great an extent as we ever found in the other. passages-and how a little difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat, and the play, afterwards! Now we can only pay our money, and walk in. You cannot see, you say, in the galleries now. I am sure we saw, and heard too, well enough then-but sight, and all, I think is gone with our poverty.

"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks | With such reflections we consoled our pride then to Enfield, and Potter's Bar, and Waltham,12 and I appeal to you, whether, as a woman, I when we had a holiday-holidays and all other met generally with less attention and accommofun are gone, now we are rich-and the little dation than I have done since in more expensive uandbasket in which I used to deposit our day's situations in the house? The getting in indeed, fare of savory cold lamb and salad-and how and the crowding up those inconvenient stairyou would pry about at noontide for some cases, was bad enough, but there was still a decent house, where we might go in, and pro-law of civility to women recognized to quite as duce our store-only paying for the ale that you must call for-and speculate upon the looks of the landlady, and whether she was likely to allow us a table-cloth-and wish for such another honest hostess, as Izaak Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when he went a-fishing-and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us-but we had cheerful looks still for one another, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely grudging Piscator13 his Trout Hall? Now; when we go out a day's pleasuring, which is seldom moreover, we ride part of the way-and go into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners, never debating the expense-which, after all, never has half the relish of those chance country snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage, and a precarious welcome.

"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they became quite common-in the first dish of peas, while they were yet dear-to have them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat can we have now? If we were to treat ourselves now-that is, to have dainties a little above our means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the very little more that we allow ourselves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes what I call a treat-when two people, living together as we have done, now and then indulge

make much of ourselves. None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty.

"You are too proud to see a play anywhere themselves in a cheap luxury which both like; now but in the pit. Do you remember where it while each apologizes, and is willing to take was we used to sit, when we saw the Battle of both halves of the blame to his single share. Hexam and the Surrender of Calais,14 and Ban-I see no harm in people making much of themnister15 and Mrs. Bland in the Children in the selves, in that sense of the word. It may give Wood16-when we squeezed out our shilling|them a hint how to make much of others. But a-piece to sit three or four times in a season in now-what I mean by the word-we never do the one-shilling gallery-where you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought meand more strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me and the pleasure was the better for a little shame-and when the curtain drew up, what cared we for our place in the house, or what mattered it where we were sitting, when our thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden, or with Viola at the court of Illyria?17 You used to say, that the gallery was the best place of all for enjoying a play socially-that the relish of such exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going-that the company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to what was going on, on the stage -because a word lost would have been a chasm, which it was impossible for them to fill up.

12 London suburbs.
13 See Walton's The
Complete Angler, p.
264.
14 Plays by George Col-
man the younger.

"I know what you were going to say, that it is mighty pleasant at the end of the year to make all meet-and much ado we used to have every Thirty-first Night of December to account for our exceedings-many a long face did you make over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to make it out how we had spent so much-or that we had not spent so much-or that it was impossible we should spend so much next year-and still we found our slender capital decreasing but then, betwixt ways, and projects, and compromises of one sort or another, and talk of curtailing this charge, and doing without that for the future-and the hope that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in which you were never poor till now), we pock15 John Bannister, aeted up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty 16 A comedy by Thomas brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of hearty cheerful Mr. Cotton,18 as you called

pupil of Garrick.
Morton.

17 In As You Like It
and Twelfth Night.

18 Charles Cotton: The New Year.

him), we used to welcome in the 'coming guest.' Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of the old year-no flattering promises about the new year doing better for us.''

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864)

FROM IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS
METELLUS AND MARIUS*

My or

Metellus. Even So, wert thou willing. Wouldst thou mount it?

Marius. Rejoicingly. If none are below or near, may I explore the state of things by entering the city?

Metellus. Use thy discretion in that.
What seest thou? Wouldst thou leap down?
Lift the ladder.

Marius. Are there spikes in it where it sticks in the turf? I should slip else.

Bridget is so sparing of her speech on most occasions, that when she gets into a rhetorical vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could not help, however, smiling at the phantom of Metellus. Well met, Caius Marius! wealth which her dear imagination had conjured ders are to find instantly a centurion who shall up out of a clear income of poor hundred mount the walls; one capable of observation, pounds a year. "It is true we were happier acute in remark, prompt, calm, active, intrepid. when we were poorer, but we were also younger, The Numantians are sacrificing to the gods in my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with secrecy; they have sounded the horn once only, the excess, for if we were to shake the superflux and hoarsely and low and mournfully. into the sea, we should not much mend ourselves. Marius. Was that ladder I see yonder That we had much to struggle with, as we grew among the caper-bushes and purple lilies, unup together, we have reason to be most thank-der where the fig-tree grows out of the ramful. It strengthened, and knit our compact part, left for me? closer. We could never have been what we have been to each other, if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain of. The resisting power-those natural dilations of the youthful spirit, which circumstances cannot straiten-with us are long since passed away. Competence to age is supplementary youth; a sorry supplement indeed, but I fear the best that is to be had. We must ride, where we formerly walked; live better, and lie softer-and shall be wise to do so-than we had means to do in those good old days you speak of. Yet could those days return-could you and I once more walk our thirty miles a-day-could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again be young, and you and I be young to see them-could the good old oneshilling gallery days return-they are dreams, my cousin, now-but could you and I at this moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fireside, sitting on this luxurious sofa-be once more struggling up those inconvenient staircases, pushed about, and squeezed, and elbowed by the poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers-could I once more hear those anxious shrieks of yours-and the delicious Thank God, we are safe, which always followed when the topmost stair, conquered, let in the first light of the whole cheerful theatre down beneath us-I know not the fathom line that ever touched a descent so deep as I would be willing to bury more wealth in than Croesus19 had, or the great Jew R -20 is supposed to

Metellus. How! bravest of our centurions, art even thou afraid? Seest thou any one by? Marius. Ay; some hundreds close beneath me..

Metellus. Retire, then. Hasten back; I will protect thy descent.

Marius. May I speak, O Metellus, without an offence to discipline? Metellus. Say.

Marius. Listen! Dost thou not hear? Metellus. Shame on thee! alight, alight! my shield shall cover thee.

Marius. There is a murmur like the hum of bees in the bean-field of Cereaté;1 for the sun is hot, and the ground is thirsty. When will it 1 The rustic home of Marius's childhood, near Arpinum.

men

The siege and capture, in 132 B. C., of the Numantians, struggling with 8,000 against the whole power of Rome, was one of the stages in the disgraceful third Punic war, which was conducted by Scipio Africanus the Younger. Caius Cæcilius Metellus, the tribune, was a comparatively unimportant personage. Marius, the centurion, of obscure birth, rose later to be seven times consul. Plutarch tells us that Scipio had marked the youth's good qualities, and when asked who should succeed himself in case of accident, had touched the shoulder of Marius, saying, "Perhaps this man" which saying "raised the hopes of Marius like a divine oracle." On this slight historical foundation Landor constructs his dramatic scene. The Numantians, in all probability, had no regular walls; and Appian says that some of them preferred surrender to death and were led in a Roman Triumph.

have drunk up for me the blood that has run, | Caius Marius? Thy visage is scorched: thy and is yet oozing on it, from those fresh speech may wander after such an enterprise; bodies!

thy shield burns my hand.

Marius. I thought it had cooled again. Why, truly, it seems hot: I now feel it.

Metellus. How! We have not fought for many days; what bodies, then, are fresh ones? Marius. Close beneath the wall are those of infants and of girls; in the middle of the road are youths, emaciated; some either unwounded or wounded months ago; some on their spears, others on their swords: no few have received in mutual death the last interchange of friendship; their daggers unite them, hilt to hilt, bosom to bosom. Metellus. Mark rather the living,-what are could not kill, could not part from. She had they about?

Metellus. Wipe off those embers. Marius. "Twere better: there will be none opposite to shake them upon, for some time. The funereal horn, that sounded with such feebleness, sounded not so from the faint heart of him who blew it. Him I saw; him only of the living. Should I say it? there was another: there was one child whom its parent

hidden it in her robe, I suspect; and, when the Marius. About the sacrifice, which portends fire had reached it, either it shrieked or she them, I conjecture, but little good,-it burns did. For suddenly a cry pierced through the sullenly and slowly. The victim will lie upon crackling pinewood, and something of round the pyre till morning, and still be unconsumed, unless they bring more fuel.

I will leap down and walk on cautiously, and return with tidings, if death should spare me. Never was any race of mortals so unmilitary as these Numantians; no watch, no stations, no palisades across the streets.

in figure fell from brand to brand, until it reached the pavement, at the feet of him who had blown the horn. I rushed toward him, for I wanted to hear the whole story, and felt the pressure of time. Condemn not my weakness, O Cæcilius! I wished an enemy to live an hour longer; for my orders were to explore and

Metellus. Did they want, then, all the wood bring intelligence. When I gazed on him, in for the altar?

Marius. It appears so-I will return anon. Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave, honest Marius!

Marius (returned). The ladder should have been better spiked for that slippery ground. I am down again safe, however. Here a man may walk securely, and without picking his steps.

height almost gigantic, I wondered not that the blast of his trumpet was so weak: rather did I wonder that Famine, whose hand had indented every limb and feature, had left him any voice articulate. I rushed toward him, however, ere my eyes had measured either his form or strength. He held the child against me, and staggered under it.

"Behold, " he exclaimed, "the glorious orsawest.nament of a Roman triumph!"'

Metellus. Tell me, Caius, what thou
Marius. The streets of Numantia.
Metellus. Doubtless; but what else?
Marius. The temples and markets and places
of exercise and fountains.

Metellus. Art thou crazed, centurion? what more? Speak plainly, at once, and briefly.

Marius. I beheld, then, all Numantia. Metellus. Has terror maddened thee? hast thou descried nothing of the inhabitants but those carcasses under the ramparts?

Marius. Those, O Metellus, lie scattered, although not indeed far asunder. The greater part of the soldiers and citizens-of the fathers, husbands, widows, wives, espousedwere assembled together.

Metellus. About the altar?
Marius. Upon it.

I

I stood horror-stricken; when suddenly drops, as of rain, pattered down from the pyre. looked; and many were the precious stones, many were the amulets and rings and bracelets, and other barbaric ornaments, unknown to me in form or purpose, that tinkled on the hardened and black branches, from mothers and wives and betrothed maids; and some, too, I can imagine, from robuster arms-things of joyance, won in battle. The crowd of incumbent bodies was so dense and heavy, that neither the fire nor the smoke could penetrate upward from among them; and they sank, whole and at once, into the smouldering cavern eaten out below. He at whose neck hung the trumpet felt this, and started.

"There is yet room," he cried, "and there

Metellus. So busy and earnest in devotion! is strength enough yet, both in the element and but how all upon it?

Marius. It blazed under them, and over

them, and round about them.

in me."

He extended his withered arms, he thrust forward the gaunt links of his throat, and upon

Metellus. Immortal gods! Art thou sane, gnarled knees, that smote each other audibly,

tottered into the civic2 fire. It-like some hun- | haply their old fathers and mothers, were draggry and strangest beast on the innermost wild ging the abandoned wain homeward. Although of Africa, pierced, broken, prostrate, motion- we were accompanied by many brave spearmen less, gazed at by its hunter in the impatience of glory, in the delight of awe-panted once more, and seized him.

I have seen within this hour, O Metellus, what Rome in the cycle of her triumphs will never see, what the Sun in his eternal course can never show her, what the Earth has borne but now, and must never rear again for her, what Victory herself has envied her, a Numantian. Metellus. We shall feast to-morrow. Hope, Caius Marius, to become a tribune: trust in fortune.

and skilful archers, it was perilous to pass the creatures which the farm-yard dogs, driven from the hearth by the poverty of their masters, were tearing and devouring; while others, bitten and lamed, filled the air either with long and deep howls or sharp and quick barkings, as they struggled with hunger and feebleness, or were exasperated by heat and pain. Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor the bruised branches of the fir-tree, extinguish or abate the foul odour.

Leofric. And now, Godiva, my darling, thou art afraid we should be eaten up before we

Marius. Auguries are surer: surest of all is enter the gates of Coventry; or perchance that perseverance.

Metellus. I hope the wine has not grown vapid in my tent: I have kept it waiting, and must now report to Scipio the intelligence of our discovery. Come after me, Caius.

Marius (alone). The tribune is the erer! the centurion is the scout!

in the gardens there are no roses to greet thee, no sweet herbs for thy mat and pillow.

Godiva. Leofric, I have no such fears. This is the month of roses: I find them everywhere since my blessed marriage. They, and all other discov-sweet herbs, I know not why, seem to greet me Caius wherever I look at them, as though they knew Marius must enter more Numantias. Light- and expected me. Surely they cannot feel that hearted Cæcilius, thou mayest perhaps here- I am fond of them. after, and not with humbled but with exulting pride, take orders from this hand. If Scipio's words are fate, and to me they sound so, the portals of the Capitol may shake before my chariot, as my horses plunge back at the applauses of the people, and Jove in his high domiciles may welcome the citizen of Arpinum.

LEOFRIC AND GODIVA*

Godiva. There is a dearth in the land, my sweet Leofric! Remember how many weeks of drought we have had, even in the deep pastures of Leicestershire; and how many Sundays we have heard the same prayers for rain, and supplications that it would please the Lord in his mercy to turn aside his anger from the poor, pining cattle. You, my dear husband, have imprisoned more than one malefactor for leaving his dead ox in the public way; and other hinds4 have fled before you out of the traces, in which they, and their sons and their daughters, and

2 citizens' (perhaps after the analogy of the
"civic" crown, conferred for distinction)
3 The Temple of Jupiter, whither the leader of a
Triumph went to offer sacrifice.

4 peasants.

According to legend, Leofric, Earl of Mercia in the 11th century, acceded to his wife's plea, that he remit a certain burdensome tax on the people, on the harsh condition that she should ride through the street naked at noonday. She fulfilled the condition with modesty, owing to her luxuriant hair.

Leofric. O light, laughing simpleton! But what wouldst thou? I came not hither to pray; and yet if praying would satisfy thee, or remove the drought, I would ride up straightway to Saint Michael's and pray until morning.

Godiva. I would do the same, O Leofric! but God hath turned away his ear from holier lips than mine. Would my own, dear husband hear me, if I implored him for what is easier to accomplish,-what he can do like God? Leofric. How! what is it?

Godiva. I would not, in the first hurry of your wrath, appeal to you, my loving Lord, in behalf of these unhappy men who have offended you.

Leofric. Unhappy! is that all?

Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be, to have offended you so grievously. What a soft air breathes over us! how quiet and serene and still an evening! how calm are the heavens and the earth!-Shall none enjoy them; not even we, my Leofric? The sun is ready to set: let it never set, O Leofric, on your anger. These are not my words: they are better than mine.5 Should they lose their virtue from my unworthiness in uttering them?

Leofric. Godiva, wouldst thou plead to me for rebels?

Godiva. They have, then, drawn the sword against you? Indeed, I knew it not.

5 Ephesians, iv, 26.

Leofric. They have omitted to send me my | my husband, we must obey it. Look upon me! dues, established by my ancestors, well knowing look upon me! lift your sweet eyes from the of our nuptials, and of the charges and festivi- ground! I will not cease to supplicate; I dare ties they require, and that in a season of such scarcity my own lands are insufficient.

Leofric. Must I starve too? Is it not enough the infants cry for sustenance! The mother of to lose my vassals? our blessed Lord will hear them; us never, never afterward.

Godwa. I have, indeed, lost myself. Some Power, some good kind Power, melts me (body deem it an incense, good only when it is conand soul and voice) into tenderness and love. Osumed and spent, ascending with prayer and sacrifice. And, now, what was it?