was perfectly straight, a man to rely on, a friend to a friend, a chap
with whom you could safely throw dice with your eyes shut. In the
court-room, too, how he used to make things hum! And he didn't talk in
figures either, but straight to the point, and when he was arguing his
voice used to swell like a trumpet. How affable he was. In those days, I
tell you, grain was as cheap as dirt. If you bought a loaf of bread for a
penny, you couldn't eat it up, even if you hired another man to help you;
whereas nowadays, I've seen bulls'-eyes that were bigger than the loaves.
Dear, dear, every day things are getting worse! The town is growing
backward like a calf's tail. And why do we have a mayor who's no good and
who thinks more of a penny piece than of the lives of all of us? He has a
soft snap in private, for he takes in more money in a day than most of us
have in our whole fortunes. I know one source from which he got a thousand
gold pieces. If we had any spunk he wouldn't be so stuck on himself. But
our people are lions in private and foxes in public. As far as I'm
concerned, I've already eaten up my wardrobe, and if this sort of a
harvest keeps on I'll have to sell my shanties."
The thing had gone to a disgusting extreme when Trimalchio, sodden with
drink, hit upon a new sort of exhibition, and had hornblowers brought into
the dining-room. Then having been propped up on pillows, he sprawled
himself out upon the lowest couch and said:
"Imagine that I am dead. Play a nice tune over me."
The hornblowers blew a funeral march; and one of them, the slave of the
undertaker, who was really the most respectable man in the crowd, blew
such a tremendous blast that he roused up the whole neighborhood. The
police who were on duty in the vicinity, thinking that Trimalchio's house
was on fire, suddenly broke down the door and rushed in with axes and
water, as was their right. Seizing this very favorable opportunity, we
gave Agamemnon the slip, and made our escape as hastily as though we were
really fleeing from a conflagration.
The thoughts that come often unsought, and, as it were, drop
into the mind, are commonly the most valuable of any we
have, and therefore should be secured, because they seldom
return again.--=Locke.= (1632-1704.)
Little Glimpses of the 19th Century.
The Great Events in the History of the Last One Hundred Years, Assembled
so as to Present a Nutshell Record.
[_Continued from page 433._]