A Handbook for Latin Clubs — Story, Setting & Ideas

s nothing harsh or stern in this book, no cynicism, no indifference; but it was a flower-garden of lovely out-door allusions, a gallery of great deeds; and as I have said before, it formed the child's first real glimpse into the kingdom of words.

I was once asked by a doctor of divinity, who was also the overseer of a college, whether I ever knew any one to look back with pleasure upon his early studies in Latin and Greek. It was like being asked if one looked back with pleasure on summer mornings and evenings. No doubt those languages, like all others, have fared hard at the hands of pedants; and there are active boys who hate all study, and others who love the natural sciences alone. Indeed, it is a hasty assumption, that the majority of boys hate Latin and Greek. I find that most college graduates, at least, retain some relish for the memory of such studies, even if they have utterly lost the power to masticate or digest them. "Though they speak no Greek, they love the sound on't." Many a respectable citizen still loves to look at his Horace or Virgil on the shelf where it has stood undisturbed for a dozen years; he looks, and thinks that he too lived in Arcadia.... The books link him with culture, and universities, and the traditions of great scholars.

On some stormy Sunday, he thinks, he will take them down. At length he tries it; he handles the volume awkwardly, as he does his infant; but it is something to be able to say that neither book nor baby has been actually dropped. He likes to know that there is a tie between him and each of these possessions, though he is willing, it must be owned, to leave the daily care of each in more familiar hands....

I must honestly say that much of the modern outcry against classical studies seems to me to be (as in the case of good Dr. Jacob Bigelow) a frank hostility to literature itself, as the supposed rival of science; or a willingness (as in Professor Atkinson's case) to tolerate modern literature, while discouraging the study of the ancient. Both seem to commit the error of drawing their examples of abuse from England, and applying their warnings to America.... Because the House of Commons was once said to care more for a false quantity in Latin verse than in English morals, shall we visit equal indignation on a House of Representatives that had to send for a classical dictionary to find out who Thersites was?...

Granted, that foreign systems of education may err by insisting on the arts of literary structure too much; think what we should lose by dwelling on them too little! The magic of mere words; the mission of language; the worth of form as well as of matter; the power to make a common thought immortal in a phrase, so that your fancy can no more detach the one from the other than it can separate the soul and body of a child; it was the veiled half revelation of these things that made that old text-book forever fragrant to me. There are in it the still visible traces of wild flowers which I used to press between the pages, on the way to school; but it was the pressed flowers of Latin poetry that were embalmed there first. These are blossoms that do not fade.

--Thomas Wentworth Higginson

SAINT AUGUSTINE'S LOVE OF LATIN

Andrew Lang, in his _Adventures Among Books_, writes:

"Saint Augustine, like Sir Walter Scott at the University of Edinburgh, was 'The Greek Dunce.' Both of these great men, to their sorrow and loss, absolutely and totally declined to learn Greek. 'But what the reason was why I hated the Greek language, while I was taught it, being a child, I do not yet understand.' The Saint was far from being alone in that distaste, and he who writes loathed Greek like poison--till he came to Homer. Latin the Saint loved, except 'when reading, writing, and casting of accounts was taught in Latin, which I held not far less painful or penal than the very Greek. I wept for Dido's death, who made herself away with the sword,' he declares, 'and even so, the saying that two and two makes four was an ungrateful song in mine ears, whereas the wooden horse full of armed men, the burning of Troy, and the very Ghost of Creusa, was a most delightful spectacle of vanity.'"

THE WATCH OF THE OLD GODS

Were the old gods watching yet, From their cloudy summits afar, At evening under the evening star, After the star is set, Would they see in these thronging streets, Where the life of the city beats With endless rush and strain, Men of a better mold, Nobler in heart and brain, Than the men of three thousand years ago, In the pagan cities old, O'er which the lichens and ivy grow?

Would they not see as they saw In the younger days of the race, The dark results of broken law, In the bent form and brutal face Of the slave of passions as old as earth, And young as the infants of last night's birth? Alas! the old gods no longer keep Their watch from the cloudy steep; But, though all on Olympus lie dead Yet the smoke of commerce still rolls From the sacrifice of souls, To the heaven that bends overhead.

Still, as we saunter down the crowded street, On our own thoughts intent, and plans and pleasures, For miles and miles beneath our idle feet, Rome buries from the day yet unknown treasures.

The whole world's alphabet, in every line Some stirring page of history she recalls,-- Her Alpha is the Prison Mamertine, Her Omega, St. Paul's, without the walls.

Above, beneath, around, she weaves her spells, And ruder hands unweave them all in vain: Who once within her fascination dwells, Leaves her with but one thought--to come again.

So cast thy obol into Trevi's fountain-- Drink of its waters, and, returning home, Pray that by land or sea, by lake or mountain, "All roads alike may lead at last to Rome."

Rome ruled in all her matchless pride, Queen of the world, an empire-state; Her eagles conquered far and wide; Her word was law, her will was fate.

Within her immemorial walls The temples of the gods looked down; Her forum echoed with the calls To greater conquest and renown.

All wealth, all splendor, and all might The world could give, before her lay; She dreamed not there could come a night To dim the glory of her day.

Rome perished: Legions could not save, Nor wealth, nor might, nor majesty,-- The Roman had become a slave, But the barbarian was free.

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars-- Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home: Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway: What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Falling through a half shut stable-door Across his path. He passed--for naught Told what was going on within: How keen the stars, his only thought-- The air how calm, and cold and thin In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still--but knew not why, The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and silent night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou satt'st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?-- Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar, With color'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough, Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o'er tomb and shrine Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell, On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there.

Thou hast the south's rich gift Of sudden song-- A charmed fountain, swift, Joyous and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien: Rome, Rome! Thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rising from the purpling water With her brow of stone, Sprite or nymph or Triton's daughter, Rising from the purpling water, Capri sits alone--

Sits and looks across the billow Now the day is done Resting on her rocky pillow Sits and looks across the billow Toward the setting sun.

Misty visions trooping sadly Glimmer through her tears, Shapes of men contending madly,-- Misty visions trooping sadly From the vanished years.

Here Tiberius from his palace On the headland gray Hurls his foes with gleeful malice, Proud Tiberius at his palace Murd'ring men for play.

There Lamarque's recruits advancing Scale yon rocky spot, 'Neath the moon their bright steel glancing, See Lamarque's recruits advancing Through a storm of shot.

But today the goat bells' tinkle And the vespers chime, Vineyards shade each rock-hewn wrinkle, And today the goat bells' tinkle Marks a happier time.

Soft the olive groves are gleaming, War has found surcease, And as Capri sits a-dreaming Soft the olive groves are gleaming, Crowning her with peace.

--Walter Taylor Field

Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not--but there it stood!

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight Round Troy,--but while this stood, Troy could not fall.

So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll; We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!

Men will renew the battle in the plain Tomorrow; red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see.

Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares.

Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send; And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.

Lord Caesar, when you sternly wrote The story of your grim campaigns And watched the ragged smoke-wreath float Above the burning plains,

Amid the impenetrable wood, Amid the camp's incessant hum At eve, beside the tumbling flood, In high Avaricum,

You little recked, imperious head, When shrilled your shattering trumpets' noise, Your frigid sections would be read By bright-eyed English boys.

Ah me! Who penetrates today The secret of your deep designs? Your sovereign visions, as you lay Amid the sleeping lines?

The Mantuan singer pleading stands; From century to century He leans and reaches wistful hands, And cannot bear to die.

But you are silent, secret, proud, No smile upon your haggard face, As when you eyed the murderous crowd Beside the statue's base.

I marvel: That Titanic heart Beats strongly through the arid page, And we, self-conscious sons of art, In this bewildering age,

Like dizzy revellers stumbling out Upon the pure and peaceful night, Are sobered into troubled doubt, As swims across our sight,

The ray of that sequestered sun, Far in the illimitable blue,-- The dream of all you left undone, Of all you dared to do.

--Arthur Christoher Benson

They found it in her hollow marble bed, There where the numberless dead cities sleep, They found it lying where the spade struck deep A broken mirror by a maiden dead.

These things--the beads she wore about her throat, Alternate blue and amber, all untied, A lamp to light her way, and on one side The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.

No trace today of what in her was fair! Only the record of long years grown green Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen, Grown dim at last, when all else withered there

Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me One picture of that immemorial land, For oft as I have held thee in my hand The chill bronze brightens, and I dream to see

A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise And o'er one marble shoulder all the while Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.

It was well thought to set thee there, so she Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair And knot their tangled waywardness or ere She stood before the queen Persephone.

And still it may be where the dead folk rest She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes, And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs And sets the dead land lilies in her hand.

THE DOOM OF THE SLOTHFUL

When through the dolorous city of damned souls The Florentine with Vergil took his way, A dismal marsh they passed, whose fetid shoals Held sinners by the myriad. Swollen and grey, Like worms that fester in the foul decay Of sweltering carrion, these bad spirits sank Chin-deep in stagnant slime and ooze that stank.

Year after year forever--year by year, Through billions of the centuries that lie Like specks of dust upon the dateless sphere Of heaven's eternity, they cankering sigh Between the black waves and the starless sky; And daily dying have no hope to gain By death or change or respite of their pain.

What was their crime, you ask? Nay, listen: "We Were sullen--sad what time we drank the light, And delicate air, that all day daintily Is cheered by sunshine; for we bore black night And murky smoke of sloth, in God's despite, Within our barren souls, by discontent From joy of all fair things and wholesome pent:

Therefore in this low Hell from jocund sight And sound He bans us; and as there we grew Pallid with idleness, so here a blight Perpetual rots with slow-corroding dew Our poisonous carcase, and a livid hue Corpse-like o'erspreads these sodden limbs that take And yield corruption to the loathly lake."

--John Addington Symonds

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE

Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain, Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain, Stalks Peleus' ruthless son? Who, when thou glid'st amid the dark abodes, To hurl the spear and to revere the gods, Shall teach thine Orphan One?

Woman and wife beloved--cease thy tears; My soul is nerved--the war-clang in my ears! Be mine in life to stand Troy's bulwark!--fighting for our hearths, to go In death, exulting to the streams below, Slain for my father-land!

No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall-- Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall-- Fallen the stem of Troy! Thou go'st where slow Cocytus wanders--where Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air Is dark to light and joy!

Longing and thought--yea, all I feel and think May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink, But my love not! Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls! I hear! Gird on my sword--Belov'd one, dry the tear-- Lethe for love is not!

Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.

The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead.

And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "Tomorrow, perhaps today, Enceladus will arise!"

And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"

Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown From the lips of the overthrown Enceladus, fill the air.

Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down.

See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines, Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!"

--Henry W. Longfellow

When Horace in Venusian groves Was scribbling wit or sipping "Massic," Or singing those delicious loves Which after ages reckon classic, He wrote one day--'twas no vagary-- These famous words:--_Nil admirari!_

"Wonder at nothing!" said the bard; A kingdom's fall, a nation's rising, A lucky or a losing card, Are really not at all surprising; However men or manners vary, Keep cool and calm: _Nil admirari!_

If kindness meet a cold return; If friendship prove a dear delusion; If love, neglected, cease to burn, Or die untimely of profusion,-- Such lessons well may make us wary, But needn't shock: _Nil admirari!_

Ah! when the happy day we reach When promisers are ne'er deceivers; When parsons practice what they preach, And seeming saints are all believers, Then the old maxim you may vary, And say no more, _Nil admirari!_

The Emperor Titus, at the close of a day in which he had neither gained any knowledge nor conferred benefit, was accustomed to exclaim, "Perdidi diem," "I have lost a day."

Why art thou sad, thou of the sceptred hand? The rob'd in purple, and the high in state? Rome pours her myriads forth, a vassal band, And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate; Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate.

"_Perdidi diem!_"--Pour the empire's treasure, Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow dye; Unlock the fountains of a monarch's pleasure To lure the lost one back. I heard a sigh-- One hour of parted time, a world is poor to buy.

"_Perdidi diem!_"--'Tis a mournful story, Thus in the ear of pensive eve to tell, Of morning's firm resolves, the vanish'd glory, Hope's honey left within the withering bell And plants of mercy dead, that might have bloomed so well.

Hail, self-communing Emperor, nobly wise! There are, who thoughtless haste to life's last goal. There are, who time's long squandered wealth despise. _Perdidi vitam_ marks their finished scroll, When Death's dark angel comes to claim the startled soul.

JUPITER AND HIS CHILDREN