Chapter III (2)

Inspired by his editorial and art experience, he began early
to visit the places made notable by the battles and
memorable scenes of the Revolutionary War. Of buildings
connected therewith, or of their falling ruins, he made
sketches. Out of this activity came his famous and still
excellent work, "The Field Book of the Revolution." The
history of our subsequent wars he also treated; and it was
history chiefly that engaged his pen. The one exception was
his publication of the _Casket_, in 1836 or thereabouts,
which in a form similar to that of the _Nation_, was a very
creditable literary and family magazine, conducted in a
popular way, when magazines in this country were few and
unimportant. One does not find, in any account of him apart
from this venture of possibly not over three years'
duration, that he left his purely historical themes.

Very recently, however, THE SCRAP BOOK came across a
somewhat romantic story, with a touch and climax of art and
love in it, which is the product of his pen; though its
style is a little more ambitious and florid than the one for
which he was noted. It tells, with much liberty of
embellishment, the thrilling anecdote of the contest of the
Grecian artists, Zeuxis and Parrhasius. As it was
interesting sixty years ago, when it appeared (in 1846),
doubtless it may have some interest now.

Zeuxis was the pride and boast of Athens. His pencil had no rival, and thrice he had been crowned victor of the Olympic games. The dwellings of the rich and noble, and the shrines and temples of the gods, were decorated with the fruits of his genius. He was courted by the wise and powerful. Artists and magi came from distant cities to look upon the Athenian painter, whose name was sounded worldwide.

Even the proud ruler of Palmyra, the "Tadmor of the wilderness," sent a deputation of nobles to invite his presence at the Palmyrene court. Contemporary artists acknowledged his superiority; and Apollodorus, the father of Athenian painters, declared that Zeuxis had "stolen the cunning from all the rest." Thus flattered and caressed, Zeuxis became proud and haughty. He found no rival, for he knew no equal.

The Agonothetai employed him to paint a wrestler or champion, to adorn the peristylium of the Gymnasia. Assembled thousands gave a simultaneous shout of applause when the picture was exhibited on the first day of the games. The victors in the chariot-race, the discus, the cestus, and the athletae, were almost forgotten amid the general admiration of the picture of Zeuxis. Conscious of his superiority, the artist, with pedantic egotism, wrote beneath his picture, "Invisurus aliquis facilius quam imitaturus!"--"Sooner envied than equaled!"

This inscription met the eye of an obscure youth, who resolved to prove its falsity.

The third day of the games had terminated. The last rays of the sun yet lingered on the Acropolis, and burnished the crest of hoary Olympus that gleamed in the distance. Zeuxis sat alone with his wife and daughter, listening attentively to the strains of a minstrel who swept the lyre for a group of joyous dancers assembled near the grove sacred to Psyche. As the music ceased, a deep sigh escaped the daughter, and a tear trembled in the maiden's eye.

"Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra," said Zeuxis, "why that tear, that sigh?"

A deep crimson suffused the cheeks of the maiden, and she was silent.

"Tell me, Cassandra," said the father, affectionately placing her hand in his own, and inquisitively eying the blushing damsel; "tell me what new grief makes sorrowful the heart of my daughter? Thinkest thou yet of the worthless Parrhasius--even now, upon the eve of thy nuptials with the noble Thearchus?"

"Nay, dear father," said Cassandra, "it was the music that made me weep. It awakened memory to the recollections of the many happy hours spent with my dear Portia, who is now among the immortals. Four years ago we danced together to the same strain, and the lyre was touched by the gentle Parrhasius."

"_Gentle_ Parrhasius, sayest thou, Cassandra?--_gentle_ Parrhasius! Wouldst thou call him gentle, the poor plebeian who sought to rival the noble Thearchus in thy affections?--who openly avowed in the streets of Athens, in the Gymnasium and the Hippodrome, that his pencil would yet make Zeuxis envious?"

"And yet he _was_ gentle," mildly replied Cassandra, while the big round tears coursed down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with tender emotion.

The brow of Zeuxis lowered, and indices of a whirlwind of passion were in his countenance. Four years had elapsed since Parrhasius had asked for his daughter in marriage, and was indignantly refused. Affection, deep and abiding as vitality itself, existed between the young painter and Cassandra--affection based upon reciprocal appreciation of mutual worth; but the ambition of Zeuxis made him forget his duty to his child, and, without estimating consequences, he resolved to wed her to Thearchus, a wealthy Athenian nobleman, and son of one of the judges of the Areopagus.

When Parrhasius modestly but firmly pressed his suit, Zeuxis became indignant--taunted him with his plebeian birthright and obscure lineage; and denounced him as a poor Ephesian boy, unworthy, because of his poverty, the friendship, much less the confidence of sonship, of the great Athenian painter.

The spirit of Parrhasius was aroused and, standing erect in all the dignity of conscious equality of genius, full-fledged and eager to soar, he boldly repelled the insults of Zeuxis, and with a voice that reached the listening ear of his beloved, exclaimed:

"Know, proud man, that thou, the unrivaled master of Greece, of the world, wilt yet envy the talent and fame of Parrhasius, though a poor plebeian boy of Ephesus!"

The rage of Zeuxis was unbounded, and he ordered his helots to thrust the youth from his presence. The order was instantly obeyed; and, ere the setting sun, Parrhasius left the walls of Athens behind him, and turned toward Ephesus, to practise his skill in seclusion there.

During the interim of the games, the young painter assiduously practised his art, in utter seclusion from the world; and those who knew him before departing for Athens, believed him dead. Nor could Cassandra, during these four years, hear aught of her exiled lover. Her constancy and hope whispered to her heart the fulfilment of the prediction of excellence, and that destiny would yet unite them in holy ties by its mysterious web.

This hope and this constancy had thus far delayed her marriage with Thearchus. Like Penelope, she framed reasons for repelling her suitor, and daily looked for the return of her lord, wearing the bay of success. Her father, wearied by procrastination, and ambitious for display, had resolved to have the nuptials celebrated during the festival of the Olympic games. His persuasions became commands, his arguments positive orders, and his paternal government by the power of love a stern executor of the behest of his ambition. The herald had already sounded the proclamation, and all Athens greeted with joy the approaching nuptials of the noble Thearchus and the lovely Cassandra.

Yet the stern ambition of Zeuxis was susceptible of tender impressions. He adored his daughter, and her tears melted the ice of his heart. He knew she loved the Ephesian, and the war of duty and ambition waxed warm as he witnessed new proofs of her constancy and love.

"Come, come, Cassandra," said he caressingly, "these tears ill become the daughter of the Athenian painter on the eve of her nuptials with one of the noblest sons of Greece. Forget that childish passion that attaches thee to Parrhasius, and thank the gods for his exile from Athens."

"Would you see your Cassandra happy?" asked the weeping maiden.

"I would, indeed," replied Zeuxis; "and it was for her happiness that I spurned the Ephesian and favored the worthy Thearchus."

"But Thearchus has no place in my affections," replied Cassandra. "I love him not; and to wed him is but to plunge me into deeper misery. What is wealth--what nobility and the applause of the people, if the affections of the heart have no participation therein? They are ministers of woe to the broken spirit. Without love there is no happiness; without happiness life is nothing worth. I would sooner wed a shepherd than an archon, did he but bring with him the riches of true affection."

"Madness, madness!" exclaimed Zeuxis. "This philosophy may do for a peasant maiden, but should not pollute the lips of a daughter of Zeuxis. Talk of love! Why, it is but a passion born of circumstances. To-day it burns with volcanic violence, to-morrow it is but a glimmering taper; to-day its intensity warms the most cheerless cabin of poverty, to-morrow its flickering rays will barely illumine the most cheerful abode of wealth. It is a delusive light, that too often dazzles to blind."

"It may be so with the sensual," replied Cassandra. "With them it is indeed a passion born of circumstances. Yet, after all, it is _not_ love. It is but a poor semblance of the holy passion. Pure affection comes not from the dross of earth, the wealth, power, and pageantry of individuals or of society, nor from the ephemeral loveliness of the human form. Such is, at best, the gross counterfeit of love, and undeserving its divine name. When moral and intellectual worth--the beauties and amiability of character--the noble evidences of exalted genius, excite our admiration, and win our affections for the possessor, then indeed do we truly love, and love a worthy object. Such, dear father, is my love for Parrhasius. Submission to thy will must unite me to Thearchus, whom I cannot love; but the undying flame of first affection will only make me more miserable."

Zeuxis was silent. He loved his daughter with exceeding tenderness; yet burning ambition presented a paramount claim, and would not permit him again to delay the nuptials on which he had resolved. He kissed the tears from the cheeks of Cassandra, and was about to retire for the night; but the maiden seized his hand, and, looking imploringly in his face, said:

"Hear me once more, dear father, ere the decree of my unhappiness shall have irrevocably gone forth. Hope whispers in my ear that the prophetic taunt of Parrhasius may yet be verified. Thou well knowest the genius and spirit of that youth, and I know thy gentle nature will now forgive him the utterance of words spoken in passion. Forgive, and Cassandra will be happy."

"For thy sake," replied Zeuxis, "I will pardon the rashness of the Ephesian boy. But why thy hope? Wouldst thou see thy father rivaled, and the voice of Athens--of the world--loud in praises of another?"

"No," replied Cassandra, "it is not for that I hope; but thy daughter loves Parrhasius, and she desires to see him worthy of that love in the eyes of her father. This is the foundation of my hope. Is it not just?"

"Truly, such an aspiration is worthy of my daughter," replied Zeuxis; and again bidding her good night, he was about to depart. But the maiden still clung to his hand.

"One word more," she exclaimed; "one more boon, and your Cassandra will be completely happy. Promise me that I shall wed Parrhasius if his prediction be fulfilled."

"I promise," replied Zeuxis, conscious that her hopes were groundless, and that the last day of the festival would witness the nuptials of Thearchus and Cassandra, and thus crown his paternal ambition with a more valued bay than the laurel of the victor.

On the following morning Zeuxis prepared for the games. Just at the moment of starting a helot approached him with a small roll directed to "Zeuxis, the unrivaled painter of Greece." He was delighted with the flattering superscription, and, having unbound it, read:

Parrhasius, the plebeian boy of Ephesus, to Zeuxis, the
great Athenian artist: Greeting. Ten days, and the games of
Olympia will terminate. On the ninth I challenge thee to a
trial of skill. The subject is left to the choice of the
challenged.

Zeuxis rent the challenge in a thousand pieces, and, burning with rage, exclaimed: "Tell your master that Zeuxis stoops not to compete with plebeians! Tell him I trample his insolent challenge beneath my feet, even as I would crush its author. Begone! Gods, has it come to this?" continued he. "Must I first bear the taunts of that boy, and then, in the face of thousands, have him challenge me to a trial? I know him well. If I refuse, a herald will proclaim that refusal in every street of Athens, and the gymnasium and the circus will ring with my shame. It must not be." And he commanded the helot to return.

"Tell your master," said Zeuxis, "that I accept his challenge: the subject, fruit." The helot departed.

"Now," said Zeuxis, "my triumph will be complete, and Cassandra's delusion will be broken. Now will I prove the insolent Ephesian unworthy of my exalted notice and the noble Cassandra's love. It is well. Destiny bids me stoop to the trial, only to add another laurel to my brow!" And Zeuxis, with haughty step, proceeded to the circus.

Within a few hours all Athens was in commotion. A new impulse had been given to the public excitement, and the first sound that fell upon the ear of Zeuxis as he entered the circus was the voice of a herald proclaiming that an Ephesian painter had challenged the great artist to a trial of skill.

The voice of the herald also sounded throughout the streets of Athens, and fell like sweetest symphony upon the ear of Cassandra. She knew not the name of the competitor, but the revealings of hope and love assured her that it was none other than Parrhasius. And that hope and that love also gave her assurance that her beloved one would be the victor, and that holy affection rather than proud ambition would be crowned by the hand of Astrea.

The time fixed upon for the trial arrived. The thousands who had congregated in Athens to witness the games flowed like a living torrent through the eastern gate of the city, and halted upon a hill overlooking a flowery plain bordering upon the Ilyssus. The sun had journeyed half his way toward the meridian, when amid the thundering shouts of applause of the populace, Zeuxis, with a proud and haughty step, left the pavilion of the judges, and with a tablet in his hand, on which was painted a cluster of grapes, proceeded to the plain. Upon a small column erected for the purpose, near a grove, the artist placed his painting, and, withdrawing the curtain that concealed it, returned to the pavilion. The multitude was astonished, for they expected to feast their eyes on the production of the great artist. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, and a few loudly denounced the conduct of Zeuxis in placing the picture beyond their observation.

Suddenly a deafening shout, and a cry of "Zeuxis and Athens!" arose from the throng. A whole bevy of birds from the grove had alighted upon the column, and eagerly sought to devour the pictured fruit!

This decision of the birds of heaven was deemed sufficient evidence of the superiority of the Athenian painter, and the people clamored loudly for the crown of laurels and the branch of palm for Zeuxis. His competitor had not yet been seen, either in the crowd or with the judges; and Zeuxis gloried in the thought that his conscious inferiority had made him shrink from the trial. The branch of palm was placed in the Athenian's hand, and a virgin was about to place the crown of evergreen upon his head, when, from a small tent opposite the pavilion of the judges, stepped forth the "Ephesian boy," pale and trembling, and, with a tablet in his hand, approached the multitude. Not a single voice greeted him, for he was unknown to that vast concourse, and the silence weighed like lead upon his heart. There was, however, one heart there that beat in sympathy with his own. It was that of Cassandra. She, too, stood pale and trembling; and by her side was Thearchus, watching with intense anxiety for the result.

Parrhasius drew near to his rival. At first he would not deign to notice him; but a few faint voices crying out, "Victory for Parrhasius!" the judges demanded an exhibition of the picture of the Ephesian. Turning around, with ill-concealed rage, Zeuxis, with a bitter, scornful tone cried out, "Come, away with your curtain, that the assemblage may see what goodly affair you have beneath it!"

Parrhasius handed the tablet to his rival. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more astounded. The curtain was painted upon the tablet, and so exquisitely was it wrought that even the practised eye of the great painter did not till then detect the deception!

"I yield! I yield!" cried the Athenian; "Zeuxis beguiled poor birds, but Parrhasius hath deceived Zeuxis! Bring hither the laurel and also the palm: my hand, and mine alone, shall crown the young victor!"

"And thy promise!" exclaimed Cassandra, bounding forward and grasping the hand of her father.

"I here fulfil it," said he. "Parrhasius is indeed worthy of my Cassandra. Embrace and be happy!"

The laurel and the palm were brought--and there, in the presence of assembled thousands, Zeuxis crowned the young Ephesian. Then, mounting a pedestal, he addressed the assembled multitude. He recounted the pure love and constancy of Parrhasius and Cassandra, and told of his promise; he also tenderly related his engagement with Thearchus.

He was proceeding to vindicate himself from the imputation of treachery to Thearchus, when another deafening shout arose from the assembly, as a noble youth came from the pavilion with a branch of palm and placed it in the hands of Cassandra. It was Thearchus. He had before heard and now witnessed the devotion of the lovers, and his generous heart melted at the spectacle. He had tenderly loved the maiden, but he magnanimously resigned all.

"Laurels for Thearchus!" shouted the vast multitude--and Thearchus, too, was crowned victor, for he had conquered love.

Matrons and virgins strewed the path of Parrhasius and Cassandra with flowers, as they returned to the city; and on the following day their nuptials were celebrated with a splendor fully adequate to the wishes of the ambitious Zeuxis, for the city made the marriage a high festival in honor of Genius and Constancy.

The games ended; the city became quiet. A few years of happiness cast their sunlight around the footsteps of the great painter, and he went down into the tomb honored and mourned by a nation--by the world, wherever his fame was known. His mantle fell upon Parrhasius, who is revered by Genius as the greatest painter of antiquity.

=Ideals=. Every man has at times in his mind, the ideal of
what he should be, but is not. The ideal may be high and
complete, or it may be quite low and insufficient; yet in
all men that really seek to improve, it is better than the
actual character. Man never falls so low that he can see
nothing higher than himself.--=Theodore Parker=.
(1810-1860.)

LITTLE GEMS FROM TENNYSON.

Willow whiten, aspen quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.

_From "The Lady of Shalott."_

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whispered speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heaped over with a mound of grass--
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

_From "The Lotos-Eaters."_

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little.

_From "Ulysses."_

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! Set the wild echoes flying!
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes--dying, dying, dying.

_Song from "The Princess."_

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know
The woman's cause is man's; they rise or sink
Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free:
For she that out of Lethe scales with man
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands--
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,
How shall men grow?

_From "The Princess."_

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands:
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

_From "Locksley Hall."_

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new,
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do.

_From "Locksley Hall."_

This is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

_From "Locksley Hall."_

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.

* * * * *

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.

_From "Crossing the Bar."_

O love! O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

_From "Fatima."_

God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.

* * * * *

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.

_From poem "To J.S."_

That tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

_From "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington."_

The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

_From "The Passing of Arthur."_

Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'T is only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

_From "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."_

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright;
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

_From "The Grandmother."_

And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old.

_From "The Day-Dream."_

There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.

_From "In Memoriam."_

HOW TO TELL A WOMAN'S AGE.

Two Ways of Securing Certain Valuable and Closely Guarded Information
Which the Fair Sex Defies Even the Courts to Extract.

Few mysteries are at once so impenetrable and so irritating as that which surrounds a truthful woman who declines to take you into her confidence when the subject of her age is mentioned. But even women who are truthful and secretive are curious, and when a friend tells them that he can solve the mystery in spite of them they may easily fall into a certain mathematical snare.

Tell the young woman to put down the number of the month in which she was born, then to multiply it by 2, then add 5, then to multiply it by 50, then to add her age, then to add 115, then to subtract 365, and finally to tell you the amount that she has left.

The two figures to the right will tell her age, and the remainder the month of her birth. For example, the amount is 822; she is twenty-two years old, and was born in the eighth month (August).

Then there is another method.

Just hand this table to a young lady, and request her to tell you in which column or columns her age is contained, and add together the figures at the top of the columns in which her age is found, and you have the great secret. Thus, suppose her age to be seventeen, you will find that number in the first and fifth columns. Here is the magic table:

1 2 4 8 16 32
3 3 5 9 17 33
5 6 6 10 18 34
7 7 7 11 19 35
9 10 12 12 20 36
11 11 13 13 21 37
13 14 14 14 22 38
15 15 15 15 23 39
17 18 20 24 24 40
19 19 21 25 25 41
21 22 22 26 26 42
23 23 23 27 27 43
25 26 28 28 28 44
27 27 29 29 29 45
29 30 30 30 30 46
31 31 31 31 31 47
33 34 36 40 48 48
35 35 37 41 49 49
37 38 38 42 50 50
39 39 39 43 51 51
41 42 44 44 52 52
43 43 45 45 53 53
45 46 46 46 54 54
47 47 47 47 55 55
49 50 52 56 56 56
51 51 53 57 57 57
53 54 54 58 58 58
55 55 55 59 59 59
57 58 60 60 60 60
59 59 61 61 61 61
61 62 62 62 62 62
63 63 63 63 63 63

ODDITIES OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE.

Despite the veneration in which it has been held by mankind for the last nineteen hundred years, the Bible has fared almost as badly at the hands of translators and printers as books of far less importance. Errors made in the course of translating and printing have caused various nicknames to be applied to the editions. Some of the more extraordinary of these editions were described in a recently published catalogue as follows:

=The Gutenberg Bible= (1450)--The earliest book known. Printed from movable metal types, is the Latin Bible issued by Gutenberg, at Mayence.

=The Bug Bible= (1551)--Was so called from its rendering of the Psalms xci:5: "Afraid of bugs by night." Our present version reads: "Terror by night."

=The Breeches Bible=--The Geneva version is that popularly known as the Breeches Bible, from its rendering of Genesis iii:7: "Making themselves breeches out of fig-leaves." This translation of the Scriptures--the result of the labors of the English exiles at Geneva--was the English family Bible during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and till supplanted by the present authorized version of King James I.

=The Place-Makers' Bible= (1562)--From a remarkable typographical error which occurs in Matthew v:9: "Blessed are the place-makers," instead of "peace-makers."

=The Treacle Bible= (1568)--From its rendering of Jeremiah viii:22: "Is there no treacle [instead of balm] in Gilead?"

=The Rosin Bible= (1609)--From the same text, but translated "rosin."

=The Thumb Bible= (1670)--Being one inch square and half an inch thick; was published at Aberdeen.

=The Vinegar Bible= (1717)--So named from the head-line of the twentieth chapter of Luke, which reads: "The Parable of the Vinegar," instead of the "vineyard."

=The Printers' Bible=--We are told by Cotton Mather that in a Bible printed prior to 1702 a blundering typographer made King David exclaim: "Printers [instead of princes] persecuted him without a cause." See Psalms cxix:161.

=The Murderers' Bible= (1801)--So called from an error in the sixteenth verse of the Epistle of Jude, the word "murderers" being used instead of "murmurers."

=The Caxton Memorial Bible= (1877)--Wholly printed and bound in twelve hours, but only one hundred copies struck off.

However much truth there may be in the stories of the dissolute conduct of Shakespeare, there is abundant proof of the fact that the Bible was one of his favorite books. Indeed, his admiration for the Scriptures carried him so far that he frequently incorporated Bible sentences in his plays. The following are examples:

_Bible_--"But though I be rude in speech."--2 Corinthians xi:6.

_Othello_--"Rude am I in speech."

_Bible_--"To consume thine eyes and to grieve thine heart."--1 Samuel ii:33.

_Macbeth_--"Shew his eyes and grieve his heart."

_Bible_--"Look not upon me because I am black; because the sun hath looked upon me."--Song of Solomon i:6.

_Merchant of Venice_--"Mislike me not for my complexion--the shadowed livery of the burnished sun."

_Bible_--"I caught him by his beard and smote him and slew him."--1 Samuel xvii:35.

_Othello_--"I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him."

_Bible_--"Opened Job his mouth and cursed his day; let it not be joined unto the days of the year; let it not come into the number of months."--Job.

_Macbeth_--"May this accursed hour stand ay accursed in the calendar."

_Bible_--"What is man that Thou art mindful of him? Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands."--Psalms viii:4; Hebrews ii:6.

_Hamlet_--"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason; how infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable; in action how like an angel; in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world--the paragon of animals."

_Bible_--"Nicanor lay dead in his harness."--Maccabees xvii:12.

_Macbeth_--"We'll die with harness on our backs."

The Prophecies of Bonaparte.

Remarkable Manuscript Found in the Exiled Emperor's Desk on the
Island of Elba before Waterloo.

That the first Napoleon was exceedingly superstitious is well known. He was a devout believer in dream warnings, and he was a patron of palmists, clairvoyants, and astrologers. Like many another great man, the famous emperor sometimes was prone to indulge in prophetic utterances himself.

One of the most interesting of the compositions of Napoleon is a remarkable prophecy which, in the emperor's own handwriting, was found in his desk on the island of Elba. The document was discovered by Captain Campbell, in 1815. It is as follows:

The foundation of our political society is so defective and
tottering that it threatens ruin; the fall will be terrible,
and all the nations on the continent will be involved in it;
no human force can arrest the course of events.

All civilized Europe will find itself in the position in
which a part of Italy once was under the Caesars.

The storm of the Revolution, some clouds of which will
extend over France, will soon cover all that portion of the
globe which we inhabit with a frightful darkness.

The world can be saved only by shedding torrents of blood; a
terrible and violent hurricane can alone purge the poisonous
air which envelops Europe.

I only could have saved the world, and no other.

I would have given it the chalice of suffering to empty at a
single draft; instead of which it must now drink it drop by
drop.

That which is now fermenting in Spain and at Rome will soon
cause a general commotion. Then the crisis will be terrible.

I know men and the age; I would have hastened the advent of
happiness on earth, if those with whom I had to deal had not
been villains. They accuse me of having despised and
enslaved them; their own groveling spirit and thirst for
gold and distinction brought them to my feet. Could I take
one step without crushing them? I did not need to spread
snares in their path; it sufficed to present to them the cup
of worldly riches and honors. Then, like a swarm of hungry
flies, they precipitated themselves on their prey. The
slaves needed a master, but I had no need of slaves.

What shall we think of forty millions of people who complain
bitterly of the oppression of a single individual!

Cupidity, envy, vanity, false glory, pursue them like furies
through this stormy life; they talk incessantly of virtue,
generosity, and love, while, like an incurable cancer, envy,
interest, and ambition are gnawing the inner folds of their
hearts. They carefully conceal their wickedness, and feign a
virtue which they do not possess; they reciprocally lavish
flatteries on one another. Though no one of them believes in
the honor of the rest, nevertheless, through weakness, they
play together the parts they have learned, for want of
courage to show themselves such as they are.

The best among them are those who are most condemned,
because they do not know how to feign, and the false virtue
of the rest gives more eclat to their crimes.

Nothing is more revolting to me than this mania for
falsehood, to which I have sometimes been myself obliged to
make sacrifices, that I might not expose others.

Their private life is but a constant series of boasting, a
disconnected conversation, the repetition of a part
carefully studied.

As I saw everywhere that ambition and interest prevailed
(taking from all and giving to none), that all wished to
command and no one wished to obey, I resolved to terminate
this insensate dispute, by taking from all what they desired
so eagerly and could not possess; thus, the men who loudly
demanded liberty were compelled to learn to know it, and
appreciate it by a blind obedience.

It was in this manner that by a voluntary reciprocity each
one recovered his due.

Renouncing all these frivolous manners, all these theatrical
caricatures of our times, let us be more sincere; less of
courtiers, more serious, more reflective, and less apish.
This is a sure method, if there is one, of renewing the
Golden Age.

For myself, I care very little what may be said, thought, or
written of me. I have been accused of having done, and
suffered to be done, much evil.

When the storm hovers over the surface of the earth, to
purify the air and fertilize the mountains, ought we to
complain if, in its course, it carries away roofs and loose
tiles, or shakes off the fruits of trees? Even the sun, when
he sheds his beneficent light upon the Arctic pole, kills
and scorches all vital plants beneath his meridian.

With the amiable popularity of a Caesar and of a Henry IV, I
might not have found, it is true, a single Brutus, but a
hundred Ravaillacs.

Although I care little for the people, because they are
fickle, flattering, cruel, and capricious as children (for
they are always such) and trample beneath their feet to-day
those they idolized yesterday, nevertheless I would have
promoted their welfare, more than those who have so basely
betrayed them.

REJECTED BOOKS THAT WON FAME.

"Ben-Hur," "Vanity Fair," "Jane Eyre," and Scores of Other Masterpieces
Were "Declined With Thanks" by Several Publishers.

There used to be an old superstition that a flash of lightning would turn milk sour. This is the sort of effect produced upon a young author by the rejection of a manuscript by a publisher. As the author becomes older, more successful, and more experienced, such incidents do not discourage him, and if he sighs at all, the sigh is one of commiseration for the publisher who cannot appreciate a really good thing when he sees it.

The owner of a rejected manuscript is in good company, for many of the more celebrated works of literature have been summarily returned to their authors by unappreciative publishers.

Few books published in the United States have yielded to their publishers and authors larger returns than "Ben-Hur," by the late Lew Wallace, and yet the manuscript had been rejected by nearly every first-class publisher in this country before it finally was accepted by the Harpers, to whom it was submitted for the second time.

"Rejected Addresses," by Horace and James Smith, was offered to Mr. Murray for twenty pounds, but refused. A publisher, however, purchased it, and, after sixteen editions, Mr. Murray gave a hundred and thirty pounds for the right to issue a new edition. The total amount received by the authors was more than a thousand pounds.

"Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Bronte, was, it is said, rejected by several publishers. This, however, is rather doubtful. We believe the manuscript was sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., in Cornhill, and there it remained for a long time, till a daughter of one of the publishers read it and recommended her father to publish it. The result is well known. It brought the author fame and money.

"Eoethen," by Mr. Kinglake, was offered to twenty different houses. All refused it. He then, in a fit of desperation, gave the manuscript to an obscure bookseller and found the expenses of publication himself. This also proved a success.

"Vanity Fair," that most famous work of Thackeray's, was written for _Colburn's Magazine_, but it was refused by the publishers as having no interest.

"The History of Ferdinand and Isabella," by Mr. Prescott, was rejected by two of the first publishers in London, and it ultimately appeared under the auspices of Mr. Bentley, who stated that it had more success than any book he had ever published.

The author of "The Diary of a Late Physician" for a long time sought a publisher, and unsuccessfully. At last he gave the manuscript to _Blackwood's Magazine_, where it first appeared and was very successful.

The first volume of Hans Andersen's "Fairy Tales" was rejected by every publisher in Copenhagen. Andersen had then neither name nor popularity, and published this exquisite book at his own expense, a proceeding which soon brought him into notoriety.

Miss Jane Austen's novels, models of writing at this day, at first met with no success. One of them, "Northanger Abbey," was purchased by a publisher in Bath for ten pounds. After paying this sum, he was afraid to risk any further money in its publication, and it remained many years in his possession before he ventured upon the speculation, which, to his surprise, turned out very profitable.

The poet Shelley had always to pay for the publication of his poems.

The "Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore at Corunna" was written by Rev. Charles Wolfe. It was rejected so scornfully by a leading periodical that the author gave it to an obscure Irish paper.

Con Cregan's Legacy.

BY CHARLES LEVER.

Charles James Lever (1806--1872) remains the most popular
novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in
Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After
practising his profession for several years, he began to
write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry
Lorrequer," appeared serially in the _Dublin University
Magazine_ in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public
at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun,
verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which
Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most
popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the
succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and
"The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the
accompanying selection is taken.

Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote,
and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years
were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at
Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He
and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that
are to be found in literature.

When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang--such a pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend; there now, not another word of preface or apology!

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance, many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!

This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit; and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen"; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."

Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.

Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them.

These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house; not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man were worse--if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.

It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry--"Con Cregan; Con, I say, open the door! I want you."

I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"

"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"

"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"

"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!"

"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.

"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it. Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week."

"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.

"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the bed."

"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.

"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand. And as the neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but that it was himself that did it."

"The room must be very dark," said my father.

"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."

"And the priest?" said my father.

"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the day breaks."

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already begun.

I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before him.

The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the company to whisky--which was supplied with more than accustomed liberality.

All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob--the tribute of affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back: these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!"

"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him to the bedside.

"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the 'rites'!"

A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.

"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.

"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."

"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"

"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.

"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and his heirs _in secla seclorum_. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns----"

What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.

When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."

"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all about it!"

"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with fright.

"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?" says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low, wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.

"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself.

And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con's Acre.

GEORGE III SOUGHT HEAVEN'S AID.

The British Sovereign Proclaimed a General Fast and Commanded His
Subjects to Humble Themselves to Win the Divine Favor in Their War
with the American Colonies.

When the American colonies rebelled against King George, England was not so easy in her view of the situation as is often assumed. The reader who may stumble upon a copy of the London _Gazette_ for October, 1776, will find therein this:

PROCLAMATION FOR A GENERAL FAST.

=George R=.