As an example of the more elaborate visions that passed before me, I
will mention the only one which I clearly recollect. It was a
glimpse of history. When Hannibal, at the end of the second Punic
War, was confined to the south of Italy, he made Croton his
head-quarters, and when, in reluctant obedience to Carthage, he
withdrew from Roman soil, it was at Croton that he embarked. He then
had with him a contingent of Italian mercenaries, and, unwilling
that these soldiers should go over to the enemy, he bade them
accompany him to Africa. The Italians refused. Thereupon Hannibal
had them led down to the shore of the sea, where he slaughtered one
and all. This event I beheld. I saw the strand by Croton; the
promontory with its temple; not as I know the scene to-day, but as
it must have looked to those eyes more than two thousand years ago.
The soldiers of Hannibal doing massacre, the perishing mercenaries,
supported my closest gaze, and left no curiosity unsatisfied. (Alas!
could I but see it again, or remember clearly what was shown tome!)
And over all lay a glory of sunshine, an indescribable brilliancy
which puts light and warmth into my mind whenever I try to recall
it.
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