In the piazza before St. Peter’s, at Rome, stands the most beautiful obelisk in the world. It was brought from the circus of Nero, where it had lain buried for many ages. It was one entire piece of Egyptian marble, seventy-two feet high, twelve feet square at the base, and eight feet square at the top, and is computed to weigh above four hundred and seventy tons, and it is supposed to be three thousand years old. Much engineering skill was required to remove and erect this piece of art; and the celebrated architect, Dominico Fontane, was selected and engaged by Pope Sixtus V. to carry out the operation. A pedestal thirty feet high was built for its reception, and the obelisk brought to its base. Many were the ingenious contrivances prepared for the raising of it to its last resting place, all of which excited the deepest interest among the people. At length everything was in readiness, and a day appointed for the great event. A great multitude assembled to witness the ceremony; and the Pope, afraid that the clamor of the people might distract the attention of the architect, issued an edict containing regulations to be kept, and imposing the severest penalties on any one who should, during the lifting of the gigantic stone, utter a single word. Amidst suppressed excitement of feelings and breathless silence the splendid monument was gradually raised to within a few inches of the top of the pedestal, when its upward motion ceased; it hung suspended, and could not be lifted further; the tackle was too slack, and there seemed to be no other way than to undo the great work already accomplished. The annoyed architect, in his perplexity, hardly knew how to act, while the silent people were anxiously watching every motion of his features to discover how the problem would be solved. In the crowd was an old British sailor, who saw the difficulty and how to overcome it, and with stentorian lungs he shouted, “Wet the ropes!” The vigilant police pounced on the culprit and lodged him in prison; the architect caught the magic words; he put this proposition in force, and the cheers of the people proclaimed the success of the great undertaking. Next day the British criminal was solemnly arraigned before his Holiness; his crime was undeniably proved, and the Pope, in solemn language, pronounced his sentence to be—that he should receive a pension annually during his lifetime.
The Marseillaise
Rouget de l’Isle wrote only six of the seven verses of the “Marseillaise,” the last being the work of the Abbé Antoine Pessonneaux, in a moment of patriotic ecstacy. In its completed form the hymn was first sung at the opera in Paris, the members of the Convention being present. After the verses of Rouget de l’Isle had been sung a group of children appeared on the stage and gave the last verse, beginning “Nous entrerons dans la carrière,” which was wildly applauded. Not long after this the Abbé came near being guillotined at Lyons. One of the historians relates the event as follows: “The committee met in the Town Hall, which resembled a ‘funeral chapel,’ and sat round a table covered with black cloth. There was the president, who had three judges on each side of him. They all wore a little silver hatchet round the neck,—terrible emblem of their functions. There was a stool for the prisoner, and behind this a rank of armed soldiers awaiting the sign which decided the fate of the accused. If the judges spread out their hands on the black cloth, that signified acquittal; if they raised their hands to their foreheads, that meant that the prisoner was to be shot; if they touched the silver hatchet, he was to be guillotined. Few questions were asked, and the fate of the accused was generally known beforehand. The sentence of the court was immediately executed amid cries of anguish, despair, ‘Vive la République,’ and the howling of the ‘Marseillaise.’ A citizen, pale, but calm, in presence of almost certain death, had just been brought before the tribunal. His crime was flagrant; he was a priest. The president asked, ‘Who art thou?’ The accused drew himself proudly up, and said, ‘I am the Abbé Pesonneaux, author of the last stanza of the ‘Marseillaise.’’ There was a good deal of commotion in the court, and after some hesitation the judges stretched their hands out on the black cloth, which was the pollice verso of the Republic. Without saluting or thanking, the Abbé slowly withdrew. Forty years afterwards the Government of Louis Philippe gave Rouget de l’Isle a pension of £4 a month, and the Abbé Pessonneaux had some idea of applying also for aid, but he changed his mind, and died peacefully in Dauphiny in 1835.”
Shakespeare and Burbage
In that old book, “A General View of the Stage,” we are told that one evening when Richard III. was to be performed, Shakespeare observed a young woman delivering a message to Burbage in so cautious a manner as to excite his curiosity, and prompt him to listen. It imported that her master was gone out of town that morning, and her mistress would be glad of his company after the play; and to know what signal he would appoint for admittance. Burbage replied, “Three taps at the door, and, it is I, Richard the Third.” She immediately withdrew and Shakespeare followed till he observed her go into a house in the city; and inquiring in the neighborhood he was informed that a young lady lived there, the favorite of a rich old merchant. Near the appointed time of meeting, Shakespeare, anticipating Burbage, went to the house, and was introduced by the concerted signal. The lady was very much surprised at Shakespeare’s presuming to act Burbage’s part, but as he who had written Romeo and Juliet, we may be certain, did not want wit or eloquence to apologize for the intrusion, she was soon pacified, and they were mutually happy, till Burbage came to the door, and repeated the same signal; but Shakespeare, popping his head out of the window, bade him begone; for that William the Conqueror had reigned before Richard III.
A Circassian Legend
A man was walking along one road, and a woman along another. The roads finally united, and the man and woman reaching the junction at the same time, marched on from there together. The man was carrying a large iron kettle on his back; in one hand he held by the legs a live chicken, in the other a cane, and he was leading a goat. Just as they were coming to a deep, dark ravine, the woman said to the man,—
“I am afraid to go through that ravine with you; it is a lonely place and you might overpower me and kiss me by force.”
“If you were afraid of that,” said the man, “you shouldn’t have talked with me at all. How can I possibly overpower and kiss you by force when I have this great iron kettle on my back, and a cane in one hand, and a live chicken in the other, and am leading this goat? I might as well be tied hand and foot.”
“Yes,” replied the woman, “but if you should stick your cane into the ground and tie the goat to it, and turn the kettle bottom side up and put the chicken under it, then you might wickedly kiss me in spite of my resistance.”