A Book of Golden Deeds
by Charlotte M. Yonge · English · Gutenberg #6489 · 591,308 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Book of Golden Deeds
Author: Charlotte M. Yonge
Release date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6489]
Most recently updated: August 10, 2012
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6489
Credits: Produced by Hanh Vu, Sandra Laythorpe, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS ***
Produced by Hanh Vu and Sandra Laythorpe
A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS
By Charlotte M. Yonge
TABLE OF CONTENTS
What is a Golden Deed?
The Stories of Alcestis and Antigone
The Cup of Water
How One Man has saved a Host
The Pass of Thermopylae
The Rock of the Capitol
The Two Friends of Syracuse
The Devotion of the Decii
Regulus
The brave Brethren of Judah
The Chief of the Arverni
Withstanding the Monarch in his Wrath
The last Fight in the Coliseum
The Shepherd Girl of Nanterre
Leo the Slave
The Battle of the Blackwater
Guzman el Bueno
Faithful till Death
What is better than Slaying a Dragon
The Keys of Calais
The Battle of Sempach
The Constant Prince
The Carnival of Perth
The Crown of St. Stephen
George the Triller
Sir Thomas More's Daughter
Under Ivan the Terrible
Fort St. Elmo
The Voluntary Convict
The Housewives of Lowenburg
Fathers and Sons
The Soldiers in the Snow
Gunpowder Perils
Heroes of the Plague
The Second of September
The Vendeans
PREFACE
As the most striking lines of poetry are the most hackneyed, because
they have grown to be the common inheritance of all the world, so many
of the most noble deeds that earth can show have become the best known,
and enjoyed their full meed of fame. Therefore it may be feared that
many of the events here detailed, or alluded to, may seem trite to those
in search of novelty; but it is not for such that the collection has
been made. It is rather intended as a treasury for young people, where
they may find minuter particulars than their abridged histories usually
afford of the soul-stirring deeds that give life and glory to the record
of events; and where also other like actions, out of their ordinary
course of reading, may be placed before them, in the trust that example
may inspire the spirit of heroism and self-devotion. For surely it must
be a wholesome contemplation to look on actions, the very essence of
which is such entire absorption in others that self is forgotten; the
object of which is not to win promotion, wealth, or success, but simple
duty, mercy, and loving-kindness. These are the actions wrought, 'hoping
for nothing again', but which most surely have their reward.
The authorities have not been given, as for the most [Page] part the
narratives lie on the surface of history. For the description of the
Coliseum, I have, however, been indebted to the Abbé Gerbet's Rome
Chrétienne; for the Housewives of Lowenburg, and St. Stephen's Crown,
to Freytag's Sketches of German Life; and for the story of George the
Triller, to Mr. Mayhew's Germany. The Escape of Attalus is narrated
(from Gregory of Tours) in Thierry's 'Lettres sur l'Histoire de France;'
the Russian officer's adventures, and those of Prascovia Lopouloff
(<http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/yonge/deeds/pardon.html> Ed.),
the true Elisabeth of Siberia, are from M. le Maistre; the shipwrecks
chiefly from Gilly's 'Shipwrecks of the British Navy;' the Jersey Powder
Magazine from the Annual Registrer, and that at Ciudad Rodrigo, from the
traditions of the 52nd Regiment.
There is a cloud of doubt resting on a few of the tales, which it may be
honest to mention, though they were far too beautiful not to tell. These
are the details of the Gallic occupation of Rome, the Legend of St.
Genevieve, the Letter of Gertrude von der Wart, the stories of the
Keys of Calais, of the Dragon of Rhodes, and we fear we must add, both
Nelson's plan of the Battle of the Nile, and likewise the exact form of
the heroism of young Casabianca, of which no two accounts agree. But
it was not possible to give up such stories as these, and the thread of
truth there must be in them has developed into such a beautiful tissue,
that even if unsubstantial when tested, it is surely delightful to
contemplate.
Some stories have been passed over as too devoid of foundation, in
especial that of young Henri, Duke of Nemours, who, at ten years old,
was said to have been hung up with his little brother of eight in one of
Louis XI's cages at Loches, with orders that two of the children's teeth
should daily be pulled out and brought to the king. The elder child was
said to have insisted on giving the whole supply of teeth, so as to
save his brother; but though they were certainly imprisoned after
their father's execution, they were released after Louis's death in a
condition which disproves this atrocity.
The Indian mutiny might likewise have supplied glorious instances of
Christian self-devotion, but want of materials has compelled us to stop
short of recording those noble deeds by which delicate women and light-
hearted young soldiers showed, that in the hour of need there was not
wanting to them the highest and deepest 'spirit of self-sacrifice.'
At some risk of prolixity, enough of the surrounding events has in
general been given to make the situation comprehensible, even without
knowledge of the general history. This has been done in the hope that
these extracts may serve as a mother's storehouse for reading aloud to
her boys, or that they may be found useful for short readings to the
intelligent, though uneducated classes.
NOVEMBER 17, 1864.
WHAT IS A GOLDEN DEED?
We all of us enjoy a story of battle and adventure. Some of us delight
in the anxiety and excitement with which we watch the various strange
predicaments, hairbreadth escapes, and ingenious contrivances that
are presented to us; and the mere imaginary dread of the dangers
thus depicted, stirs our feelings and makes us feel eager and full of
suspense.
This taste, though it is the first step above the dullness that cannot
be interested in anything beyond its own immediate world, nor care for
what it neither sees, touches, tastes, nor puts to any present use, is
still the lowest form that such a liking can take. It may be no better
than a love of reading about murders in the newspaper, just for the
sake of a sort of startled sensation; and it is a taste that becomes
unwholesome when it absolutely delights in dwelling on horrors and
cruelties for their own sake; or upon shifty, cunning, dishonest
stratagems and devices. To learn to take interest in what is evil is
always mischievous.
But there is an element in many of such scenes of woe and violence that
may well account for our interest in them. It is that which makes the
eye gleam and the heart throb, and bears us through the details of
suffering, bloodshed, and even barbarity--feeling our spirits moved
and elevated by contemplating the courage and endurance that they have
called forth. Nay, such is the charm of brilliant valor, that we often
are tempted to forget the injustice of the cause that may have called
forth the actions that delight us. And this enthusiasm is often united
with the utmost tenderness of heart, the very appreciation of suffering
only quickening the sense of the heroism that risked the utmost, till
the young and ardent learn absolutely to look upon danger as an occasion
for evincing the highest qualities.
'O Life, without thy chequer'd scene
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
Success and failure, could a ground
For magnanimity be found?'
The true cause of such enjoyment is perhaps an inherent consciousness
that there is nothing so noble as forgetfulness of self. Therefore it
is that we are struck by hearing of the exposure of life and limb to
the utmost peril, in oblivion, or recklessness of personal safety, in
comparison with a higher object.
That object is sometimes unworthy. In the lowest form of courage it is
only avoidance of disgrace; but even fear of shame is better than mere
love of bodily ease, and from that lowest motive the scale rises to the
most noble and precious actions of which human nature is capable--the
truly golden and priceless deeds that are the jewels of history, the
salt of life.
And it is a chain of Golden Deeds that we seek to lay before our
readers; but, ere entering upon them, perhaps we had better clearly
understand what it is that to our mind constitutes a Golden Deed.
It is not mere hardihood. There was plenty of hardihood in Pizarro when
he led his men through terrible hardships to attack the empire of Peru,
but he was actuated by mere greediness for gain, and all the perils
he so resolutely endured could not make his courage admirable. It was
nothing but insensibility to danger, when set against the wealth and
power that he coveted, and to which he sacrificed thousands of helpless
Peruvians. Daring for the sake of plunder has been found in every
robber, every pirate, and too often in all the lower grade of warriors,
from the savage plunderer of a besieged town up to the reckless monarch
making war to feed his own ambition.
There is a courage that breaks out in bravado, the exuberance of high
spirits, delighting in defying peril for its own sake, not indeed
producing deeds which deserve to be called golden, but which, from
their heedless grace, their desperation, and absence of all base
motives--except perhaps vanity have an undeniable charm about them, even
when we doubt the right of exposing a life in mere gaiety of heart.
Such was the gallantry of the Spanish knight who, while Fernando and
Isabel lay before the Moorish city of Granada, galloped out of the camp,
in full view of besiegers and besieged, and fastened to the gate of
the city with his dagger a copy of the Ave Maria. It was a wildly brave
action, and yet not without service in showing the dauntless spirit of
the Christian army. But the same can hardly be said of the daring shown
by the Emperor Maximilian when he displayed himself to the citizens of
Ulm upon the topmost pinnacle of their cathedral spire; or of Alonso
de Ojeda, who figured in like manner upon the tower of the Spanish
cathedral. The same daring afterwards carried him in the track of
Columbus, and there he stained his name with the usual blots of rapacity
and cruelty. These deeds, if not tinsel, were little better than gold
leaf.
A Golden Deed must be something more than mere display of fearlessness.
Grave and resolute fulfillment of duty is required to give it the true
weight. Such duty kept the sentinel at his post at the gate of Pompeii,
even when the stifling dust of ashes came thicker and thicker from
the volcano, and the liquid mud streamed down, and the people fled and
struggled on, and still the sentry stood at his post, unflinching,
till death had stiffened his limbs; and his bones, in their helmet and
breastplate, with the hand still raised to keep the suffocating dust
from mouth and nose, have remained even till our own times to show how
a Roman soldier did his duty. In like manner the last of the old Spanish
infantry originally formed by the Great Captain, Gonzalo de Cordova,
were all cut off, standing fast to a man, at the battle of Rocroy, in
1643, not one man breaking his rank. The whole regiment was found lying
in regular order upon the field of battle, with their colonel, the old
Count de Fuentes, at their head, expiring in a chair, in which he had
been carried, because he was too infirm to walk, to this his twentieth
battle. The conqueror, the high-spirited young Duke d'Enghien,
afterwards Prince of Condé, exclaimed, 'Were I not a victor, I should
have wished thus to die!' and preserved the chair among the relics of
the bravest of his own fellow countrymen.
Such obedience at all costs and all risks is, however, the very essence
of a soldier's life. An army could not exist without it, a ship could
not sail without it, and millions upon millions of those whose 'bones
are dust and good swords are rust' have shown such resolution. It is
the solid material, but it has hardly the exceptional brightness, of a
Golden Deed.
And yet perhaps it is one of the most remarkable characteristics of a
Golden Deed that the doer of it is certain to feel it merely a duty;
'I have done that which it was my duty to do' is the natural answer of
those capable of such actions. They have been constrained to them by
duty, or by pity; have never even deemed it possible to act otherwise,
and did not once think of themselves in the matter at all.
For the true metal of a Golden Deed is self-devotion. Selfishness is the
dross and alloy that gives the unsound ring to many an act that has been
called glorious. And, on the other hand, it is not only the valor, which
meets a thousand enemies upon the battlefield, or scales the walls in
a forlorn hope, that is of true gold. It may be, but often it is a mere
greed of fame, fear of shame, or lust of plunder. No, it is the spirit
that gives itself for others--the temper that for the sake of religion,
of country, of duty, of kindred, nay, of pity even to a stranger, will
dare all things, risk all things, endure all things, meet death in one
moment, or wear life away in slow, persevering tendance and suffering.
Such a spirit was shown by Leaena, the Athenian woman at whose house
the overthrow of the tyranny of the Pisistratids was concerted, and who,
when seized and put to the torture that she might disclose the secrets
of the conspirators, fearing that the weakness of her frame might
overpower her resolution, actually bit off her tongue, that she might be
unable to betray the trust placed in her. The Athenians commemorated
her truly golden silence by raising in her honor the statue of a lioness
without a tongue, in allusion to her name, which signifies a lioness.
Again, Rome had a tradition of a lady whose mother was in prison under
sentence of death by hunger, but who, at the peril of her own life,
visited her daily, and fed her from her own bosom, until even the stern
senate were moved with pity, and granted a pardon. The same story is
told of a Greek lady, called Euphrasia, who thus nourished her father;
and in Scotland, in 1401, when the unhappy heir of the kingdom, David,
Duke of Rothesay, had been thrown into the dungeon of Falkland Castle by
his barbarous uncle, the Duke of Albany, there to be starved to death,
his only helper was one poor peasant woman, who, undeterred by fear
of the savage men that guarded the castle, crept, at every safe
opportunity, to the grated window on a level with the ground, and
dropped cakes through it to the prisoner, while she allayed his thirst
from her own breast through a pipe. Alas! the visits were detected, and
the Christian prince had less mercy than the heathen senate. Another
woman, in 1450, when Sir Gilles of Brittany was savagely imprisoned and
starved in much the same manner by his brother, Duke François, sustained
him for several days by bringing wheat in her veil, and dropping it
through the grated window, and when poison had been used to hasten his
death, she brought a priest to the grating to enable him to make his
peace with Heaven. Tender pity made these women venture all things; and
surely their doings were full of the gold of love.
So again two Swiss lads, whose father was dangerously ill, found that
they could by no means procure the needful medicine, except at a price
far beyond their means, and heard that an English traveler had offered a
large price for a pair of eaglets. The only eyrie was on a crag supposed
to be so inacessible, that no one ventured to attempt it, till these
boys, in their intense anxiety for their father, dared the fearful
danger, scaled the precipice, captured the birds, and safely conveyed
them to the traveler. Truly this was a deed of gold.
Such was the action of the Russian servant whose master's carriage was
pursued by wolves, and who sprang out among the beasts, sacrificing his
own life willingly to slake their fury for a few minutes in order that
the horses might be untouched, and convey his master to a place of
safety. But his act of self-devotion has been so beautifully expanded
in the story of 'Eric's Grave', in 'Tales of Christian Heroism', that
we can only hint at it, as at that of the 'Helmsman of Lake Erie', who,
with the steamer on fire around him, held fast by the wheel in the very
jaws of the flame, so as to guide the vessel into harbour, and save
the many lives within her, at the cost of his own fearful agony, while
slowly scorched by the flames.
Memorable, too, was the compassion that kept Dr. Thompson upon the
battlefield of the Alma, all alone throughout the night, striving
to alleviate the sufferings and attend to the wants, not of our own
wounded, but of the enemy, some of whom, if they were not sorely belied,
had been known to requite a friendly act of assistance with a pistol
shot. Thus to remain in the darkness, on a battlefield in an enemy's
country, among the enemy themselves, all for pity and mercy's sake, was
one of the noblest acts that history can show. Yet, it was paralleled
in the time of the Indian Mutiny, when every English man and woman
was flying from the rage of the Sepoys at Benares, and Dr. Hay alone
remained because he would not desert the patients in the hospital, whose
life depended on his care--many of them of those very native corps who
were advancing to massacre him. This was the Roman sentry's firmness,
more voluntary and more glorious. Nor may we pass by her to whom our
title page points as our living type of Golden Deeds--to her who first
showed how woman's ministrations of mercy may be carried on, not only
within the city, but on the borders of the camp itself--'the lady with
the lamp', whose health and strength were freely devoted to the holy
work of softening the after sufferings that render war so hideous; whose
very step and shadow carried gladness and healing to the sick soldier,
and who has opened a path of like shining light to many another woman
who only needed to be shown the way. Fitly, indeed, may the figure of
Florence Nightingale be shadowed forth at the opening of our roll of
Golden Deeds.
Thanks be to God, there is enough of His own spirit of love abroad in
the earth to make Golden Deeds of no such rare occurrence, but that they
are of 'all time'. Even heathen days were not without them, and how much
more should they not abound after the words have been spoken, 'Greater
love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend',
and after the one Great Deed has been wrought that has consecrated all
other deeds of self-sacrifice. Of martyrdoms we have scarcely spoken.
They were truly deeds of the purest gold; but they are too numerous to
be dwelt on here: and even as soldiers deem it each man's simple duty
to face death unhesitatingly, so the 'glorious army of martyrs' had, for
the most part, joined the Church with the expectation that they should
have to confess the faith, and confront the extremity of death and
torture for it.
What have been here brought together are chiefly cases of self-devotion
that stand out remarkably, either from their hopelessness, their
courage, or their patience, varying with the character of their age; but
with that one essential distinction in all, that the dross of self was
cast away.
Among these we cannot forbear mentioning the poor American soldier, who,
grievously wounded, had just been laid in the middle bed, by far the
most comfortable of the three tiers of berths in the ship's cabin in
which the wounded were to be conveyed to New York. Still thrilling with
the suffering of being carried from the field, and lifted to his place,
he saw a comrade in even worse plight brought in, and thinking of the
pain it must cost his fellow soldier to be raised to the bed above him,
he surprised his kind lady nurses (daily scatterers of Golden Deeds)
by saying, 'Put me up there, I reckon I'll bear hoisting better than he
will'.
And, even as we write, we hear of an American Railway collision that
befell a train on the way to Elmira with prisoners. The engineer, whose
name was William Ingram, might have leapt off and saved himself before
the shock; but he remained in order to reverse the engine, though with
certain death staring him in the face. He was buried in the wreck of the
meeting train, and when found, his back was against the boiler he was
jammed in, unable to move, and actually being burnt to death; but even
in that extremity of anguish he called out to those who came round
to help him to keep away, as he expected the boiler would burst. They
disregarded the generous cry, and used every effort to extricate him,
but could not succeed until after his sufferings had ended in death.
While men and women still exist who will thus suffer and thus die,
losing themselves in the thought of others, surely the many forms of
woe and misery with which this earth is spread do but give occasions of
working out some of the highest and best qualities of which mankind are
capable. And oh, young readers, if your hearts burn within you as you
read of these various forms of the truest and deepest glory, and
you long for time and place to act in the like devoted way, bethink
yourselves that the alloy of such actions is to be constantly worked
away in daily life; and that if ever it be your lot to do a Golden
Deed, it will probably be in unconsciousness that you are doing anything
extraordinary, and that the whole impulse will consist in the having
absolutely forgotten self.
THE STORIES OF ALCESTIS AND ANTIGONE
It has been said, that even the heathens saw and knew the glory of self-
devotion; and the Greeks had two early instances so very beautiful that,
though they cannot in all particulars be true, they must not be passed
over. There must have been some foundation for them, though we cannot
now disentangle them from the fable that has adhered to them; and, at
any rate, the ancient Greeks believed them, and gathered strength and
nobleness from dwelling on such examples; since, as it has been truly
said, 'Every word, look or thought of sympathy with heroic action, helps
to make heroism'. Both tales were presented before them in their solemn
religious tragedies, and the noble poetry in which they were recounted
by the great Greek dramatists has been preserved to our time.
Alcestis was the wife of Admetus, King of Pherae, who, according to the
legend, was assured that his life might be prolonged, provided father,
mother, or wife would die in his stead. It was Alcestis alone who was
willing freely to give her life to save that of her husband; and her
devotion is thus exquisitely described in the following translation, by
Professor Anstice, from the choric song in the tragedy by Euripides:
'Be patient, for thy tears are vain
They may not wake the dead again:
E'en heroes, of immortal sire
And mortal mother born, expire.
Oh, she was dear
While she linger'd here;
She is dear now she rests below,
And thou mayst boast
That the bride thou hast lost
Was the noblest earth can show.
'We will not look on her burial sod
As the cell of sepulchral sleep,
It shall be as the shrine of a radiant god,
And the pilgrim shall visit that blest abode
To worship, and not to weep;
And as he turns his steps aside,
Thus shall he breathe his vow:
'Here sleeps a self-devoted bride,
Of old to save her lord she died.
She is a spirit now.
Hail, bright and blest one! grant to me
The smiles of glad prosperity.'
Thus shall he own her name divine,
Thus bend him at Alcestis' shrine.'
The story, however, bore that Hercules, descending in the course of one
of his labors into the realms of the dead, rescued Alcestis, and
brought her back; and Euripides gives a scene in which the rough, jovial
Hercules insists on the sorrowful Admetus marrying again a lady of his
own choice, and gives the veiled Alcestis back to him as the new bride.
Later Greeks tried to explain the story by saying that Alcestis nursed
her husband through an infectious fever, caught it herself, and had been
supposed to be dead, when a skilful physician restored her; but this is
probably only one of the many reasonable versions they tried to give of
the old tales that were founded on the decay and revival of nature in
winter and spring, and with a presage running through them of sacrifice,
death, and resurrection. Our own poet Chaucer was a great admirer of
Alcestis, and improved upon the legend by turning her into his favorite
flower--
'The daisie or els the eye of the daie,
The emprise and the floure of flouris all'.
Another Greek legend told of the maiden of Thebes, one of the most
self-devoted beings that could be conceived by a fancy untrained in the
knowledge of Divine Perfection. It cannot be known how much of her story
is true, but it was one that went deep into the hearts of Grecian men
and women, and encouraged them in some of their best feelings; and
assuredly the deeds imputed to her were golden.
Antigone was the daughter of the old King Oedipus of Thebes. After a
time heavy troubles, the consequence of the sins of his youth, came upon
him, and he was driven away from his kingdom, and sent to wander forth
a blind old man, scorned and pointed at by all. Then it was that his
faithful daughter showed true affection for him. She might have remained
at Thebes with her brother Eteocles, who had been made king in her
father's room, but she chose instead to wander forth with the forlorn
old man, fallen from his kingly state, and absolutely begging his
bread. The great Athenian poet Sophocles began his tragedy of 'Oedipus
Coloneus' with showing the blind old king leaning on Antigone's arm, and
asking--
'Tell me, thou daughter of a blind old man,
Antigone, to what land are we come,
Or to what city? Who the inhabitants
Who with a slender pittance will relieve
Even for a day the wandering Oedipus?'
POTTER.
The place to which they had come was in Attica, hear the city of
Colonus. It was a lovely grove--
'All the haunts of Attic ground,
Where the matchless coursers bound,
Boast not, through their realms of bliss,
Other spot so fair as this.
Frequent down this greenwood dale
Mourns the warbling nightingale,
Nestling 'mid the thickest screen
Of the ivy's darksome green,
Or where each empurpled shoot
Drooping with its myriad fruit,
Curl'd in many a mazy twine,
Droops the never-trodden vine.'
ANSTICE.
This beautiful grove was sacred to the Eumenides, or avenging goddesses,
and it was therefore a sanctuary where no foot might tread; but near it
the exiled king was allowed to take up his abode, and was protected
by the great Athenian King, Theseus. There his other daughter, Ismene,
joined him, and, after a time, his elder son Polynices, arrived.
Polynices had been expelled from Thebes by his brother Eteocles, and had
been wandering through Greece seeking aid to recover his rights. He had
collected an army, and was come to take leave of his father and sisters;
and at the same time to entreat his sisters to take care that, if he
should fall in the battle, they would prevent his corpse from being
left unburied; for the Greeks believed that till the funeral rites were
performed, the spirit went wandering restlessly up and down upon the
banks of a dark stream, unable to enter the home of the dead. Antigone
solemnly promised to him that he should not be left without these last
rites. Before long, old Oedipus was killed by lightning, and the two
sisters returned to Thebes.
The united armies of the seven chiefs against Thebes came on, led by
Polynices. Eteocles sallied out to meet them, and there was a terrible
battle, ending in all the seven chiefs being slain, and the two
brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, were killed by one another in single
combat. Creon, the uncle, who thus became king, had always been on
the side of Eteocles, and therefore commanded that whilst this younger
brother was entombed with all due solemnities, the body of the elder
should be left upon the battlefield to be torn by dogs and vultures, and
that whosoever durst bury it should be treated as a rebel and a traitor
to the state.
This was the time for the sister to remember her oath to her dead
brother. The more timid Ismene would have dissuaded her, but she
answered,
'To me no sufferings have that hideous form
Which can affright me from a glorious death'.
And she crept forth by night, amid all the horrors of the deserted
field of battles, and herself covered with loose earth the corpse
of Polynices. The barbarous uncle caused it to be taken up and again
exposed, and a watch was set at some little distance. Again Antigone
'Was seen, lamenting shrill with plaintive notes,
Like the poor bird that sees her lonely nest
Spoil'd of her young'.
Again she heaped dry dust with her own hands over the body, and poured
forth the libations of wine that formed an essential part of the
ceremony. She was seized by the guard, and led before Creon. She boldly
avowed her deed, and, in spite of the supplications of Ismene, she was
put to death, a sufferer for her noble and pious deeds; and with this
only comfort:
'Glowing at my heart
I feel this hope, that to my father, dear
And dear to thee, my mother, dear to thee,
My brother, I shall go.'
POTTER.
Dim and beautiful indeed was the hope that upbore the grave and
beautiful Theban maiden; and we shall see her resolution equaled, though
hardly surpassed, by Christian Antigones of equal love and surer faith.
THE CUP OF WATER
No touch in the history of the minstrel king David gives us a more warm
and personal feeling towards him than his longing for the water of the
well of Bethlehem. Standing as the incident does in the summary of the
characters of his mighty men, it is apt to appear to us as if it had
taken place in his latter days; but such is not the case, it befell
while he was still under thirty, in the time of his persecution by Saul.
It was when the last attempt at reconciliation with the king had been
made, when the affectionate parting with the generous and faithful
Jonathan had taken place, when Saul was hunting him like a partridge on
the mountains on the one side, and the Philistines had nearly taken his
life on the other, that David, outlawed, yet loyal at the heart, sent
his aged parents to the land of Moab for refuge, and himself took up his
abode in the caves of the wild limestone hills that had become familiar
to him when he was a shepherd. Brave captain and Heaven-destined king as
he was, his name attracted around him a motley group of those that
were in distress, or in debt, or discontented, and among them were the
'mighty men' whose brave deeds won them the foremost parts in that army
with which David was to fulfill the ancient promises to his people.
There were his three nephews, Joab, the ferocious and imperious, the
chivalrous Abishai, and Asahel the fleet of foot; there was the warlike
Levite Benaiah, who slew lions and lionlike men, and others who, like
David himself, had done battle with the gigantic sons of Anak. Yet even
these valiant men, so wild and lawless, could be kept in check by the
voice of their young captain; and, outlaws as they were, they spoiled no
peaceful villages, they lifted not their hands against the persecuting
monarch, and the neighboring farms lost not one lamb through their
violence. Some at least listened to the song of their warlike minstrel:
'Come, ye children, and hearken to me,
I will teach you the fear of the Lord.
What man is he that lusteth to live,
And would fain see good days?
Let him refrain his tongue from evil
And his lips that they speak no guile,
Let him eschew evil and do good,
Let him seek peace and ensue it.'
With such strains as these, sung to his harp, the warrior gained the
hearts of his men to enthusiastic love, and gathered followers on all
sides, among them eleven fierce men of Gad, with faces like lions and
feet swift as roes, who swam the Jordan in time of flood, and fought
their way to him, putting all enemies in the valleys to flight.
But the Eastern sun burnt on the bare rocks. A huge fissure, opening
in the mountain ridge, encumbered at the bottom with broken rocks,
with precipitous banks, scarcely affording a foothold for the wild
goats--such is the spot where, upon a cleft on the steep precipice,
still remain the foundations of the 'hold', or tower, believed to have
been the David's retreat, and near at hand is the low-browed entrance
of the galleried cave alternating between narrow passages and spacious
halls, but all oppressively hot and close. Waste and wild, without
a bush or a tree, in the feverish atmosphere of Palestine, it was a
desolate region, and at length the wanderer's heart fainted in him, as
he thought of his own home, with its rich and lovely terraced slopes,
green with wheat, trellised with vines, and clouded with grey olive, and
of the cool cisterns of living water by the gate of which he loved to
sing--
'He shall feed me in a green pasture,
And lead me forth beside the waters of comfort'.
His parched longing lips gave utterance to the sigh, 'Oh that one would
give me to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem that is by the
gate?'
Three of his brave men, apparently Abishai, Benaiah, and Eleazar, heard
the wish. Between their mountain fastness and the dearly loved spring
lay the host of the Philistines; but their love for their leader feared
no enemies. It was not only water that he longed for, but the water from
the fountain which he had loved in his childhood. They descended from
their chasm, broke through the midst of the enemy's army, and drew the
water from the favorite spring, bearing it back, once again through the
foe, to the tower upon the rock! Deeply moved was their chief at this
act of self-devotion--so much moved that the water seemed to him to be
too sacred to be put to his own use. 'May God forbid it me that I should
do this thing. Shall I drink the blood of these men that have put their
lives in jeopardy, for with the jeopardy of their lives they brought
it?' And as a hallowed and precious gift, he poured out unto the Lord
the water obtained at the price of such peril to his followers.
In later times we meet with another hero, who by his personal qualities
inspired something of the same enthusiastic attachment as did David, and
who met with an adventure somewhat similar, showing the like nobleness
of mind on the part of both leader and followers.
It was Alexander of Macedon, whose character as a man, with all its dark
shades of violence, rage, and profanity, has a nobleness and sweetness
that win our hearts, while his greatness rests on a far broader basis
than that of his conquests, though they are unrivalled. No one else so
gained the love of the conquered, had such wide and comprehensive views
for the amelioration of the world, or rose so superior to the prejudice
of race; nor have any ten years left so lasting a trace upon the history
of the world as those of his career.
It is not, however, of his victories that we are here to speak, but of
his return march from the banks of the Indus, in BC 326, when he had
newly recovered from the severe wound which he had received under the
fig tree, within the mud wall of the city of the Malli. This expedition
was as much the expedition of a discoverer as the journey of a
conqueror: and, at the mouth of the Indus, he sent his ships to survey
the coasts of the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf, while he himself
marched along the shore of the province, then called Gedrosia, and now
Mekhran. It was a most dismal tract. Above towered mountains of reddish-
brown bare stone, treeless and without verdure, the scanty grass
produced in the summer being burnt up long before September, the month
of his march; and all the slope below was equally desolate slopes of
gravel. The few inhabitants were called by the Greeks fish-eaters and
turtle-eaters, because there was apparently, nothing else to eat; and
their huts were built of turtle shells.
The recollections connected with the region were dismal. Semiramis
and Cyrus were each said to have lost an army there through hunger and
thirst; and these foes, the most fatal foes of the invader, began to
attack the Greek host. Nothing but the discipline and all-pervading
influence of Alexander could have borne his army through. Speed was
their sole chance; and through the burning sun, over the arid rock,
he stimulated their steps with his own high spirit of unshrinking
endurance, till he had dragged them through one of the most rapid and
extraordinary marches of his wonderful career. His own share in their
privations was fully and freely taken; and once when, like the rest, he
was faint with heat and deadly thirst, a small quantity of water, won
with great fatigue and difficulty, was brought to him, he esteemed it
too precious to be applied to his own refreshment, but poured it forth
as a libation, lest, he said, his warriors should thirst the more
when they saw him drink alone; and, no doubt, too, because he felt the
exceeding value of that which was purchased by loyal love. A like story
is told of Rodolf of Hapsburgh, the founder of the greatness of Austria,
and one of the most open-hearted of men. A flagon of water was brought
to him when his army was suffering from severe drought. 'I cannot,'
he said, 'drink alone, nor can all share so small a quantity. I do not
thirst for myself, but for my whole army.'
Yet there have been thirsty lips that have made a still more trying
renunciation. Our own Sir Philip Sidney, riding back, with the mortal
hurt in his broken thigh, from the fight at Zutphen, and giving the
draught from his own lips to the dying man whose necessities were
greater than his own, has long been our proverb for the giver of that
self-denying cup of water that shall by no means lose its reward.
A tradition of an act of somewhat the same character survived in a
Slesvig family, now extinct. It was during the wars that ranged from
1652 to 1660, between Frederick III of Denmark and Charles Gustavus of
Sweden, that, after a battle, in which the victory had remained with the
Danes, a stout burgher of Flensborg was about to refresh himself, ere
retiring to have his wounds dressed, with a draught of beer from a
wooden bottle, when an imploring cry from a wounded Swede, lying on the
field, made him turn, and, with the very words of Sidney, 'Thy need
is greater than mine,' he knelt down by the fallen enemy, to pour the
liquor into his mouth. His requital was a pistol shot in the shoulder
from the treacherous Swede. 'Rascal,' he cried, 'I would have befriended
you, and you would murder me in return! Now I will punish you. I would
have given you the whole bottle; but now you shall have only half.'
And drinking off half himself, he gave the rest to the Swede. The king,
hearing the story, sent for the burgher, and asked him how he came to
spare the life of such a rascal.
'Sire,' said the honest burgher, 'I could never kill a wounded enemy.'
'Thou meritest to be a noble,' the king said, and created him one
immediately, giving him as armorial bearings a wooden bottle pierced
with an arrow! The family only lately became extinct in the person of an
old maiden lady.
HOW ONE MAN HAS SAVED A HOST
B.C. 507
There have been times when the devotion of one man has been the saving
of an army. Such, according to old Roman story, was the feat of Horatius
Cocles. It was in the year B.C. 507, not long after the kings had been
expelled from Rome, when they were endeavoring to return by the aid of
the Etruscans. Lars Porsena, one of the great Etruscan chieftains,
had taken up the cause of the banished Tarquinius Superbus and his son
Sextus, and gathered all his forces together, to advance upon the city
of Rome. The great walls, of old Etrurian architecture, had probably
already risen round the growing town, and all the people came flocking
in from the country for shelter there; but the Tiber was the best
defense, and it was only crossed by one wooden bridge, and the farther
side of that was guarded by a fort, called the Janiculum. But the
vanguards of the overwhelming Etruscan army soon took the fort, and
then, in the gallant words of Lord Macaulay's ballad,--
'Thus in all the Senate
There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Forthwith uprose the Consul,
Up rose the Fathers all,
In haste they girded up their gowns,
And hied them to the wall.
'They held a council standing
Before the River Gate:
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate.
Out spoke the Consul roundly,
'The bridge must straight go down,
For, since Janiculum is lost,
Nought else can save the town.'
'Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with haste and fear:
'To arms! To arms! Sir Consul,
Lars Porsena is here.'
On the low hills to westward
The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.
.................
'But the Consul's brow was sad,
And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
'Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge
What hope to save the town?'
'Then out spoke brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate,
'To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?
'And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast?
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus,
That wrought the deed of shame?
'Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may,
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopp'd by three:
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?'
'Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
A Ramnian proud was he,
'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.'
And out spake strong Herminius,
Of Titian blood was he,
'I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.'
So forth went these three brave men, Horatius, the Consul's nephew,
Spurius Lartius, and Titus Herminius, to guard the bridge at the farther
end, while all the rest of the warriors were breaking down the timbers
behind them.
'And Fathers mixed with commons,
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosen'd them below.
'Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright,
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head,
Where stood the dauntless three.
'The three stood calm and silent,
And look'd upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose.'
They laughed to see three men standing to meet the whole army; but it
was so narrow a space, that no more than three enemies could attack them
at once, and it was not easy to match them. Foe after foe came forth
against them, and went down before their swords and spears, till at
last--
'Was none that would be foremost
To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried 'Forward!'
And those before cried 'Back!'
..................
However, the supports of the bridge had been destroyed.
'But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied,
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
'Come back, come back, Horatius!'
Loud cried the Fathers all;
'Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!'
'Back darted Spurius Lartius,
Herminius darted back;
And as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack;
But when they turn'd their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have cross'd once more.
'But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosen'd beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream;
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.'
The one last champion, behind a rampart of dead enemies, remained till
the destruction was complete.
'Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind,
Thrice thirty thousand foes before
And the broad flood behind.'
A dart had put out one eye, he was wounded in the thigh, and his work
was done. He turned round, and--
'Saw on Palatinus,
The white porch of his home,
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the walls of Rome:
'O Tiber! father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms
Take thou in charge this day.'
And with this brief prayer he leapt into the foaming stream. Polybius
was told that he was there drowned; but Livy gives the version which the
ballad follows:--
'But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain,
And fast his blood was flowing,
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows,
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
'Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing place.
But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And our good father Tiber
Bare bravely up his chin.
.................
'And now he feels the bottom,
Now on dry earth he stands,
Now round him throng the Fathers,
To press his gory hands.
And now with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.
'They gave him of the corn land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn to night.
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day,
To witness if I lie.
'It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see,
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon his knee:
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.'
Never was more honorable surname than his, of Cocles, or the one-eyed;
and though his lameness prevented him from ever being a Consul, or
leading an army, he was so much beloved and honored by his fellow
citizens, that in the time of a famine each Roman, to the number of
300,000, brought him a day's food, lest he should suffer want. The
statue was shown even in the time of Pliny, 600 years afterwards, and
was probably only destroyed when Rome was sacked by the barbarians.
Nor was the Roman bridge the only one that has been defended by one man
against a host. In our own country, Stamford Bridge was, in like manner,
guarded by a single brave Northman, after the battle fought A.D. 1066,
when Earl Tostig, the son of Godwin, had persuaded the gallant sea king,
Harald Hardrada, to come and invade England. The chosen English king,
Harold, had marched at full speed from Sussex to Yorkshire, and met
the invaders marching at their ease, without expecting any enemy, and
wearing no defensive armor, as they went forth to receive the keys of
the city of York. The battle was fought by the Norsemen in the full
certainty that it must be lost. The banner, 'Landwaster', was planted
in the midst; and the king, chanting his last song, like the minstrel
warrior he had always been, stood, with his bravest men, in a death ring
around it. There he died, and his choicest warriors with him; but many
more fled back towards the ships, rushing over the few planks that were
the only way across the River Ouse. And here stood their defender, alone
upon the bridge, keeping back the whole pursuing English army, who could
only attack him one at a time; until, with shame be it spoken, he died
by a cowardly blow by an enemy, who had crept down the bank of the
river, and under the bridge, through the openings between the timbers
of which he thrust up his spear, and thus was able to hurl the brave
Northman into the river, mortally wounded, but not till great numbers
of his countrymen had reached their ships, their lives saved by his
gallantry.
In like manner, Robert Bruce, in the time of his wanderings, during
the year 1306, saved his whole band by his sole exertions. He had been
defeated by the forces of Edward I. at Methven, and had lost many of
his friends. His little army went wandering among the hills, sometimes
encamping in the woods, sometimes crossing the lakes in small boats.
Many ladies were among them, and their summer life had some wild charms
of romance; as the knightly huntsmen brought in the salmon, the roe, and
the deer that formed their food, and the ladies gathered the flowering
heather, over which soft skins were laid for their bedding. Sir James
Douglas was the most courtly and graceful knight of all the party, and
ever kept them enlivened by his gay temper and ready wit; and the king
himself cherished a few precious romances, which he used to read aloud
to his followers as they rested in their mountain home.
But their bitter foe, the Lord of Lorn, was always in pursuit of them,
and, near the head of the Tay, he came upon the small army of 300 men
with 1000 Highlanders, armed with Lochaber axes, at a place which is
still called Dalry, or the King's Field. Many of the horses were killed
by the axes; and James Douglas and Gilbert de la Haye were both wounded.
All would have been slain or fallen into the hand of the enemy, if
Robert Bruce had not sent them all on before him, up a narrow, steep
path, and placed himself, with his armor and heavy horse, full in the
path, protecting the retreat with his single arm. It was true, that so
tall and powerful a man, sheathed in armor and on horseback, had a great
advantage against the wild Highlanders, who only wore a shirt and a
plaid, with a round target upon the arm; but they were lithe, active,
light-footed men, able to climb like goats on the crags around him, and
holding their lives as cheaply as he did.
Lorn, watching him from a distance, was struck with amazement, and
exclaimed, 'Methinks, Marthokson, he resembles Gol Mak Morn protecting
his followers from Fingal;' thus comparing him to one the most brilliant
champions a Highland imagination could conceive. At last, three men,
named M'Androsser, rushed forward, resolved to free their chief from
this formidable enemy. There was a lake on one side, and a precipice on
the other, and the king had hardly space to manage his horse, when all
three sprang on him at once. One snatched his bridle, one caught him by
the stirrup and leg, and a third leaped from a rising ground and seated
himself behind him on his horse. The first lost his arm by one sweep
of the king's sword; the second was overthrown and trampled on; and the
last, by a desperate struggle, was dashed down, and his skull cleft by
the king's sword; but his dying grasp was so tight upon the plaid that
Bruce was forced to unclasp the brooch that secured it, and leave both
in the dead man's hold. It was long preserved by the Macdougals of Lorn,
as a trophy of the narrow escape of their enemy.
Nor must we leave Robert the Bruce without mentioning that other Golden
Deed, more truly noble because more full of mercy; namely, his halting
his little army in full retreat in Ireland in the face of the English
host under Roger Mortimer, that proper care and attendance might be
given to one sick and suffering washerwoman and her new-born babe. Well
may his old Scotch rhyming chronicler remark:--
'This was a full great courtesy
That swilk a king and so mighty,
Gert his men dwell on this manner,
But for a poor lavender.'
We have seen how the sturdy Roman fought for his city, the fierce
Northman died to guard his comrades' rush to their ships after the lost
battle, and how the mail-clad knightly Bruce periled himself to secure
the retreat of his friends. Here is one more instance, from far more
modern times, of a soldier, whose willing sacrifice of his own life
was the safety of a whole army. It was in the course of the long dismal
conflict between Frederick the Great of Prussia and Maria Theresa of
Austria, which was called the Seven Years' War. Louis XV. of France
had taken the part of Austria, and had sent an army into Germany in the
autumn of 1760. From this the Marquis de Castries had been dispatched,
with 25,000 men, towards Rheinberg, and had taken up a strong position
at Klostercamp. On the night of the 15th of October, a young officer,
called the Chevalier d'Assas, of the Auvergne regiment, was sent out
to reconnoitre, and advanced alone into a wood, at some little distance
from his men. Suddenly he found himself surrounded by a number of
soldiers, whose bayonets pricked his breast, and a voice whispered in
his ear, 'Make the slightest noise, and you are a dead man!' In one
moment he understood it all. The enemy were advancing, to surprise the
French army, and would be upon them when night was further advanced.
That moment decided his fate. He shouted, as loud as his voice would
carry the words, 'Here, Auvergne! Here are the enemy!' By the time the
cry reached the ears of his men, their captain was a senseless corpse;
but his death had saved the army; the surprise had failed, and the enemy
retreated.
Louis XV was too mean-spirited and selfish to feel the beauty of this
brave action; but when, fourteen years later, Louis XVI came to the
throne, he decreed that a pension should be given to the family as long
as a male representative remained to bear the name of D'Assas. Poor
Louis XVI had not long the control of the treasure of France; but a
century of changes, wars, and revolutions has not blotted out the memory
of the self-devotion of the chevalier; for, among the new war-steamers
of the French fleet, there is one that bears the ever-honored name of
D'Assas.
THE PASS OF THERMOPYLAE
B.C. 430
There was trembling in Greece. 'The Great King', as the Greeks called
the chief potentate of the East, whose domains stretched from the
Indian Caucasus to the Aegaeus, from the Caspian to the Red Sea, was
marshalling his forces against the little free states that nestled amid
the rocks and gulfs of the Eastern Mediterranean. Already had his might
devoured the cherished colonies of the Greeks on the eastern shore of
the Archipelago, and every traitor to home institutions found a ready
asylum at that despotic court, and tried to revenge his own wrongs
by whispering incitements to invasion. 'All people, nations, and
languages,' was the commencement of the decrees of that monarch's court;
and it was scarcely a vain boast, for his satraps ruled over subject
kingdoms, and among his tributary nations he counted the Chaldean,
with his learning and old civilization, the wise and steadfast Jew, the
skilful Phoenician, the learned Egyptian, the wild, free-booting Arab
of the desert, the dark-skinned Ethiopian, and over all these ruled the
keen-witted, active native Persian race, the conquerors of all the
rest, and led by a chosen band proudly called the Immortal. His many
capitals--Babylon the great, Susa, Persepolis, and the like--were names
of dreamy splendor to the Greeks, described now and then by Ionians from
Asia Minor who had carried their tribute to the king's own feet, or
by courtier slaves who had escaped with difficulty from being all too
serviceable at the tyrannic court. And the lord of this enormous empire
was about to launch his countless host against the little cluster of
states, the whole of which together would hardly equal one province of
the huge Asiatic realm! Moreover, it was a war not only on the men but
on their gods. The Persians were zealous adorers of the sun and of fire,
they abhorred the idol worship of the Greeks, and defiled and plundered
every temple that fell in their way. Death and desolation were almost
the best that could be looked for at such hands--slavery and torture
from cruelly barbarous masters would only too surely be the lot of
numbers, should their land fall a prey to the conquerors.
True it was that ten years back the former Great King had sent his best
troops to be signally defeated upon the coast of Attica; but the losses
at Marathon had but stimulated the Persian lust of conquest, and the new
King Xerxes was gathering together such myriads of men as should crush
down the Greeks and overrun their country by mere force of numbers.
The muster place was at Sardis, and there Greek spies had seen the
multitudes assembling and the state and magnificence of the king's
attendants. Envoys had come from him to demand earth and water from each
state in Greece, as emblems that land and sea were his, but each state
was resolved to be free, and only Thessaly, that which lay first in his
path, consented to yield the token of subjugation. A council was held at
the Isthmus of Corinth, and attended by deputies from all the states of
Greece to consider of the best means of defense. The ships of the enemy
would coast round the shores of the Aegean sea, the land army would
cross the Hellespont on a bridge of boats lashed together, and march
southwards into Greece. The only hope of averting the danger lay in
defending such passages as, from the nature of the ground, were so
narrow that only a few persons could fight hand to hand at once, so that
courage would be of more avail than numbers.
The first of all these passes was called Tempe, and a body of troops was
sent to guard it; but they found that this was useless and impossible,
and came back again. The next was at Thermopylae. Look in your map of
the Archipelago, or Aegean Sea, as it was then called, for the great
island of Negropont, or by its old name, Euboea. It looks like a piece
broken off from the coast, and to the north is shaped like the head of
a bird, with the beak running into a gulf, that would fit over it, upon
the main land, and between the island and the coast is an exceedingly
narrow strait. The Persian army would have to march round the edge of
the gulf. They could not cut straight across the country, because the
ridge of mountains called Ceta rose up and barred their way. Indeed, the
woods, rocks, and precipices came down so near the seashore, that in two
places there was only room for one single wheel track between the steeps
and the impassable morass that formed the border of the gulf on its
south side. These two very narrow places were called the gates of the
pass, and were about a mile apart. There was a little more width left
in the intervening space; but in this there were a number of springs of
warm mineral water, salt and sulphurous, which were used for the sick to
bathe in, and thus the place was called Thermopylae, or the Hot Gates. A
wall had once been built across the western-most of these narrow places,
when the Thessalians and Phocians, who lived on either side of it, had
been at war with one another; but it had been allowed to go to decay,
since the Phocians had found out that there was a very steep narrow
mountain path along the bed of a torrent, by which it was possible to
cross from one territory to the other without going round this marshy
coast road.
This was, therefore, an excellent place to defend. The Greek ships
were all drawn up on the farther side of Euboea to prevent the Persian
vessels from getting into the strait and landing men beyond the pass,
and a division of the army was sent off to guard the Hot Gates. The
council at the Isthmus did not know of the mountain pathway, and thought
that all would be safe as long as the Persians were kept out of the
coast path.
The troops sent for this purpose were from different cities, and
amounted to about 4,000, who were to keep the pass against two millions.
The leader of them was Leonidas, who had newly become one of the two
kings of Sparta, the city that above all in Greece trained its sons to
be hardy soldiers, dreading death infinitely less than shame. Leonidas
had already made up his mind that the expedition would probably be his
death, perhaps because a prophecy had been given at the Temple of Delphi
that Sparta should be saved by the death of one of her kings of the race
of Hercules. He was allowed by law to take with him 300 men, and these
he chose most carefully, not merely for their strength and courage,
but selecting those who had sons, so that no family might be altogether
destroyed. These Spartans, with their helots or slaves, made up his own
share of the numbers, but all the army was under his generalship. It is
even said that the 300 celebrated their own funeral rites before they
set out, lest they should be deprived of them by the enemy, since, as we
have already seen, it was the Greek belief that the spirits of the dead
found no rest till their obsequies had been performed. Such preparations
did not daunt the spirits of Leonidas and his men, and his wife, Gorgo,
who was not a woman to be faint-hearted or hold him back. Long before,
when she was a very little girl, a word of hers had saved her father
from listening to a traitorous message from the King of Persia; and
every Spartan lady was bred up to be able to say to those she best loved
that they must come home from battle 'with the shield or on it'--either
carrying it victoriously or borne upon it as a corpse.
When Leonidas came to Thermopylae, the Phocians told him of the mountain
path through the chestnut woods of Mount Ceta, and begged to have
the privilege of guarding it on a spot high up on the mountain side,
assuring him that it was very hard to find at the other end, and that
there was every probability that the enemy would never discover it. He
consented, and encamping around the warm springs, caused the broken wall
to be repaired, and made ready to meet the foe.
The Persian army were seen covering the whole country like locusts, and
the hearts of some of the southern Greeks in the pass began to sink.
Their homes in the Peloponnesus were comparatively secure--had they
not better fall back and reserve themselves to defend the Isthmus of
Corinth? But Leonidas, though Sparta was safe below the Isthmus, had
no intention of abandoning his northern allies, and kept the other
Peloponnesians to their posts, only sending messengers for further help.
Presently a Persian on horseback rode up to reconnoitre the pass. He
could not see over the wall, but in front of it, and on the ramparts, he
saw the Spartans, some of them engaged in active sports, and others in
combing their long hair. He rode back to the king, and told him what he
had seen. Now, Xerxes had in his camp an exiled Spartan Prince, named
Demaratus, who had become a traitor to his country, and was serving
as counsellor to the enemy. Xerxes sent for him, and asked whether his
countrymen were mad to be thus employed instead of fleeing away; but
Demaratus made answer that a hard fight was no doubt in preparation, and
that it was the custom of the Spartans to array their hair with special
care when they were about to enter upon any great peril. Xerxes would,
however, not believe that so petty a force could intend to resist him,
and waited four days, probably expecting his fleet to assist him, but as
it did not appear, the attack was made.
The Greeks, stronger men and more heavily armed, were far better able to
fight to advantage than the Persians, with their short spears and wicker
shields, and beat them off with great ease. It is said that Xerxes three
times leapt off his throne in despair at the sight of his troops being
driven backwards; and thus for two days it seemed as easy to force a
way through the Spartans as through the rocks themselves. Nay, how
could slavish troops, dragged from home to spread the victories of an
ambitious king, fight like freemen who felt that their strokes were to
defend their homes and children!
But on that evening a wretched man, named Ephialtes, crept into the
Persian camp, and offered, for a great sum of money, to show the
mountain path that would enable the enemy to take the brave defenders in
the rear! A Persian general, named Hydarnes, was sent off at nightfall
with a detachment to secure this passage, and was guided through the
thick forests that clothed the hillside. In the stillness of the air, at
daybreak, the Phocian guards of the path were startled by the crackling
of the chestnut leaves under the tread of many feet. They started up,
but a shower of arrows was discharged on them, and forgetting all save
the present alarm, they fled to a higher part of the mountain, and the
enemy, without waiting to pursue them, began to descend.
As day dawned, morning light showed the watchers of the Grecian camp
below a glittering and shimmering in the torrent bed where the shaggy
forests opened; but it was not the sparkle of water, but the shine
of gilded helmets and the gleaming of silvered spears! Moreover, a
Cimmerian crept over to the wall from the Persian camp with tidings that
the path had been betrayed, that the enemy were climbing it, and
would come down beyond the Eastern Gate. Still, the way was rugged and
circuitous, the Persians would hardly descend before midday, and there
was ample time for the Greeks to escape before they could be shut in by
the enemy.
There was a short council held over the morning sacrifice. Megistias,
the seer, on inspecting the entrails of the slain victim, declared,
as well he might, that their appearance boded disaster. Him Leonidas
ordered to retire, but he refused, though he sent home his only son.
There was no disgrace to an ordinary tone of mind in leaving a post that
could not be held, and Leonidas recommended all the allied troops under
his command to march away while yet the way was open. As to himself and
his Spartans, they had made up their minds to die at their post, and
there could be no doubt that the example of such a resolution would do
more to save Greece than their best efforts could ever do if they were
careful to reserve themselves for another occasion.
All the allies consented to retreat, except the eighty men who came from
Mycenae and the 700 Thespians, who declared that they would not desert
Leonidas. There were also 400 Thebans who remained; and thus the whole
number that stayed with Leonidas to confront two million of enemies were
fourteen hundred warriors, besides the helots or attendants on the 300
Spartans, whose number is not known, but there was probably at least one
to each. Leonidas had two kinsmen in the camp, like himself, claiming
the blood of Hercules, and he tried to save them by giving them letters
and messages to Sparta; but one answered that 'he had come to fight, not
to carry letters'; and the other, that 'his deeds would tell all that
Sparta wished to know'. Another Spartan, named Dienices, when told that
the enemy's archers were so numerous that their arrows darkened the sun,
replied, 'So much the better, we shall fight in the shade.' Two of the
300 had been sent to a neighboring village, suffering severely from a
complaint in the eyes. One of them, called Eurytus, put on his armor,
and commanded his helot to lead him to his place in the ranks; the
other, called Aristodemus, was so overpowered with illness that he
allowed himself to be carried away with the retreating allies. It was
still early in the day when all were gone, and Leonidas gave the word to
his men to take their last meal. 'To-night,' he said, 'we shall sup with
Pluto.'
Hitherto, he had stood on the defensive, and had husbanded the lives of
his men; but he now desired to make as great a slaughter as possible,
so as to inspire the enemy with dread of the Grecian name. He therefore
marched out beyond the wall, without waiting to be attacked, and the
battle began. The Persian captains went behind their wretched troops
and scourged them on to the fight with whips! Poor wretches, they were
driven on to be slaughtered, pierced with the Greek spears, hurled into
the sea, or trampled into the mud of the morass; but their inexhaustible
numbers told at length. The spears of the Greeks broke under hard
service, and their swords alone remained; they began to fall, and
Leonidas himself was among the first of the slain. Hotter than ever was
the fight over his corpse, and two Persian princes, brothers of Xerxes,
were there killed; but at length word was brought that Hydarnes was
over the pass, and that the few remaining men were thus enclosed on all
sides. The Spartans and Thespians made their way to a little hillock
within the wall, resolved to let this be the place of their last stand;
but the hearts of the Thebans failed them, and they came towards the
Persians holding out their hands in entreaty for mercy. Quarter was
given to them, but they were all branded with the king's mark as
untrustworthy deserters. The helots probably at this time escaped into
the mountains; while the small desperate band stood side by side on the
hill still fighting to the last, some with swords, others with daggers,
others even with their hands and teeth, till not one living man remained
amongst them when the sun went down. There was only a mound of slain,
bristled over with arrows.
Twenty thousand Persians had died before that handful of men! Xerxes
asked Demaratus if there were many more at Sparta like these, and was
told there were 8,000. It must have been with a somewhat failing heart
that he invited his courtiers from the fleet to see what he had done
to the men who dared to oppose him! and showed them the head and arm of
Leonidas set up upon a cross; but he took care that all his own slain,
except 1,000, should first be put out of sight. The body of the brave
king was buried where he fell, as were those of the other dead. Much
envied were they by the unhappy Aristodemus, who found himself called by
no name but the 'Coward', and was shunned by all his fellow-citizens.
No one would give him fire or water, and after a year of misery, he
redeemed his honor by perishing in the forefront of the battle of
Plataea, which was the last blow that drove the Persians ingloriously
from Greece.
The Greeks then united in doing honor to the brave warriors who, had
they been better supported, might have saved the whole country from
invasion. The poet Simonides wrote the inscriptions that were engraved
upon the pillars that were set up in the pass to commemorate this great
action. One was outside the wall, where most of the fighting had been.
It seems to have been in honor of the whole number who had for two days
resisted--
'Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land
Against three hundred myriads bravely stand'.
In honor of the Spartans was another column--
'Go, traveler, to Sparta tell
That here, obeying her, we fell'.
On the little hillock of the last resistance was placed the figure of
a stone lion, in memory of Leonidas, so fitly named the lion-like, and
Simonides, at his own expense, erected a pillar to his friend, the seer
Megistias--
'The great Megistias' tomb you here may view,
Who slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius fords;
Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew,
Yet scorn'd he to forsake his Spartan lords'.
The names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at Sparta.
Lions, pillars, and inscriptions have all long since passed away, even
the very spot itself has changed; new soil has been formed, and there
are miles of solid ground between Mount Ceta and the gulf, so that the
Hot Gates no longer exist. But more enduring than stone or brass--nay,
than the very battlefield itself--has been the name of Leonidas. Two
thousand three hundred years have sped since he braced himself to perish
for his country's sake in that narrow, marshy coast road, under the brow
of the wooded crags, with the sea by his side. Since that time how many
hearts have glowed, how many arms have been nerved at the remembrance of
the Pass of Thermopylae, and the defeat that was worth so much more than
a victory!
THE ROCK OF THE CAPITOL
B.C. 389
The city of Rome was gradually rising on the banks of the Tiber, and
every year was adding to its temples and public buildings.
Every citizen loved his city and her greatness above all else. There was
as yet little wealth among them; the richest owned little more than
a few acres, which they cultivated themselves by the help of their
families, and sometimes of a few slaves, and the beautiful Campagna di
Roma, girt in by hills looking like amethysts in the distance, had not
then become almost uninhabitable from pestilential air, but was rich and
fertile, full of highly cultivated small farms, where corn was raised in
furrows made by a small hand plough, and herds of sheep, goats, and oxen
browsed in the pasture lands. The owners of these lands would on public
days take off their rude working dress and broad-brimmed straw hat, and
putting on the white toga with a purple hem, would enter the city, and
go to the valley called the Forum or Marketplace to give their votes for
the officers of state who were elected every year; especially the two
consuls, who were like kings all but the crown, wore purple togas richly
embroidered, sat on ivory chairs, and were followed by lictors carrying
an axe in a bundle of rods for the execution of justice. In their own
chamber sat the Senate, the great council composed of the patricians, or
citizens of highest birth, and of those who had formerly been consuls.
They decided on peace or war, and made the laws, and were the real
governors of the State, and their grave dignity made a great impression
on all who came near them. Above the buildings of the city rose steep
and high the Capitoline Hill, with the Temple of Jupiter on its summit,
and the strong wall in which was the chief stronghold and citadel of
Rome, the Capitol, the very centre of her strength and resolution. When
a war was decided on, every citizen capable of bearing arms was called
into the Forum, bringing his helmet, breast plate, short sword, and
heavy spear, and the officers called tribunes, chose out a sufficient
number, who were formed into bodies called legions, and marched to
battle under the command of one of the consuls. Many little States or
Italian tribes, who had nearly the same customs as Rome, surrounded the
Campagna, and so many disputes arose that every year, as soon as the
crops were saved, the armies marched out, the flocks were driven to
folds on the hills, the women and children were placed in the walled
cities, and a battle was fought, sometimes followed up by the siege of
the city of the defeated. The Romans did not always obtain the victory,
but there was a staunchness about them that was sure to prevail in the
long run; if beaten one year, they came back to the charge the next, and
thus they gradually mastered one of their neighbors after another, and
spread their dominion over the central part of Italy.
They were well used to Italian and Etruscan ways of making war, but
after nearly 400 years of this kind of fighting, a stranger and wilder
enemy came upon them. These were the Gauls, a tall strong, brave people,
long limbed and red-haired, of the same race as the highlanders of
Scotland. They had gradually spread themselves over the middle of
Europe, and had for some generations past lived among the Alpine
mountains, whence they used to come down upon the rich plans of northern
Italy for forays, in which they slew and burnt, and drove off cattle,
and now and then, when a country was quite depopulated, would settle
themselves in it. And thus, the Gauls conquering from the north and the
Romans from the south, these two fierce nations at length came against
one another.
The old Roman story is that it happened thus: The Gauls had an unusually
able leader, whom Latin historians call Brennus, but whose real name was
most likely Bran, and who is said to have come out of Britain. He had
brought a great host of Gauls to attack Clusium, a Tuscan city, and the
inhabitants sent to Rome to entreat succor. Three ambassadors, brothers
of the noble old family of Fabius, were sent from Rome to intercede for
the Clusians. They asked Brennus what harm the men of Clusium had done
the Gauls, that they thus made war on them, and, according to Plutarch's
account, Brennus made answer that the injury was that the Clusians
possessed land that the Gauls wanted, remarking that it was exactly
the way in which the Romans themselves treated their neighbors, adding,
however, that this was neither cruel nor unjust, but according--
'To the good old plan
That they should take who have the power And they should keep who can.'
[Footnote: These lines of Wordsworth on Rob Roy's grave
almost literally translate the speech Plutarch gives the
first Kelt of history, Brennus.]
The Fabii, on receiving this answer, were so foolish as to transgress
the rule, owned by the savage Gauls, that an ambassador should neither
fight nor be fought with; they joined the Clusians, and one brother,
named Quintus, killed a remarkably large and tall Gallic chief in single
combat. Brennus was justly enraged, and sent messengers to Rome to
demand that the brothers should be given up to him for punishment. The
priests and many of the Senate held that the rash young men had deserved
death as covenant-breakers; but their father made strong interest for
them, and prevailed not only to have them spared, but even chosen as
tribunes to lead the legions in the war that was expected. [Footnote:
These events happened during an experiment made by the Romans of having
six military tribunes instead of two consuls.] Thus he persuaded the
whole nation to take on itself the guilt of his sons, a want of true
self-devotion uncommon among the old Romans, and which was severely
punished.
The Gauls were much enraged, and hurried southwards, not waiting for
plunder by the way, but declaring that they were friends to every State
save Rome. The Romans on their side collected their troops in haste, but
with a lurking sense of having transgressed; and since they had gainsaid
the counsel of their priests, they durst not have recourse to the
sacrifices and ceremonies by which they usually sought to gain the favor
of their gods. Even among heathens, the saying has often been verified,
'a sinful heart makes failing hand', and the battle on the banks of the
River Allia, about eleven miles from Rome, was not so much a fight as
a rout. The Roman soldiers were ill drawn up, and were at once broken.
Some fled to Veii and other towns, many were drowned in crossing the
Tiber, and it was but a few who showed in Rome their shame-stricken
faces, and brought word that the Gauls were upon them.
Had the Gauls been really in pursuit, the Roman name and nation would
have perished under their swords; but they spent three day in feasting
and sharing their plunder, and thus gave the Romans time to take
measures for the safety of such as could yet escape. There seems to have
been no notion of defending the city, the soldiers had been too much
dispersed; but all who still remained and could call up something of
their ordinary courage, carried all the provisions they could collect
into the stronghold of the Capitol, and resolved to hold out there till
the last, in hopes that the scattered army might muster again, or that
the Gauls might retreat, after having revenged themselves on the city.
Everyone who could not fight, took flight, taking with them all they
could carry, and among them went the white-clad troop of vestal virgins,
carrying with them their censer of fire, which was esteemed sacred, and
never allowed to be extinguished. A man named Albinus, who saw these
sacred women footsore, weary, and weighted down with the treasures of
their temple, removed his own family and goods from his cart and seated
them in it--an act of reverence for which he was much esteemed--and thus
they reached the city of Cumae. The only persons left in Rome outside
the Capitol were eighty of the oldest senators and some of the priests.
Some were too feeble to fly, and would not come into the Capitol to
consume the food that might maintain fighting men; but most of them were
filled with a deep, solemn thought that, by offering themselves to the
weapons of the barbarians, they might atone for the sin sanctioned by
the Republic, and that their death might be the saving of the nation.
This notion that the death of a ruler would expiate a country's guilt
was one of the strange presages abroad in the heathen world of that
which alone takes away the sin of all mankind.
On came the Gauls at last. The gates stood open, the streets were
silent, the houses' low-browed doors showed no one in the paved courts.
No living man was to be seen, till at last, hurrying down the steep
empty streets, they reached the great open space of the Forum, and there
they stood still in amazement, for ranged along a gallery were a row of
ivory chairs, and in each chair sat the figure of a white-haired, white-
bearded man, with arms and legs bare, and robes either of snowy white,
white bordered with purple, or purple richly embroidered, ivory staves
in their hands, and majestic, unmoved countenances. So motionless were
they, that the Gauls stood still, not knowing whether they beheld men or
statues. A wondrous scene it must have been, as the brawny, red-haired
Gauls, with freckled visage, keen little eyes, long broad sword, and
wide plaid garment, fashioned into loose trousers, came curiously down
into the marketplace, one after another; and each stood silent and
transfixed at the spectacle of those grand figures, still unmoving, save
that their large full liquid dark eyes showed them to be living beings.
Surely these Gauls deemed themselves in the presence of that council of
kings who were sometimes supposed to govern Rome, nay, if they were not
before the gods themselves. At last, one Gaul, ruder, or more curious
than the rest, came up to one of the venerable figures, and, to make
proof whether he were flesh and blood, stroked his beard. Such an insult
from an uncouth barbarian was more than Roman blood could brook, and the
Gaul soon had his doubt satisfied by a sharp blow on the head from the
ivory staff. All reverence was dispelled by that stroke; it was at once
returned by a death thrust, and the fury of the savages wakening in
proportion to the awe that had at first struck them, they rushed on the
old senators, and slew each one in his curule chair.
Then they dispersed through the city, burning, plundering, and
destroying. To take the Capitol they soon found to be beyond their
power, but they hoped to starve the defenders out; and in the meantime
they spent their time in pulling down the outer walls, and such houses
and temples as had resisted the fire, till the defenders of the Capitol
looked down from their height on nothing but desolate black burnt
ground, with a few heaps of ruins in the midst, and the barbarians
roaming about in it, and driving in the cattle that their foraging
parties collected from the country round. There was much earnest faith
in their own religion among the Romans: they took all this ruin as the
just reward of their shelter of the Fabii, and even in their extremity
were resolved not to transgress any sacred rule. Though food daily
became more scarce and starvation was fast approaching, not one of the
sacred geese that were kept in Juno's Temple was touched; and one Fabius
Dorso, who believed that the household gods of his family required
yearly a sacrifice on their own festival day on the Quirinal Hill,
arrayed himself in the white robes of a sacrificer, took his sacred
images in his arms, and went out of the Capitol, through the midst
of the enemy, through the ruins to the accustomed alter, and there
preformed the regular rites. The Gauls, seeing that it was a religious
ceremony, let him pass through them untouched, and he returned in
safety; but Brennus was resolved on completing his conquest, and while
half his forces went out to plunder, he remained with the other half,
watching the moment to effect an entrance into the Capitol; and how
were the defenders, worn out with hunger, to resist without relief from
without? And who was there to bring relief to them, who were themselves
the Roman State and government?
Now there was a citizen, named Marcus Furius Camillus, who was, without
question, at that time, the first soldier of Rome, and had taken several
of the chief Italian cities, especially that of Veii, which had long
been a most dangerous enemy. But he was a proud, haughty man, and had
brought on himself much dislike; until, at last, a false accusation was
brought against him, that he had taken an unfair share of the plunder
of Veii. He was too proud to stand a trial; and leaving the city, was
immediately fined a considerable sum. He had taken up his abode at the
city of Ardea, and was there living when the plundering half of Brennus'
army was reported to be coming thither. Camillus immediately offered the
magistrates to undertake their defense; and getting together all the men
who could bear arms, he led them out, fell upon the Gauls as they all
lay asleep and unguarded in the dead of night, made a great slaughter
of them, and saved Ardea. All this was heard by the many Romans who had
been living dispersed since the rout of Allia; and they began to recover
heart and spirit, and to think that if Camillus would be their leader,
they might yet do something to redeem the honor of Rome, and save their
friends in the Capitol. An entreaty was sent to him to take the command
of them; but, like a proud, stern man as he was, he made answer, that he
was a mere exile, and could not take upon himself to lead Romans without
a decree from the Senate giving him authority. The Senate was--all that
remained of it--shut up in the Capitol; the Gauls were spread all round;
how was that decree to be obtained?
A young man, named Pontius Cominius, undertook the desperate mission. He
put on a peasant dress, and hid some corks under it, supposing that he
should find no passage by the bridge over the Tiber. Traveling all day
on foot, he came at night to the bank, and saw the guard at the bridge;
then, having waited for darkness, he rolled his one thin light garment,
with the corks wrapped up in it, round his head, and trusted himself to
the stream of Father Tiber, like 'good Horatius' before him; and he was
safely borne along to the foot of the Capitoline Hill. He crept along,
avoiding every place where he saw lights or heard noise, till he came
to a rugged precipice, which he suspected would not be watched by the
enemy, who would suppose it too steep to be climbed from above or below.
But the resolute man did not fear the giddy dangerous ascent, even in
the darkness; he swung himself up by the stems and boughs of the vines
and climbing plants, his naked feet clung to the rocks and tufts of
grass, and at length he stood on the top of the rampart, calling out his
name to the soldiers who came in haste around him, not knowing whether
he were friend or foe. A joyful sound must his Latin speech have been to
the long-tried, half starved garrison, who had not seen a fresh face for
six long months! The few who represented the Senate and people of Rome
were hastily awakened from their sleep, and gathered together to hear
the tidings brought them at so much risk. Pontius told them of the
victory at Ardea, and that Camillus and the Romans collected at Veii
were only waiting to march to their succor till they should give him
lawful power to take the command. There was little debate. The vote was
passed at once to make Camillus Dictator, an office to which Romans
were elected upon great emergencies, and which gave them, for the time,
absolute kingly control; and then Pontius, bearing the appointment, set
off once again upon his mission, still under shelter of night, clambered
down the rock, and crossed the Gallic camp before the barbarians were
yet awake.
There was hope in the little garrison; but danger was not over. The
sharp-eyed Gauls observed that the shrubs and creepers were broken, the
moss frayed, and fresh stones and earth rolled down at the crag of the
Capitol: they were sure that the rock had been climbed, and, therefore,
that it might be climbed again. Should they, who were used to the snowy
peaks, dark abysses, and huge glaciers of the Alps, be afraid to climb
where a soft dweller in a tame Italian town could venture a passage?
Brennus chose out the hardiest of his mountaineers, and directed them to
climb up in the dead of night, one by one, in perfect silence, and thus
to surprise the Romans, and complete the slaughter and victory, before
the forces assembling at Veii would come to their rescue.
Silently the Gauls climbed, so stilly that not even a dog heard them;
and the sentinel nearest to the post, who had fallen into a dead sleep
of exhaustion from hunger, never awoke. But the fatal stillness was
suddenly broken by loud gabbling, cackling, and flapping of heavy wings.
The sacred geese of Juno, which had been so religiously spared in the
famine, were frightened by the rustling beneath, and proclaimed their
terror in their own noisy fashion. The first to take the alarm was
Marcus Manlius, who started forward just in time to meet the foremost
climbers as they set foot on the rampart. One, who raised an axe to
strike, lost his arm by one stroke of Manlius' short Roman sword; the
next was by main strength hurled backwards over the precipice, and
Manlius stood along on the top, for a few moments, ready to strike the
next who should struggle up. The whole of the garrison were in a few
moments on the alert, and the attack was entirely repulsed; the sleeping
sentry was cast headlong down the rock; and Manlius was brought, by each
grateful soldier, that which was then most valuable to all, a little
meal and a small measure of wine. Still, the condition of the Capitol
was lamentable; there was no certainty that Pontius had ever reached
Camillus in safety; and, indeed, the discovery of his path by the enemy
would rather have led to the supposition that he had been seized and
detected. The best hope lay in wearying out the besiegers; and there
seemed to be more chance of this since the Gauls often could be seen
from the heights, burying the corpses of their dead; their tall, bony
forms looked gaunt and drooping, and, here and there, unburied carcasses
lay amongst the ruins. Nor were the flocks and herds any longer driven
in from the country. Either all must have been exhausted, or else
Camillus and his friends must be near, and preventing their raids.
At any rate, it appeared as if the enemy was quite as ill off as to
provisions as the garrison, and in worse condition as to health. In
effect, this was the first example of the famous saying, that Rome
destroys her conquerors. In this state of things one of the Romans had a
dream that Jupiter, the special god of the Capitol, appeared to him, and
gave the strange advice that all the remaining flour should be baked,
and the loaves thrown down into the enemy's camp. Telling the dream,
which may, perhaps, have been the shaping of his own thoughts, that this
apparent waste would persuade the barbarians that the garrison could not
soon be starved out, this person obtained the consent of the rest of the
besieged. Some approved the stratagem, and no one chose to act contrary
to Jupiter's supposed advice; so the bread was baked, and tossed down by
the hungry men.
After a time, there was a report from the outer guards that the Gallic
watch had been telling them that their leader would be willing to
speak with some of the Roman chiefs. Accordingly, Sulpitius, one of the
tribunes, went out, and had a conference with Brennus, who declared that
he would depart, provided the Romans would lay down a ransom, for their
Capital and their own lives, of a thousand pounds' weight of gold.
To this Sulpitius agreed, and returning to the Capitol, the gold was
collected from the treasury, and carried down to meet the Gauls, who
brought their own weights. The weights did not meet the amount of gold
ornaments that had been contributed for the purpose, and no doubt the
Gauls were resolved to have all that they beheld; for when Sulpitius was
about to try to arrange the balance, Brennus insultingly threw his sword
into his own scale, exclaiming, Voe victis! 'Woe to the conquered!' The
Roman was not yet fallen so low as not to remonstrate, and the dispute
was waxing sharp, when there was a confused outcry in the Gallic camp,
a shout from the heights of the Capitol, and into the midst of the open
space rode a band of Roman patricians and knights in armor, with the
Dictator Camillus at their head.
He no sooner saw what was passing, than he commanded the treasure to be
taken back, and, turning to Brennus, said, 'It is with iron, not gold,
that the Romans guard their country.'
Brennus declared that the treaty had been sworn to, and that it would
be a breach of faith to deprive him of the ransom; to which Camillus
replied, that he himself was Dictator, and no one had the power to make
a treaty in his absence. The dispute was so hot, that they drew their
swords against one another, and there was a skirmish among the ruins;
but the Gauls soon fell back, and retreated to their camp, when they saw
the main body of Camillus' army marching upon them. It was no less than
40,000 in number; and Brennus knew he could not withstand them with
his broken, sickly army. He drew off early the next morning: but was
followed by Camillus, and routed, with great slaughter, about eight
miles from Rome; and very few of the Gauls lived to return home, for
those who were not slain in battle were cut off in their flight by the
country people, whom they had plundered.
In reward for their conduct on this occasion, Camillus was termed
Romulus, Father of his Country, and Second Founder of Rome; Marcus
Manlius received the honorable surname of Capitolinus; and even the
geese were honored by having a golden image raised to their honor in
Juno's temple, and a live goose was yearly carried in triumph, upon a
soft litter, in a golden cage, as long as any heathen festivals lasted.
The reward of Pontius Cominius does not appear; but surely he, and the
old senators who died for their country's sake, deserved to be for ever
remembered for their brave contempt of life when a service could be done
to the State.
The truth of the whole narrative is greatly doubted, and it is suspected
that the Gallic conquest was more complete than the Romans ever chose to
avow. Their history is far from clear up to this very epoch, when it
is said that all their records were destroyed; but even when place and
period are misty, great names and the main outline of their actions loom
through the cloud, perhaps exaggerated, but still with some reality; and
if the magnificent romance of the sack of Rome be not fact, yet it is
certainly history, and well worthy of note and remembrance, as one of
the finest extant traditions of a whole chain of Golden Deeds.
THE TWO FRIENDS OF SYRACUSE
B.C. 380 (CIRCA)
Most of the best and noblest of the Greeks held what was called the
Pythagorean philosophy. This was one of the many systems framed by the
great men of heathenism, when by the feeble light of nature they were,
as St. Paul says, 'seeking after God, if haply they might feel after
Him', like men groping in the darkness. Pythagoras lived before the time
of history, and almost nothing is known about him, though his teaching
and his name were never lost. There is a belief that he had traveled in
the East, and in Egypt, and as he lived about the time of the dispersion
of the Israelites, it is possible that some of his purest and best
teaching might have been crumbs gathered from their fuller instruction
through the Law and the Prophets. One thing is plain, that even in
dealing with heathenism the Divine rule holds good, 'By their fruits
ye shall know them'. Golden Deeds are only to be found among men whose
belief is earnest and sincere, and in something really high and noble.
Where there was nothing worshiped but savage or impure power, and the
very form of adoration was cruel and unclean, as among the Canaanites
and Carthaginians, there we find no true self-devotion. The great deeds
of the heathen world were all done by early Greeks and Romans before yet
the last gleams of purer light had faded out of their belief, and while
their moral sense still nerved them to energy; or else by such later
Greeks as had embraced the deeper and more earnest yearnings of the
minds that had become a 'law unto themselves'.
The Pythagoreans were bound together in a brotherhood, the members of
which had rules that are not now understood, but which linked them so as
to form a sort of club, with common religious observances and pursuits
of science, especially mathematics and music. And they were taught to
restrain their passions, especially that of anger, and to endure with
patience all kinds of suffering; believing that such self-restraint
brought them nearer to the gods, and that death would set them free from
the prison of the body. The souls of evil-doers would, they thought,
pass into the lower and more degraded animals, while those of good
men would be gradually purified, and rise to a higher existence. This,
though lamentably deficient, and false in some points, was a real
religion, inasmuch as it gave a rule of life, with a motive for striving
for wisdom and virtue. Two friends of this Pythagorean sect lived at
Syracuse, in the end of the fourth century before the Christian era.
Syracuse was a great Greek city, built in Sicily, and full of all kinds
of Greek art and learning; but it was a place of danger in their time,
for it had fallen under the tyranny of a man of strange and capricious
temper, though of great abilities, namely Dionysius. He is said to have
been originally only a clerk in a public office, but his talents raised
him to continually higher situations, and at length, in a great war with
the Carthaginians, who had many settlements in Sicily, he became general
of the army, and then found it easy to establish his power over the
city.
This power was not according to the laws, for Syracuse, like most other
cities, ought to have been governed by a council of magistrates; but
Dionysius was an exceedingly able man, and made the city much more rich
and powerful, he defeated the Carthaginians, and rendered Syracuse by
far the chief city in the island, and he contrived to make everyone so
much afraid of him that no one durst attempt to overthrow his power.
He was a good scholar, and very fond of philosophy and poetry, and
he delighted to have learned men around him, and he had naturally a
generous spirit; but the sense that he was in a position that did not
belong to him, and that everyone hated him for assuming it, made him
very harsh and suspicious. It is of him that the story is told, that
he had a chamber hollowed in the rock near his state prison, and
constructed with galleries to conduct sounds like an ear, so that he
might overhear the conversation of his captives; and of him, too, is
told that famous anecdote which has become a proverb, that on hearing
a friend, named Damocles, express a wish to be in his situation for a
single day, he took him at his word, and Damocles found himself at a
banquet with everything that could delight his senses, delicious food,
costly wine, flowers, perfumes, music; but with a sword with the point
almost touching his head, and hanging by a single horsehair! This was to
show the condition in which a usurper lived!
Thus Dionysius was in constant dread. He had a wide trench round his
bedroom, with a drawbridge that he drew up and put down with his own
hands; and he put one barber to death for boasting that he held a razor
to the tyrant's throat every morning. After this he made his young
daughters shave him; but by and by he would not trust them with a razor,
and caused them to singe of his beard with hot nutshells! He was said to
have put a man named Antiphon to death for answering him, when he asked
what was the best kind of brass, 'That of which the statues of Harmodius
and Aristogeiton were made.' These were the two Athenians who had killed
the sons of Pisistratus the tyrant, so that the jest was most offensive,
but its boldness might have gained forgiveness for it. One philosopher,
named Philoxenus, he sent to a dungeon for finding fault with his
poetry, but he afterwards composed another piece, which he thought so
superior, that he could not be content without sending for this adverse
critic to hear it. When he had finished reading it, he looked to
Philoxenus for a compliment; but the philosopher only turned round
to the guards, and said dryly, 'Carry me back to prison.' This time
Dionysius had the sense to laugh, and forgive his honesty.
All these stories may not be true; but that they should have been
current in the ancient world shows what was the character of the man
of whom they were told, how stern and terrible was his anger, and how
easily it was incurred. Among those who came under it was a Pythagorean
called Pythias, who was sentenced to death, according to the usual fate
of those who fell under his suspicion.
Pythias had lands and relations in Greece, and he entreated as a favor
to be allowed to return thither and arrange his affairs, engaging to
return within a specified time to suffer death. The tyrant laughed his
request to scorn. Once safe out of Sicily, who would answer for his
return? Pythias made reply that he had a friend, who would become
security for his return; and while Dionysius, the miserable man
who trusted nobody, was ready to scoff at his simplicity, another
Pythagorean, by name of Damon, came forward, and offered to become
surety for his friend, engaging, if Pythias did not return according to
promise, to suffer death in his stead.
Dionysius, much astonished, consented to let Pythias go, marveling
what would be the issue of the affair. Time went on and Pythias did not
appear. The Syracusans watched Damon, but he showed no uneasiness. He
said he was secure of his friend's truth and honor, and that if any
accident had cause the delay of his return, he should rejoice in dying
to save the life of one so dear to him.
Even to the last day Damon continued serene and content, however it
might fall out; nay even when the very hour drew nigh and still no
Pythias. His trust was so perfect, that he did not even grieve at having
to die for a faithless friend who had left him to the fate to which
he had unwarily pledged himself. It was not Pythias' own will, but the
winds and waves, so he still declared, when the decree was brought
and the instruments of death made ready. The hour had come, and a few
moments more would have ended Damon's life, when Pythias duly presented
himself, embraced his friend, and stood forward himself to receive his
sentence, calm, resolute, and rejoiced that he had come in time.
Even the dim hope they owned of a future state was enough to make
these two brave men keep their word, and confront death for one another
without quailing. Dionysius looked on more struck than ever. He felt
that neither of such men must die. He reversed the sentence of Pythias,
and calling the two to his judgment seat, he entreated them to admit him
as a third in their friendship. Yet all the time he must have known it
was a mockery that he should ever be such as they were to each other--he
who had lost the very power of trusting, and constantly sacrificed
others to secure his own life, whilst they counted not their lives dear
to them in comparison with their truth to their word, and love to one
another. No wonder that Damon and Pythias have become such a byword that
they seem too well known to have their story told here, except that a
name in everyone's mouth sometimes seems to be mentioned by those who
have forgotten or never heard the tale attached to it.
THE DEVOTION OF THE DECII
B.C. 339
The spirit of self-devotion is so beautiful and noble, that even when
the act is performed in obedience to the dictates of a false religion,
it is impossible not to be struck with admiration and almost reverence
for the unconscious type of the one great act that has hallowed every
other sacrifice. Thus it was that Codrus, the Athenian king, has ever
since been honored for the tradition that he gave his own life to secure
the safety of his people; and there is a touching story, with neither
name nor place, of a heathen monarch who was bidden by his priests to
appease the supposed wrath of his gods by the sacrifice of the being
dearest to him. His young son had been seized on as his most beloved,
when his wife rushed between and declared that her son must live, and
not by his death rob her of her right to fall, as her husband's dearest.
The priest looked at the father; the face that had been sternly composed
before was full of uncontrolled anguish as he sprang forward to save
the wife rather than the child. That impulse was an answer, like the
entreaty of the mother before Solomon; the priest struck the fatal blow
ere the king's hand could withhold him, and the mother died with a last
look of exceeding joy at her husband's love and her son's safety. Human
sacrifices are of course accursed, and even the better sort of heathens
viewed them with horror; but the voluntary confronting of death, even at
the call of a distorted presage of future atonement, required qualities
that were perhaps the highest that could be exercised among those who
were devoid of the light of truth.
In the year 339 there was a remarkable instance of such devotion. The
Romans were at war with the Latins, a nation dwelling to the south of
them, and almost exactly resembling themselves in language, habits,
government, and fashions of fighting. Indeed the city of Rome itself
was but an offshoot from the old Latin kingdom; and there was not much
difference between the two nations even in courage and perseverance. The
two consuls of the year were Titus Manlius Torquatus and Publius Decius
Mus. They were both very distinguished men. Manlius was a patrician, or
one of the high ancient nobles of Rome, and had in early youth fought a
single combat with a gigantic Gaul, who offered himself, like Goliath,
as a champion of his tribe; had slain him, and taken from him a gold
torque, or collar, whence his surname Torquatus. Decius was a plebeian;
one of the free though not noble citizens who had votes, but only within
a few years had been capable of being chosen to the higher offices
of state, and who looked upon every election to the consulship as a
victory. Three years previously, when a tribune in command of a
legion, Decius had saved the consul, Cornelius Cossus, from a dangerous
situation, and enabled him to gain a great victory; and this exploit was
remembered, and led to the choice of this well-experienced soldier as
the colleague of Manlius.
The two consuls both went out together in command of the forces, each
having a separate army, and intending to act in concert. They marched
to the beautiful country at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, which was then
a harmless mountain clothed with chestnut woods, with spaces opening
between, where farms and vineyards rejoiced in the sunshine and the
fresh breezes of the lovely blue bay that lay stretched beneath. Those
who climbed to the summit might indeed find beds of ashes and the jagged
edge of a huge basin or gulf; the houses and walls were built of dark-
red and black material that once had flowed from the crater in boiling
torrents: but these had long since cooled, and so long was it since a
column of smoke had been seen to rise from the mountain top, that it
only remained as a matter of tradition that this region was one of
mysterious fire, and that the dark cool lake Avernus, near the mountain
skirts, was the very entrance to the shadowy realms beneath, that were
supposed to be inhabited by the spirits of the dead.
It might be that the neighborhood of this lake, with the dread
imaginations connected with it by pagan fancy, influenced even the stout
hearts of the consuls; for, the night after they came in sight of the
enemy, each dreamt the same dream, namely, that he beheld a mighty
form of gigantic height and stature, who told him 'that the victory was
decreed to that army of the two whose leader should devote himself to
the Dii Manes,' that is, to the deities who watched over the shades
of the dead. Probably these older Romans held the old Etruscan belief,
which took these 'gods beneath' to be winged beings, who bore away the
departing soul, weighted its merits and demerits, and placed it in a
region of peace or of woe, according to its deserts. This was part of
the grave and earnest faith that gave the earlier Romans such truth
and resolution; but latterly they so corrupted it with the Greek myths,
that, in after times, they did not even know who the gods of Decius
were.
At daybreak the two consuls sought one another out, and told their
dreams; and they agreed that they would join their armies in one, Decius
leading the right and Manlius the left wing; and that whichever found
his troops giving way, should at once rush into the enemy's columns and
die, to secure the victory to his colleague. At the same time strict
commands were given that no Roman should come out of his rank to fight
in single combat with the enemy; a necessary regulation, as the Latins
were so like, in every respect, to the Romans, that there would have
been fatal confusion had there been any mingling together before the
battle. Just as this command had been given out, young Titus Manlius,
the son of the consul, met a Latin leader, who called him by name and
challenged him to fight hand to hand. The youth was emulous of the honor
his father had gained by his own combat at the same age with the Gaul,
but forgot both the present edict and that his father had scrupulously
asked permission before accepting the challenge. He at once came
forward, and after a brave conflict, slew his adversary, and taking his
armor, presented himself at his father's tent and laid the spoils at his
feet.
But old Manlius turned aside sadly, and collected his troops to hear his
address to his son: 'You have transgressed,' he said, 'the discipline
which has been the support of the Roman people, and reduced me to the
hard necessity of either forgetting myself and mine, or else the regard
I owe to the general safety. Rome must not suffer by one fault. We must
expiate it ourselves. A sad example shall we be, but a wholesome one
to the Roman youth. For me, both the natural love of a father, and that
specimen thou hast given of thy valor move me exceedingly; but since
either the consular authority must be established by thy death, or
destroyed by thy impunity, I cannot think, if thou be a true Manlius,
that thou wilt be backward to repair the breach thou hast made in
military discipline by undergoing the just meed of thine offence. He
then placed the wreath of leaves, the reward of a victor, upon his son's
head, and gave the command to the lictor to bind the young man to a
stake, and strike off his head. The troops stood round as men stunned,
no one durst utter a word; the son submitted without one complaint,
since his death was for the good of Rome: and the father, trusting that
the doom of the Dii Manes was about to overtake him, beheld the brave
but rash young head fall, then watched the corpse covered with the
trophies won from the Latins, and made no hindrance to the glorious
obsequies with which the whole army honored this untimely death. Strict
discipline was indeed established, and no one again durst break his
rank; but the younger men greatly hated Manlius for his severity, and
gave him no credit for the agony he had concealed while giving up his
gallant son to the wellbeing of Rome.
A few days after, the expected battle took place, and after some little
time the front rank of Decius' men began to fall back upon the line in
their rear. This was the token he had waited for. He called to Valerius,
the chief priest of Rome, to consecrate him, and was directed to put
on his chief robe of office, the beautiful toga proetexta, to cover
his head, and standing on his javelin, call aloud to the 'nine gods' to
accept his devotion, to save the Roman legions, and strike terror into
his enemies. This done, he commanded his lictors to carry word to his
colleague that the sacrifice was accomplished, and then girding his robe
round him in the manner adopted in sacrificing to the gods, he mounted
his white horse, and rushed like lightning into the thickest of the
Latins. At first they fell away on all sides as if some heavenly
apparition had come down on them; then, as some recognized him, they
closed in on him, and pierced his breast with their weapons; but even
as he fell the superstition that a devoted leader was sure to win the
field, came full on their minds, they broke and fled. Meanwhile the
message came to Manlius, and drew from him a burst of tears--tears that
he had not shed for his son--his hope of himself meeting the doom and
ending his sorrow was gone; but none the less he nerved himself to
complete the advantage gained by Decius' death. Only one wing of the
Latins had fled, the other fought long and bravely, and when at last it
was defeated, and cut down on the field of battle, both conqueror and
conquered declared that, if Manlius had been the leader of the Latins,
they would have had the victory. Manlius afterwards completely subdued
the Latins, who became incorporated with the Romans; but bravely as he
had borne up, his health gave way under his sorrow, and before the end
of the year he was unable to take the field.
Forty-five years later, in the year 294, another Decius was consul. He
was the son of the first devoted Decius, and had shown himself worthy of
his name, both as a citizen and soldier. His first consulate had been in
conjunction with one of the most high-spirited and famous Roman nobles,
Quintus Fabius, surnamed Maximus, or the Greatest, and at three years'
end they were again chosen together, when the Romans had been brought
into considerable peril by an alliance between the Gauls and the
Samnites, their chief enemies in Italy.
One being a patrician and the other a plebeian, there was every attempt
made at Rome to stir up jealousies and dissensions between them; but
both were much too noble and generous to be thus set one against the
other; and when Fabius found how serious was the state of affairs in
Etruria, he sent to Rome to entreat that Decius would come and act with
him. 'With him I shall never want forces, nor have too many enemies to
deal with.'
The Gauls, since the time of Brennus, had so entirely settled in
northern Italy, that it had acquired the name of Cisalpine Gaul, and
they were as warlike as ever, while better armed and trained. The united
armies of Gauls, Samnites, and their allies, together, are said to have
amounted to 143,330 foot and 46,000 horse, and the Roman army consisted
of four legions, 24,000 in all, with an unspecified number of horse. The
place of battle was at Sentinum, and here for the first time the Gauls
brought armed chariots into use,--probably the wicker chariots, with
scythes in the midst of the clumsy wooden wheels, which were used by the
Kelts in Britain two centuries later. It was the first time the Romans
had encountered these barbarous vehicles; they were taken by surprise,
the horses started, and could not be brought back to the charge, and the
legions were mowed down like corn where the furious Gaul impelled his
scythe. Decius shouted in vain, and tried to gather his men and lead
them back; but the terror at this new mode of warfare had so mastered
them, that they paid no attention to his call. Then, half in policy,
half in superstition, he resolved to follow his father in his death.
He called the chief priest, Marcus Livius, and standing on his javelin,
went through the same formula of self-dedication, and in the like manner
threw himself, alone and unarmed, in the midst of the enemy, among whom
he soon fell, under many a savage stroke. The priest, himself a gallant
soldier, called to the troops that their victory was now secured, and
thoroughly believing him, they let him lead them back to the charge, and
routed the Gauls; whilst Fabius so well did his part against the other
nations, that the victory was complete, and 25,000 enemies were slain.
So covered was the body of Decius by the corpses of his enemies, that
all that day it could not be found; but on the next it was discovered,
and Fabius, with a full heart, pronounced the funeral oration of the
second Decius, who had willingly offered himself to turn the tide
of battle in favor of his country. It was the last of such acts of
dedication--the Romans became more learned and philosophical, and
perhaps more reasonable; and yet, mistaken as was the object, it seems
a falling off that, 200 years later, Cicero should not know who were the
'nine gods' of the Decii, and should regard their sacrifice as 'heroic
indeed, but unworthy of men of understanding'.
REGULUS
B.C. 249
The first wars that the Romans engaged in beyond the bounds of Italy,
were with the Carthaginians. This race came from Tyre and Zidon; and
were descended from some of the Phoenicians, or Zidonians, who were such
dangerous foes, or more dangerous friends, to the Israelites. Carthage
had, as some say, been first founded by some of the Canaanites who fled
when Joshua conquered the Promised Land; and whether this were so or
not, the inhabitants were in all their ways the same as the Tyrians
and Zidonians, of whom so much is said in the prophecies of Isaiah
and Ezekiel. Like them, they worshipped Baal and Ashtoreth, and the
frightful Moloch, with foul and cruel rites; and, like them, they were
excellent sailors and great merchants trading with every known country,
and living in great riches and splendor at their grand city on the
southern shore of the Mediterranean. That they were a wicked and cruel
race is also certain; the Romans used to call deceit Punic faith, that
is, Phoenician faith, and though no doubt Roman writers show them up
in their worst colours, yet, after the time of Hiram, Solomon's ally at
Tyre, it is plain from Holy Scripture that their crimes were great.
The first dispute between Rome and Carthage was about their possession
in the island of Sicily; and the war thus begun had lasted eight years
when it was resolved to send an army to fight the Carthaginians on their
own shores. The army and fleet were placed under the command of the two
consuls, Lucius Manlius and Marcus Attilius Regulus. On the way, there
was a great sea fight with the Carthaginian fleet, and this was the
first naval battle that the Romans ever gained. It made the way to
Africa free; but the soldiers, who had never been so far from home
before, murmured, for they expected to meet not only human enemies, but
monstrous serpents, lions, elephants, asses with horns, and dog-headed
monsters, to have a scorching sun overhead, and a noisome marsh under
their feet. However, Regulus sternly put a stop to all murmurs, by
making it known that disaffection would be punished by death, and the
army safely landed, and set up a fortification at Clypea, and plundered
the whole country round. Orders here came from Rome that Manlius should
return thither, but that Regulus should remain to carry on the war. This
was a great grief to him. He was a very poor man, with nothing of
his own but a little farm of seven acres, and the person whom he had
employed to cultivate it had died in his absence; a hired laborer had
undertaken the care of it, but had been unfaithful, and had run away
with his tools and his cattle; so that he was afraid that, unless he
could return quickly, his wife and children would starve. However,
the Senate engaged to provide for his family, and he remained, making
expeditions into the country round, in the course of which the Romans
really did fall in with a serpent as monstrous as their imagination had
depicted. It was said to be 120 feet long, and dwelt upon the banks of
the River Bagrada, where it used to devour the Roman soldiers as they
went to fetch water. It had such tough scales that they were obliged to
attack it with their engines meant for battering city walls, and only
succeeded with much difficulty in destroying it.
The country was most beautiful, covered with fertile cornfields and full
of rich fruit trees, and all the rich Carthaginians had country houses
and gardens, which were made delicious with fountains, trees, and
flowers. The Roman soldiers, plain, hardy, fierce, and pitiless, did, it
must be feared, cruel damage among these peaceful scenes; they boasted
of having sacked 300 villages, and mercy was not yet known to them. The
Carthaginian army, though strong in horsemen and in elephants, kept
upon the hills and did nothing to save the country, and the wild desert
tribes of Numidians came rushing in to plunder what the Romans had left.
The Carthaginians sent to offer terms of peace; but Regulus, who had
become uplifted by his conquests, made such demands that the messengers
remonstrated. He answered, 'Men who are good for anything should either
conquer or submit to their betters;' and he sent them rudely away, like
a stern old Roman as he was. His merit was that he had no more mercy on
himself than on others.
The Carthaginians were driven to extremity, and made horrible offerings
to Moloch, giving the little children of the noblest families to be
dropped into the fire between the brazen hands of his statue, and grown-
up people of the noblest families rushed in of their own accord, hoping
thus to propitiate their gods, and obtain safety for their country.
Their time was not yet fully come, and a respite was granted to them.
They had sent, in their distress, to hire soldiers in Greece, and among
these came a Spartan, named Xanthippus, who at once took the command,
and led the army out to battle, with a long line of elephants ranged in
front of them, and with clouds of horsemen hovering on the wings. The
Romans had not yet learnt the best mode of fighting with elephants,
namely, to leave lanes in their columns where these huge beasts might
advance harmlessly; instead of which, the ranks were thrust and trampled
down by the creatures' bulk, and they suffered a terrible defeat;
Regulus himself was seized by the horsemen, and dragged into Carthage,
where the victors feasted and rejoiced through half the night, and
testified their thanks to Moloch by offering in his fires the bravest of
their captives.
Regulus himself was not, however, one of these victims. He was kept a
close prisoner for two years, pining and sickening in his loneliness,
while in the meantime the war continued, and at last a victory so
decisive was gained by the Romans, that the people of Carthage were
discouraged, and resolved to ask terms of peace. They thought that
no one would be so readily listened to at Rome as Regulus, and they
therefore sent him there with their envoys, having first made him swear
that he would come back to his prison if there should neither be peace
nor an exchange of prisoners. They little knew how much more a true-
hearted Roman cared for his city than for himself--for his word than for
his life.
Worn and dejected, the captive warrior came to the outside of the gates
of his own city, and there paused, refusing to enter. 'I am no longer a
Roman citizen,' he said; 'I am but the barbarian's slave, and the Senate
may not give audience to strangers within the walls.'
His wife Marcia ran out to greet him, with his two sons, but he did not
look up, and received their caresses as one beneath their notice, as
a mere slave, and he continued, in spite of all entreaty, to remain
outside the city, and would not even go to the little farm he had loved
so well.
The Roman Senate, as he would not come in to them, came out to hold
their meeting in the Campagna.
The ambassadors spoke first, then Regulus, standing up, said, as
one repeating a task, 'Conscript fathers, being a slave to the
Carthaginians, I come on the part of my masters to treat with you
concerning peace, and an exchange of prisoners.' He then turned to go
away with the ambassadors, as a stranger might not be present at the
deliberations of the Senate. His old friends pressed him to stay and
give his opinion as a senator who had twice been consul; but he refused
to degrade that dignity by claiming it, slave as he was. But, at the
command of his Carthaginian masters, he remained, though not taking his
seat.
Then he spoke. He told the senators to persevere in the war. He said he
had seen the distress of Carthage, and that a peace would only be to her
advantage, not to that of Rome, and therefore he strongly advised that
the war should continue. Then, as to the exchange of prisoners, the
Carthaginian generals, who were in the hands of the Romans, were in full
health and strength, whilst he himself was too much broken down to be
fit for service again, and indeed he believed that his enemies had given
him a slow poison, and that he could not live long. Thus he insisted
that no exchange of prisoners should be made.
It was wonderful, even to Romans, to hear a man thus pleading against
himself, and their chief priest came forward, and declared that, as his
oath had been wrested from him by force, he was not bound to return to
his captivity. But Regulus was too noble to listen to this for a moment.
'Have you resolved to dishonor me?' he said. 'I am not ignorant that
death and the extremest tortures are preparing for me; but what are
these to the shame of an infamous action, or the wounds of a guilty
mind? Slave as I am to Carthage, I have still the spirit of a Roman. I
have sworn to return. It is my duty to go; let the gods take care of the
rest.'
The Senate decided to follow the advice of Regulus, though they bitterly
regretted his sacrifice. His wife wept and entreated in vain that they
would detain him; they could merely repeat their permission to him to
remain; but nothing could prevail with him to break his word, and he
turned back to the chains and death he expected so calmly as if he had
been returning to his home. This was in the year B.C. 249.
'Let the gods take care of the rest,' said the Roman; the gods whom
alone he knew, and through whom he ignorantly worshipped the true God,
whose Light was shining out even in this heathen's truth and constancy.
How his trust was fulfilled is not known. The Senate, after the next
victory, gave two Carthaginian generals to his wife and sons to hold as
pledges for his good treatment; but when tidings arrived that Regulus
was dead, Marcia began to treat them both with savage cruelty, though
one of them assured her that he had been careful to have her husband
well used. Horrible stories were told that Regulus had been put out in
the sun with his eyelids cut off, rolled down a hill in a barrel with
spikes, killed by being constantly kept awake, or else crucified. Marcia
seems to have set about, and perhaps believed in these horrors, and
avenged them on her unhappy captives till one had died, and the Senate
sent for her sons and severely reprimanded them. They declared it was
their mother's doing, not theirs, and thenceforth were careful of the
comfort of the remaining prisoner.
It may thus be hoped that the frightful tale of Regulus' sufferings was
but formed by report acting on the fancy of a vindictive woman, and that
Regulus was permitted to die in peace of the disease brought on far more
probably by the climate and imprisonment, than by the poison to which
he ascribed it. It is not the tortures he may have endured that make him
one of the noblest characters of history, but the resolution that would
neither let him save himself at the risk of his country's prosperity,
nor forfeit the word that he had pledged.
THE BRAVE BRETHREN OF JUDAH
B.C. 180
It was about 180 years before the Christian era. The Jews had long since
come home from Babylon, and built up their city and Temple at Jerusalem.
But they were not free as they had been before. Their country belonged
to some greater power, they had a foreign governor over them, and had to
pay tribute to the king who was their master.
At the time we are going to speak of, this king was Antiochus Epiphanes,
King of Syria. He was descended from one of those generals who, upon the
death of Alexander the Great, had shared the East between them, and he
reigned over all the country from the Mediterranean Sea even into Persia
and the borders of India. He spoke Greek, and believed in both the Greek
and Roman gods, for he had spent some time at Rome in his youth; but
in his Eastern kingdom he had learnt all the self-indulgent and violent
habits to which people in those hot countries are especially tempted.
He was so fierce and passionate, that he was often called the 'Madman',
and he was very cruel to all who offended him. One of his greatest
desires was, that the Jews should leave their true faith in one God,
and do like the Greeks and Syrians, his other subjects, worship the same
idols, and hold drunken feasts in their honor. Sad to say, a great many
of the Jews had grown ashamed of their own true religion and the strict
ways of their law, and thought them old-fashioned. They joined in the
Greek sports, played games naked in the theatre, joined in riotous
processions, carrying ivy in honor of Bacchus, the god of wine, and
offered incense to the idols; and the worst of all these was the false
high priest, Menelaus, who led the King Antiochus into the Temple
itself, even into the Holy of Holies, and told him all that would most
desecrate it and grieve the Jews. So a little altar to the Roman
god Jupiter was set up on the top of the great brazen altar of burnt
offerings, a hog was offered up, and broth of its flesh sprinkled
everywhere in the Temple; then all the precious vessels were seized, the
shewbread table of gold, the candlesticks, and the whole treasury, and
carried away by the king; the walls were thrown down, and the place made
desolate.
Some Jews were still faithful to their God, but they were horribly
punished and tortured to death before the eyes of the king; and when at
last he went away to his own country, taking with him the wicked high
priest Menelaus, he left behind him a governor and an army of soldiers
stationed in the tower of Acra, which overlooked the Temple hill, and
sent for an old man from Athens to teach the people the heathen rites
and ceremonies. Any person who observed the Sabbath day, or any other
ordinance of the law of Moses, was put to death in a most cruel manner;
all the books of the Old Testament Scripture that could be found were
either burnt or defiled, by having pictures of Greek gods painted upon
them; and the heathen priests went from place to place, with a little
brazen altar and image and a guard of soldiers, who were to kill every
person who refused to burn incense before the idol. It was the very
saddest time that the Jews had ever known, and there seemed no help near
or far off; they could have no hope, except in the promises that God
would never fail His people, or forsake His inheritance, and in the
prophecies that bad times should come, but good ones after them.
The Greeks, in going through the towns to enforce the idol worship, came
to a little city called Modin, somewhere on the hills on the coast
of the Mediterranean Sea, not far from Joppa. There they sent out,
as usual, orders to all the men of the town to meet them in the
marketplace; but they were told beforehand, that the chief person in the
place was an old man named Mattathias, of a priestly family, and so much
respected, that all the other inhabitants of the place were sure to do
whatever he might lead them in. So the Greeks sent for him first of all,
and he came at their summons, a grand and noble old man, followed by
his five sons, Johanan, Simon, Judas, Jonathan, and Eleazar. The Greek
priest tried to talk him over. He told him that the high priest had
forsaken the Jewish superstition, that the Temple was in ruins, and that
resistance was in vain; and exhorted him to obtain gratitude and honor
for himself, by leading his countrymen in thus adoring the deities
of the king's choice, promising him rewards and treasures if he would
comply.
But the old man spoke out with a loud and fearless voice: 'Though all
the nations that are under the king's dominion obey him, and fall away
every one from the religion of their fathers, and give consent to
his commandments; yet will I and my sons and my brethren walk in the
covenant of our fathers. God forbid that we should forsake the law and
the ordinances! We will not hearken to the king's words, to go from our
religion, either on the right hand or the left!'
As he spoke, up came an apostate Jew to do sacrifice at the heathen
altar. Mattathias trembled at the sight, and his zeal broke forth. He
slew the offender, and his brave sons gathering round him, they attacked
the Syrian soldiers, killed the commissioner, and threw down the altar.
Then, as they knew that they could not there hold out against the king's
power, Mattathias proclaimed throughout the city: 'Whosoever is zealous
of the law, and maintaineth the covenant, let him follow me!' With that,
he and his five sons, with their families, left their houses and lands,
and drove their cattle with them up into the wild hills and caves, where
David had once made his home; and all the Jews who wished to be
still faithful, gathered around them, to worship God and keep His
commandments.
There they were, a handful of brave men in the mountains, and all the
heathen world and apostate Jews against them. They used to come down
into the villages, remind the people of the law, promise their help,
and throw down any idol altars that they found, and the enemy never were
able to follow them into their rocky strongholds. But the old Mattathias
could not long bear the rude wild life in the cold mountains, and he
soon died. First he called all his five sons, and bade them to 'be
zealous for the law, and give their lives for the covenant of their
fathers'; and he reminded them of all the many brave men who had before
served God, and been aided in their extremity. He appointed his son
Judas, as the strongest and mightiest, to lead his brethren to battle,
and Simon, as the wisest, to be their counsellor; then he blessed them
and died; and his sons were able to bury him in the tomb of his fathers
at Modin.
Judas was one of the bravest men who ever lived; never dreading the
numbers that came against him. He was surnamed Maccabeus, which some
people say meant the hammerer; but others think it was made up of the
first letters of the words he carried on his banner, which meant 'Who
is like unto Thee, among the gods, O Lord?' Altogether he had about six
thousand men round him when the Greek governor, Apollonius, came out
to fight with him. The Jews gained here their first victory, and Judas
killed Apollonius, took his sword, and fought all his other battles with
it. Next came a captain called Seron, who went out to the hills to lay
hold of the bold rebels that dared to rise against the King of Syria.
The place where Judas met him was one to make the Jews' hearts leap with
hope and trust. It was on the steep stony broken hillside of Beth-horon,
the very place where Joshua had conquered the five kings of the
Amorites, in the first battle on the coming in of the children of Israel
to Palestine. There was the rugged path where Joshua had stood and
called out to the sun to stand still in Gibeon, and the moon in the
valley of Ajalon. Miracles were over, and Judas looked for no wonder to
help him; but when he came up the mountain road from Joppa, his heart
was full of the same trust as Joshua's, and he won another great
victory.
By this time King Antiochus began to think the rising of the Jews a
serious matter, but he could not come himself against them, because his
provinces in Armenia and Persia had refused their tribute, and he had
to go in person to reduce them. He appointed, however, a governor, named
Lysias, to chastise the Jews, giving him an army of 40,000 foot and 7000
horse. Half of these Lysias sent on before him, with two captains, named
Nicanor and Gorgias, thinking that these would be more than enough to
hunt down and crush the little handful that were lurking in the hills.
And with them came a great number of slave merchants, who had bargained
with Nicanor that they should have ninety Jews for one talent, to sell
to the Greeks and Romans, by whom Jewish slaves were much esteemed.
There was great terror in Palestine at these tidings, and many of the
weaker-minded fell away from Judas; but he called all the faithful
together at Mizpeh, the same place where, 1000 years before, Samuel had
collected the Israelites, and, after prayer and fasting, had sent them
forth to free their country from the Philistines. Shiloh, the sanctuary,
was then lying desolate, just as Jerusalem now lay in ruins; and yet
better times had come. But very mournful was that fast day at Mizpeh, as
the Jews looked along the hillside to their own holy mountain crowned
by no white marble and gold Temple flashing back the sunbeams, but only
with the tall castle of their enemies towering over the precipice.
They could not sacrifice, because a sacrifice could only be made at
Jerusalem, and the only book of the Scriptures that they had to read
from was painted over with the hateful idol figures of the Greeks. And
the huge army of enemies was ever coming nearer! The whole assembly
wept, and put on sackcloth and prayed aloud for help, and then there was
a loud sounding of trumpets, and Judas stood forth before them. And he
made the old proclamation that Moses had long ago decreed, that no
one should go out to battle who was building a house, or planting a
vineyard, or had just betrothed a wife, or who was fearful and faint-
hearted. All these were to go home again. Judas had 6,000 followers when
he made this proclamation. He had only 3,000 at the end of the day, and
they were but poorly armed. He told them of the former aid that had come
to their fathers in extremity, and made them bold with his noble words.
Then he gave them for their watchword 'the help of God', and divided
the leadership of the band between himself and his brothers, appointing
Eleazar, the youngest, to read the Holy Book.
With these valiant men, Judas set up his camp; but tidings were soon
brought him that Gorgias, with 5000 foot and 1000 horse, had left the
main body to fall on his little camp by night. He therefore secretly
left the place in the twilight; so that when the enemy attacked his
camp, they found it deserted, and supposing them to be hid in the
mountains, proceeded hither in pursuit of them.
But in the early morning Judas and his 3,000 men were all in battle
array in the plains, and marching full upon the enemy's camp with
trumpet sound, took them by surprise in the absence of Gorgias and his
choice troops, and utterly defeated and put them to flight, but without
pursuing them, since the fight with Gorgias and his 5,000 might be yet
to come. Even as Judas was reminding his men of this, Gorgias's troops
were seen looking down from the mountains where they had been wandering
all night; but seeing their own camp all smoke and flame, they turned
and fled away. Nine thousand of the invaders had been slain, and the
whole camp, full of arms and treasures, was in the hands of Judas, who
there rested for a Sabbath of glad thanksgiving, and the next day parted
the spoil, first putting out the share for the widows and orphans and
the wounded, and then dividing the rest among his warriors. As to the
slave merchants, they were all made prisoners, and instead of giving a
talent for ninety Jews, were sold themselves.
The next year Lysias came himself, but was driven back and defeated
at Bethshur, four or five miles south of Bethlehem. And now came the
saddest, yet the greatest, day of Judas's life, when he ventured to go
back into the holy city and take possession of the Temple again. The
strong tower of Acra, which stood on a ridge of Mount Moriah looking
down on the Temple rock, was still held by the Syrians, and he had no
means of taking it; but he and his men loved the sanctuary too well to
keep away from it, and again they marched up the steps and slopes that
led up the holy hill. They went up to find the walls broken, the gates
burnt, the cloisters and priests' chambers pulled down, and the courts
thickly grown with grass and shrubs, the altar of their one true God
with the false idol Jupiter's altar in the middle of it. These warriors,
who had turned three armies to flight, could not bear the sight. They
fell down on their faces, threw dust on their heads, and wept aloud for
the desolation of their holy place. But in the midst Judas caused the
trumpets to sound an alarm. They were to do something besides grieving.
The bravest of them were set to keep watch and ward against the Syrians
in the tower, while he chose out the most faithful priests to cleanse
out the sanctuary, and renew all that could be renewed, making new holy
vessels from the spoil taken in Nicanor's camp, and setting the stones
of the profaned altar apart while a new one was raised. On the third
anniversary of the great profanation, the Temple was newly dedicated,
with songs and hymns of rejoicing, and a festival day was appointed,
which has been observed by the Jews ever since. The Temple rock and city
were again fortified so as to be able to hold out against their enemies,
and this year and the next were the most prosperous of the life of the
loyal-hearted Maccabee.
The great enemy of the Jews, Antiochus Epiphanes, was in the meantime
dying in great agony in Persia, and his son Antiochus Eupator was set
on the throne by Lysias, who brought him with an enormous army to reduce
the rising in Judea. The fight was again at Bethshur, where Judas had
built a strong fort on a point of rock that guarded the road to Hebron.
Lysias tried to take this fort, and Judas came to the rescue with his
little army, to meet the far mightier Syrian force, which was made more
terrific by possessing thirty war elephants imported from the Indian
frontier. Each of these creatures carried a tower containing thirty-two
men armed with darts and javelins, and an Indian driver on his neck; and
they had 1000 foot and 500 horse attached to the special following of
the beast, who, gentle as he was by nature, often produced a fearful
effect on the enemy; not so much by his huge bulk as by the terror he
inspired among men, and far more among horses. The whole host was spread
over the mountains and the valleys so that it is said that their bright
armor and gold and silver shields made the mountains glisten like lamps
of fire.
Still Judas pressed on to the attack, and his brother Eleazar,
perceiving that one of the elephants was more adorned than the rest,
thought it might be carrying the king, and devoted himself for his
country. He fought his way to the monster, crept under it, and stabbed
it from beneath, so that the mighty weight sank down on him and crushed
him to death in his fall. He gained a 'perpetual name' for valor and
self-devotion; but the king was not upon the elephant, and after a hard-
fought battle, Judas was obliged to draw off and leave Bethshur to be
taken by the enemy, and to shut himself up in Jerusalem.
There, want of provisions had brought him to great distress, when
tidings came that another son of Antiochus Epiphanes had claimed the
throne, and Lysias made peace in haste with Judas, promising him full
liberty of worship, and left Palestine in peace.
This did not, however, last long. Lysias and his young master were slain
by the new king, Demetrius, who again sent an army for the subjection of
Judas, and further appointed a high priest, named Alcimus, of the family
of Aaron, but inclined to favor the new heathen fashions.
This was the most fatal thing that had happened to Judas. Though of
the priestly line, he was so much of a warrior, that he seems to have
thought it would be profane to offer sacrifice himself; and many of the
Jews were so glad of another high priest, that they let Alcimus into the
Temple, and Jerusalem was again lost to Judas. One more battle was won
by him at Beth-horon, and then finding how hard it was to make head
against the Syrians, he sent to ask the aid of the great Roman power.
But long before the answer could come, a huge Syrian army had marched
in on the Holy Land, 20,000 men, and Judas had again no more than 3000.
Some had gone over to Alcimus, some were offended at his seeking Roman
alliance, and when at Eleasah he came in sight of the host, his men's
hearts failed more than they ever had done before, and, out of the 3000
at first collected, only 800 stood with him, and they would fain have
persuaded him to retreat.
'God forbid that I should do this thing,' he said, 'and flee away from
them. If our time be come, let us die manfully for our brethren, and let
us not stain our honor.'
Sore was the battle, as sore as that waged by the 800 at Thermopylae,
and the end was the same. Judas and his 800 were not driven from the
field, but lay dead upon it. But their work was done. What is called the
moral effect of such a defeat goes further than many a victory. Those
lives, sold so dearly, were the price of freedom for Judea.
Judas's brothers Jonathan and Simon laid him in his father's tomb, and
then ended the work that he had begun; and when Simon died, the Jews,
once so trodden on, were the most prosperous race in the East. The
Temple was raised from its ruins, and the exploits of the Maccabees had
nerved the whole people to do or die in defense of the holy faith of
their fathers.
THE CHIEF OF THE ARVERNI
B.C. 52
We have seen the Gauls in the heart of Rome, we have now to see them
showing the last courage of despair, defending their native lands
against the greatest of all the conquerors that Rome ever sent forth.
These lands, where they had dwelt for so many years as justly to regard
them as their inheritance, were Gaul. There the Celtic race had had
their abode ever since history has spoken clearly, and had become, in
Gaul especially, slightly more civilized from intercourse with the Greek
colony at Massilia, or Marseilles. But they had become borderers upon
the Roman dominions, and there was little chance that they would not be
absorbed; the tribes of Provence, the first Roman province, were already
conquered, others were in alliance with Rome, and some had called in
the Romans to help them fight their battles. There is no occasion to
describe the seven years' war by which Julius Caesar added Gaul to the
provinces claimed by Rome, and when he visited Britain; such conquests
are far from being Golden Deeds, but are far worthier of the iron age.
It is the stand made by the losing party, and the true patriotism of one
young chieftain, that we would wish here to dwell upon.
In the sixth year of the war the conquest seemed to have been made, and
the Roman legions were guarding the north and west, while Caesar himself
had crossed the Alps. Subjection pressed heavily on the Gauls, some of
their chiefs had been put to death, and the high spirit of the nation
was stirred. Meetings took place between the warriors of the various
tribes, and an oath was taken by those who inhabited the centre of the
country, that if they once revolted, they would stand by one another
to the last. These Gauls were probably not tall, bony giants, like the
pillagers of Rome; their appearance and character would be more like
that of the modern Welsh, or of their own French descendants, small,
alert, and dark-eyed, full of fire, but, though fierce at the first
onset, soon rebuffed, yet with much perseverance in the long run. Their
worship was conducted by Druids, like that of the Britons, and their
dress was of checked material, formed into a loose coat and wide
trousers. The superior chiefs, who had had any dealings with Rome, would
speak a little Latin, and have a few Roman weapons as great improvements
upon their own. Their fortifications were wonderfully strong. Trunks of
trees were laid on the ground at two feet apart, so that the depth of
the wall was their full length. Over these another tier of beams was
laid crosswise, and the space between was filled up with earth, and the
outside faced with large stones; the building of earth and stone was
carried up to some height, then came another tier of timbers, crossed as
before, and this was repeated again to a considerable height, the inner
ends of the beams being fastened to a planking within the wall, so that
the whole was of immense compactness. Fire could not damage the mineral
part of the construction, nor the battering ram hurt the wood, and the
Romans had been often placed in great difficulties by these rude but
admirable constructions, within which the Gauls placed their families
and cattle, building huts for present shelter. Of late, some attempts
had been made at copying the regular streets and houses built round
courts that were in use among the Romans, and Roman colonies had been
established in various places, where veteran soldiers had received
grants of land on condition of keeping the natives in check. A growing
taste for arts and civilization was leading to Romans of inferior
classes settling themselves in other Gallic cities.
The first rising of the Gauls began by a quarrel at the city we now call
Orleans, ending in a massacre of all the Romans there. The tidings were
spread through all the country by loud shouts, repeated from one to the
other by men stationed on every hill, and thus, what had been done at
Orleans at sunrise was known by nine at night 160 miles off among the
mountains, which were then the homes of a tribe called by the Romans the
Arverni, who have left their name to the province of Auvergne.
Here dwelt a young chieftain, probably really called Fearcuincedorigh,
or Man who is chief of a hundred heads, known to us by Caesar's version
of his name, as Vercingetorix, a high-spirited youth, who keenly felt
the servitude of his country, and who, on receiving these tidings,
instantly called on his friends to endeavor to shake off the yoke. His
uncle, who feared to provoke Roman vengeance, expelled him from the
chief city, Gergovia, the remains of which may be traced on the mountain
still called Gergoie, about six miles from Clermont; but he collected
all the younger and more high-spirited men, forced a way into the city,
and was proclaimed chief of his tribe. All the neighboring tribes joined
in the league against the common enemy, and tidings were brought to
Caesar that the whole country round the Loire was in a state of revolt.
In the heart of winter he hurried back, and took the Gauls by surprise
by crossing the snows that lay thick on the wild waste of the Cebenna,
which the Arverni had always considered as their impenetrable barrier
throughout the winter. The towns quickly fell into his hands, and he was
rapidly recovering all he had lost, when Vercingetorix, collecting his
chief supporters, represented to them that their best hope would be
in burning all the inhabited places themselves and driving off all the
cattle, then lying in wait to cut off all the convoys of provisions that
should be sent to the enemy, and thus starving them into a retreat. He
said that burning houses were indeed a grievous sight, but it would be
more grievous to see their wives and children dragged into captivity. To
this all the allies agreed, and twenty towns in one district were burnt
in a single day; but when they came to the city of Avaricum, now called
Bourges, the tribe of Bituriges, to whom it belonged, entreated on
their knees not to be obliged to destroy the most beautiful city in the
country, representing that, as it had a river on one side, and a morass
everywhere else, except at a very narrow entrance, it might be easily
held out against the enemy, and to their entreaties Vercingetorix
yielded, though much against his own judgment.
Caesar laid siege to the place, but his army suffered severely from
cold and hunger; they had no bread at all, and lived only on the cattle
driven in from distant villages, while Vercingetorix hovered round,
cutting off their supplies. They however labored diligently to raise a
mount against a wall of the town; but as fast as they worked, the higher
did the Gauls within raise the stages of their rampart, and for twenty-
five days there was a most brave defense; but at last the Romans made
their entrance, and slaughtered all they found there, except 800, who
escaped to the camp of Vercingetorix. He was not disconcerted by this
loss, which he had always expected, but sheltered and clothed the
fugitives, and raised a great body of archers and of horsemen, with whom
he returned to his own territory in Auvergne. There was much fighting
around the city of Gergovia; but at length, owing to the revolt of
the Aedui, another Gallic tribe, Caesar was forced to retreat over the
Loire; and the wild peaks of volcanic Auvergne were free again.
But no gallant resolution could long prevail against the ever-advancing
power of Rome, and at length the Gauls were driven into their fortified
camp at Alesia, now called Alise [footnote: In Burgundy, between Semur
and Dijon.], a city standing on a high hill, with two rivers flowing
round its base, and a plain in front about three miles wide. Everywhere
else it was circled in by high hills, and here Caesar resolved to shut
these brave men in and bring them to bay. He caused his men to begin
that mighty system of earthworks by which the Romans carried on their
attacks, compassing their victim round on every side with a deadly
slowness and sureness, by those broad ditches and terraced ramparts that
everywhere mark where their foot of iron was trod. Eleven miles round
did this huge rampart extend, strengthened by three-and-twenty redoubts,
or places of defense, where a watch was continually kept. Before the
lines were complete, Vercingetorix brought out his cavalry, and gave
battle, at one time with a hope of success; but the enemy were too
strong for him, and his horsemen were driven into the camp. He then
resolved to send home all of these, since they could be of no use in the
camp, and had better escape before the ditch should have shut them in on
every side. He charged them to go to their several tribes and endeavor
to assemble all the fighting men to come to his rescue; for, if he were
not speedily succored, he and 80,000 of the bravest of the Gauls must
fall into the hands of the Romans, since he had only corn for thirty
days, even with the utmost saving.
Having thus exhorted them, he took leave of them, and sent them away
at nine at night, so that they might escape in the dark where the Roman
trench had not yet extended. Then he distributed the cattle among his
men, but retained the corn himself, serving it out with the utmost
caution. The Romans outside fortified their camp with a double ditch,
one of them full of water, behind which was a bank twelve feet high,
with stakes forked like the horns of a stag. The space between the
ditches was filled with pits, and scattered with iron caltrops or hooked
spikes. All this was against the garrison, to prevent them from breaking
out; and outside the camp he made another line of ditches and ramparts
against the Gauls who might be coming to the rescue.
The other tribes were not deaf to the summons of their friends, but
assembled in large numbers, and just as the besieged had exhausted
their provisions, an army was seen on the hills beyond the camp. Their
commander was Vergosillaunus (most probably Fearsaighan, the Man of the
Standard), a near kinsman of Vercingetorix; and all that bravery could
do, they did to break through the defenses of the camp from outside,
while within, Vercingetorix and his 80,000 tried to fill up the ditches,
and force their way out to meet their friends. But Caesar himself
commanded the Romans, who were confident in his fortunes, and raised a
shout of ecstasy wherever they beheld his thin, marked, eagle face and
purple robe, rushing on the enemy with a confidence of victory that did
in fact render them invincible. The Gauls gave way, lost seventy-four of
their standards, and Vergosillaunus himself was taken a prisoner; and as
for the brave garrison within Alesia, they were but like so many flies
struggling in vain within the enormous web that had been woven around
them. Hope was gone, but the chief of the Arverni could yet do one thing
for his countrymen--he could offer up himself in order to obtain better
terms for them.
The next day he convened his companions in arms, and told them that
he had only fought for the freedom of their country, not to secure his
private interest; and that now, since yield they must, he freely offered
himself to become a victim for their safety, whether they should judge
it best for themselves to appease the anger of the conqueror by putting
him to death themselves, or whether they preferred giving him up alive.
It was a piteous necessity to have to sacrifice their noblest and
bravest, who had led them so gallantly during the long war; but they had
little choice, and could only send messengers to the camp to offer to
yield Vercingetorix as the price of their safety. Caesar made it known
that he was willing to accept their submission, and drawing up his
troops in battle array, with the Eagle standards around him, he watched
the whole Gallic army march past him. First, Vercingetorix was placed as
a prisoner in his hands, and then each man lay down sword, javelin, or
bow and arrows, helmet, buckler and breastplate, in one mournful heap,
and proceeded on his way, scarcely thankful that the generosity of their
chieftain had purchased for them subjection rather than death.
Vercingetorix himself had become the property of the great man from whom
alone we know of his deeds; who could perceive his generous spirit and
high qualities as a general, nay, who honored the self-devotion by which
he endeavored to save his countrymen. He remained in captivity--six long
years sped by--while Caesar passed the Rubicon, fought out his struggle
for power at Rome, and subdued Egypt, Pontus, and Northern Africa--and
all the time the brave Gaul remained closely watched and guarded, and
with no hope of seeing the jagged peaks and wild valleys of his own
beautiful Auvergne. For well did he, like every other marked foe of
Rome, know for what he was reserved, and no doubt he yielded himself in
the full expectation of that fate which many a man, as brave as he, had
escaped by self-destruction.
The day came at last. In July, B.C. 45, the victorious Caesar had
leisure to celebrate his victories in four grand triumphs, all in one
month, and that in honor of the conquest of Gaul came the first. The
triumphal gate of Rome was thrown wide open, every house was decked with
hangings of silk and tapestry, the household images of every family,
dressed with fresh flowers, were placed in their porches, those of the
gods stood on the steps of the temples, and in marched the procession,
the magistrates first in their robes of office, and then the trumpeters.
Next came the tokens of the victory--figures of the supposed gods of the
two great rivers, Rhine and Rhone, and even of the captive Ocean,
made in gold, were carried along, with pictures framed in citron wood,
showing the scenes of victory--the wild waste of the Cevennes, the steep
peaks of Auvergne, the mighty camp of Alesia; nay, there too would be
the white cliffs of Dover, and the struggle with the Britons on the
beach. Models in wood and ivory showed the fortifications of Avaricum,
and of many another city; and here too were carried specimens of the
olives and vines, and other curious plants of the newly won land; here
was the breastplate of British pearls that Caesar dedicated to Venus. A
band of flute-players followed, and then came the white oxen that were
to be sacrificed, their horns gilded and flowers hung round them, the
sacrificing priests with wreathed heads marching with them. Specimens
of bears and wolves from the woods and mountains came next in order,
and after them waved for the last time the national ensigns of the many
tribes of Gaul. Once more Vercingetorix and Vergosillaunus saw their
own Arvernian standard, and marched behind it with the noblest of their
clan: once more they wore their native dress and well-tried armor. But
chains were on their hands and feet, and the men who had fought so long
and well for freedom, were the captive gazing-stock of Rome. Long, long
was the line of chained Gauls of every tribe, before the four white
horses appeared, all abreast, drawing the gilded car, in which stood
a slight form in a purple robe, with the bald head and narrow temples
encircled with a wreath of bay, the thin cheeks tinted with vermilion,
the eager aquiline face and narrow lips gravely composed to Roman
dignity, and the quick eye searching out what impression the display
was making on the people. Over his head a slave held a golden crown, but
whispered, 'Remember that thou too art a man.' And in following that old
custom, how little did the victor know that, bay-crowned like himself,
there followed close behind, in one of the chariots of the officers, the
man whose dagger-thrust would, two years later, be answered by his
dying word of reproach! The horsemen of the army followed, and then the
legions, every spear wreathed, every head crowned with bay, so that an
evergreen grove might have seemed marching through the Roman streets,
but for the war songs, and the wild jests, and ribald ballads that
custom allowed the soldiers to shout out, often in pretended mockery of
their own victorious general, the Imperator.
The victor climbed the Capitol steps, and laid his wreath of bay on
Jupiter's knees, the white oxen were sacrificed, and the feast began
by torchlight. Where was the vanquished? He was led to the dark prison
vault in the side of Capitoline hill, and there one sharp sword-thrust
ended the gallant life and long captivity.
It was no special cruelty in Julius Caesar. Every Roman triumph was
stained by the slaughter of the most distinguished captives, after the
degradation of walking in chains had been undergone. He had spirit to
appreciate Vercingetorix, but had not nobleness to spare him from the
ordinary fate. Yet we may doubt which, in true moral greatness, was the
superior in that hour of triumph, the conqueror who trod down all that
he might minister to his own glory, or the conquered, who, when no
resistance had availed, had voluntarily confronted shame and death in
hopes to win pardon and safety for his comrades.
WITHSTANDING THE MONARCH IN HIS WRATH
A.D. 389
When a monarch's power is unchecked by his people, there is only One
to whom he believes himself accountable; and if he have forgotten the
dagger of Damocles, or if he be too high-spirited to regard it, then
that Higher One alone can restrain his actions. And there have been
times when princes have so broken the bounds of right, that no hope
remains of recalling them to their duty save by the voice of the
ministers of God upon Earth. But as these ministers bear no charmed
life, and are subjects themselves of the prince, such rebukes have been
given at the utmost risk of liberty and life.
Thus it was that though Nathan, unharmed, showed David his sin, and
Elijah, the wondrous prophet of Gilead, was protected from Jezebel's
fury, when he denounced her and her husband Ahab for the idolatry of
Baal and the murder of Naboth; yet no Divine hand interposed to shield
Zachariah, the son of Jehoiada, the high priest, when he rebuked the
apostasy of his cousin, Jehoash, King of Judah, and was stoned to
death by the ungrateful king's command in that very temple court where
Jehoiada and his armed Levites had encountered the savage usurping
Athaliah, and won back the kingdom for the child Jehoash. And when 'in
the spirit and power of Elijah', St. John the Baptist denounced the
sin of Herod Antipas in marrying his brother Philip's wife, he bore the
consequences to the utmost, when thrown into prison and then beheaded to
gratify the rage of the vindictive woman.
Since Scripture Saints in the age of miracles were not always shielded
from the wrath of kings, Christian bishops could expect no special
interposition in their favor, when they stood forth to stop the way
of the sovereign's passions, and to proclaim that the cause of mercy,
purity, and truth is the cause of God.
The first of these Christian bishops was Ambrose, the sainted prelate of
Milan. It was indeed a Christian Emperor whom he opposed, no other than
the great Theodosius, but it was a new and unheard-of thing for any
voice to rebuke an Emperor of Rome, and Theodosius had proved himself a
man of violent passions.
The fourth century was a time when races and all sorts of shows were
the fashion, nay, literally the rage; for furious quarrels used to
arise among the spectators who took the part of one or other of the
competitors, and would call themselves after their colours, the Blues or
the Greens. A favorite chariot driver, who had excelled in these
races at Thessalonica, was thrown into prison for some misdemeanor
by Botheric, the Governor of Illyria, and his absence so enraged
the Thessalonican mob, that they rose in tumult, and demanded his
restoration. On being refused, they threw such a hail of stones that the
governor himself and some of his officers were slain.
Theodosius might well be displeased, but his rage passed all bounds. He
was at Milan at the time, and at first Ambrose so worked on his feelings
as to make him promise to temper justice with mercy; but afterwards
fresh accounts of the murder, together with the representations of
his courtier Rufinus, made him resolve not to relent, and he sent off
messengers commanding that there should be a general slaughter of
all the race-going Thessalonicans, since all were equally guilty of
Botheric's death. He took care that his horrible command should be kept
a secret from Ambrose, and the first that the Bishop heard of it was the
tidings that 7,000 persons had been killed in the theatre, in a massacre
lasting three hours!
There was no saving these lives, but Ambrose felt it his duty to make
the Emperor feel his sin, in hopes of saving others. Besides, it was not
consistent with the honor of God to receive at his altar a man reeking
with innocent blood. The Bishop, however, took time to consider; he
went into the country for a few days, and thence wrote a letter to
the Emperor, telling him that thus stained with crime, he could not
be admitted to the Holy Communion, nor received into church. Still the
Emperor does not seem to have believed he could be really withstood by
any subject, and on Ambrose's return, he found the imperial procession,
lictors, guards, and all, escorting the Emperor as usual to the Basilica
or Justice Hall, that had been turned into a church. Then to the door
came the Bishop and stood in the way, forbidding the entrance, and
announcing that there, at least, sacrilege should not be added to
murder.
'Nay,' said the Emperor, 'did not holy King David commit both murder and
adultery, yet was he not received again?'
'If you have sinned like him, repent like him,' answered Ambrose.
Theodosius turned away, troubled. He was great enough not to turn his
anger against the Bishop; he felt that he had sinned, and that the
chastisement was merited, and he went back to his palace weeping, and
there spent eight months, attending to his duties of state, but too
proud to go through the tokens of penitence that the discipline of the
Church had prescribed before a great sinner could be received back
into the congregation of the faithful. Easter was the usual time for
reconciling penitents, and Ambrose was not inclined to show any respect
of persons, or to excuse the Emperor from a penance he would have
imposed on any offender. However, Rufinus could not believe in such
disregard, and thought all would give way to the Emperor's will.
Christmas had come, but for one man at Milan there were no hymns, no
shouts of 'glad tidings!' no midnight festival, no rejoicing that 'to us
a Child is born; to us a Son is given'. The Basilica was thronged with
worshippers and rang with their Amens, resounding like thunder, and
their echoing song--the Te Deum--then their newest hymn of praise. But
the lord of all those multitudes was alone in his palace. He had not
shown good will to man; he had not learnt mercy and peace from the
Prince of Peace; and the door was shut upon him. He was a resolute
Spanish Roman, a well-tried soldier, a man advancing in years, but he
wept, and wept bitterly. Rufinus found him thus weeping. It must have
been strange to the courtier that his master did not send his lictors to
carry the offending bishop to a dungeon, and give all his court favor
to the heretics, like the last empress who had reigned at Milan. Nay,
he might even, like Julian the Apostate, have altogether renounced that
Christian faith which could humble an emperor below the poorest of his
subjects.
But Rufinus contented himself with urging the Emperor not to remain
at home lamenting, but to endeavor again to obtain admission into the
church, assuring him that the Bishop would give way. Theodosius replied
that he did not expect it, but yielded to the persuasions, and Rufinus
hastened on before to warn the Bishop of his coming, and represented how
inexpedient it was to offend him.
'I warn you,' replied Ambrose, 'that I shall oppose his entrance, but
if he chooses to turn his power into tyranny, I shall willingly let him
slay me.'
The Emperor did not try to enter the church, but sought Ambrose in an
adjoining building, where he entreated to be absolved from his sin.
'Beware,' returned the Bishop, 'of trampling on the laws of God.' 'I
respect them,' said the Emperor, 'therefore I have not set foot in the
church, but I pray thee to deliver me from these bonds, and not to close
against me the door that the Lord hath opened to all who truly repent.'
'What repentance have you shown for such a sin?' asked Ambrose.
'Appoint my penance,' said the Emperor, entirely subdued.
And Ambrose caused him at once to sign a decree that thirty days should
always elapse between a sentence of death and its execution. After this,
Theodosius was allowed to come into the church, but only to the corner
he had shunned all these eight months, till the 'dull hard stone within
him' had 'melted', to the spot appointed for the penitents. There,
without his crown, his purple robe, and buskins, worked with golden
eagles, all laid aside, he lay prostrate on the stones, repeating the
verse, 'My soul cleaveth unto the dust; quicken me, O Lord, according to
thy word.' This was the place that penitents always occupied, and there
fasts and other discipline were also appointed. When the due course had
been gone through, probably at the next Easter, Ambrose, in his Master's
name, pronounced the forgiveness of Theodosius, and received him back to
the full privileges of a Christian. When we look at the course of many
another emperor, and see how easily, where the power was irresponsible,
justice became severity, and severity, bloodthirstiness, we see what
Ambrose dared to meet, and from what he spared Theodosius and all the
civilized world under his sway. Who can tell how many innocent lives
have been saved by that thirty days' respite?
Pass over nearly 700 years, and again we find a church door barred
against a monarch. This time it is not under the bright Italian sky,
but under the grey fogs of the Baltic sea. It is not the stately marble
gateway of the Milanese Basilica, but the low-arched, rough stone portal
of the newly built cathedral of Roskilde, in Zealand, where, if a zigzag
surrounds the arch, it is a great effort of genius. The Danish king
Swend, the nephew of the well-known Knut, stands before it; a stern and
powerful man, fierce and passionate, and with many a Danish axe at his
command. Nay, only lately for a few rude jests, he caused some of his
chief jarls to be slain without a trial. Half the country is still
pagan, and though the king himself is baptized, there is no certainty
that, if the Christian faith do not suit his taste, he may not join the
heathen party and return to the worship of Thor and Tyr, where deeds
of blood would be not blameworthy, but a passport to the rude joys of
Valhall. Nevertheless there is a pastoral staff across the doorway,
barring the way of the king, and that staff is held against him by
an Englishman, William, Bishop of Roskilde, the missionary who had
converted a great part of Zealand, but who will not accept Christians
who have not laid aside their sins.
He confronts the king who has never been opposed before. 'Go back,' he
says, 'nor dare approach the alter of God--thou who art not a king but a
murderer.'
Some of the jarls seized their swords and axes, and were about to strike
the bishop away from the threshold, but he, without removing his staff,
bent his head, and bade them strike, saying he was ready to die in the
cause of God. But the king came to a better frame of mind, he called
the jarls away, and returning humbly to his palace, took off his royal
robes, and came again barefoot and in sackcloth to the church door,
where Bishop William met him, took him by the hand, gave him the kiss
of peace, and led him to the penitents' place. After three days he was
absolved, and for the rest of his life, the bishop and the king lived in
the closest friendship, so much so that William always prayed that
even in death he might not be divided from his friend. The prayer was
granted. The two died almost at the same time, and were buried together
in the cathedral at Roskilde, where the one had taught and other learnt
the great lesson of mercy.
THE LAST FIGHT IN THE COLISEUM
A.D. 404
As the Romans grew prouder and more fond of pleasure, no one could hope
to please them who did not give them sports and entertainments. When
any person wished to be elected to any public office, it was a matter of
course that he should compliment his fellow citizens by exhibitions of
the kind they loved, and when the common people were discontented, their
cry was that they wanted panem ac Circenses, 'bread and sports', the
only things they cared for. In most places where there has been a
large Roman colony, remains can be seen of the amphitheatres, where the
citizens were wont to assemble for these diversions. Sometimes these are
stages of circular galleries of seats hewn out of the hillside, where
rows of spectators might sit one above the other, all looking down on
a broad, flat space in the centre, under their feet, where the
representations took place. Sometimes, when the country was flat, or it
was easier to build than to excavate, the amphitheatre was raised above
ground, rising up to a considerable height.
The grandest and most renowned of all these amphitheatres is the
Coliseum at Rome. It was built by Vespasian and his son Titus, the
conquerors of Jerusalem, in a valley in the midst of the seven hills of
Rome. The captive Jews were forced to labour at it; and the materials,
granite outside, and softer travertine stone within, are so solid and
so admirably built, that still at the end of eighteen centuries it has
scarcely even become a ruin, but remains one of the greatest wonders of
Rome.
Five acres of ground were enclosed within the oval of its outer wall,
which outside rises perpendicularly in tiers of arches one above the
other. Within, the galleries of seats projected forwards, each tier
coming out far beyond the one above it, so that between the lowest and
the outer wall there was room for a great space of chambers, passages,
and vaults around the central space, called the arena, from the arena,
or sand, with which it was strewn.
When the Roman Emperors grew very vain and luxurious, they used to have
this sand made ornamental with metallic filings, vermilion, and even
powdered precious stones; but it was thought better taste to use the
scrapings of a soft white stone, which, when thickly strewn, made the
whole arena look as if covered with untrodden snow. Around the border
of this space flowed a stream of fresh water. Then came a straight wall,
rising to a considerable height, and surmounted by a broad platform, on
which stood a throne for the Emperor, curule chairs of ivory and
gold for the chief magistrates and senators, and seats for the vestal
virgins. Next above were galleries for the equestrian order, the great
mass of those who considered themselves as of gentle station, though not
of the highest rank; farther up, and therefore farther back, were
the galleries belonging to the freemen of Rome; and these were again
surmounted by another plain wall with a platform on the top, where were
places for the ladies, who were not (except the vestal virgins) allowed
to look on nearer, because of the unclothed state of some of the
performers in the arena. Between the ladies' boxes, benches were
squeezed in where the lowest people could seat themselves; and some of
these likewise found room in the two uppermost tiers of porticoes, where
sailors, mechanics, and persons in the service of the Coliseum had their
post. Altogether, when full, this huge building held no less than 87,000
spectators. It had no roof; but when there was rain, or if the sun was
too hot, the sailors in the porticoes unfurled awnings that ran along
upon ropes, and formed a covering of silk and gold tissue over the
whole. Purple was the favorite color for this velamen, or veil; because,
when the sun shone through it, it cast such beautiful rosy tints on the
snowy arena and the white purple-edged togas of the Roman citizens.
Long days were spent from morning till evening upon those galleries. The
multitude who poured in early would watch the great dignitaries arrive
and take their seats, greeting them either with shouts of applause or
hootings of dislike, according as they were favorites or otherwise; and
when the Emperor came in to take his place under his canopy, there
was one loud acclamation, 'Joy to thee, master of all, first of all,
happiest of all. Victory to thee for ever!'
When the Emperor had seated himself and given the signal, the sports
began. Sometimes a rope-dancing elephant would begin the entertainment,
by mounting even to the summit of the building and descending by a cord.
Then a bear, dressed up as a Roman matron, would be carried along in
a chair between porters, as ladies were wont to go abroad, and another
bear, in a lawyer's robe, would stand on his hind legs and go through
the motions of pleading a case. Or a lion came forth with a jeweled
crown on his head, a diamond necklace round his neck, his mane plaited
with gold, and his claws gilded, and played a hundred pretty gentle
antics with a little hare that danced fearlessly within his grasp. Then
in would come twelve elephants, six males in togas, six females with
the veil and pallium; they took their places on couches around an ivory
table, dined with great decorum, playfully sprinkled a little rosewater
over the nearest spectators, and then received more guests of their
unwieldy kind, who arrived in ball dresses, scattered flowers, and
performed a dance.
Sometimes water was let into the arena, a ship sailed in, and falling
to pieces in the midst, sent a crowd of strange animals swimming in
all directions. Sometimes the ground opened, and trees came growing up
through it, bearing golden fruit. Or the beautiful old tale of Orpheus
was acted; these trees would follow the harp and song of the musician;
but--to make the whole part complete--it was no mere play, but real
earnest, that the Orpheus of the piece fell a prey to live bears.
For the Coliseum had not been built for such harmless spectacles as
those first described. The fierce Romans wanted to be excited and feel
themselves strongly stirred; and, presently, the doors of the pits and
dens round the arena were thrown open, and absolutely savage beasts were
let loose upon one another--rhinoceroses and tigers, bulls and lions,
leopards and wild boars--while the people watched with savage curiosity
to see the various kinds of attack and defense; or, if the animals were
cowed or sullen, their rage would be worked up--red would be shown to
the bulls, white to boars, red-hot goads would be driven into some,
whips would be lashed at others, till the work of slaughter was fairly
commenced, and gazed on with greedy eyes and ears delighted, instead
of horror-struck, by the roars and howls of the noble creatures whose
courage was thus misused. Sometimes indeed, when some especially strong
or ferocious animal had slain a whole heap of victims, the cries of the
people would decree that it should be turned loose in its native forest,
and, amid shouts of 'A triumph! a triumph!' the beast would prowl round
the arena, upon the carcasses of the slain victims. Almost incredible
numbers of animals were imported for these cruel sports, and the
governors of distant provinces made it a duty to collect troops of
lions, elephants, ostriches, leopards--the fiercer or the newer the
creature the better--to be thus tortured to frenzy, to make sport in
the amphitheatre. However, there was daintiness joined with cruelty: the
Romans did not like the smell of blood, though they enjoyed the sight
of it, and all the solid stonework was pierced with tubes, through which
was conducted the stream of spices and saffron, boiled in wine, that the
perfume might overpower the scent of slaughter below.
Wild beasts tearing each other to pieces might, one would think, satisfy
any taste of horror; but the spectators needed even nobler game to be
set before their favorite monsters--men were brought forward to confront
them. Some of these were at first in full armor, and fought hard,
generally with success; and there was a revolving machine, something
like a squirrel's cage, in which the bear was always climbing after his
enemy, and then rolling over by his own weight. Or hunters came, almost
unarmed, and gaining the victory by swiftness and dexterity, throwing a
piece of cloth over a lion's head, or disconcerting him by putting their
fist down his throat. But it was not only skill, but death, that the
Romans loved to see; and condemned criminals and deserters were reserved
to feast the lions, and to entertain the populace with their various
kinds of death. Among these condemned was many a Christian martyr, who
witnessed a good confession before the savage-eyed multitude around the
arena, and 'met the lion's gory mane' with a calm resolution and hopeful
joy that the lookers-on could not understand. To see a Christian die,
with upward gaze and hymns of joy on his tongue, was the most strange
unaccountable sight the Coliseum could offer, and it was therefore the
choicest, and reserved for the last part of the spectacles in which the
brute creation had a part.
The carcasses were dragged off with hooks, and bloodstained sand was
covered with a fresh clean layer, the perfume wafted in stronger clouds,
and a procession came forward--tall, well-made men, in the prime of
their strength. Some carried a sword and a lasso, others a trident and
a net; some were in light armor, others in the full heavy equipment of a
soldier; some on horseback, some in chariots, some on foot. They marched
in, and made their obeisance to the Emperor; and with one voice,
their greeting sounded through the building, Ave, Caesar, morituri te
salutant! 'Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute thee!'
They were the gladiators--the swordsmen trained to fight to the death to
amuse the populace. They were usually slaves placed in schools of arms
under the care of a master; but sometimes persons would voluntarily hire
themselves out to fight by way of a profession: and both these, and such
slave gladiators as did not die in the arena, would sometimes retire,
and spend an old age of quiet; but there was little hope of this, for
the Romans were not apt to have mercy on the fallen.
Fights of all sorts took place--the light-armed soldier and the
netsman--the lasso and the javelin--the two heavy-armed warriors--all
combinations of single combat, and sometimes a general melee. When
a gladiator wounded his adversary, he shouted to the spectators, Hoc
habet! 'He has it!' and looked up to know whether he should kill or
spare. If the people held up their thumbs, the conquered was left to
recover, if he could; if they turned them down, he was to die: and if he
showed any reluctance to present his throat for the deathblow, there was
a scornful shout, Recipe ferrum! 'Receive the steel!' Many of us must
have seen casts of the most touching statue of the wounded man, that
called forth the noble lines of indignant pity which, though so often
repeated, cannot be passed over here:
'I see before me the Gladiator lie;
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony.
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low,
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy one by one,
Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him--he is gone
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
'He heard it, but he heeded no--this eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away.
He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother--he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday.
All this rush'd with his blood--Shall he expire,
And unavenged? Arise ye Goths and glut your ire.'
Sacred vestals, tender mothers, fat, good-humored senators, all thought
it fair play, and were equally pitiless in the strange frenzy for
exciting scenes to which they gave themselves up, when they mounted the
stone stairs of the Coliseum. Privileged persons would even descend
into the arena, examine the death agonies, and taste the blood of some
specially brave victim ere the corpse was drawn forth at the death gate,
that the frightful game might continue undisturbed and unencumbered.
Gladiator shows were the great passion of Rome, and popular favor could
hardly be gained except by ministering to it. Even when the barbarians
were beginning to close in on the Empire, hosts of brave men were still
kept for this slavish mimic warfare--sport to the beholders, but sad
earnest to the actors.
Christianity worked its way upwards, and at least was professed by the
Emperor on his throne. Persecution came to an end, and no more martyrs
fed the beasts in the Coliseum. The Christian emperors endeavored to
prevent any more shows where cruelty and death formed the chief interest
and no truly religious person could endure the spectacle; but custom and
love of excitement prevailed even against the Emperor. Mere tricks of
beasts, horse and chariot races, or bloodless contests, were tame and
dull, according to the diseased taste of Rome; it was thought weak and
sentimental to object to looking on at a death scene; the Emperors were
generally absent at Constantinople, and no one could get elected to any
office unless he treated the citizens to such a show as they best liked,
with a little bloodshed and death to stir their feelings; and thus
it went on for full a hundred years after Rome had, in name, become
a Christian city, and the same custom prevailed wherever there was an
amphitheatre and pleasure-loving people.
Meantime the enemies of Rome were coming nearer and nearer, and Alaric,
the great chief of the Goths, led his forces into Italy, and threatened
the city itself. Honorius, the Emperor, was a cowardly, almost
idiotical, boy; but his brave general, Stilicho, assembled his forces,
met the Goths at Pollentia (about twenty-five miles from where Turin now
stands), and gave them a complete defeat on the Easter Day of the year
403. He pursued them into the mountains, and for that time saved Rome.
In the joy of the victory the Roman senate invited the conqueror and his
ward Honorius to enter the city in triumph, at the opening of the new
year, with the white steeds, purple robes, and vermilion cheeks with
which, of old, victorious generals were welcomed at Rome. The churches
were visited instead of the Temple of Jupiter, and there was no murder
of the captives; but Roman bloodthirstiness was not yet allayed,
and, after all the procession had been completed, the Coliseum shows
commenced, innocently at first, with races on foot, on horseback, and
in chariots; then followed a grand hunting of beasts turned loose in
the arena; and next a sword dance. But after the sword dance came the
arraying of swordsmen, with no blunted weapons, but with sharp spears
and swords--a gladiator combat in full earnest. The people, enchanted,
applauded with shouts of ecstasy this gratification of their savage
tastes. Suddenly, however, there was an interruption. A rude, roughly
robed man, bareheaded and barefooted, had sprung into the arena, and,
signing back the gladiators, began to call aloud upon the people to
cease from the shedding of innocent blood, and not to requite God's
mercy in turning away the sword of the enemy by encouraging murder.
Shouts, howls, cries, broke in upon his words; this was no place for
preachings--the old customs of Rome should be observed 'Back, old man!'
'On, gladiators!' The gladiators thrust aside the meddler, and rushed to
the attack. He still stood between, holding them apart, striving in vain
to be heard. 'Sedition! Sedition!' 'Down with him!' was the cry; and
the man in authority, Alypius, the prefect, himself added his voice. The
gladiators, enraged at interference with their vocation, cut him down.
Stones, or whatever came to hand, rained down upon him from the furious
people, and he perished in the midst of the arena! He lay dead, and then
came the feeling of what had been done.
His dress showed that he was one of the hermits who vowed themselves to
a holy life of prayer and self-denial, and who were greatly reverenced,
even by the most thoughtless. The few who had previously seen him, told
that he had come from the wilds of Asia on pilgrimage, to visit the
shrines and keep his Christmas at Rome--they knew he was a holy man--no
more, and it is not even certain whether his name was Alymachus or
Telemachus. His spirit had been stirred by the sight of thousands
flocking to see men slaughter one another, and in his simple-hearted
zeal he had resolved to stop the cruelty or die. He had died, but not
in vain. His work was done. The shock of such a death before their eyes
turned the hearts of the people; they saw the wickedness and cruelty to
which they had blindly surrendered themselves; and from the day when
the hermit died in the Coliseum there was never another fight of the
Gladiators. Not merely at Rome, but in every province of the Empire, the
custom was utterly abolished; and one habitual crime at least was wiped
from the earth by the self-devotion of one humble, obscure, almost
nameless man.
THE SHEPHERD GIRL OF NANTERRE
A.D. 438
Four hundred years of the Roman dominion had entirely tamed the once
wild and independent Gauls. Everywhere, except in the moorlands of
Brittany, they had become as much like Romans themselves as they could
accomplish; they had Latin names, spoke the Latin tongue, all their
personages of higher rank were enrolled as Roman citizens, their chief
cities were colonies where the laws were administered by magistrates in
the Roman fashion, and the houses, dress, and amusements were the same
as those of Italy. The greater part of the towns had been converted
to Christianity, though some Paganism still lurked in the more remote
villages and mountainous districts.
It was upon these civilized Gauls that the terrible attacks came from
the wild nations who poured out of the centre and east of Europe. The
Franks came over the Rhine and its dependent rivers, and made furious
attacks upon the peaceful plains, where the Gauls had long lived in
security, and reports were everywhere heard of villages harried by wild
horsemen, with short double-headed battleaxes, and a horrible short
pike, covered with iron and with several large hooks, like a gigantic
artificial minnow, and like it fastened to a long rope, so that the prey
which it had grappled might be pulled up to the owner. Walled cities
usually stopped them, but every farm or villa outside was stripped of
its valuables, set on fire, the cattle driven off, and the more healthy
inhabitants seized for slaves.
It was during this state of things that a girl was born to a wealthy
peasant at the village now called Nanterre, about two miles from
Lutetia, which was already a prosperous city, though not as yet so
entirely the capital as it was destined to become under the name of
Paris. She was christened by an old Gallic name, probably Gwenfrewi,
or White Stream, in Latin Genovefa, but she is best known by the late
French form of Genevieve. When she was about seven years old, two
celebrated bishops passed through the village, Germanus, of Auxerre, and
Lupus, of Troyes, who had been invited to Britain to dispute the false
doctrine of Pelagius. All the inhabitants flocked into the church to
see them, pray with them, and receive their blessing; and here the sweet
childish devotion of Genevieve so struck Germanus, that he called her to
him, talked to her, made her sit beside him at the feast, gave her his
special blessing, and presented her with a copper medal with a cross
engraven upon it. From that time the little maiden always deemed herself
especially consecrated to the service of Heaven, but she still remained
at home, daily keeping her father's sheep, and spinning their wool as
she sat under the trees watching them, but always with a heart full of
prayer.
After this St. Germanus proceeded to Britain, and there encouraged his
converts to meet the heathen Picts at Maes Garmon, in Flintshire, where
the exulting shout of the white-robed catechumens turned to flight the
wild superstitious savages of the north,--and the Hallelujah victory was
gained without a drop of bloodshed. He never lost sight of Genevieve,
the little maid whom he had so early distinguished for her piety.
After she lost her parents she went to live with her godmother, and
continued the same simple habits, leading a life of sincere devotion
and strict self-denial, constant prayer, and much charity to her poorer
neighbors.
In the year 451 the whole of Gaul was in the most dreadful state of
terror at the advance of Attila, the savage chief of the Huns, who came
from the banks of the Danube with a host of savages of hideous features,
scarred and disfigured to render them more frightful. The old enemies,
the Goths and the Franks, seemed like friends compared with these
formidable beings whose cruelties were said to be intolerable, and of
whom every exaggerated story was told that could add to the horrors
of the miserable people who lay in their path. Tidings came that this
'Scourge of God', as Attila called himself, had passed the Rhine,
destroyed Tongres and Metz, and was in full march for Paris. The whole
country was in the utmost terror. Everyone seized their most valuable
possessions, and would have fled; but Genevieve placed herself on the
only bridge across the Seine, and argued with them, assuring them in a
strain that was afterwards thought of as prophetic, that, if they would
pray, repent, and defend instead of abandoning their homes, God would
protect them. They were at first almost ready to stone her for thus
withstanding their panic, but just then a priest arrived from Auxerre,
with a present for Genevieve from St. Germanus, and they were thus
reminded of the high estimation in which he held her; they became
ashamed of their violence, and she held them back to pray and to arm
themselves. In a few days they heard that Attila had paused to besiege
Orleans, and that Aetius, the Roman general, hurrying from Italy, had
united his troops with those of the Goths and Franks, and given Attila
so terrible a defeat at Chalons that the Huns were fairly driven out of
Gaul. And here it must be mentioned that when the next year, 452,
Attila with his murderous host came down into Italy, and after horrible
devastation of all the northern provinces, came to the gates of Rome, no
one dared to meet him but one venerable Bishop, Leo, the Pope, who, when
his flock were in transports of despair, went forth only accompanied by
one magistrate to meet the invader, and endeavor to turn his wrath side.
The savage Huns were struck with awe by the fearless majesty of the
unarmed old man. They conducted him safely to Attila, who listened
to him with respect, and promised not to lead his people into Rome,
provided a tribute should be paid to him. He then retreated, and, to the
joy of all Europe, died on his way back to his native dominions.
But with the Huns the danger and suffering of Europe did not end. The
happy state described in the Prophets as 'dwelling safely, with none
to make them afraid', was utterly unknown in Europe throughout the long
break-up of the Roman Empire; and in a few more years the Franks were
overrunning the banks of the Seine, and actually venturing to lay siege
to the Roman walls of Paris itself. The fortifications were strong
enough, but hunger began to do the work of the besiegers, and the
garrison, unwa
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