"You may be a hireling of Remmius."

"Of Remmius?" the Greek echoed indignantly. "I hate the old beast! He has insulted me, and would have had me starved. It is owing to Remmius that you see me at this minute suffering the tortures of the damned from hunger."

Evidently the vehemence of his manner made an impression upon her, but she still hesitated.

"How can I tell that you are not a complete impostor?" she asked, as if half to herself. "What proof have I of the truth of your story?"

"Why is not Sothion here?" retorted Phocides. "Pay, and you may once more embrace your lover, now in danger of death for having loved you; refuse, and you will never clap eyes on him again."

She craned her neck forward in the dusk as if she would read his face, but she did not speak.

"Oh, very well," Phocides said, half turning away, and trying to speak as if it were all a matter of supreme indifference to him, "if you choose to minister to the spite of Remmius and to sacrifice the gladiator to his rage-"

Lollia started as if he had struck a lash across her face.
"Pyrrha!" she cried. "Here! Make haste!"

A slave girl, bearing a casket and a shawl, grew out of the darkness and came aft. Apparently Lollia, having made up her mind, was in feverish haste. She caught the casket from the slave and thrust it into the hands of I hocides.

"Take this." she whispered eagerly: "take this. Now tell me. Where is he? Where is he? Where? Where?"

Phocides took the casket with great show of deliberation. such that he was emboldened to prolong it.

His joy was

"Doubtless, noble Lollia, there is something to open this with. Do you happen to have it?" he asked.

"Here, here," she exclaimed, hurriedly thrusting into his callous paw a small key.

"Outside the Ostian gate stands a house," Phocides said, gravely to impress her and slowly that he might have time to invent, "it is the second as you go from the city. It is in ruins, but two of the cellae of the slaves still stand. Only one of these has a door; it is in that one that Remmius has had Sothion confined."

From the darkness behind the Greek broke a snarling chuckle, which sent a horrible chill to the very marrow of his bones. He felt a pair of irresistible hands grip his throat and neck; they contracted, increasing with frightful rapidity an intolerable compression which even at the beginning it seemed impossible to endure. The impostor tried to cry out, to escape; in an agony of fear he struck with his fists and kicked with his feet, overwhelmed. by a paralyzing sense of the utter futility of his efforts; he felt his heart beating as if it would tear its way out of his laboring chest; strange fires danced before his eyes; he clawed only half humanly at the muscular wrists, corded as if with steel, that were at his throat. Almost drowned in the roaring which whirled in his bursting ears, he was conscious as if another than himself heard, the voice of Lollia as she shrieked: "Sothion! Sothion!" If Remmius had let the gladiator escape and the mighty hands of Sothion were at his throat-But the thought was swept away by the passion which convulsed his whole being for air-air!

III.

When, just as the Heron was setting sail, yellow Tiber rolled a misshapen body seaward, the hunger of Phocides was ended-and forever.

Oric Bates.

UNRAVELED WISHES.

I saw in the children's eyes today

The shadow-sweetness of the dreams—

With light of valleys fair and wondrous streams-
That once I knew, at play.

And once I listened to a laughing voice

That planned old, happy turns and curious plays,
And promised still the smooth yet noble ways,
That I had walked, in choice.

I might have dreamed before the fire here
The old, dim dreams that faded long ago-

Of summers passing, sweet and slow,

And gentle action, self-severe.

But there at my heart is an unvoiced pain,

And a wistful memory at my eyes;

The years I dreamed of are a by-gone train,
And life is glad, but not as I was fain,
Long since, in sweet devise.

H. W. Holmes.

NOTES ON DRAWINGS BY J. M. W. TURNER IN CAMBRIDGE

AND BOSTON.

The Turner water-color drawing of Devenport-recently presented to the Fogg Museum by Charles Fairfax Murray, Esq., of London, in memory of the late W. J. Stillman-makes possible to the students of Harvard University a knowledge and appreciation of the work of one of the great painters of the world, hitherto quite beyond all but those few able to study in the galleries abroad. Being one of the finest finished examples of Turner's mature

work in water-color, in which, as we shall find, Turner is almost invariably to be seen at his best, it is most precious not only for what it may teach us by itself, but that it makes plain the purpose of other drawings and paintings, for the most part less characteristic or of an earlier period, accessible to us in this country, and shows us their place in relation to his best work. It is with the idea of calling wider attention among the students of Harvard University to this and to other works by Turner in Cambridge and Boston, and of pointing out, as far as I am able, what principal qualities are to be looked for in them, that I undertake this article.

On looking at this drawing of Devenport, I suppose your first thought will be, if you know no more of painting than the average Harvard student, that Turner could not draw figures anyway; and you will probably decide that it is not of much use to look for any good in the picture—indeed, you will very likely find it impossible at first to look at anything else in it, when those figures are drawn "like that" the very first thing. Moreover, there will hardly be a thing in the picture to attract an ordinary observer at a first glance. That looking rather common-place at a first glance, however, you will find to be a way that most of the really finest things have, be they pictures, or buildings, or people, and I must beg you not to give up this drawing right away just on that account. Those figures, though, are vulgarand rather awkwardly drawn, too, and the absolute lack of form in the heavy boat by the buoy is hardly understandable, when one looks at the delicate drawing of the little sail-boat by the big man-of-war at the right. So for the present you may have leave to be as much offended as you please, or to laugh, if that is your way, at Turner's awkward drawing of these funny, vulgar people, though you must remember at the same time that Turner saw what fun there was as well as you, and that moreover he might have put into this very drawing figures as gracefully posed as the Apollo-Belvedereif he had chosen. That he chose instead to represent these common English "jackies" and their blowzy lasses, was first, because he had always a tremendous and usually a noble sympathy with the joys and sorrows of common

people more than with the well-posed heroes of classical mythology; and, furthermore, that these simple men and women out for a holiday were the plain fact of the matter on this particular day in Devenport harbor.

After you have first satisfied yourself then with having found all the mistakes in the drawing of these figures, and have become enough accustomed to their peculiarities to be able to attend to something else, take a look around the rest of the picture, from the men-of-war in the mist of rain on the left, over to the great ship-sheds and the quiet steeple and house-tops in the mellow sunlight; finally up into the opening in the clouds and through the highest of them to a delicate patch of melting turquoise sky which you will not have noticed at all before. Be sure to take a good bright day-or better, days to look at this sky, otherwise the gradations and changes of color are so subtle, you will not half see what is there, and you will utterly miss the space expressed by that touch of sky seen through the high film of sun-lit cloud.

After you have looked for awhile, however, at the passing rain clouds, and the precious sky, and the wreaths of broken cloud touched with bits of red and gold by the sun, come back again to those same foreground figures, and, keeping the rest of the picture in mind, I think you will now feel that somehow or other some of the heavenly color has suddenly fallen from the sky; for in this group of clumsiest figures by the buoy, there is a mosaic of the pure color of the firmament which you surely did not observe at first. And looking still closer you will see that this central group is wrought in the form of a jewel with radiating lobes-only that it is beyond any mere jewel in loveliness. This ought to teach you how much you have need to train yourself in sensitiveness of perception really to see the greatest beauty. Not one person in a hundred-or a thousand, can for a long time take in the full beauty of a passage like this, either in a drawing or in nature, especially when it is somewhat hidden, as in this case, by a mask of commonplaceness beyond which the superficial gaze cannot go; and this is only one small part of the beauty in this drawing, to say nothing of what surrounds us every day in cloud and tree and flower.