names of the forty tyrants, and can't
remember the value of an As or the number
of stadia between Rome and Capri (I speak
for myself, Hopkins, but I should not, believe
me, respect you half go much as I do if I
thought you capable of remembering
anything definite about Greece or Rome) —we
can indulge in the fancy that the Romans
were not at all times frowning, awful spectres,
with hook-noses, laurel-bound brows,
and flowing togas, incessantly occupied in
crossing the Rubicon, subduing the Iceni,
reviewing the tenth legion, striking Medusa-
like medals, standing behind chairs with
hatchets and bundles of rods, or marching
about with S. P. Q. R. stuck on the top of a
pole. Cicero pleaded against Verres, but
there were other advocates to plead in the
cause of a countryman's pig. The geese were
not always saving the Capitol —bo must have
been occasionally said to them, and they eaten
with sage and onions sometimes. The Cumæan
sybil must have taken a little snack on her
tripod from time to time. Mæcenas must
have made jokes, great Caesar stooped to
pun, and stern Brutus played with his children.
Yes; among all this solemn big-
wiggery—these triumphs, ovations, sacrifices,
orations (in which a tremendous amount of
false Latin was talked, you may be sure),
there must have been a genial, social, homely,
comic element among the cives Romani.
Who shall say that there were not Cockney
Romans who pronounced vir, wir, and
dropped the H in Horrida? Who shall say
that there were no games at blindman's-buff,
forfeits, and hunt the slipper, on long winter
evenings, in the great consular families;
that there was no kissing under the mistletoe
in the entertainments of the Roman knights;
that there were no private theatricals, blithesome,
ridiculous, and innocent, what time
Roscius was an actor in Rome?

For that matter, I am persuaded that, long
before, Thespis's little brothers and sisters
performed tragedies in a go-cart, not in socks
and buskins, but in socks and pinafores,
before their big brother took to the legitimate
business in a waggon; and that
Alcibiades got up a private pantomime
among his friends, parodying Aristophanes'
Knights, with himself (Alcibiades) for clown,
Socrates for pantaloon, and Glycerium for
columbine. But confining ourselves to Rome,
would you not have delighted to have
witnessed some ancient private theatrical
entertainment in the now capital of the papal
dominions? It is good (confounding chronology) to
fancy the largest lamp lit; the Atrium fitted up,
draped with some borrowed togas; the patres
conscripti in the front rows, the matres
conscripti behind, among them of course the
mother of the Gracchi, thinking the
performances of her children the most wonderful
that ever were seen, but entertaining no very
exalted opinion of the dramatic efforts of
Master Marcus Antonius Lepidus, aged nine,
or of that conceited little upstart Fatua
Fanna, who would not be allowed to play at
all if she were not the niece of the Pontifex
Maximus. See —there are the blushing
simpering young Roman virgins, all in fine white
linen with silver hems, and their tresses
powdered with gold-dust. There is pretty little
Livia Ottilia, the great heiress, whose cruel
papa wanted her to give up her large fortune
towards the expenses of the Punic war, and
become a vestal virgin; but she knew better,
and ran off to Brundusium with young Sextus
Quintilius. There is demure little Miss
Octavia Prima—she looks as though spikenard
would not melt in her mouth; who would
think, now, that she sticks gold pins into the
shoulders of her slaves, and beats her lady's-
maid with the crumpling-irons? There are
the young Roman beaux, terrible fellows for
fast chariot driving, wild beast fighting, gladiator
backing: yonder is young Flavius, the
president of the Whip club: his motto is
Quousque tandem: there, ambergrised,
powdered, perfumed, is that veteran toadeater
and tufthunter, but pretty poet, Q. Horatius
Flaccus; he will write a charming copy
of Sapphics on the occasion, dedicated to his
influential patron the Marquis Mæcenas, who
will probably ask him to dinner and give him
roast pig stuffed with honey, garum, and
slave-fed carp. There is Ovidius Naso,
who was a fine man once, but now goes
among the gay youths by the name of Nosey.
He has led a very dissipated life, and will be
compelled to fly from his creditors by-and-
by, to some remote corner of Asia Minor,
attributing of course his forced absence to
political reasons. There also, among the
audience, you may see P. Virgilius Maro, in
top-boots and a bottle-green toga. He, too,
is a poet, but is a great authority on matters
bucolic, breeds cattle, is a magistrate of his
county, and president of the Campanian
Agricultural Association. There is Curius
Dentatus, that conceited fop, who is always
showing his white teeth; and Aulus Gellius,
who is a very Othello to his wife; and
Pompeius Crassus, who is considered to be very
like his friend Caesar; and Mark Antony,
who has incurred something like odium for
his naughty conduct towards Mrs. Mark,
and his shameful carryings on with a mulatto
lady in Egypt; and there is Cato, the censor,
who disapproves of theatricals, public and
private, in the abstract, turning up his nose
in a corner and pretending to read the last
number of Sybilline Leaves. But, mercy on
us! what chronology is this? Mark Antony,
Curius Dentatus, and Cato the censor! As
well have Romulus and Remus with the wolf
in for the last scene, Numa Pompilius to
give the entertainment, and Horatius Cocles
announce that a shell-fish supper is ready.
Away, pleasant fancies!

The mind of my life is as a cemetery, full
of gravestones; but here and there are gay
cenotaphs, airy temples of the composite