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trees, and the brooks, hitherto the modest companions of its tranquil course. *

The moral of the myth of Tithonus is one for all time. Mr. Tennyson has pointed it for ours. He shows us in Tithonus a white-haired shadow roaming like a dream the ever silent spaces of the East; and from this grey shadow, once a man, the wailing utterance of a sad story comes :

I ask'd thee,t“Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant my asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. * * * *
*** * * Let me go: take back thy gift :
Why should a man desire in any way

from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pass, as is most meet for all ?

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ?
“ The Gods themselves cannot recal their gifts.”I





Such a hubbub and rout at Herlofsholm!

Such running about,
Prying in, searching out,
'Neath floors damp and rotten,
Through chambers forgotten;
In cupboards and boxes,
In holes fit for foxes,
In corners and presses,
That nobody guesses
Had been in such places :
The monks left queer traces
Of windings and cachot,
Of crannies both high and low,
And caves for their storing,
And traps in the flooring;
Such twisting and turning,
Eyes, sharp and discerning,
Could scarcely discover
One way from another.
The monks had strange fancies

To lead one such dances,
* René.

† Aurora.
| Tennyson: Enoch Arden and other Poems; Tithonus

And would seem, when inclined to relax in a freak,
To have had some amusement in hiding and seek.
Herlofsholm once was a convent renown'd,
And broad were the acres that compass'd it round;
The monks were the tillers, rich harvests they made,
And fair was its site amidst woodland and glade.
Then Time with his scythe swept the fathers away,
And left the old ruin to fall in decay.
Long years had pass'd by, when a worthy old Dane,
Herlof Krolle, set the pile on its legs once again.
“No convent for me,” he exclaim'd in a huff;
"To fatten like hogs is all nonsense and stuff;
'Tis teaching, not preaching, we need, to my mind,”
So a college was raised, and endow'd, and assign'd,
For the use of all persons to letters inclined.
Like a sensible man he consulted his wife,
Bridget Gioe, who thought him the best man in life;
So the lawyers were call'd, and the parchments were seald
(Though where they were placed not a whisper reveald),
Old Krolle and his wife at length sunk to their rest,
But left to the college a handsome bequest.
Thus far all had prosper'd; but Fortune is fickle,
With rods at command, that are always in pickle
(The best and most favour'd are sure of a tickle),
And so it fell out, and was rumour'd about,
That to fair Herlofsholm a claimant had come,
To the college, and all that the manor contain’d;

He was heir to the founders,
And legal expounders
His titles prepared,

And firmly declared
That his rights in "fee simple” could well be maintain'd.

Somehow it got wind
That the deeds left behind
By old Krolle and his wife
(Little dreaming of strife),
And so carefully made,

Were lost, stolen, or stray'd,
Or might have been placed—and herein lay the doubt-
Where none but the founders themselves could find out.

It is strange, passing strange,
But throughout the wide range

Of each building and grange,
In cloister and dortoir, in parlour and court,
In the church, in the crypt, and wherever report

Suggested a place,

Not a fragment or trace
Could be found of the deeds that were left by old Krolle;

I am sorry to add
(It was really too bad,

But the searchers were fagg'd)
That some words unpolite were address'd to his soul.
The Rector one night sat alone in his room,
His brow was o'ercast with a deep-settled gloom;
He was worried, house-hunting by night and by day,
All his dreams, once so golden, were passing away,
He must yield on the morrow the fruits of his sway.

Long years had he toil'd for a time-honour'd name,
But now came the frost that would wither his famé.

“Oh, Krolle ! honest Krolle!
How little you know of my troubles is clear-
What a pity you left your good work in arrear,

Concealing the deeds,

Thus sowing the seeds
That will turn this fair garden to nettles and weeds !"

Cried a voice loud and gruff:
The Rector he started,
Dismay'd and faint hearted.
The voice sounded near,
And it seem'd


That some person was there;
But who, and from whence ? and the door, too, was closed-
The moon shining through at this moment disclosed

The queerest of creatures,
With dark shrunken features,
Eyes sharp, and nose pointed,
Of length, too, unwonted;
A small active figure,
And neat à la rigueur,
In ruff and high cap.
With a terrible rap
On the table beside her,

With eyes open’d wider,
She gazed on the Rector, who shrunk back dismay'd:
"No wonder you look so ashamed and afraid;
What with poking, and croaking, and making a dust,
You have lost precious time, and the Herlofsholm Trust.
Pretty guardians you are of the lands we endow'd,
And teachers, forsooth!”—here Gioe laugh'd aloud-
“Old spectacled fools, little better are those
Who cannot find out what is under the nose!"
Bang! bang! went the fist on the table again,
Old Bridget went on in the same angry strain :
"And to think you should saddle the blame on dear Krolle.
Not content with all this, you have ruffled bis soul
By impertinent swearing ;-mere bunglers at best,
You have made us uneasy, and robb’d us of rest!"
With a blow on the table, and eyes flashing fire,
Old Bridget dissolved in the warmth of her ire.
A thought strikes the Rector : "that table sounds hollow;
'Tis well such a ghostly example to follow.".
He seizes the poker, and, well used to birching,
Aims right at the oak with a glance keen and searching.
The splinters fly fast, and his blows he redoubles-
A drawer, well contrived, puts an end to his troubles,

For there snug and sure

Lie the parchments secure,
With signatures, ribbon, and wax all complete.
The Rector he whistles, then laughs, and takes snuff

, Pirouettes, although gouty sometimes in the feet, And, forgiving the dame who declared him a muff,

“Hurrah !” he exclaims,
For worthy old Krolle,

And for Bridget, kind soul!
May the good deeds they did keep unwither'd their names !"



April 22.-Our ride to-day was for the most part uninteresting; we had got out of the tract of forest land, and the Wady Yabis is a wide valley, and not pretty. We were intent upon finding the site of Pella, but were not quite successful. We were no doubt close to it, but our Souf guides were most troublesome, trying to dodge the right road, and go by paths which they did not know, in order to escape meeting enemies, and they perplexed us and misled us, till at last we had to take a man from a village we passed through, as it was clear the Souf men were not to be trusted. We met two Bedouins in one unfrequented valley, riding splendid mares, evidently of the greatest value. But all the villagers about here have fine mares, whom they would not part with for almost any money.

In the middle of the day we stopped for luncheon in a sandy wady leading down straight into the Jordan valley. Michael sent the mules on with the villager for guide; we kept the untrustworthy Soufites with us. One of them had disappeared, which we thought suspicious. On our way down to the Jordan we scrambled up one or two little hills in our search for Pella, and were struck with the beauty of the view. Right across the river was the embouchure of the great Plain of Esdraelon, with the ruins of Bethshan in the middle distance. Far away on the opposite horizon was the long dark ridge of Carmel. To the left of the plain were the mountains of Gilboa, on the right Little Hermon and Tabor, and the bills between us and Nazareth. Far away northwards was the magnificent ridge of Hermon, snow-capped; and to the right again, the blue spurs of hills south of Damascus. Between Hermon and Tabor, the tops of the Lebanon range where the cedars grow were just visible; the Sea of Tiberias, too, was beautifully apparent. The hills we were descending, are the last spurs of the mountains of Bashan, melting away into the Ghor. The wady by which we entered it was the Wady Seklab. Pella is farther south, and, thanks to the stupidity of our guides, we missed visiting the actual spot. All down the lower slopes of the valley the grass was being burnt to destroy locusts, of which there are legions this year. It was so curious to see the fire running along the ground, licking up grass and locusts, and before it a whole army of the insects were retreating, hopping and scrambling up the flower-stalks and grass blades; they watched with solemn faces the approach of the destroyer, falling with their last fortress as the flame caught it right into the fire. It is quite distressing to see the ravages of the locusts this year. In some places they blacken the ground under your feet, and are literally inches deep on the grass. And the trees they attack are so covered with the swarms, that you cannot see leaf or twig! Whole tracts of country have to be burnt to destroy them. As we emerged into the Jordan valley, we caught sight of a formidable party of Bedouins on a little rising ground about a mile from us. Michael took alarm, as he always does, and the guides were terrified. We were not left long

in doubt as to their intentions, for they instantly detached two horsemen, who came at a swift gallop across the low scrub, with their long lances in rest. Our guides rode on. We four turned to meet them. And, as I anticipated, they were the right sort, well affected to government. They took Michael for a Bashi-Bazouk, and asked for Aghile and the Adwân, and, after a short parley, they turned their handsome mares towards the Jordan and cantered away. It was a picturesque little episode, and worth anything to see the pace they came along to cut off our retreat, if we had meditated anything of the sort. We reached the bridge about five o'clock, and are now close to a camp of Turkish soldiers, on the banks of the river. We dismissed our rascally Souf guides to-night, firmly declining to give any bakshish. The present Scheik, Achmet by name, has a collection of testimonials from English travellers which belonged to his father, Scheik Yussuf, lately deceased. These he shows with great pride, perfectly unaware that they are more truthful than complimentary, and convey to the reader the forcibly-expressed opinion, that Yussuf was the greatest rascal and liar going! He asked for our testimonial, which E. wrote to the following effect—"That Achmet inherited all the virtues of his late father.” The name of the bridge over the Jordan here is Jisr Meyamia. It is not in ruins, as Porter states. The river is clear and swift at this place.

April 23.-Sunday. Our people and mules were glad of a rest. E. and I, accompanied by Michael and a local guide, rode leisurely down the banks of the Jordan to Beth-shan, about seven miles from here--a place full of interest, as a site ; the ruins that now remain are, I confess, disappointing ; the most interesting bit of ruin is the Khan, now turned into a residence for the villagers. It has a very handsome Saracenic arched entrance; the arch is composed of alternate blocks of black basalt and limestone, which has a very excellent effect. The remains of the theatre are nothing worth looking at after Amman and Jerash, and the fort is also a complete ruin. There is the site of the Acropolis, which is, however, interesting. No doubt the ruined foundations of the wall belonged to the ancient Beth-shan. The bodies of Saul and Jonathan were fastened to these walls after the fatal battle of Gilboa, and from there they were taken down by the grateful Jabesh Gileadites. The Acropolis is one of those round, curious-looking mounds, which are so very plentiful in the Ghor. It commands a fine view across the valley, and from it you see Pella most distinctly, or rather the site of Pella, on its long low terrace. Er Rubad is also visible, crowning the distant hill-top. We made out clearly the debouchure of 'Wady Yabis into the Ghor. We found two American gentlemen encamped close to the Khan; one is the consul at Beyrout, the other a resident there- Dr. Thompson. I ought to mention, that from the Acropolis the view is very pretty looking westwards. Gilboa looks quite close on one's left, and the beautiful plain of Esdraelon stretches out before you past the fountain of Ain Jalud, to the very walls of Jezreel. On our return we remarked especially the pretty glimpse we got of the Jordan between its reedy banks, here particularly distinguished by the broad belt of tropical foliage. As we neared the camp, the fine double head of snowy Hermon came in view. To-morrow we are going back to Pella. Close to the bridge here is such a curious patch of black basalt cropping out

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