that man smelt of the stables, and ate with his knife. Little peculiarities explained at the time as being eccentricities of the aristocracy, but now! It was a sad come down for our hero though. Instead of the smiles and bows that used to greet him at every turn, he now only met noses so rigidly turned up that he began to fear they would stay turned up like his bull dog's. The only person who thoroughly enjoyed the joke was Admiral Pigsed, who roared and chuckled and turned so purple in the face that his heir-at-law began to look anxiously for an apoplexy. But it didn't come, and the Admiral lived long enough to enjoy many a hearty laugh at his old foe the General. As for poor Miss Smilkin, she had to go away for a month to the sea side, she was so upset!

E.

ADONIDIS EPITAPHIUM.

From BION (Id. I.).

I WALL the fair Adonis-he is dead,
Dead fair Adonis! with me wail the Loves.
No longer, Cypris, sleep on purple trains:
Rise wretched sable-stoled, and beat thy breasts,
And tell to all that fair Adon is dead.

I wail Adonis; with me wail the Loves.

The fair Adonis on the mountain lies,

His white white flank gashed by a whiter tooth,
And grieveth Cypris fainting out his soul;

And o'er his snow-white flesh weeps down black blood
And underneath his brow his eyes are glazed,
And his lip's rose is gone; and e'en the kiss
That Cypris ne'er will leave, dies out on it,
Him, though he lives not, Cypris loves to kiss,
But he knows not who kissed him in his death.
I wail Adonis; with me wail the Loves.
A cruel cruel wound has trench'd his groin;
A deeper heart-wound Cytherea bears.

For him, that boy, his dogs howl'd forth lament,
Ceaseless lament: him weep the Oread nymphs.
But Aphrodite with her tresses loos'd

Roams sad, unkempt, unsandaled, through the brakes,
And as she walks the briars tearing her

Drink in her sacred blood; but she goes on

Through valleys long with her shrill sad laments,
Calling her boy, her dear Assyrian spouse.
But round him by his navel gushed dark blood,
His breast dyed scarlet from his wounded thigh,
His bosom erst snow-white was purple-stained.

"Ah Cytherea!" with me wail the Loves.
She lost with her fair lord her form divine,
For while Adonis lived her form was fair,
But ah! her beauty with Adonis died.
Alas for Aphrodite, say the hills;
"Alas Adonis!" is the oaks' response,

VOL. V.

L

The rivers weep for Aphrodite's woes,

The fountains mourn Adonis on the hills,
The flowers with grief are purpled; dirges sad
Swell through Cythera's groves, through all her glades.
Ah Cytherea, fair Adon is dead;

And echo answered "fair Adon is dead."
Who had not wept for Cypris' mighty love?
Ah! when she saw Adonis' stanchless wound,
When she perceived it, when she saw his blood
All purple-hued upon his failing flank;
Unfolding wide her arms she made her plaint:
"Stay, stay, Adonis, luckless Adon stay!
"That I may meet thee for the last last time,
"That I may clasp thee and join lips with lips.
"Adonis, wake a little, kiss thy last,
"Kiss me so long but as a kiss may live,

"Till from thy soul into my mouth and heart

66

Thy spirit ebb, and I thy sweet charm draw

"And drain thy love; this kiss I'll sacred keep

"As Adon's self; since thou, ill-starr'd one fliest, "Thou fliest far and com'st to Acheron

"And its grim dreadful king: but I, alas,
"Live, am immortal, cannot follow thee.
"Receive, Persephone, receive my lord,

"For thou art much more mighty: all that's fair
"To thy lot falls, but I am all accurst,
"Accurst and suffer woe insatiable,

"And wail my dead Adonis, fearing thee,

"Diest thou thrice-yearn'd for? my love-dream is gone "And Cytherea's widow'd; through the halls

"The vain Loves flit; with thee my charms are gone.
"Why huntest, bold one? Thou, who wast so fair
"Wert mad enough to combat with the beasts?
Thus moaned Cypris; with her wail the Loves,
Ah Cytherea! fair Adon is dead.

As much in tears sheds Paphia, as in blood
Adonis on the earth from both spring flowers,
From blood the rose, from tears th' anemone.
I wail the fair Adonis-he is dead.

No more in thickets, Cypris, wail thy lord,
Not for Adonis is the leafy bed,

Let dead Adonis rest upon thy couch,
The dead Adonis, beautiful in death,
In death, yet beautiful as though he slept.
On soft robes lay him where he went to sleep,
On which with thee he used to pass the night
In holy slumber on a couch all gold:
There mourn Adonis, though sad-visaged strew

Chaplets on him and flowers; all with him,
As he died so did all the flowers fade,
Rain myrtles on and unguents, rain perfumes:
Perish all perfumes! thine Adon is gone,
On purple vestments daintily he lies,

And round him weeping wail aloud the Loves;
Their locks are for Adonis shorn; and one
His bow, another brings his arrows; this
His well-winged quiver; this one looses off
Adonis' sandal; this in golden urns
Brings water and another laves his side;
This fans Adonis with his wings behind.
For Cytherea's self the Loves lament,
On ev'ry door-post Hymen quenched his torch
And scattered to the winds his marriage wreath.
No longer "Hymen, Hymen" is the song;
"Alas, Alas" is chanted, and yet more
"Ah for Adonis" than the Hymen song,
The Graces mourn the son of Cinyras,
Telling each other "fair Adon is dead,"
And shriller far than thou, Dionè, mourn.
The muses also for Adonis weep
And call upon him, but he heeds them not,
Not but that he is willing; Proserpine
Will not release him.-Cytherea cease,
Cease thy laments, to day thy woes refrain,
Another year thou must lament again.

με.

*

RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHRISTMAS AT ROME.

(A Lecture.)

NOTE. The following was delivered as one of a Parochial Course of Lectures in one of the suburbs of Manchester, and its character was of course determined by the character of the audience. Had the lecturer been writing for classical students, he might have taken up other branches of the subject, but he ventures to hope that these more general reminiscences may prove interesting at any rate to the non-classical subscribers to The Eagle.

NOT very long ago, an American took passage in one of the Messageries' steamers from Marseilles, to Alexandria. The steamer called at Civita Vecchia to take in cargo, and, as usual, remained there for the greater part of the day. Now Civita Vecchia is not the most amusing place in the world. It is a small seaside town, hardly more indeed than a village, and not a fashionable watering place. The only excitement which the place knows is caused by the arrival of the steamer and by the daily manœuvres of the garrison. The former, of course, was over, and the latter do not last for ever, and if they did, would become tedious after half an hour. So our American, being moreover one of those thorough travellers, who never lose a chance of seeing what comes in their way, went to the Railway station, and finding a train just starting took a ticket for Rome. When he reached the city he called the first vetturino that he saw, and said to him-"I've got just fifty minutes before my train goes back, and you must shew me Rome." Not a very easy task you will all admit; yet it is this task which I have before me to night. Nay, I may say, even a more difficult one-for the cabman was only expected to show the outside of Rome-while I, if this lecture is to interest you, must show you something also of the people, their character, and their customs. With such a task before me, I may fairly ask every indulgence at your hands.

On the 19th of December, 1864, I found myself with three companions at the office of the Messageries Impériales at Marseilles. The weather was not very calm, so that it