head, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage

wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war horse, the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died,—the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph.

"I told the pretor1 that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon; while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at the sight of that piece of bleeding clay!

"And the pretor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot: there are no noble men but Romans.' And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone

1 pretor, a Roman magistrate.

than a flute note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint,taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee back until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy lifeblood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here now like giants as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis,' breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces 2 upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men, follow me! Strike down your guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla.

"Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!"

REV. ELIJAH KELLOGG.

1 Adonis, in the Greek mythology, a beautiful youth beloved by Venus,

2 sesterces (pron., ses'ter-çeş), a Roman coin worth about four cents of our money.

86.-The Loss of the Arctic.

In the fall of 1854 the steamer Arctic was lost through a collision with another vessel (the Vesta) in a voyage from Liverpool to New York, and a large number of persons perished. This vivid description of the disaster is from a sermon by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher.

It was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages, from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains; from the capitals of various nations: all of them saying in their hearts, "We will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we will embark. We will slide across the appeased ocean; and, in the gorgeous month of October, we will greet our longed-for native land and our heart-loved homes."

And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening towards the welcome ship, and narrowing, every day, the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us.

The hour was come. The signal ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed, the great hull swayed to the current, the national colors streamed abroad as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes, the wheels revolve, the signal gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore; and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from

1

the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all

the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence, nor whispered his errand.

And so hope was effulgent,' and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-"Home is not far away." And every morning it was still one night nearer home.

Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that for ever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and, plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came, noiselessly stealing from the north, that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, two steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible.

At a league's distance unconscious, and at nearer approach unwarned, within hail, and bearing right towards each other, unseen, unfelt,- till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The deathblow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm.

2

Prompt upon humanity, the Arctic's commander, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration

1 effulgent, shining, bright.
2 Prompt upon humanity, i.e.,

prompt to respond to the cry of need.