PRINASSUS TAKEN BY STRATA- [POLYBIUS, the Greek historian, was born at Megalopolis, Arcadia, about 204 B. C., and died about 122 B. C. To his history of Rome, we are indebted for much of our knowledge of ancient history between the years 222 and 146 B. C.] were near. vehement nature of his speech, the other by its Spartan force and brevity. The former, Col. Fullarton, inveighed in animated terms against Impey, as a criminal of the most atrocious description; whose ermine was steeped in human blood, who trampled on all laws to gratify his insatiate love of money, who amassed an immense fortune by bribes and contracts, and who had converted the court itself into an "officena After some attacks, which the strength scelerum et malarum." Nor did he fail to of the little city rendered fruitless, Philip verify many of these allegations by more desisted from the attempt, and, leading his than declamation. On the cruelty and inarmy through the country, destroyed the citadels, and plundered the villages that justice of subjecting a Hindoo to the operaHe then went and encamped construed to extend over that country, Fultion of English laws, which never could be before Prinassus; and having, in a short time, finished his blinds, and completed the larton observed, "If it were legal to hang Nundcomar on the statute passed in 1728 other preparations that were necessary for a siege, he began to undermine the walls of against forgery, it would be equally consothe city. But, when he found that the rock- nant to justice to hang the Nabob of Beniness of the soil rendered this work alto-gal, or the great Mogul and all his court, gether impracticable, he had recourse to the on the statute of James the First against following stratagem: He ordered the sol- bigamy." diers to make a great noise underground in the day-time, as if they were employed in digging the mines, and, in the night, to bring earth from distant parts, and to lay it along the mouths of the pits that were opened, that the besieged, on seeing a large quantity of earth, might be struck with apprehensions of their danger. At first, however, the inhabitants displayed a great show of bravery, and seemed determined to maintain themselves in the post. But, when Philip informed them by a message, that the wall was undermined to the length of four hundred feet, and that he left it to their choice whether they would now retire with safety, or, remaining till he should set fire to the props, be then all destroyed amidst the ruins of the place, they gave an entire credit to his account, and delivered up the city. A TERSE SPEECH. [SIR NATHANIEL William WraxALL, born at Bristol, England, April 8, 1751. As diplomat and member of Parliament he formed a wide acquaintance with people of note, and he has preserved his knowledge of historic characters and affairs in Historical Memoirs of my Own Time, and several kindred works. He died November 7, 1831. The following is a passage from his account of the prosecution of Sir Elijah Impey:] Robert Bruce before my eyes, but who conSir James Johnstone, who always brought cealed under a rough form, and unpolished manners, great integrity, directed by strong sense, exclaimed, after listening more than two hours to Fullarton's severe Philippic: "Every argument confirms my opinion that the question ought to be supported. We have beheaded a king; we have hanged a peer; we have shot an admiral; we are now trying a governor-general; and I can see no reason why we should not put on his trial a judge and chief justice." THE ISLAND. [RICHARD HENRY DANA, born at Cambridge, Mass., November 15, 1787; died February 2, 1879. After his graduation from Harvard College he studied law and was admitted to the bar. He was for a time one of the editors of the North American Review. In 1827 appeared his poem The Buccaneer, which Prof. Wilson, in Blackwood's Magazine, pronounced "by far the most powerful and original of American poetical compositions." The following verses are from that work:] The island lies nine leagues away. Two individuals distinguished themselves Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, on that evening; one by the eloquent and ❘ Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. THE DEATH OF GARFIELD. 357 But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale among the rocks. Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, In former days within the vale; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale; Bich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear; A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear: Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done; Come, listen how from crime this isle was won. THE DEATH OF GARFIELD. [JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE, an American statesman and orater, was born in Washington Co., Pa., Jan. 31, 1830. He removed in early life to Maine, and represented that State for many years in Congress, as Representa tive and as Senator. He was Secretary of State under President Garfield. The following extract is from his memorial oration on the death of Garfield, delivered in the halls of Congress February 26, 1882:] On the morning of Saturday, July second [1881], the President was a contented and happy man-not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and a keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor, and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at | times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his alma mater to renew the most cherished associations of his young manhood, and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress, from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death-and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell-what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud, expectant nation, a great host of sustaining friends, a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boy not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair, young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the centre of a nation's love, en 358 MARRYING FOR THE SAKE OF A DOG. shrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy_could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation, he bowed to the Divine decree. As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. And on the church's dizzy vane And now it glimmers in the sun, MARRYING FOR THE SAKE [JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE was born in Paris in 1798; died in 1865. He published dramas, poems, romances, a collection of stories entitled Jona than the Visionary (1827), and a History of the Wars in Italy. His story of Picciola has passed through many editions and been translated into several languages.] My friend Cabassol used to say that a family, to be quite complete, should consist of a father and mother, a son and daughter, and a dog. There was a time indeed when he never would have said it, but that was when he was a bachelor; for he was the crustiest bachelor that I ever knew. He lived by himself in the country, where he smoked his pipe and read his books, and took care of his garden, or walked over the fields with his dog. Yes, he had a dog, a perfect one, named Medor, and in those days he thought a perfect family consisted of a man and his BEFORE AND AFTER THE RAIN. dog. Medor had belonged to a widow lady We knew it would rain, for all the morn, A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens,— To sprinkle them over the land in showers. The rain has ceased, and in my room Publishers: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. living at St. Germain en Laye, who thought the world of him, but was in constant fear lest he should be shot; for Medor was a born hunter, and the forest park at St. Germain was an inviting field for four-footed as well as two-footed hunters. The keepers of the Park declared they would shoot Medor if they caught him there again; so his mistress begged me to save his life by finding for him a new master. I thought at once of Cabassol, and I could not have found a better master. He and Medor became at once fast friends, and understood each other perfectly. They were made for one another, and were always together. But one day, when Medor's nose was in his plate, and he seemed to be thinking of nothing but his dinner, he suddenly raised his head, and trembling from head to foot, MARRYING FOR THE SAKE OF A DOG. began to howl and whine in the most piteous and unaccountable manner. The door-bell rang: Medor sprang forward, and when Cabassol joined him, he found him rolling in an ecstasy of joy at the feet of a stranger, and leaping up and down as if beside himself. It was, as you have guessed, his old mistress, who had moved from St. Germain to live in Paris, and had taken this journey for the sake of seeing her old friend Medor. She cried at the welcome her dog had given her. She had come, she said, to ask him back again, for now that she lived in Paris, there was no longer any danger of his life from the foresters. Would not Monsieur Cabassol permit her to have Medor again? She would gladly pay whatever he chose to ask for Medor's board during the three years he had been absent from her, and a round sum besides. Cabassol looked at her in a furious manner! Give up his dog? never! "I will not sell my friend at any price," he cried, and gave a rude shrug of his shoulders, which said as plainly as words, "Go about your business, madame." The lady bitterly reproached him, and grew very angry, not because he had treated her so rudely, which was reason enough, she did not mind that, -but because he was likely to make Medor die of grief, by refusing to give him up to her. "See!" she cried, "he has never ceased to regret me. He still loves me and no one else." These last words enraged Cabassol; they aroused his pride, and determined to show her that Medor loved him best, he said, "Come! I have a plan which will soon show you whether Medor loves you more than me. We will go together to yonder hill. There we will separate. You shall go down the southern path, and I will take the northern, that comes back to my house. Medor shall belong to whichever of us he chooses to follow." "Very well," said she, "I am agreed;" for she was confident that the dog would follow her. Medor did not quite understand the agreement, but he saw that the two people whom he loved best had shaken hands and stopped quarreling, and were now talking politely together. He was full of delight, gamboling about them, and petted by both. Cabassol, though a crusty bachelor, was, after all, a pleasant companion when he chose; and now, feeling some pity for the lady, who must be disappointed, he be 359 gan to make himself quite agreeable, for she was his and Medor's guest, after all; and the widow lady, sorry for the loss which she was to cause him, and feeling happy at recovering Medor, was in high spirits, and made herself quite entertaining. When the time came for her to go, the three walked slowly together to the top of the hill, the two I mean,-for Medor was frisking about them in great glee. At the top they separated, and Cabassol went at once down the northern slope, while the lady went down the southern, and Medor bounded after her. But in a moment he perceived that his master was not with them; he ran back to him; then he saw his mistress was not following, but was keeping on in her path; he ran back to her; then to Cabassol, who was still keeping on in his path; then to his mistress; then to Cabassol, then to his mistress; then,-and so up and down, backward and forward, the road becoming longer and steeper each time. He could not make up his mind which to leave; he could not understand it at all: he went first to one, then to the other, ten times, and then ten times more, while they, without turning about or saying a word, kept straight on in their separate paths. At last, poor Medor, out of breath, the sweat pouring from him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, fell down completely exhausted, on the very top of the hill where they had separated; and there, turning his head first to the right and then to the left, he tried to follow, with his eyes at least, the two beings to each of whom he had given half his heart. Cabassol, meanwhile, saw how the poor dog fared, for each time he returned to him he was panting harder. He was seized with pity for him; he resolved to give back Medor to the lady, else he saw that Medor would surely die. He turned up the hill and came to the top. At the same moment the lady came up the hill from the other side; she, too, out of pity for Medor, had resolved to sacrifice her own feelings and suffer Cabassol to keep the beloved dog. They met at the top over the poor fellow, who was now wagging his tail in a feeble manner, to express his delight. But how could they make the poor animal submit to a new separation? if he were to go with either alone, it would break his heart. Cabassol reflected. He saw only one way of getting out of the difficulty, and that way, to marry the lady. Would she have him? Yes, for Medor's sake. And so they married to please the dog; and Cabassol came to say, as I told you at first, that a perfect family consists of a father and mother, son and daughter, and a dog. THE VOW. [MELEAGER, the Greek epigrammatist and philoso There can be no doubt that in ancient times there were tides of this amount, and even tides very much larger, must have occurred. I ask the geologists to take account of these facts, and to consider the effect-a tidal rise and fall of six hundred and forty-eight feet twice every day. Dwell for one moment on the sublime spectacle of a tide six hundred and forty-eight feet high, and see what an agent it would be for the performance of geological work! We are now standing, I suppose, some five hundred feet above the level of the sea.. pher, lived in the first century B. c. The following The sea is a good many miles from Birpoem was translated by J. H. Merivale.] In holy night we made the vow; And the same lamp which long before Had seen our early passion grow Was witness to the faith we swore. Did I not swear to love her ever; And have I ever dared to rove? Did she not own a rival never Yet now she says those words were air, PREHISTORIC TIDES. [THOMAS BELL, F. R. S., F. L. S., a well-known writer on scientific subjects. Born at Poole, Dorset, England, in 1792. He published, in 1878, a treatise on The Anatomy and Diseases of the Teeth, together with numerous papers read before the Geological and Zoological Societies.] mingham; yet, if the rise and fall at the coast were six hundred and forty-eight feet, Birmingham might be as great a seaport as Liverpool. Three-quarters tide would bring the sea into the streets of Birmingham. At high tide there would be about one hundred and fifty feet of blue water over our heads. Every house would be covered, and the tops of a few chimneys would alone indicate the site of the town. In a few hours more the whole of this vast flood would have retreated. Not only would it leave England high and dry, but probably the Straits of Dover would be drained, and perhaps Ireland would, in a literal sense, become a member of the United Kingdom. A few hours pass, and the whole of England is again inundated, but only again to be abandoned. These mighty tiles are the gifts which astronomers have now made to the working machinery of the geologist. They constitute an engine of terrific power to aid in the great work of geology. What would the puny efforts of water in other ways accomplish when compared with these majestic tides and the great currents they produce? At present the moon is two hundred In the great primeval tides will probably and forty thousand miles away, but there be found the explanation of what has been was a time when the moon was only one-long a reproach to geology. The early sixth part of this distance-or, say forty paleozoic rocks form a stupendous mass thousand miles-away. That time must of ocean-made beds, which, according to have corresponded to some geological epoch. It may have been earlier than the time when Eozoon lived. It is more likely to have been later. I want to point out that when the moon was only forty thousand miles away, we had in it a geological engine of transcendent power. If the present tides be three feet, and if the early tides be two hundred and sixteen times their present amount, then it is plain that the ancient tides must have been six hundred and forty-eight feet. Professor Williamson, are twenty miles thick up to the top of the silurian beds.. It has long been a difficulty to conceive how such a gigantic quantity of material could have been ground up and deposited at the bottom of the sea. The geologists said, "The rivers and other agents of the present day will do it if you give them time enough." But, unfortunately, the mathematicians and the natural philosophers would not give them time enough, and they ordered the geologists to "hurry up |