latitude; and the carnival sports of the Testacean Mount and the Circus
Agonalis were regulated by the law or custom of the city. The senator
presided with dignity and pomp to adjudge and distribute the prizes, the
gold ring, or the _pallium_, as it was styled, of cloth or silk. A
tribute on the Jews supplied the annual expense; and the races on foot,
on horseback, or in chariots, were ennobled by a tilt and tournament of
seventy-two of the Roman youth. In the year 1332 a bull-feast, after the
fashion of the Moors and Spaniards, was celebrated in the Coliseum
itself; and the living manners are painted in a diary of the times. A
convenient order of benches was restored, and a general proclamation as
far as Rimini and Ravenna invited the nobles to exercise their skill and
courage in this perilous adventure. The Roman ladies were marshaled in
three squadrons and seated in three balconies, which on this day, the
third of September, were lined with scarlet cloth. The fair Jacova di
Rovere led the matrons from beyond the Tiber, a pure and native race who
still represent the features and character of antiquity. The remainder
of the city was divided as usual between the Colonna and Ursini: the two
factions were proud of the number and beauty of their female bands: the
charms of Savella Ursini are mentioned with praise, and the Colonna
regretted the absence of the youngest of their house, who had sprained
her ankle in the garden of Nero's tower. The lots of the champions were
drawn by an old and respectable citizen; and they descended into the
arena, or pit, to encounter the wild bulls, on foot as it should seem,
with a single spear. Amidst the crowd, our annalist has selected the
names, colors, and devices of twenty of the most conspicuous knights.
Several of the names are the most illustrious of Rome and the
ecclesiastical State: Malatesta, Polenta, Della Valle, Cafarello,
Savelli, Capoccio, Conti, Annibaldi, Altieri, Corsi: the colors were
adapted to their taste and situation: the devices are expressive of
hope or despair, and breathe the spirit of gallantry and arms. "I am
alone, like the youngest of the Horatii," the confidence of an intrepid
stranger; "I live disconsolate," a weeping widower; "I burn under the
ashes," a discreet lover; "I adore Lavinia, or Lucretia," the ambiguous
declaration of a modern passion; "My faith is as pure," the motto of a
white livery; "Who is stronger than myself?" of a lion's hide; "If I am
drowned in blood, what a pleasant death!" the wish of ferocious courage.
The pride or prudence of the Ursini restrained them from the field,
which was occupied by three of their hereditary rivals, whose
inscriptions denoted the lofty greatness of the Colonna name: "Though
sad, I am strong;" "Strong as I am great;" "If I fall," addressing
himself to the spectators, "you fall with me"--intimating (says the
contemporary writer) that while the other families were the subjects of
the Vatican, they alone were the supporters of the Capitol. The combats
of the amphitheatre were dangerous and bloody. Every champion
successively encountered a wild bull; and the victory may be ascribed to
the quadrupeds, since no more than eleven were left on the field, with
the loss of nine wounded and eighteen killed on the side of their
adversaries. Some of the noblest families might mourn; but the pomp of
the funerals in the churches of St. John Lateran and Sta. Maria Maggiore
afforded a second holiday to the people. Doubtless it was not in such
conflicts that the blood of the Romans should have been shed: yet in
blaming their rashness we are compelled to applaud their gallantry; and
the noble volunteers who display their magnificence and risk their lives
under the balconies of the fair, excite a more generous sympathy than
the thousands of captives and malefactors who were reluctantly dragged
to the scene of slaughter.
This use of the amphitheatre was a rare, perhaps a singular, festival:
the demand for the materials was a daily and continual want which the
citizens could gratify without restraint or remorse. In the fourteenth
century a scandalous act of concord secured to both factions the
privilege of extracting stones from the free and common quarry of the
Coliseum; and Poggius laments that the greater part of these stones had
been burnt to lime by the folly of the Romans. To check this abuse, and
to prevent the nocturnal crimes that might be perpetrated in the vast
and gloomy recess, Eugenius the Fourth surrounded it with a wall; and by
a charter long extant, granted both the ground and edifice to the monks
of an adjacent convent. After his death the wall was overthrown in a
tumult of the people; and had they themselves respected the noblest
monument of their fathers, they might have justified the resolve that it
should never be degraded to private property. The inside was damaged;
but in the middle of the sixteenth century, an era of taste and
learning, the exterior circumference of one thousand six hundred and
twelve feet was still entire and inviolate; a triple elevation of
fourscore arches which rose to the height of one hundred and eight feet.
Of the present ruin, the nephews of Paul the Third are the guilty
agents; and every traveler who views the Farnese palace may curse the
sacrilege and luxury of these upstart princes. A similar reproach is
applied to the Barberini; and the repetition of injury might be dreaded
from every reign, till the Coliseum was placed under the safeguard of
religion by the most liberal of the pontiffs, Benedict the Fourteenth,
who consecrated a spot which persecution and fable had stained with the
blood of so many Christian martyrs.
When Petrarch first gratified his eyes with a view of those monuments,
whose scattered fragments so far surpass the most eloquent descriptions,
he was astonished at the supine indifference of the Romans themselves;
he was humbled rather than elated by the discovery that, except his
friend Rienzi and one of the Colonna, a stranger of the Rhone was more
conversant with these antiquities than the nobles and natives of the
metropolis. The ignorance and credulity of the Romans are elaborately
displayed in the old survey of the city, which was composed about the
beginning of the thirteenth century; and without dwelling on the
manifold errors of name and place, the legend of the Capitol may provoke
a smile of contempt and indignation. "The Capitol," says the anonymous
writer, "is so named as being the head of the world, where the consuls
and senators formerly resided for the government of the city and the
globe. The strong and lofty walls were covered with glass and gold, and
crowned with a roof of the richest and most curious carving. Below the
citadel stood a palace, of gold for the greatest part, decorated with
precious stones, and whose value might be esteemed at one-third of the
world itself. The statues of all the provinces were arranged in order,
each with a small bell suspended from its neck; and such was the
contrivance of art magic, that if the province rebelled against Rome the
statue turned round to that quarter of the heavens, the bell rang, the
prophet of the Capitol reported the prodigy, and the Senate was
admonished of the impending danger." A second example, of less
importance though of equal absurdity, may be drawn from the two marble
horses, led by two naked youths, which have since been transported from
the baths of Constantine to the Quirinal Hill. The groundless
application of the names of Phidias and Praxiteles may perhaps be
excused: but these Grecian sculptors should not have been removed above
four hundred years from the age of Pericles to that of Tiberius; they
should not have been transformed into two philosophers or magicians,
whose nakedness was the symbol of truth or knowledge, who revealed to
the Emperor his most secret actions, and after refusing all pecuniary
recompense, solicited the honor of leaving this eternal monument of
themselves. Thus, awake to the power of magic, the Romans were
insensible to the beauties of art: no more than five statues were
visible to the eyes of Poggius; and of the multitudes which chance or
design had buried under the ruins, the resurrection was fortunately
delayed till a safer and more enlightened age. The Nile, which now
adorns the Vatican, had been explored by some laborers in digging a
vineyard near the temple, or convent, of the Minerva: but the impatient
proprietor, who was tormented by some visits of curiosity, restored the
unprofitable marble to its former grave. The discovery of the statue of
Pompey, ten feet in length, was the occasion of a lawsuit. It had been
found under a partition wall: the equitable judge had pronounced that
the head should be separated from the body to satisfy the claims of the
contiguous owners; and the sentence would have been executed if the
intercession of a cardinal and the liberality of a pope had not rescued
the Roman hero from the hands of his barbarous countrymen.
But the clouds of barbarism were gradually dispelled, and the peaceful
authority of Martin the Fifth and his successors restored the ornaments
of the city as well as the order of the ecclesiastical State. The
improvements of Rome since the fifteenth century have not been the
spontaneous produce of freedom and industry. The first and most natural
root of a great city is the labor and populousness of the adjacent
country, which supplies the materials of subsistence, of manufactures,
and of foreign trade. But the greater part of the Campagna of Rome is
reduced to a dreary and desolate wilderness; the overgrown estates of
the princes and the clergy are cultivated by the lazy hands of indigent
and hopeless vassals; and the scanty harvests are confined or exported
for the benefit of a monopoly. A second and more artificial cause of the
growth of a metropolis is the residence of a monarch, the expense of a
luxurious court, and the tributes of dependent provinces. Those
provinces and tributes had been lost in the fall of the Empire: and if
some streams of the silver of Peru and the gold of Brazil have been
attracted by the Vatican, the revenues of the cardinals, the fees of
office, the oblations of pilgrims and clients, and the remnant of
ecclesiastical taxes, afford a poor and precarious supply, which
maintains however the idleness of the court and city. The population of
Rome, far below the measure of the great capitals of Europe, does not
exceed one hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants; and within the
spacious inclosure of the walls the largest portion of the seven hills
is overspread with vineyards and ruins. The beauty and splendor of the
modern city may be ascribed to the abuses of the government, to the
influence of superstition. Each reign (the exceptions are rare) has been
marked by the rapid elevation of a new family, enriched by the childless
pontiff at the expense of the Church and country. The palaces of these
fortunate nephews are the most costly monuments of elegance and
servitude: the perfect arts of architecture, painting, and sculpture
have been prostituted in their service; and their galleries and gardens
are decorated with the most precious works of antiquity which taste or
vanity has prompted them to collect. The ecclesiastical revenues were
more decently employed by the popes themselves in the pomp of the
Catholic worship; but it is superfluous to enumerate their pious
foundations of altars, chapels, and churches, since these lesser stars
are eclipsed by the sun of the Vatican, by the dome of St. Peter, the
most glorious structure that ever has been applied to the use of
religion. The fame of Julius the Second, Leo the Tenth, and Sixtus the
Fifth is accompanied by the superior merit of Bramante and Fontana, of
Raphael and Michael Angelo; and the same munificence which had been
displayed in palaces and temples was directed with equal zeal to revive
and emulate the labors of antiquity. Prostrate obelisks were raised from
the ground and erected in the most conspicuous places; of the eleven
aqueducts of the Caesars and consuls, three were restored; the artificial
rivers were conducted over a long series of old, or of new arches, to
discharge into marble basins a flood of salubrious and refreshing
waters: and the spectator, impatient to ascend the steps of St. Peter's,
is detained by a column of Egyptian granite, which rises between two
lofty and perpetual fountains to the height of one hundred and twenty
feet. The map, the description, the monuments of ancient Rome have been
elucidated by the diligence of the antiquarian and the student; and the
footsteps of heroes, the relics, not of superstition but of empire, are
devoutly visited by a new race of pilgrims from the remote and once
savage countries of the North.
All the foregoing selections are made from 'The History
of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT
(1836-)
[Illustration: WILLIAM S. GILBERT]
When, after appearing from time to time in the London Fun, the 'Bab
Ballads' were published in book form in 1870, everybody, young and old,
found them provocative of hearty laughter. "Much sound and little
sense," was the title-page motto. Perhaps the fact that Mr. Gilbert's
readers did not know why they laughed was one great charm of the
ballads. The humor was felt, not analyzed, and involved no mental
fatigue. If there was "little sense," no continuity of meaning, there
was usually significant suggestion; and social foibles were touched off
with good-natured irony in a delightfully inconsequent fashion. The
"much sound" was a spirited lyric swing which clung to the memory,
a rich rhythm, and a rollicking spontaneity, which disregarded
considerations of grammar and pronunciation in a way that only added
to the fun.
The 'Bab Ballads,' and 'More Bab Ballads' which appeared in 1872, have
become classic. In many of them may be found the germs of the librettos
which have made Gilbert famous in comic opera. 'Pinafore,' 'The Mikado,'
'Patience,' and many others of a long and well-known list written to Sir
Arthur Sullivan's music, have furnished the public with many popular
songs. A volume of dainty lyrics has been made up from them; and,
entitled 'Songs of a Savoyard' (from the Savoy Theatre of London, where
the operas were first represented), was published in 1890.
Mr. Gilbert was born in London November 18th, 1836, and educated in that
city; after his graduation from the University of London he studied law,
and was called to the bar of the Inner Temple in 1863. Five years later
he became a captain of the Royal Aberdeenshire Highlanders. The success
of his first play, 'Dulcamara,' in 1866, led him to abandon the law, and
he has since devoted himself to authorship.
CAPTAIN REECE
Of all the ships upon the blue,
No ship contained a better crew
Than that of worthy Captain Reece,
Commanding of The Mantlepiece.
He was adored by all his men,
For worthy Captain Reece, R.N.,
Did all that lay within him to
Promote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad,
Their captain danced to them like mad,
Or told, to make the time pass by,
Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather-bed had every man,
Warm slippers and hot-water can,
Brown Windsor from the captain's store;
A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn,
Lo! seltzogenes at every turn;
And on all very sultry days
Cream ices handed round on trays.
Then, currant wine and ginger pops
Stood handily on all the "tops";
And also, with amusement rife,
A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."
New volumes came across the sea
From Mr. Mudie's libraree;
The Times and Saturday Review
Beguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,
Was quite devoted to his men;
In point of fact, good Captain Reece
Beatified The Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half-past ten,
He said (addressing all his men):--
"Come, tell me, please, what I can do
To please and gratify my crew.
"By any reasonable plan
I'll make you happy if I can,--
My own convenience count as _nil:_
It is my duty, and I will."
Then up and answered William Lee
(The kindly captain's coxwain he,
A nervous, shy, low-spoken man);
He cleared his throat, and thus began:--
"You have a daughter, Captain Reece,
Ten female cousins and a niece,
A ma, if what I'm told is true,
Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,
More friendly-like we all should be,
If you united of 'em to
Unmarried members of the crew.
"If you'd ameliorate our life,
Let each select from them a wife;
And as for nervous me, old pal,
Give me your own enchanting gal!"
Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,
Debated on his coxwain's plan:--
"I quite agree," he said, "O Bill:
It is my duty, and I will.
"My daughter, that enchanting gurl,
Has just been promised to an Earl,
And all my other familee
To peers of various degree.
"But what are dukes and viscounts to
The happiness of all my crew?
The word I gave you I'll fulfill;
It is my duty, and I will.
"As you desire it shall befall;
I'll settle thousands on you all,
And I shall be, despite my hoard,
The only bachelor on board."
The boatswain of the Mantelpiece,
He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece:--
"I beg your Honor's leave," he said:--
"If you would wish to go and wed,
"I have a widowed mother who
Would be the very thing for you--
She long has loved you from afar:
She washes for you, Captain R."
The captain saw the dame that day--
Addressed her in his playful way:--
"And did it want a wedding ring?
It was a tempting ickle sing!
"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,
We'll all be married this day week
At yonder church upon the hill;
It is my duty, and I will!"
The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,
And widowed ma of Captain Reece,
Attended there as they were bid:
It was their duty, and they did.
THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he;
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:--
"Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:--
"O elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun his painful yarn:--
"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel;
So we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshiped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be:
I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook _me_,
While I can--and will--cook _you_?'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell;
"'Twill soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And--as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!
* * * * *
"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have--which is to say:--
"'Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"
THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO
From east and south the holy clan
Of bishops gathered to a man;
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,
In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a bishop who
Had lately been appointed to
The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
And Peter was his name.
His people--twenty-three in sum--
They played the eloquent tum-tum,
And lived on scalps served up in rum--
The only sauce they knew.
When first good Bishop Peter came
(For Peter was that bishop's name),
To humor them, he did the same
As they of Rum-ti-Foo.
His flock, I've often heard him tell,
(His name was Peter) loved him well,
And summoned by the sound of bell,
In crowds together came.
"Oh, massa, why you go away?
Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay."
(They called him Peter, people say,
Because it was his name.)
He told them all good boys to be,
And sailed away across the sea;
At London Bridge that bishop he
Arrived one Tuesday night;
And as that night he homeward strode
To his Pan-Anglican abode,
He passed along the Borough Road,
And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd assembled round
A person dancing on the ground,
Who straight began to leap and bound
With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped,
Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,
Then down incontinently dropped,
And then sprang up again.
The bishop chuckled at the sight.
"This style of dancing would delight
A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite:
I'll learn it if I can,
To please the tribe when I get back."
He begged the man to teach his knack.
"Right reverend sir, in half a crack!"
Replied that dancing man.
The dancing man he worked away,
And taught the bishop every day;
The dancer skipped like any fay--
Good Peter did the same.
The bishop buckled to his task,
With _battements_ and _pas de basque_.
(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,
That Peter was his name.)
"Come, walk like this," the dancer said;
"Stick out your toes--stick in your head,
Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread--
Your fingers thus extend;
The attitude's considered quaint."
The weary bishop, feeling faint,
Replied, "I do not say it ain't,
But 'Time!' my Christian friend!"
"We now proceed to something new:
Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do,
Like this--one, two--one, two--one, two."
The bishop, never proud,
But in an overwhelming heat
(His name was Peter, I repeat)
Performed the Payne and Lauri feat,
And puffed his thanks aloud.
Another game the dancer planned:
"Just take your ankle in your hand,
And try, my lord, if you can stand--
Your body stiff and stark.
If when revisiting your see
You learnt to hop on shore, like me,
The novelty would striking be,
And must attract remark."
"No," said the worthy bishop, "no;
That is a length to which, I trow,
Colonial bishops cannot go.
You may express surprise
At finding bishops deal in pride--
But if that trick I ever tried,
I should appear undignified
In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes.
"The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Are well-conducted persons, who
Approve a joke as much as you,
And laugh at it as such;
But if they saw their bishop land,
His leg supported in his hand,
The joke they wouldn't understand--
'Twould pain them very much!"
GENTLE ALICE BROWN
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown;
Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing:
But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.
As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,
A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen;
She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;
A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road
(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).
But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise
To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;
So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,
The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
"O holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not,
To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?
Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"
The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"