And when from others I have borne reproach, In the portions of Lord Derby's translation we have here given, we have not selected what are universally regarded as the most beautiful passages of the poem. We have selected such passages as from their crowded incidents, their bewildering throng of objects, their rapid succession of scenes or deep and tender pathos, appeared to us the most difficult for the translator to reproduce. · We doubt if there be a student of Homer who will fail to find them a transcript of the poet's meaning, with almost literal exactness, as well as a copy of the genius and spirit of the poem. We had purposed selecting some passages which would give our readers a sample of his manner of rendering the Homeric epithets. The beauty of the few occurring in the above extracts will not escape them. Students of Homer are aware how constantly he appends distinctive epithets to persons, things, and places. To translate these wherever they occur would give a strange, unnatural cast to the poem. The English language, not like the plastic Greek, could not bear along the burden of them; besides, many of them would require an awkward paraphrase, which would only add words, not vividness or distinctness, to the thought of the poet. Lord Derby has wisely and discriminately dealt with these; when he renders them, he does so with so much exactitude and expressive force, that we feel rise within us, at this late hour, a sigh of regret that we had not at our hand his version of them, when we were students of Homer. In reading the translation through, we cannot say where we would have an epithet added that has been omitted, or where we would have stricken it out where it has been preserved. We said that the translation is a copy of the Iliad—a copy produced with genius and spirit. It will be read with pleasure by the classical scholar, to whom it will recall in their freshness and grandeur the scenes of that poem which charmed him in years long past. It will be welcomed by the general reader, who has not before tasted the charms of Homer's song, and who will gratefully acknowledge it as a new treasure to the storehouse of English literature. In it-and in the life of the noble author, whose devotedness to classical literature could not have lived through his busy political life, did he not in his own inward consciousness ever find the great benefit and elegant pleasure he had gained from it-is furnished for the public at large the strongest argument we know against banishing classical education from our schools and colleges. TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN. LINES WRITTEN BY THEODULPHUS, BISHOP OF ORLEANS, A.D. 820, IN A COPY OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES, TRANSCRIBED BY HIS OWN HAND. LIGHT of God's law! divesting earth of glooui, More white than snows, more bright than starry skies, Blest word of God! gift of that wisdom, whence Whate'er of wonders human arts have taught Have here their fountain-hence derive their force ; By day, by night here meditate, here school That shall thyself control. This sharer of thy couch-joy of thine eyes, Be not for knowledge only thy desire; In virtue's presence learning's light is dim: By ceaseless study learn, by actions teach, Untiring seek for Wisdom's pathway here. Who walks a tangled forest's briery way By frequent treading makes it broad and plain. Slow study doth retain. C. E. B. FROM THE FRENCH OF ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. THE INVASION; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL. CHAPTER XXI. JEROME of Saint-Quirin had made good his retreat upon the farm-house. "Who goes there?" cried the sentries, as the party approached. "People of the village of Charmes," replied Marc-Dives in his voice of thunder. pointed red beard hanging on his breast; his thick staff between his knees, and his rifle leaning against the wall. "Ha! good morning, Jerome !" cried the old woman. "Good morning, Catherine!" answered the grave and solemn chief of Grossmann. "You come from They were recognized and allowed Donon ?" to pass. The house was silent; a sentinel with shouldered arms paced in front of the barn, where thirty partisans were sleeping upon the straw. Catherine, at sight of the great dark roofs, the old sheds, the stables, the ancient dwelling where her youth had passed, where the peaceful and laborious lives of her father and her grandfather had tranquilly glided away, the home which she was perhaps about to leave for ever, felt a terrible pain at her heart; but she spoke not of it, and springing from the sledge, as she had often done before on her returning from market, she said: "Yes. Things are going ill there, my poor Jerome. The Kaiserliks attacked the farm-house when we left the plateau. We could see only white coats on every side. They began to cross the abatis-" "Then you think Hullin will be forced to abandon the road?” "It is possible, indeed, if Pivrette does not come to his assistance." The partisans had neared the fire. Marc-Dives bent over the coals to light his pipe; as he rose, he cried: "Jerome, I ask only one thing of you; I know that they fought well where you commanded"? 66 "They did their duty," interruptCome, Louise, we are home at ed the shoemaker; sixty men lie last; thanks to God." stretched on the side of Grossmann, Old Duchene had pushed open who will bear witness to it on the judgment-day." the door, crying, It is Madame Lefevre !" "Yes, it is we. Any news from Jean-Claude?" No, madame." "Yes; but who guided the Germans? They never could find of themselves the pass of Blutfeld." "It was Yegof-the fool Yegof," Then every one entered the huge replied Jerome, and his gray eyes, kitchen. A few coals yet glowed upon the hearth, and, under the immense, overhanging chimney-piece, Jerome of Saint-Quirin was seated in the shadow, in his great-coat; his long surrounded with deep wrinkles and thick white lashes and brows, glittered through the darkness. "Are you very sure of it?" "Labarbe's men saw him ascend, leading the others." " The partisans gazed at each other called aloud for “Vielau ” with angry looks. pheri," but no voice replied. At the same moment, Doctor Lorquin, who had remained without to unharness his horse, pushed open the door, crying: "The battle is lost! Here are our men from Donon. I have heard Lagarmitte's horn." It is easy to imagine the feelings with which this news was received. Every one thought of parent, friends, whom perhaps he was never more to see, and all who were in the kitchen and the barn rushed at once to the fields. Then Robin and Dubourg, posted as sentries, cried : "Who goes there?" "France !" replied a voice. And despite the distance, Louise, recognizing her father's voice, would have fallen had not Catherine supported her. Presently a great number of steps echoed upon the frozen snow, and Louise, no longer able to contain herself, cried in a trembling voice : "Father Jean-Claude !” "I am coming," replied Hullin ; "I am coming." Then the calls grew hoarse, strangled, and finally ceased. The joy of some and the grief of others were in horrible contrast. Louise wept hot tears in Hullin's arms. "Ah! Jean-Claude," said Mother Lefevre; "you have much to learn of your daughter. Now I will tell you nothing, but we were attacked-” Yes, we will talk of it by and by. Time presses," interrupted Hullin. "The Donon road is lost; the Cossacks may be here at daybreak, and we have yet many things to do." All He entered the farm-house. followed. Duchene had just thrown a fagot upon the fire. Those faces, black with powder, but still breathing the fire of battle; those garments, torn by bayonet-thrusts, some of them bloody, advancing from darkness into the full light, offered a strange spectacle. Kasper, whose handkerchief was bound around his forehead, had received a sabre-cut; his bayonet, blouse, and high blue cloth gaiters. were stained with blood. Old Materne, thanks to his imperturbable “And my father?" cried Frantz, presence of mind, came safe and rushing to the sabot-maker. “He is with us, Frantz.” "And Kasper?" "He has received a little wound, but it is nothing: you will see them both." Catherine threw herself into Hullin's arms. "O Jean-Claude! what a happiness it is to see you again!" "Ay," replied he in a low tone; "there are many who will never again see those they love." "Frantz!" cried old Materne; "hallo! this way.' And on all sides, in the darkness, men sought each other, pressed each other's hands and embraced. Others sound from the fray. The remnants of the two troops of Jerome and Hullin were thus united. They showed the same fierce countenances, animated by the same energy and desire for vengeance, save that the last, wornout with weariness, sat wherever they might find room-on the fagots, the hearth-with their heads bowed upon their hands, and their elbows resting on their knees. The others looked around, unable to realize that Hans, Juson, Daniel, had disappeared for ever, and exchanging questions followed by long periods of silence. Materne's two sons held each other by the arms, as if each feared he would lose his brother, and their fa ther, behind them, leaning against the wall, gazed on with looks of delight. "They are there; I see them," he seemed to say. "And they are famous fellows, and both have escaped." The good man coughed, and when some one came to speak to him about Pierre, or Jacques, or Nicolas —of a son or a brother-he replied at random, Ay, ay, there are a good many stretched out yonder; but what would you have? War is war. Your Nicolas did his duty. Be consoled." And then he thought, "My boys are out of the scrape, and that is the principal thing." Catherine set the table with Louise. Soon Duchene, returning from the cellar with a cask of wine upon his shoulder, placed it on the sideboard. He opened it, and each of the partisans presented his glass, or cup, or pitcher, to the purple fountain, which gave back the leaping flames on the hearth in a thousand reflections. 'Eat and drink!" cried the old mistress of the house. "All is not yet ended; you will yet need strength. Frantz, hand me down those hams. Here are bread and knives. Be seated, my children." Frantz, with his bayonet, roasted the hams at the fire. Benches were brought forward; the men sat down, and ate with that keen appetite which neither present grief nor thought of future evil can make mountaineers forget. But all this did not keep sorrow from the hearts of these brave fellows, and sometimes one, sometimes another, would stop, drop his fork, and leave the table, saying, I have had enough." While the partisans thus recruited their strength, their chiefs met in the neighboring hall to make their last determinations relative to the defence. There were seated round the table, lighted by a tin lamp, Doctor Lorquin-his great dog Pluto near him, watching with uplifted muzzle; Jerome in the recess of a window to the right; Hullin at the left, very pale. Marc-Dives, with his elbow on the table and cheek resting in his hand, sat with his back to the door, and showed only his brown profile and one of the ends of his long moustache. Materne alone was standing, as was his habit, leaning against the wall behind Lorquin's chair, his rifle resting upon his foot. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen. When Catherine, who was called by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard a sort of groan which made her tremble. It was Hullin speaking. "Do you think," he cried, in a burst of wild grief, "that the fate of those brave sons, those white-haired fathers, moved not my heart? Would I not gladly have died a thousand times that they might live? You know not the woes with which this night has overwhelmed me. To lose life is but little; but to bear alone the burden of such a trust!" He was silent, but his trembling lip, the tear that coursed slowly down his cheek, showed how heavily that trust weighed upon him, in a position where conscience itself hesitates and seeks support. Catherine noiselessly seated herself in the large arm-chair on his left. After a few moments' pause, Hullin proceeded more calmly: "Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came crying that we were turned; that the Germans were coming down from Grossmann; Labarbe was crushed; Jerome could hold out no longer. He said no more. What was to be done? Could I retreat-abandon a position which had cost us so much blood--the Donon road, the way to Paris? I were a wretch indeed to do so; but I had only three hundred against the four thousand at |