Horatius

There can be little doubt that among those parts of early Roman history which had a poetical origin was the legend of Horatius Cocles. We have several versions of the story, and these versions differ from each other in points of no small importance. Polybius, there is reason to believe, heard the tale recited over the remains of some Consul or Prætor descended from the old Horatian patricians; for he introduces it as a specimen of the narratives with which the Romans were in the habit of embellishing their funeral oratory. It is remarkable that, according to him, Horatius defended the bridge alone, and perished in the waters. According to the chronicles which Livy and Dionysius followed, Horatius had two companions, swam safe to shore, and was loaded with honors and rewards.

These discrepancies are easily explained. Our own literature, indeed, will furnish an exact parallel to what may have taken place at Rome. It is highly probably that the memory of the war of Porsena was preserved by compositions much resembling the two ballads which stand first in the Relics of Ancient English Poetry. In both those ballads the English, commanded by the Percy, fight with the Scots, commanded by the Douglas. In one of the ballads the Douglas is killed by a nameless English archer, and the Percy by a Scottish spearman; in the other, the Percy slays the Douglas in single combat, and is himself made prisoner. In the former, Sir Hugh Montgomery is shot through the heart by a Northumbrian bowman; in the latter he is taken and exchanged for the Percy. Yet both the ballads relate to the same event, and that event which probably took place within the memory of persons who were alive when both the ballads were made. One of the Minstrels says:—

“Old men that knowen the grounde well yenougheCall it the battell of Otterburn:At Otterburn began this spurneUpon a monnyn day.Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean:The Perse never went away.”

The other poet sums up the event in the following lines:

“Thys fraye bygan at OtterborneBytwene the nyghte and the day:Ther the Doglas lost hys lyfe,And the Percy was lede away.”

It is by no means unlikely that there were two old Roman lays about the defence of the bridge; and that, while the story which Livy has transmitted to us was preferred by the multitude, the other, which ascribed the whole glory to Horatius alone, may have been the favorite with the Horatian house.

The following ballad is supposed to have been made about a hundred and twenty years after the war which it celebrates, and just before the taking of Rome by the Gauls. The author seems to have been an honest citizen, proud of the military glory of his country, sick of the disputes of factions, and much given to pining after good old times which had never really existed. The allusion, however, to the partial manner in which the public lands were allotted could proceed only from a plebeian; and the allusion to the fraudulent sale of spoils marks the date of the poem, and shows that the poet shared in the general discontent with which the proceedings of Camullus, after the taking of Veii, were regarded.

The penultimate syllable of the name Porsena has been shortened in spite of the authority of Niebuhr, who pronounces, without assigning any ground for his opinion, that Martial was guilty of a decided blunder in the line,

“Hanc spectare manum Porsena non potuit.”

It is not easy to understand how any modern scholar, whatever his attainments may be,—and those of Niebuhr were undoubtedly immense,—can venture to pronounce that Martial did not know the quantity of a word which he must have uttered, and heard uttered, a hundred times before he left school. Niebuhr seems also to have forgotten that Martial has fellow culprits to keep him in countenance. Horace has committed the same decided blunder; for he give us, as a pure iambic line,—

“Minacis aut Etrusca Porsenæ dextram;”

Silius Italicus has repeatedly offended in the same way, as when he says,—“Clusinum vulgus, cum, Porsena magne, jubebas.” A modern writer may be content to err in such company.

Niebuhr’s supposition that each of the three defenders of the bridge was the representative of one of the three patrician tribes is both ingenious and probable, and has been adopted in the following poem.

Horatius

A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX

Lars Porsena of ClosiumBy the Nine Gods he sworeThat the great house of TarquinShould suffer wrong no more.By the Nine Gods he swore it,And named a trysting day,And bade his messengers ride forth,East and west and south and north,To summon his array.

East and west and south and northThe messengers ride fast,And tower and town and cottageHave heard the trumpet’s blast.Shame on the false EtruscanWho lingers in his home,When Porsena of ClusiumIs on the march for Rome.

III

The horsemen and the footmenAre pouring in amainFrom many a stately market-place,From many a fruitful plain,From many a lonely hamlet,Which, hid by beech and pine,Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crestOf purple Apennine;

From lordly Volaterræ,Where scowls the far-famed holdPiled by the hands of giantsFor godlike kings of old;From seagirt Populonia,Whose sentinels descrySardinia’s snowy mountain-topsFringing the southern sky;

From the proud mart of Pisæ,Queen of the western waves,Where ride Massilia’s triremesHeavy with fair-haired slaves;From where sweet Clanis wandersThrough corn and vines and flowers;From where Cortona lifts to heavenHer diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acornsDrop in dark Auser’s rill;Fat are the stags that champ the boughsOf the Ciminian hill;Beyond all streams ClitumnusIs to the herdsman dear;Best of all pools the fowler lovesThe great Volsinian mere.

VII

But now no stroke of woodmanIs heard by Auser’s rill;No hunter tracks the stag’s green pathUp the Ciminian hill;Unwatched along ClitumnusGrazes the milk-white steer;Unharmed the water fowl may dipIn the Volsminian mere.

VIII

The harvests of Arretium,This year, old men shall reap;This year, young boys in UmbroShall plunge the struggling sheep;And in the vats of Luna,This year, the must shall foamRound the white feet of laughing girlsWhose sires have marched to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets,The wisest of the land,Who alway by Lars PorsenaBoth morn and evening stand:Evening and morn the ThirtyHave turned the verses o’er,Traced from the right on linen whiteBy mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the ThirtyHave their glad answer given:“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;Go forth, beloved of Heaven;Go, and return in gloryTo Clusium’s royal dome;And hang round Nurscia’s altarsThe golden shields of Rome.”

And now hath every citySent up her tale of men;The foot are fourscore thousand,The horse are thousands ten.Before the gates of SutriumIs met the great array.A proud man was Lars PorsenaUpon the trysting day.

XII

For all the Etruscan armiesWere ranged beneath his eye,And many a banished Roman,And many a stout ally;And with a mighty followingTo join the muster cameThe Tusculan Mamilius,Prince of the Latian name.

XIII

But by the yellow TiberWas tumult and affright:From all the spacious champaignTo Rome men took their flight.A mile around the city,The throng stopped up the ways;A fearful sight it was to seeThrough two long nights and days.

XIV

For aged folks on crutches,And women great with child,And mothers sobbing over babesThat clung to them and smiled,And sick men borne in littersHigh on the necks of slaves,And troops of sun-burned husbandmenWith reaping-hooks and staves,

And droves of mules and assesLaden with skins of wine,And endless flocks of goats and sheep,And endless herds of kine,And endless trains of wagonsThat creaked beneath the weightOf corn-sacks and of household goods,Choked every roaring gate.

XVI

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,Could the wan burghers spyThe line of blazing villagesRed in the midnight sky.The Fathers of the City,They sat all night and day,For every hour some horseman comeWith tidings of dismay.

XVII

To eastward and to westwardHave spread the Tuscan bands;Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecoteIn Crustumerium stands.Verbenna down to OstiaHath wasted all the plain;Astur hath stormed Janiculum,And the stout guards are slain.

XVIII

I wis, in all the Senate,There was no heart so bold,But sore it ached, and fast it beat,When that ill news was told.Forthwith up rose the Consul,Up rose the Fathers all;In haste they girded up their gowns,And hied them to the wall.

XIX

They held a council standing,Before the River-Gate;Short time was there, ye well may guess,For musing or debate.Out spake the Consul roundly:“The bridge must straight go down;For, since Janiculum is lost,Nought else can save the town.”

Just then a scout came flying,All wild with haste and fear:“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul:Lars Porsena is here.”On the low hills to westwardThe Consol fixed his eye,And saw the swarthy storm of dustRise fast along the sky.

XXI

And nearer fast and nearerDoth the red whirlwind come;And louder still and still more loud,From underneath that rolling cloud,Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud,The trampling, and the hum.And plainly and more plainlyNow through the gloom appears,Far to left and far to right,In broken gleams of dark-blue light,The long array of helmets bright,The long array of spears.

XXII

And plainly and more plainly,Above that glimmering line,Now might ye see the bannersOf twelve fair cities shine;But the banner of proud ClusiumWas highest of them all,The terror of the Umbrian,The terror of the Gaul.

XXIII

And plainly and more plainlyNow might the burghers know,By port and vest, by horse and crest,Each warlike Lucumo.There Cilnius of ArretiumOn his fleet roan was seen;And Astur of the four-fold shield,Girt with the brand none else may wield,Tolumnius with the belt of gold,And dark Verbenna from the holdBy reedy Thrasymene.

XXIV

Fast by the royal standard,O’erlooking all the war,Lars Porsena of ClusiumSat in his ivory car.By the right wheel rode Mamilius,Prince of the Latian name;And by the left false Sextus,That wrought the deed of shame.

XXV

But when the face of SextusWas seen among the foes,A yell that rent the firmamentFrom all the town arose.On the house-tops was no womanBut spat towards him and hissed,No child but screamed out curses,And shook its little fist.

XXVI

But the Consul’s brow was sad,And the Consul’s speech was low,And darkly looked he at the wall,And darkly at the foe.“Their van will be upon usBefore the bridge goes down;And if they once may win the bridge,What hope to save the town?”

XXVII

Then out spake brave Horatius,The Captain of the Gate:“To every man upon this earthDeath cometh soon or late.And how can man die betterThan facing fearful odds,For the ashes of his fathers,And the temples of his gods,

XXVIII

“And for the tender motherWho dandled him to rest,And for the wife who nursesHis baby at her breast,And for the holy maidensWho feed the eternal flame,To save them from false SextusThat wrought the deed of shame?

XXIX

“Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul,With all the speed ye may;I, with two more to help me,Will hold the foe in play.In yon strait path a thousandMay well be stopped by three.Now who will stand on either hand,And keep the bridge with me?”

XXX

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;A Ramnian proud was he:“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,And keep the bridge with thee.”And out spake strong Herminius;Of Titian blood was he:“I will abide on thy left side,And keep the bridge with thee.”

XXXI

“Horatius,” quoth the Consul,“As thou sayest, so let it be.”And straight against that great arrayForth went the dauntless Three.For Romans in Rome’s quarrelSpared neither land nor gold,Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,In the brave days of old.

XXXII

Then none was for a party;Then all were for the state;Then the great man helped the poor,And the poor man loved the great:Then lands were fairly portioned;Then spoils were fairly sold:The Romans were like brothersIn the brave days of old.

XXXIII

Now Roman is to RomanMore hateful than a foe,And the Tribunes beard the high,And the Fathers grind the low.As we wax hot in faction,In battle we wax cold:Wherefore men fight not as they foughtIn the brave days of old.

XXXIV

Now while the Three were tighteningTheir harness on their backs,The Consul was the foremost manTo take in hand an axe:And Fathers mixed with CommonsSeized hatchet, bar, and crow,And smote upon the planks above,And loosed the props below.

XXXV

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,Right glorious to behold,Come flashing back the noonday light,Rank behind rank, like surges brightOf a broad sea of gold.Four hundred trumpets soundedA peal of warlike glee,As that great host, with measured tread,And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,Where stood the dauntless Three.

XXXVI

The Three stood calm and silent,And looked upon the foes,And a great shout of laughterFrom all the vanguard rose:And forth three chiefs came spurringBefore that deep array;To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,And lifted high their shields, and flewTo win the narrrow way;

XXXVII

Aunus from green Tifernum,Lord of the Hill of Vines;And Seius, whose eight hundred slavesSicken in Ilva’s mines;And Picus, long to ClusiumVassal in peace and war,Who led to fight his Umbrian powersFrom that gray crag where, girt with towers,The fortress of Nequinum lowersO’er the pale waves of Nar.

XXXVIII

Stout Lartius hurled down AunusInto the stream beneath;Herminius struck at Seius,And clove him to the teeth;At Picus brave HoratiusDarted one fiery thrust;And the proud Umbrian’s gilded armsClashed in the bloody dust.

XXXIX

Then Ocnus of FaleriiRushed on the Roman Three;And Lausulus of Urgo,The rover of the sea;And Aruns of Volsinium,Who slew the great wild boar,The great wild boar that had his denAmidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,Along Albinia’s shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns:Lartius laid Ocnus low:Right to the heart of LausulusHoratius sent a blow.“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate!No more, aghast and pale,From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall markThe track of thy destroying bark.No more Campania’s hinds shall flyTo woods and caverns when they spyThy thrice accursed sail.”

XLI

But now no sound of laughterWas heard among the foes.A wild and wrathful clamorFrom all the vanguard rose.Six spears’ lengths from the entranceHalted that deep array,And for a space no man came forthTo win the narrow way.

XLII

But hark! the cry is Astur:And lo! the ranks divide;And the great Lord of LunaComes with his stately stride.Upon his ample shouldersClangs loud the four-fold shield,And in his hand he shakes the brandWhich none but he can wield.

XLIII

He smiled on those bold RomansA smile serene and high;He eyed the flinching Tuscans,And scorn was in his eye.Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litterStand savagely at bay:But will ye dare to follow,If Astur clears the way?”

XLIV

Then, whirling up his broadswordWith both hands to the height,He rushed against Horatius,And smote with all his might.With shield and blade HoratiusRight deftly turned the blow.The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:The Tuscans raised a joyful cryTo see the red blood flow.

XLV

He reeled, and on HerminiusHe leaned one breathing-space;Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,Sprang right at Astur’s face.Through teeth, and skull, and helmetSo fierce a thrust he sped,The good sword stood a hand-breadth outBehind the Tuscan’s head.

XLVI

And the great Lord of LunaFell at that deadly stroke,As falls on Mount AlvernusA thunder smitten oak:Far o’er the crashing forestThe giant arms lie spread;And the pale augurs, muttering low,Gaze on the blasted head.

XLVII

On Astur’s throat HoratiusRight firmly pressed his heel,And thrice and four times tugged amain,Ere he wrenched out the steel.“And see,” he cried, “the welcome,Fair guests, that waits you here!What noble Lucomo comes nextTo taste our Roman cheer?”

XLVIII

But at his haughty challengeA sullen murmur ran,Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,Along that glittering van.There lacked not men of prowess,Nor men of lordly race;For all Etruria’s noblestWere round the fatal place.

XLIX

But all Etruria’s noblestFelt their hearts sink to seeOn the earth the bloody corpses,In the path the dauntless Three:And, from the ghastly entranceWhere those bold Romans stood,All shrank, like boys who unaware,Ranging the woods to start a hare,Come to the mouth of the dark lairWhere, growling low, a fierce old bearLies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremostTo lead such dire attack;But those behind cried, “Forward!”And those before cried, “Back!”And backward now and forwardWavers the deep array;And on the tossing sea of steelTo and frow the standards reel;And the victorious trumpet-pealDies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one momentStrode out before the crowd;Well known was he to all the Three,And they gave him greeting loud.“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!Now welcome to thy home!Why dost thou stay, and turn away?Here lies the road to Rome.”

LII

Thrice looked he at the city;Thrice looked he at the dead;And thrice came on in fury,And thrice turned back in dread:And, white with fear and hatred,Scowled at the narrow wayWhere, wallowing in a pool of blood,The bravest Tuscans lay.

LIII

But meanwhile axe and leverHave manfully been plied;And now the bridge hangs totteringAbove the boiling tide.“Come back, come back, Horatius!”Loud cried the Fathers all.“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!Back, ere the ruin fall!”

LIV

Back darted Spurius Lartius;Herminius darted back:And, as they passed, beneath their feetThey felt the timbers crack.But when they turned their faces,And on the farther shoreSaw brave Horatius stand alone,They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunderFell every loosened beam,And, like a dam, the mighty wreckLay right athwart the stream:And a long shout of triumphRose from the walls of Rome,As to the highest turret-topsWas splashed the yellow foam.

LVI

And, like a horse unbrokenWhen first he feels the rein,The furious river struggled hard,And tossed his tawny mane,And burst the curb and bounded,Rejoicing to be free,And whirling down, in fierce career,Battlement, and plank, and pier,Rushed headlong to the sea.

LVII

Alone stood brave Horatius,But constant still in mind;Thrice thirty thousand foes before,And the broad flood behind.“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,With a smile on his pale face.“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,“Now yield thee to our grace.”

LVIII

Round turned he, as not deigningThose craven ranks to see;Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,To Sextus nought spake he;But he saw on PalatinusThe white porch of his home;And he spake to the noble riverThat rolls by the towers of Rome.

LVIX

“Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!To whom the Romans pray,A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,Take thou in charge this day!”So he spake, and speaking sheathedThe good sword by his side,And with his harness on his back,Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrowWas heard from either bank;But friends and foes in dumb surprise,With parted lips and straining eyes,Stood gazing where he sank;And when above the surges,They saw his crest appear,All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,And even the ranks of TuscanyCould scarce forbear to cheer.

LXI

But fiercely ran the current,Swollen high by months of rain:And fast his blood was flowing;And he was sore in pain,And heavy with his armor,And spent with changing blows:And oft they thought him sinking,But still again he rose.

LXII

Never, I ween, did swimmer,In such an evil case,Struggle through such a raging floodSafe to the landing place:But his limbs were borne up bravelyBy the brave heart within,And our good father TiberBare bravely up his chin.

LXIII

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus;“Will not the villain drown?But for this stay, ere close of dayWe should have sacked the town!”“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena“And bring him safe to shore;For such a gallant feat of armsWas never seen before.”

LXIV

And now he feels the bottom;Now on dry earth he stands;Now round him throng the Fathers;To press his gory hands;And now, with shouts and clapping,And noise of weeping loud,He enters through the River-GateBorne by the joyous crowd.

LXV

They gave him of the corn-land,That was of public right,As much as two strong oxenCould plough from morn till night;And they made a molten image,And set it up on high,And there is stands unto this dayTo witness if I lie.

LXVI

It stands in the ComitiumPlain for all folk to see;Horatius in his harness,Halting upon one knee:And underneath is written,In letters all of gold,How valiantly he kept the bridgeIn the brave days of old.

LXVII

And still his name sounds stirringUnto the men of Rome,As the trumpet-blast that cries to themTo charge the Volscian home;And wives still pray to JunoFor boys with hearts as boldAs his who kept the bridge so wellIn the brave days of old.

LXVIII

And in the nights of winter,When the cold north winds blow,And the long howling of the wolvesIs heard amidst the snow;When round the lonely cottageRoars loud the tempest’s din,And the good logs of AlgidusRoar louder yet within;

LXIX

When the oldest cask is opened,And the largest lamp is lit;When the chestnuts glow in the embers,And the kid turns on the spit;When young and old in circleAround the firebrands close;When the girls are weaving baskets,And the lads are shaping bows;

LXX

When the goodman mends his armor,And trims his helmet’s plume;When the goodwife’s shuttle merrilyGoes flashing through the loom;With weeping and with laughterStill is the story told,How well Horatius kept the bridgeIn the brave days of old.

The Battle of the Lake Regillus

The following poem is supposed to have been produced about ninety years after the lay of Horatius. Some persons mentioned in the lay of Horatius make their appearance again, and some appellations and epithets used in the lay of Horatius have been purposely repeated: for, in an age of ballad-poetry, it scarcely ever fails to happen, that certain phrases come to be appropriated to certain men and things, and are regularly applied to those men and things by every minstrel. Thus we find, both in the Homeric poems and in Hesiod, [several examples of common phrases, in Greek]. Thus, too, in our own national songs, Douglas is almost always the doughty Douglas; England is merry England; all the gold is red; and all the ladies are gay.

The principal distinction between the lay of Horatius and the lay of the Lake Regillus is that the former is meant to be purely Roman, while the latter, though national in its general spirit, has a slight tincture of Greek learning and of Greek superstition. The story of the Tarquins, as it has come down to us, appears to have been compiled from the works of several popular poets; and one, at least, of those poets appears to have visited the Greek colonies in Italy, if not Greece itself, and to have had some acquaintance with the works of Homer and Herodotus. Many of the most striking adventures of the House of Tarquin, before Lucretia makes her appearance, have a Greek character. The Tarquins themselves are represented as Corinthian nobles of the great House of the Bacchiadæ, driven from their country by the tyranny of that Cypselus, the tale of whose strange escape Herodotus has related with incomparable simplicity and liveliness. Livy and Dionysius tell us that, when Tarquin the Proud was asked what was the best mode of governing a conquered city, he replied only by beating down with his staff all the tallest poppies in his garden. This is exactly what Herodotus, in the passage to which reference has already been made, relates of the counsel given to Periander, the son of Cypselus. The stratagem by which the town of Gabii is brought under the power of the Tarquins is, again, obviously copied from Herodotus. The embassy of the young Tarquins to the oracle at Delphi is just such a story as would be told by a poet whose head was full of the Greek mythology; and the ambiguous answer returned by Apollo is in the exact style of the prophecies which, according to Herodotus, lured Croesus to destruction. Then the character of the narrative changes. From the first mention of Lucretia to the retreat of Porsena nothing seems to be borrowed from foreign sources. The villainy of Sextus, the suicide of his victim, the revolution, the death of the sons of Brutus, the defence of the bridge, Musius burning his hand, Cloelia swimming through Tiber, seem to be all strictly Roman. But when we have done with the Tuscan wars, and enter upon the war with the Latines, we are again struck by the Greek air of the story. The Battle of the Lake Regillus is in all respects a Homeric battle, except that the combatants ride astride on their horses, instead of driving chariots. The mass of fighting men is hardly mentioned. The leaders single each other out, and engage hand to hand. The great object of the warriors on both sides is, as in the Iliad, to obtain possession of the spoils and bodies of the slain; and several circumstances are related which forcibly remind us of the great slaughter round the corpses of Sarpedon and Patroclus.

But there is one circumstance which deserves especial notice. Both the war of Troy and the war of Regillus were caused by the licentious passions of young princes, who were therefore peculiarly bound not to be sparing of their own persons on the day of battle. Now the conduct of Sextus at Regillus, as described by Livy, so exactly resembles that of Paris, as described at the beginning of the third book of the Iliad, that it is difficult to believe the resemblance accidental. Paris appears before the Trojan ranks, defying the bravest Greek to encounter him:—

3 lines from the Iliad, in Greek, probably those translated by Pope as:
…to the van, before the sons of fame Whom Troy sent forth, the beauteous Paris came:

Livy introduces Sextus in a similar manner: “Ferocem juvenem Tarquinium, ostentantem se in prima exsulum acie.” Menelaus rushes to meet Paris. A Roman noble, eager for vengeance, spurs his horse towards Sextus. Both the guilty princes are instantly terror-stricken:—

3 more lines in Greek, Pope’s translation being:

…[Menelaus] approaching near,The beauteous champion views with marks of fear,Smit with a conscious sense, retires behind,And shuns the fate he well deserv’d to find.

“Tarquinius,” says Livy, “retro in agmen suorum infenso cessit hosti.” If this be a fortuitous coincidence, it is also one of the most extraordinary in literature.

In the following poem, therefore, images and incidents have been borrowed, not merely without scruple, but on principle, from the incomparable battle-pieces of Homer.

The popular belief at Rome, from an early period, seems to have been that the event of the great day of Regillus was decided by supernatural agency. Castor and Pollux, it was said, had fought armed and mounted, at the head of the legions of the commonwealth, and had afterwards carried the news of the victory with incredible speed to the city. The well in the Forum at which they had alighted was pointed out. Near the well rose their ancient temple. A great festival was kept to their honor on the Ides of Quintilis, supposed to be the anniversary of the battle; and on that day sumptuous sacrifices were offered to them at the public charge. One spot on the margin of Lake Regillus was regarded during many ages with superstitious awe. A mark, resembling in shape a horse’s hoof, was discernible in the volcanic rock; and this mark was believed to have been made by one of the celestial chargers.

How the legend originated cannot now be ascertained; but we may easily imagine several ways in which it might have originated; nor is it at all necessary to suppose, with Julius Frontinus, that two young men were dressed up by the Dictator to personate the sons of Leda. It is probable that Livy is correct when he says that the Roman general, in the hour of peril, vowed a temple to Castor. If so, nothing could be more natural than that the multitude should ascribe the victory to the favor of the Twin Gods. When such was the prevailing sentiment, any man who chose to declare that, in the midst of the confusion and slaughter, he had seen two godlike forms on white horses scattering the Latines, would find ready credence. We know, indeed, that in modern times a very similar story actually found credence among a people much more civilized than the Romans of the fifth century before Christ. A chaplain of Cortes, writing about thirty years after the conquest of Mexico, in an age of printing presses, libraries, universities, scholars, logicians, jurists, and statesmen, had the face to assert that, in one engagement against the Indians, St. James had appeared on a gray horse at the head of the Castilian adventurers. Many of those adventurers were living when this lie was printed. One of them, honest Bernal Diaz, wrote an account of the expedition. He had the evidence of his own senses against the legend; but he seems to have distrusted even the evidence of his own senses. He says that he was in the battle, and that he saw a gray horse with a man on his back, but that the man was, to his thinking, Francesco de Morla, and not the ever-blessed apostle St. James. “Nevertheless,” Bernal adds, “it may be that the person on the gray horse was the glorious apostle St. James, and that I, sinner that I am, was unworthy to see him.” The Romans of the age of Cincinatus were probably quite as credulous as the Spanish subjects of Charles the Fifth. It is therefore conceivable that the appearance of Castor and Pollux may be become an article of faith before the generation which had fought at Regillus had passed away. Nor could anything be more natural than that the poets of the next age should embellish this story, and make the celestial horsemen bear the tidings of victory to Rome.

Many years after the temple of the Twin Gods had been built in the Forum, an important addition was made to the ceremonial by which the state annually testified its gratitude for their protection. Quintus Fabius and Publius Decius were elected Censors at a momentous crisis. It had become absolutely necessary that the classification of the citizens should be revised. On that classification depended the distribution of political power. Party spirit ran high; and the republic seemed to be in danger of falling under the dominion either of a narrow oligarchy or of an ignorant and headstrong rabble. Under such circumstances, the most illustrious patrician and the most illustrious plebeian of the age were entrusted with the office of arbitrating between the angry factions; and they performed their arduous task to the satisfaction of all honest and reasonable men.

One of their reforms was the remodelling of the equestrian order; and, having effected this reform, they determined to give to their work a sanction derived from religion. In the chivalrous societies of modern times,—societies which have much more than may at first sight appear in common with with the equestrian order of Rome,—it has been usual to invoke the special protection of some Saint, and to observe his day with peculiar solemnity. Thus the Companions of the Garter wear the image of St. George depending from their collars, and meet, on great occasions, in St. George’s Chapel. Thus, when Louis the Fourteenth instituted a new order of chivalry for the rewarding of military merit, he commended it to the favor of his own glorified ancestor and patron, and decreed that all the members of the fraternity should meet at the royal palace on the feast of St. Louis, should attend the king to chapel, should hear mass, and should subsequently hold their great annual assembly. There is a considerable resemblance between this rule of the order of St. Louis and the rule which Fabius and Decius made respecting the Roman knights. It was ordained that a grand muster and inspection of the equestrian body should be part of the ceremonial performed, on the anniversary of the battle of Regillus, in honor of Castor and Pollux, the two equestrian gods. All the knights, clad in purple and crowned with olive, were to meet at a temple of Mars in the suburbs. Thence they were to ride in state to the Forum, where the temple of the Twins stood. This pageant was, during several centuries, considered as one of the most splendid sights of Rome. In the time of Dionysius the cavalcade sometimes consisted of five thousand horsemen, all persons of fair repute and easy fortune.

There can be no doubt that the Censors who instituted this august ceremony acted in concert with the Pontiffs to whom, by the constitution of Rome, the superintendence of the public worship belonged; and it is probable that those high religious functionaries were, as usual, fortunate enough to find in their books or traditions some warrant for the innovation.

The following poem is supposed to have been made for this great occasion. Songs, we know, were chanted at religious festivals of Rome from an early period, indeed from so early a period that some of the sacred verses were popularly ascribed to Numa, and were utterly unintelligible in the age of Augustus. In the Second Punic War a great feast was held in honor of Juno, and a song was sung in her praise. This song was extant when Livy wrote; and, though exceedingly rugged and uncouth, seemed to him not wholly destitute of merit. A song, as we learn from Horace, was part of the established ritual at the great Secular Jubilee. It is therefore likely that the Censors and Pontiffs, when they had resolved to add a grand procession of knights to the other solemnities annually performed on the Ides of Quintilis, would call in the aid of a poet. Such a poet would naturally take for his subject the battle of Regillus, the appearance of the Twin Gods, and the institution of their festival. He would find abundant materials in the ballads of his predecessors; and he would make free use of the scanty stock of Greek learning which he had himself acquired. He would probably introduce some wise and holy Pontiff enjoining the magnificent ceremonial which, after a long interval, had at length been adopted. If the poem succeeded, many persons would commit it to memory. Parts of it would be sung to the pipe at banquets. It would be peculiarly interesting to the great Posthumian House, which numbered among its many images that of the Dictator Aulus, the hero of Regillus. The orator who, in the following generation, pronounced the funeral panegyric over the remains of Lucius Posthumius Megellus, thrice Consul, would borrow largely from the lay; and thus some passages, much disfigured, would probably find their way into the chronicles which were afterwards in the hands of Dionysius and Livy.

Antiquaries differ widely as to the situation of the field of battle. The opinion of those who suppose that the armies met near Cornufelle, between Frascati and the Monte Porzio, is at least plausible, and has been followed in the poem.

As to the details of the battle, it has not been thought desirable to adhere minutely to the accounts which have come down to us. Those accounts, indeed, differ widely from each other, and, in all probability, differ as widely from the ancient poem from which they were originally derived.

It is unnecessary to point out the obvious imitations of the Iliad, which have been purposely introduced.

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