quillity and prosperity have dwelt in their native land, rendering thanks to you and the rest of the Athenian People for so many and such signal blessings conferred on them through me. THE PERORATION OF THE ORATION ON THE CROWN. Two qualities, Men of Athens, every citizen of ordinary worth ought to possess: He should both maintain in office the purpose of a firm mind and the course suited to his country's pre-eminence; and on all occasions, and in all his actions, the spirit of patriotism. This belongs to our nature; victory and might are under the dominion of another power. THE LOST PLEIAD. [Otway Curry, an American lawyer, journalist, and poet, born in 1804 at Greenfield, died in 1855 at Marysville, Ohio. He became locally known by poems contributed to Western newspapers, mainly while working on his farm. In 1836 he began the study of law, and commenced successful practice three years afterwards. He was elected to the Legislature of Ohio in 1836, 1837, and 1842. He first became connected with journalism in 1838, when, in connection with Mr. William D. Gallagher, he started The Hesperian, the earliest literary periodical west of the Alleghanies. From 1842 to 1844 he edited and published The Xenia Millions of ages gone. Didst thou survive, in thy enthroned place, And even in earthly time, Sages and poets, strong These dispositions you will find to have been absolutely inherent in me. For observe neither when my head was demanded, nor when they dragged me before the Amphictyons, nor when they threatened, nor when they promised, nor when they let loose on me these wretches like wild beasts, did I ever abate in any particular my affection for you. This straightforward and honest path of policy, from the very first, I chose: the honor, the power, the glory of my country to promote these to augment-in these to have But thy far-flowing light, my being. Never was I seen going about By Time's mysterious shadow overcast, the streets elated and exulting when the Strangely and dimly faded, at the last, enemy was victorious; stretching out my hand, and congratulating such as I thought would tell it elsewhere, but hearing with alarm any success of our own armies, moaning and bent to the earth, like those impious men who rail at their country, as if they could do so without also stigmatizing themselves; and who, turning their eyes abroad, and seeing the prosperity of the enemy in the calamities of Greece, rejoice in them, and maintain that we should labor to make them last forever. Let not, O gracious God-let not such conduct receive any manner of sanction from thee: Rather plant even in these men a better spirit and better feelings! But if they are wholly incurable, then pursue them-yea, themselves by themselves to utter and untimely perdition by land and by sea; and to us who are spared, vouchsafe to grant the speediest rescue from our impending alarms, and an unshaken security. Into a nameless night. Along the expanse serene, Say, whither wanderest thou? Around thee, far away, Sadly our thoughts rehearse And far-off universe. We call-we call thee back, And suns of many a constellation bright Shall weave the waves of their alluring light O'er thy returning track. FUTURE POETS OF AMERICA. [Edward Everett, an American statesman and orator, born at Dorchester, Mass., in 1794, died at Boston in 1865. He graduated at Harvard in 1811, at the age of seventeen, and soon afterwards became tutor in the college, pursuing at the same time his studies in divinity. In 1812 he delivered the Phi Beta Kappa Poem at Harvard, his subject, which was treated rather playfully, being "American Poets," as they would be in time, not as they then were; for as yet no American had printed any poem of considerable merit.] When the warm bard his country's worth would tell, To Mas-sa-chu-setts' length his lines must swell; Would he the gallant tales of war rehearse, 'Tis graceful Bunker fills the polished verse; Sings he, dear land, those lakes and streams of thine, Some mild Mem-phre-ma-gog murmurs in his line, Some A-mer-is-cog-gin dashes by his way, But yet, in soberer mood, the time shall rise, When bards will spring beneath our native skies, Where the full chorus of creation swells, And headlong streams their voice in concert raise. Where sounds each anthem, but the human tongue, And nature blooms unrivaled but unsung. Clothed with the charms to grace their later rhyme, Of every former age and foreign clime. Haste,happy times, when through these wide domains Shall sound the concert of harmonious strains; Through all the clime the softening notes be spread, Sung in each grove, and in each hamlet read. Fair maids shall sigh, and youthful heroes glow, At songs of valor and at tales of woe; Phi Beta Kappa Poem, 1812. [This poem, written at eighteen, certainly gave promise that Everett's name might stand high on the list of American poets. This promise was never fulfilled. He wrote little verse; though one poem, Alaric the Visigoth, makes good his claim to rank among the poets in our English tongue.] ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. When I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear; For I will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give. Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; Ye shall not fawn before my dust, In hollow circumstance of woes; Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile with servile toil Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was "The Scourge of God." But ye the mountain stream shall turn, And never be the secret said Until the deep gives up its dead. My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birthThe captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth: For e'en though dead will I control The trophies of the Capitol. But when beneath the mountain tide Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot; For long enough the earth has shook Beneath the terrors of my look; And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And from the Northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep; And where I went the spot was curst: Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. See how their haughty barriers fail Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war, To shake abroad, with iron hand, The appointed scourge of his command. With iron hand that scourge I reared O'er guilty king and guilty realm; Destruction was the ship I steered, And Vengeance sat upon the helm When launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood, And in the stream their hearts had spilt, Washed out the long arrears of guilt. Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help In vain within their seven-hilled towers. I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem; And bade my Northern banners shine My course is run, my errand done- But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick When men shall think of Alaric. My course is run, my errand done; And in the caves of Vengeance wait; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. JULIA DE TRÉCŒUR. [Octave Feuillet, born 1812; a French novelist and dramatist; was educated in the College of Louisle-Grand, of Paris. His early writings were published under the name of "Désiré Hazard," Le Grand Vieillard, written in 1844, conjointly with Paul Bocage and Albert Aubert, being the first. Feuillet afterwards became a constant contributor to newspapers and reviews, besides writing many comedies, dramas and farces, which achieved popularity. He was elected to the French Academy in 1862, and in the following year was made an officer of the Legion of Honor. Afterwards he was appointed librarian of the imperial residences, which position he held until the revolution of September, 1870. His most noteworthy dramatic productions are: La Nuit Terrible; Le Bourgeois de Rome; La Crise; Le Pour et le Contre; Peril en la Dé meure; La Fée; Le Village; Dalila; Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre; La Tentation; La Rédemption; Montjoye; La Belle au Bois Dormant; Le Cas de Conscience; Julie; La Clé d'Or, a comic opera; and L'Acrobate. Among his novels are Polichinelle; Onesta; Redemption; Bellah; Le Cheveu Blanc; Le Petite Comtesse; Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Paurre, which has been translated into many languages; Histoire de Sibylle; Monsieur de Camors, a story remarkable for invention and vigor; Julia de Trécour; Un Mariage dans la Monde; and Le Journal d'une Femme. He is also the author, jointly with Paul Bocage, of a number of dramas, and has published several poems. Julia de Trécœur was only saved from being objectionable by the most exquisite subtlety and delicacy of handling. The heroine is a bizarre, headstrong girl, whom we meet at the threshold of her girlhood, the only child of a beautiful mother who is about to be married a second time. Julia, without any person's knowledge, falls in love with her stepfather, insists upon going into a convent, but is in the end persuaded to marry her cousin, her stepfather's friend. For a long while she refuses to meet her mother's husband, M. de Lucan; and when she does, encounters him with a reserve that is taken for hatred, until suddenly her secret wound breaks open. Her stepfather is too noble a man to yield to her seductions; and since she has never learnt self-command or how to abandon a desire, she determines upon suicide. Accident makes her husband and stepfather witnesses of her end, too much paralyzed by sudden horror and by the knowledge of her terrible secret to save her. The story is told within limits almost too carefully defined. It should remain forever as a study to verbose writers of the power hidden in brevity, of the mastery achieved by self-control. It is a curious psychological study; a delicate, yet powerful piece of workmanship. Feuillet excels in the delineation of female characters, and in this novel his talent has great scope. The different characters of the grandmother, mother, and Julia are all creations in their widely-divergent lines. Feuillet's style is as remarkable as his composition. It is trenchant, full of sparkle and rapidity of motion, terse, tense, alive with action; like his themes, masculine in the richest sense of the word. His language is so choice and careful that he might apply to himself the words of one of his personages, who says: "I have thrown myself into this extreme to avoid the tendency of the day, which seems to me trivial in excess. Since Madame de Lucan's marriage, her relation to her daughter had been of a curious nature. She went to see her nearly every day, and was always greeted by the liveliest demonstrations of affection; but on two points-and those of much importance-the young girl remained obdurate: she would neither consent to return to her mother's house, nor to see her mother's husband. She had even let a long time pass without making the slightest allusion to the change in Clotilde's condition, which she affected to ignore. At length one day, feeling how intolerable was the constraint imposed by this reserve, she made a resolution, and giving her mother a piercing glance, she said, Well, are you happy?" "How should I be,' said Clotilde, "since you hate the man I love?" 'I hate no one," replied Julia coldly. "How is he, your husband?" From that time forth she regularly asked after M. de Lucan, in a tone of polite indifference; but she never could pronounce the name of the man who occupied her father's place without hesitation and evident discomfort. Her sixteenth year was now completed. The horror of bad taste has driven me almost Julia was henceforth free to follow her Her mother's promise had been formal. into affectation." Of late years Fenillet has written little. One of his latest works, Les Amours de Philippe, although it is no falling-off, is too much a repetition of earlier performances. M. Feuillet undoubtedly was one of the greatest of the French novelists. He died in 1890.] M. de Lucan had been Clotilde's husband some months, when the report spread abroad that Mdlle. de Trécour, that little demon, was going to take the veil in that convent of the Faubourg St. Germain to which she had retired some time before her mother's marriage. This report was correct. Julia had at first found it difficult to endure the discipline and observances to which the boarders of the community had also to submit; then she was seized by a pious fervor, whose excesses it was found necessary to moderate. She had implored her mother to place no hindrances in the way of the irresistible vocation she felt for a religious life; and it was with difficulty that Clotilde persuaded her to adjourn her decision until she had completed her sixteenth year. vocation, and she prepared herself for it with an eager impatience that greatly edified the community. One morning Madame du Lucan was expressing to her mother and her husband the pain she suffered during these last days of respite. "For my part," said the baroness, "I confess that I long with all my heart for the moment that you fear. The life you have led since your marriage is simply unendurable; but the worst of your troubles is your perpetual struggle against that child's obstinacy. Well, when once she is a nun, there will be no more struggle, you will have a load off your mind; and consider that you will not really be more separated than you are already, since the house is not a closed one. For my part I should be just as well pleased if it were; however, it is not. And then, why should you oppose a vocation, which appears to me as nothing less than providential? Even for the child's own sake, you ought to rejoice in the resolution she has formed. I appeal to your husband. My dear sir, I ask you what might be expected of a nature like hers once let loose on the world. She would create a disturbance. You know what a head she has a volcano! And consider, my friend, that at present she is a veritable odalisk. You have not seen her for a long time; you have no idea how she has developed. I have that treat twice a week, and I assure you that she is a real odalisk, with the beauty of a goddess. And then, what a figure she has! Everything looks well on her. You might throw a curtain on to her with a pitchfork, and she would look as if she just came from Worth's. You may ask Pierre what he thinks of her, he is honored by her favor." M. de Moras, who entered at this moment, did indeed share with a very small number of family friends the privilege of sometimes accompanying Clotilde to Julia's convent. "Well, Pierre," began the baroness, we were just speaking of Julia, and Í was saying to my daughter and my sonin-law that it is really most fortunate that she wishes to become a saint, since otherwise she would have set Paris in a blaze." "Why?" asked the count. แ "Because she is as beautiful as sin.' Certainly, she is handsome," said the count, somewhat coldly. The baroness went out to do commissions with Clotilde, and M. de Moras remained alone with Lucan. "It seems to me," said he, "that they are all very hard on this poor Julia.' "How so?" "Her grandmother speaks of her as a perverse creature. And after all what do they reproach her with? Her reverence for her father's memory. It may be extreme, granted; but, as far as I know, filial piety is no vice, even if exaggerated. Her sentiments are overstrained; what matter, so long as they are generous? Is that any reason for devoting her to the infernal gods, and plunging her into a dungeon?" แ Indeed, my friend, I do not understand you," said Lucan. What is the matter with you? With whom are you angry? You know, surely, that it is by her own desire that Julia takes the vows; that her mother is in despair; and that she has neglected no means of dissuasion. For my part, I have no reason to love her; she has caused me much sorrow, and still "I assure you that I am not thinking at all about the peace of the family. I am thinking of my own, which is very much disturbed; for I love that child with a strength of feeling that I never knew before. If I do not marry her, I shall never be consoled all my life." 66 'What is it as bad as all that?" said Lucan amazed. "My dear friend, it is terrible," replied M. de Moras. "I am entirely captivated. When she looks at me, when I take her hand, when her dress touches me, I feel philters flowing in my veins. I had heard this sort of agitation spoken of, but had never experienced it. I confess that it causes me delight, but at the same time despair; for I cannot conceal from myself that this passion will be unfortunate, and |