a conflict between skilled gladiators--the most accomplished
swordsmen of the gladiatorial school. The vast multitude watched with
fevered interest the wary fencing, the skilful guard and rapid thrust
and stroke of those trained butchers of their fellow-men. When a
swordsman was wounded, the spectators rent the air with cries of
"_Habet! Habet!_" and the one who was vanquished lowered his arms in
token of submission. His fate, however, depended upon the will of the
people, who sometimes, when a vanquished swordsman had exhibited
especial dexterity and skill, gave the signal to spare him by
stretching out their hands with the thumbs turned down. But if, as was
more frequently the case, their bloodthirsty passions were roused to
insatiable fury, they demanded his death by turning their thumbs
upwards, and shouting, "_Recipe ferrum_!" Without a tremor the victim
then bared his breast to the sword, and the victor thrust it home to the
hilt, while the cruel mob shouted their huzzas over the bloody tragedy.

Such is the scene brought vividly before our minds by the matchless
antique statue of the Dying Gladiator, found in the Gardens of Sallust,
now in the museum of the Capitol. As one gazes with a strange
fascination on that wondrous marble, instinct, it seems, with mortal
agony, callous must be the heart that is unmoved by its touching pathos.
The exquisite lines of Byron nobly express the emotions which it awakens
in every breast:--

I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low--
And through his side the last drops ebbing slow
From the red gash fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him--he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away.
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
_There_ were his young barbarians all at play,
_There_ was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday.

An unwonted interest was given to this cruel scene in the Roman
amphitheatre, by a novel and unheard of incident which occurred. The
brilliant young Roman officer, Ligurius Rufus, we have said, was
announced to take part in these games. It