But what is a trireme? you will ask.

Look at the picture at the top of this page, and when you notice the three rows of oars, you will remember that tri means three. Do you see how one rower must sit a little behind as well as above another, so that the oars need not interfere? There are little seats, in three rows, fastened to the ship, inside, in just such positions, for the rowers. And with all these oars, and perhaps a square sail if the wind is fair, we go pretty swiftly over the water. But a trireme was a war vessel, and I don't believe the Romans would be willing to take passengers on a war vessel. Nevertheless, I think we can go, you and I, for it isn't our bodies, but only our minds, that have taken passage for this voyage, and we shall not occupy any room.

The trireme does, however, carry some passengers besides ourselves,—unwilling passengers, I fear,—fair-haired women and young girls and boys, prisoners of war, who are to be sold in the market-place (the Forum) when we reach Rome. Among them are one or two men, wise and grave; one of them, I am sure, is a writer. He has a tablet and stylus, such as we used to see in Athens. Some noble Roman will perhaps buy him for a secretary, and employ him to copy books, for as yet there is no printing, and many men earn their living by writing.

We land and follow the slaves up the streets of the city to the Forum, where they are to be sold. There are vases and pictures and statues also for sale in this Forum. They have been brought from the Greek city of Corinth, and they certainly remind us of the beautiful things we saw when we were in that country with Cleon. Doxius, the slave, also, seems to be a Greek, and is probably a learned man.

Let us stand here at one side and watch the buyers, who come wrapped in their togas of white wool with purple borders.

In Rome you know a man's rank by his dress; the purple stripes mean magistrates and senators. A simple dress of white is only for a common citizen. The common citizens can't afford to buy at this market, so you will not see them here.

Here is one tall man whose toga fairly drags on the ground behind him, while the heavy fold, that usually lies on the left shoulder, is drawn up over his head in place of a hat. You would hardly think he could walk at all in a dress so cumbersome, and I am sure he never runs, like the light-footed Greeks. But while we watch him, here comes another man,—a senator, I know, by his dress,—and beside him a boy wearing a long tunic with sleeves, and leather shoes with little ivory crescents on the instep. Next year he can wear a toga, but not now. Although he is a tall, manly-looking little fellow, it would be unwarrantable presumption for his parents to allow him the purple-striped toga before he is thirteen. This boy is Horatius. Horatius what? do you ask?

Oh, nothing. He hasn't yet earned another last name, and he isn't old enough to receive a first name; that will come when he changes his boy's toga for a man's.

Horatius is his family name, and his sister, who went, when he was a baby, to be a vestal virgin, has only the name Horatia. Don't forget Horatia, for I shall let you see her one day.

While we are talking about their names, the father has looked with keen eyes down the long row of slaves. He doesn't want a cook, nor a dancing girl, nor a lady's maid, but he does want a teacher for his boy, and a Greek teacher he would prefer to any other. So he stands for a few minutes before Doxius; talks with the dealer about his accomplishments, reads the little tablet that hangs from his neck, and finally offers fifty pieces of gold for the man.

There is some bargaining between them on the subject, while the young Horatius looks with a sort of bashful curiosity at the man who is probably to be his chief companion for some years to come. Then Doxius is delivered over to his master, and follows him to his home on the Palatine hill. It is a high house with narrow windows, and as we open the door the light falls into the passage-way and shows a floor of various-colored marbles. Do you think it pretty? Wait until you reach the atrium,—a sort of open room in the middle of the house, like the court of Cleon's home,—and there I will show you the handsomest floor you ever saw. Stones of lovely colors laid together to form a picture,—you would think it painted,—of a white dove resting on a fountain's edge, and see even the shadow of its little head on the water. The dining-room floor is made to appear as if strewed with the remains of the dinner. It is skilfully wrought, no doubt, but I don't like it very well. It is commonly called "the unswept."

The father of Horatius stops in the atrium to give some directions to Doxius, and then summons another slave to show him the men's apartments. In the mean-time our boy stands quietly waiting beside a bronze statue which is at one side of the family altar—a statue of a bold, hardy soldier in armor, halting upon one knee, as if wounded, and yet with uplifted sword and an expression of undaunted courage.

Of course we all know it is the statue of Horatius "who kept the bridge so well," and we can see now that our boy Horatius is not unlike him in face and figure. I hope he is also as brave at heart.

There are also other statues besides that of the brave ancestors,—the household gods, the Lares and the Penates; they stand in the atrium, and see, they are decked with fresh violets and garlands of rosemary.

As Horatius stands waiting, he looks up at the sky, for the middle part of the atrium is you know, and he is glad to see that no clouds are floating across the blue. He is thinking of to-morrow. And what of to-morrow? Why, it is the Kalends of March, the first day of the year, and he is to go to see his sister, Horatia, light the fire of Vesta. If the sun does not shine it cannot be done, for that sacred fire must not be lighted from anything less holy than the sun itself. Horatia went when she was seven years old to tend the sacred fire in the temple, and to learn all the holy services of the goddess Vesta. Ten years she spent in learning them before she was ready to take upon herself all the sacred office, ten years more she serves at the altar, and then ten more she will still remain in the temple to teach the young children who will come as she did, in order that they may take her place when her time ends.

You will like to see her, and we will go with Horatius and his father the next morning to the temple of Vesta.

We go down to the great Forum at the foot of the Palatine hill, where stands the round with its many columns and its small inner cella or shrine.

It is the first day of the year, and not only must the sacred fire be newly lighted from the sun; but the temple must be decorated anew with purifying laurel, and sprinkled with the water of the holy spring, though this last, indeed, is done every day; but also the offerings of salt in simple earthen vessels will be made, with prayers that Vesta, the goddess of the hearth, will protect the hearths and homes of the people.

And now I must turn aside from my story a minute to tell you of a beautiful thing that it was once given to Horatia to do. It was like a blessing on her whole life. One morning she was on her way to the fountain of Egeria for the water with which to sprinkle the temple. As this fair, pure-hearted young girl walked in the early morning, through the quiet street, in the pure white robe and veil, she met a prisoner in chains, with bowed head, led away by an officer toward the prison at the other side of the Forum. At the sight of her the culprit fell on his knees, and a glad light came into his uplifted eyes. Instantly the officer struck off his chains and told him that he was free to go where he would; for the sight of the Vestal virgin had saved him.

"But," you will say, "perhaps he had done something very wrong, and deserved the punishment." I know it, perhaps he did; but what is punishment for? It is to make us better. Now, if the man is made really better, let us be thankful that it was by the sight of the pure and good, rather than by the stern and dreary imprisonment. There is severity and punishment enough, and more than enough, in Rome, so we will cherish this little glimpse of gentleness and mercy.

Now I am going back to the temple of Vesta and the Kalends of March. The first day of the year, I think I told you, didn't I? If you will count from March, you will learn how September got its name of seventh month, although to us it is the ninth.

March was named in honor of Mars, the war god; April, for a word that means opening, for its opening leaves and buds; May, from Maius (greater) or the month of growth; June, from Juno (help), and then Quintilis, which only meant fifth, Sextilis, sixth, and so on, until Janus, who had his little brazen temple on the Janiculum, took January; and last of all February meant the purifying month in which all things should be washed clean, and made ready for the new year.

And on this New Year's morning Horatius puts on his clean, new tunic, hangs his golden bulla round his neck, and goes down to the Forum, and stands quiet and grave while the white-robed virgins pass, a lictor going before them to clear the way.

It is something to him to see his sister once in a while in this way. He never sees her nearer, and he has never spoken a word to her since his baby voice bade her "Good-by" ten years ago. But he knows it is an honor to the house that she should serve in the temple; and he feels sure that the goddess of the hearth watches over them all for her sake. A Roman maiden can serve the republic best in this way, as a Roman boy by becoming great in the Forum and the field.

Another festival, too, helps to celebrate the new year, and it is one that the boys care more for than they do for the vestal service; at least if they haven't a sister among the virgins.

You will see that processions of one kind or another were the most common things in Rome. To-day it is the leapers, or dancers, who bear the twelve brazen shields. Perhaps you know the story how one of these shields fell from heaven, and was therefore peculiarly sacred, and the other eleven were made exactly like it, so that even the priests themselves can't tell which is the real and which the imitation. This was done that the holy shield might not be stolen, and indeed the twelve are kept with the greatest care. Only once a year, on the Kalends of March, they are carried through the streets in a sort of stately dance; and the boys, who are born soldiers, delight to follow them. But Horatius cannot spend all his time on The Kalendar has other days besides feast-days.

Do you realize that there are no weeks like ours; no Sundays nor Mondays, and so on, but at the new moon the people all go to the capitol to hear the priest announce the Kalendar, or list of days, from this moon until the next Kalends, the first day of the month, then Nones, the fifth or seventh, and after that Ides, originally the time of the full moon, coming on the thirteenth or fifteenth of the month.

But the odd thing about this way of reckoning time was that they always counted it backwards; and when Horatius was a little boy he used to be taught to call the thirty-first of December the day before the Kalends of January, and so on. It would be very confusing to us; but so would our weeks and days be confusing to him, I suppose.

After the shield festival came regular school days until the Ides of March, and Horatius is set to work at once by his schoolmaster Doxius. He writes on a waxed tablet with a stylus, as Cleon did, and he studies arithmetic,—the table had been by this time invented—and he begins to learn the Greek language and to declaim both in his own Latin language and in Greek. He does not study geography; there are no school-books yet on that subject, and the few writers who have told us anything about geography in those days would give you an idea that the world was a circular plain lying chiefly about the Mediterranean Sea. But if he doesn't study geography he studies something else of more importance to him. A well-taught Roman boy ought to know by heart the twelve tables of the law that hang in the Forum. And it isn't only in order that he may obey them, that he learns them. He will have to try culprits himself, very likely, or at any rate plead at the bar in behalf of himself or his friend; for no Roman ever rises to distinction who is not capable of eloquent pleading; and the honors and offices of the republic follow the silver-tongued orator.

Before Horatius was seven years old, his mother trained him to speak always clearly and well, and now no day passes that he does not declaim the verses of the poets or the speeches of the senators. He goes, too, to the grammar-school, where he is taught to understand the great authors, and to learn their graces and elegances of language; for just as Cleon must become a good citizen, so, too, must Horatius. He may, one day, be chosen consul; then he must be prepared to command an army, or make a stirring speech in the Forum. He knows this, and he wants to be ready for it; and although he loves his play as well as you do, and runs off to his marbles or hoop or top whenever he can, he will gladly leave all other games when Valerius and Julius call him to join them in playing court; for little Marius has consented to be prisoner, accused of the crime of counterfeiting the public coin.

They have borrowed a black tunic, for Marius must wear the dress of the accused, Julius will be judge, and all the boys of the neighborhood must have their names presented, that a jury may be drawn. But when the names are drawn, Marius objects to Scipio, because he has never been his friend, and by the right of a Roman citizen his objection is allowed, and another boy drawn.

And now Horatius is the lawyer who undertakes the accusation in a bold speech, showing first the evils arising to the city from false coins, and then the shameful lack of patriotism in the man who could so injure his country, and lastly relating all the facts of this particular instance, the crime of Caius.

Then Valerius rises for the defence. He cannot deny that the crime is great, and if his client had committed it, he would be worthy of punishment. "But look at Marius. Can you believe such a thing of him?"

Then he calls witnesses to testify to his general good character and honesty, trying in every way to prove that he did not commit the deed.

Each little orator pleads with all his might, and the crowd of boys applauds, while the grave jury listen carefully to every word.

Now the jury must go out, each one having received three little tablets, one guilty, one not guilty, the third asking postponement or a further trial.

The boys have no tablets; but a white pebble, a black one, and a bit of wood will serve instead. And while they deliberate, poor little Marius, who begins to wish that he hadn't agreed to be prisoner, throws himself at their feet to move their compassion. But too much compassion will spoil the play, and into the box the black pebbles go, which declare him guilty. Then comes the sentence—the sentence of banishment, so terrible to every Roman citizen.

The little judge, Julius, standing gravely before them, pronounces the, "I forbid you the use of water or of fire in the city of Rome." And that, as you plainly understand, means that he can no longer live in Rome.

I think you begin to see where we learned how to conduct trials, don't you?

Then his friends lead Marius outside the gates and it seems to have become such terrible earnest that I am glad to say it all ends with a grand race round the Campus Martius, and on the way home they stop to spend a sesterce for marbles.

There have been some school-days, and busy ones too, and now it is about time for another festival,—a sort of Sunday, when the boys and girls go in a procession to the temple of Minerva to pray for wisdom; for she is the wise goddess, and skilful in all arts,—the same whom the Athenians called Pallas Athene; and you remember her statue of gold and ivory on the Acropolis at Athens.

Since this is the day when they seek wisdom, it is also the day when they carry to their teachers pay for instruction, and perhaps a little present besides. There is a five days' spring vacation, and then the school work begins again.

Of course you don't expect to hear about all the festivals and processions that followed. I shall only tell you of those in which Horatius took some part or had some special interest. And so we will leave him at work and at play until the Kalends of May.

We have May-Day games out in the fields ourselves. So did he, though perhaps not on exactly the same day, out in the Campus Martius, beyond the city walls. And just as the Greeks made a religious service of their games, so the Romans celebrated these May-Day games in honor of Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, the Sun-god, Diana, and the Fates.

But not on every May-Day were such extensive games celebrated, only once in a hundred years, for so the Sibylline books directed. Now, if you don't know what the Sibylline books were, I leave you to find out. It is a pretty story, and you will like it, but I haven't time to tell it.

Horatius knew,—indeed he can't remember the time when he did not know, as every Roman boy ought.

Well, the Sibylline books had directed the celebration of these games at the beginning of every age,—and an age was a hundred years,—in order that the city should always flourish, and should conquer all other nations; and you may be sure the warlike Romans would neglect nothing that could help to accomplish this their greatest object.

Since it is not probable that any man would live long enough to take part in these games twice, the heralds proclaim an invitation to all the world to come on that day to a festival which they had never seen before and would never see again; and happy were the boys and girls who happened to be boys and girls at that time, for there was a part in the games for them to perform, as indeed there was for everybody.

A few days before, fifteen officers, sitting in the Capitol and in the Palatine temple, distributed to the people sulphur and other purifying substances,—for all the city must be pure and fresh and clean before approaching the gods.

And since these celebrations were so rare, I will briefly tell you all that was done. First the people all carried wheat and barley and beans to Diana's temple on the Aventine Hill, and then they passed whole nights in prayer, and after this began the three days and three nights of the festival itself.

On the first night were the sacrifices. Three altars were built beside the Tiber, and three lambs are offered to the gods. Horatius saw them led up to the altar all wound about with wreaths of leaves, while the white-robed priest stood ready with his hand upon the altar to offer the prayers.

At the signal for prayer a great silence fell upon the vast multitude in the Campus Martius; but, as soon as the priest's voice was heard beginning the prayers, to Janus first, to Vesta last, and to all the gods of the upper and lower worlds between, the pipers struck up a loud strain and continued it until the prayer was ended.

What an irreverent thing to do!

Oh, no; it was done lest, in the midst of the prayer, any unlucky noise should be heard.

And now the priest sprinkles corn, or salt, or meal on the head of the lamb, plucks a few hairs from its head and throws them on the altar, marks with his knife a line from head to tail, and delivers him to the lower priests to be killed. Then the special parts for the offering are laid upon the fire, and the Augurs, watching them, see with joy that the flames take them quickly; so they know that the gods accept the offering.

Next, in the great theatre lighted with torches and fires, all the people sing a hymn to the gods, and then begin their sports; races, wrestling, throwing the spear, riding, etc. They are not unlike the games that Cleon saw at Olympia, and indeed, I think the Romans learned them from the Greeks.

The second day the mother of Horatius, and also the mothers of his friends Valerius and Julius, and many others, go in procession to the Capitol to sing hymns to Jupiter; and the last day Horatius himself and twenty-six of his playmates, even little Marius who played prisoner, and all the boys who served on the jury, together with twenty-seven little girls, go to the temple of the Palatine Apollo and sing a hymn that has been written on purpose for them, and that they have been practising for weeks.

So you see everybody has some part in the festival, since it is for the interest of all,—men, women, and children—that the city shall prosper. And thus early the boys learn that it is also their duty to advance the grandeur of Rome.

Do you notice how the plays are a part of the religion, and the religion is a part of the plays? That is what struck me more than anything else about it.

The May festival is over. The boys never saw it before. They will never see it again, and by and by they will be telling their sons about it, and saying to them, "When you are old men, you may perhaps see the like yourselves." I am glad we were here just in time, aren't you?