The Sculpture Gallery of the Capitol at Rome.
The Marble Faun. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Chap. i.
Poem.—The Celestial Runaway: Phaëton.
Poetical Works. John G. Saxe. P. 233.
Dido Building Carthage.
The Aeneid. Vergil. Book i, 418-440.
Byron's Impression of the Laocoön.
Childe Harold. Canto iv, clx.
Shelley's Impression of the Laocoön.
The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Harry Buxton Forman. Vol. iii, p. 44.
Atalanta's Foot Race.
Classic Myths in English Literature. Charles Mills Gayley. P. 139.
Hellenic Tales. Edmund J. Carpenter. P. 80.
Poem.—Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Complete Poetical Works. John Keats. P. 134.
The Faun of Praxiteles.
The Marble Faun. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Chap. i.
Poem.—A Likeness.
Willa S. Cather.Literary Digest. Vol. xlviii, p. 219.
Vita sine litteris mors est.
Roman Books.
Rome: The Eternal City. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. i, p. 401.
Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Rodolfo Lanciani. Pp. 182, 199.
The Private Life of the Romans. H. W. Johnston. P. 290.
Cicero's Library.
Rome: The Eternal City. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. i, p. 405.
Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Rodolfo Lanciani. P. 180.
Public Libraries in Rome.
Rome: The Eternal City. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. i, p. 413.
Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Rodolfo Lanciani. Chap. vii.
The Life of the Greeks and Romans. Guhl and Koner. P. 531.
The Book Markets.
Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Rodolfo Lanciani. P. 183.
The Life of the Greeks and Romans. Guhl and Koner. P. 529.
Society in Rome under the Caesars. William Ralph Inge. Chap. vi.
"O antique fables! beautiful and bright,And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;O antique fables! for a little lightOf that which shineth in you evermore,To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyesAnd bathe our old world with a new surpriseOf golden dawn entrancing sea and shore."
—James Thomson
Song.—Hymn to the Dawn.
Dido: An Epic Tragedy. Miller and Nelson. P. 61.
The Relation of the Classic Myths to Literature.
The Influence of the Classics on American Literature. Paul Shorey.Chautauqua. Vol. xliii, p. 121.
Classic Myths in English Literature. C. M. Gayley. Introduction.
The Origin of Myths.
Classic Myths in English Literature. C. M. Gayley. P. 431.
Mythology in Art.
Classic Myths in Modern Art.Chautauqua. Vol. xlii, p. 455.
The Myth of Admetus and Alcestis.
Classic Myths in English Literature. C. M. Gayley. P. 106.
Tarpeia and the Tarpeian Rock.
Walks in Rome. Augustus J. C. Hare. P. 118.
The Marble Faun. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Chap. xiii.
The Origin and Growth of the Myth about Tarpeia. Henry A. Sanders.School Review. Vol. viii, p. 323.
Lamia.
Complete Poetical Works
. John Keats. P. 146.
Play.—Persephone.
Children's Classics in Dramatic Form. Augusta Stevenson. Vol. iv.
Recitation.—Mangled Mythology.
Literary Digest. Vol. xxxix, p. 1110.
"The debt of literature to the myth-makers of the Mediterranean has been an endless one starting at Mt. Olympus, and flowing down in fertilizing streams through all the literary ages."
—James A. Harrison
Icarus.
Poetical Works. Bayard Taylor. P. 88.
Orpheus with his Lute.
Henry VIII. William Shakespeare. Act. iii, scene i.
Iphigenia and Agamemnon.
The Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigenia.Poems and Dialogues in Verse. Walter Savage Landor. Vol. i, p. 78.
Venus and Vulcan.
Poetical Works. John G. Saxe. P. 238.
Pandora.
Poetical Works. Bayard Taylor. P. 203.
The Legend of St. Mark.
Poetical Works. John G. Whittier. P. 36.
Icarus: or the Peril of the Borrowed Plumes.
Poetical Works. John G. Saxe. P. 229.
Laodamia.
Complete Poetical Works. William Wordsworth. P. 525.
The Lotus Eaters
Poetical Works. Alfred Tennyson. P. 51.
The Shepherd of King Admetus.
Complete Poetical Works. James Russell Lowell. P. 44.
Classic Myths in English Literature. C. M. Gayley. P. 131.
Ceres.
Bliss Carman.Literary Digest. Vol. xlv, p. 347.
Persephone.
Poetical Works. Jean Ingelow. P. 181.
"We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts, have their root in Greece."
The Influence of Greek on English.
The Iliad in Art. Eugene Parsons.Chautauqua. Vol. xvi. p. 643.
The Greek in English. E. L. Miller.School Review. Vol. xiii, p. 390.
The Social Life of Ancient Greece.
Edward Capps.Chautauqua. Vol. xxiv, p. 290.
The Life of the Greeks and Romans. Guhl and Koner. P. 183.
The Modern Maid of Athens and her Brothers of To-day.
William E. Waters.Chautauqua. Vol. xvii, p. 259.
Our Poets' Debt to Homer.
English Poems on Greek Subjects. James Richard Joy.Chautauqua. Vol. xvii, p. 271.
Athens as it Appears To-day.
In and about Modern Athens. William E. Waters.Chautauqua. Vol. xvii, p. 131.
Skirting the Balkan Peninsula. Robert Hichens.Century Magazine. Vol. lxiv, p. 84.
Greece Revisited.
Martin L. D'Ooge.Nation. Vol. xcvi, p. 569.
The Influence of Greek Architecture in the United States.
W. H. Goodyear.Chautauqua. Vol. xvi, pp. 3, 131, 259.
"What shall I say of the modern city? Rome is yet the capital of the world."
—Shelley
Poem.—The Voices of Rome.
Poetical Works. Bayard Taylor. P. 202.
The Beauty of Rome.
Rome. Maurice Maeterlinck.Critic. Vol. xlvi, p. 362.
Shelley's Impression of Rome.
With Shelley in Italy. Anna B. McMahan. P. 70.
A Frenchman's Impression of Rome.
The Italians of To-day. René Bazin. P. 94.
Poem.—At Rome.
Poetical Works. William Wordsworth. P. 749.
Hawthorne's Moonlight Walk in Rome
Italian Note-Books. Nathaniel Hawthorne. P. 173.
The American School in Rome.
Howard Crosby Butler.Critic. Vol. xxiii, p. 466.
The Vatican.
Roba di Roma. William W. Story. P. 534.
The City of the Saints. Lyman Abbott.Harper's Magazine. Vol. xlv, p. 169.
Walks in Rome. Augustus J. C. Hare. Chap. xvi.
The Protestant Cemetery in Rome.
Rome: The Eternal City. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. ii, p. 512.
Roba di Roma. William W. Story. P. 509.
Walks in Rome. Augustus J. C. Hare. P. 698.
With Shelley in Italy. Anna B. McMahan. Pp. 228, 241.
Literary Landmarks of Rome. Laurence Hutton. P. 35.
Poem.—The Grave of Keats.
The Poems of Oscar Wilde. Vol. ii, p. 5.
The Tiber.
Rome of To-day and Yesterday. John Dennie. P. 7.
Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Rodolfo Lanciani. P. 232.
Following the Tiber.Lippincott's Magazine. Vol. xv, p. 30.
Poem.—Roman Antiquities.
Poetical Works. William Wordsworth. P. 695.
The Expense of Living in Rome.
Roma Beata. Maud Howe. Pp. 28, 250.
Poem.—February in Rome.
On Viol and Flute. Edmund W. Gosse. P. 53.
Poem.—What he saw in Europe.
Current Literature. Vol. xxxvi, p. 365.
Poem.—Rome Unvisited.
The Poems of Oscar Wilde. Vol. i, p. 64.
Poem.—Roman Girl's Song.
Poetical Works. Mrs. Hemans. P. 227.
"No sudden goddess through the rushes glides,No eager God among the laurels hides;Jove's eagle mopes beside an empty throne,Persephone and Ades sit aloneBy Lethe's hollow shore."
—Nora Hopper
Sonnet.—On Approaching Italy.
The Poems of Oscar Wilde. Vol. i, p. 59.
Naples.
Lectures. John L. Stoddard. Naples. Vol. viii, p. 115.
Peeps at Many Lands. Italy. John Finnemore. Chap. xiii.
Certain Things in Naples.
Italian Journeys. W. D. Howells. P. 80.
A School in Naples.
Italian Journeys. W. D. Howells. P. 139.
Italian Recollections.
More Letters of a Diplomat's Wife. Mary King Waddington.Scribner's Magazine. Vol. xxxvii, p. 204.
The Italian Peasantry.
Roma Beata. Maud Howe. P. 34.
Peeps at Many Lands. Italy. John Finnemore. Chap. xix.
A Stroll on the Pincian Hill.
The Marble Faun. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Chap. xii.
Hotels in Italy.
Roman Holidays and Others. W. D. Howells. Chap. vi, p. 68.
A Modern Italian Farmyard as Seen by Shelley.
The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Harry Buxton Forman. Vol. iv, p. 43.
School Life in Italy.
Glimpses of School Life in Italy. Mary Sifton Pepper.Chautauqua. Vol. xxxv, p. 550.
Education in Italy. Alex Oldrini.Chautauqua. Vol. xviii, p. 413.
A Night in Italy.
Exits and Entrances. Charles Warren Stoddard. P. 41.
Poem.—In Italy.
Poetical Works. Bayard Taylor. P. 130.
Life in Modern Italy.
In Italy. John H. Vincent.Chautauqua. Vol. xviii, p. 387.
Life in Modern Italy. Bella H. Stillman.Chautauqua. Vol. xi, p. 6.
"The seeds of godlike power are in us still;Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!"
—Matthew Arnold
Poem.—The Watch of the Old Gods.
Poverty among the Ancient Romans.
Society in Rome under the Caesars. William Ralph Inge. Chap. iii.
The Private Life of the Romans. H. W. Johnston. P. 305.
The Ancient City. Fustel De Coulanges. P. 449.
Poverty among the Americans.
The Problem of Poverty. Robert Hunter.Outlook. Vol. lxxix, p. 902.
The Weary World of Human Misery.World's Work. Vol. xvi, p. 10526.
How the Other Half Lives. Jacob Riis. Chap. xxii, p. 255.
The Craze for Amusement among the Ancient Romans.
Society in Rome under the Caesars. William Ralph Inge. Chap. ix.
Readings in Ancient History. Rome and the West. William Stearns Davis. P. 194.
The Craze for Amusement among the Americans.
What New York spends at the Theaters.Literary Digest. Vol. xlv, p. 19.
Luxury and Extravagance in Ancient Rome.
Rome: The Eternal City. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. ii, pp. 524, 529.
Society in Rome under the Caesars. William Ralph Inge. P. 262.
Readings in Ancient History. Rome and the West. William Stearns Davis. P. 305.
Luxury and Extravagance among Americans.
Newport: The City of Luxury. Jonathan T. Lincoln.Atlantic Monthly. Vol. cii, p. 162.
Housekeeping on Half-a-million a Year. Emily Harington.Everybody's. Vol. xiv, p. 497.
The Passing of the Idle Rich. Frederick Townsend Martin. Chap. ii, p. 23.
Poem.—Tempora Mutantur.
Poetical Works. John G. Saxe. P. 98.
A Boston gentleman declares,By all the gods above, below,
That our degenerate sons and heirsMust let their Greek and Latin go!
Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore,A dispensation harsh as that;
What! wipe away the sweets of yore;The dear "amo, amas, amat?"
The sweetest hour the student knowsIs not when poring over French,
Or twisted in Teutonic throes,Upon a hard collegiate bench;
'Tis when on roots and kais and garsHe feeds his soul and feels it glow,
Or when his mind transcends the starsWith "Zoa mou, sas agapo!"
So give our bright, ambitious boysAn inkling of these pleasures, too—
A little smattering of the joysTheir dead and buried fathers knew;
And let them sing—while glorying thatTheir sires so sang, long years ago—
The songs "amo, amas, amat"And "Zoa mou, sas agapo!"
—Eugene Field
I remember the very day when the schoolmaster gave it to me.... And I remember that the rather stern and aquiline face of our teacher relaxed into mildness for a moment. Both we and our books must have looked very fresh and new to him, though we may all be a little battered now; at least, myNew Latin Tutoris. It is a very precious book, and it should be robed in choice Turkey morocco, were not the very covers too much a part of the association to be changed. For between them I gathered the seed-grain of many harvests of delight; through this low archway I first looked upon the immeasurable beauty of words....
What liquid words were these:aqua,aura,unda! All English poetry that I had yet learned by heart—it is only children who learn by heart, grown people "commit to memory"—had not so awakened the vision of what literature might mean. Thenceforth all life became ideal....
Then human passion, tender, faithful, immortal, came also by and beckoned. "But let me die," she said. "Thus, thus it delights me to go under the shades." Or that infinite tenderness, the stronger even for its opening moderation of utterance, the last sigh of Aeneas after Dido,—
Nec me meminisse pigebit ElissamDum memor ipse mihi, dum spiritus hos regit artus....
Or, with more definite and sublime grandeur, the vast forms of Roman statesmanship appear: "Today, Romans, you behold the commonwealth, the lives of you all, estates, fortunes, wives and children, and the seat of this most renowned empire, this most fortunate and beautiful city, preserved and restored to you by the distinguished love of the immortal gods, and by my toils, counsels, and dangers."
What great thoughts were found within these pages, what a Roman vigor was in these maxims! "It is Roman to do and sufferbravely." "It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country." "He that gives himself up to pleasure, is not worthy the name of a man."...
There was nothing harsh or stern in this book, no cynicism, no indifference; but it was a flower-garden of lovely out-door allusions, a gallery of great deeds; and as I have said before, it formed the child's first real glimpse into the kingdom of words.
I was once asked by a doctor of divinity, who was also the overseer of a college, whether I ever knew any one to look back with pleasure upon his early studies in Latin and Greek. It was like being asked if one looked back with pleasure on summer mornings and evenings. No doubt those languages, like all others, have fared hard at the hands of pedants; and there are active boys who hate all study, and others who love the natural sciences alone. Indeed, it is a hasty assumption, that the majority of boys hate Latin and Greek. I find that most college graduates, at least, retain some relish for the memory of such studies, even if they have utterly lost the power to masticate or digest them. "Though they speak no Greek, they love the sound on't." Many a respectable citizen still loves to look at his Horace or Virgil on the shelf where it has stood undisturbed for a dozen years; he looks, and thinks that he too lived in Arcadia.... The books link him with culture, and universities, and the traditions of great scholars.
On some stormy Sunday, he thinks, he will take them down. At length he tries it; he handles the volume awkwardly, as he does his infant; but it is something to be able to say that neither book nor baby has been actually dropped. He likes to know that there is a tie between him and each of these possessions, though he is willing, it must be owned, to leave the daily care of each in more familiar hands....
I must honestly say that much of the modern outcry against classical studies seems to me to be (as in the case of good Dr. Jacob Bigelow) a frank hostility to literature itself, as the supposed rival of science; or a willingness (as in Professor Atkinson'scase) to tolerate modern literature, while discouraging the study of the ancient. Both seem to commit the error of drawing their examples of abuse from England, and applying their warnings to America.... Because the House of Commons was once said to care more for a false quantity in Latin verse than in English morals, shall we visit equal indignation on a House of Representatives that had to send for a classical dictionary to find out who Thersites was?...
Granted, that foreign systems of education may err by insisting on the arts of literary structure too much; think what we should lose by dwelling on them too little! The magic of mere words; the mission of language; the worth of form as well as of matter; the power to make a common thought immortal in a phrase, so that your fancy can no more detach the one from the other than it can separate the soul and body of a child; it was the veiled half revelation of these things that made that old text-book forever fragrant to me. There are in it the still visible traces of wild flowers which I used to press between the pages, on the way to school; but it was the pressed flowers of Latin poetry that were embalmed there first. These are blossoms that do not fade.
—Thomas Wentworth Higginson
Andrew Lang, in hisAdventures Among Books, writes:
"Saint Augustine, like Sir Walter Scott at the University of Edinburgh, was 'The Greek Dunce.' Both of these great men, to their sorrow and loss, absolutely and totally declined to learn Greek. 'But what the reason was why I hated the Greek language, while I was taught it, being a child, I do not yet understand.' The Saint was far from being alone in that distaste, and he who writes loathed Greek like poison—till he came to Homer. Latin the Saint loved, except 'when reading, writing, and casting of accounts was taught in Latin, which I held not far less painfulor penal than the very Greek. I wept for Dido's death, who made herself away with the sword,' he declares, 'and even so, the saying that two and two makes four was an ungrateful song in mine ears, whereas the wooden horse full of armed men, the burning of Troy, and the very Ghost of Creusa, was a most delightful spectacle of vanity.'"
Were the old gods watching yet,From their cloudy summits afar,At evening under the evening star,After the star is set,Would they see in these thronging streets,Where the life of the city beatsWith endless rush and strain,Men of a better mold,Nobler in heart and brain,Than the men of three thousand years ago,In the pagan cities old,O'er which the lichens and ivy grow?
Would they not see as they sawIn the younger days of the race,The dark results of broken law,In the bent form and brutal faceOf the slave of passions as old as earth,And young as the infants of last night's birth?Alas! the old gods no longer keepTheir watch from the cloudy steep;But, though all on Olympus lie deadYet the smoke of commerce still rollsFrom the sacrifice of souls,To the heaven that bends overhead.
Still, as we saunter down the crowded street,On our own thoughts intent, and plans and pleasures,
For miles and miles beneath our idle feet,Rome buries from the day yet unknown treasures.
The whole world's alphabet, in every lineSome stirring page of history she recalls,—
Her Alpha is the Prison Mamertine,Her Omega, St. Paul's, without the walls.
Above, beneath, around, she weaves her spells,And ruder hands unweave them all in vain:
Who once within her fascination dwells,Leaves her with but one thought—to come again.
So cast thy obol into Trevi's fountain—Drink of its waters, and, returning home,
Pray that by land or sea, by lake or mountain,"All roads alike may lead at last to Rome."
—Herman Merivale
Rome ruled in all her matchless pride,Queen of the world, an empire-state;
Her eagles conquered far and wide;Her word was law, her will was fate.
Within her immemorial wallsThe temples of the gods looked down;
Her forum echoed with the callsTo greater conquest and renown.
All wealth, all splendor, and all mightThe world could give, before her lay;
She dreamed not there could come a nightTo dim the glory of her day.
Rome perished: Legions could not save,Nor wealth, nor might, nor majesty,—
The Roman had become a slave,But the barbarian was free.
—Arthur Chamberlain
It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might,And now was queen of land and sea.No sound was heard of clashing wars—Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:Apollo, Pallas, Jove and MarsHeld undisturbed their ancient reign,In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty RomeImpatient, urged his chariot's flight,From lordly revel rolling home:Triumphal arches, gleaming, swellHis breast with thoughts of boundless sway:What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away,In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago?
Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boor;A streak of light before him lay,Falling through a half shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed—for naughtTold what was going on within:How keen the stars, his only thought—The air how calm, and cold and thinIn the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!
Oh, strange indifference! low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still—but knew not why,The world was listening, unawares.How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment, none would heed,Man's doom was linked no more to sever—In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!
It is the calm and silent night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness—charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn,To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay, new-born,The peaceful prince of earth and heaven,In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!
—Alfred Dommett
Rome, Rome! thou art no moreAs thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yoreThou satt'st a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs thenPurpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred menBow'd at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore,As gods were seen—
Rome, Rome! thou art no moreAs thou hast been!
Rome! thine imperial browNever shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?—Thou hast thy skies!
Blue, deeply blue, they are,Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar,With color'd light.
Thou hast the sunset's glow,Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress bough,Temple and tower!
And all sweet sounds are thine,Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrineRests darkly clear.
Many a solemn hymn,By starlight sung,
Sweeps through the arches dim,Thy wrecks among.
Many a flute's low swell,On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwellWith summer there.
Thou hast the south's rich giftOf sudden song—
A charmed fountain, swift,Joyous and strong.
Thou hast fair forms that moveWith queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes aboveThy mighty dead.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shoreA mournful mien:
Rome, Rome! Thou art no moreAs thou hast been!
—Mrs. Hemans
Rising from the purpling waterWith her brow of stone,
Sprite or nymph or Triton's daughter,
Rising from the purpling water,Capri sits alone—
Sits and looks across the billowNow the day is done
Resting on her rocky pillow
Sits and looks across the billowToward the setting sun.
Misty visions trooping sadlyGlimmer through her tears,
Shapes of men contending madly,—
Misty visions trooping sadlyFrom the vanished years.
Here Tiberius from his palaceOn the headland gray
Hurls his foes with gleeful malice,
Proud Tiberius at his palaceMurd'ring men for play.
There Lamarque's recruits advancingScale yon rocky spot,
'Neath the moon their bright steel glancing,
See Lamarque's recruits advancingThrough a storm of shot.
But today the goat bells' tinkleAnd the vespers chime,
Vineyards shade each rock-hewn wrinkle,
And today the goat bells' tinkleMarks a happier time.
Soft the olive groves are gleaming,War has found surcease,
And as Capri sits a-dreaming
Soft the olive groves are gleaming,Crowning her with peace.
—Walter Taylor Field
Set where the upper streams of Simois flowWas the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;
And Hector was in Ilium, far below,And fought, and saw it not—but there it stood!
It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their lightOn the pure columns of its glen-built hall.
Backward and forward rolled the waves of fightRound Troy,—but while this stood, Troy could not fall.
So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air;
Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll;We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!
Men will renew the battle in the plainTomorrow; red with blood will Xanthus be;
Hector and Ajax will be there again,Helen will come upon the wall to see.
Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife,And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs,
And fancy that we put forth all our life,And never know how with the soul it fares.
Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high,Upon our life a ruling effluence send;
And when it fails, fight as we will, we die,And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.
—Matthew Arnold