Pliny remarks that this quantity—he mentions three bushels—proves that the right did not then exist. To this Juvenal’s fine passage on the end of the great Carthaginian by a poison-ring no doubt refers. The statements of ancient writers make it almost certain that poison was carried in rings, and specimens that may have served this purpose are known. With the growth of luxury, the Romans learnt to wear rings set with engraved stones. Sulla’s signet bore a representation of Jugurtha taken captive. Augustus first used a sphinx, then the head of Alexander, in the end his own head. The Emperor’s signet was a kind of state-seal which he sometimes confided to his representatives, as had been done by the Greek kings; witness the story of Alexander’s ring. Of the Roman signets that have come down to us, one of the most curious is a quack’s, with which a balsam used to be sealed for greater safety. It bears a figure of Minerva, and the inscription herophili opobalsamvm. It is now in the national collection. Others have the names of the owners, as procvla karissima, and the lady’s portrait; rather an Italian than an ancient Roman fancy.
The Romans are the first ring collectors on record. We read not only of private dactyliothecæ, but of two which may be called public, Pompey having dedicated the inscribed gems of Mithradatus in the Capitol, and Cæsar six collections of his own in the temple of Venus Genetrix. But there is no room to speak of the many curious things we read of Roman rings, the heavy for winter, and light for summer, the very large ones that some wore, and the sham ones of hollow gold that contented poorer dandies. Yet a word must be added as to the fingers upon which rings were worn by both the Romans and the Greeks.
Pliny tells us that rings were originally only put on the third finger, but later on the first and little fingers, so that the middle finger alone was left free. Some wore rings only on the little finger, others kept that finger for the signet. Plutarch, speaking of the Greeks, says that they mostly wore their rings on the third finger. The hand intended was of course the left, as the right is not convenient for rings, though the Arabs, as the left is the less honourable hand, always wear their signets on the little finger of the right hand. But as to the Orientals, I shall hope to speak about them on some future occasion: for the present, I forbear to enter upon the great subject of Solomon’s seal.
We have engraved three signet-rings, a beautiful Etruscan one described above, a Greek ring of the usual form, and a Roman one of the Imperial age.
WEIN-LIED (A WINE-SONG).
FROM THE GERMAN OF EMMANUEL GEIBEL.
God bless thee! heaven descended dew,—
Child of the sun, so warm and true,
The vineyard’s prize and treasure;
Thy glint how genial to behold,
A fountain all a-blaze with gold,
Filling the sheeny measure!
Come to my lips, and let me steep
My heart at once with joyous leap
Down to the deep
In all thy tide of pleasure.
Ev’n as we know the topaz bright,
From point to point alive with light,
Shalt thou my spirit brighten;
And in my mind whate’er was dark
Thy liquid flame’s refining spark
Shall clear away and whiten.
For this a meed, due long ago,
A rapturous roundelay I owe,
Whese overflow
My bosom’s weight shall lighten.
Great is in joy thy wondrous might,
Great, too, whene’er the lonely wight
In grief’s arrest is drinking
Thou quellest mild the choking care,
Dissolvest in the goblet rare
To tears the bitter thinking.
Oh! then the cup hath noble rank,
As that where Cleopatra drank,
When the pearl sank
Consumed with lustrous blinking!
Sleeps wrapt in thee the olden time,
The joy of joys, the woe sublime,
All tenderest love-fancies;
Sleeps wrapt in thee the modest lay,
The lay whose whisper storms obey,
When life with tumult dances;
Youth springs from thee anew to play,
And twined by thee the garland gay
Of rosy May
The silver hair enhances.
That which to man some god reveals,
But he in his close heart conceals,
Sunk to the world in seeming;
Thou dost with golden finger tap,
Then flies apart the casket-snap,
And all the gems lie gleaming.
Then wisdom’s word is music soft,
Then floats the hoard of Love aloft,
And oft and oft
Glimmers divinely beaming.[1]
And art thou not, in truth, Oh, wine!
An image of this life of mine,
And changeful Fate’s true mirror?
Crushed, broken, mangled to the core,
To warmth and spirit thou dost soar,
Sworn foe of pain and error:
Thy luscious fire’s all-conquering name
Tells of our woe and after-fame,
And how the flame
Of Youth surmounts Death’s terror.
So welcome, Heaven-engendered dew,
Child of the sun, as warm and true—
The vineyard’s pride and treasure.
True zest to keep our harp in tune,
For song the one right royal boon,
Thou golden fount of pleasure.
Up, clear and pure in brimming cup,
Blest, and with blessing crowned, mount up!
And let me sup
On joy that knows no measure.
- ↑ This image is taken from the story of the Nibelungen.
