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Title: The History of Romulus Author: Jacob Abbott * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1400601h.html Language: English Date first posted: Feb 2014 Most recent update: Feb 2014 This eBook was produced by Roy Glashan. Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.auGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
Illuminated Title Page from 1st Edition
The Harpies
Jupiter and Europa
Agenor and Telephassa, when they found that their daughter was gone, were
in great distress, and Agenor immediately determined to send his sons on an
expedition in pursuit of her. The names of his sons were Cadmus,
Phœnix, Cylix, Thasus, and Phineus. Cadmus, as the oldest son, was to
be the director of the expedition. Telephassa, the mother, resolved to
accompany them, so overwhelmed was she with affliction at the loss of her
daughter. Agenor himself was almost equally oppressed with the calamity which
had overwhelmed them, and he charged his sons never to come home again until
they could bring Europa with them.
Telephassa and her sons wandered for a time in the countries east of the
Mediterranean sea, without being able to obtain any tidings of the fugitive.
At length they passed into Asia Minor, and from Asia Minor into Thrace, a
country lying north of the Ægean Sea. Finding no traces of their sister in
any of these countries, the sons of Agenor became discouraged, and resolved
to make no farther search; and Telephassa, exhausted with anxiety and
fatigue, and now overwhelmed with the thought that all hope must be finally
abandoned, sank down and died.
The Journeyings of Cadmus
Cadmus and his brothers were much affected at their mother's death. They
made arrangements for her burial, in a manner befitting her high rank and
station, and when the funeral solemnities had been performed, Cadmus repaired
to the oracle at Delphi, which was situated in the northern part of Greece,
not very far from Thrace, in order that he might inquire there whether there
was any thing more that he could do to recover his lost sister, and if so to
learn what course he was to pursue. The oracle replied to him that he must
search for his sister no more, but instead of it turn his attention wholly to
the work of establishing a home and a kingdom for himself, in Greece. To this
end he was to travel on in a direction indicated until he met with a cow of a
certain kind, described by the oracle, and then to follow the cow wherever
she might lead the way, until at length, becoming fatigued, she should stop
and lie down. Upon the spot where the cow should lie down he was to build a
city and make it his capital.
Cadmus obeyed these directions of the oracle. He left Delphi and went on,
attended, as he had been in all his wanderings, by a troop of companions and
followers, until at length in the herds of one of the people of the country,
named Pelagon, he found a cow answering to the description of the oracle.
Taking this cow for his guide, he followed wherever she led the way. She
conducted him toward the southward and eastward for thirty or forty miles,
and at length wearied apparently, by her long journey, she lay down. Cadmus
knew immediately that this was the spot where his city was to stand.
He began immediately to make arrangements for the building of the city,
but he determined first to offer the cow that had been his divinely appointed
guide to the spot, as a sacrifice to Minerva, whom he always considered as
his guardian goddess.
Near the spot where the cow lay down there was a small stream which issued
from a fountain not far distant, called the fountain of Dirce. Cadmus sent
some of his men to the place to obtain some water which it was necessary to
use in the ceremonies of the sacrifice. It happened, however, that this
fountain was a sacred one, having been consecrated to Mars,—and there
was a great dragon, a son of Mars, stationed there to guard it. The men whom
Cadmus sent did not return, and accordingly Cadmus himself, after waiting a
suitable time, proceeded to the spot to ascertain the cause of the delay. He
found that the dragon had killed his men, and at the time when he arrived at
the spot, the monster was greedily devouring the bodies. Cadmus immediately
attacked the dragon and slew him, and then tore his teeth out of his head, as
trophies of his victory. Minerva had assisted Cadmus in this combat, and when
it was ended she directed him to plant the teeth of the dragon in the ground.
Cadmus did so, and immediately a host of armed men sprung up from the place
where he had planted them. Cadmus threw a stone among these armed men, when
they immediately began to contend together in a desperate conflict, until at
length all but five of them were slain. These five then joined themselves to
Cadmus, and helped him to build his city.
He went on very successfully after this. The city which he built was
Thebes, which afterward became greatly celebrated. The citadel which he
erected within, he called, from his own name, Cadmia.
Such were the legends which were related in ancient poems and tales; and
it is obvious that such narratives must have been composed to entertain
groups of listeners whose main desire was to be excited and amused, and not
to be instructed. The stories were believed, no doubt, and the faith which
the hearer felt in their truth added of course very greatly to the interest
which they awakened in his mind. The stories are amusing to us; but it is
impossible for us to share in the deep and solemn emotion with which the
ancient audiences listened to them, for we have not the power, as they had,
of believing them. Such tales related in respect to the great actors on the
stage in modern times, would awaken no interest, for there is too general a
diffusion both of historical and philosophical knowledge to render it
possible for any one to suppose them to be true. But those for whom the story
of Europa was invented, had no means of knowing how wide the Mediterranean
sea might be, and whether a bull might not swim across it. They did not know
but that Mars might have a dragon for a son, and that the teeth of such a
dragon might not, when sown in the ground, spring up in the form of a troop
of armed men. They listened therefore to the tale with an interest all the
more earnest and solemn on account of the marvelousness of the recital. They
repeated it word for word to one another, around their camp-fires, at their
feasts, in their journeyings,—and when watching their flocks at
midnight, among the solitudes of the mountains. Thus the tales were handed
down from generation to generation, until at length the use of the letters of
Cadmus became so far facilitated, that continuous narrations could be
expressed by means of them; and then they were put permanently upon record in
many forms; and were thus transmitted without any farther change to the
present age.
Symbolical writing consists of characters intended severally to denote
ideas or things, and not words. A good example of true symbolical writing is
to be found in a certain figure often employed among the architectural
decorations of churches, as an emblem of the Deity. It consists of a triangle
representing the Trinity with the figure of an eye in the middle of it. The
eye is intended to denote the divine omniscience. Such a character as this,
is obviously the symbol of an idea, not the representative of a word. It may
be read Jehovah, or God, or the Deity, or by any other word or phrase by
which men are accustomed to denote the Supreme Being. It represents, in fine,
the idea, and not any particular word by which the idea is expressed.
The first attempts of men to preserve records of facts by means of
inscriptions, have, in all ages, and among all nations, been of this
character. At first, the inscriptions so made were strictly pictures, in
which the whole scene intended to be commemorated was represented, in rude
carvings. In process of time substitutions and abridgments were adopted in
lieu of full representations, and these grew at length into a system of
hieroglyphical characters, some natural, and others more or less arbitrary,
but all denoting ideas or things, and not the sounds of words. These
characters are of the kind usually understood by the word hieroglyphics;
though that word can not now with strict accuracy be applied as a distinctive
appellation, since it has been ascertained in modern times that a large
portion of the Egyptian hieroglyphics are of such a nature as brings them
within the second of the two classes which we are here describing, that is,
the several delineations represent the sounds and syllables of words, instead
of being symbols of ideas or things.
It happened that in some cases in this species of writing, as used in
ancient times, the characters which were employed presented in their form
some natural resemblance to the thing signified, and in other cases they were
wholly arbitrary. Thus, the figure of a scepter denoted a king, that of a
lion, strength; and two warriors, one with a shield, and the other advancing
toward the first with a bow and arrow, represented a battle. We use in fact a
symbol similar to the last-mentioned one at the present day, upon maps, where
we often see a character formed by two swords crossed, employed to represent
a battle.
The ancient Mexicans had a mode of writing which seems to have been
symbolical in its character, and their characters had, many of them at least,
a natural signification. The different cities and towns were represented by
drawings of such simple objects as were characteristic of them respectively;
as a plant, a tree, an article of manufacture, or any other object by which
the place in question was most easily and naturally to be distinguished from
other places. In one of their inscriptions, for example, there was a
character representing a king, and before it four heads. Each of the heads
was accompanied by the symbol of the capital of a province, as above
described. The meaning of the whole inscription was that in a certain tumult
or insurrection the king caused the governors of the four cities to be
beheaded.
But though, in this symbolical mode of writing, a great many ideas and
events could be represented thus, by means of signs or symbols having a
greater or less resemblance to the thing signified, yet in many cases the
characters used were wholly arbitrary. They were in this respect like the
character which we use to denote dollars, as a prefix to a number expressing
money; for this character is a sort of symbol, that is, it represents a thing
rather than a word. Our numerals, too, 1, 2, 3, &c., are in some respects
of the character of symbols. That is, they stand directly for the numbers
themselves, and not for the sounds of the words by which the numbers are
expressed. Hence, although the people of different European nations
understand them all alike, they read them, in words, very differently. The
Englishman reads them by one set of words, the Spaniard by another, and the
German and the Italian by others still.
The symbolical mode of writing possesses some advantages which must not be
overlooked. It speaks directly to the eye, and is more full of meaning than
the Phonetic method, though the meaning is necessarily more vague and
indistinct, in some respects, while it is less so in others. For example, in
an advertising newspaper, the simple figure of a house, or of a ship, or of a
locomotive engine, at the head of an advertisement, is a sort of
hieroglyphic, which says much more plainly and distinctly, and in much
shorter time, than any combination of letters could do, that what follows it
is an advertisement relating to a house, or a vessel, or a railroad. In the
same manner, the ancient representations on monuments and columns would
communicate, perhaps more rapidly and readily to the passer-by, an idea of
the battles, the sieges, the marches, and the other great exploits of the
monarchs whose history they were intended to record, than an inscription in
words would have done.
Another advantage of the symbolical representations as used in ancient
times, was that their meaning could be more readily explained, and would be
more easily remembered, and so explained again, than written words. To learn
to read literal writing in any language, is a work of very great labor. It
is, in fact, generally found that it must be commenced early in life, or it
can not be accomplished at all. An inscription, therefore, in words, on a
Mexican monument, that a certain king suppressed an insurrection, and
beheaded the governors of four of his provinces, would be wholly blind and
unintelligible to the mass of the population of such a country; and if the
learned sculptor who inscribed it, were to attempt to explain it to them,
letter by letter, they would forget the beginning of the lesson before
reading the end of it,—and could never be expected to attempt extending
the knowledge by making known the interpretation which they had received to
others in their turn. But the royal scepter, with the four heads before it,
each of the heads accompanied by the appropriate symbol of the city to which
the possessor of it belonged, formed a symbolical congeries which expressed
its meaning at once, and very plainly, to the eye. The most ignorant and
uncultivated could readily understand it. Once understanding it, too, they
could never easily forget it; and they could, without any difficulty, explain
it fully to others as ignorant and uncultivated as themselves.
It might seem, at first view, that a symbolical mode of writing must be
more simple in its character than the system now in use, inasmuch as by that
plan each idea or object would be expressed by one character alone, whereas,
by our mode of writing, several characters, sometimes as many as eight or
ten, are required to express a word, which word, after all, represents only
one single object or idea. But notwithstanding this apparent simplicity, the
system of symbolical writing proved to be, when extensively employed,
extremely complicated and intricate. It is true that each idea required but
one character, but the number of ideas and objects, and of words expressive
of their relations to one another, is so vast, that the system of
representing them by independent symbols, soon lost itself in an endless
intricacy of detail. Then, besides,—notwithstanding what has been said
of the facility with which symbolical inscriptions could be
interpreted,—they were, after all, extremely difficult to be understood
without interpretation. An inscription once explained, the explanation was
easily understood and remembered; but it was very difficult to understand one
intended to express any new communication. The system was, therefore, well
adapted to commemorate what was already known, but was of little service as a
mode of communicating knowledge anew.
We come now to consider the second grand class of written characters,
namely, the phonetic, the class which Cadmus introduced into Greece, and the
one almost universally adopted among all the European nations at the present
day. It is called Phonetic, from a Greek word denoting sound, because the
characters which are used do not denote directly the thing itself which is
signified, but the sounds made in speaking the word which signifies it. Take,
for instance, the two modes of representing a conflict between two contending
armies, one by the symbolic delineation of two swords crossed, and the other
by the phonetic delineation of the letters of the word battle. They are both
inscriptions. The beginning of the first represents the handle of the sword,
a part, as it were, of the thing signified. The beginning of the second, the
letter b, represents the pressing of the lips together, by which we commence
pronouncing the word. Thus the one mode is symbolical, and the other
phonetic.
On considering the two methods, as exemplified in this simple instance, we
shall observe that what has already been pointed out as characteristic of the
two modes is here seen to be true. The idea is conveyed in the symbolical
mode by one character, while by the phonetic it requires no less than six.
This seems at first view to indicate a great advantage possessed by the
symbolical system. But on reflection this advantage is found entirely to
disappear. For the symbolical character, though it is only one, will answer
for only the single idea which it denotes. Neither itself nor any of its
elements will aid us in forming a symbol for any other idea; and as the
ideas, objects, and relations which it is necessary to be able to express, in
order to make free and full communications in any language, are from fifty to
a hundred thousand,—the step which we have taken, though very simple in
itself, is the beginning of a course which must lead to the most endless
intricacy and complication. Whereas in the six phonetic characters of the
word battle, we have elements which can be used again and again, in the
expression of thousands of other ideas. In fact, as the phonetic characters
which are found necessary in most languages are only about twenty-four, we
have in that single word accomplished one quarter of the whole task, so far
as the delineation of characters is concerned, that is necessary for
expressing by writing any possible combination of ideas which human language
can convey.
At what time and in what manner the transition was made among the ancient
nations from the symbolic to the phonetic mode of writing, is not now known.
When in the flourishing periods of the Grecian and Roman states, learned men
explored the literary records of the various nations of the East, writings
were found in all, which were expressed in phonetic characters, and the
alphabets of these characters were found to be so analogous to each other, in
the names and order, and in some respects in the forms, of the letters, as to
indicate strongly something like community of origin. All the attempts,
however, which have been made to ascertain the origin of the system, have
wholly failed, and no account of them goes farther back than to the time when
Cadmus brought them from Phenicia or Egypt into Greece.
The letters which Cadmus brought were in number sixteen. The following
table presents a view of his alphabet, presenting in the several columns, the
letters themselves as subsequently written in Greece, the Greek names given
to them, and their power as represented by the letters now in use. The forms,
it will be seen, have been but little changed.
The Origin of Venus
She was the goddess of love, of beauty, and of fruitfulness; and so
extraordinary were the magical powers which were inherent from the beginning,
in her very nature, that as she walked along upon the sands of the shore,
when she first emerged from the sea, plants and flowers of the richest
verdure and beauty sprang up at her feet wherever she stepped. She was,
besides, in her own person, inexpressibly beautiful; and in addition to the
natural influence of her charms, she was endued with the supernatural power
of inspiring the sentiment of love in all who beheld her.
From Cythera the goddess made her way over by sea to Cyprus, where she
remained for some time, amid the gorgeous and magnificent scenery of that
enchanting island. Here she had two children, beautiful boys. Their names
were Eros and Anteros. Each of these children remained perpetually a child,
and Eros, in later times called Cupid, became the god of "love bestowed,"
while Anteros was the God of "love returned." After this the mother and the
boys roamed about the world,—now in the heavenly regions above, and now
among mortals on the plains and in the valleys below: they sometimes appeared
openly, in their true forms, sometimes they assumed disguises, and sometimes
they were wholly invisible; but whether seen or unseen, they were always busy
in performing their functions—the mother inspiring everywhere, in the
minds both of gods and men, the tenderest sentiments of beauty and
desire,—while Eros, awakened love in the heart of one person for
another, and Anteros made it his duty to tease and punish those who thus
became objects of affection, if they did not return the love.
After some time, Aphrodite and her boys found their way to the heavenly
regions of Mount Olympus, where the great divinities resided, and there they
soon produced great trouble, by enkindling the flames of love in the hearts
of the divinities themselves, causing them, by her magic power, to fall in
love not only with one another, but also with mortal men and women on the
earth below. In retaliation upon Aphrodite for this mischief, Jupiter, by his
supreme power, inspired Aphrodite herself with a sentiment of love. The
object of her affection was Anchises, a handsome youth, of the royal family
of Troy, who lived among the mountains of Ida, not far from the city.
The way in which it happened that the affection of Aphrodite turned toward
an inhabitant of Mount Ida was this. There had been at one time a marriage
among the divinities, and a certain goddess who had not been invited to the
wedding, conceived the design of avenging herself for the neglect, by
provoking a quarrel among those who were there. She, accordingly, caused a
beautiful golden apple to be made, with an inscription marked upon it,﹃FOR
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL.﹄This apple she threw in among the guests assembled at
the wedding. The goddesses all claimed the prize, and a very earnest dispute
arose among them in respect to it. Jupiter sent the several claimants, under
the charge of a special messenger, to Mount Ida, to a handsome and
accomplished young shepherd there, named Paris—who was, in fact, a
prince in disguise—that they might exhibit themselves to him, and
submit the question of the right to the apple to his award. The contending
goddesses appeared accordingly before Paris, and each attempted to bribe him
to decide in her favor, by offering him some peculiar and tempting reward.
Paris gave the apple to Aphrodite, and she was so pleased with the result,
that she took Paris under her special protection, and made the solitudes of
Mount Ida one of her favorite retreats.
Here she saw and became acquainted with Anchises, who was, as has already
been said, a noble, or prince, by descent, though he had for some time been
dwelling away from the city, and among the mountains, rearing flocks and
herds. Here Aphrodite saw him, and when Jupiter inspired her with a sudden
susceptibility to the power of love, the shepherd Anchises was the object
toward which her affections turned. She accordingly went to Mount Ida, and
giving herself up to him, she lived with him for some time among the
mountains as his bride. Æneas was their son.
Aphrodite did not, however, appear to Anchises in her true character, but
assumed, instead, the form and the disguise of a Phrygian princess. Phrygia
was a kingdom of Asia Minor, not very far from Troy. She continued this
disguise as long as she remained with Anchises at Mount Ida; at length,
however, she concluded to leave him, and to return to Olympus, and at her
parting she made herself known. She, however, charged Anchises never to
reveal to any person who she was, declaring that Æneas, whom she was going to
leave with his father when she went away, would be destroyed by a stroke of
lightning from heaven, if the real truth in respect to his mother were ever
revealed.
When Aphrodite had gone, Anchises, having now no longer any one at home to
attend to the rearing of the child, sent him to Dardanus, a city to the
northward of Troy, where he was brought up in the house of his sister the
daughter of Anchises, who was married and settled there. His having a sister
old enough to be married, would seem to show that youth was not one of the
attractions of Anchises in Aphrodite's eyes. Æneas remained with his sister
until he was old enough to be of service in the care of flocks and herds, and
then returned again to his former residence among the pasturages of the
mountains. His mother, though she had left him, did not forget her child; but
watched over him continually, and interposed directly to aid or to protect
him, whenever her aid was required by the occurrence of any emergency of
difficulty or danger.
At length the Trojan war broke out. For a time, however, Æneas took no
part in it. He was jealous of the attentions which Priam, the king of Troy,
paid to other young men, and fancied that he himself was overlooked and that
the services that he might render were undervalued. He remained, therefore,
at his home among the mountains, occupying himself with his flocks and herds;
and he might, perhaps, have continued in these peaceful avocations to the end
of the war, had it not been that Achilles, one of the most formidable of the
Grecian leaders, in one of his forays in the country around Troy, in search
of provisions, came upon Æneas's territory, and attacked him while tending
his flocks upon the mountain side. Achilles seized the flocks and herds, and
drove Æneas and his fellow-herdsmen away. They would, in fact, all have been
killed, had not Aphrodite interposed to protect her son and save his
life.
The loss of his flocks and herds, and the injury which he himself had
received, aroused Æneas's indignation and anger against the Greeks. He
immediately raised an armed force of Dardanians, and thenceforth took an
active part in the war. He became one of the most distinguished among the
combatants, for his prowess and his bravery; and being always assisted by his
mother in his conflicts, and rescued by her when in danger, he performed
prodigies of strength and valor.
At one time he pressed forward into the thickest of the battle to rescue a
Trojan leader named Pandarus, who was beset by his foes and brought into very
imminent danger. Æneas did not succeed in saving his friend. Pandarus was
killed. Æneas, however, flew to the spot, and by means of the most
extraordinary feats of strength and valor he drove the Greeks away from the
body. They attacked it on every side, but Æneas, wheeling around it, and
fighting now on this side and now on that, drove them all away. They retired
to a little distance and then began to throw in a shower of spears and darts
and arrows upon him. Æneas defended himself and the body of his friend from
these missiles for a time, with his shield. At length, however, he was struck
in the thigh with a ponderous stone which one of the Greek warriors hurled at
him,—a stone so heavy that two men of ordinary strength would have been
required to lift it. Æneas was felled to the ground by the blow. He sank
down, resting upon his arm, faint and dizzy, and being thus made helpless
would have immediately been overpowered and killed by his assailants had not
his mother interposed. She came immediately to rescue him. She spread her
vail over him, which had the magic power of rendering harmless all blows
which were aimed at what was covered by it, and then taking him up in her
arms she bore him off through the midst of his enemies unharmed. The swords,
spears, and javelins which were aimed at him were rendered powerless by the
magic vail.
Aeneas Defending the Body of Pandarus
Aphrodite, however, flying thus with her wounded son, mother-like, left
herself exposed in her anxiety to protect him. Diomedes, the chief of the
pursuers, following headlong on, aimed a lance at Venus herself. The lance
struck Venus in the hand, and inflicted a very severe and painful wound. It
did not, however, stop her flight. She pressed swiftly on, while Diomedes,
satisfied with his revenge, gave up the pursuit, but called out to Aphrodite
as she disappeared from view, bidding her learn from the lesson which he had
given her that it would be best for her thenceforth to remain in her own
appropriate sphere, and not come down to the earth and interfere in the
contests of mortal men.
Aphrodite, after conveying Æneas to a place of safety, fled, herself,
faint and bleeding, to the mountains, where, after ascending to the region of
mists and clouds, Iris, the beautiful goddess of the rainbow, came to her
aid. Iris found her faint and pale from the loss of blood; she did all in her
power to soothe and comfort the wounded goddess, and then led her farther
still among the mountains to a place where they found Mars, the god of war,
standing with his chariot. Mars was Aphrodite's brother. He took compassion
upon his sister in her distress, and lent Iris his chariot and horses, to
convey Aphrodite home. Aphrodite ascended into the chariot, and Iris took the
reins; and thus they rode through the air to the mountains of Olympus. Here
the gods and goddesses of heaven gathered around their unhappy sister, bound
up her wound, and expressed great sympathy for her in her sufferings,
uttering at the same time many piteous complaints against the merciless
violence and inhumanity of men. Such is the ancient tale of Æneas and his
mother.
At a later period in the history of the war, Æneas had a grand combat with
Achilles, who was the most terrible of all the Grecian warriors, and was
regarded as the grand champion of their cause. The two armies were drawn up
in battle array. A vast open space was left between them on the open plain.
Into this space the two combatants advanced, Æneas on the one side and
Achilles on the other, in full view of all the troops, and of the throngs of
spectators assembled to witness the proceedings.
A very strong and universal interest was felt in the approaching combat.
Æneas, besides the prodigious strength and bravery for which he was renowned,
was to be divinely aided, it was known, by the protection of his mother, who
was always at hand to guide and support him in the conflict, and to succor
him in danger. Achilles, on the other hand, possessed a charmed life. He had
been dipped by his mother Thetis, when an infant, in the river Styx, to
render him invulnerable and immortal; and the immersion produced the effect
intended in respect to all those parts of the body which the water laved. As,
however, Thetis held the child by the ankles when she plunged him in, the
ankles remained unaffected by the magic influence of the water. All the other
parts of the body were rendered incapable of receiving a wound.
Achilles had a very beautiful and costly shield which his mother had
caused to be made for him. It was formed of five plates of metal. The
outermost plates on each side were of brass; in the centre was a plate of
gold; and between the central plate of gold and the outer ones of brass were
two other plates, one on each side, made of some third metal. The workmanship
of this shield was of the most elaborate and beautiful character. The mother
of Achilles had given this weapon to her son when he left home to join the
Greeks in the Trojan war, not trusting entirely it seems to his magical
invulnerability.
The armies looked on with great interest as these two champions advanced
to meet each other, while all the gods and goddesses surveyed the scene with
almost equal interest, from their abodes above. Some joined Venus in the
sympathy which she felt for her son, while others espoused the cause of
Achilles. When the two combatants had approached each other, they paused
before commencing the conflict, as is usual in such cases, and surveyed each
other with looks of anger and defiance. At length Achilles spoke. He began to
upbraid Æneas for his infatuation and folly in engaging in the war, and
especially for coming forward to put his life at hazard by encountering such
a champion as was now before him. "What can you gain," said he,﹃even if you
conquer in this warfare? You can never be king, even if you succeed in saving
the city. I know you claim to be descended from the royal line; but Priam has
sons who are the direct and immediate heirs, and your claims can never be
allowed. Then, besides, what folly to attempt to contend with me! Me, the
strongest, bravest, and most terrible of the Greeks, and the special favorite
of many deities.﹄With this introduction Achilles went on to set forth the
greatness of his pedigree, and the loftiness of his pretensions to
superiority over all others in personal prowess and valor, in a manner very
eloquent indeed, and in a style which it seems was very much admired in those
days as evincing only a proper spirit and energy,—though in our times
such a harangue would be very apt to be regarded as only a vainglorious and
empty boasting.
Æneas replied,—retorting with vauntings on his side no less spirited
and energetic than those which Achilles had expressed. He gave a long account
of his pedigree, and of his various claims to lofty consideration. He,
however, said, in conclusion, that it was idle and useless for them to waste
their time in such a war of words, and so he hurled his spear at Achilles
with all his force, as a token of the commencement of the battle.
The spear struck the shield of Achilles, and impinged upon it with such
force that it penetrated through two of the plates of metal which composed
the shield, and reached the central plate of gold, where the force with which
it had been thrown being spent, it was arrested and fell to the ground.
Achilles then exerting his utmost strength threw his spear in return. Æneas
crouched down to avoid the shock of the weapon, holding his shield at the
same time above his head, and bracing himself with all his force against the
approaching concussion. The spear struck the shield near the upper edge of
it, as it was held in Æneas's hands. It passed directly through the plates of
which the shield was composed, and then continuing its course, it glided down
just over Æneas's back, and planted itself deep in the ground behind him, and
stood there quivering. Æneas crept out from beneath it with a look of
horror.
Immediately after throwing his spear, and perceiving that it had failed of
its intended effect, Achilles drew his sword and rushed forward to engage
Æneas, hand to hand. Æneas himself recovering in an instant front the
consternation which his narrow escape from impalement had awakened, seized an
enormous stone, heavier, as Homer represents it, than any two ordinary men
could lift, and was about to hurl it at his advancing foe, when suddenly the
whole combat was terminated by a very unexpected interposition. It seems that
the various gods and goddesses, from their celestial abodes among the summits
of Olympus, had assembled in invisible forms to witness this
combat—some sympathizing with and upholding one of the combatants, and
some the other. Neptune was on Æneas's side; and accordingly when he saw how
imminent the danger was which threatened Æneas, when Achilles came rushing
upon him with his uplifted sword, he at once resolved to interfere. He
immediately rushed, himself, between the combatants. He brought a sudden and
supernatural mist over the scene, such as the God of the Sea has always at
his command; and this mist at once concealed Æneas from Achilles's view.
Neptune drew the spear out of the ground, and released it too from the shield
which remained still pinned down by it; and then threw the spear down at
Achilles's feet. He next seized Æneas, and lifting him high above the ground
he bore him away in an invisible form over the heads of soldiers and horsemen
that had been drawn up in long lines around the field of combat. When the
mist passed away Achilles saw his spear lying at his feet, and on looking
around him found that his enemy was gone.
Such are the marvelous tales which were told by the ancient narrators, of
the prowess and exploits of Æneas under the walls of Troy, and of the
interpositions which were put forth to save him in moments of desperate
danger, by beings supernatural and divine. These tales were in those days
believed as sober history. That which was marvelous and philosophically
incredible in them, was sacredly sheltered from question by mingling itself
with the prevailing principles of religious faith. The tales were thus
believed, and handed down traditionally from generation to generation, and
admired and loved by all who heard and repeated them, partly on account of
their romantic and poetical beauty, and partly on account of the sublime and
sacred revelations which they contained, in respect to the divinities of the
spiritual world.
The Falling Tower
Æneas watched the progress of the assault upon the palace from the top of
certain lofty roofs, to which he ascended for the purpose. Here there was a
slender tower, which had been built for a watch-tower, and had been carried
up to such a height that, from the summit of it, the watchmen stationed there
could survey all the environs of the city, and on one side look off to some
distance over the sea. This tower Æneas and the Trojans who were with him
contrived to cut off at its base, and throw over upon the throngs of Grecians
that were thundering at the palace gates below. Great numbers were killed by
the falling ruins, and the tortoise was broken down. The Greeks, however,
soon formed another tortoise, by means of which some of the soldiers scaled
the walls, while others broke down the gates with battering rams and engines;
and thus the palace, the sacred and last remaining stronghold of the city,
was thrown open to the ferocious and frantic horde of its assailants.
The sacking of the palace presented an awful spectacle to the view of
Æneas and his companions, as they looked down upon it from the roofs and
battlements around. As the walls, one after another, fell in under the
resistless blows dealt by the engines that were brought against them, the
interior halls, and the most retired and private apartments, were thrown open
to view—all illuminated by the glare of the surrounding
conflagrations.
Shrieks and wailing, and every other species of outcry that comes from
grief, terror, and despair, arose from within; and such spectators as had the
heart to look continuously upon the spectacle, could see wretched men running
to and fro, and virgins clinging to altars for protection, and frantic
mothers vainly endeavoring to find hiding-places for themselves and their
helpless children.
Priam the king, who was at this time old and infirm, was aroused from his
slumbers by the dreadful din, and immediately began to seize his armor, and
to prepare himself for rushing into the fight. His wife, however, Hecuba,
begged and entreated him to desist. She saw that all was lost, and that any
further attempts at resistance would only exasperate their enemies, and
render their own destruction the more inevitable. She persuaded the king,
therefore, to give up his weapons and go with her to an altar, in one of the
courts of the palace,—a place which it would be sacrilege for their
enemies to violate—and there patiently and submissively to await the
end. Priam yielded to the queen's solicitations, and went with her to the
place of refuge which she had chosen;—and the plan which they thus
adopted, might very probably have been successful in saving their lives, had
it not been for an unexpected occurrence which suddenly intervened, and which
led to a fatal result. While they were seated by the altar, in attitudes of
submission and suppliance, they were suddenly aroused by the rushing toward
them of one of their sons, who came in, wounded and bleeding from some scene
of combat, and pursued by angry and ferocious foes. The spent and fainting
warrior sank down at the feet of his father and mother, and lay there dying
and weltering in the blood which flowed from his wounds. The aged king was
aroused to madness at this spectacle. He leaped to his feet, seized a
javelin, and thundering out at the same time the most loud and bitter
imprecations against the murderers of his son, he hurled the weapon toward
them as they advanced. The javelin struck the shield of the leader of the
assailants, and rebounded from it without producing any other effect than to
enrage still more the furious spirit which it was meant to destroy. The
assailant rushed forward, seized the aged father by the hair, dragged him
slipping, as he went, in the blood of his son, up to the altar, and there
plunged a sword into his body, burying it to the hilt,—and then threw
him down, convulsed and dying, upon the body of his dying child.
Thus Priam fell, and with him the last hope of the people of Troy. The
city in full possession of their enemies, the palace and citadel sacked and
destroyed, and the king slain, they saw that there was nothing now left for
which they had any wish to contend.
Helen
Helen was a Grecian princess, formerly the wife of Menelaus, king of
Sparta, but she had eloped from Greece some years before, with Paris, the son
of Priam, king of Troy, and this elopement had been the whole cause of the
Trojan war. In the first instance, Menelaus, accompanied by another Grecian
chieftain, went to Troy and demanded that Helen should be given up again to
her proper husband. Paris refused to surrender her. Menelaus then returned to
Greece and organized a grand expedition to proceed to Troy and recapture the
queen. This was the origin of the war. The people, therefore, looked upon
Helen as the cause, whether innocent or guilty, of all their calamities.
When Æneas, therefore, who was, as may well be supposed, in no very
amiable or gentle temper, as he hurried along away from the smoking ruins of
the palace toward his home, saw Helen endeavoring to screen herself from the
destruction which she had been the means of bringing upon all that he held
dear, he was aroused to a phrensy of anger against her, and determined to
avenge the wrongs of his country by her destruction. "I will kill her," said
he to himself, as he rushed forward toward the spot where she was concealed.
"There is no great glory it is true in wreaking vengeance on a woman, or in
bringing her to the punishment which her crimes deserve. Still I will kill
her, and I shall be commended for the deed. She shall not, after bringing
ruin upon us, escape herself, and go back to Greece in safety and be a queen
there again."
Æneas said these words, rushing forward at the same time, sword in hand,
he was suddenly intercepted and brought to a stand by the apparition of his
mother, the goddess Aphrodite, who all at once stood in the way before him.
She stopped him, took him by the hand, urged him to restrain his useless
anger, and calmed and quieted him with soothing words. "It is not Helen,"
said she, "that has caused the destruction of Troy. It is through the
irresistible and irrevocable decrees of the gods that the city has fallen. It
is useless for you to struggle against inevitable destiny, or to attempt to
take vengeance on mere human means and instrumentalities. Think no more of
Helen. Think of your family. Your aged father, your helpless wife, your
little son,—where are they? Even now while you are wasting time here in
vain attempts to take vengeance on Helen for what the gods have done, all
that are near and dear to you are surrounded by ferocious enemies thirsting
for their blood. Fly to them and save them. I shall accompany you, though
unseen, and will protect you and them from every impending danger."
As soon as Aphrodite had spoken these words she disappeared from view.
Æneas, following her injunctions, went directly toward his home; and he found
as he passed along the streets that the way was opened for him, by mysterious
movements among the armed bands which were passing in every direction about
the city, in such a manner as to convince him that his mother was really
accompanying him, and protecting his way by her supernatural powers.
When he reached home the first person whom he saw was Anchises his father.
He told Anchises that all was lost, and that nothing now remained for them
but to seek safety for themselves by flying to the mountains behind the city.
But Anchises refused to go. "You who are young," said he, "and who have
enough of life before you to be worth preserving, may fly. As for me I will
not attempt to save the little remnant that remains to me, to be spent, if
saved, in miserable exile. If the powers of heaven had intended that I should
have lived any longer, they would have spared my native city,—my only
home. You may go yourselves, but leave me here to die."
In saying these words Anchises turned away in great despondency, firmly
fixed, apparently, in his determination to remain and share the fate of the
city. Æneas and Creusa his wife joined their entreaties in urging him to go
away. But he would not be persuaded. Æneas then declared that he would not go
and leave his father. If one was to die they would all die, he said,
together. He called for his armor and began to put it on, resolving to go out
again into the streets of the city and die, since he must die, in the act of
destroying his destroyers.
He was, however, prevented from carrying this determination into effect,
by Creusa's intervention, who fell down before him at the threshold of the
door, almost frantic with excitement and terror, and holding her little son
Ascanius with one arm, and clasping her husband's knees with the other, she
begged him not to leave them. "Stay and save us," said she; "do not go and
throw your life away. Or, if you will go, take us with you that we may all
die together."
The conflict of impulses and passions in this unhappy family continued for
some time longer, but it ended at last in the yielding of Anchises to the
wishes of the rest, and they all resolved to fly. In the mean time, the noise
and uproar in the streets of the city, were drawing nearer and nearer, and
the light of the burning buildings breaking out continually at new points in
the progress of the conflagration, indicated that no time was to be lost.
Æneas hastily formed his plan. His father was too old and infirm to go
himself through the city. Æneas determined therefore to carry him upon his
shoulders. Little Ascanius was to walk along by his side. Creusa was to
follow, keeping as close as possible to her husband lest she should lose him
in the darkness of the night, or in the scenes of uproar and confusion
through which they would have to pass on the way. The domestics of the family
were to escape from the city by different routes, each choosing his own, in
order to avoid attracting the attention of their enemies; and when once
without the gates they were all to rendezvous again at a certain rising
ground, not far from the city, which Æneas designated to them by means of an
old deserted temple which marked the spot, and a venerable cypress which grew
there.
This plan being formed the party immediately proceeded to put it in
execution. Æneas spread a lion's skin over his shoulders to make the
resting-place more easy for his father, or perhaps to lighten the pressure of
the heavy burden upon his own limbs. Anchises took what were called the
household gods, in his hands. These were sacred images which it was customary
to keep, in those days, in every dwelling, as the symbol and embodiment of
divine protection. To save these images, when every thing else was given up
for lost, was always the object of the last desperate effort of the husband
and father. Æneas in this case asked his father to take these images, as it
would have been an impiety for him, having come fresh from scenes of battle
and bloodshed, to have put his hand upon them, without previously performing
some ceremony of purification. Ascanius took hold of his father's hand.
Creusa followed behind. Thus arranged they sallied forth from the house into
the streets—all dark and gloomy, except so far as they received a
partial and inconstant light from the flames of the distant conflagrations,
which glared in the sky, and flashed sometimes upon battlements and towers,
and upon the tops of lofty dwellings.
Æneas pressed steadily on, though in a state continually of the highest
excitement and apprehension. He kept stealthily along wherever he could find
the deepest shadows, under walls, and through the most obscure and the
narrowest streets. He was in constant fear lest some stray dart or arrow
should strike Anchises or Creusa, or lest some band of Greeks should come
suddenly upon them, in which case he knew well that they would all be cut
down without mercy, for, loaded down as he was with his burden, he would be
entirely unable to do any thing to defend either himself or them. The party,
however, for a time seemed to escape all these dangers, but at length, just
as they were approaching the gate of the city, and began to think that they
were safe, they were suddenly alarmed by a loud uproar, and by a rush of men
which came in toward them from some streets in that quarter of the city, and
threatened to overwhelm them. Anchises was greatly alarmed. He saw the
gleaming weapons of the Greeks who were rushing toward them, and he called
out to Æneas to fly faster, or to turn off some other way, in order to escape
the impending danger. Æneas was terrified by the shouts and uproar which he
heard, and his mind was for a moment confused by the bewildering influences
of the scene. He however hurried forward, running this way and that, wherever
there seemed the best prospect of escape, and often embarrassed and retarded
in his flight by the crowds of people who were moving confusedly in all
directions. At length, however, he succeeded in finding egress from the city.
He pressed on, without stopping to look behind him till he reached the
appointed place of rendezvous on the hill, and then gently laying down his
burden, he looked around for Creusa. She was nowhere to be seen.
Æneas was in utter consternation, at finding that his wife was gone. He
mourned and lamented this dreadful calamity with loud exclamations of grief
and despair; then reflecting that it was a time for action and not for idle
grief, he hastened to conceal his father and Ascanius in a dark and winding
valley behind the hill, and leaving them there under the charge of his
domestics, he hastened back to the city to see if Creusa could be found.
He armed himself completely before he went, being in his desperation
determined to encounter every danger in his attempts to find and to recover
his beloved wife. He went directly to the gate from which he had come out,
and re-entering the city there, he began to retrace, as well as he could, the
way that he had taken in coming out of the city—guiding himself as he
went, by the light of the flames which rose up here and there from the
burning buildings.
He went on in this way in a desperate state of agitation and distress,
searching everywhere but seeing nothing of Creusa. At length he thought it
possible that she had concluded, when she found herself separated from him,
to go back to the house, as the safest place of refuge for her, and he
determined, accordingly, to go and seek her there. This was his last hope,
and most cruelly was it disappointed when he came to the place of his
dwelling.
He found his house, when he arrived near the spot, all in flames. The
surrounding buildings were burning too, and the streets in the neighborhood
were piled up with furniture and goods which the wretched inmates of the
dwellings had vainly endeavored to save. These inmates themselves were
standing around, distracted with grief and terror, and gazing hopelessly upon
the scene of devastation before them.
Æneas saw all these things at a glance, and immediately, in a frenzy of
excitement, began to call out Creusa's name. He went to and fro among the
groups surrounding the fire, calling for her in a frantic manner, and
imploring all whom he saw to give him some tidings of her. All was, however,
in vain. She could not be found. Æneas then went roaming about through other
portions of the city, seeking her everywhere, and inquiring for her of every
person whom he met that had the appearance of being a friend. His suspense,
however, was terminated at last by his suddenly coming upon an apparition of
the spirit of Creusa, which rose before him in a solitary part of the city,
and arrested his progress. The apparition was of preternatural size, and it
stood before him in so ethereal and shadow-like a form, and the features
beamed upon him with so calm and placid and benignant an expression, as
convinced him that the vision was not of this world. Æneas saw at a glance
that Creusa's earthly sorrows and sufferings were ended forever.
At first he was shocked and terrified at the spectacle. Creusa, however,
endeavored to calm and quiet him by soothing words. "My dearest husband,"
said she, "do not give way thus to anxiety and grief. The events which have
befallen us, have not come by chance. They are all ordered by an overruling
providence that is omnipotent and divine. It was predetermined by the decrees
of heaven that you were not to take me with you in your flight. I have
learned what your future destiny is to be. There is a long period of weary
wandering before you, over the ocean and on the land, and you will have many
difficulties, dangers, and trials to incur. You will, however, be conducted
safely through them all, and will in the end find a peaceful and happy home
on the banks of the Tiber. There you will found a new kingdom; a princess is
even now provided for you there, to become your bride. Cease then to mourn
for me; rather rejoice that I did not fall a captive into the hands of our
enemies, to be carried away into Greece and made a slave. I am free, and you
must not lament my fate. Farewell. Love Ascanius for my sake, and watch over
him and protect him as long as you live."
Having spoken these words, the vision began to disappear. Æneas endeavored
to clasp the beloved image in his arms to retain it, but it was intangible
and evanescent, and, before he could speak to it, it was gone, and he was
left standing in the desolate and gloomy street alone. He turned at length
slowly away; and solitary, thoughtful and sad, he went back to the gate of
the city, and thence out to the valley where he had concealed Anchises and
his little son.
He found them safe. The whole party then sought places of retreat among
the glens and mountains, where they could remain concealed a few days, while
Æneas and his companions could make arrangements for abandoning the country
altogether. These arrangements were soon completed. As soon as the Greeks had
retired, so that they could come out without danger from their place of
retreat, Æneas employed his men in building a number of small vessels,
fitting them, as was usual in those days, both with sails and oars.
During the progress of these preparations, small parties of Trojans were
coming in continually, day by day, to join him; being drawn successively from
their hiding-places among the mountains, by hearing that the Greeks had gone
away, and that Æneas was gradually assembling the remnant of the Trojans on
the shore. The numbers thus collected at Æneas's encampment gradually
increased, and as Æneas enlarged and extended his naval preparations to
correspond with the augmenting numbers of his adherents, he found when he was
ready to set sail, that he was at the head of a very respectable naval and
military force.
When the fleet at last was ready, he put a stock of provisions on board,
and embarked his men,—taking, of course, Anchises and Ascanius with
him. As soon as a favorable wind arose, the expedition set sail. As the
vessels moved slowly away, the decks were covered with men and women, who
gazed mournfully at the receding shores, conscious that they were bidding a
final farewell to their native land.
The Wanderings of Aeneas
The nearest country within reach in leaving the Trojan coast, was
Thrace—a country lying north of the Ægean Sea, and of the Propontis,
being separated, in fact, in one part, from the Trojan territories, only by
the Hellespont. Æneas turned his course northward toward this country, and,
after a short voyage, landed there, and attempted to make a settlement. He
was, however, prevented from remaining long, by a dreadful prodigy which he
witnessed there, and which induced him to leave those shores very
precipitously. The prodigy was this:
They had erected an altar on the shore, after they had landed, and were
preparing to offer the sacrifices customary on such occasions, when Æneas,
wishing to shade the altar with boughs, went to a myrtle bush which was
growing near, and began to pull up the green shoots from the ground. To his
astonishment and horror, he found that blood flowed from the roots whenever
they were broken. Drops of what appeared to be human blood would ooze from
the ruptured part as he held the shoot in his hand, and fall slowly to the
ground. He was greatly terrified at this spectacle, considering it as some
omen of very dreadful import. He immediately and instinctively offered up a
prayer to the presiding deities of the land, that they would avert from him
the evil influences, whatever they might be, which the omen seemed to
portend, or that they would at least explain the meaning of the prodigy.
After offering this prayer, he took hold of another stem of the myrtle, and
attempted to draw it from the ground, in order to see whether any change in
the appearances exhibited by the prodigy had been effected by his prayer. At
the instant, however, when the roots began to give way, he heard a groan
coming up from the ground below, as if from a person in suffering.
Immediately afterward a voice, in a mournful and sepulchral accent, began to
beg him to go away, and cease disturbing the repose of the dead.﹃What you
are tearing and lacerating,﹄said the voice, "is not a tree, but a man. I am
Polydorus. I was killed by the king of Thrace, and instead of burial, have
been turned into a myrtle growing on the shore."
Polydorus was a Trojan prince. He was the youngest son of Priam, and had
been sent some years before to Thrace, to be brought up in the court of the
Thracian king. He had been provided with a large supply of money and treasure
when he left Troy, in order that all his wants might be abundantly supplied,
and that he might maintain, during his absence from home, the position to
which the rank as a Trojan prince entitled him. His treasures, however, which
had been provided for him by his father as his sure reliance for support and
protection, became the occasion of his ruin—for the Thracian king, when
he found that the war was going against the Trojans, and that Priam the
father was slain, and the city destroyed, murdered the helpless son to get
possession of his gold.
Æneas and his companions were shocked to hear this story, and perceived at
once that Thrace was no place of safety for them. They resolved immediately
to leave the coast and seek their fortunes in other regions. They however,
first, in secrecy and silence, but with great solemnity, performed those
funeral rites for Polydorus which were considered in those ages essential to
the repose of the dead. When these mournful ceremonies were ended they
embarked on board their ships again and sailed away.
After this, the party of Æneas spent many months in weary voyages from
island to island, and from shore to shore, along the Mediterranean sea,
encountering every imaginable difficulty and danger, and meeting continually
with the strangest and most romantic adventures. At one time they were misled
by a mistaken interpretation of prophecy to attempt a settlement in
Crete—a green and beautiful island lying south of the Ægean sea. They
had applied to a sacred oracle, which had its seat at a certain consecrated
spot which they visited in the course of their progress southward through the
Ægean sea, asking the oracle to direct them where to go in order to find a
settled home. The oracle, in answer to their request, informed them that they
were to go to the land that their ancestors had originally come from, before
their settlement in Troy. Æneas applied to Anchises to inform them what land
this was. Anchises replied, that he thought it was Crete. There was an
ancient tradition, he said, that some distinguished men among the ancestors
of the Trojans had originated in Crete; and he presumed accordingly that that
was the land to which the oracle referred.
The course of the little fleet was accordingly directed southward, and in
due time the expedition safely reached the island of Crete, and landed there.
They immediately commenced the work of effecting a settlement. They drew the
ships up upon the shore; they laid out a city; they inclosed and planted
fields, and began to build their houses. In a short time, however, all their
bright prospects of rest and security were blighted by the breaking out of a
dreadful pestilence among them. Many died; others who still lived, were
utterly prostrated by the effects of the disease, and crawled about,
emaciated and wretched, a miserable and piteous spectacle to behold. To crown
their misfortunes, a great drought came on. The grain which they had planted
was dried up and killed in the fields; and thus, in addition to the horrors
of pestilence, they were threatened with the still greater horrors of famine.
Their distress was extreme, and they were utterly at a loss to know what to
do.
In this extremity Anchises recommended that they should send back to the
oracle to inquire more particularly in respect to the meaning of the former
response, in order to ascertain whether they had, by possibility,
misinterpreted it, and made their settlement on the wrong ground. Or, if this
was not the case, to learn by what other error or fault they had displeased
the celestial powers, and brought upon themselves such terrible judgments.
Æneas determined to adopt this advice, but he was prevented from carrying his
intentions into effect by the following occurrence.
One night he was lying upon his couch in his dwelling,—so harassed
by his anxieties and cares that he could not sleep, and revolving in his mind
all possible plans for extricating himself and his followers from the
difficulties which environed them. The moon shone in at the windows, and by
the light of this luminary he saw, reposing in their shrines in the opposite
side of the apartment where he was sleeping, the household images which he
had rescued from the flames of Troy. As he looked upon these divinities in
the still and solemn hour of midnight, oppressed with anxiety and care, one
of them began to address him.
"We are commissioned," said this supernatural voice, "by Apollo, whose
oracle you are intending to consult again, to give you the answer that you
desire, without requiring you to go back to his temple. It is true that you
have erred in attempting to make a settlement in Crete. This is not the land
which is destined to be your home. You must leave these shores, and continue
your voyage. The land which is destined to receive you is Italy, a land far
removed from this spot, and your way to it lies over wide and boisterous
seas. Do not be discouraged, however, on this account, or on account of the
calamities which now impend over you. You will be prospered in the end. You
will reach Italy in safety, and there you will lay the foundations of a
mighty empire, which in days to come will extend its dominion far and wide
among the nations of the earth. Take courage, then, and embark once more in
your ships with a cheerful and confident heart. You are safe, and in the end
all will turn out well."
The strength and spirits of the desponding adventurer were very
essentially revived by this encouragement. He immediately prepared to obey
the injunctions which had been thus divinely communicated to him, and in a
short time the half-built city was abandoned, and the expedition once more
embarked on board the fleet and proceeded to sea. They met in their
subsequent wanderings with a great variety of adventures, but it would extend
this portion of our narrative too far, to relate them all. They encountered a
storm by which for three days and three nights they were tossed to and fro,
without seeing sun or stars, and of course without any guidance whatever; and
during all this time they were in the most imminent danger of being
overwhelmed and destroyed by the billows which rolled sublimely and
frightfully around them. At another time, having landed for rest and
refreshment among a group of Grecian islands, they were attacked by the
harpies, birds of prey of prodigious size and most offensive habits, and
fierce and voracious beyond description. The harpies were celebrated, in
fact, in many of the ancient tales, as a race of beings that infested certain
shores, and often teased and tormented the mariners and adventurers that
happened to come among them. Some said, however, that there was not a race of
such beings, but only two or three in all, and they gave their names. And yet
different narrators gave different names, among which were Aëlopos, Nicothoë,
Ocythoë, Ocypoæ, Celæno, Acholoë, and Aëllo. Some said that the harpies had
the faces and forms of women. Others described them as frightfully ugly; but
all agree in representing them as voracious beyond description, always
greedily devouring every thing that they could get within reach of their
claws.
These fierce monsters flew down upon Æneas and his party, and carried away
the food from off the table before them; and even attacked the men
themselves. The men then armed themselves with swords, secretly, and waited
for the next approach of the harpies, intending to kill them, when they came
near. But the nimble marauders eluded all their blows, and escaped with their
plunder as before. At length the expedition was driven away from the island
altogether, by these ravenous fowls, and when they were embarking on board of
their vessels, the leader of the harpies perched herself upon a rock
overlooking the scene, and in a human voice loaded Æneas and his companions,
as they went away, with taunts and execrations.
The expedition passed one night in great terror and dread in the vicinity
of Mount Etna, where they had landed. The awful eruptions of smoke, and
flame, and burning lava, which issued at midnight from the summit of the
mountain,—the thundering sounds which they heard rolling beneath them,
through the ground, and the dread which was inspired in their minds by the
terrible monsters that dwelt beneath the mountains, as they supposed, and fed
the fires, all combined to impress them with a sense of unutterable awe; and
as soon as the light of the morning enabled them to resume their course, they
made all haste to get away from so appalling a scene. At another time they
touched upon a coast which was inhabited by a race of one-eyed
giants,—monsters of enormous magnitude and of remorseless cruelty. They
were cannibals,—feeding on the bodies of men whom they killed by
grasping them in their hands and beating them against the rocks which formed
the sides of their den. Some men whom one of these monsters, named
Polyphemus, had shut up in his cavern, contrived to surprise their keeper in
his sleep, and though they were wholly unable to kill him on account of his
colossal magnitude, they succeeded in putting out his eye, and Æneas and his
companions saw the blinded giant, as they passed along the coast, wading in
the sea, and bathing his wound. He was guiding his footsteps as he walked, by
means of the trunk of a tall pine which served him for a staff.
At length, however, after the lapse of a long period of time, and after
meeting with a great variety of adventures to which we can not even here
allude, Æneas and his party reached the shores of Italy, at the point which
by divine intimations had been pointed out to them as the place where they
were to land.
The story of the life and adventures of Æneas, which we have given in this
and in the preceding chapters, is a faithful summary of the narrative which
the poetic historians of those days recorded. It is, of course, not to be
relied upon as a narrative of facts; but it is worthy of very special
attention by every cultivated mind of the present day, from the fact, that
such is the beauty, the grace, the melody, the inimitable poetic perfection
with which the story is told, in the language in which the original record
stands, that the narrative has made a more deep and widespread, and lasting
impression upon the human mind than any other narrative perhaps that ever was
penned.
Map of Latium
The party of reconnoiterers thus sent out followed up the banks of the
river, and made excursions in various directions across the fields and
plains. They found that the country was everywhere verdant and beautiful, and
that it was covered in the interior with scattered hamlets and towns. They
learned the name of the king, and also that of the city which he made his
capitol. Latinus himself at the same time, heard the tidings of the arrival
of these strangers. His first impulse was immediately to make an onset upon
them with all his forces, and drive them away from his shores. On farther
inquiry, however, he learned that they were in a distressed and suffering
condition, and from the descriptions which were given him of their dress and
demeanor he concluded that they were Greeks. This idea awakened in his mind
some apprehension; for the Greeks were then well known throughout the world,
and were regarded everywhere as terrible enemies. Besides his fears, his pity
and compassion were awakened, too, in some degree; and he was on the whole
for a time quite at a loss to know what course to pursue in respect to the
intruders.
In the mean time Æneas concluded to send an embassy to Latinus to explain
the circumstances under which he had been induced to land so large a party on
the Italian coast. He accordingly designated a considerable number of men to
form this embassy, and giving to some of the number his instructions as to
what they were to say to Latinus, he committed to the hands of the others a
large number of gifts which they were to carry and present to him. These
gifts consisted of weapons elaborately finished, vessels of gold or silver,
embroidered garments, and such other articles as were customarily employed in
those days as propitiatory offerings in such emergencies. The embassy when
all was arranged proceeded to the Latian capital.
When they came in sight of it they found that it was a spacious city, with
walls around it, and turrets and battlements within, rising here and there
above the roofs of the dwellings. Outside the gates a portion of the
population were assembled busily engaged in games, and in various gymnastic
and equestrian performances. Some were driving furiously in chariots around
great circles marked out for the course. Others were practicing feats of
horsemanship, or running races upon fleet chargers. Others still were
practicing with darts, or bows and arrows, or javelins; either to test and
improve their individual skill, or else to compete with each other for
victory or for a prize. The embassadors paused when they came in view of this
scene, and waited until intelligence could be sent in to the monarch,
informing him of their arrival.
Latinus decided immediately to admit the embassy to an audience, and they
were accordingly conducted into the city. They were led, after entering by
the gates, through various streets, until they came at length to a large
public edifice, which seemed to be, at the same time, palace, senate-house,
and citadel. There were to be seen, in the avenues which led to this edifice,
statues of old warriors, and various other martial decorations. There were
many old trophies of former victories preserved here, such as arms, and
chariots, and prows of ships, and crests, and great bolts and bars taken from
the gates of conquered cities,—all old, war-worn, and now useless, but
preserved as memorials of bravery and conquest. The Trojan embassy, passing
through and among these trophies, as they stood or hung in the halls and
vestibules of the palace, were at length ushered into the presence of Latinus
the king.
Here, after the usual ceremonies of introduction were performed, they
delivered the message which Æneas had intrusted to them. They declared that
they had not landed on Latinus's shore with any hostile intent. They had been
driven away, they said, from their own homes, by a series of dire calamities,
which had ended, at last, in the total destruction of their native city.
Since then they had been driven to and fro at the mercy of the winds and
waves, exposed to every conceivable degree of hardship and danger. Their
landing finally in the dominions of Latinus in Italy, was not, they
confessed, wholly undesigned, for Latium had been divinely indicated to them,
on their way, as the place destined by the decrees of heaven for their final
home. Following these indications, they had sought the shores of Italy and
the mouths of the Tiber, and having succeeded in reaching them, had landed;
and now Æneas, their commander, desired of the king that he would allow them
to settle in his land in peace, and that he would set apart a portion of his
territory for them, and give them leave to build a city.
The effect produced upon the mind of Latinus by the appearance of these
embassadors, and by the communication which they made to him, proved to be
highly favorable. He received the presents, too, which they had brought him,
in a very gracious manner, and appeared to be much pleased with them. He had
heard, as would seem, rumors of the destruction of Troy, and of the departure
of Æneas's squadron; for a long time had been consumed by the wanderings of
the expedition along the Mediterranean shores, so that some years had now
elapsed since the destruction of Troy and the first sailing of the fleet. In
a word, Latinus soon determined to accede to the proposals of his visitors,
and he concluded with Æneas a treaty of alliance and friendship. He
designated a spot where the new city might be built, and all things were thus
amicably settled.
There was one circumstance which exerted a powerful influence in promoting
the establishment of friendly relations between Latinus and the Trojans, and
that was, that Latinus was engaged, at the time of Æneas's arrival, in a war
with the Rutulians, a nation that inhabited a country lying south of Latium
and on the coast. Latinus thought that by making the Trojans his friends, he
should be able to enlist them as his auxiliaries in this war. Æneas made no
objection to this, and it was accordingly agreed that the Trojans, in return
for being received as friends, and allowed to settle in Latium, were to join
with their protectors in defending the country, and were especially to aid
them in prosecuting the existing war.
In a short time a still closer alliance was formed between Æneas and
Latinus, an alliance which in the end resulted in the accession of Æneas to
the throne of Latinus. Latinus had a daughter named Lavinia. She was an only
child, and was a princess of extraordinary merit and beauty. The name of the
queen, her mother, the wife of Latinus, was Amata. Amata had intended her
daughter to be the wife of Turnus, a young prince of great character and
promise, who had been brought up in Latinus's court. Turnus was, in fact, a
distant relative of Amata, and the plan of the queen was that he should marry
Lavinia, and in the end succeed with her, to the throne of Latinus. Latinus
himself had not entered into this scheme; and when closing his negotiations
with Æneas, it seemed to him that it would be well to seal and secure the
adherence of Æneas to his cause by offering him his daughter Lavinia for his
bride. Æneas was very willing to accede to this proposal. What the wishes of
Lavinia herself were in respect to the arrangement, it is not very well
known; nor were her wishes, according to the ideas that prevailed in those
times, of any consequence whatever. The plan was arranged, and the nuptials
were soon to be celebrated. Turnus, when he found that he was to be
superseded, left the court of Latinus, and went away out of the country in a
rage.
Æneas and his followers seemed now to have come to the end of all their
troubles. They were at last happily established in a fruitful land,
surrounded by powerful friends, and about to enter apparently upon a long
career of peaceful and prosperous industry. They immediately engaged with
great ardor in the work of building their town. Æneas had intended to have
named it Troy, in commemoration of the ancient city now no more. But, in view
of his approaching marriage with Lavinia, he determined to change this
design, and, in honor of her, to name the new capital Lavinium.
The territory which had been assigned to the Trojans by Latinus was in the
south-western part of Latium, near the coast, and of course it was on the
confines of the country of the Rutulians. Turnus, when he left Latium, went
over to the Rutulians, determining, in his resentment against Latinus for
having given Lavinia to his rival, to join them in the war. The Rutulians
made him their leader, and he soon advanced at the head of a great army
across the frontier, toward the new city of Lavinium. Thus Æneas found
himself threatened with a very formidable danger.
Nor was this all. For just before the commencement of the war with Turnus,
an extraordinary train of circumstances occurred which resulted in alienating
the Latins themselves from their new ally, and in leaving Æneas consequently
to sustain the shock of the contest with Turnus and his Rutulians alone. It
would naturally be supposed that the alliance between Latinus and Æneas would
not be very favorably regarded by the common people of Latium. They would, on
the other hand, naturally look with much jealousy and distrust on a company
of foreign intruders, admitted by what they would be very likely to consider
the capricious partiality of their king, to a share of their country. This
jealousy and distrust was, for a time, suppressed and concealed; but the
animosity only acquired strength and concentration by being restrained, and
at length an event occurred which caused it to break forth with
uncontrollable fury. The circumstances were these:
There was a man in Latium named Tyrrheus, who held the office of royal
herdsman. He lived in his hut on some of the domains of Latinus, and had
charge of the flocks and herds belonging to the king. He had two sons, and
likewise a daughter. The daughter's name was Sylvia. The two boys had one day
succeeded in making prisoner of a young stag, which they found in the woods
with its mother. It was extremely young when they captured it, and they
brought it home as a great prize They fed it with milk until it was old
enough to take other food, and as it grew up accustomed to their hands, it
was very tame and docile, and became a great favorite with all the family.
Sylvia loved and played with it continually. She kept it always in trim by
washing it in a fountain, and combing and smoothing its hair, and she amused
herself by adorning it with wreaths, and garlands, and such other decorations
as her sylvan resources could command.
One day when Ascanius, Æneas's son, who had now grown to be a young man,
and who seems to have been characterized by a full share of the ardent and
impulsive energy belonging to his years, was returning from the chase, he
happened to pass by the place where the herdsman lived. Ascanius was followed
by his dogs, and he had his bow and arrows in his hand. As he was thus
passing along a copse of wood, near a brook, the dogs came suddenly upon
Sylvia's stag. The confiding animal, unconscious of any danger, had strayed
away from the herdsman's grounds to this grove, and had gone down to the
brook to drink. The dogs immediately sprang upon him, in full cry. Ascanius
followed, drawing at the same time an arrow from his quiver and fitting it to
the bow. As soon as he came in sight of the stag, he let fly his arrow. The
arrow pierced the poor fugitive in the side, and inflicted a dreadful wound.
It did not, however, bring him down. The stag bounded on down the valley
toward his home, as if to seek protection from Sylvia. He came rushing into
the house, marking his way with blood, ran to the covert which Sylvia had
provided for his resting-place at night, and crouching down there he filled
the whole dwelling with piteous bleatings and cries.
Silvia's Stag
As soon as Tyrrheus, the father of Sylvia, and the two young men, her
brothers, knew who it was that had thus wantonly wounded their favorite, they
were filled with indignation and rage. They went out and aroused the
neighboring peasantry, who very easily caught the spirit of resentment and
revenge which burned in the bosoms of Tyrrheus and his sons. They armed
themselves with clubs, firebrands, scythes, and such other rustic weapons as
came to hand, and rushed forth, resolved to punish the overbearing insolence
of their foreign visitors, in the most summary manner.
In the mean time the Trojan youth, having heard the tidings of this
disturbance, began to gather hastily, but in great numbers, to defend
Ascanius. The parties on both sides were headstrong, and highly excited; and
before any of the older and more considerate chieftains could interfere, a
very serious conflict ensued. One of the sons of Tyrrheus was killed. He was
pierced in the throat by an arrow, and fell and died immediately. His name
was Almon. He was but a boy, or at all events had not yet arrived at years of
maturity, and his premature and sudden death added greatly to the prevailing
excitement. Another man too was killed. At length the conflict was brought to
an end for the time but the excitement and the exasperation of the peasantry
were extreme. They carried the two dead bodies in procession to the capital,
to exhibit them to Latinus; and they demanded, in the most earnest and
determined manner, that he should immediately make war upon the whole Trojan
horde, and drive them back into the sea, whence they came.
Latinus found it extremely difficult to withstand this torrent. He
remained firm for a time, and made every exertion in his power to quell the
excitement and to pacify the minds of his people. But all was in vain. Public
sentiment turned hopelessly against the Trojans, and Æneas soon found himself
shut up in his city, surrounded with enemies, and left to his fate. Turnus
was the leader of these foes.
He, however, did not despair. Both parties began to prepare vigorously for
war. Æneas himself went away with a few followers to some of the neighboring
kingdoms, to get succor from them. Neighboring states are almost always
jealous of each other, and are easily induced to take part against each
other, when involved in foreign wars. Æneas found several of the Italian
princes who were ready to aid him, and he returned to his camp with
considerable reinforcements, and with promises of more. The war soon broke
out, and was waged for a long time with great determination on both sides and
with varied success.
Latinus, who was now somewhat advanced in life, and had thus passed beyond
the period of ambition and love of glory, and who besides must have felt that
the interests of his family were now indissolubly bound up in those of Æneas
and Lavinia, watched the progress of the contest with a very uneasy and
anxious mind. He found that for a time at least it would be out of his power
to do any thing effectual to terminate the war, so he allowed it to take its
course, and contented himself with waiting patiently, in hopes that an
occasion which would allow of his interposing with some hope of success,
would sooner or later come.
Such an occasion did come; for after the war had been prosecuted for some
time it was found, that notwithstanding the disadvantages under which the
Trojans labored, they were rather gaining than losing ground. There were in
fact some advantages as well as some disadvantages in their position. They
formed a compact and concentrated body, while their enemies constituted a
scattered population, spreading in a more or less exposed condition over a
considerable extent of country. They had neither flocks nor herds, nor any
other property for their enemies to plunder, while the Rutulians and Latins
had great possessions, both of treasure in the towns and of rural produce in
the country, so that when the Trojans gained the victory over them in any
sally or foray, they always came home laden with booty, as well as exultant
in triumph and pride; while if the Latins conquered the Trojans in a battle,
they had nothing but the empty honor to reward them. The Trojans, too, were
hardy, enduring, and indomitable. The alternative with them was victory or
destruction. Their protracted voyage, and the long experience of hardships
and sufferings which they had undergone, had inured them to privation and
toil, so that they proved to the Latins and Rutulians to be very obstinate
and formidable foes.
At length, as usual in such cases, indications gradually appeared that
both sides began to be weary of the contest. Latinus availed himself of a
favorable occasion which offered, to propose that embassadors should be sent
to Æneas with terms of peace. Turnus was very much opposed to any such plan.
He was earnestly desirous of continuing to prosecute the war. The other Latin
chieftains reproached him then with being the cause of all the calamities
which they were enduring, and urged the unreasonableness on his part of
desiring any longer to protract the sufferings of his unhappy country, merely
to gratify his own private resentment and revenge. Turnus ought not any
longer to ask, they said, that others should fight in his quarrel; and they
proposed that he should himself decide the question between him and Æneas, by
challenging the Trojan leader to fight him in single combat.
Latinus strongly disapproved of this proposal. He was weary of war and
bloodshed, and wished that the conflict might wholly cease; and he urged that
peace should be made with Æneas, and that his original design of giving him
Lavinia for his wife should be carried into execution. For a moment Turnus
seemed to hesitate, but in looking towards Lavinia who, with Amata her
mother, was present at this consultation, he saw, or thought he saw, in the
agitation which she manifested, proofs of her love for him, and indications
of a wish on her part that he and not Æneas should win her for his bride.
He accordingly without any farther hesitation or delay agreed to the
proposal of the counsellor. The challenge to single combat was given and
accepted, and on the appointed day the ground was marked out for the duel,
and both armies were drawn up upon the field, to be spectators of the
fight.
After the usual preparations the conflict began; but, as frequently occurs
in such cases, it was not long confined to the single pair of combatants with
which it commenced. Others were gradually drawn in, and the duel became in
the end a general battle. Æneas and the Trojans were victorious, and both
Latinus and Turnus were slain. This ended the war. Æneas married Lavinia, and
thenceforth reigned with her over the kingdom of Latium as its rightful
sovereign.
Æneas lived several years after this, and has the credit, in history, of
having managed the affairs of the kingdom in a very wise and provident
manner. He had brought with him from Troy the arts and the learning of the
Greeks, and these he introduced to his people so as greatly to improve their
condition. He introduced, too, many ceremonies of religious worship, which
had prevailed in the countries from which he had come, or in those which he
had visited in his long voyage. These ceremonies became at last so firmly
established among the religious observances of the inhabitants of Latium,
that they descended from generation to generation, and in subsequent years
exercised great influence, in modeling the religious faith and worship of the
Roman people. They thus continued to be practiced for many ages, and, through
the literature of the Romans, became subsequently known and celebrated
throughout the whole civilized world.
At length, in a war which Æneas was waging with the Rutulians, he was
once, after a battle, reduced to great extremity of danger, and in order to
escape from his pursuers he attempted to swim across a stream, and was
drowned. The name of this stream was Numicius. It flowed into the sea a
little north of Lavinium. It must have been larger in former times than it is
now, for travelers who visit it at the present day say that it is now only a
little rivulet, in which it would be almost impossible for any one to be
drowned.
The Trojan followers of Æneas concealed his body, and spread the story
among the people of Latium that he had been taken up to heaven. The people
accordingly, having before considered their king as the son of a goddess, now
looked upon him as himself divine. They accordingly erected altars to him in
Latium and thenceforth worshiped him as a God.
Rhea Silvia
However this may be, her stolen interview or interviews with this stranger
were not known at the time, and Rhea perhaps thought that her fault would
never be discovered. Some weeks after this, however, it was observed by her
companions and friends that she began to appear thoughtful and depressed. Her
dejection increased day by day; her face became wan and pale, and her eyes
were often filled with tears. They asked her what was the cause of her
trouble. She said that she was sick. She was soon afterward excused from her
duties in the Vestal temple, and went away, and remained for some time shut
up in retirement and seclusion. There at length two children, twins, were
born to her.
It was only through the influence of Antho, Rhea's cousin, that the
unhappy vestal was not put to death by Amulius, before her children were
born, at the time when her fault was first discovered. The laws of the State
in respect to vestal virgins, which were inexorably severe, would have
justified him in causing her to be executed at once, but Antho interceded so
earnestly for her unhappy cousin, that Amulius for a time spared her life.
When, however, her sons were born, the anger of Amulius broke out anew. If
she had remained childless he would probably have allowed her to live, though
she could of course never have been restored to her office in the temple of
Vesta. Or if she had given birth to a daughter she might have been pardoned,
since a daughter, on account of her sex, would have been little likely to
disturb Amulius in the possession of the kingdom. But the existence of two
sons, born directly in the line of the succession, and each of them having
claims superior to his own, endangered, most imminently, he perceived, his
possession of power. He was of course greatly enraged.
He caused Rhea to be shut up in close imprisonment, and as for the boys,
he ordered them to be thrown into the Tiber. The Tiber was at some
considerable distance from Alba; but it was probably near the place where
Rhea had resided in her retirement, and where the children were born.
A peasant of that region was intrusted with the task of throwing the
children into the river. Whether his official duty in undertaking this
commission required him actually to drown the boys, or whether he was allowed
to give the helpless babes some little chance for their lives, is not known.
At all events he determined that in committing the children to the stream he
would so arrange it that they should float away from his sight, in order that
he might not himself be a witness of their dying struggles and cries. He
accordingly put them upon a species of float that he made,—a sort of
box or trough, as would seem from the ancient descriptions, which he had
hollowed out from a log,—and disposing their little limbs carefully
within this narrow receptacle, he pushed the frail boat, with its navigators
still more frail, out upon the current of the river.
The name of the peasant who performed this task was Faustulus. The peasant
also who subsequently,—as will hereafter appear,—found and took
charge of the children, is spoken of by the ancient historians as Faustulus,
too. In fact we might well suppose that no man, however rustic and rude,
could give his time and his thoughts to two such babes long enough to make an
ark for them, for the purpose of making it possible to save their lives, and
then place them carefully in it to send them away, without becoming so far
interested in their fate, and so touched by their mute and confiding
helplessness, as to feel prompted to follow the stream to see how so perilous
a navigation would end. We have, however, no direct evidence that Faustulus
did so watch the progress of his boat down the river. The story is that it
was drifted along, now whirling in eddies, and now shooting down over rapid
currents, until at last, at a bend in the river, it was thrown upon the
beach, and being turned over by the concussion, the children were rolled out
upon the sand.
The neighboring thickets soon of course resounded with their plaintive
cries. A mother wolf who was sleeping there came out to see what was the
matter. Now a mother, of whatever race, is irresistibly drawn by an instinct,
if incapable of a sentiment, of affection, to love and to cherish any thing
that is newly born. The wolf caressed the helpless babes, imagining perhaps
that they were her own offspring; and lying down by their side she cherished
and fed them, watching all the time with a fierce and vigilant eye for any
approaching enemy or danger. The rude nursery might very naturally be
supposed to be in dangerous proximity to the water, but it happened that the
river, when the babes were set adrift in it, was very high, from the effect
of rains upon the mountains, and thus soon after the children were thrown
upon the land, the water began to subside. In a short time it wholly returned
to its accustomed channel, leaving the children on the warm sand, high above
all danger. The wolf was not their only guardian. A woodpecker, the tradition
says, watched over them too, and brought them berries and other sylvan food.
The reader will perhaps be disposed to hesitate a little in receiving this
last statement for sober history, but as no part of the whole narrative will
bear any very rigid scrutiny, we may as well take the story of the woodpecker
along with the rest.
Faustulus and the Twins
In a short time the children were rescued from their exposed situation by
a shepherd, who is called Faustulus, and may or may not have been the same
with the Faustulus by whom they had been exposed. Faustulus carried the
children to his hut; and there the maternal attentions of the wolf and the
woodpecker were replaced by those of the shepherd's wife. Her name was
Larentia. Faustulus was one of Amulius's herdsmen, having the care of the
flocks and herds that grazed on this part of the royal domain, but living,
like any other shepherd, in great seclusion, in his hut in the forests. He
not only rescued the children, but he brought home and preserved the trough
in which they had been floated down the river. He put this relic aside,
thinking that the day might perhaps come in which there would be occasion to
produce it. He told the story of the children only to a very few trustworthy
friends, and he accompanied the communication, in the cases where he made it,
with many injunctions of secrecy. He named the foundlings Romulus and Remus,
and as they grew up they passed generally for the shepherd's sons.
Faustulus felt a great degree of interest, and a high sense of
responsibility too, in having these young princes under his care. He took
great pains to protect them from all possible harm, and to instruct them in
every thing which it was in those days considered important for young men to
know. It is even said that he sent them to a town in Latium where there was
some sort of seminary of learning, that their minds might receive a proper
intellectual culture. As they grew up they were both handsome in form and in
countenance, and were characterized by a graceful dignity of air and
demeanor, which made them very attractive in the eyes of all who beheld them.
They were prominent among the young herdsmen and hunters of the forest, for
their courage, their activity, their strength, their various personal
accomplishments, and their high and generous qualities of mind. Romulus was
more silent and thoughtful than his brother, and seemed to possess in some
respects superior mental powers. Both were regarded by all who knew them with
feelings of the highest respect and consideration.
Romulus and Remus treated their own companions and equals, that is the
young shepherds and herdsmen of the mountains, with great courtesy and
kindness, and were very kindly regarded by them in return. They, however,
evinced a great degree of independence of spirit in respect to the various
bailiffs and chief herdsmen, and other officers of field and forest police,
who exercised authority in the region where they lived. These men were
sometimes haughty and domineering, and the peasantry in general stood greatly
in awe of them. Romulus and Remus, however, always faced them without fear,
never seeming to be alarmed at their threats, or at any other exhibitions of
their anger. In fact, the boys seemed to be imbued with a native loftiness
and fearlessness of character, as if they had inherited a spirit of
confidence and courage with their royal blood, or had imbibed a portion of
the indomitable temper of their fierce foster mother.
They were generous, however, as well as brave. They took the part of the
weak and the oppressed against the tyrannical and the strong in the rustic
contentions that they witnessed; they interposed to help the feeble, to
relieve those who were in want, and to protect the defenseless. They hunted
wild beasts, they fought against robbers, they rescued and saved the lost.
For amusements, they practiced running, wrestling, racing, throwing javelins
and spears, and other athletic feats and accomplishments—in every thing
excelling all their competitors, and becoming in the end greatly
renowned.
Numitor, the father of Rhea Silvia, whom Amulius had dethroned and
banished from Alba, was all this time still living; and he had now at length
become so far reconciled to Amulius as to be allowed to reside in
Alba—though he lived there as a private citizen. He owned, it seems,
some estates near the Tiber, where he had flocks and herds that were tended
by his shepherds and herdsmen. It happened at one time that some contention
arose between the herdsmen of Numitor and those of Amulius, among whom
Romulus and Remus were residing. Now as the young men had thus far, of
course, no idea whatever of their relationship to Numitor, there was no
reason why they should feel any special interest in his affairs, and they
accordingly, as might naturally have been expected, took part with Amulius in
this quarrel, since Faustulus, and all the shepherds around them were on that
side. The herdsmen of Numitor in the course of the quarrel drove away some of
the cattle which were claimed as belonging to the herdsmen of Amulius.
Romulus and Remus headed a band which they hastily called together, to pursue
the depredators and bring the cattle back. They succeeded in this expedition,
and recaptured the herd. This incensed the party of Numitor and they
determined on revenge.
They waited some time for a favorable opportunity. At length the time came
for celebrating a certain festival called the Supercalia, which consisted of
very rude games and ceremonies, in which men sacrificed goats, and then
dressed themselves partially in the skins, and ran about whipping every one
whom they met, with thongs made likewise of the skins of goats, or of
rabbits, or other animals remarkable for their fecundity. The meaning of the
ceremonies, so far as such uncouth and absurd ceremonies could have any
meaning, was to honor the God of fertility and fruitfulness, and to promote
the fruitfulness of their flocks and herds, during the year ensuing at the
time that the celebrations were held.
The retainers and partisans of Numitor determined on availing themselves
of this opportunity to accomplish their object. Accordingly, they armed
themselves, and coming suddenly upon the spot where the shepherds of Amulius
were celebrating the games, they made a rush for Remus, who was at that time,
in accordance with the custom, running to and fro, half-naked, and armed only
with goat-skin thongs. They succeeded in making him prisoner, and bore him
away in triumph to Numitor.
Of course, this daring act produced great excitement throughout the
country. Numitor was well pleased with the prize that he had secured, but
felt, at the same time, some fear of the responsibility which he incurred by
holding the prisoner. He was strongly inclined to proceed against Remus, and
punish him himself for the offenses which the herdsmen of his lands charged
against him; but he finally concluded that this would not be safe, and he
determined, in the end, to refer the case to Amulius for decision. He
accordingly sent Remus to Amulius, making grievous charges against him, as a
lawless desperado, who, with his brother, Numitor said, were the terror of
the forests, through their domineering temper and their acts of robbery and
rapine.
The king, pleased, perhaps, with the spirit of deference to his regal
authority on the part of his brother, implied in the referring of the case of
the accused to him for trial, sent Remus back again to Numitor, saying that
Numitor might punish the freebooter himself in any way that he thought best.
Remus was accordingly brought again to Numitor's house. In the mean time, the
fact of his being thus made a prisoner, and charged with crime, and the
proceedings in relation to him, in sending him back and forth between Amulius
and Numitor, strongly attracted public attention. Every one was talking of
the prisoner, and discussing the question of his probable fate. The general
interest which was thus awakened in respect to him and to his brother
Romulus, revived the slumbering recollections in the minds of the old
neighbors of Faustulus, of the stories which he had told them of his having
found the twins on the bank of the river, in their infancy. They told this
story to Romulus, and he or some other friends made it known to Remus while
he was still confined.
When Remus was brought before Numitor—who was really his
grandfather, though the fact of this relationship was wholly unknown to both
of them—Numitor was exceedingly struck with his handsome countenance
and form, and with his fearless and noble demeanor. The young prisoner seemed
perfectly self-possessed and at his ease; and though he knew well that his
life was at stake, there was a certain air of calmness and composure in his
manner which seemed to denote very lofty qualities, both of person and
mind.
A vague recollection of the lost children of his daughter Rhea immediately
flashed across Numitor's mind. It changed all his anger against Remus to a
feeling of wondering interest and curiosity, and gave to his countenance, as
he looked upon his prisoner, an expression of kind and tender regard. After a
short pause Numitor addressed the young captive—speaking in a gentle
and conciliating manner—and asked him who he was, and who his parents
were.
"I will frankly tell you all that I know," said Remus, "since you treat me
in so fair and honorable a manner. The king delivered me up to be punished,
without listening to what I had to say, but you seem willing to hear before
you condemn. My name is Remus, and I have a twin-brother named Romulus. We
have always supposed ourselves to be the children of Faustulus; but now,
since this difficulty has occurred, we have heard new tidings in respect to
our origin. We are told that we were found in our infancy, on the shore of
the river, at the place where Faustulus lives, and that near by there was a
box or trough, in which we had been floated down to the spot from a place
above. When Faustulus found us, there was a wolf and a woodpecker taking care
of us and bringing us food. Faustulus carried us to his house, and brought us
up as his children. He preserved the trough, too, and has it now."
Numitor was, of course, greatly excited at hearing this intelligence. He
perceived at once that the finding of these children, both in respect to time
and place, and to all the attendant circumstances, corresponded so precisely
with the exposure of the children of Rhea Silvia as to leave no reasonable
ground for doubt that Romulus and Remus were his grandsons. He resolved
immediately to communicate this joyful discovery to his daughter, if he could
contrive the means of gaining access to her; for during all this time she had
been kept in close confinement in her prison.
In the mean time, Romulus himself, at the house of Faustulus, in the
forests, had become greatly excited by the circumstances in which he found
himself placed. He had been first very much incensed at the capture of Remus,
and while concerting with Faustulus plans for rescuing him, Faustulus had
explained to him the mystery of his birth. He had informed him not only how
he was found with his brother, on the bank of the river, but also had made
known to him whose sons he and Remus were. Romulus was, of course, extremely
elated at this intelligence. His native courage and energy were quickened
anew by his learning that he and his brother were princes, and as he
believed, rightfully entitled to the throne. He immediately began to form
plans for raising a rebellion against the government of Amulius, with a view
of first rescuing Remus from his power, and afterward taking such ulterior
steps as circumstances might require.
Faustulus, on the other hand, leaving Romulus to raise the forces for his
insurrection as he pleased, determined to go himself to Numitor and reveal
the secret of the birth of Romulus and Remus to him. In order to confirm and
corroborate his story, he took the trough with him, carrying it under his
cloak, in order to conceal it from view, and in this manner made his
appearance at the gates of Alba.
There was something in his appearance and manner when he arrived at the
gate, which attracted the attention of the officers on guard there. He wore
the dress of a countryman, and had obviously come in from the forests, a long
way; and there was something in his air which denoted hurry and agitation.
The soldiers asked him what he had under his cloak, and compelled him to
produce the ark to view. The curiosity of the guardsmen was still more
strongly aroused at seeing this old relic. It was bound with brass bands, and
it had some rude inscription marked upon it. It happened that one of the
guard was an old soldier who had been in some way connected with the exposure
of the children of Rhea when they were set adrift in the river, and he
immediately recognized this trough as the float which they had been placed
in. He immediately concluded that some very extraordinary movement was going
on,—and he determined to proceed forthwith and inform Amulius of what
he had discovered. He accordingly went to the king and informed him that a
man had been intercepted at the gate of the city, who was attempting to bring
in, concealed under his cloak, the identical ark or float, which to his
certain knowledge had been used in the case of the children of Rhea Silvia,
for sending them adrift on the waters of the Tiber.
The king was greatly excited and agitated at receiving this intelligence.
He ordered Faustulus to be brought into his presence. Faustulus was much
terrified at receiving this summons. He had but little time to reflect what
to say, and during the few minutes that elapsed while they were conducting
him into the presence of the king, he found it hard to determine how much it
would be best for him to admit, and how much to deny. Finally, in answer to
the interrogations of the king, he acknowledged that he found the children
and the ark in which they had been drifted upon the shore, and that he had
saved the boys alive, and had brought them up as his children. He said,
however, that he did not know where they were. They had gone away, he
alledged, some years before, and were now living as shepherds in some distant
part of the country, he did not know exactly where.
Amulius then asked Faustulus what he had been intending to do with the
trough, which he was bringing so secretly into the city. Faustulus said that
he was going to carry it to Rhea in her prison, she having often expressed a
strong desire to see it, as a token or memorial which would recall the dear
babes that had lain in it very vividly to her mind.
Amulius seemed satisfied that these statements were honest and true, but
they awakened in his mind a very great solicitude and anxiety. He feared that
the children, being still alive, might some day come to the knowledge of
their origin, and so disturb his possession of the throne, and perhaps
revenge, by some dreadful retaliation, the wrongs and injuries which he had
inflicted upon their mother and their grandfather. The people, he feared,
would be very much inclined to take part with them, and not with him, in any
contest which might arise; for their sympathies were already on the side of
Numitor. In a word, he was greatly alarmed, and he was much at a loss to know
what to do, to avert the danger which was impending over him.
He concluded to send to Numitor and inquire of him whether he was aware
that the boys were still alive, and if so, if he knew where they were to be
found. He accordingly sent a messenger to his brother, commissioned to make
these inquiries. This messenger, though in the service of Amulius, was really
a friend to Numitor, and on being admitted to Numitor's presence, when he
went to make the inquiries as directed by the king, he found Remus
there,—though not, as he had expected, in the attitude of a prisoner
awaiting sentence from a judge, but rather in that of a son in affectionate
consultation with his father. He soon learned the truth, and immediately
expressed his determination to espouse the cause of the prince.﹃The whole
city will be on your side,﹄said he to Remus. "You have only to place
yourself at the head of the population, and proclaim your rights; and you
will easily be restored to the possession of them."
Just at this crisis a tumult was heard at the gates of the city. Romulus
had arrived there at the head of the band of peasants and herdsmen that he
had collected in the forests. These insurgents were rudely armed and were
organized in a very simple and primitive manner. For weapons the peasants
bore such implements of agriculture as could be used for weapons, while the
huntsmen brought their pikes, and spears, and javelins, and such other
projectiles as were employed in those days in hunting wild beasts. The troop
was divided into companies of one hundred, and for banners they bore tufts of
grass on wisps of straw, or fern, or other herbage, tied at the top of a
pole. The armament was rude, but the men were resolute and determined, and
they made their appearance at the gates of the city upon the outside, just in
time to co-operate with Remus in the rebellion which he had raised
within.
The revolt was successful. A revolt is generally successful against a
despot, when the great mass of the population desire his downfall. Amulius
made a desperate attempt to stem the torrent, but his hour had come. His
palace was stormed, and he was slain. The revolution was complete, and
Romulus and Remus were masters of the country.
Situation of Rome
There were seven distinct hills on the ground which was subsequently
included within the limits of Rome. Between and among these hills the river
meandered by sweeping and graceful curves, and at one point, near the center
of what is now the city, the stream passed very near the foot of one of the
elevations called the Palatine Hill. Here was the spot where the wooden ark
in which Romulus and Remus had been set adrift, had been thrown up upon the
shore. The sides of the hill were steep, and between it and the river there
was in one part a deep morass. Romulus thought, on surveying the ground with
Remus his brother, that this was the best spot for building the city. They
could set apart a sufficient space of level ground around the foot of the
hill for the houses—inclosing the whole with a wall—while the top
of the hill itself might be fortified to form the citadel. The wall and the
steep acclivity of the ground would form a protection on three sides of the
inclosure, while the morass alone would be a sufficient defense on the part
toward the river. Then Romulus was specially desirous to select this spot as
the site, as it was here that he and his brother had been saved from
destruction in so wonderful a manner.
Remus, however, did not concur in these views. A little farther down the
stream there was another elevation called the Aventine Hill which seemed to
him more suitable for the site of a town. The sides were less precipitous,
and thus were more convenient for building ground. Then the land in the
immediate vicinity was better adapted to the purposes which they had in view.
In a word, the Aventine Hill was, as Remus thought, for every substantial
reason, much the best locality; and as for the fact of their having been
washed ashore at the foot of the other hill, it was in his opinion an
insignificant circumstance, wholly unworthy of being taken seriously into the
account in laying the foundation of a city.
The positions in which Remus and Romulus stood in respect to each other,
and the feelings which were naturally awakened in their hearts by the
circumstances in which they found themselves placed, were such as did not
tend to allay any rising asperity which accident might occasion, but rather
to irritate and inflame it. In the first place, they were both ardent,
impulsive, and imperious. Each was conscious of his strength, and eager to
exercise it. Each wished to command, and was wholly unwilling to obey. While
they were in adversity, they clung together for mutual help and protection;
but now, when they had come into the enjoyment of prosperity and power, the
bands of affection which had bound them together were very much weakened, and
were finally sundered. Then there was nothing whatever to mark any
superiority of one over the other. If they had been of different ages, the
younger could have yielded to the elder, in some degree, without wounding his
pride. If one had been more prominent than the other in effecting the
revolution by which Amulius was dethroned, or if there had been a native
difference of temperament or character to mark a distinction, or if either
had been designated by Numitor, or selected by popular choice, for the
command,—all might have been well. But there seemed in fact to be
between them no grounds of distinction whatever. They were twins, so that
neither could claim any advantage of birthright. They were equal in size,
strength, activity, and courage. They had been equally bold and efficient in
effecting the revolution; and now they seemed equally powerful in respect to
the influence which they wielded over the minds of their followers. We have
been so long accustomed to consider Romulus the more distinguished personage,
through the associations connected with his name, that have arisen from his
subsequent career, that it is difficult for us to place him and his brother
on that footing of perfect equality which they occupied in the estimation of
all who knew them in this part of their history. This equality had caused no
difference between them thus far, but now, since the advent of power and
prosperity prevented their continuing longer on a level, there necessarily
came up for decision the terrible question,—terrible when two such
spirits as theirs have it to decide,—which was to yield the palm.
The brothers, therefore, having each expressed his preference in respect
to the best place for the city, were equally unwilling to recede from the
ground which they had taken. Remus thought that there was no reason why he
should yield to Romulus, and Romulus was equally unwilling to give way to
Remus. Neither could yield, in fact, without in some sense admitting the
superiority of the other. The respective partisans of the two leaders began
to take sides, and the dissension threatened to become a serious quarrel.
Finally, being not yet quite ready for an open rupture, they concluded to
refer the question to Numitor, and to abide by his decision. They expected
that he would come and view the ground, and so decide where it was best that
the city should be built, and thus terminate the controversy.
But Numitor was too sagacious to hazard the responsibility of deciding
between two such equally matched and powerful opponents. He endeavored to
soothe and quiet the excited feelings of his grandsons, and finally
recommended to them to appeal to augury to decide the question. Augury was a
mode of ascertaining the divine will in respect to questions of expediency or
duty, by means of certain prognostications and signs. These omens were of
various kinds, but perhaps the most common were the appearances observed in
watching the flight of birds through the air.
It was agreed between Remus and Romulus, in accordance with the advice of
Numitor, that the question at issue between them should be decided in this
way. They were to take their stations on the two hills respectively—the
Palatine and the Aventine, and watch for vultures. The homes of the vultures
of Italy were among the summits of the Appenines, and their function in the
complicated economy of animal life, was to watch from the lofty peaks of the
mountains, or from the still more aërial and commanding positions which they
found in soaring at vast elevations in the air, for the bodies of the
dead,—whether of men after a battle, or of sheep, or cattle, or wild
beasts of the forests, killed by accident or dying of age,—and when
found to remove and devour them; and thus to hasten the return of the
lifeless elements to other forms of animal and vegetable life. What the
earth, and the rite of burial, effects for man in advanced and cultivated
stages of society, the vultures of the Appenines were commissioned to perform
for all the animal communities of Italy, in Numitor's time.
To enable the vulture to accomplish the work assigned him, he is endowed
with an inconceivable strength of wing, to sustain his flight over the vast
distances which he has to traverse, and up to the vast elevations to which he
must sometimes soar; and also with some mysterious and extraordinary sense,
whether of sight or smell, to enable him readily to find, at any hour, the
spot where his presence is required, however remote or however hidden it may
be. Guided by this instinct, he flies from time to time with a company of his
fellows, from mountain to mountain, or wheels slowly in vast circles over the
plains—surveying the whole surface of the ground, and assuredly finding
his work;—finding it too equally easily, whether it lie exposed in the
open field, or is hidden, no matter how secretly, in forest, thicket, grove
or glen.
It was, to certain appearances, indicated in the flight of these
birds—such as the number that were seen at a time, the quarter of the
heavens in which they appeared, the direction in which they flew, as from
left to right or from right to left—that the people of Numitor's day
were accustomed to look for omens and auguries. So Romulus and Remus took
their stations on the hills which they had severally chosen, each surrounded
by a company of his own adherents and friends, and began to watch the skies.
It was agreed that the decision of the question between the two hills should
be determined by the omens which should appear to the respective observers
stationed upon them.
But it happened, unfortunately, that the rules for the interpretation of
auguries and omens, were far too indefinite and vague to answer the purpose
for which they were now appealed to. The most unequivocal distinctness and
directness in giving its responses is a very essential requisite in any
tribunal that is called upon as an umpire, to settle disputes; while the
ancient auguries and oracles were always susceptible of a great variety of
interpretations. When Remus and Romulus commenced their watch no vultures
were to be seen from either hill. They waited till evening, still none
appeared. They continued to watch through the night. In the morning a
messenger came over from the Palatine hill to Remus on the Aventine,
informing him that vultures had appeared to Romulus. Remus did not believe
it. At last, however, the birds really came into view; a flock of six were
seen by Remus, and afterward one of twelve by Romulus. The observations were
then suspended, and the parties came together to confer in respect to the
result; but the dispute instead of being settled, was found to be in a worse
condition than ever. The point now to be determined was whether six vultures
seen first, or twelve seen afterward, were the better omen, that is whether
numbers, or simple priority of appearance, should decide the question. In
contending in respect to this nice point the brothers became more angry with
each other than ever. Their respective partisans took sides in the contest,
which resulted finally in an open and violent collision. Romulus and Remus
themselves seem to have commenced the affray by attacking one another.
Faustulus, their foster-father, who, from having had the care of them from
their earliest infancy, felt for them an almost parental affection, rushed
between them to prevent them from shedding each other's blood. He was struck
down and killed on the spot, by some unknown hand. A brother of Faustulus
too, named Plistinus, who had lived near to him, and had known the boys from
their infancy, and had often assisted in taking care of them, was killed in
the endeavor to aid his brother to appease the tumult.
At length the disturbance was quelled. The result of the conflict was,
however, to show that Romulus and his party were the strongest. Romulus
accordingly went on to build the walls of the city at the spot which he had
first chosen. The lines were marked out, and the excavations were commenced
with great ceremony.
In laying out the work, the first thing to be done was to draw the lines
of what was called the pomœrium. The pomœrium was a sort of
symbolical wall, and was formed simply by turning a furrow with a plow all
around the city, at a considerable distance from the real walls, for the
purpose, not of establishing lines of defense, but of marking out what were
to be the limits of the corporation, so to speak, for legal and ceremonial
purposes. Of course, the pomœrium included a much greater space than
the real walls, and the people were allowed to build houses anywhere within
this outer inclosure, or even without it, though not very near to it. Those
who built thus were, of course, not protected in case of an attack and of
course they would, in such case, be compelled to abandon their houses, and
retreat for safety within the proper walls.
So Romulus proceeded to mark out the pomœrium of the city, employing
in the work the ceremonies customary on such occasions. The plow used was
made of copper, and for a team to draw it a bullock and a heifer were yoked
together. Men appointed for the purpose followed the plow, and carefully
turned over the clods toward the wall of the city. This seems to have been
considered an essential part of the ceremony. At the places where roads were
to pass in toward the gates of the city, the plow was lifted out of the
ground and carried over the requisite space, so as to leave the turf at those
points unbroken. This was a necessary precaution; for there was a certain
consecrating influence that was exerted by this ceremonial plowing which
hallowed the ground wherever it passed in a manner that would very seriously
interfere with its usefulness as a public road.
The form of the space inclosed by the pomœrium, as Romulus plowed
it, was nearly square, and it included not merely the Palatine hill itself,
but a considerable portion of level land around it.
Though Romulus thus seemed to have conquered, in the strife with Remus,
the difficulty was not yet fully settled. Remus was very little disposed to
acquiesce in his brother's assumed superiority over him. He was sullen,
morose, and ill at ease, and was inclined to take little part in the
proceedings which were going on. Finally an occasion occurred which produced
a crisis, and brought the rivalry and enmity of the brothers suddenly and
forever to an end. Remus was one day standing by a part of the wall which his
brother's workmen were building, and expressing, in various ways, and with
great freedom, his opinions of his brother's plans; and finally he began to
speak contemptuously of the wall which the workmen were building. Romulus all
the time was standing by. At length, in order to enforce what he said about
the insufficiency of the work, Remus leaped over a portion of it, saying,
"This is the way the enemy will leap over your wall." Hereupon Romulus seized
a mattock from the hands of one of the laborers, and struck his brother down
to the ground with it, saying,﹃And this is the way that we will kill them if
they do.﹄Remus was killed by the blow.
As soon as the deed was done, Romulus was at once overwhelmed with remorse
and horror at the atrocity of the crime which he had been so suddenly led to
commit. His anguish was so great for a time that he refused all food, and he
could not sleep. He caused the dead body of Remus, and also those of
Faustulus and of Plistinus, the brother of Faustulus, to be buried with the
most solemn and imposing funeral ceremonies, so as to render all possible
honor to their memory; and then, not satisfied with this, he instituted and
celebrated certain religious rites, to prevent the ghosts of the deceased
from coming back to haunt him. The ghosts, or specters of the dead that came
back to haunt and terrify the living were called lemures. Hence the
celebration which Romulus ordained was called the Lemuria, and it continued
to be annually observed in Rome during the whole period of its subsequent
history.
Precisely what the ceremonies were which Romulus performed to appease the
spirit of his brother can not now be ascertained, as there was no particular
description of them recorded. But the Lemuria, as afterward performed, were
frequently described by Roman writers, and they were of a very curious and
extraordinary character. The time for the celebration of these rites was in
May, the anniversary, as was supposed, of the days in which Romulus
originally celebrated them. The Lemurial ceremonies extended through three
days, or rather nights, although, for some curious reason or other, they were
alternate and not consecutive nights. They were the nights of the ninth,
eleventh, and thirteenth of May. The ceremonies were performed in the night,
for the reason that it was in the dark hours that ghosts and goblins were
accustomed, as was supposed, to roam about the world to haunt and terrify
men.
The ceremonies performed on these occasions are thus described. They
commenced at midnight. The father of the family would rise at that hour and
go out at the door of the house, making certain gesticulations and signals
with his hands, which were supposed to have the effect of keeping the
specters away. He then washed his hands three times in pure spring water.
Then he filled his mouth with a certain kind of black beans for which ghosts
were supposed to have some particular fondness. Being thus provided he would
walk along, taking the beans out of his mouth as he walked, and throwing them
behind him. The specters were supposed to gather up these beans as he threw
them down. He must, however, by no means look round to see them. He then,
after speaking certain mysterious and cabalistic words, washed his hands
again, and then making a frightful noise by striking brass basins together,
he shouted out nine times, "Ghosts of this house begone!" This was supposed
effectually to drive the specters away—an opinion which was always
abundantly confirmed by the fact; for on looking round after this vociferated
adjuration, the man always found that the specters were gone!
When by these ceremonies, or ceremonies such as these, Romulus had
appeased the spirit of his brother, and those of the guardians of his
childhood, his mind became more composed, and he turned his attention once
more toward the building of the city. The party of Remus now, of course,
since it was deprived of its head, no longer maintained itself, but was
gradually broken up and merged in the general mass. Romulus became the sole
leader of the enterprise, and immediately turned his attention to the
measures to be adopted for a more complete and effectual organization of the
community over which he found himself presiding.
In respect to Remus, it ought perhaps to be added, that after his death a
story was circulated in Rome that it was a man named Celer and not Romulus,
that killed him. This story has not, however, been generally believed. It has
been thought more probable that Romulus himself, or some of his partisans and
friends, invented and circulated the story of Celer, in order to screen him
in some degree from the reproach of so unnatural a crime as the killing of a
brother so near and dear to him as Remus had been;—a brother who had
shared his infancy with him, who had slept with him, at the same time, in the
arms of his mother, who had floated with him down the Tiber in the same ark,
been saved from death by the same miraculous intervention, and through all
the years of infancy, childhood, and youth, had been his constant playmate,
companion, and friend. The crime was as much more atrocious than any ordinary
fratricide, as Remus had been nearer to Romulus than any ordinary
brother.
Promising the Bracelets
Tarpeia had observed the soldiers from the walls, and her attention had
been attracted by the bracelets and rings which they wore; and she finally
made an agreement with the Sabines that she would open the postern gate in
the night, and let them in, if they would give her what they wore upon their
arms, meaning the ornaments which had attracted her attention. The Sabines
bound themselves to do this and then went away. Titus Tatius, accordingly,
when informed of this arrangement detailed a strong detachment of troops, and
gave them orders to repair at night in a very silent and secret manner to the
gate which had been designated as the place where they were to be let in. It
is asserted, however, by some writers, that this apparent treachery on the
part of Tarpeia was only a deep-laid stratagem on her part to draw the
Sabines into a snare; and that she sent word to Romulus, informing him of the
agreement which she had made, in order that he might secretly dispatch a
strong force to take their position at the gate, and intercept and capture
the Sabine party as soon as they should come in. But if this was Tarpeia's
design, it totally failed. The Sabines, when they came at midnight to the
postern gate which Tarpeia opened for them, came in sufficient force to bear
down all opposition; and in fulfillment of their promise to give Tarpeia what
they wore upon their arms they threw their heavy bucklers upon her until she
was crushed down beneath the weight of them and killed.
A steep rock which forms that side of the Capitoline hill is called the
Tarpeian rock, in memory of this maiden, to the present day.
In this way the Sabines gained possession of the citadel, though Romulus
still held the main city. The Romans were of course extremely disconcerted at
the loss of the citadel, and Romulus, finding that the danger was now
extremely imminent, resolved no longer to stand on the defensive, but to come
out upon the plain and offer the Sabines battle. He accordingly brought his
forces out of the city and took up a strong position with them, between the
Capitoline and Palatine hills, with his front toward the Campus Martius,
where the main body of the Sabines were posted. Thus the armies were
confronted against each other on the plain, the Romans holding the city and
the Palatine hill as a stronghold to retreat to in case of necessity, while
the Sabines in the same manner could seek refuge on the Capitoline hill and
in the citadel.
Things being in this state a series of desperate but partial contests
ensued, which were continued for several days, when at length a general
battle came on. During all this time the walls of the city and of the citadel
were lined with spectators who had ascended to witness the combats; for from
these walls and from the declivities of the hills, the whole plain could be
looked down upon as if it were a map. The battle continued all day. At night
both parties were exhausted, and the field was covered with the dead and
dying, but neither side had gained a victory. The next day by common consent
they suspended the combat in order to take care of the wounded, and to bury
the bodies of the dead.
After the interval of a day, which was spent, on both sides, in removing
the horrid relics of the previous combats, and in gathering fresh strength
and fresh desperation and rage for the conflicts yet to come, the struggle
was renewed. The soldiers fought now, on this renewal of the battle, with
more dreadful and deadly ferocity than ever. Various incidents occurred
during the day to give one party or the other a local or temporary advantage,
but neither side wholly prevailed. At one time Romulus himself was exposed to
the most imminent personal danger, and for a time it was thought that he was
actually killed. The Romans had gained some great advantage over a party of
the Sabines, and the latter were rushing in a headlong flight to the citadel,
the Romans pursuing them and hoping to follow them in, in the confusion, and
thus regain possession of the fortress. To prevent this, the Sabines within
the citadel and on the rocks above threw stones down upon the Romans. One of
these stones struck Romulus on the head, and he fell down stunned and
senseless under the blow. His men were extremely terrified at this disaster,
and abandoning the pursuit of their enemies they took up the body of Romulus
and carried it into the city. It was found, however, that he was not
seriously injured. He soon recovered from the effects of the blow and
returned into the battle.
Another incident which occurred in the course of these battles has been
commemorated in history, by having been the means of giving a name to a small
lake or pool which was afterward brought within the limits of the city. A
Sabine general named Curtius happened at one time to encounter Romulus in a
certain part of the field, and a long and desperate combat ensued between the
two champions. Other soldiers gradually came up and mingled in the fray,
until at length Curtius, finding himself wounded and bleeding, and surrounded
by enemies, fled for his life. Romulus pursued him for a short distance, but
Curtius at length came suddenly upon a small swampy pool, which was formed of
water that had been left by the inundations of the river in some old deserted
channel, and which was now covered and almost concealed by some sort of mossy
and floating vegetation. Curtius running headlong, and paying little heed to
his steps fell into this hole, and sank in the water. Romulus supposed of
course that he would be drowned there, and so turned away and went to find
some other enemy. Curtius, however, succeeded in crawling out of the pond
into which he had fallen; and in commemoration of the incident the pond was
named Lake Curtius, which name it retained for centuries afterward, when, not
only had all the water disappeared, but the place itself had been filled up,
and had been covered with streets and houses.
The combats between the Romans and the Sabines were continued for several
days, during all which time the Sabine women, on whose account it was that
this dreadful quarrel had arisen, were suffering the greatest anxiety and
distress. They loved their fathers and brothers, but then they loved their
husbands too; and they were overwhelmed with anguish at the thought that day
after day those who were equally dear to them were engaged in fighting and
destroying one another, and that they could do nothing to arrest so unnatural
a hostility.
At length, however, after suffering extreme distress for many days, a
crisis arrived when they found that they could interpose. Both parties had
become somewhat weary of the contest. Neither could prevail over the other,
and yet neither was willing to yield. The Sabines could not bring themselves
to submit to so humiliating an alternative as to withdraw from Rome and leave
their daughters and sisters in the captors' hands, after all the grand
preparations which they had made for retaking them. And on the other hand the
Romans could not take those, who, whatever had been their previous history,
were now living happily as wives and mothers, each in her own house in the
city, and give them up to an army of invaders, demanding them with threats
and violence, without deep dishonor. Thus, though there was a pause in the
conflict, and both parties were weary of it, neither was willing to yield,
and both were preparing to return to the struggle with new determination and
vigor.
The Sabine women thought that they might now interpose. A lady named
Hersilia, who is often mentioned as one of the most prominent among the
number, proposed this measure and made the arrangements for carrying it into
effect. She assembled her country-women and explained to them her plan, which
was that they should go in a body to the Roman Senate, and ask permission to
intercede between the contending nations, and plead for peace.
The company of women, taking their children with them, all of whom were
yet very young, went accordingly in a body to the senate-chamber, and asked
to be admitted. The doors were opened to them, and they went in. They all
appeared to be in great distress and agitation. The grief and anxiety which
they had suffered during the progress of the war still continued, and they
begged the Senate to let them go out to the camp of the Sabines, and endeavor
to persuade them to make peace. The Senate were disposed to consent. The
women wished to take their children with them, but some of the Romans
imagined that there might, perhaps, be danger, that under pretense of
interceding for peace, they were really intending to make their escape from
Rome altogether. So it was insisted that they should leave their children
behind them as hostages for their return, excepting that such as had two
children were allowed to take one, which plan it was thought would aid them
in moving the compassion of their Sabine relatives.
The women, accordingly, left the senate-chamber, and with their children
in their arms, their hair disheveled, their robes disordered, and their
countenances wan with grief, went in mournful procession out through the gate
of the city. They passed across the plain and advanced toward the citadel.
They were admitted, and after some delay, were ushered into the council of
the Sabines. Here their tears and exclamations of grief broke forth anew.
When silence was in some measure restored, Hersilia addressed the Sabine
chieftains, saying, that she and her companions had come to beg their
countrymen to put an end to the war. "We know," said she, "that you are
waging it on our account, and we see in all that you have done proofs of your
love for us. In fact, it was our supposed interests which led you to commence
it, but now our real interests require that it should be ended. It is true
that when we were first seized by the Romans we felt greatly wronged, but
having submitted to our fate, we have now become settled in our new homes,
and are contented and happy in them. We love our husbands and love our
children; and we are treated with the utmost kindness and respect by all. Do
not then, under a mistaken kindness for us, attempt to tear us away again, or
continue this dreadful war, which, though ostensibly on our account, and for
our benefit, is really making us inexpressibly miserable."
This intercession produced the effect which might have been expected from
it. The Sabines and Romans immediately entered upon negotiations for peace,
and peace is easily made where both parties are honestly desirous of making
it. In fact, a great reaction took place, so that from the reckless and
desperate hostility which the two nations had felt for each other, there
succeeded so friendly a sentiment, that in the end a treaty of union was made
between the two nations. It was agreed that the two nations should be merged
into one. The Sabine territory was to be annexed to that of Rome, and Titus
Tatius, with the principal Sabine chieftains, were to remove to Rome, which
was thenceforth to be the capital of the new kingdom. In a word, never was a
reconciliation between two belligerent nations so sudden and so complete.
The Death of Romulus
This strange story was but half believed even at first, by the people, and
very soon rumors began to circulate in the city that Romulus had been
murdered by the senators who were around him at the time of the
shower,—they having seized the occasion afforded by the momentary
absence of his guards, and by their solitary position. There were various
surmises in respect to the disposal which the assassins had made of the body.
The most obvious supposition was that it had been sunk in the lake. There
was, however, a horrible report circulated that the senators had disposed of
it by cutting it up into small pieces, and conveying it away, each taking a
portion, under their robes.
Of course these rumors produced great agitation and excitement throughout
the city. The current of public sentiment set strongly against the senators.
Still as nothing could be positively ascertained in respect to the
transaction, the mystery seemed to grow more dark and dreadful every day, and
the public mind was becoming more and more deeply agitated. At length,
however, the mystery was suddenly explained by a revelation, which, whatever
may be thought of it at the present day, was then entirely satisfactory to
the whole community.
One of the most prominent and distinguished of the senators, named
Proculus, one who it seems had not been present among the other senators in
attendance upon Romulus at the time when he disappeared, came forward one day
before a grand assembly which had been convened for the purpose, and
announced to them in the most solemn manner, that the spirit of Romulus had
appeared to him in a visible form, and had assured him that the story which
the other senators had told of the ascension of their chieftain to heaven in
a flame of fire was really true. "I was journeying," said Proculus, "in a
solitary place, when Romulus appeared to me. At first I was exceedingly
terrified. The form of the vision was taller than that of a mortal man, and
it was clothed in armor of the most resplendent brightness. As soon as I had
in some measure recovered my composure I spoke to it. 'Why,' said I, 'have
you left us so suddenly? and especially why did you leave us at such a time,
and in such a way, as to bring suspicion and reproach on the Roman senators?'
'I left you,' said he, 'because it pleased the gods to call me back again to
heaven, whence I originally came. It was no longer necessary for me to remain
on earth, for Rome is now established, and her future greatness and glory are
sure. Go back to Rome and communicate this to the people. Tell them that if
they continue industrious, virtuous, and brave, the time will come when their
city will be the mistress of the world; and that I, no longer its king, am
henceforth to be its tutelar divinity.'"
The people of Rome were overjoyed to hear this communication. Their doubts
and suspicions were now all removed; the senators at once recovered their
good standing in the public regard, and all was once more peace and harmony.
Altars were immediately erected to Romulus, and the whole population of the
city joined in making sacrifices and in paying other divine honors to his
memory.
The declaration of Proculus that he had seen the spirit of Romulus, and
his report of the conversation which the spirit had addressed to him,
constituted proof of the highest kind, according to the ideas which prevailed
in those ancient days. In modern times, however, there is no faith in such a
story, and the truth in respect to the end of Romulus can now never be
known.
After the death of Romulus the senators undertook to govern the State
themselves, holding the supreme power one by one, in regular rotation. This
plan was, however, not found to succeed, and after an interregnum of about a
year, the people elected another king.
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