Standard Selections A Collection and Adaptation of Superior Productions from Best Authors for Use in Class Room and on the Platform — Reading Notes

s indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius, for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the suffering of Vinicius.

At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.

The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight. But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to eye.

In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his head the naked body of a woman.

Vinicius sprang to his feet.

"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!" And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought. His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I believe!"

This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal.

From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the two would fail first? Which would fall first?

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on the earth, dead.

The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.

The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling from the roar of tens of thousands of people.

Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder.

The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up imploringly.

Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga.

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the multitude.

At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before. Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent by the horns of the bull.

Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city. He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign for mercy.

Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest. But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena, stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I believe! I believe!"

[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2]

I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air. It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song.

Long, long afterward, in an oak, I found the arrow still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.

At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen that night, With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch in her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré": And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "_Non ti scordar di me?_"

The Emperor there in his box of state, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where the eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye; You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To that old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent and both were sad; Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair just tied in a knot, And falling loose again.

And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to its nest; And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed there in the waste of life, Such a very little thing.

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

And I turned and looked; she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that Jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;-- From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short from the future back to the past) There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked, then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the Jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now and she loved me then! And the very first words that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy and young and handsome still, And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say, For beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day.

And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven.

But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower! And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, _Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!_

"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:-- Silver buckles on his knee-- He'll come back and marry me, Pretty Bobby Shafto!" "Mother Goose Melodies."

"With his treasures won at sea, Spanish gold and Portugee, And his heart, still fast to me, Pretty Bobby Shafto!

"In a captain's pomp and pride, With a gold sword at his side, He'll come back to claim his bride, Pretty Bobby Shafto!"

So she sang, the winter long, Till the sun came, golden-strong, And the blue birds caught her song: All of Bobby Shafto.

Days went by, and autumn came, Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame, But the song, it was the same, All of Bobby Shafto.

Never came across the sea, Silver buckles on his knee, Bobby to his bride-to-be, Fickle Bobby Shafto!

For where midnight never dies, In the Storm-King's caves of ice, Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies-- Heigho! Bobby Shafto.

[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap."

GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD

"How old I am! I'm eighty years! I've worked both hard and long; Yet patient as my life has been, One dearest sight I have not seen,-- It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was new; Alas, our dreams! they come not true; I thought to see fair Carcassonne,-- That lovely city,--Carcassonne!

"One sees it dimly from the height Beyond the mountains blue, Fain would I walk five weary leagues,-- I do not mind the road's fatigues,-- Through morn and evening's dew; But bitter frost would fall at night; And on the grapes,--that yellow blight! I could not go to Carcassonne, I never went to Carcassonne.

"They say it is as gay all times As holidays at home! The gentles ride in gay attire, And in the sun each gilded spire Shoots up like those of Rome! The bishop the procession leads, The generals curb their prancing steeds. Alas! I know not Carcassonne-- Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!

"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud, And bids us to beware; He says, 'O guard the weakest-part, And most that traitor in the heart Against ambition's snare.' Perhaps in autumn I can find Two sunny days with gentle wind; I then could go to Carcassonne, I still could go to Carcassonne.

"My God, my Father! pardon me If this my wish offends; One sees some hope more high than his, In age, as in his infancy, To which his heart ascends! My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, My grandson went to Perpignan, But I have not seen Carcassonne, But I have not seen Carcassonne."

Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, Half-dreaming in his chair; I said, "My friend, come go with me To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see Those streets that seem so fair." That night there came for passing soul The church-bell's low and solemn toll. He never saw gay Carcassonne. Who has not known a Carcassonne?

All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night walks to Norwood where she lived, and perambulated round and round the house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.

Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you."

I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had given her!

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up and left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes.

"It was a long way for him."

I began to think I would do it to-day.

"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey."

"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?"

I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near to you."

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!"

I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment.

Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.