"Sicut si quando vinclis venatica velox Apta solet canis forte foram si nare sagaci The subjects of the two next books are not clearly ascertained. One fragment is supposed to refer to Flamininus in Greece, another to a possible invective of Cato against luxury in dress; but the only one of interest is a couplet, imitated by Virgil in his Seventh Eneid, on the inextinguishable vitality of the old Trojan stock, "Quæ neque Dardaniis campis potuere perire, Nec cum capta capi, nec cum combusta cremari." enemy, sought a reconciliation on the spot, that they might perform their joint work with joint heart and soul. The Eighteenth and last Book embraced the Histrian War. There is a picture, studied after Homer's Ajax, and itself reproduced in Virgil's Turnus, of a tribune defending himself, against the Histrians, with darts raining on his shield and helmet, and falling harmless and shivered to the ground, with sweat streaming from every pore, yet not a moment to take breath. But the interest of the book, at least to us, must have centred in the discourse about himself, in which the old bard seems to have indulged in closing this his greatest poem. Even now we may read with sympathy his boastful allusion to his late enrolment among the citizens of the conquering city-" Nos sumus Romani, qui fuvimus ante Rudini;" we may be touched by the mention he appears to have made of the year of his age in which he wrote, bordering closely on the appointed term of man's life; and we may applaud as the curtain falls over his grand comparison of himself to a victorious racer, laden with Olympic honours, and now at last, consigned to repose: "Sicut fortis equus, spatio qui sæpe supremo Vicit Olimpia, nunc senio confectus quiescit. A very few words, as we have stated already, will despatch what has to be said on the other works of Ennius, numerous and varied as these appear to have been. His strength was not supposed to lie in comedy; a poetical classification of the Roman comic writers, quoted by Gellius, gives him the last place in a list of ten, and that only in defer The war with Antiochus is thought to have occupied the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Books. Antiochus himself is supposed to be speaking in one fragment, where he complains of having been misled by Hannibal; the rest are general enough-a reflection on the trustworthiness of soothsayers, a few scattered lines about ships sailing, where the yellow sea is coupled with the green brine a propriety of colouring vindicated by Gellius a word of encouragement before a battle, and another of complaint after defeat. Fulence to his antiquity; and accordingly, the vius Nobilior is thought to have been the hero of the next book, so that there at least the poet would have spoken as an eye-wit-ness; but the fragments, though apparently pointing to the siege of Ambracia, present nothing very tangible. The Sixteenth, as we are told by Pliny, was added in honour of T. Cæcilius Denter and his brother, personages who figure very slightly in the history as we read it, but whom Ennius seems to have extolled as models of valour. The fragments are rather various than remarkable; we may, however, specify three which speak of the sloping mountaius whence the night rises, of the night flying with a girdle of constellations round her, and of the torch of day setting and covering the ocean with a trail of crimson light. The few remains of the Seventeenth Book tell us vaguely of battle scenes; but there seems reason to believe that it contained a tribute to the magnanimity of a censor who, finding himself elected together with a personal whole number of fragments that has come down to us, amounts only to eleven lines, or parts of lines, preserved simply as containing certain words, and throwing no light on the nature of the pieces from which they came. The three titles which we possess are Ambracia, which, as we have seen, may have been a prætexta, Capuncula, if the same is rightly restored, as we should say, the Maid of the Inn, and Pancratiasto, the Prizefighters. Of Ennius's historical position as a writer of satire we have no space to speak at length. He seems to have been the first who gave satire its form; its spirit of personal invective it did not receive till later. We hear of as many as six books of his satires; but the actual remains are very slender, though sufficient to show that he preserved that early characteristic of the Satura, a medley of metres. The most memorable of these books would seem to have been the third, if it is rightly identified with a poem which he wrote in honour of Scipio. The fragments which remain are partly personal, | Gela, Apuleius has preserved us eleven lines, as where he thanks himself in the name of mankind for giving them to drink of the fiery wine of song drawn from his heart, "Enni poeta saive qui mortalibus Versus propinas flammeos medullitus," or where he tells us (if the line has been restored to its right place) that he never writes poetry but when he has the gout; partly laudatory of his hero, who appeals for a witness of his deeds to the broad and cultivated plains of Africa, "lati campi quos gerit Africa terra politos;" and in one case simply picturesque, describing a universal hush in nature: "Mundus cæli vastus constitit silentio; Et Neptunus sævus undis asperis pausam dedit: Sol equis iter repressit ungulis volantibus: Constitere amnes perennes, arbores vento vacant." A fragment about a slave, who annoys his prudent master by his reckless laugh and wolfish appetite; four jingling verses, telling a hoaxer that when the hoax does not succeed, the hoaxer is hoaxed; a version, which, however, exists only in Gellius's prose, of Æsop's fable about the lark and her young ones, and the well-known line about the resemblance of the ape to man, "Simia quam similis, turpissima bestia, nobis," comprise all that need be noted in the rest of his satires. The three Epigrams or Inscriptions, tén lines in all, we will quote entire. The first is the famous epitaph on himself: - "Aspicite, O cives, senis Eoni imaginis for mam! Hic vestrum panxit fortia facta patrum. Nemo me lacrimis decoret nec fanera fletu Faxit. Cur? Volito vivus per ora virum." The second is on Africanus, the man to whom never friend or foe could repay what he gave : "Hic est ille situs cui nemo civis neque hostis Quivit pro factis reddere opis pretium." The third is also on Africanus, into whose mouth it is put : "A sole exoriente supra Mæotis paludes Nemo est qui factisme æquiperare queat. Si fas endo plagas cœlestium ascendere cuiquam est, Mi soli cæli maxima porta patet." describing various kinds of fish, and the places where they are to be caught or bought, in language which Horace may have had in his mind when he wrote the dialogue between himself and Catius. The title of the Epicharmus is more promising; but the fragments come to but little. It was written in himself seems to have been a speaker in it, if trochaic tetrameters, and the philosopher not the speaker of the whole. Its chief the mind fire taken from the sun, and that utterances tell us that the body is earth and Jupiter is the air, comprising wind and clouds, rain and cold, all which are rightly urbes beluasque omnes juvat." The extant called Jupiter, "quoniam mortales atque remains of the Euhemerus have descended to us in prose; there is, however, reason to believe that it was originally a poem, but that some later hand modernized and transposed it; and it has been shown that a number of trochaic tetrameters can be extracted from it without much difficulty. The prose fragments, which, though not numerous, are of considerable length, owe their preservation to Lactantius. Whatever may have been the case in their original state, in their present form they do not possess much of the colour of poetry; in fact, the language may be said to reflect the character of that jejune mythology which it was intended to expound. Here at last we bring our antiquarian survey to an end. Perhaps our readers will reproach us for not having availed ourselves more frequently of the services of the two accomplished cicerones whom at starting we recommended to them. We can only plead that our own pilgrimage through these catacombs of literature was made independently, at a time when, though Ribbeck and Vahlen had cleared the way, the lights of æsthetic criticism had to be provided by everytraveller for himself. This solitary experience bas given us the means of appreciating the high qualifications of our two instructors: possibly it may have enabled us, in some slight degree, to supplement their labours. Stuttgart, 1860. The three extant verses of the Sota are not ART, V.—Wildbad und Seine Umgebungen. · worth dwelling on. All that is known of the Protrepticus, or Collection of Precepts, consists of a single word "pannibus," a variety for "pannis," the dative of "pannus," and two lines and a half about a husbandman separating tares from his wheat. Of the Hedyphagetica, an imitation or translation of a once popular poem by Archestratus of READER, did you ever break the middle fibre of the triceps muscle just above the knee? You are not likely to have done so, for it is a rare chance, and the force that would snap it would sooner break the thighbone itself, or split the knee-pan. But we broke ours, and though it is a very lame story, we mean to tell you all about it, and how we tried to cure it. How it happened was this: we had been abroad in Greece, away from wife and child, and after roving among the Ionian Islands and in the Morea, found ourselves, on the 19th of December, on the Acropolis at Athens. Then and there came on us the love of home. We thundered along the dusty road from Athens to the Piræus, caught the French steamer, and turned our face west, bent on eating our Christmas dinner at home. There was not an hour too much for the feat; but the sea was smooth, the wind fair, the boat as swift as a French boat can be. We reached Marseilles on the Thursday morning, in time to catch the mid-day mail for Paris. From the Station de Lyon we tore on the early dawn of Christmas-day to the Station. du Nord, caught the tidal train, crossed from Boulogne to Folkestone, and reached London at 6 P.M. This was pretty quick work, for it was late on the Saturday before that we left the Piræus; we had stayed half a day at Messina on the voyage, and here we were home on the Friday at seven o'clock to dinner. These were our thoughts as we drove from London Bridge to the Broad Phylactery; but, so far as dinner was concerned, they were doomed to disappointment. We rushed up-stairs to see our babes and sucklings, and ran down again to dinner, which was there smoking on the board. Alas! of that dinner we never tasted one bit. As we came down, four steps at a time, we forgot to count them, as every one instinctively and unconsciously counts the steps of a well-known staircase; we hurled ourselves on a landing, thinking there were four more steps to come. There was a stunning baulk; something snapped in our thigh; we fell forward flat on our face, were picked up, and borne off to bed. At first we thought our thigh was broken. By the time the doctor came, torn reluctantly from his Christmas dinner, the limb was a huge swollen mass, without a sign of knee in it. The learned man shook his head, and pinched us tenderly. "No bone broken," he said, "but what else may be broken is hard to say." Then philosophizing, " How could you have done it? A very strange accident; I would not have believed it." Ice, lotion, leech; lotion, leech, ice; leech, ice, lotion; so ran the round of life from day to day. In a few days we got the swelling down somewhat, and there appeared above the kneepan a sort of trough where the fibres were torn away. "Much better have broken the bone," was the wise man's remark; "it would have been the shortest in the end; three months on your back, six on crutches, and three more to get the strength again into the muscles of your leg. Just a year." "Well, but will this be a year?" "Yes, and perhaps two," was the reply from this Job's comforter. "You see, you will begin to get about, and then you will trip up and fall, and some more of the fibres will go. Besides, muscles never really unite; they fly away like an India-rubber band when it is snapped, and though something like a membrane forms, and fills up the gap, that muscle will never do a stroke of work again. What you have to do is to coax the others to take some of its work on themselves. But it takes a long time to coax a muscle into doing what Providence never meant it to do; and while you are coaxing it you will have another accident, and all the cure will have to begin over again." Here was a cheerful family surgeon. Do you wonder that we soon paid him his fee, and got rid of him for that day? But he spoke the truth, though, young as we were in accidents, we did not believe him. "How many times did we repeat our accident?" Well, seven times in ten months! First, we just made a little false step as we were crawling up to bed. Though the leg only slipped back one step, something went "crick" again, and in halfan-hour the knee was nearly as swollen as before. That little step threw us back more than a month. But that was nothing; it was a mere baby accident to the next. This was in the month of March, when we stepped upon a bit of orange-peel at night in the street, and instinctively steadying ourselves on the lame leg, it shut up very like a telescope, and falling on it, we crushed it up utterly. "Was it any pain?" Only try it. The feeling is as if all the flesh were stripped off the bones from below the knee to half-way up the thigh. When we see the lion munching the thigh-bone of a horse at the Zoological Gardens, we think of our own thighbone, only that, while he gnaws horse, we think of ourselves as a less noble animal. That was fall number two. It took two months to recover from that, with this difference, that besides leech, lotion, ice, iodine was asked to assist in the after cure, and scorched and withered our unhappy joint with his burning breath. Now came fall the third, for fall follows fall in this story as Amurath used to succeed Amurath in Turkish history. We were sitting over a fire-we are sorry, for the honour of this genial climate, to add it was in the month of June and stretching up to reach a book which lay on the mantel-shelf above our heads, we again rested ever so lit tle on this perfidious limb. Like Egypt, that bruised recd, the thankless joint seemed to shrivel up; down we fell, and one of our hands went into the fire. So there we were; one knee as though a savage beast were rending it with his greedy teeth, and one hand well thrust forward into the fire. Talk of Daniel in the lions' den, or Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the burning fiery furnace! Here were we at once in the den and furnace. Now, having tried both at the same time, we say, without a spark of doubt, that we would sooner fall into the lions' jaws than into the flaming fire. Our first care, therefore, was to pluck our hand out of the fire, and put out our wristband, which had caught fire. After that we laid ourselves out at full length on our back on the rug, and-fainted. When we came to ourselves there we still lay. We could neither stir hand nor foot, and there we should have lain still, had not one of those curious creatures, the British housemaid, looked in, as she said afterwards, just to see why we were so quiet. The wretch was well frightened for her pains! Away she flew and told the rest that master had gone mad, and tried to put an end to his existence by climbing up the chimney. This she said, because in our pain we had besmirched our forehead and face with the hand which had been in the fire, and was black with coal. It took us some weeks to recover from this twofold woe, and then came the unkindest stroke of all. At the end of July there was a dramatic fête at the Crystal Palace, where all the old actors and actresses assemble, all the stale jokes are let off anew, and all that is idle and stupid in London goes down to see what is called the fun. Though certainly not idle, we were among the stupid on that occasion, as the end will show. But we had the excuse which all who do a silly thing either have or make, we were led astray. Whether this excuse does not as often mean leading, as being led, is a question we do not deign to answer. We say we were led astray. Astray in supposing we could find any amusement in such a gathering of dulness and dowdiness. But our sin was speedily punished, and readily do we acknowledge the truth of Butler's statement, that if it were so ordained that every sin as soon as committed brought with it certain death, there would speedily be no sin: an argument very like that used by those industrious Chinese, who gain their living by being substitutes for offenders sentenced to death. If every Chinaman embarked in this profession there would soon be few of them left. However that may be, our sin in being such a fool as to go to such a place was soon punished, and in a very fitting way. Vengeance overtook us in the skirts of a lady's crinoline. Awful woman, we fancy we see her now. Nearly six feet high, and stout in proportion. We are sure she was that masculine creature whose husband recently ap pealed to Sir James Wilde, to protect him against her cruelty. She used to thrash him by day, and tie him to the bedpost by night. The henpecked wretch did not dare to call his life his own. Down she bore on us with our lame leg. She was clad in an apple-green dress, over which was thrown a skyblue shawl. On her head was a yellow bonnet, with cherry-coloured ribbons. In her grasp was a tricoloured parasol, with the Italian mixture. From this we infer that she had sympathized with Garibaldi, kissed his hand, and subscribed to the various things which have been proposed for him, none of which, strange to say, he will condescend to take. Well, down on us she bore. We were in a crowd, and be. tween us and her were many human beings, who we vainly hoped would break the fury of her onslaught. Still she bore on, cleaving the waves of life as though they had been foam. We felt fascinated by the gorgeousness of her apparel, becalmed before her as a tiny smack just before it is run down by a three-decker. Escape was out of our power; on and on she came; frantically we moved on one side to let her pass. It was in vain, we were swept up by the rush of petticoats in her train, her iron cage caught our maimed knee, we were hurled to earth, and this monster in woman's garb passed by on her terrible way without a word of sympathy for the muscles she had torn asunder in her brutal strength. In a future state may she be a Flanders mare, and may we be the Fleming who has the driving of her! This is no doubt a very wicked wish, but it is strictly true, and in our opinion quite justifiable under the circumstances. So there we lay groaning till we were gathered up by our friends, and packed off to London to go to bed. By the time we could get about again London was beginning to grow lazy. Tired of eating and tired of dancing; tired of Greenwich and tired of Richmond; tired of Denmark and the Duchies; especially tired of Prussia and Austria; tired of giving advice to foreign nations which they would not take; tired in short of everything. All that every one wished was to rush out of town. But where were we to go with a lame leg? To darling Scotland? to Skye perhaps, to row from Torrin round the point into Loch Scavaig to Camasunary, and then having seen the Coolins, to walk with plenty of food, but without a dirk, and if need be without a guide, across the hill down into the glen, and so along it to Sligachan. Alas! we had done that walk with ease more than once, but to do it with a lame leg was out of the question. | Wildbads? Suppose we go to the wrong No! no man with a lame leg should dare to one; suppose we get treated for scrofula or insult Scotland by going to see her in his suf- ovarian dropsy; suppose we go beguiled by ferings. She at least has the free use of her you to a place where the waters may only be limbs as well as of her tongue, and bids good for a disease which we have not got, or Southern cripples stay at home where for a woman's disease which no man can have. crutches are cheaper than they ever can be Do you not know that if wrongly taken, or ought to be on the bill. Job had his these waters, which are asserted to be homœocomforters and so had we. We have already pathic, produce the very disease in the pasaid that we found one in our doctor; but tient which they are calculated to cure when we had many more. "You must take great rightly imbibed? What will you say if we care." "If you don't mind, you'll be a crip- come back a leper as white as snow,' or ple for life." "Bless me, how could you be with our man's nature turned as far as may so imprudent?" "When I was young, I be into woman's nature;-in that case what should never have thought of such a thing." revenge would be too great if wreaked on "If I were you, I would never stir out of your guilty head?" Thus saying, without the house." "I once knew a man who met waiting for the reply, we turned, like Naaman with an accident like yours, and it turned the Syrian, and "went away in a rage." Yet into a white swelling, aud he had to lose his advice is like water, drop by drop it pierces and leg." "It will be a bad thing for you if this eats its way into the heart. Next a woman accident becomes complicated. I mean if said, Why not go to Wildbad-that will you have gout or rheumatism in your con- cure you." At first the voice sounded like a stitution, and really I believe every one has cuckoo set up to mock us; but we listened them, for then your leg would get contract- at last; we were ready to hear what Wildbad ed and twisted, or lengthen and drag. In could do. If we were to believe all we heard, either case it will look very like paralysis, its waters could do everything, or next to though of course I don't mean to say that everything. That was pretty well, but as we you ever had it." Pleasant people all, im- had not everything the matter with us, we mensely wise after the fact, blind leaders of wished to know whether it would knit tothe lame, ready to trip him up. All this gether broken muscle. If it could do that, while the summer was passing away, and it was welcome to fail in every other case. still we knew not what to do. At last some So selfish does sickness make us. "Heal my one said, Why not go to Wildbad? Now it knee, but let all the world be lame." "Well, I have ever hated anything and looked on it it could do everything in the way of healing as a profound humbug, it is a German bath. joints, and so it could do that. Has it ever When a man has nothing to do it is good for cured any one you know?" "I can hardly him to go to a German bath; also when he answer that question, because no one is said has nothing the matter with him it is good to know himself. It has cured me, but as I for him to go to a German bath, except that do not know myself, I can't say I know any going with nothing the matter with him he one whom Wildbad has cured." This was a may be brought home in his coffin ;--that is delightful fallacy and thorough bit of woman's what he may get by going to a German bath.logie, quite as good in its way as man's, and Sometimes doctors, who are, as is well known, so we went on. "But how does it eure the humanest of men, send patients who are them? Has the water been analysed ?" at the last gasp to a German bath, lest they Yes, but like the surgeons who dissected the should be shocked at seeing them die before corpse to look for the soul and could not find their eyes; but though that speaks well for it, so the water of Wildbad refuses to give the doctors' hearts, it says very little for the up its secret in retorts and blowpipes. It virtue of the waters. Such wicked thoughts calls itself pure imponderable water, and so as these we had always cherished till some it remains. Like a noble heart it will not one whispered, "Why not go to Wildbad?" answer to "the question." You may torture Now being a profound geographer-have we it, and boil it to death till it flies off in a not passed the Civil Service Examination and rage, that is, in steam, but it keeps its chagot honours for drawing a map of the un-racter to the last, and with its last breath known parts of Timbuctoo?-being a geographer and wishing to catch our advisers we answered sharply, "which Wildbad?" "I only know of one Wildbad in Würtemberg in the Black Forest," was the reply. "Ignorant wretch, how can you know any thing of lameness and what is good for it, when you do not know that there are three screams, "I am pure water, my character is above suspicion." This was all very poetical, but poetry sets no broken bones, and we revenged ourselves on our informant by muttering that it was fortunate the gender of water in German was neuter and not feminine. So much for the poetry of its character. But somehow or other a word drop |