The pra-tor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to lary gratified by that decree of the senate, which en
These games, gave instant orders to the gladiators to bed him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasiona
stay him. and Telemachus gained the crown of mar- He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror
tyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely has never of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger
either before or since been awarded for a more noble at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, r
exploit. Honorius immediately abolished the shows, should we without the help of the historian.
which were never afterwards revived. The story is
old by Theodoret and Cassiodorus, and seems wor-
thy of credit notwithstanding its place in the Roman
martyrology. Besides the torrents of blood which
flowed at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus,
the forums, and other public places, gladiators were in-
troduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst
the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose
the loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of man-
kind, to be nearly connected with the abolition of these
bloody spectacles.||

While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand.
Stanza cxlv. line 1.
This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Romiau
Empire; and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in
the Historical Illustrations to the IVth Canto of Childe


Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, "he has it, "hoc habet," or "habet." The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and advancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved him; if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so savage that they were impatient if a combat lasted | longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished: and it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other words, handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magistrate presides; and after the horsemen and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If their countrymen. the bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, er a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of delight, especially from the female portion of the audience, including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman present, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three horses off his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled when it was known he belonged to a priest.

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with seeing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot hear to look at a horse galloping round an arena with his bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spectacle and the spectators with horror and disgust.


Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head.
Stanza cxliv. line 6
Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu-

• Augustinus (lib. vi. confess. cap. viii.) "Alypium suum gladiatori spectaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreptum," scribit. i5. lib. 1. cap. xii. ↑ Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v.

1 Cassiod, Tripartita, l. x. c. xi. Saturn. ib. ib.

Baronius, ad. ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. SeeMarangoni delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25.

64. spared and blest by time. Stanza cxlvi, line 3. "Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no this rotunda. monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as Pagan into the present worship; and so convenient It passed with little alteration from the were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michae. Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a model in the Catholic church."

Forsyth's Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 137. sec. edit.


edit. 1745.

"Quod non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes ad virtutem? Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidum ecce num alterumve captum, dreptum est: tumultus circa nos, non in nobis: et tamen concidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos

meditata sapientiæ studia? ubi ile animus qui possit dicere, si fructus ilabatur orbis?" &c. ibid lib. cap. xXV The prototype of Mr. Win tham's panegyric ou bull-baiting.

And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. Stanza cxlvii. lines 8 and 9. The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished, men. The flood of light which once fell through the large orb above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of whom have been almost deified by the veneration of


There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. Stanza cxlviii, line 1. This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now shown at the church of St. Nicholas in carcere. The difficulties attending the full belief of the tale are stated in Historical Illustrations, &c.


Turn to the Mole, which Hadrian rear'd on high. Stanza clii. line 1. The castle of St. Angelo. See-Historical Illustra tions.


Stanza cliii.

church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the comThis and the six next stanzas have a reference to the parative length of this basilica, and the other great and the classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. pag. 125 churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, et seq. chap. iv.


the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. Stanza clxxi. lines 6 and 7. Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrup greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, "the Sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added of names equally illustrious and unhappy.


Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills.
Stanza clxxiii. line 1.
The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of
Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed the
temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distine-

ove appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an even-nile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended ing's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano.


Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughea land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban

nusia rises.

And afar
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves
The Latian coast, &c. &c.

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled neauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited stanza; the Mediterranean; the whole scene of the latter half of the Æneid, and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circæum and the Cape of Terracina.

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vireyard on a knoll

covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs down the

valley, and although it is not true, as saia in the guide books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so denominated, and which may have taken its name from the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa,

is a town called Vicovaro, another favourable coincidence with the Varia of the poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned with a little town called Bardela. At the foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy bed bofore it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in a metaphorical or direct sense:

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien Buonaparte.

The former was thought some years ago the actual site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. At present it has lost something of its credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the in finding the occasional pine still pendent on the poetic summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re-villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook. seventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, for the tree in the ode. The truth is, that the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one of them in the orchard close above his farm, imme diately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights

and seven busts.

at some distance from his abode. The tourist may have

"Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus,
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus."

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like
a sulphur rivulet.

easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon tr which throw such a bloom over his description of the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other enmon garden shrubs. The extreme disappointment


From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. There are several circumstances which tend to establish the identity of this valley with the "Ustica" of Horace; and it seems possible that the mosaic Lent which the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, not according to our stress uponUstice cul antis."-It is more rational to think that we are wrong than that the inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed their tone in this word. The addition of the consonant prefixed is nothing: yet it is neces-experienced by choosing the Classical Tourist as a sary to be aware that Rustica may be a modern name guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent in a few which the peasants may have caught from the antiqua- tradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has observations, which, it is asserted without fear of conThis author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsaselected the same conductor through the same countrytisfactory writers that have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of objects which he must be presumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright misstatement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical Tour notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out by those decorations which are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of all the common places of praise, applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing.

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and such may experience some salutary excitement in ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge

round stone.

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is shown, does seem to be the sight of the fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells that this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired by Vespasian.* With these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of our site. The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa

"....tu frigus amabile
Fessis vomere tauris
Præbes, et pecori vago."


The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pavement which they call "Oradina, and which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and then trickles over into the Digentia. But we must not hope

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"To trace the Muses upwards to their spring"

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the Digentia-Horace has not let drop a word of it; and this immortal spring has in fact been discovered in possession of the holders of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was attached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais near Venusia, where it was most likely to be found. We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have dis tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommendatory either in an author or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these and may be spread about generous qualities are the foliage of such a perfortnanc so prominently, and pro

See-Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43.

↑ See-Classical Tour, &c. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii.

"Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal enr. den, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange trees." Clacsical Tour &c. chau. xi. vol. ii. oct. 365.

fusely as to embarrass those who wish to see and find for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the almost the only city which mace any demonstrations in exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change may something more and better than a book of t vels, but however, have been made since Mr. Eustace visited they have not made it a book of travels; and this ob- this country; but the traveller whom he has thrilled servation applies more especially to that enticing method with horror at the projected stripping of the copper from of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or and rising generation, and terrify it into decency by the dis-other plunderers, the cupola being covered with lead.* play of all the excesses of the revolution. An animosity If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had against atheists and regicides in general, and French- not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, men specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, as a record; but that antidote should either be admi- that however it may adorn his library, it will be of little nistered in any work rather than a tour, or, at least or no service to him in his carriage; and if the judg should be served up apart, and not so mixed with the ment of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no whole mass of information and reflection, as to give a attempt would have been made to anticipate their deci bitterness to every page: for who would choose to have sion. As it is, those who stand in the relation of posthe antipathies of any man, however just, for his travel-terity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to appeal from ing companions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the cotemporary praises, and are perhaps more likely to be credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are which may take place in the country which he describes; the farther removed. This appeal had, in some mea out his eader may very fairly esteem all his political sure, been made before the above remarks were written; portraits and de luctions as so much waste paper, the for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pubmoment they ce use to assist, and more particularly if lishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inqui they obs ruct, his actual survey. ries of those on their journey southwards to reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring advice of returning travelers, induced to abandon his design, although he had already arranged his types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sheets.

Neither encomiun nor accusation of any government, or gove nors, is meant to be here offered; but it is stated a: an incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, either by the address of the late imperial system, or by the disappointment of every expectation by those who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigallican philippies entirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency and candour of the author himself. A remarkable example may be found in the instance of Bologna, over whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been or some vears, notonous amongst the states of Italy

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend the same discreet silence to their humble partisans.

"What then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror. of my ..... the French committee turned reader, when I inform him. its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to est mate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that acorn the inside of the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the cutalide. hap. v. 139. vcl. ii. The story about the Jews is reai Turely died at



One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shude alike o'er our joys and our woes→→→
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which Joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting.







The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time;" or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.



No breath of air to break the wave
That rous below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
High o'er the land he saved in vain:
When snad such hero live again?






Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Colonna's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There, mildly dimpling. Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak



Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave;
And if, at times, a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odours there!
For there the rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the nightingale,2

The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs are heard on high,
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale:
queen, the garden queen, his rose,
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by Nature given,
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling skv
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share
And many a grotto, meant for rest
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks fo: e passing peaceful prow
Till the gay mariner's guitar'
Is heard, and seen the evening star
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange-that where Nature lov'd to trace
As if for gods, a dwelling-place,
And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd,
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,

But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare!
Strange that where all is peace beside
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold obstruction's apathy 4
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!'
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was freedom's home or glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave

Say, is not this Thermopyla? These waters blue that round you lave,

Oh servile offspring of the freePronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame They too will rather die than shame. For freedom's battle once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft, is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page Attest it many a deathless age!

While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to tranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
"T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quel!
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore? No legend of thine olden time,

No theme on which the muse might soar High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,

And callous, save to crime; Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes; Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighbouring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain might liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: No more her sorrows I bewail, Yet this will be a mournful tale,

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Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And, fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near, but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an eastern night.







Who thundering comes on blackest steed With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide; Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, "Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour!' I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

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