It is In the miscalled the Tomb of Agrippa. more suggestive of a theatre. oaths of the Sibyll I had been thrown but of the fit mood for enjoying such scenes by the parrot-story of my guide. I, therefore, determined, to enter the Tomb of Agrippa alone. Having lit a torch, I proceeded to explore the interior of this strange monument. I had not gone far along the gallery when I was seized with a strange sensation never before experienced. It was not fear. I had uttered scepticisms respecting the Sibyll in her own Grotto, and my guide had assured me I had done very wrong, for that, in his belief, the whole district was haunted by crowding spirits from the buried past. I felt conscious that I was surrounded by living though invisible beings. I even thought I heard the tones of airy voices. I paused; should I return? No; and on I went, around me the gentle whispering, the ripple of distant ghostly laughter on the ear. "Can it be," 1 asked, "that spiritual beings are conversing in these mouldering ruins; and that my tympanum is too coarse to catch their tones, to hear their gossamer mirth and the faint breath of their delicate sigh?” I had arrived at a point where I was doubtful whether to turn to the right or left, when a young man with light sunny hair, brown eyes, and a nose like that of the first bald-headed Cæsar, clad in the fashion of some twenty centures back, stood before me. The purple band, which bordered his toga, spoke his rank and taste in dress. Salve, Viator," he said, and motioned to a marble bench on the left. "Tu quoque salvus sis, domine," I replied, bowing low. He asked me whence I had come, and with such poor fluency as I could command I gave him some idea of the modern world, and then begged of him to tell me something about his own days. He readily assented. But alas! I could not follow him, partly because of his accent partly because of the rapidity with which he spoke. "Lente, lente," I begged. Then I asked him to repeat for me familiar passages from Virgil and Horace, so that I might get accustomed to his accent. For the first time I realized the music of those lines and odes we are taught at school to admire mechanically. Having recited the opening lines of the Eneid, and two or three of Horace's alcaics, he declaimed a passage from Cicero's pro Calio. I was now able to understand the discordance which existed between the metrical intonation and the ordinary accent of the Latins. I asked him if he had known Cicero. No, not in the flesh. Cicero was before his time. But he had known Horace, and a number of the school boy's friends. A reference to the third book of Tibullus led him to say he knew Sulpicia, frank, beautiful and, for that period, true-hearted and noble. He quoted from the poem sent her on the first of March-"The Matronalia," when maid and matron received gifts and compliments-the lines : Illam quidquid agit, quoquo vestigia movit Componit furtim subsequiturque decor. Whate'er she does, where'er her footsteps stray, A thousand graces round each movement play. Another Glycera a creature of infinite variety and boundless and delicate charm. "You will remember," he said, "that in the second of those exquisite little poems written by herself she complains that Messala, her guardian, has invited her to pass her birthday at his country seat near Arretium, and is thus about to deprive her of the company of Cerinthus, a young Greek, handsome, fascinating, but not in her class, who could not leave Rome and who anyway would not be received by Messala. From the next little song you learn she was allowed to remain at the capital. "At this time Messala stood high with Augustus. Julia, the emperor's daughter, who had the genius as well as the beauty and charm of the Julian family, was fond of having in her palace and fine gardens the young men of wit and fashion. "A short time after this passing cloud on the sentiment of Sulpicia, she, Lygdamus, Tibullus, Gallus, Ovid, Julia, the daughter of Agrippa, lulus Antonius, as a matter of course, and some others were in those noble gardens which the emperor had presented to his daughter, talking art, gossip, scandal, everything but politics; the time passed gaily. Acting on some suggestion I have forgotten, Julia asked Sulpicia whether she had not something to read to us. Whereupon Sulpicia said: "Messala made me very sad some time ago. He wished to have my birthday celebrated in the vicinity of those waters near his Arretium home. I wrote some verses in anticipation, and my indulgent guardian on reading them annulled my sentence of banishment.' 666 'Then let us have them,' cried Julia. "And Sulpicia read: You ask me why the brimming tear? And far away my heart's desire- In vain! in vain! the glittering mere, (While o'er the lute your fingers stray) Or sing my praises by Tibullus, Cerinthus is not here. Oh! let my own Greek boy appear! Mine eye shall beam, my heart shall Cerinthus being here! "We all praised the elegant trifle, and Tibullus, with a sigh, congratulated the niece of his friend and patron. "And what,' asked Julia of Ovid, have you been writing?' Iulus Antonius bent a jealous scowl on the poet. Oh, nothing,' Ovid replied. "After supper, when many a libation had been poured, Julia the younger took the cithara. We had songs, recita tions, criticism. Julia held that Horace was frigid, and that Catullus had more genius and heart. 'As for you, ' she said, turning to Ovid, who was whispering in the ear of her daughter, into whose hand he slipped, as he hoped, unobserved, a small scroll, 'You are the true poet of this day, when, let my father do what he may, we have turned our backs on the seriousness of the elders. All that is left of Roman earnestness is the dignity which was its noble ornament. There is no passion in love or patriotism today. Horace-literature in marble. You, Ovid-you are as brilliant as polished steel, and as—hard.' "And durable,' laughed Ovid. "When the time to separate had come she bade me stay, as she had a commission to give me. "The sound of retreating footsteps was still in one's ears when, turning to her daughter, she said: 'Julia, let me see the verses that brilliant scamp slipped into your hand?' "The young girl, not less beautiful than her mother and as ill-starred, drew forth the scroll and read: charming fellow and a great master of the art he professes to teach; but beware,' and in saying this she looked anything but severe herself, while her daughter laughed a low, liquid, honeyed laugh. "And thus these three persons played with danger, and, though at times they caught a glimpse of the shrouded Nemesis looking out on them from the future, trod the path which led to misery and exile. For the two imperial beauties, narrow, barren isles, barred and walled by the pitiless sea; and for my witty and accomplished friend, the bleak, inhospitable Euxine shore." "Pardon me" I said; "may I ask—” Here my guides, who thought I was lost, came along the passage with flaming torches, shouting: "Signore!" I rose and beckoned and shouted to them to go back. When I turned I found my interesting companion had gone. Regretfully I left the ruin. The sun was now descending, so I bade the boatmen head for Naples, saying we would visit Cuma on the morrow. ANEROESTES, THE GAUL. A Review. HE story of Aneroestes, the Gaul, has already appeared in the pages of this magazine, and therefore it needs neither introduction nor commendation to its readers. Yet it may be well that some attempt should be made to estimate its character and worth. We have, therefore, no hesitation in saying that it is an excellent story, admirably told, and full of bright, graphic writing. The story itself is slight, not too slight, perhaps, for the volume of the work, and all the better for not being encumbered with extraneous detail. It belongs to the campaign of Hannibal in Italy, after his magnificent and terrible feat of crossing the Alps, and we believe all the situations and descriptions will be found to agree with the time and circumstances of the story. The picture The picture of Hannibal's army, wasted with hunger and fatigue, is very striking, so is the portraiture of the great soldier himself. The hero of the book is a captive Gaul, set to fight another captive, with the promise of liberty and a reward to the conqueror. The story of the battle is told with great skill and dramatic power. The smaller man overcame the giant opposed to him, and Aneroestes thus won his freedom. *A Fragment of the Second Punic War. By Edgar Maurice Smith. Montreal: F. E. Grafton & Sons, 1898. Nicholas Flood Davin. His countrymen, however, were still retained in bondage, and their liberty was promised to them on condition of Aneroestes helping by treachery to get possession of the city of Taurasia, which was besieged by Hannibal. Pretending to be a deserter from the Carthaginian army, the spy with some difficulty obtained the confidence of the Taurini, and finally admitted, or rather helped to admit, the besiegers within the city. During his stay in the place he saw and loved Ducaria, a daughter of the people, who returned his affection, and fled with him from the city. Himilco, however, a Carthaginian leader, saw her, and lusted after her, and got her into his hands. It is not necessary to recount the various incidents in the subsequent history of Aneroestes and Ducaria, further than to say that the author has shown considerable skill in this most difficult part of his work. These things and the end of the story, which is also well managed, our readers will find in the book; and probably they would not thank us for depriving them of the discovery which they will make for themselves. We are not sure whether this is Mr. Smith's first work of the kind. If it is, we hope that we may meet him again. William Clark. PHIL. BURTON'S DUCKS. IN September of 1886, business be came slack in London, and, finding myself reduced to four days' work a week with four days' pay, I resolved to try the Great Northwest. One week after this resolution taken I was at work for R. B. Ferguson at Regina, the chief town of that primitive district. After being there a week the failure of a new lot of material to arrive on time gave me an enforced holiday and I asked Mr. Ferguson : "How do you fellows out here amuse yourselves when you have time on your hands?" "Oh," said he, "we generally ride and shoot. You may take that cayuse of mine and ride over to the 'slews' and get some ducks if you like.” If I like? Of course I liked; I was delighted. True I had never fired off a gun more than half a dozen times and had never killed anything but a horse belonging to my father, which piece of sportsmanship, being an accident, and for other obvious reasons, never brought me any but ironical compliments. But Ferguson had never heard of this episode. He lent me his doublebarrelled gun with confidence that I was as knowing as I pretended, and an hour later I reached the "slews." Espying a flock of ducks in a large slew or pond some distance off I dismounted and, tying my horse to some brushwood, crept near them under cover of a little bluff of willow brush. The ducks evidently did not see me and bang, bang, went both barrels. Off flew the ducks, leaving one of their number fluttering wounded on the ⚫ water, and to my astonishment they alighted again a short distance away. I thought best to secure the bird I had shot before following the others further, and, as the water was about three feet deep I took off all the drapery of my, nether limbs, and wading in, brought out my prize. Never was a sportsman more delighted; a duck with my first shot; it was almost too good to believe. "The beasts that roam over the plain Their tameness is shocking to me." and, mentally making the changes necessary to fit the present case, I derived a good deal of satisfaction and pleasure from the lines. I now returned to my pony and tying the ducks to the saddle and taking the gun, fully loaded, in my hands (for what young sportsman was ever contented to travel with an empty gun) I mounted and started for town,. incipient rheumatism in my bones, but supreme content in my heart. I was cantering slowly along framing in my mind a letter home, and considering the satisfaction with which I should show my spoils to Mr. Ferguson and the fellows at the hotel where I boarded, when I heard the faint squawk of wild geese and looking up I saw a flock flying almost directly overhead. They were about a quarter of a mile high, but not discouraged by that fact I stopped the horse, raised my gun and fired at them. I had hardly time to observe that none of the geese appeared to be falling when I felt a shock beneath me and found myself rise into ( 357 ) the air about three feet, accompanied by the gun and ducks. By the time I came down in a heap on the ground the horse was five yards away, and in a shorter time than it takes me to say so he disappeared over a rising ground in a furious race for Regina. "B' George!" said I to myself as I recovered from my surprise, "I believe that horse bucked." I have since that tried many times to ride horses whose performance was guaranteed to be bucking, and have found no reason to change my opinion. I was not hurt, so I gathered up my birds, hung them on the gun over my shoulder, and started for town, five miles away. Arrived in town, the first man I met was R. B. Ferguson. "Hello! Phil," said he; "What has happened to you? The cayuse came home an hour ago, and we thought you must be killed. What have you got there?" he continued, catching sight of my game. "A few ducks," I replied, in a desperate attempt at lordly indifference. He looked at me a moment, then burst into a roar of laughter. "That's splendid," he cried; "You've done well my boy," and he went off into another fit of laughter. "Come, let's go down to the hotel and show the boys," said he when he had recovered his breath, and immediately exploded again. Arrived at the hotel we found all the fellows agog for news, for they had seen or heard of the pony's coming back without me. I saw Ferguson wink to the boys when we went in, but mistrusted nothing definite. I walked in with great dignity and bowed condescendingly to the boys. "See Burton's shoot of ducks!" said Ferguson. "Isn't that fine for a beginner?" The crowd looked at the birds and burst into one unanimous guffaw. "Oh, go 'way!" said they. been shooting before." "He's I declared I had never before aimed at anything wearing feathers. "Aw, come off. What are you givin' us? Aw, get out. What do you take us for ?" greeted me on every side. "There don't no tenderfoot bring home no sich bag as that?" drawled a cowboy down from Qu'Appelle. I grew somewhat annoyed at their too freely expressed disbelief, and ventured to remark that I should consider any man my enemy who indulged in any further language of the sort. This seemed to be a signal for a renewal of the merriment, but presently one of the men straightened his face and remarked that it certainly was a shame to try to throw doubt upon the word of a gentleman, and asked: "Where did you get them anyway, and how in thunder did you manage to get so many in so short a time?" Considerably mollified, I vividly described my proceedings and the methods employed in each case, while the others listened with great interest, and with faces on which desperate solemnity alternated with convulsions of laughter The Qu'Appelle man had been inspecting the catch. "Gash! them's fine ducks,” said he gravely, "I move we have 'em for Right you are," cried the others; "take them down to the kitchen and tell the cook to let us have them for supper." "With pleasure," said I, and taking up my game I wended my way to the kitchen, the company following at my heels. I went up to the cook, a middle-aged Irishwoman. "Here, cook these ducks for supper, will you?" said I, throwing the fowl upon the table. Mrs. Finerty took one look at my prizes. "Dooks! Dooks the divil!" said she. "Ye spalpeen, git out o' this wid yer dhirty mud hins," and she flung them into the yard. The volley of laughter behind me. nearly broke the windows. Mud hens they were, about as edible as a crow, impervious to the teeth of even the prairie wolf. The pigs worried the carcasses around the hotel yard till winter, but nothing could eat them. George Nelson Weekes. |