University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER II.

—Horace, Ode 1.

—Wink: ed. 1649, p. 46.

It was no common meeting. The sporting world of Rome,
and all its provinces, were on the Campus Martius. Spain
sent her jennets from her dark Moriscan stables, and her wild
mountain rovers flashed their long manes around the heads of
their safe-seated Guerillas. Gaul entered untrimmed fetlocks.
Brittania stamped the track with heavy cart-horse hoofs. Sarmatia
sweated, Dacia pranced upon the track. Greece stood
unsaddled in clear Spartan ribs, and trod, beside this simple
fit-out, magnificent in rich Corinthian adornment. Numidia
sent her wild eye-lightnings and Libya tramped the plain with
foaming teeth. Egypt entered Cleopatra,—Black Maria of
her mistress queen. Syrian, Babylonian, Median, Mesopotamian,
all, were there. Felix Arabia walked out her splendid
stallions, bitted by stately Bedouins. The Imaum of Muscat
glorified his country by the challenge of two lippers of the
Persian Gulf. Great Jupiter! what an anniversary!

The Course was free for all four-year-olds that never had

been matched before; chariots not be more than four feet from
hub to hub of hind wheel; steeds unlimited in number,—the
parties litigant to draw for places.

The Prætor's trumpet blew a summon blast, and straight a
host of pawing combatants neighed at the starting post. The
Meta was scarcely seen for feather floaters. The Red, the
White, the Green, the Blue, the Golden and the Purple mountings
mingled sparklings of ambition for the glory of success.[5]
It was a goodly sight to see the foamy rush of the wave-breasted
steeds stopped on the instant into marble statue movement
by the stern muscles of their godlike drivers. First stood
Marcellus, with his followers in Blue, holding a pair of milk-white
colts from Elis, unbroken yet, but kind, great in their
name, the gift of a Greek girl, daughter of a happy hero
who bore away the wreath victorious at the last Olympic, and
died as he was crowned. 'T was said their sires were the
horses of the Sun, who in the last eclipse stole time and loved
their vein-swollen mothers. Hard upon him pressing, scarcely,
with desperate force, young Julius reined his four-in-hand
of dark-lashed Gypsies—true bred, fresh, fed with grain, and
groomed upon the meadows of the Nile, and signalled by their
nature, Green. Whose panting ardor steamed by his side?
'T was Sergius Cataline sending fire through his reins to the
fifth couple-leaders.[6] Close by his side rushed all his band
of friends, traitors to Rome—pimps of intriguing Fulvia, rob

bers of virtuous youth, and haters fierce of keen watching
Cicero. Cassius and Cethegus, Lentulus and Curius, stood
each—in false conspiracy, urging ferocious warrior steeds to
aid their leader, and defeat the faction upon which Cicero had
bet with Cataline—in chariots side-armed with scythes, to cut
their adversaries' horses down. They flared in Red. Next
stood Gracchus, proud in his gorgeous family “Purple.”
Mark Antony shone in Gold behind six proud-necked bitchampers.
Last of all, a Knight, unknown, stood like a god,
with foot advanced upon his dashboard of pure pearl, grooming,
with skilful ease, three pair of coal-black ear-glistening
limb-tremblers, unable to stand still, and rolling fire from their
nostrils,[7] —himself and reins and harness all in brilliant white,
and sparkling steel. The ladies cried “behold Apollo!” as
they owned with beating hearts the heavenly grace of his
recognition of the shouts of commendation which went to the
skies from the hundred thousand throats;[8] and freely wagered
rings and bracelets upon the gallant stranger's triumph.

The sacred rites were celebrated, the lots were drawn, and
straight, obedient to the rules established, the factions took
their stations. The Master of the Lude dropped his white

kerchief, and then dashed, with ocean-like ferocity, the rainbow-painted
waves of the raging combatants. Julius took the
lead, and “Green!” “Green!” was the cry. Hard behind
lashed Cataline, and all his faction. “Blue,” “purple,”
“white,” and “golden,” seemed to hang back to watch the
chance for a dash.

“Green!—Blue!—Purple!—Golden!” went up the shouts
from the friends of the different factions as they became involved
in dust, and locked each other's wheels. None cried
“Red,” for even the stable boys hated Cataline. “White!”
screamed Lucretia, although he lagged behind, and seemed to
fear. “White against the field.”

“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Cornelius Grab-us Agrip-onus,
who sat near her.

“The chiel's distraught,” quietly remarked an old Scotch
servant-woman behind,—brought out by the Cæsar,—“what'll
ye bet, my lassie?”

The baby which the slave had on her arm then set up a domestic
yell, and with the vociferations of the boy, and people
in the box—“I want to go home”—and “Turn her out”—
Lucretia's answer was lost. What cared she?

“The White!—look!”—shouted Lucretia; “see! he is
discounting lashes freely! His whip touches the flank of the
near side leader! He is in the melee! He gains! He is
ahead of all but Cataline!”

“I can't see, my dear, so plain as thee can,” said an African
Quakeress, whom the Spirit had moved to come from the
borders of the Red Sea to see this uncommon race,—“I can't
see, my dear, so well as thee, on account of the dust, but I
think, I mean, I fear thee is in love with that `White,'—his mistress,
likely,—but he'll burst his boiler, and smash his bank—
chariot I mean—before he gets to the first Meta.”

“Out on thee! for a foul witch!” replied Lucretia, very
quietly,—like all women,—and, suiting the action to the word,
laid, with impressive significance, the back of her hand upon
the fat lips of the prophetic Abyssinian. Faintness followed,
and the doorkeeper, with the utmost kindness, dragged out
the smitten slave. She never attended quaker meetings again.
Drs. Auger and Aruspex, and their students, dug her up
about a year afterwards, and one of them delivered a lecture
over her bones at the Museum on the interesting topic of Ourang
Outangs.

“White! white! white!” now vociferated the excited girl.
But none would bet her more, and the timid began to hedge—
hard work, too, to find a hedge to hide behind—for the noble
lady's shouts had reached the unknown's ear, and he was mad
with strength and skill.

Short time was there to bet or hedge; for the first meta[9]
was approached by such a troop of sweepstakers as never had
been seen before. Some honor-seeker must be dashed against
the horrid columns, dedicated to the gods, which marked the
turning point, or crushed between the antagonistic chariots.
Who must be thrown under prostrate horses! Who must
die? “On, white;” cried Cicero. “Whip, golden!”—
“Whip, green!” halloed some shoemaker's apprentices, and
laborers of Erinnys. “Steady, hold! White! white! for
the love of Heaven! hold and wait!” shrieked Lucretia.
Mark, mark, how impious Cataline and his crew let out their

secret-spring-bowie-scythes, and hold hard back to cut the
horses of Marcellus! The noble youth had seen, and reining
hard, held back, and knew with horror, but determined
vengeance, Marcellus, cut in twain, his horses madly running
with half his body bleeding in his chariot. Upon the other
half, prone in the dust, crowned with rich auburn locks, and
eyes beautiful in death, the leaders of Mark Antony stumbled
and stopped. The cursed scythe of Lentulus cut his wheel-horses.
Cethegus, with his hubs of heavy steel, crushed in
his chariot sides, and Mark was tossed at least full fifty yards,
into the stall of an old woman who sold crabs, just outside the
track. “There's an end of that poor nigger,” sang out Cataline.
The “Green,”—unhappy Julius, green enough,—ran
against the marble column on the left, and smashed himself
into life eternal. Cethegus and Lentulus pressing on, got entangled
in their own snares, and cut each other. Off their
nags jumped, and struck their comrade Curius. It was curious
indeed to see how they leaped the barriers, and ran across the
field. The “Gracchus” then made a bold dash, but his unwilling
mare shyed, backed, and kicked at the sight of the
mixed up blood of dying men and horses, and whip nor spur
would make them move. None then remained but Cataline
and the unknown white knight. O! with what an agony of
anxiety did Lucretia cry, “Be wary of his cursed poisonous
sword-point!” “Kill him!” cried the master of the Lude—
“he rides foul, and murders!” “Kill him;”—“Stab him;”
cried the whole assembled multitude. The white knight
raised his whip,—with one end he lashed his streaming leaders,—with
the other, heavy loaded, he gave Mr. Cataline a
crack on the head, that tumbled him out of his vehicle. His
horses ran away just where they had a mind to. He fell into
the trench. Some Irishmen pulled him out, but he was very
muddy. Some thought he was a little drunk. The white
knight walked his horses over the course, as the waves walked
over the smitten Egyptians, treading upon the bodies of his
foes, and took the wreath of glory.

That night he married Lucretia.

The White Knight was the son of Cicero.