 Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8, Section 31, Selected Excerpts by Cato the Sensor. Biography, Cato the Sensor, 234 to 149 BC. For many reasons, Cato the Sensor can hardly be wholly ignored in any adequate general view of literature. If we look to the chance of survival as a test of vitality, his practical and juiceless book on agriculture is the oldest volume of Latin prose extant, though we can hardly speak of it as still existing in the form given by Cato. It appears to have been cruelly modernized in outward form about the time of Augustus. Again, the sturdy old supporter of Roman simplicity was the first Italian to publish a collection of orations. 150 speeches were known to Cicero. Fragments of 80 still survive, though in many cases they are represented merely by citations given, incidentally by some late grammarian, to prove the existence of some rare word or antiquated form. Again, the Origenes of Cato would not only have afforded us if preserved welcome light upon the beginnings of Rome and many other Italian cities, but a political and military history brought down to Cato's own day and especially valuable for its fearless treatment of recent events. Indeed, his own actual speeches were taken up into the history and one of them, as partly preserved by Aulus Galeus, furnishes the best example we have of the straightforward unadorned oratory of early Rome. There is reason to believe even that Cato left what we may fairly call an encyclopedia dedicated to and compiled for his son. At any rate, he wrote largely, not to mention works already alluded to, on eloquence, medicine, the military art, etc. Yet, it must be confessed that Cato illustrates as strikingly as any figure that could be selected how little at home the true literary artist would have found himself in early Latium if a perverse fate had made it possible for him to be born there or to stray thither at all. Even his figure and face were repellent enough to stand between Socrates and Samuel Johnson as the most familiar ugly old men upon the stage of the world's life. Porceus, fiery-haired, grey-eyed and snarling at all men, says the unforgiving satirist, is unwelcome even when dead to Persephonean Hades. No authentic portrait statue of him exists. Indeed, these Roman busts and figures, especially in the earlier time, were the work of Greek artists and the likelihood of his giving a sitting to one of that race is exceedingly small. The only work of Cato's which from its title might seem to have had a poetic form was the Carmen de Moribus. It seems to have been a eulogy upon old Roman simplicity. Not only are the extant fragments in prosaic prose, but the most famous of them declares with evident regret over his own gentler days of degeneracy, their custom was to be dressed in public respectively at home so much as was needful. They paid more for horses than for cooks. The poet's art was in no honor. If a man was devoted to it or applied himself to conviviality, he was called a vagabond. Indeed, Cato's activity in literature probably had for its chief end and aim resist the incoming tide of Greek philosophy and of refinement generally. He is the very type of horse's laudator temporis acti, the eulogist of a bygone time that crude heroic time when dentitus, hero of three triumphs, ate boiled turnips in his chimney corner and had no use for Macedonian gold. Whether there was any important mass of ballads or other purely national Roman or Latin literature in that elder day has been much debated. The general voice of scholars is against Niebuhr and Macaulay. There is every indication that the practical, unimaginative Latin plowmen and spearsmen received the very alphabet of every art from vanquished Hellas. Much of this same debate has turned on a fragment from Cato. Cicero reports, in his Origenes Cato said that it had been a custom of the forefathers for those who reclined at banquet to sing to the flute the praises and merits of illustrious heroes. The combination of conviviality and song in this passage tempts us to connect it with the scornful words from Cato's own Carmen already cited. Cato was half right, no doubt. The simple charm and vigor of rustic Latium were threatened. Greek vise and oriental luxury were dangerous gifts, but his resistance was as hopeless as Canute's protest to the encroaching waves. That this resistance was offered even to the great Greek literature itself is unquestionable. I will speak of those Greeks in a suitable place, son Marcus, telling what I learned at Athens and what benefit it is to look into their books, not to master them. I shall prove them a most worthless and unteachable race. Believe that this is uttered by a prophet. Whenever that folk imparts its literature, it will corrupt everything. The harsh, narrow, intolerant nature of Cato is as remote as could well be from the scholarly or literary temper. Even his respectful biographer, Plutarch, bursts out with indignant protest against the thrifty advice to sell off slaves who had grown old in service. Indeed, most of Cato's sayings remind us of some canny old scot, or it may be polite to say of a hard-headed Yankee farmer living out the precepts of poor Richard's philosophy. Grip the subject, Words Will Follow, is his chief contribution to rhetoric. Another has it must be confessed more of Quintilian's flavor. An orator's son Marcus is a good man, skilled in speaking. He is most at home, however, upon his farm, preaching such familiar economies as, By not what you need, but what you must have, what you do not need is dear at a penny. The nearest approach to wit is but a sarcastic consciousness of human weakness like the maxim, Praise large farms, but till a small one. The form of which, by the way, is strikingly like the advice given long before by a kindred spirit, the escray and farmer Hesiod. Praise thou a little vessel, and store thy freight in a large one. Even the kindness of Cato has a bitter flavor peculiarly Roman. When the great Greek historian Polybius and his fellow exiles were finally permitted to return to their native land, Cato turned the scale toward mercy in the Senate with the haughty words as though we had nothing to do, we sit here discussing whether some old Greeks shall be carried to their graves here or in Achaia. There was a touch of real humor and perhaps of real culture too in his retort when Polybius asked in addition for the restoration of civic honors held in Greece 17 years ago. Polybius, he said with a smile, wishes to venture again into the Cyclops cave because he forgot his cap and belt. A few touches like this permit us to like as well as to admire this grim and harsh pattern of old simplicity. Whether Cato learned Greek at 80 as a grudging concession to the spirit of the age or to obtain weapons from the foes own armory wherewith to combat his influence we need not argue. Indeed it is nearly certain that any special study at that time could have been only a revival of what he learned at Athens many years earlier. It is however a supreme touch of irony in Cato's fate that he rendered doubtless unconsciously a greater service to Hellenistic culture in Rome than did even his illustrious younger contemporary, Scipio Emilianus the patron of Terence and the generous friend of Polybius for it was our Cato who brought in his train from Sardinia the gallant young soldier afterward known as the poet Aeneas the creator of the Latin hexameter of the artistic Roman epic and in general the man who more than any other made Greek poetry and even Greek philosophy well known and respected among all educated Romans. Cato is chiefly known to us through Plutarch whose sketch shows the tolerance of that beloved writer toward the savage enemy of Hellenism. The charming central figure of Cicero's dialogue on old age takes little save his name from the bitter, crept octogenarian who was still adding to his vote on any and all subjects moreover Senators Carthage must be wiped out all the world admires stubborn courage especially in a hopeless cause we the most radical and democratic of peoples especially admire the despairing stand of a belated conservative the peculiar virtues of the stock were repeated no less strikingly in the great grandson Cato of Utica and make their name a synonym forever more of unbending stoicism the phrase applied by a later Roman poet to Cato of Utica may perhaps be quoted no less fittingly as the epitaph of his ancestor the gods preferred the victor's cause but Cato the vanquished for in spite of him the Latin literature which has come down to us may be most truly characterized as the bridge over which Hellenism reaches the modern world on agriculture from the agriculture the following extract gives a vivid glimpse of the life on a Latian farm the Roman gentleman may be regarded as an absentee landlord giving this advice to his agent the family is of course made up of slaves these shall be the bailiffs duties he shall keep up good discipline the holidays must be observed he shall keep his hands from other peoples property and take good care of his own he shall act as umpire for disputes in the family if anyone is guilty of mischief he shall exact return in good measure for the harm done the family is not to suffer to be cold to be hungry he is to keep it busy as thus he will more easily restrain it from mischief and thieving if the bailiff does not consent to evil doing there will be none if he does allow it the master must not let it go unpunished for kindness he is to show gratitude so that the same one may be glad to do right in other matters the bailiff must not be a saunterer he must always be sober he mustn't go out to dinner he must keep the family busy must see to it that the master's commands are carried out he mustn't think he knows more than the master the master's friends he must count as his own he is to pay no attention to anyone unless so bidden he is not to act as priest except at the competalia or at the hearth side he is to give no one credit save at the master's orders when the master gives credit he must exact payment seed corn, kitchen utensils, barley, wine, oil he must lend to no one he may have two or three families from whom he borrows and to whom he lends but no more he must square accounts with his master often the mechanic, the hireling, the sharpener of tools he must never keep more than a day he mustn't buy anything without the master's knowledge nor hide anything from the master nor have any hangar on he should never consult a soothsayer, prophet, priest, or chaldean he should know how to do every farm task and should do it often without exhausting himself if he does this he will know what is in the minds of the family and they will work more contentedly besides if he works he will have less desire to stroll about and be healthier and sleep better he should be the first to get up and the last to go to bed should see that the country house is locked up, that each one is sleeping where he belongs and that the cattle are fed from the attic nights of Aulus Galeus the extract given below as will be seen is quoted for the most part not from Cato but from Aulus Galeus however the practice of Galeus on other occasions where we are able to compare his text with the original indicates that he merely modernized Cato's phraseology in many cases such changes probably make no difference at all in the modern rendering Marcus Cato in his book of origins has recorded an act of Quintus Cadetius a military tribune really illustrious and worthy of being celebrated with the solemnity of Grecian eloquence it is nearly to this effect the Carthaginian general in Sicily in the first Punic war advancing to meet the Roman army first occupied some hills and convenient situations the Romans as it happened got into a spot open to surprise and very dangerous the tribune came to the consul pointing out the danger from the inconvenience of the spot and the surrounding enemy I think says he if you would save us you must immediately order certain 400 to advance to Yonder wart for thus Cato indicated a rugged and elevated place and command them to take possession of it when the enemy shall see this everyone among them that is brave and ardent will be intent on attacking and frightening them and will be occupied by this business alone and these 400 men will doubtless all be slain you whilst the enemy shall be engaged in slaughter will have an opportunity of withdrawing the army from this place there is no other possible method of escape the consul replied that the advice appeared wise and good but whom says he shall I find that will lead these 400 men to that spot against the battalions of the enemy if answered the tribune you find no one else employ me in this dangerous enterprise I offer my life to you and my country the consul thanked and praised him the tribune with his 400 men advanced to death the enemy astonished at their boldness waited to see where they were going but when it appeared that they were marching to take possession of the hill the carthaginian general sent against them the ablest men of his army both horse and foot the roman soldiers were surrounded and being surrounded fought the contest was long doubtful but numbers at length prevailed the 400 to a man were either slain with the sword or buried under missile weapons the consul in the interval of the engagement withdrew his troops to a spot high and secure but the event which happened to this tribune who commanded the 400 I shall subjoin not in my own but Kato's words the immortal gods gave the military tribune a fortune suitable to his valor for thus it happened when he was wounded in every other part his head alone was unhurt and when they distinguished him amongst the dead exhausted with wounds and breathing with difficulty from loss of blood they bore him off he recovered and often afterwards performed bold and eminent services to his country and this exploit of his detaching these troops preserved the remainder of the army but the place where the same deed is done is of great importance Leonidas of Lacedaemon whose conduct was the same at Thermopylae is extolled on account of his virtues all Greece celebrated his glory and raised his name to the highest degree of eminence testifying their gratitude for his exploit by monuments trophies statues panegyrics histories and other similar means but to this tribune of the people who did the same thing and saved his country small praise has been assigned end of section 31 section 32 of library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 8 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by phone library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 8 section 32 selected poems by Jakob Katz Jakob Katz 1577 to 1660 the life of Jakob Katz falls within the golden age of Dutch literature represented in the north by Hoogt, Romerwisser and Joost van den Vondel and in the south by the Xenon circle of poets among whom Katz was undoubtedly the greatest there have been times when Katz's was the one name among Dutch poets in homes where no other books were found one might at least be sure of finding the Bible and Father Katz but it is doubtful whether he would be considered great outside of Holland he is the most prosaic of poets has limited power of language and a still more limited choice of versification with these drawbacks he is however most characteristically Dutch partly on account of his practical moral teachings and partly on account of the monotonous tic-tac of his verse the erection of a monument in his honour in his native city and the painting of his portrait by Rembrandt in 1635 were therefore well-deserved tributes to a man strangely representative of his nation yet even in Holland voices have been raised against his popularity Buskin Hewitt has called him a miserable character, a personified mediocrity a vulgar and vulgarising spirit Jacob Katz, the youngest of four children was born in Brouwershaven on the 10th of November 1577 his mother died when he was only a few years old and his father, member of the council in Brouwershaven soon gave his children a stepmother Katz praises her good deeds and good management in his verses but it would seem as if her management were not in accordance with what the family considered beneficial to the children one of the uncles adopted little Jacob and sent him to the school of master Dirk Kemp in Xerixé here he met a young boy from Brabant who was cultivating poetry and their daily comradeship awakened to the same tastes in Katz master Kemp was a man who, although of good intentions had not the power to carry them out Jacob's uncle accordingly took him out of school and sent him to the University of Leiden to study law from Leiden he went to Orleans where he took his degree and then to Paris when he had been here for some time his uncle thought it wisest to call him back and Katz's career dates from his return to the Hague where he settled as a lawyer very soon after he had taken up his practice he succeeded in saving a woman accused of witchcraft and won the case of a young man who in defending his father from a murderous attack had killed the assailant these cases called attention to Katz he soon made a name for himself his activity was then suddenly interrupted by a severe illness he was forced to leave the damp climate of Holland and went to England to seek the counsel of Queen Elizabeth's famous physician Butler the treatment gave him no relief however and he did not improve until after his return to Holland where he met a learned alchemist to whose skill he inscribed his cure in 1603 he moved to Middleburg and began life with new strength he tells in one of his poems of his meeting in the French church with a young girl with whom he fell in love at first sight of his growing affection for her and his intention to marry her after a report that her father had just lost all his money in a speculation and he confesses with the most naive and rather cynic frankness for her in very truth with but the least of cause and with a joyful heart had given up the ghost look ye, this evil lot that to the father fell has in an instant's time my heart of love bereft immediately after this incident Katz married Elizabeth von Valkenburg a rich girl from Antwerpen her good sense, faithfulness and housewifely virtues found a warm expression in the following words she was a worthy woman a foundation for a home a model of truth this period of Katz's life almost coincident with the 12 years armistice ending in 1621 when the war with Spain was resumed was one of varied activity aside from the duties of his practice he gave much time to the diking of grounds neglected during the war now in great danger from the sea and while at his country place Greipsgerke near Middelburg where his flock of children played under the trees he wrote the poems Emblemata of Sinnebilden Emblemata or Emblems Maardeplirt made a duty in 1618 self-streight inward strife 1620 Donael der mannelijke artbarheid scene of manly respectability and howellik marriage with the beginning of the war his own peace was at an end several of the grounds reclaimed from the sea were once more flooded to prevent the advance of the enemy in 1621 he accepted the office of Pensionary of Middelburg his first step toward official statesmanship in 1623 he was elected Pensionary of Dordrecht and although he hesitated in leaving Zeeland he finally decided to accept the office in 1625 he added to his duties as those of curator of Leiden University his literary work was consequently laid aside in 1627 Katz accompanied Albert Joachimi as a messenger to London to open negotiations for a navigation treaty he was only partly successful in his mission but was met with much consideration by Charles I who decorated him with the Order of St. Jovis shortly after his return and his wife after a brief illness while he was writing Trauring Weddingring a collection of epic and lyric poems he was elected Secretary of State in 1636 and in 1645 Keeper of the Great Seal and Governor but he had the experience in his public life that a crown may often be a crown of thorns and in 1651 he begged to be released from his burdensome office his demand was granted and on this occasion Katz fell on his knees in the presence of the State's General and thanked God for taking away his heavy burden he was once more persuaded to join an embassy to England Cromwell had been welcomed to power Katz and his fellow travellers returned with but little accomplished and the old Statesman and poet saw himself free and the last years of his life on his place Sorfleet which he had built outside of the Hague on the way to Scheveningen in the midst of the dunes although he may not have been a great Statesman he had felt the responsibility of his calling he was never quite equal to it and often felt himself helpless and small against the encroachment of the powers but honesty and patriotism were his to the fullest extent the last eight years of his life he spent in Sorfleet in undisturbed peace he returned to his literary labours and wrote Ouderdum and Bouteneven Age and Country Life Hofgedachtes Court Thoughts and his rhymed autobiography 82 Jahre Leben a life of 82 years he seems to have kept his warm interest and joy in life to the very last fear after the trouble a while ago I read a tale me thinks is curious perhaps to everyone the story may be useful therefore in timeliness unto the light I drag it in hope that all who read in it will find a pleasure a Lord once lived of old whose joy it was to wander in field and flowery mead quite to his heart contentment a horse he had with all so sage that slept the rider it home would wisely go without the night to awaken and so it came to pause that one day forthward faring to dine the cavalier by a good friend was bitten he met with welcome glad good wine when freely flowing at last for all such cheer the guest must take his leave himself then he prepared to climb into his saddle and turned his beast about that home were soon attained the day was bleak and roll the son of light was cherry through clouds before its face a pallid light descended the wise steed careful stepped onward along the highway a sober rider born as custom was unwearied and on the usual drows closed up the rider's eyelids his beast walked calmly on in faithfulness of service the man profoundly sleeping travelled as he was wanted the time at last brought near when he should reach his dwelling but lo a friend is met who questions him in wonder how possible it was his steed had brought him thither the night responded straight why I the way have ridden that during seven years I constantly have come my beast on which I sit have born me dually houseward the midnight's dark itself makes not his foot unsteady how friend his questioner cried even when the bridge is broken the stream to cross at all no other means I know this wondrous horse of thine old Perseus must have owned who fought the dragon's ones and cut his head to pieces things sure are as they were you came not flying hither it seems to me be like a ghost has been your cheater to take it otherwise the joke to me seems pointless not possible it is this story that you tell me but that or such a thing no wrangling be between us come to the bridge with me I gladly will be escort the spot and fact themselves in proof I straight will disclose that you may note how ill goes with your word dematter where to so long a speech the night was well persuaded the flood is reached again the truth of things lies open bridge is there none indeed rests but a strip of planking crossing the rushing wave narrow and all unsteady the foot of man must needs with prudence or a tiptoe the nerve and will be firm to reach that further goal the foot that is not true that left or right shall waver drowns in the flood below the passenger unlucky when now the man of naps marks all at once the bridge notes well the narrow path marks the two slender footway his shock in truth is great loud his poor heart goes beating in fear and shudders cold the scene he stands and pictures sees with a frightened eye just how his path had served him and more and more his soul sickens with tardy terror more to his heart the blunt driven away goes rushing that hour of fear to him brought him an endless illness look now how odd it seems he well in peace had ridden suffering no mishap spared from the thing all mischief utterly downcast is whereas his danger's over fear makes him sick at heart deep in his being centred questions now anyone would be this tales life lesson him shall I gladly go what in it lies me thinks speak out as best I can what as a maxim's plainest friendly is never he sparing of bread and counsel the man who wrote his way safely and lost and slumber he unto whom occurred just this strange bit of fortune like is he it misseems unto the lustful mortal evil in earthly course given to sotish living wandering on shut-eyed lost in the way of pleasure taking no slightest notice of the abyss so open never with heed made blessed not with his conscience warned how at his side is death prompt to cut off the living but with our Lord God's grace suddenly on him bestowed opening wide his eye then not till then he's awakened terror absorbs his soul holy the fear that takes it now is the sinner roused sees for the first his doings wondering see him stand butchering loud his outcry awful has been my blindness dreadful my soul's delusion how could I be so tricked how could my sleep so grip me I who in touch with that careless my ease was taken happy in truth the man fallen in no such peril since with a careful eye watches he every footstep blessed and that God himself insight to him must grant it what was his danger to feel how he has made escapement translation through to German by E. Arrhenius Stevenson a rich man loses his child a poor man loses his cow come hither pray oh friends let me my sorrow tell you wordless such loss to bear my heart indeed endures not all that the soul down ways seems to a man less bitter if to the friendly ear sorrow can be but buttered dead is my neighbor's child dead is my only cow comfort has fled from him fled from me every joying so do we sorrow both ref of our peace each bosom he that his child is dead I that my cow is taken look you now friends how strange I and how sad fate's dealings I well had spared a child one cow he well had wanted turn things about God death less evil seem thy doings full is my house too full surely is full his cow house death take his stalls for prey or choose from out my seven there have you death full room less to us too the trouble certain the pains forgot I and forgotten quickly when in the greater herd one little wolf's a robber what do I murmured thus ever is death one earless lost on him good advice argument on him wasted onward he moves this death pallage and holy blindly oftenest he a guest just where his calls least needed who can call my grief who pray shall still my neighbors just as we would not choose so unto each it happens he who is rich must lose all that means nearest airship I the poor man oh God stripped of my one possession translation through to German by E. Arrhenius Stevenson End of section 32 Section 33 of Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Vol. 8 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chris Pyle Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Vol. 8 Section 33 Selected Poems by Catullus Catullus 84-54 BC by J. W. McHale The last 30 years of the Roman Republic are alike in thought and action one of the high watermarks of the world's history This is the Age of Cicero and of Julius Caesar This brief period includes the conquest of Gaul the invasion of Britain the annexation of the Asiatic monarchies founded by Alexander's Marshals the final collapse of the Roman oligarchy which had subdued the whole known world the development of the stateliest splendid prose that the world has ever seen or is ever likely to see and lastly a social life among the Roman upper class is so brilliant, so humane so intimately known to us from contemporary historians poets, orators, letter writers that we can live in it with as little stretch of imagination as we can live in the England of Queen Anne Among the foremost figures of this wonderful period the first of the Latin lyric poets and perhaps the third alongside of Sappho and Shelley in the supreme rank of the lyric poets of the world he represents in his life and his genius the fine flower of his age and country he was born of Verona of a wealthy and distinguished family while Italy was convulsed by the civil wars of Marius and Sulla he died at the age of 30 while Caesar was completing the conquest of Gaul and the Republic though within a few days of its extinction still seen full of the pride of life the rush and excitement of those thrilling years is mirrored fully in the life and poetry of Catullus fashion, travel, politics, criticism all the thousand fold and ever changing events and interest of the age come before us in their most vivid form and at their highest pressure in this brief volume of lyrics but all come involved with and overshadowed by a story wholly personal to himself and immortal in its fascination a story of an immense and ill-fated love that fed its life's flame with self substantial fuel and mounted in the morning glories of sunrise only to go down in thunder and tempest before noon there are perhaps no love poems in the world like these of Sappho seemingly the greatest of her sex we can only dally with surmise from mutilated fragments no one else in the ancient world comes into the account the middle ages involved love inextricably with mysticism when Europe shook the middle ages off it had begun to think exquisite reflections on love innocent pastoral's adorable imagery these it could produce in the France of the Pleiades for instance or in the England of Green and Campion but thought and passion keep ill company once only a century ago a genius's fears and flame like as that of Catullus rose to the height of this argument an intractable language sterilizing surroundings bad models and perfect education left burns hopelessly distanced yet the quintessential flame that he shares with Catullus has served to make him the idol of a nation and a household word among many millions of his race Claudia, the Lady of the Sonnets in Catullus whom he calls Lesbia by a transparent fiction has no ambiguous or veiled personality she was one of the most famous and most scandalous women of her time by birth and marriage she belonged to the innermost circle of that more than royal Roman aristocracy which had accumulated the wealth of the world into its hands and sent out its younger sons carelessly to misgovern and pillage empires when Catullus made her acquaintance she was a married woman some six or seven years older than himself through a little arc of heaven the poem show his love running its sorrowful and splendid course rapture of tenderness and fatuation revolt, relapse, reentanglement, agonize, stupor the stinging pain of reviving life fierce love passing into as fierce a hatred all sweet before us in dazzling language molded out of pure air and fire so far Burns alone and Burns only at his rarer heights can give a modern reader some idea of Catullus but Burns had little education and less taste and so when he leaves the ground of direct personal emotion that is to say in 1920 of his poetry he is constantly on the edge and often over it of tawdrenous vulgarity commonplace Catullus was master of all the technical skill then known to poetry without anything approaching the immense learning of Virgil or Milton he had like Shelley among English poets the instincts and training of a scholar it is this fine scholarship the eye and hand of the trained artist in language combined with his lucid and imperious simplicity like that of some gifted and terrible child that makes him unique among poets when he leaves the golden fields of poetry and dashes into political lampoons or insolent and unquotable attacks on people, men or women who had the misfortune to displease him he becomes like Burns again Burns the satirist yet even here a nimbler-witted, lighter of touch with the keenest of the rapier rather than of the northern axe edge his scholarliness, like that of most scholars was not without his drawbacks his immediate literary masters the Greeks of the Alexandrian school were a coterie of pedants it would be idle to claim that he remained unaffected by their pedantry in the last years of his life he seems to have lost himself somewhat in technical intricacies and elaborate metrical experiments and translations from that prince in Preciosity Alexandrian Chalimachus an idyllic pieces of overloaded ornament studied from the school of the Occhrisis the longest and most ambitious poem of these years the epic idol on the marriage of Peelius and Thetis is full of exquisite beauties of detail but taken in its whole effect is languid, cloying, and monotonous he makes a more brilliant success than his other long poem the famous Atis the single example in Latin of large scale lyrics so familiar to Greece and England but indeed in every form of lyric poetry attempted by him his touch is infallible the lovely poems of travel which he wrote during and after a voyage to Asia are as unequaled in their sunny beauty as the love lyrics are in fire and passion alongside of these there are little funny verses to his friends and other verses to his enemies which they probably did not think funny in the least verses of occasion and verses of compliment and verses of sympathy were the deep human throb in them that shows how little his own unhappy love had embittered him or shut him up in selfish broodings two of these pieces are preeminent beyond all the rest the one is a marriage song written by him for the wedding of two of his friends Malleus Torquatus and Binea Arunculia and is straightforward and assuming grace in its musical clearness in the picture it draws was so gentle and yet so refined and distinguished a touch of common household happiness it is worthy of its closing place in the golden volume of his lyrics the other is a brief poem only ten lines long written at his brother's grave near Troy it is one of the best known of Latin poems and before its sorrow its simplicity its piteous tenderness the astonishing cadence of its rhythms praise itself seems almost profanation Tenderest of Roman poets 1900 years ago so Tennyson in one of his beautiful lyrics addresses Catullus and it is this unsurpassed tenderness that more than all his other admirable qualities that is consummate technical skill that is white heat of passion that is clearness as of the terrible crystal brings him and keeps him near our hearts that wonderful Ciceronian age has left its mark as few ages have deep upon human history the conquest and legislation of Julius Caesar determined the future of Europe and laid the foundation of the modern world the prose invented by Cicero became and still remains the common language of civilized mankind among the poems of Catullus are verses addressed to both of these men his own young ivy-crown brows shine out of the darkness and the distance with no less pure irradiance and no less imperishable flame J. W. McHale note in Mr. McHale's closing phrase the lover of Ovid will note an echo from the poet's famous elegy suggested by the premature death of still another Roman singer Tybulus among the kindred spirits says Ovid who will welcome the newcomer to the Elysian fields thou, O learned Catullus thy young brows ivy encircled bringing thy calvis with thee wilt to receive him appear editor dedication for a volume of lyrics this dainty little book anew was just polished with the pumice who shall now receive Cornelius, you for these my trifles even then you counted of some value when you only of Italian men into three tomes had dare cast the story of all ages past learned O Jupiter and vast so take it prize it as you may and gracious virgin this I pray that it shall live beyond our day translation of Wigam C. Lawton a morning call Boris would take me to other day to see a little girl he knew pretty and witty in her way with impudence enough for two scarce are we seated air she chatters as pretty girls are want to do about all persons places matters and pray what has been done for you but then a lady I replied is a fine province for a preacher for none I promise you beside and least of all am I her debtor sorry for that said she however you have brought with you I dare say some litter bearers none so clever and any other part as they but then a is the very place for all that study tall and straight it is the nature of the race could you not lend me six or eight why six or eight of them or so said I determined to be grand my fortune is not quite so low but these are still at my command you'll send them willingly I told her although I had not here or there one who could carry on his shoulder the leg of an old broken chair could tell us what a charming hap is our meeting in this sort of way I would be carried to Sirapus tomorrow stay fair lady stay you overvalue my intention yes there are eight there may be nine I merely had forgot to mention that they are sinias and not mine paraphrase of W. S. Lander home to Cermio dear Cermio that art the very eye of islands and peninsulas that lie deeply embusmed in calm inland lake or where the waves of the vast ocean break joy of all joys to gaze on thee once more I scarcely believe that I have left the shore of Thinnia and Bethinnia's parching plain and gaze on thee in safety once again oh what more sweet than when from care set free the spirit lays its burden down and we with instant travel spent come home and spread our limbs to rest along the wished-for bed this this alone repays such toils as these smile then fair Cermio and thy master please and you ye dancing waters of the lake rejoice and every smile of home awake translation of Sir Theodore Martin heartbreak with your Catullus ill at fair as alas or corn officious and most wearily still worse with all the days and hours that pass and with what greeting do you comfort me the least of boons and easiest to bestow Roth am I that my love has answered so a word of greeting pray you what you please more sad than teardrops of Simonides translation of W. C. Lawton to Calvus in bereavement there be ought my Calvus that out of our souring proffered unto the voiceless dead grateful or welcome may be when we revive within satiate longing our ancient affection when for the ties we lament broken that once have been ours though Quintilia grieve her own untimely departure yet in thy faithful love greater be sure is her joy translation of W. C. Lawton the Penis this penis friends which here you see a verse ere while she used to be unmatched for speed and could outstrip triumphantly the fastest ship that ever swam or breasted sail a like with either or sail and this she says her haughty boast the stormy Adriatic coast the sicklet islands roads the grand rude thrace the wild propontic strand will never ventured again say nor yet the uke signs cruel bay where in her early days she stood this bark to be a shaggy wood for from her vocal locks full off where over Scytaurus far aloft the fitful mountain breezes blow she piped and whistled loud or low to thee a master sound thy rocks to thee Scytaurus clad with box had long been known my bark of hers this little history of hers in her first youth she doth protest she stood upon her top most crest first in your waters dipped her oars first bore her master from your shores a non unscathed or many a deep and sunshine and in storm to sweep whether the breezes as she flew from larbert or from starbird blue or with a wake of foam behind she scutted full before the wind or to the gods ocean air or her was offered vow or prayer or from yon farthest ocean drear she came to this calm crystal mirror but these are things of days gone past now anchored here in peace at last to grow to hory age lies she and dedicates herself to thee who hast all way her guardian been twin castor and thy brother twin translation of sir theodore martin an invitation to dinner if the gods will for bullish mine with me right hardly you'll dine bring but good cheer that chances dine some days hereafter mind a fair girl to wit and wine and merry laughter bring these you'll feast on kingly fair and bring them for my purse I swear the spiders have been weaving there but they all favor with a pure love and what's more rare more sweet of savor an urgent I'll before you lay the loves and graces to other day gave to my girl smell it you'll pray the gods for bliss to make you turn all nose straight way yours I could tell us translation of james cranson a brother's grave brother or many lands and oceans born I reached I grave death's last sad right to pay to call thy silent dust in vain and mourn since ruthless fate has hurried thee away woe is me yet now upon thy two my lay all soaked with tears for thee the love so well what gifts our fathers gave the honored clay of valued friends take them my grief they tell and now forever hail forever fare thee well translation of james cranson farewell to his fellow officers the milder breath of spring is nigh the stormy equinoxial sky to zephyr's gentle breezes yields behind me soon the frigid fields I see as sun beat realm shall lie to Asia's famous towns will high my heart that craves to wonder free throbs even now expectantly with zeal my joyous feet are strong farewell dear comrades love so long afar together did we roam now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge now waves diverge Here is the friends that to her tears reply, Thou must advance, the hour is nigh. Come, Bride, come forth no more delay. The day is hurrying fast away, Dry up thy tears, for well I trow, No woman lovelier than thou, Arunculia shall behold, the day all panopled in gold, And rosy light uplift his head, Above the shimmering ocean's bed. As in some rich man's garden plot, With flowers of every hue and rot, And peerless forth with drooping brow, The hyacinth, so stand us thou. Come, Bride, come forth no more delay. The day is hurrying fast away. Soon my eye shall see, may hap, Young Torquatas on the lap of his mother, As he stands stretching out his tiny hands, And his little lips the while half open On his father's smile. And oh, may he and all be like, Manlius, his sire, and strike strangers, From the boy they meet, as his father's counterfeit, And his face the index B of his mother's chastity. Him too such fair fame adorn, son of such a mother-born, That the praise of both entwine Call to Lymicus to mind, With her who nursed him on her knee, Unparagoned Penelope. Now, virgins, let us shut the door, Enough we've toyed enough and more, But fare ye well, ye loving pair, We leave ye to each other's care, Delightly let your hours be sped, And joys of youth and lusty head. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. Note, the remaining poems of our selection Are all associated with the famous passion for Lesbia. Love is all. Let us, Lesbia Darling, still live our life, And love our fill, Heeding not a jot, however, Churlish dotards, chide or stare. Things go down but tis to rise Brighter in the morning skies. But when sets are a little light, We must sleep an endless night. A thousand kisses grant me sweet, With a hundred these complete. Lip me a thousand more, And then another hundred give again. A thousand add to these and on A hundred more than hurry one. Kiss after kiss without cessation Until we lose all calculation. So envy shall not mar our blisses By numbering up our tale of kisses. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. Elegy on Lesbia Sparrow. Loves and graces mourn with me, Mourn fair use, where ye be. Dead my Lesbia Sparrow is, Sparrow that was all her bliss, Than her very eyes more dear, For he made her dainty cheer. Know her well, as any maid knows Her mother, never strayed from her bosom, But would go hopping round her to and fro, And to her and her alone, Chirped with such pretty tone. Now he treads that gloomy track, Whence none ever may come back. Out upon you and your power, Which all fairest things devour, Orcus's gloomy shades That air ye took my bird that was so fair. Ah, the pity of it, thou poor bird, Thy doing this, that now my loved one's eyes Are swollen and red, With weeping for her darling dead. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. Fickle and changeable ever! Never a soul but myself, Though Jove himself were to woo her. Lesbia says she would choose, Might she have me for her mate. Says but what woman will say To a lover on fire to possess her, Right on the bodiless wind, Right on the stream as it runs. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. Two chords. I hate and love the why I cannot tell, But by my tortures know the fact too well. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. Last word to Lesbia. O Furious and a Relious, comrade sweet, Who to ends farthest shore with me would roam Where the far-sounding Orient Below's beat their fury into foam. Or to Hercania, Balm-breathed Arabi, The Sasons are the quivered Parthians' land, Or where seven mantled Niles, swollen waters, Die the sea with yellow sand, Or cross the lofty Alpine Fells To view great Caesar's trophied fields, The Gallic Rhine, the paint-smeared Britain-race Grim-visaged crew, Placed by Earth's limit line, To all prepared with me to brave the way To dare whatever the Eternal God's decree, These few unwelcome words to Herconvay, Who once was all to me. Still let her revel with her godless train Still clasp her hundred slaves to passion's thrall, Still truly love not one but ever drain The life-blood of them all, Nor let her mourn my once-fond passion-heed, For by her faithlessness tis blighted now, Like flowered on the verge of grassy mead Crushed by the passing plow. End of Section 33, Recording by Chris Pyle. Section 34 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, by U-8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, by U-8. Section 34, Biographical Note on Benvenuto Cellini. Benvenuto Cellini, 1500-1571. Among the three or four best autobiographies of the world's literature, the memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini are unique as the self-delineation of the most versatile of craftsmen, a bizarre genius and a typical exponent of the brilliant period of the later Italian Renaissance. As a record of the ways of living and modes of thinking of that fascinating epic, they are more lively and interesting than history, more entertaining, if more true to fact, than a romance. As one of his Italian critics, Beretti, put it, "...the life of Benvenuto Cellini, written by himself in the pure and unsophisticated idiom of the Florentine people, surpasses every book in our literature for the delight it affords the reader." This is high praise for the product of a literature that boasts of Boccaccio's Decameron and gave birth to the Novell, the parent of modern fiction. Yet, the critics of other nations have echoed this praise. Auguste Comte, the positivist philosopher, included it in his limited list for the reading of Reformed Humanity, and Goethe, laying aside his own creative work, deemed it worth his time and attention to translate into German. Benvenuto Cellini was born at Florence in 1500. The father, Giovanni Cellini, a musician and maker of musical instruments, intended that the boy should likewise become a musician, but young Benvenuto very early showed strong leaning toward the plastic art and detested the flute he was forced to practice. The first chapters of the memoirs are a most lively description of the struggles between the wishes of the father and those of the son, until the latter finally prevailed, and at fifteen years of age he was apprenticed to a goldsmith of Florence. He made rapid progress and soon attracted notice as a skilled craftsman, at the same time to please his father, toward whom he everywhere professes the most filial feeling. He continued that confounded flute playing is a side issue. His accomplishment, however, did him a good turn at the papal court later on. After various youthful escapades, street boils, and quarrels with his father, he fled in monks' disguise to Rome in 1521. A vase made for the Bishop of Salamanca drew upon him the notice of Pope Clement VII, who appointed him court musician, and also employed him in his proper profession of goldsmith. When the Constable de Bourbon attacked Rome in 1527, Cellini was of great service to the Pope in defending the city. He boasts of having from the ramparts shot the Bourbon, and indeed, if one were to take him strictly at his word, his valor and skill as an engineer saved the castle of San Angelo and the Pope. However, his lively imagination may have overrated his own importance, yet it is certain that his military exploit paved the way for his return to Florence, where for a time he devoted himself to the execution of bronze medals and coins. The most famous of the former are Hercules and the Namie and Lion and Atlas supporting the world. On the Elevation of Paul III to the Papacy we again find Cellini in Rome, working for the Pope and other eminent people. His extraordinary abilities brought him not only into the notice of the courts, but also drew him into the brilliant literary and artistic society of the eternal city. With unrivaled vividness he flashes before us in a few bold strokes, the artists of the decadent renaissance, the pupils of Raphael led by Giulio Romano, with their worship of every form of physical beauty and their lack of elevation of thought. In consequence of the ploddings of his implacable enemy, Pier Luigi, natural son of Paul III, he was arrested on the charge of having, during the sack of Rome, embezzled pontifical gold and jewels to the amount of eighty thousand ducats. Though the charge was groundless, he was committed to the castle of San Angelo. His escape is narrated in one of the most thrilling chapters of the memoirs, but was delivered up again to the Pope by an act of most characteristic 16th century Italian policy, and was cast into a loathsome underground dungeon of the castle. It was damp, swarming with vermin, and for two hours of the day only received light through a little aperture. Here he languished for many months, with only the chronicles of Giovanni Bellani and an Italian Bible to solace him. Now at last his recklessness and bravado forsook him. He took on the heirs of a saint, gave himself up to mysticism, grew delirious and had his famous visions, angels visiting him, who talked with him about religion. In 1539 he was finally released at the intercession of the Cardinal Ippolito D'Esti, who came from France to invite him to enter the king's service. Cellini's account of his residence in France has great historic value as throwing vivid sidelights on that interesting period in the development of French social life. When Francis I was laying the foundation of the court society, which was later on brought to perfection by Louis XIV, Cellini was one among that crowd of Italian artists gathered at the court in Paris and Versailles, whose culture was to refine the manners of the French warrior barons. He worked for five years at Fontainebleau and in Paris. The longest works there, still extant, are a pair of huge silver candelabra, the gates of Fontainebleau, and nymphs in bronze, reposing among trophies of the chase, now in the Louvre. Among other marks of royal favor he was presented with a castle, Le Petit Nel. His efforts to gain possession of this grant are among the amusing episodes of his narrative. He had, as usual, numerous quarrels, and falling into disfavor with Madame de Stomps, the king's favorite, he suddenly left Paris and returned alone to Florence. The remainder of his life he passed mainly in the service of Duke Cosimo de Medici. The chapters of his narrative dealing with this portion give a most vivid picture of artist's life at an Italian court in the 16th century. To this third and last period belongs the work on which his fame as sculptor rests. The bronze purse he is holding the head of Medusa, completed in 1554, and still standing in the Legia de Lanzi in Florence. It is a typical monument of the Renaissance, and was received with universal applause by all Italy. Odes and sonnets in Italian, Greek, and Latin were written in its praise. His minute description of its casting, and of his many trials during that process, are among the most interesting passages of the narrative. In 1558 he began to write his memoirs, dictating them for the greater part to an immanuensis, and he carried them down to the year 1562. The events of the remaining nine years of his life are to be gathered from contemporary documents. In 1558 he received the tantiae and first ecclesiastical orders, but married two years later and died in 1571. He was buried with great pomp in the Church of the Enunciata in Florence. Besides his memoirs he also wrote treatises on the goldsmith's art and on sculpture, with a special reference to bronze-founding. They are of great value as manuals of the craftsmanship of the Renaissance, and excellent specimens of good Italian style, as applied to technical exposition. And like all cultivated artists of his time, Cellini also tried his hand at poetry, but his lack of technical training as a writer comes out even more in his verse than in his prose. The life of Benvenuto was one of incessant activity, laying hold of the whole domain of the plastic arts, of restless wanderings from place to place, and of rash deeds of violence. He lived to the full the life of his age, in all its glory and all its recklessness. As the most famous goldsmith of his time he worked for all the great personages of the day, and put himself on a footing of familiar acquaintance with popes and princes. As an artist he came into contact with all the phases of Italian society, since a passion for external beauty was at that time the heritage of the Italian people, an art bodied forth the innermost life of the period. Furniture, plate, and personal adornments were not turned out wholesale by machinery as they are today, but engaged the individual attention of the most skilled craftsmen. The memory and the traditions of Raphael Sanzio were still cherished by his pupils when Cellini first came to Rome in the brilliant circle of Giulio Romano and his friends. Michelangelo's frescoes were studied with rapturous admiration by the young Benvenuto, and later on he proudly recorded some words of praise of the mighty genius whom he worshipped. And at this time, too, Titian and Tintoretto set the heart of Venice aglow with the splendor and color of their marvelous canvases. The contemporary, though not the peer of those masters of the brush and the chisel, Cellini endowed with a keen feeling for beauty, a dexterous hand, and a lively imagination, in his versatility reached out toward a wider sphere of activity, and laid hold of life at more points than that. He reflected the Renaissance, not merely on its higher artistic aspect, but he touched it also on its lower, darker levels of brute passion, coarseness, and vindictiveness. He had more than one murder to his account, and he did not slur over them in his narrative. For in his makeup the bravo was equally prominent with the artist. Yet we must remember that homicides were of common occurrence in those days, defended by casuists and condoned by the church. Being one's honor, or punishing an insult with the dagger, were as much a social custom as the adornment of the body with exquisitely wrought fabrics and jewelry. But just because Cellini was so thoroughly awake to all the influences about him, and so entirely bent on living his life, his memoirs are perennially fresh and attractive. They are the plain, unvarnished annals of a career extraordinary, even in that age of uncommon experiences. They were written, as he says, because, quote, all men of whatever quality they be, who have done anything of excellence, or which may properly resemble excellence, ought, if they are persons of truth and honesty, to describe their life with their own hand. But they ought not to attempt so fine an enterprise till they have passed the age of forty, end of quote. Cellini was past fifty-eight when he began writing, and going back to his earliest boyhood he set down the facts of his long career as he remembered them. Of course, he is the hero who recounts his own story, and like all heroes of romance he plays the leading part, is always in the right, and comes out handsomely in the end. Carping critics who tax him with lack of truth in dealing with his enemies, and with pleading his own cause too well, are apt to forget that he wrote long after the events were passed, and that to an ever-active imagination ruminating over bygone happenings, facts become unconsciously colored to assume the hue the mind wishes them to have. Yet the fidelity and accuracy of his memory are remarkable, and his faculty foreseeing, combined with this dramatic way of putting things most vividly, flashes before our eyes the scenes he recounts. He does not describe much. He indicates a characteristic feature, habit, or attitude. As for example in referring to a man he disliked as having long, spidery hands and a shrill, gnat-like voice, all that is needed to make us see the man from Cellini's point of view. Again, he adds much to the vivacity of the narrative by reporting conversationist dialogue, even if he has it himself at second hand. So, in his trenchant, nervous manner, this keen observer, while aiming to recount only the facts of his own life, and to set himself on a becoming pedestal in the eyes of posterity, gives us at the same time flashlights of the whole period in which he played a part. Pope's Clement VII and Paul III, Cosimo de Medici and his Duchess, the King of France, and Madame de Stomps, Cardinals, nobles, princes and courtiers, artists of every description, burgers, and the common folk, all with whom he came in contact, are brought before us in a living pageant. Looking back over his checkered career, he lives his intense life over again, and because he himself saw so vividly at the time, he makes us see it now. We have here invaluable pictures by an eyewitness and actor of the sack of Rome, the plague and siege of Florence, the pomp of Charles V at Rome. He withdraws the curtains from the papal policies and court intrigues, not with a view to writing history, but because he happened to have some relations with those princes and wished to tell us about them. Again he was no critic of the manners of his time, yet he presents most faithful pictures of artist's life in Rome, Paris and Florence. He was not given to introspection and self-criticism, but he describes himself as well as others, not by analysis but by deeds and words. He had no literary training. He wrote as he talked, and gained his effect by simplicity. He was recognized as the first goldsmith of his time, yet as a man also his contemporaries speak well of him, for he embodied the virtues of his age, while his morals did not fall below the average code of the Renaissance. Vasari says, quote, he always showed himself a man of great spirit and veracity, bold, active, enterprising, and formidable to his enemies, a man in short who knew as well how to speak with princes as to exert himself in his art, end of quote. J.A. Simons, that inspiring student of the Italian Renaissance, sums up his impressions of the book and the man as follows, quote, I am confident that everyone who may have curiously studied Italian history and letters will pronounce this book to be at one and the same time the most perfect extant monument of vernacular Tuscan prose, and also the most complete and lively source of information we possess regarding manners, customs, ways of feeling, and modes of acting in the court. Those who have made themselves thoroughly familiar with Gelini's memoirs possess the substance of that many-sided epic in the form of an epitome. It is the first book which a student of the Italian Renaissance should handle in order to obtain the right direction for his more minute researches. It is the last book to which he should return at the close of his exploratory voyages. At the commencement he will find it invaluable for placing him at exactly the proper point of view. At the end he will find it no less invaluable for testing and verifying the conclusion he is drawn from various sources and a wide circumference of learning. From the pages of this book, the genius of the Renaissance, incarnate in a single personality, leans forth and speaks to us. Nowhere else, to my mind, do we find the full character of the epic so authentically stamped. That is because this is no work of art or of reflection, but the plain utterance of a man who lived the whole life of his age, who felt its thirst for glory, who shared its adoration of the beautiful, who blent its paganism and its superstition, who represented its two main aspects of exquisite sensibility to form and almost brutal roughenism. We must not expect from Cellini the finest, highest, purest accents of the Renaissance. For students of that age he is at once more and less than his contemporaries, less in as much as he distinguished himself by no stupendous intellectual qualities, more in as much as he occupied a larger sphere than each of them singly. He was the first goldsmith of his time, an adequate sculptor, a restless traveler, an indefatigable workman, a bohemian of the purest water, a turbulent bravo, a courtier and companion of princes, finally a Florentine who used his native idiom with incomparable vivacity of style. End of quote. End of section 34, recording by Colleen McMahon. Section 35 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, volume 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, volume 8. Section 35, The Escape from Prison and the Casting of Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini. The Escape from Prison. The Memoirs. Simon's Translation. The castellan was subject to a certain sickness which came upon him every year and deprived him of his wits. The sign of its approach was that he kept continually talking, or rather jabbering, to no purpose. These humors took a different shape each year. One time he thought he was an oil jar, another time he thought he was a frog and hopped about as frogs do. Another time he thought he was dead and that they had to bury him. Not a year passed, but he got some such hypochondriac notions into his head. At this season he imagined that he was a bat, and when he went abroad to take the air he used to scream like bats in a high, thin tone, and then he would flap his hands and body as though he were about to fly. The doctors, when they saw the fit was coming on him and his old servants, gave him all the distractions they could think of. And since they had noticed that he derived much pleasure from my conversation, they were always fetching me to keep him company. At times the poor man detained me for four or five stricken hours without ever letting me cease talking. He used to keep me at his table, eating opposite to him, and never stopped chatting and making me chat, but during those discourses I contrived to make a good meal. He, poor man, could neither eat nor sleep, so that at last he wore me out. I was at the end of my strength, and sometimes when I looked at him I noticed that his eyeballs were rolling in a frightful manner, one looking one way, and the other in another. He took it into his head to ask me whether I had ever had a fancy to fly. I answered that it had always been my ambition to do those things which offer the greatest difficulties to men, and that I had done them. As to flying, the God of nature had gifted me with a body well suited for running and leaping far beyond the common average, and that with the talents I possessed for manual art I felt sure I had the courage to try flying. He then inquired what methods I should use, to which I answered that taking into consideration all flying creatures and wishing to imitate by art what they derived from nature, none was so apt a model as the bat. No sooner had the poor man heard the name bat, which recalled the humor he was suffering under than he cried out at the top of his voice. He says true, he says true, the bat's the thing, the bat's the thing. Then he turned to me and said, Benvenuto, if one gave you the opportunity would you have the heart to fly? I said that if he would set me at liberty I felt quite up to flying down to Prado, after making myself a pair of wings out of waxed linen. Thereupon he replied, I too should be prepared to take flight, but since the Pope has bidden me guard you as though you are his own eyes, and I know you are a clever devil who would certainly escape. I shall now have you locked up with a hundred keys in order to prevent you slipping through my fingers. I then began to implore him, and remind him that I might have fled, but that on account of the word which I had given him I would never have betrayed his trust. Therefore I begged him for the love of God, and by the kindness he had always shown me, not to add greater evils to the misery of my present situation. While I was pouring out these entreaties he gave strict orders to have me bound and taken and locked up in prison. On seeing that it could not be helped I told him before all his servants, lock me well up and keep good watch on me, for I shall certainly contrive to escape. So they took me and confined me with the utmost care. I then began to deliberate upon the best way of making my escape. No sooner had I been locked in than I went about exploring my prison, and when I thought I had discovered how to get out of it I pondered the means of descending from the lofty keep, for so the great round central tower is called. I took those new sheets of mine, which, as I have said already, I had cut in strips and sewn together. Then I reckoned up the quantity which would be sufficient for my purpose. Having made this estimate and put all things in order I took out a pair of pincers which I had abstracted from a Savoyard belonging to the guard of the castle. This man superintended the casks and cisterns. He also amused himself with carpenturing. Now he possessed several pairs of pincers, among which was one both big and heavy. I then, thinking it would suit my purpose, took it and hid it in my straw mattress. The time had now come for me to use it, so I began to try the nails which kept the hinges of my door in place. The door was double and the clinching of the nails could not be seen. So that when I attempted to draw one out I met with the greatest trouble. In the end, however, I succeeded. When I had drawn the first nail I bethought me how to prevent its being noticed. For this purpose I mixed some rust which I had scraped from old iron with a little wax obtaining exactly the same color as the heads of the long nails which I had extracted. Then I set myself to counterfeit these heads and place them on the hole-fasts. For each nail I extracted I made a counterfeit in wax. I left the hinges attached to their door posts at top and bottom by means of some of the same nails that I had drawn, but I took care to cut these and replace them lightly so that they only just supported the irons of the hinges. All this I performed with the greatest difficulty because the castellan kept dreaming every night that I had escaped, which made him send from time to time to inspect my prison. Man who came had the title and behavior of a catch-pull. He was called Boza, a serving man. Giovanni never entered my prison without saying something offensive to me. He came from the district of Prado and had been an apothecary in the town there. Every evening he minutely examined the hole-fasts of the hinges and the whole chamber, and I used to say, Keep a good watch over me, for I am resolved by all means to escape. These words bred a great enmity between him and me, so that I was obliged to use precautions to conceal my tools. That is to say, my pincers and a great big pwn-yard and other appurtenances. All these I put away together in my mattress, where I also kept the strips of linen I had made. When day broke I used immediately to sweep my room out, and though I am by nature a lover of cleanliness, at that time I kept myself unusually spic and span. After sweeping up I made my bed as daintily as I could, laying flowers upon it, which a savoyard used to bring me nearly every morning. He had the care of the cistern and the casks, and also amused himself with carpentry. It was from him I stole the pincers, which I used in order to draw out the nails from the hole-fasts of the hinges. Well, to return to the subject of my bed, when Bozat and Pettignon came, I always told them to give it a wide berth, so as not to dirty and spoil it for me. Now and then, just to irritate me, they would touch it lightly, upon which I cried, Ah, dirty cowards, I'll lay my hand on one of your swords there, and will do you a mischief that will make you wonder. Do you think you are fit to touch the bed of a man like me? When I chastise you I shall not heed my own life, for I am certain to take yours. Let me alone, then, with my troubles and my tribulations, and don't give me more annoyance than I have already. If not I shall make you see what a desperate man is able to do. These words they reported to the castellan, who gave them express orders never to go near my bed, and when they came to me to come without swords, but for the rest to keep a watchful guard upon me. Having thus secured my bed from meddlers, I felt as though the main point was gained, for there lay all things useful to my venture. It happened on the evening of a certain feast day that the castellan was seriously indisposed. His humours grew extravagant, he kept repeating that he was a bat, and if they heard that Benvenuto had flown away, they must let him go to catch me up, since he could fly by night most certainly, as well or better than myself. For it was thus he argued, Benvenuto is a counterfeit bat, but I am a real one, and since he is committed to my care, leave me to act. I shall be sure to catch him. He had passed several nights in this frenzy, and had worn out all his servants, whereof I received full information through diverse channels, but especially from the Savoyard, who is my friend at heart. On the evening of that feast day, then, I made up my mind to escape, come what might, and first I prayed most devoutly to God, imploring his Divine Majesty to protect and succour me in that so perilous adventure. Afterwards I set to work at all the things I needed, and laboured the whole of the night. It was two hours before daybreak, when at last I removed those hinges with the greatest toil, but the wooden panel itself and the bolt, too, offered such resistance that I could not open the door, so I had to cut into the wood. Yet in the end I got it open, and, shouldering the strips of linen which I had rolled up like bundles of flax upon two sticks, I went forth and directed my steps toward the latrines of the keep. Spying from within two tiles upon the roof, I was able at once to clamber up with ease. I wore a white doublet with a pair of white hose and a pair of half-boots, into which I had stuck the ponyard I had mentioned. After scaling the roof I took one end of my linen roll and attached it to a piece of antique tile, which was built into the fortress wall. It happened to jut out scarcely four fingers. In order to fix the band I gave it the form of a stirrup. When I had attached it to that piece of tile I turned to God and said, Lord God, give aid to my good cause. You know that it is good. You see that I am aiding myself. Then I let myself go gently by degrees, supporting myself with the sinews of my arms until I touched the ground. There was no moonshine but the light of a fair open heaven. When I stood upon my feet on solid earth I looked up at that vast height which I had descended with such spirit, and went gladly away thinking I was free. But this was not the case. For the castellan on the side of the fortress had built two lofty walls. The space between which he used for stable and hen yard. The place was barred with thick iron bolts outside. I was terribly disgusted to find there was no exit from this trap. But while I paced up and down debating what to do I stumbled on a long pole which was covered up with straw. Not without great trouble I succeeded in placing it against the wall and then swarmed up it by the force of my arms until I reached the top. But since the wall ended in a sharp ridge I had not strength enough to drag the pole up after me. Accordingly I made my mind up to use a portion of the second roll of linen which I had there. The other was left hanging from the keep of the castle. So I cut a piece off, tied it to the pole, and clambered down the wall, enduring the utmost toil and fatigue. I was quite exhausted and moreover had flayed the inside of my hands which bled freely. This compelled me to rest a while and I bathed my hands in my own urine. When I thought that my strength was recovered I advanced quickly toward the last rampart, which faces toward Prado. There I put my bundle of linen lines down upon the ground, meaning to fasten them round a battlement and to send the lesser as I had the greater height. But no sooner had I placed the linen than I became aware behind me of a sentinel who was going the rounds. Seeing my designs interrupted and my life in peril I resolved to face the guard. This fellow when he noticed my bold front and that I was marching on him with weapon in hand, quickened his pace and gave me a wide berth, I had left my lines some little way behind, so I turned with hasty steps to regain them. And though I came within sight of another sentinel, he seemed as though he did not choose to take notice of me. Having found my lines and attached them to the battlement I let myself go. On the descent, whether it was that I thought I had really come to earth and relaxed my grasp to jump, or whether my hands were so tired that they could not keep their hold, at any rate I fell, struck my head in falling, and lay stunned for more than an hour and a half so far as I could judge. It was just upon daybreak when the fresh breeze which blows an hour before the sun revived me, yet I did not immediately recover my senses for I thought my head had been cut off and fancied that I was in purgatory. With time little by little my faculties returned, and I perceived that I was outside the castle, and in a flash remembered all my adventures. I was aware of the wound in my head, before I knew my leg was broken, for I put my hands up and withdrew them covered with blood. Then I searched the spot well, and judged and ascertained that I had sustained no injury of consequence there. But when I wanted to stand up I discovered that my right leg was broken three inches above the heel. Not even this dismayed me. I drew forth my ponyard with its scabbard. The latter had a metal point ending in a large ball, which had caused the fracture of my leg. For the bone coming into violent contact with the ball, and not being able to bend, had snapped at that point. I threw the sheath away, and with the ponyard cut a piece of the linen which I had left. Then I bound my leg up as well as I could, and crawled on all fours with the ponyard in my hand toward the city gate. When I reached it I found it shut, but I noticed a stone just beneath the door which did not appear to be very firmly fixed. Thus I attempted to dislodge, after setting my hands to it, and feeling it move it easily gave way, and I drew it out. Through the gap thus made I crept into the town. The casting of Perseus, from the memoirs Simon's translation. Abandoned thus to my own resources I took new courage, and banished the sad thoughts which kept recurring to my mind, making me often weep bitter tears of repentance for having left France. For though I did so only to revisit Florence, my sweet birthplace, in order that I might charitably sucker my six nieces, this good action, as I well perceived, had been the beginning of my greatness fortune. Nevertheless I felt convinced that when my Perseus was accomplished all these trials would be turned to high felicity and glorious well-being. Accordingly I strengthened to my heart, and with all the forces of my body and my purse, employing what little money still remained to me, I set to work. First I provided myself with several loads of pinewood from the forests of Sarastore, in the neighborhood of Montalupo. While these were on their way I clothed my Perseus with the clay which I had prepared many months beforehand, in order that it might be duly seasoned. After making its clay tunic, for that is the term used in this art, and properly arming it and fencing it with iron girders, I began to draw the wax out by means of a slow fire. This melted and issued through numerous air vents I had made. For the more there are of these the better will the mold fill. When I had finished drawing off the wax I constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all around the model of my Perseus. It was built of bricks so interlaced, the one above the other, that numerous apertures were left for the fire to exhale it. Then I began to lay on wood by degrees, and kept it burning two whole days and nights. At length when all the wax was gone and the mold was well baked I set to work at digging the pit in which to sink it. This I performed with scrupulous regard to all the rules of art. When I had finished that part of my work I raised the mold by winlaces and stout robes to a perpendicular position, and suspending it with the greatest care one qubit above the level of the furnace, so that it hung exactly above the middle of the pit. I next lowered it gently down into the very bottom of the furnace, and had it firmly placed with every possible precaution for its safety. When this delicate operation was accomplished I began to bank it up with the earth I had excavated, and even as the earth grew higher I introduced its proper air vents, which were little tubes of earthenware such as folks used for drains and such like purposes. At length I felt sure that it was admirably fixed, and that the filling in of the pit and the placing of the air vents had been properly performed. I also could see that my work people understood my method, which differed very considerably from that of all the other masters in the trade. Feeling confident then that I could rely upon them, I next turned to my furnace, which I had filled with numerous pigs of copper and other bronze stuff. The pieces were piled according to the laws of art, that is to say, so resting one upon the other that the flames could play freely through them, in order that the metal might heat and liquefy the sooner. At last I called out heartily to set the furnace going. The logs of pine were heaped in, and what with the unctuous resin of the wood and the good draft I had given, my furnace worked so well that I was obliged to rush from side to side to keep it going. The labor was more than I could stand, yet I forced myself to strain every nerve and muscle. To increase my anxieties the workshop took fire, and we were afraid lest the roofs should fall upon our heads, while from the gardens such a storm of wind and rain kept blowing in that it perceptibly cooled the furnace. Battling thus with all these untoward circumstances for several hours, and exerting myself beyond even the measure of my powerful constitution, I could at last bear up no longer, and a sudden fever of the utmost possible intensity attacked me. I felt absolutely obliged to go and fling myself upon my bed. Shortly against my will, having to drag myself away from the spot, I turned to my assistants, about ten or more in all, what with master-founders, hand-workers, country-fellows, and my own special journeymen, among whom was Bernardino Maninelli of Mugello, my apprentice through several years. To him in particular I spoke. Look, my dear Bernardino, that you observe the rules which I have taught you. Do your best with all dispatch, for the metal will soon be fused. You cannot go wrong. These honest men will get the channels ready. You will easily be able to drive back the two plugs with this pair of iron crooks, and I am sure that my mold will feel miraculously. I feel more ill than I ever did in all my life, and verily I believe it will kill me before a few hours are over. Thus with despair at heart I left them, and betook myself to bed. No sooner had I got to bed than I ordered my serving-maids to carry food and wine for all the men into the workshop. At the same time I cried, I shall not be alive tomorrow. They tried to encourage me, arguing that my illness would pass over since it came from excessive fatigue. In this way I spent two hours battling with the fever, which steadily increased, and calling out continually I fear that I am dying. My housekeeper, who was named Mona Fiori de Castel de Rio, a very notable manager and no less warmhearted, kept chiding me for my discouragement. But on the other hand she paid me every kind attention which was possible. However at the sight of my physical pain and moral dejection so affected her that in spite of that brave heart of hers she could not refrain from shedding tears, and yet so far as she was able she took care that I should not see them. While I was thus terribly afflicted, I beheld the figure of a man enter my chamber, twisted in his body into the form of a capital S. He raised a lamentable, doleful voice, like the one who announces their last hour to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, and spoke these words, O Benvenuto, your statue is spoiled and there is no hope whatever of saving it. No sooner had I heard the shriek of that wretch than I gave a howl which might have been heard from the sphere of flame. Jumping from my bed I seized my clothes and began to dress. The maids and my lad and everyone who came around to help me got kicks or blows of the fist while I kept crying out in lamentation. Ah, traitors, enviers! This is an act of treason done by malice-prepence, but I swear by God that I will sift it to the bottom, and before I die will leave such witness to the world of what I can do I shall make a score of mortals marble. When I had got my clothes on I strode with soul bent on mischief toward the workshop. There I beheld the men whom I had left erewhile on such high spirits, standing stupefied in downcast. I began at once and spoke up with you, attend to me, since you have not been able or willing to obey the directions I gave you, obey me now that I am with you to conduct my work in person. Let no one contradict me, for in cases like this we need the aid of hand in hearing, not of advice. When I had uttered these words a certain maestro Alessandro Lestercotte broke silence and said, Look you Benvenuto, you are going to attempt an enterprise which the laws of art do not sanction and which cannot succeed. I turned upon him with such fury and so full of mischief that he and all the rest of them exclaimed with one voice, on then give orders, we will obey your last command so long as life is left in us. I believe they spoke thus feelingly because they thought I must fall shortly dead upon the ground. I went immediately to inspect the furnace and found that the metal was all curdled, an accident which we express by being caked. I told two of the hands to cross the road and fetch from the house of the butcher Capretta a load of young oak wood which had lain dry for above a year. This wood had been previously offered me by Madame Ginevra, wife of the said Capretta. So soon as the first armfuls arrived I began to fill the grate beneath the furnace. Now oak wood of that kind heats more powerfully than any other sort of tree, and for this reason, where a slow fire is wanted, as in the case of gun foundry, alder or pine is preferred. Suddenly when the logs took fire, oh how the cake began to stir beneath that awful heat, to glow and sparkle in a blaze. At the same time I kept stirring up the channels and sent men upon the roof to stop the conflagration which had gathered force from the increased combustion in the furnace. Also I caused boards, carpets, and other hangings to be set up against the garden in order to protect us from the violence of the rain. When I had thus provided against these several disasters I roared out first to one man and then to another. Bring this thing here, take this thing there. At this crisis when the whole gang saw the cake was on the point of melting, they did my bidding, each fellow working with the strength of three. I then ordered half a pig of pewter to be brought, which weighed about sixty pounds, and flung it into the middle of the cake inside the furnace. By this means, and by piling on wood and stirring now with pokers and now with iron rods, the curdled mass rapidly began to liquefy. Then knowing I had brought the dead to life again, against the firm opinion of those ignoramuses, I felt such vigor fill my veins that all those pains of fever, all those fears of death were quite forgotten. All of a sudden an explosion took place, attended by a tremendous flash of flame as though a thunderbolt had formed and been discharged among us. Unwanted and appalling terror astonied everyone, and me more even than the rest. When the din was over and the dazzling light extinguished, we began to look each other in the face. Then I discovered that the cap of the furnace had blown up, and the bronze was bubbling over from its source beneath, so I had the mouths of my mold immediately opened and at the same time drove in the two plugs which kept back the molten metal, but I noticed that it did not flow as rapidly as usual, the reason being probably that the fierce heat of the fire we kindled had consumed its base alloy. Accordingly I sent for all my pewter platters, poringers, and dishes, to the number of some two hundred pieces, and had a portion of them cast one by one into the channels, the rest into the furnace. This expedient succeeded, and everyone could now perceive that my bronze was in most perfect liquefaction, and my mold was filling, whereupon they all with heartiness and happy cheer assisted and obeyed my bidding. While I, now here and now there, gave orders, helped with my own hands, and cried aloud, O God, thou that by thy immeasurable power didst rise from the dead, and in thy glory didst descend to heaven. Even thus, in a moment my mold was filled, and seeing my work finished, I fell upon my knees, and with all my heart gave thanks to God. After all was over I turned to a plate of salad on a bench there, and ate with hearty appetite, and drank together with the whole crew. Afterwards I retired to bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two hours before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had never felt a touch of illness. My good housekeeper, without my giving any orders, had prepared a fat capon for my repast. So that when I rose about the hour for breaking fast, she presented herself with a smiling countenance, and said, Oh, is that the man who felt he was dying? Upon my word I think the blows and kicks you deltas last night when you were so enraged, and had that demon in your body as it seemed, must have frightened away your mortal fever. The fever feared that it might catch it, too, as we did. All my poor household relieved in like measure from anxiety and overwhelming labor, when it once to buy earthen vessels in order to replace the pewter I had cast away. Then we dined together joyfully. Nay, I cannot remember a day in my whole life when I dined with greater gladness or a better appetite. After our meal I received visits from the several men who had assisted me. They exchanged congratulations and thanked God for our success, saying they had learned and seen things done which other masters judged impossible. I, too, grew somewhat glorious, and deeming I had shown myself a man of talent, indulged a boastful humor. So I thrust my hands into my purse and paid them all to their full satisfaction. That evil fellow, my mortal foe, Messer Pierre Francesco Ricci, major domo of the Duke, took great pains to find out how the affair had gone. In answer to his questions, the two men whom I suspected of having caked my medal for me said I was no man but of a certainty some powerful devil, since I had accomplished what no craft of the art could do. Indeed, they did not believe a mere ordinary fiend could work such miracles as I in other ways had shown. They exaggerated the whole affair so much, possibly in order to excuse their own part in it, that the major domo wrote an account to the Duke who was then in Pisa, far more marvelous and full of thrilling incidents than what they had narrated. After I had let my statue cool for two whole days I began to uncover it by slow degrees. The first thing I found was that the head of Medusa had come out most admirably. Thanks to the air vents. For as I had told the Duke it is the nature of fire to ascend. Upon advancing farther I discovered that the other head, that namely of Perseus, has succeeded no less admirably, and this astonished me far more, because it is at a considerably lower level than that of the Medusa. Now the mouse of the mole replaced above the head of Perseus and behind his shoulders. And I found that all the bronze my furnace contained had been exhausted in the head of this figure. It was a miracle to observe that not one fragment remained in the orifice of the channel and that nothing was wanting to the statue. In my great astonishment I seemed to see in this the hand of God arranging and controlling all. I went on uncovering the statue with success and ascertained that everything had come out in perfect order, until I reached the foot of the right leg on which the statue rests. There the heel itself was formed and going further I found the foot apparently complete. This gave me great joy on the one side but was half unwelcome to me on the other, merely because I had told the duke that it could not come out. However, when I reached the end it appeared that the toes and a little piece above them were unfinished so that about half the foot was wanting. Although I knew that this would add a trifle to my labor I was very well pleased because I could now prove to the duke how well I understood my business. It is true that far more of the foot than I expected had been perfectly formed. The reason of this was that from causes I recently described the bronze was hotter than our rules of art prescribe. Also that I had been obliged to supplement the alloy with my pewter cups and platters which no one else I think had ever done before. Having now ascertained how successfully my work had been accomplished I lost no time in hurrying to Pisa where I found the duke. He gave me a most gracious reception as did also the duchess. And although the major domo had informed them of the whole proceedings their excellencies deemed my performance far more stupendous and astonishing when they heard the tale from my own mouth. When I arrived at the foot of Perseus and said it had not come out perfect just as I previously warned his excellency I saw an expression of wonder pass over his face while he related to the duchess how I had predicted this beforehand. Observing the princess to be so well disposed towards me I begged leave from the duke to go to Rome. He granted it in most obliging terms and bade me return as soon as possible to complete his Perseus giving me letters of recommendation meanwhile to his ambassador Averardo Sarastori. We were then in the first years of Pope Giulio da Monti. End of section 35. Recording by Colleen McMahon.