The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer,

And in the Claudian note he cried, ``What doth this rabble here?
Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hitherward they stray?

Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away!''
The voice of grief and fury till then had not been loud;

But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd,
Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the

deep,
Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but half aroused from sleep.

But when the lictors at that word, tall yeomen all and strong,
Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng,

Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin,
That in the Roman Forum was never such a din.

The wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate,
Were heard beyond the Pincian Hill, beyond the Latin Gate.

But close around the body, where stood the little train
Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain,

No cries were there, but teeth set fast, low whispers and black
frowns,

And breaking up of benches, and girding up of gowns.
'Twas well the lictors might not pierce to where the maiden lay,

Else surely had they been all twelve torn limb from limb that
day.

Right glad they were to struggle back, blood streaming from their
heads,

With axes all in splinters, and raiment all in shreads.
Then Appius Claudius gnawed his lip, and the blood left his

cheek,
And thrice he beckoned with his hand, and thrice he strove to

speak;
And thrice the tossing Forum set up a frightful yell:

``See, see, thou dog! what thou hast done; and hide thy shame in
hell!

Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves must first make slaves
of men.

Tribunes! Hurrah for Trubunes! Down with the wicked Ten!''
And straightway, thick as hailstones, came whizzing through the

air,
Pebbles, and bricks, and potsherds, all round the curule chair:

And upon Appius Claudius great fear and trembling came,
For never was a Claudius yet brave against aught but shame.

Though the great houses love us not, we own, to do them right,
That the great houses, all save one, have borne them well in

fight.
Still Caius of Corioli, his triumphs and his wrongs,

His vengeance and his mercy, live in our camp-fire songs.
Beneath the yoke of Furius oft have Gaul and Tuscan bowed:

And Rome may bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud.
But evermore a Claudius shrinks from a stricken field,

And changes color like a maid at sight of sword and shield.
The Claudian triumphs all were won within the city towers;

The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours.
A Cossus, like a wild cat, springs ever at the face;

A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting chase;
But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite,

Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those who
smite.

So now 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly,
He shook, and crouched, and wrung his hands, and smote upon his

thigh.
``Kind clients, honest lictors, stand by me in this fray!

Must I be torn in pieces? Home, home the nearest way!''
While yet he spake, and looked around with a bewildered stare,

Four sturdy lictors put their necks beneath the curule chair;
And fourscore clients on the left, and fourscore on the right,

Arrayed themselves with swords and staves, and loins girt up to
fight.

But, though without or staff or sword, so furious was the throng,
That scarce the train with might and main could bring their lord

along.
Twelve times the crowd made at him; five times they seized his

gown;
Small chance was his to rise again, if once they got him down:

And sharper came the pelting; and evermore the yell,--
``Tribunes! we will have Tribunes!''-- rose with a louder swell:

And the chair tossed as tosses a bark with tattered sail
When raves the Adriatic beneath an eastern gale,

When Calabrian sea-marks are lost in clouds of spume,
And the great Thunder-Cape has donned his veil of inky gloom.

One stone hit Appius in the mouth, and one beneath the ear;
And ere he reached Mount Palatine, he swooned with pain and fear.

His cursed head, that he was wont to hold so high with pride,
Now, like a drunken man's, hung down, and swayed from side to

side;
And when his stout retainers had brought him to his door,

His face and neck were all one cake of filth and clotted gore.
As Appius Claudius was that day, so may his grandson be!

God send Rome one such other sight, and send me there to see!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Prophecy of Capys
It can hardly be necessary to remind any reader that according to

the popular tradition, Romulus, after he had slain his granduncle
Amulius, and restored his grandfather Numitor, determined to quit

Alba, the hereditarydomain of the Sylvian princes, and to found
a new city. The gods, it was added, vouchsafed the clearest signs

of the favor with which they regarded the enterprise, and of the
high destinies reserved for the young colony.

This event was likely to be a favorite theme of the old Latin
minstrels. They would naturally attribute the project of Romulus

to some divine intimation of the power and prosperity which it
was decreed that his city should attain. They would probably

introduce seers foretelling the victories of unborn Consuls and
Dictators, and the last great victory would generally occupy the

most conspicuous place in the prediction. There is nothing
strange in the supposition that the poet who was employed to

celebrate the first great triumph of the Romans over the Greeks
might throw his song of exultation into this form.

The occasion was one likely to excite the strongest feelings of
national pride. A great outrage had been followed by a great

retribution. Seven years before this time, Lucius Posthumius
Megellus, who sprang from one of the noblest houses of Rome, and

had been thrice Consul, was sent ambassador to Tarentum, with
charge to demand reparation for grievous injuries. The Tarentines

gave him audience in their theatre, where he addressed them in
such Greek as he could command, which, we may well believe, was

not exactly such as Cineas would have spoken. An exquisite sense
of the ridiculous belonged to the Greek character; and closely

connected with this faculty was a strong propensity to flippancy
and impertinence. When Posthumius placed an accent wrong, his

hearers burst into a laugh. When he remonstrated, they hooted
him, and called him barbarian; and at length hissed him off the

stage as if he had been a bad actor. As the grave Roman retired,
a buffoon, who, from his constantdrunkenness, was nicknamed the

Pint-pot, came up with gestures of the grossest indecency, and
bespattered the senatorial gown with filth. Posthumius turned

round to the multitude, and held up the gown, as if appealing to
the universal law of nations. The sight only increased the

insolence of the Tarentines. They clapped their hands, and set up
a shout of laughter which shook the theatre. ``Men of Tarentum,''

said Posthumius, ``it will take not a little blood to wash this
gown.''

Rome, in consequence of this insult, declared war against the
Tarentines. The Tarentines sought for allies beyond the Ionian

Sea. Phyrrhus, king of Epirus, came to their help with a large
army; and, for the first time, the two great nations of antiquity