The universal anthology, a collection of the best literature, with ...

less fears, they say, are inspired by Pan. It was late in the evening when the confusion arose in the army, and at first it was a mere handful who lost their heads, fancying they heard the trampling of charging horses and the onset of foemen; but soon the delusion spread to the whole army. So they snatched up their arms, and taking sides, dealt death and received it. For they understood not their mother tongue, nor perceived each other's forms and the shapes of their bucklers, both sides alike in their present infatuation fancying that their adversaries were Greeks, that their arms were Greek, and that the language they spoke was Greek. So the God-sent madness wrought a very great slaughter among the Gauls at the hands of each other. The Phocians, who were left in the field to watch the herds, were the first to perceive and report to the Greeks what had befallen the barbarians in the night. Then the Phocians took heart and pressed the Celts more vigorously than ever, keeping a stricter watch on their encampments, and not suffering them to forage unresisted. This immediately produced a dreadful scarcity of corn and all other necessaries throughout the whole Gallic army. Their losses in Phocis amounted to a little under 6000 in action, over 10,000 in the wintry night and the subsequent panic, and as many more by famine.

The Athenians sent scouts to see what was doing at Delphi. When these men returned and reported all that had befallen the barbarians, and what the god had done to them, the Athenians took the field, and on the march through Boeotia were joined by the Boeotians. Their united forces followed the barbarians, lying in wait for and cutting off the hindmost. The fugitives under Brennus had been joined by the army of Acichorius only the night before; for the march of the latter had been retarded by the Etolians, who pelted them freely with darts and anything else that came to hand, so that only a small part of them escaped to the camp at Heraclea. Brennus's hurts still left him a chance of life; but they say that from fear of his countrymen, and still more from wounded pride as the author of the disastrous campaign in Greece, he put an end to himself by drinking neat wine. After that the barbarians made their way with difficulty to the Spercheus, hotly pressed by the Etolians. But from the Spercheus onward the Thessalians and Malians lay in wait, and swallowed them up so completely that not a man of them returned home.

IDYLS OF THEOCRITUS.

(Translation and introductions by Andrew Lang.)

[THEOCRITUS, the creator of the pastoral poem, was born at Syracuse, and lived later at Alexandria under Ptolemy Philadelphus; his palmiest period being about 270. He developed the responsive verse contest of shepherds into the bucolic "idyl" — "sketch" of country and sometimes city life.]

IDYL II.

Simatha, madly in love with Delphis, who has forsaken her, endeavors to subdue him to her by magic, and by invoking the Moon in her character of Hecate and of Selene. She tells the tale of the growth of her passion, and vows vengeance if her magic arts are unsuccessful. The scene is probably some garden beneath the moonlit sky, near the town, and within sound of the sea. The characters are Simætha and Thestylis her handmaid.

WHERE are my laurel leaves? come, bring them, Thestylis; and where are the love charms? Wreath the bowl with bright red wool, that I may knit the witch knots against my grievous lover, who for twelve days, oh, cruel, has never come hither, nor knows whether I am alive or dead, nor has once knocked at my door, unkind that he is! Hath Love flown off with his light desires by some other path- Love and Aphrodite? Tomorrow I will go to the wrestling school of Timagetus, to see my love and to reproach him with all the wrong he is doing But now I will bewitch him with my enchantments! Do thou, Selene, shine clear and fair; for softly, goddess, to thee will I sing, and to Hecate of Hell. The very whelps shiver before her as she fares through black blood and across the barrows of the dead.

me.

Hail, awful Hecate! to the end be thou of our company, and make this medicine of mine no weaker than the spells of Circe, or of Medea, or of Perimede of the golden hair.