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HISTORIC BOYS
Their Endeavours, Their Achievements, and Their Times.
by
E. S. BROOKS.
Illustrated by R. B. Birch and John Schoenberg.
[Illustration: MARCUS ANNIUS VERUS,
AFTERWARD THE EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
(_From a bust in the Capitoline Museum._)]
[Illustration]
London:
Blackie & Son, 49 & 50 Old Bailey, E.C.
Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Dublin.
1886.
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
The world's historic boys and girls have been many. In every age and clime
may be found notable examples of young people who, even before they
reached manhood or womanhood, have--for good or evil--left their impress
on their time.
From these the author of this volume has selected the careers of a dozen
young fellows of different lands and epochs, who, even had they not lived
out their "teens," could have rightly claimed a place in the world's
annals as Historic Boys. They are such also as show that, from the
earliest ages, manliness and self-reliance have ever been the chief
groundwork of character, and that in this respect the boy of the
nineteenth century in no way differs from his brother of the second or the
ninth. To bravely front danger, difficulty, or death, if need be, for
principle or right, is as commendable and as heroic in the boy brought up
amid the surging and restless life of London to-day, as in the lads who
trod the narrow streets of Jerusalem, or Rouen, of Florence, or old Rome
centuries ago.
These stories of boy life, in the stirring days of old, have been based
upon historic facts and prepared with a due regard to historic and
chronologic accuracy. Nine of the twelve stories have already appeared in
_St. Nicholas_ magazine, but these have been revised and amplified for
their present use, while the remaining three were specially prepared for
this volume.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.--MARCUS OF ROME: THE BOY MAGISTRATE, 1
II.--BRIAN OF MUNSTER: THE BOY CHIEFTAIN, 25
III.--OLAF OF NORWAY: THE BOY VIKING, 44
IV.--WILLIAM OF NORMANDY: THE BOY KNIGHT, 65
V.--BALDWIN OF JERUSALEM: THE BOY CRUSADER, 83
VI.--FREDERICK OF HOHENSTAUFEN: THE BOY EMPEROR, 104
VII.--HARRY OF MONMOUTH: THE BOY GENERAL, 126
VIII.--GIOVANNI OF FLORENCE: THE BOY CARDINAL, 154
IX.--IXTLIL' OF TEZCUCO: THE BOY CACIQUE, 178
X.--LOUIS OF BOURBON: THE BOY KING, 196
XI.--CHARLES OF SWEDEN: THE BOY CONQUEROR, 218
XII.--VAN RENSSELAER OF RENSSELAERSWYCK: THE BOY PATROON, 242
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Marcus Annius Verus, afterwards Emperor, from a bust in
the Capitoline Museum, _Frontispiece_
Roman Lictors, 7
Annia, the Sister of Marcus, and her pets, 20
"The boy chieftain knelt and kissed the hem of the darling
little maiden's purple robe," 36
The Castle of Falaise--Birthplace of William the Conqueror, 70
"'So, hollo, my lord duke,' said Hubert, 'what taketh thee
abroad in this guise so early?'" 77
"'Thou the king!' he exclaimed; 'thou that Baldwin of
Jerusalem whom men do call the hero of the Jordan!'" 88
Conrad the Emperor quitting the Crusade, 101
"'Cross at thy peril, Baron Kapparon,' cried Frederick of
Hohenstaufen," 108
Prince Henry picks up the gage of the Percies'
defiance.--"'This shall be my duty,' he said," 140
Hualpilli the Lord of Tezcuco reveals himself,--"'Now who
shall say me nay?' he asked," 184
"I'll make them rue their words ere this day's sun cross
the dome of the Smoking Hill," 190
Cradle of Charles the boy King of Sweden, 219
Eagle Flag of Sweden, 237
"'Suppawn and malck and rulliches, with chocolate and soft
waffles, you know,' said Mistress Margery," 252
"The throng of tenants greeted him with a rousing
birthday cheer," 256
[Illustration]
HISTORIC BOYS.
I.
MARCUS OF ROME: THE BOY MAGISTRATE.
(_Afterward the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus._)
[A.D. 137.]
A perfect autumn day. Above, the clear sky of Italy; below, a grassy
plain, sloping gently down from the brown cliffs and ruined ramparts of
old Veii--the city of the ancient Tuscan kings. In the background, under
the shade of the oaks, a dozen waiting attendants; and here, in the open
space before us, three trim and sturdy Roman youths, all flushed with the
exercise of a royal game of ball. Come, boys and girls of to-day, go back
with me seventeen and a half centuries, and join the dozen lookers-on as
they follow this three-cornered game of ball. They call it the _trigon_.
It is a favorite ball-game with the Roman youth, in which the three
players, standing as if on a right-angled triangle, pitch and catch the
ball, or _pila_, at long distances and with the left hand only. It is not
so easy as you may think. Try it some time and see for yourself.
"This way--toss it this way, Aufidius; our good Sejus will need more
lessons from old Trimalchio, the gladiator, ere he outranks us at
_trigon_."
And with a quick but guarded dash of the left hand the speaker caught the
ball as it came spinning toward him, and with as vigorous a "left-hander"
sent it flying across to young Sejus.
"Faith, my Marcus," said Sejus, as he caught the ball with difficulty,
"the gallop from Lorium has made me somewhat stiff of joint, and I pitch
and catch but poorly. Keep the _pila_ flying, and I may grow more elastic,
though just now I feel much like our last text from Epictetus, that the
good Rusticus gave us yesterday--'a little soul bearing about a corpse.'"
"What then! Art as stiff as that, old Sejus?" gayly shouted Aufidius. "Ho!
brace thee up, man," he cried, as he sent the ball whirling across to
Marcus; "brace thee up, and use rather the words of our wise young Stoic
here--'Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break,
but it stands firm and tames the fury of the waters around it.'"
"'T is well applied, Aufidius. But--said I all that?" Marcus inquired.
"Ay, so didst thou, my Marcus. 'T is all down on my tablets." And with
merry talk the game went on.
But soon old Ballio, the _ordinarius_, or upper servant, left the oak
shade and said to Marcus: "Come, my master; the water-glass shows that we
must soon ride on if we mean to reach Rome by dinner-time."
So the game was broken off, and, after a few nibbles at the cakes and
sweetmeats which one of the slaves carried to "stay the stomachs" of the
travellers, the call "To horse!" was given, and the party moved on toward
the city. The spirits of the lads ran high; and though the one called
Marcus had a sedate and quiet look, he was roused into healthy and hearty
boyishness as, over the Etruscan plains, they galloped on to Rome.
They had been riding, perhaps, a short half hour, when they saw, coming
down a cross-road that entered the highway just beyond them, a large flock
of sheep returning from their summer pasturage on the hills, in charge of
three shepherds and their families. The game and the gallop had made the
boys ripe for mischief; for, though close and patient students, they were
in their hours of sport as ready for a frolic as are any schoolboys of
to-day.
The shepherds, seeing a party of hard riders coming toward them, looked at
their sheep anxiously and eyed the strangers suspiciously. For
sheep-stealing was of common occurrence in those days, and, when changing
pastures, the shepherds were kept constantly on the watch.
The quick eye of Aufidius marked the suspicions of the shepherds.
"Why, Marcus," he exclaimed, "yonder fellows surely take us for
highwaymen."
"Highwaymen, indeed!" said Sejus, indignantly. "Dost think the knaves
could mistake the noble Marcus Verus for a cowardly sheep-stealer."
"And why not," said Marcus, laughingly. "Man looks at man but as his
reason bids him. If shepherds look but for sheep-stealers, to them, at
first, all men are sheep-stealers. Come," he added, gayly, "let us not
disappoint them. What did our teacher Rusticus tell us but yesterday:
'That which is a hinderance is made a furtherance to an act, and that
which is an obstacle on the road helps us on the road.' Shall we not put
his text to the test? Behold our obstacle on the road! Let us ride down
the sheep!"
The spirit of mischief is contagious. Down the highway dashed the whole
party, following the lead of Marcus and his cry of "Forward, friends!"
while the now terrified shepherds turned their huddling sheep around, and
with many cries and much belaboring struggled back to the cross-road to
escape the pretended robbers. But the swift horses soon overtook the
slow-footed shepherds, and the laughing riders, with uplifted weapons and
shouts of seeming victory, were quickly at the heels of the flock. Then
came a change. The shepherds, finding that they could not outrun their
pursuers, stopped, wheeled around, and stood on the defensive, laying
valiantly about them with crook and staff.
"'Go on and increase in valor, O boy! this is the path to immortality,'"
shouted the nimble Aufidius, and with this quotation from Virgil, he
swooped down and caught up a struggling lamb.
"What says your philosophy now, O Marcus?" said Sejus as, rather
ruefully, he rubbed an aching shin, sore from the ringing thwack of a
shepherd's crook.
Marcus dodged a similar blow and replied "That nothing happens to any man,
O Sejus, which he is not fitted by nature to bear. But I have had enough.
Let us go our way in peace."
And turning from the fray, the whole party rode rather ingloriously from
the field of defeat, while the victors vowed a lamb to Pales, the special
patroness of shepherds, for their deliverance from "so blood-thirsty" a
band of robbers.
So, flushed and merry over their adventure, the three lads rode on to
Rome; but, ere they came in sight of the yellow Tiber, a fleet Numidian
slave came running toward them, straight and swift as an arrow, right in
the middle of the highway. Marcus recognized him as one of the runners of
his uncle, the proconsul Titus Antoninus, and wondered as to his mission.
The Numidian stopped short at sight of the party, and, saluting Marcus,
handed him a small scroll. The boy unrolled it, and at once his face
became grave.
"For me; this for me?" he said, and, in seeming surprise, laid his hand
upon the arm of his friend Aufidius. Then, as if remembering that he was a
Stoic, whose desire was to show neither surprise, pleasure, nor pain, let
what might happen, he read the scroll carefully, placed it in his mantle,
and said, half aloud: "How ridiculous is he who is surprised at any thing
which happens in life!"
"What is it that so disturbs you, O Marcus?" Aufidius asked.
"Friends," said the lad, "this scroll from my uncle Antoninus tells me
that I am named by the Emperor's council as prefect[A] of the city while
the consuls and magistrates are at the Latin Games."
"Hail to thee, Prefect! hail! hail! hail!" cried Aufidius and Sejus, while
the whole company joined in a respectful salute.
"Would it were some one more worthy than I, Aufidius," said Marcus,
solemnly.
"Nay, it is rightly decreed, my Marcus," protested his friend, proudly.
"Did not Hadrian, the Emperor, himself say of thee: '_Non Verus, sed
Verissimus!_'[B] and who but thee, Marcus Verissimus--Marcus the most
true--should be the governor of Rome?"
"But think of it, friends! I am but a boy after all. Who can respect a
prefect of sixteen?" still queried the modest Marcus.
Sejus at once dipped into history.
"And why not, O Marcus?" he asked. "Was not Tiberius Caesar a public orator
at nine, and Augustus a master of the horse at seventeen? Was not Titus a
quaestor[C] before he was eighteen, and the great Julius himself a priest
of Jupiter at fourteen? And why, then, should not Marcus Verus, in whose
veins runs the blood of the ancient kings, rightly be prefect of the city
at sixteen?"
"Thou art a good pleader, my Sejus," Marcus said pleasantly. "Since, then,
I must be prefect, may I be a just one, and take for my motto the text of
the good Rusticus: 'If it is not right, do not do it; if it is not true,
do not say it.' So, forward, my good friends! The lictors await me at the
city gate."
So they pressed forward and, with more decorum, rode along the Via Cassia
and across the Milvian Bridge to the broader Via Lata and the city gate.
Here an escort of six lictors with their rods of office welcomed Marcus,
and, thus accompanied, the young magistrate passed down the Via Lata--the
street now known as "the Corso," the great thoroughfare of modern Rome--to
the palace of his uncle Antoninus, near the Coelian Gate.
[Illustration: Lictors.]
"Hail, Prefect!" came the welcome of the noble uncle (one of the grand
characters of Roman history). "And how fare the hens of Lorium?" For the
good proconsul, so soon to be hailed as Caesar and Emperor, loved the
country pleasures and country cares of his farm at Lorium more than all
the sculptured magnificence of the imperial city.
"The hens are well conditioned, O Antoninus," answered the boy, simply.
"But what said I?" his uncle exclaimed gayly. "What cares a prefect of
Rome for the scratching hens of Lorium? As for me, most noble Prefect, I
am but a man from whom neither power nor philosophy can take my natural
affections"; and, as the parrot swinging over the door-way croaked out his
"_Salve!_" (Welcome!), arm-in-arm uncle and nephew entered the palace.
Marcus Annius Verus was in all respects a model boy. Not the namby-pamby
model that all human boys detest, but a right-minded, right-mannered,
healthy, wealthy, and wise young Roman of the second century of the
Christian era. At that time (for the world was not yet Christianized)
there flourished a race of teachers and philosophers known as Stoics--wise
old pagans, who held that the perfect man must be free from passion,
unmoved by either joy or grief, taking every thing just as it came, with
supreme and utter indifference. A hard rule that, but this lad's teachers
had been mainly of the "School of the Stoics," as it was called, and their
wise sayings had made so deep an impression on the little Marcus that,
when only twelve years old, he set up for a full-fledged Stoic. He put on
the coarse mantle that was the peculiar dress of the sect, practised all
their severe rules of self-denial, and even slept on the hard floor or
the bare ground, denying himself the comfort of a bed, until his good
mother, who knew what was best for little fellows, even though they were
Stoics, persuaded him to compromise on a quilt. He loved exercise and
manly sport; but he was above all a wonderful student--too much of a
student, in fact; for, as the old record states, "his excess in study was
the only fault of his youth." And yet he loved a frolic, as the adventure
with the shepherds proves.
Of the best patrician blood of old Rome; the relative and favorite of the
great Emperor Hadrian; a splendid scholar, a capital gymnast, a true
friend, a modest and unassuming lad; he was trying, even at sixteen, to
make the best of himself, squaring all his actions by the rule that he, in
after years, put into words: "I do my duty; other things trouble me not."
Is not this young pagan of seventeen centuries back worthy to be held up
as a model boy? Manly boys, with good principles, good manners, and good
actions, are young gentlemen always, whenever and wherever they may live;
and quickly enough, as did young Marcus of Rome, they find their right
place in the regard and affections of the people about them.
Well, the days of waiting have passed. The great festival to Jove, the
_Feriae Latinae_, has drawn all the high magistrates to Mount Albanus, and
in their stead, as prefect of the city, rules the boy Marcus. In one of
the _basilicae_, or law courts of the great Forum, he sits invested with
the toga of office, the ring and the purple badge; and, while twelve
sturdy lictors guard his curule chair, he listens to the cases presented
to him and makes many wise decisions--"in which honor," says the old
record, "he acquitted himself to the general approbation." It was here no
doubt that he learned the wisdom of the words he wrote in after life: "Do
not have such an opinion of things as he who does the wrong, or such as he
wishes thee to have, but look at them as they are in truth."
"Most noble Prefect," said one of the court messengers, or _accensi_, as
they were called, "there waits, without, one Lydus the herdsman, demanding
justice."
"Bid him enter," said Marcus; and there came into the _basilica_ one whose
unexpected appearance brought consternation to Aufidius and Sejus, as they
waited in the court, and caused even the calm face of Marcus to flush with
surprise. Lydus the herdsman was none other than their old acquaintance,
the shepherd of the Etruscan highway!
"Most noble Prefect," said the shepherd, with a low salutation, "I am a
free herdsman of Lake Sabatinus, and I ask for justice against a band of
terrible highwaymen who lurk on the Via Cassia, near to old Veii. Only
three days since, did these lawless fellows beset me and my companions,
with our flocks, on the highway, and cruelly rob and maltreat us. I pray
thee, let the _cohortes vigilum_[D] search out and punish these robbers;
and let me, too, be fully satisfied for the sheep they did force from
me."
"Not so fast, man," said Marcus, as the shepherd concluded his glib
recital. "Couldst thou identify these knaves, if once they were
apprehended?"
"Ay, that could I, noble Prefect," replied the shepherd, boldly. "They
were led on by three as villainous rascals as go unhung, and these had
with them a crowd of riotous followers."
"Ha! is it so?" said Marcus. "Aufidius! Sejus! I pray you, step this way."
His two friends, in some wonder as to his intention, approached the
tribunal; and Marcus, stepping down from his curule chair, placed himself
between them. "Three villainous rascals, thou didst say. Were they aught
like us, think'st thou?"
"Like you? O noble young Prefect!" began the shepherd, protestingly. But
when, at a word from Marcus, the three lads drew back their arms as if to
brandish their weapons, and shouted their cry of attack, the mouth of
Lydus stood wide open in amazement, his cropped head fairly bristled with
fright, and, with a hasty exclamation, he turned on his heel, and fled
from the _basilica_.
"Ho there, bring him back!" Marcus commanded; and guarded by two lictors,
Lydus was dragged reluctantly back into the presence of the young prefect.
"So, my shepherd," said Marcus, "thou hast recognized thy villainous
rascals. Surely, though, thy fear was larger than thine eyeballs; for thou
didst multiply both the followers and the harm done to thee. Thou hast
asked for justice, and justice thou shalt have! Forasmuch as I and my
companions did frighten thee, though but in sport, it is wise to do well
what doth seem but just. I, then, as prefect of the city, do fine Marcus
Annius Verus, Aufidius Victorianus, and Sejus Fruscianus, each, one
hundred _sestertii_ (about twenty shillings), for interfering with
travellers on the public highway; and I do command the lictors to mark the
offenders unless they do straightway pay the fine here laid upon them."
Aufidius and Sejus looked troubled. They had barely a hundred _sestertii_
between them; but Marcus drew forth an amount equal to the three fines,
and, handing the money to an _accensus_, bade him pay the shepherd. With
many a bow, Lydus accepted the money, and with the words, "O noble young
Prefect! O wise beyond thy years!" he would have withdrawn again.
"Hold!" said Marcus, ascending the tribunal, "hear the rest! Because thou
hast placed a false charge before this tribunal, and hast sought to profit
by thy lying tongue, I, the Prefect, do command that thou dost pay over to
the _scriba_ (clerk of the court) the sum of three hundred _sestertii_, to
be devoted to the service of the poor; and that thou dost wear the wooden
collar until thy fine is paid."
Very soberly and ruefully, Lydus paid over as the price of his big stories
exactly the sum which he had received from the _scriba_, and departed from
the _basilica_ of the boy prefect, if not a poorer, at least a sadder and
a wiser man.
The days of Marcus' magistracy were soon over, and when the great festival
of Jove was ended, and the magistrates had returned to the city, the lad
gave up the curule chair and the dress and duties of his office, and
retired to his mother's house, bearing with him the thanks of the
magistrates, the approval of the Emperor, and the applause of the people.
The villa of the matron Domitia Lucilla, the mother of Marcus, stood
embowered in delightful gardens on the Coelian Hill, the most easterly
of the famous Seven Hills of Rome. In an age of splendor, when grand
palaces lined the streets and covered the hill-slopes of the imperial
city, when fortunes were spent upon baths and gardens, or wasted on a gala
dress, or on a single meal, this pleasant house was conducted upon a plan
that suited the home ways of the mother and the quiet tastes of the son.
Let us enter the spacious vestibule. Here in the door-way, or _ostium_, we
stop to note the "_Salve!_" (Welcome!) wrought in mosaic on the marble
floor, and then pass into the _atrium_, or great living-room of the house,
where the female slaves are spinning deftly, and every thing tells of
order and a busy life. Now, let us pass on to the spacious court-yard, in
the very heart of the house. In the unroofed centre a beautiful fountain
shoots its jets of cooling spray from a marble cistern of clear water.
And here, by the shining fountain, in the central court, stand two
persons--Marcus and his mother. The lad has laid aside his _toga_, or
outside mantle, and his close-fitting, short-sleeved tunic, scarcely
reaching to his knees, shows a well-knit frame and a healthy, sun-browned
skin. His mother, dressed in the tunic and long white _stola_, or outer
robe, is of matronly presence and pleasant face. And, as they talk
together in low and earnest tones, they watch with loving eyes, from the
cool shadows of the high area walls, the motions of the dark-eyed little
Annia, a winsome Roman maiden of thirteen, as, perched upon a cage of pet
pigeons, she gleefully teases with a swaying peacock plume now the
fluttering pigeons and now the wary-eyed Dido, her favorite cat.
"But there is such a thing as too much self-denial, my Marcus," said the
mother in answer to some remark of the lad.
"Nay, this is not self-denial, my mother; it is simple justice," replied
the boy. "Are not Annia and I children of the same father and mother? Is
it just that I should receive all the benefit of our family wealth, and
that she should be dependent on my bounty?"
"Divide then thy father's estate, my son. Let Annia and thyself share
alike, but give it not all to thy sister," his mother suggested.
"'Receive wealth without arrogance and be ready to let it go,' is what the
Stoic Commodus hath taught me," the boy replied. "To whom we love much we
should be ready to give much. Is it not so, my mother?"
"So I believe, my son," the matron answered.
"And if I seek to act justly in this matter, shall I not follow thy
counsels, my mother?" Marcus continued; "for thou hast said, 'No longer
talk about the kind of a man a good man ought to be, but be such.'"
"Ah, Marcus," the pleased mother exclaimed, "thou wilt be a happy man,
too, if thou canst go ever by the right way, and think and act in the
right way, as now. Thou art a good youth."
"And what is goodness, mother," argued the young philosopher, "but the
desire to do justice and to practise it, and in this to let desire end?
Let me, then, as I desire, give all my father's estate to my sister Annia.
My grandfather's is sufficient for my needs. So shall Annia have her fair
marriage portion, and we, my mother, shall all be satisfied."
And now, his sister Annia, wearying of her play with the pigeons, dropped
her peacock plume and ran merrily toward her brother.
"O Marcus," she cried, "'t will soon be time for the bath. Do come and
toss the _pila_ with me;--that is," she added, with mock reverence, "if so
grand a person as the prefect of Rome can play at ball!"
"And why not, my Annia," asked her mother, proudly; "even the world-ruling
Julius loved his game of ball."
"Ah, but our Marcus is greater than the great Caesar. Is he not, mother?"
Annia asked, teasingly.
"Aye, that he is," the mother answered, feelingly; "for, know that he has
this day given up to thee, his sister, one half of his heritage, and
more--unwise and improvident youth!" she added, fondly.
"So let it end, mother," the boy said, as the pretty Annia sprang to him
with a caress. "Come, Annia, let us see who can toss the _pila_ best--a
woman of property, such as thou, or the prefect of three days." And as
hand in hand the brother and sister passed cheerily through the pillared
portico, the mother looked after them with a happy heart and said, as did
that earlier noble Roman matron of whom history tells us: "_These_ are my
jewels!"
[Illustration: ANNIA, THE SISTER OF MARCUS, AND HER PETS.]
The days passed. Winter grew to spring. The ides of March have come. And
now it is one of the spring holidays of Rome, the fourteenth of March in
the year 138--the _Equiria_, or festival of Mars. Rome is astir early, and
every street of the great city is thronged with citizens and strangers,
slaves and soldiers, all hurrying toward the great pleasure-ground of
Rome--the Circus Maximus. Through every portal the crowds press into the
vast building, filling its circular seats, anxious for the spectacle. For
the magistrate of the games for this day, it is said, is to be the young
Marcus Annius, he who was prefect of the city during the last Latin Games;
and, more than this, the festival is to close with a grand _venatio_--a
wild-beast hunt!
There is a stir of expectation; a burst of trumpets from the Capitol; and
all along the Sacred Street and through the crowded Forum goes up the
shout, "Here they come!" With the flutes playing merrily, with swaying
standards and sacred statues gleaming in silver and gold, with proud young
cadets on horse and on foot, with priests in their robes and guards with
crested helms, with strange and marvellous beasts led by burly keepers,
with a long string of skilled performers, restless horses, and gleaming
chariots, through the Forum and down the Sacred Street winds the long
procession, led by the boy magistrate, Marcus of Rome, the favorite of the
Emperor. A golden chaplet, wrought in crusted leaves, circles his head; a
purple _toga_ drapes his trim, young figure; while the flutes and trumpets
play their loudest before him, and the stout guards march at the heels of
his bright-bay pony. So into the great circus passes the long procession,
and as it files into the arena, two hundred thousand excited
people--think, boys, of a circus-tent that holds two hundred thousand
people!--rise to their feet and welcome it with hearty hand-clapping. The
trumpets sound the prelude, the young magistrate (standing in his
_suggestus_, or state box) flings the _mappa_, or white flag, into the
course as the signal for the start; and, as a ringing shout goes up, four
glittering chariots, rich in their decorations of gold and polished ivory,
and each drawn by four plunging horses, burst from their arched stalls and
dash around the track. Green, blue, red, white--the colors of the drivers
stream from their tunics. Around and around they go. Now one and now
another is ahead. The people strain and cheer, and many a wager is laid as
to the victor. Another shout! The red chariot, turning too sharply, grates
against the _meta_, or short pillar that stands at the upper end of the
track, guarding the low central wall; the horses rear and plunge, the
driver struggles manfully to control them, but all in vain; over goes the
chariot, while the now maddened horses dash wildly on until checked by
mounted attendants and led off to their stalls. "Blue! blue!" "Green!
green!" rise the varying shouts, as the contending chariots still struggle
for the lead. White is far behind. Now comes the seventh or final round.
Blue leads! No, green is ahead! Down the home stretch they go in a
magnificent dash, neck and neck, and then the cheer of victory is heard,
as, with a final spurt the green rider strikes the white cord first and
the race is won!
And there, where the race is fiercest and the excitement most intense,
sits the staid young Marcus, unmoved, unexcited, busy with his ivory
tablets and his own high thoughts! For this wise young Stoic, true to his
accepted philosophy, had mastered even the love of excitement--think of
that, you circus-loving boys! He has left it on record that, even as a
youth, he had learned "to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at
the games in the circus," and while he looked upon such shows as dangerous
and wasteful (for in those days they cost the state immense sums), he
felt, still, that the people enjoyed them, and he said simply: "We cannot
make men as we would have them; we must bear with them as they are and
make the best of them we can." And so it happened that at this splendid
race at which, to please the people, he presided as magistrate, this boy
of sixteen sat probably the only unmoved spectator in that whole vast
amphitheatre.
Now, in the interval between the races, come the athletic sports;
foot-racing and wrestling, rope-dancing and high leaping, quoit-throwing
and javelin matches. One man runs a race with a fleet Cappadocian horse;
another expert rider drives two bare-backed horses twice around the track,
leaping from back to back as the horses dash around. Can you see any very
great difference between the circus performance of A. D. 138 and one of
A. D. 1886?
Among the throng of "artistes" on that far-off March day there came a
bright little fellow of ten or eleven years, a rope-dancer and a favorite
with the crowd. Light and agile, he trips along the slender rope that
stretches high above the arena. Right before the magistrate's box the boy
poises in mid air, and even the thoughtful young director of the games
looks up at the graceful motions of the boy. Hark! a warning shout goes
up; now, another; the poor little rope-dancer, anxious to find favor in
the eyes of the young noble, over-exerts himself, loses his balance on the
dizzy rope, and, toppling over, falls with a cruel thud to the ground, and
lies there before the great state box with a broken neck--dead. Marcus
hears the shout, he sees the falling boy. Vaulting from his canopied box
he leaps down into the arena, and so tender is he of others, Stoic though
he be, that he has the poor rope-dancer's head in his lap even before the
attendants can reach him. But no life remains in that bruised little
body, and, as Marcus tenderly resigns the dead gymnast to the less
sympathetic slaves, he commands that ever after a bed shall be laid
beneath the rope as a protection against such fatal falls. This became the
rule; and, when next you see the safety-net spread beneath the
rope-walkers, the trapeze performers, and those who perform similar
"terrific" feats, remember that its use dates back to the humane order of
Marcus, the boy magistrate, seventeen centuries ago.
But, in those old days, the people had to be amused--whatever happened.
Human life was held too cheaply for a whole festival to be stopped because
a little boy was killed, and so the sports went on. Athletes and gymnasts
did their best to excel; amidst wild excitement the chariots whirled
around and around the course, and then the arena was cleared for the final
act--the wild beast hunt.
The wary keepers raise the stout gratings before the dens and cages, and
the wild animals, freed from their prisons, rush into the great open
space, blink stupidly in the glaring light, and then with roar and growl
echo the shouts of the spectators. Here are great lions from Numidia and
tigers from far Arabia, wolves from the Apennines and bears from Libya,
not caged and half-tamed as we see them now, but wild and fierce, loose in
the arena. Now the hunters swarm in, on horse and on foot,--trained and
supple Thracian gladiators, skilled Gaetulian hunters, with archers, and
spearmen, and net-throwers. All around the great arena rages the cruel
fight. Here, a lion stands at bay; there, a tigress crouches for the
spring; a snarling wolf snaps at a keen-eyed Thracian, or a bear with
ungainly trot shambles away from the spear of his persecutor. Eager and
watchful the hunters shoot and thrust, while the vast audience, more
eager, more relentless, more brutal than beast or hunter, applaud and
shout and cheer. But the young magistrate, who had, through all his life,
a marked distaste for such cruel sport, turns from the arena, and, again
taking out his tablets, busies himself with his writing, unmoved by the
contest and carnage before him.
The last hunted beast lies dead in the arena; the last valorous hunter has
been honored with his _palma_, or reward, as victor; the slaves stand
ready with hook and rope to drag off the slaughtered animals; the great
crowd pours out of the vast three-storied building; the shops in the
porticos are noisy with the talk of buyers and sellers; the boy magistrate
and his escort pass through the waiting throng; and the Festival Games are
over. But, ere young Marcus reaches the Forum on his return, a shout goes
up from the people, and, just before the beautiful temple of the Twin
Gods, Castor and Pollux, where the throng is densest, flowers and wreaths
are thrown beneath his pony's feet, and a storm of voices raises the
shout:
"_Ave Imperator! Ave Caesar!_"
"What means that shout, Aufidius?" he asked his friend, who rode in the
escort. But the only reply Aufidius made was to join his voice with that
of the enthusiastic throng in a second shout; "_Ave Imperator! Auguste,
Dii te servent!_" (Hail, O Emperor! The gods save your majesty!)
Then Marcus knew that the decree of the dying Emperor Hadrian had been
confirmed, and that he, Marcus Annius Verus, the descendant of the ancient
kings, the boy philosopher, the unassuming son of a noble mother, had been
adopted as the son and successor of his uncle Antoninus, who was to reign
after Hadrian's death, and that where he went, through the Forum and up
the Sacred Street, there rode the heir to the greatest throne in the
world, the future Emperor of Rome.
A Stoic still, unmoved, save for the slight flush that tinged his cheek as
he acknowledged the greeting of the happy people, he passed on to his
mother's house, and, in that dear home, amid the green gardens of the
Coelian Hill, he heard her lips speak her congratulations, and bent his
head to receive her kiss of blessing.
"I lose a son, but gain an emperor," she said.
"No, my mother," the boy replied, proudly, "me thou shalt never lose. For,
though I leave this dear home for the palace of the Caesars, my heart is
still here with that noble mother from whom I learned lessons of piety and
benevolence and simplicity of life, and abstinence from evil deeds and
evil thoughts."
Before five months had passed the great Emperor Hadrian died at Baiae, in
his hill-shaded palace by the sea, and the wise, country-loving uncle of
Marcus succeeded to the throne as the Emperor Antoninus Pius. During all
his glorious reign of twenty-three years, he had no more devoted admirer,
subject, helper, and friend, than his adopted son and acknowledged
successor, Marcus, who, in the year A. D. 161, ascended the throne of the
Caesars as the great Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.
The life of this Roman Marcus was one of unsought honors and titles. At
six, a knight of the Equestrian Order; at eight, one of the priests of
Mars; at twelve, a rigid Stoic; at sixteen, a magistrate of the city; at
seventeen, a quaestor, or revenue officer; at nineteen, a consul and Caesar;
at forty, an emperor,--he was always clear-headed and clean-hearted,
beloved by his people and honored by all, making this one rule the guide
of all his actions: "Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man, to
do what thou hast in hand with perfect and simple dignity, with affection
and freedom and justice."
A noble boy; a noble man; preserving, as has been said of him, "in a time
of universal corruption, a nature sweet, pure, self-denying, and
unaffected,"--he teaches us all, boys and men alike, a lesson of real
manliness. Here are two of his precepts, which we are none of us too young
to remember, none of us too old to forget: "The best way of avenging
thyself is not to become like the wrong-doer"; "Let me offer to the gods
the best that is in me; so shall I be a strong man, ripened by age, a
friend of the public good, a Roman, an emperor, a soldier at his post
awaiting the signal of his trumpet, a man ready to quit life without a
fear." The foremost boy of his time, manly, modest, princely, brave, and
true, we can surely find no more fitting representative with which to open
this series of "Historic Boys" than the boy magistrate, Marcus of Rome,
the greatest and best of the Antonines.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[A] _Praefectus urbi_: governor of the city.
[B] Not true, but _most_ true.
[C] An officer of the treasury.
[D] Armed police.
[Illustration]
II.
BRIAN OF MUNSTER: THE BOY CHIEFTAIN.
(_Afterward Brian Boru, King of Ireland._)
[A.D. 948.]
Into that picturesque and legend-filled section of Ireland now known as
the County Clare, where over rocks and boulders the Shannon, "noblest of
Irish rivers," rushes down past Killaloe and Castle Connell to Limerick
and the sea, there rode one fair summer morning, many, many years ago, a
young Irish lad. The skirt of his parti-colored _lenn_, or kilt, was
richly embroidered and fringed with gold; his _inar_, or jacket,
close-fitting and silver-trimmed, was open at the throat, displaying the
embroidered _lenn_ and the _torc_, or twisted collar of gold about his
sturdy neck, while a purple scarf, held the jacket at the waist. A
gleaming, golden brooch secured the long plaid _brat_, or shawl, that
dropped from his left shoulder; broad bracelets encircled his bare and
curiously tattooed arms, and from an odd-looking golden spiral at the back
of his head his thick and dark-red hair fell in flowing ringlets upon his
broad shoulders. Raw-hide shoes covered his feet, and his bronze shield
and short war-ax hung conveniently from his saddle of skins. A strong
guard of pikemen and gallowglasses, or heavy-armed footmen, followed at
his pony's heels, and seemed an escort worthy a king's son.
A strong-limbed, cleanly-built lad of fifteen was this sturdy young
horseman, who now rode down to the Ath na Borumma, or Ford of the Tribute,
just above the rapids of the Shannon, near the town of Killaloe. And as he
reined in his pony, he turned and bade his herald, Cogoran, sound the
trumpet-blast that should announce to the Clan of Cas the return, from his
years of fosterage, of the young _flaith_, or chieftain, Brian, the son of
Kennedy, King of Thomond.
But ere the strong-lunged Cogoran could wind his horn, the hearts of all
the company grew numb with fear as across the water the low, clear strains
of a warning-song sounded from the haunted gray-stone,--the mystic rock of
Carrick-lee, that overhung the tumbling rapids:
"Never yet for fear of foe,
By the ford of Killaloe,
Stooped the crests of heroes free--
Sons of Cas by Carrick-lee.
"Falls the arm that smites the foe,
By the ford of Killaloe;
Chilled the heart that boundeth free,
By the rock of Carrick-lee.
"He who knows not fear of foe,
Fears the ford of Killaloe;
Fears the voice that chants his dree,
From the rock of Carrick-lee."
Young Brian was full of the superstition of his day--superstition that
even yet lives amid the simple peasantry of Ireland, and peoples rocks,
and woods, and streams with good and evil spirits, fairies, sprites, and
banshees; and no real, native Irish lad could fail to tremble before the
mysterious song. Sorely troubled, he turned to Cogoran inquiringly, and
that faithful retainer said in a rather shaky voice:
"'T is your warning-song, O noble young chief! 't is the voice of the
banshee of our clan--_A-oib-hinn_, the wraith of Carrick-lee."
Just then from behind the haunted gray-rock a fair young girl appeared,
tripping lightly across the large stepping-stones that furnished the only
means of crossing the ford of Killaloe.
"See--see!" said Cogoran, grasping his young lord's arm; "she comes for
thee. 'T is thy doom, O Master--the fiend of Carrick-lee!"
"So fair a fiend should bring me naught of grief," said young Brian,
stoutly enough, though it must be confessed his heart beat fast and loud.
"O Spirit of the Waters!" he exclaimed; "O banshee of Clan Cas! why thus
early in his life dost thou come to summon the son of Kennedy the King?"
The young girl turned startled eyes upon the group of armed and warlike
men, and grasping the skirt of her white and purple _lenn_, turned as if
to flee,--when Cogoran, with a loud laugh, cried out:
"Now, fool and double fool am I,--fit brother to Sitric the blind, the
black King of Dublin! Why, 't is no banshee, O noble young chief, 't is
but thy foster-sister, Eimer, the daughter of Conor, Eimer the
golden-haired!"
"Nay, is it so? St. Senanus be praised!" said Brian, greatly relieved.
"Cross to us, maiden; cross to us," he said. "Fear nothing; 't is but
Brian, thy foster-brother, returning to his father's home."
The girl swiftly crossed the ford and bowed her golden head in a vassal's
welcome to the young lord.
"Welcome home, O brother," she said. "Even now, my lord, thy father awaits
the sound of thy horn as he sits in the great seat beneath his kingly
shield. And I----"
"And thou, maiden," sad Brian, gayly, "thou must needs lurk behind the
haunted rock of Carrick-lee, to freeze the heart of young Brian at his
home-coming, with thy banshee song."
Eimer of the golden hair laughed a ringing laugh. "Say'st thou so,
brother?" she said. "Does the 'Scourge of the Danes' shrink thus at a
maiden's voice?"
"Who calls me the 'Scourge of the Danes'?" asked Brian.
"So across the border do they say that the maidens of King Callaghan's
court call the boy Brian, the son of Kennedy," the girl made answer.
"Who faces the Danes, my sister, faces no tender foe," said Brian, "and
the court of the King of Cashel is no ladies' hall in these hard-striking
times. But wind thy horn, Cogoran, and cross we the ford to greet the
king, my father."
Loud and clear the herald's call rose above the rush of the rapids, and as
the boy and his followers crossed the ford, the gates of the palace, or
_dun_, of King Kennedy of Thomond were flung open, and the band of
welcomers, headed by Mahon, Brian's eldest brother, rode out to greet the
lad.
Nine hundred years ago the tribe of Cas was one of the most powerful of
the many Irish clans. The whole of Thomond, or North Munster, was under
their sway, and from them, say the old records, "it was never lawful to
levy rent, or tribute, or pledge, or hostage, or fostership fees," so
strong and free were they. When the clans of Munster gathered for battle,
it was the right of the Clan of Cas to lead in the attack, and to guard
the rear when returning from any invasion. It gave kings to the throne of
Munster, and valiant leaders in warfare with the Danes, who, in the tenth
century, poured their hosts into Ireland, conquering and destroying. In
the year 948, in which our sketch opens, the head of this powerful clan
was Cennedigh, or Kennedy, King of Thomond. His son Brian had, in
accordance with an old Irish custom, passed his boyhood in "fosterage" at
the court of Callaghan, King of Cashel, in East Munster. Brought up amid
warlike scenes, where battles with the Danish invaders were of frequent
occurrence, young Brian had now, at fifteen, completed the years of his
fostership, and was a lad of strong and dauntless courage, cool and
clear-headed, and a firm foe of Ireland's scourge--the fierce "Dub-Gaile,"
or "Black Gentiles," as the Danes were called.
The feast of welcome was over. The bards had sung their heroic songs to
the accompaniment of the _cruot_, or harp; the fool had played his pranks,
and the juggler his tricks, and the chief bard, who was expected to be
familiar with "more than seven times fifty stories, great and small," had
given the best from his list; and as they sat thus in the _cuirmtech_, or
great hall, of the long, low-roofed house of hewn oak that scarcely rose
above the stout earthen ramparts that defended it, swift messengers came
bearing news of a great gathering of Danes for the ravaging of Munster,
and the especial plundering of the Clan of Cas.
"Thou hast come in right fitting time, O son!" said Kennedy the King.
"Here is need of strong arms and stout hearts. How say ye, noble lords and
worthy chieftains? Dare we face in fight this, so great a host?"
But as chiefs and counsellors were discussing the king's question,
advising fight or flight as they deemed wisest, young Brian sprung into
the assembly, war-ax in hand.
"What, fathers of Clan Cas," he cried, all aflame with excitement, "will
ye stoop to parley with hard-hearted pirates--ye, who never brooked
injustice or tyranny from any king of all the kings of Erin--ye, who never
yielded even the leveret of a hare in tribute to Leinsterman or Dane? 'T
is for the Clan of Cas to demand tribute,--not to pay it! Summon our
vassals to war. Place me, O King, my father, here at the Ford of the
Tribute and bid me make test of the lessons of my fostership. Know ye not
how the boy champion, Cuchullin of Ulster, held the ford for five long
days against all the hosts of Connaught? What boy hath done, boy may do.
Death can come but once!"
The lad's impetuous words fired the whole assembly, the gillies and
retainers caught up the cry, and, with the wild enthusiasm that has marked
the quick-hearted Irishman from Brian's day to this, "they all," so says
the record, "kissed the ground and gave a terrible shout." Beacon fires
blazed from cairn and hill-top, and from "the four points"--from north and
south and east and west, came the men of Thomond rallying around their
chieftains on the banks of Shannon.
With terrible ferocity the Danish hosts fell upon Ireland. From Dublin to
Cork the coast swarmed with their war-ships and the land echoed the tramp
of their swordmen. Across the fair fields of Meath and Tipperary, "the
smooth-plained grassy land of Erinn," from Shannon to the sea, the kings
and chieftains of Ireland gathered to withstand the shock of the invaders.
Their chief blow was struck at "Broccan's Brake" in the County Meath, and
"on that field," says the old Irish record, "fell the kings and
chieftains, the heirs to the crown, and the royal princes of Erinn." There
fell Kennedy the King and two of his stalwart sons. But at the Ford of the
Tribute, Brian, the boy chieftain, kept his post and hurled back again
and again the Danes of Limerick as they swarmed up the valley of the
Shannon to support their countrymen on the plains of Meath.
The haunted gray-stone of Carrick-lee, from which Brian had heard the song
of the supposed banshee, rose sharp and bold above the rushing waters; and
against it and around it Brian and his followers stood at bay, battling
against the Danish hosts. "Ill-luck was it for the foreigner," says the
record, "when that youth was born--Brian, the son of Kennedy." In the very
midst of the stubborn fight at the ford, and around from a jutting point
of the rock of Carrick-lee, a light shallop came speeding down the rapids.
In the prow stood a female figure, all in white, from the gleaming golden
_lann_, or crescent, that held her flowing veil, to the hem of her
gracefully falling _lenn_, or robe. And above the din of the strife a
clear voice sang:
"First to face the foreign foe,
First to strike the battle blow;
Last to turn from triumph back,
Last to leave the battle's wrack;
Clan of Cas shall victors be
When they fight at Carrick-lee."