No More Learning

. . . . .






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 hereditary domain 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 constant drunkenness, 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
were fairly matched against each other.

The fame of Greece in arms, as well as in arts, was then at the
height. Half a century earlier, the career of Alexander had
excited the admiration and terror of all nations from the Ganges
to the Pillars of Hercules. Royal houses, founded by Macedonian
captains, still reigned at Antioch and Alexandria. That barbarian
warriors, led by barbarian chiefs, should win a pitched battle
against Greek valor guided by Greek science, seemed as incredible
as it would now seem that the Burmese or the Siamese should, in
the open plain, put to flight an equal number of the best English
troops. The Tarentines were convinced that their countrymen were
irresistible in war; and this conviction had emboldened them to
treat with the grossest indignity one whom they regarded as the
representative of an inferior race.