Part 7 (2/2)

5.

Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite cathedral, to its agony; then was completed the pa.s.sion of the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ, which as yet had but sobbed and muttered at intervals--gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense--threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and anti-choir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying Trumpeter!--with thy love that was victorious, and thy anguish that was finis.h.i.+ng, didst enter the tumult: trumpet and echo--farewell love, and farewell anguish--rang through the dreadful _sanctus_. We, that spread flight before us, heard the tumult, as of flight, mustering behind us. In fear we looked round for the unknown steps that, in flight or in pursuit, were gathering upon our own. Who were these that followed? The faces, which no man could count--whence were _they_? ”Oh, darkness of the grave!” I exclaimed, ”that from the crimson altar and from the fiery font wert visited with secret light--that wert searched by the effulgence in the angel's eye--were these indeed thy children? Pomps of life, that, from the burials of centuries, rose again to the voice of perfect joy, could it be _ye_ that had wrapped me in the reflux of panic?” What ailed me, that I should fear when the triumphs of earth were advancing? Ah! Pariah heart within me, that couldst never hear the sound of joy without sullen whispers of treachery in ambush; that, from six years old, didst never hear the promise of perfect love, without seeing aloft amongst the stars fingers as of a man's hand, writing the secret legend--”_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust_!”--wherefore shouldst _thou_ not fear, though all men should rejoice?

Lo! as I looked back for seventy leagues through the mighty cathedral, and saw the quick and the dead that sang together to G.o.d, together that sang to the generations of man--ah! raving, as of torrents that opened on every side: trepidation, as of female and infant steps that fled--ah! rus.h.i.+ng, as of wings that chase! But I heard a voice from heaven, which said--”Let there be no reflux of panic--let there be no more fear, and no more sudden death! Cover them with joy as the tides cover the sh.o.r.e!” _That_ heard the children of the choir, _that_ heard the children of the grave. All the hosts of jubilation made ready to move. Like armies that ride in pursuit, they moved with one step. Us, that, with laurelled heads, were pa.s.sing from the cathedral through its eastern gates, they overtook, and, as with a garment, they wrapped us round with thunders that overpowered our own.

As brothers we moved together; to the skies we rose--to the dawn that advanced--to the stars that fled; rendering thanks to G.o.d in the highest--that, having hid his face through one generation behind thick clouds of War, once again was ascending--was ascending from Waterloo--in the visions of Peace; rendering thanks for thee, young girl! whom having overshadowed with his ineffable pa.s.sion of death--suddenly did G.o.d relent; suffered thy angel to turn aside his arm; and even in thee, sister unknown!

shown to me for a moment only to be hidden for ever, found an occasion to glorify his goodness. A thousand times, amongst the phantoms of sleep, has he shown thee to me, standing before the golden dawn, and ready to enter its gates--with the dreadful word going before thee--with the armies of the grave behind thee; shown thee to me, sinking, rising, fluttering, fainting, but then suddenly reconciled, adoring: a thousand times has he followed thee in the worlds of sleep--through storms; through desert seas; through the darkness of quicksands; through fugues and the persecution of fugues; through dreams, and the dreadful resurrections that are in dreams--only that at the last, with one motion of his victorious arm, he might record and emblazon the endless resurrections of his love!

DINNER, REAL AND REPUTED.

Great misconceptions have always prevailed about the Roman _dinner_.

Dinner [_coena_] was the only meal which the Romans as a nation took. It was no accident, but arose out of their whole social economy. This we shall show by running through the history of a Roman day. _Ridentem dicere, verum quid vetat_? And the course of this review will expose one or two important truths in ancient political economy, which have been wholly overlooked.

With the lark it was that the Roman rose. Not that the earliest lark rises so early in Latium as the earliest lark in England; that is, during summer: but then, on the other hand, neither does it ever rise so late. The Roman citizen was stirring with the dawn--which, allowing for the shorter longest-day and longer shortest-day of Rome, you may call about four in summer--about seven in winter. Why did he do this? Because he went to bed at a very early hour. But why did he do that? By backing in this way, we shall surely back into the very well of truth: always, if it is possible, let us have the _pourquoi_ of the _pourquoi_. The Roman went to bed early for two special reasons. 1st, Because in Rome, which had been built for a martial destiny, every habit of life had reference to the usages of war.

Every citizen, if he were not a mere proletarian animal kept at the public cost, held himself a sort of soldier-elect: the more n.o.ble he was, the more was his liability to military service: in short, all Rome, and at all times, was consciously ”in procinct.”[1] Now it was a principle of ancient warfare, that every hour of daylight had a triple worth, if valued against hours of darkness. That was one reason--a reason suggested by the understanding. But there was a second reason, far more remarkable; and this was a reason dictated by a blind necessity. It is an important fact, that this planet on which we live, this little industrious earth of ours, has developed her wealth by slow stages of increase. She was far from being the rich little globe in Caesar's days that she is at present. The earth in our days is incalculably richer, as a whole, than in the time of Charlemagne: at that time she was richer, by many a million of acres, than in the era of Augustus. In that Augustan era we descry a clear belt of cultivation, averaging about six hundred miles in depth, running in a ring-fence about the Mediterranean. This belt, _and no more_, was in decent cultivation.

Beyond that belt, there was only a wild Indian cultivation. At present what a difference! We have that very belt, but much richer, all things considered _aequatis aequandis_, than in the Roman era. The reader must not look to single cases, as that of Egypt or other parts of Africa, but take the whole collectively. On that scheme of valuation, we have the old Roman belt, the Mediterranean riband not much tarnished, and we have all the rest of Europe to boot--or, speaking in scholar's language, as a _lucro ponamus_. We say nothing of remoter gains. Such being the case, our mother, the earth, being (as a whole) so incomparably poorer, could not in the Pagan era support the expense of maintaining great empires in cold lat.i.tudes. Her purse would not reach that cost. Wherever she undertook in those early ages to rear man in great abundance, it must be where nature would consent to work in partners.h.i.+p with herself; where _warmth_ was to be had for nothing; where _clothes_ were not so entirely indispensable but that a ragged fellow might still keep himself warm; where slight _shelter_ might serve; and where the _soil_, if not absolutely richer in reversionary wealth, was more easily cultured. Nature must come forward liberally, and take a number of shares in every new joint-stock concern before it could move. Man, therefore, went to bed early in those ages, simply because his worthy mother earth could not afford him candles. She, good old lady, (or good young lady, for geologists know not[2] whether she is in that stage of her progress which corresponds to gray hairs, or to infancy, or to ”a _certain_ age,”)--she, good lady, would certainly have shuddered to hear any of her nations asking for candles. ”Candles!” She would have said, ”Who ever heard of such a thing? and with so much excellent daylight running to waste, as I have provided _gratis_! What will the wretches want next?”

The daylight, furnished _gratis_, was certainly ”neat,” and ”undeniable”

in its quality, and quite sufficient for all purposes that were honest.

Seneca, even in his own luxurious period, called those men ”_lucifugae_,”

and by other ugly names, who lived chiefly by candle-light. None but rich and luxurious men, nay, even amongst these, none but idlers _did_ live much by candle-light. An immense majority of men in Rome never lighted a candle, unless sometimes in the early dawn. And this custom of Rome was the custom also of all nations that lived round the great pond of the Mediterranean.

In Athens, Egypt, Palestine, Asia Minor, everywhere, the ancients went to bed, like good boys, from seven to nine o'clock.[3] The Turks and other people, who have succeeded to the stations and the habits of the ancients, do so at this day.

The Roman, therefore, who saw no joke in sitting round a table in the dark, went off to bed as the darkness began. Everybody did so. Old Numa Pompilius himself, was obliged to trundle off in the dusk. Tarquinius might be a very superb fellow; but we doubt whether he ever saw a farthing rushlight. And, though it may be thought that plots and conspiracies would flourish in such a city of darkness, it is to be considered, that the conspirators themselves had no more candles than honest men: both parties were in the dark.

Being up then, and stirring not long after the lark, what mischief did the Roman go about first? Now-a-days, he would have taken a pipe or a cigar.

But, alas for the ignorance of the poor heathen creatures! they had neither one nor the other. In this point, we must tax our mother earth with being really _too_ stingy. In the case of the candles, we approve of her parsimony. Much mischief is brewed by candle-light. But, it was coming it too strong to allow no tobacco. Many a wild fellow in Rome, your Gracchi, Syllas, Catilines, would not have played ”h---- and Tommy” in the way they did, if they could have soothed their angry stomachs with a cigar--a pipe has intercepted many an evil scheme. But the thing is past helping now. At Rome, you must do as ”they does” at Rome. So, after shaving, (supposing the age of the _Barbati_ to be pa.s.sed), what is the first business that our Roman will undertake? Forty to one he is a poor man, born to look upwards to his fellow-men--and not to look down upon anybody but slaves. He goes, therefore, to the palace of some grandee, some top-sawyer of the Senatorian order. This great man, for all his greatness, has turned out even sooner than himself. For he also has had no candles and no cigars; and he well knows, that before the sun looks into his portals, all his halls will be overflowing and buzzing with the matin susurrus of courtiers--the ”mane salutantes.”[4] it is as much as his popularity is worth to absent himself, or to keep people waiting. But surely, the reader may think, this poor man he might keep waiting. No, he might not; for, though poor, being a citizen, he is a gentleman. That was the consequence of keeping slaves. Wherever there is a cla.s.s of slaves, he that enjoys the _jus suffragii_ (no matter how poor) is a gentleman. The true Latin word for a gentleman is _ingentius_--a freeman and the son of a freeman.

Yet even here there _were_ distinctions. Under the Emperors, the courtiers were divided into two cla.s.ses: with respect to the superior cla.s.s, it was said of the sovereign--that he _saw_ them, (_videbat_;) with respect to the other--that he _was seen_, (”_videbatur_.”) Even Plutarch mentions it as a common boast in his times, [Greek: aemas eiden ho basileus]--_Caesar is in the habit of seeing me_; or, as a common plea for evading a suit, [Greek: ora mallon]--_I am sorry to say he is more inclined to look upon others_. And this usage derived itself (mark that well!) from the _republican_ era. The aulic spirit was propagated by the Empire, but from a republican root.

Having paid his court, you will suppose that our friend comes home to breakfast. Not at all: no such discovery as ”breakfast” had then been made: breakfast was not invented for many centuries after that. We have always admired, and always shall admire, as the very best of all human stories, Charles Lamb's account of the origin of _roast pig_ in China. Ching Ping, it seems, had suffered his father's house to be burned down; the outhouses were burned along with the house; and in one of these the pigs, by accident, were roasted to a turn. Memorable were the results for all future China and future civilization. Ping, who (like all China beside) had hitherto eaten his pig raw, now for the first time tasted it in a state of torrefaction. Of course he made his peace with his father by a part (tradition says a leg) of the new dish. The father was so astounded with the discovery, that he burned his house down once a year for the sake of coming at an annual banquet of roast pig. A curious prying sort of fellow, one Chang Pang, got to know of this. He also burned down a house with a pig in it, and had his eyes opened. The secret was ill kept--the discovery spread--many great conversions were made--houses were blazing in every part of the Celestial Empire. The insurance offices took the matter up.

One Chong Pong, detected in the very act of shutting up a pig in his drawing-room, and then firing a train, was indicted on a charge of arson.

The chief justice of Pekin, on that occasion, requested an officer of the court to hand him a piece of the roast pig, the _corpus delicti_, for pure curiosity led him to taste; but within two days after it was observed that his lords.h.i.+p's town-house was burned down. In short, all China apostatized to the new faith; and it was not until some centuries had pa.s.sed, that a great genius arose, who established the second era in the history of roast pig, by showing that it could be had without burning down a house.

No such genius had yet arisen in Rome. Breakfast was not suspected. No prophecy, no type of breakfast had been published. In fact, it took as much time and research to arrive at that great discovery as at the Copernican system. True it is, reader, that you have heard of such a word as _jentaculum_; and your dictionary translates that old heathen word by the Christian word _breakfast_. But dictionaries, one and all, are dull deceivers. Between _jentaculum_ and _breakfast_ the differences are as wide as between a horse-chestnut and chestnut horse; differences in the _time when_, in the _place where_, in the _manner how_, but preeminently in the _thing which_.

Galen is a good authority upon such a subject, since, if (like other pagans) he ate no breakfast himself, in some sense he may be called the cause of breakfast to other men, by treating of those things which could safely be taken upon an empty stomach. As to the time, he (like many other authors) says, [peri tritaen, ae (to makroteron) peri tetartaen,]

about the third, or at farthest about the fourth hour: and so exact is he, that he a.s.sumes the day to lie exactly between six and six o'clock, and to be divided into thirteen equal portions. So the time will be a few minutes before nine, or a few minutes before ten, in the forenoon. That seems fair enough. But it is not time in respect to its location that we are so much concerned with, as time in respect to its duration. Now, heaps of authorities take it for granted, that you are not to sit down--you are to stand; and, as to the place, that any place will do--”any corner of the forum,” says Galen, ”any corner that you fancy;” which is like referring a man for his _salle a manger_ to Westminster Hall or Fleet Street. Augustus, in a letter still surviving, tells us that he _jentabat_, or took his _jentaculum_ in his carriage; now in a wheel carriage, (_in essedo_,) now in a litter or palanquin (_in lectica_.) This careless and disorderly way as to time and place, and other circ.u.mstances of haste, sufficiently indicate the quality of the meal you are to expect. Already you are ”sagacious of your quarry from so far.” Not that we would presume, excellent reader, to liken you to Death, or to insinuate that you are ”a grim feature.” But would it not make a saint ”grim,” to hear of such preparations for the morning meal? And then to hear of such consummations as _panis siccus_, dry bread; or, (if the learned reader thinks it will taste better in Greek,) [Greek: artos xaeros!] And what may this word _dry_ happen to mean? ”Does it mean stale bread?” says Salmasius. ”Shall we suppose,” says he, in querulous words, ”_molli et recenti opponi_,” and from that ant.i.thesis conclude it to be, ”_durum et non recens coctum, eoque sicciorem_?” Hard and stale, and for that reason the more arid! Not quite so bad as that, we hope. Or again--”_sicc.u.m pro biscocto, ut hodie vocamus, sumemus_?”[5] By _hodie_ Salmasius means, amongst his countrymen of France, where _biscoctus_ is verbatim reproduced in the word _bis_ (twice) _cuit_, (baked;) whence our own _biscuit_. Biscuit might do very well, could we be sure that it was cabin biscuit: but Salmasius argues--that in this case he takes it to mean ”_buccellatum, qui est panis nauticus_;” that is, the s.h.i.+p company's biscuit, broken with a sledge-hammer. In Greek, for the benefit again of the learned reader, it is termed [Greek: dipuros], indicating that it has pa.s.sed twice under the action of fire.

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