This favor I would make a means of usefulness, and for this purpose I came to Rhodes with the hope of ennobling my profession. The true essence of greatness and success consists in disinterested devotion to that to which we apply ourselves. Let us aim at truth and excellence, and commit the care of our fame to posterity. Tomorrow I quit you, but I leave you with the Gods, who are the friends of the virtuous." As they spoke, they had arm in arm wandered towards the high parts of the city, which overlooked the sea. Here they first observed that dark heavy clouds were rolling towards them, and the winds seemed rushing on like a tornado; while they gazed, they beheld Zara at a distance. Her appearance was striking; she was clad in her Persian costume, but her head was bare, and her long white locks streamed in the wind; her vest was thrown open, and her whole air was that of a maniac.

On seeing her, Protogenes exclaimed, "See yonder our good mother! She has on her divining mantle; she is ever unsettled when the clouds look black and threatening." "No wonder," replied Apelles; "they obscure her divinity." At that moment the thunder burst in loud peals. "She does not, like us," continued the artist, "see him in the clouds, and hear his voice in the thunder!" They hastened towards her. When she saw them approach, she exclaimed, "Get ye to the high mountains; wo and desolation is over the city. The waters of heaven are let loose! wo! wo!"-" Good Zara," said Protogenes, "hie thee home, the storm is coming." "Yes, it is coming," she exclaimed, "I hear its voice; it mingles with the dashing of the seas of blood!" In vain they tried to arrest her; she rushed through the streets crying, "wo! wo! my hour has

come!"

Suddenly the clouds seemed to be rent asunder; torrents of rain and hail descended; the wind swept along with frightful fury; they distinguished the crashing of timber and the shrieks of human voices; the friends flung themselves prostrate upon the earth, and clung to each other. In a short time all the lower part of the city, which was built in the form of an amphitheatre, was inundated; the pipes which would have conducted the water to the ocean had been neglected, and were closed up; thousands were drowned before they could reach the higher ground. All at once the walls burst, and the water rushed towards the ocean, bearing with them hundreds of dead and living bodies. The clouds seemed to have exhausted their fury, and the whirlwind subsided. The friends arose to gaze on the desolation below. The lower part of the city was in ruins,-houses destroyed and the noblest specimens of the arts laid prostrate! The dwelling of Protogenes had escaped destruction; they repaired to it; Zara was not there; they sought her in vain; and, as her remains could not be found, they concluded she had been swept into the waters of the ocean.

Apelles remained with his friend till the first consternation was over, and then sailed for Cos. Here he did not long continue; but was summoned to Macedonia, to take the portrait of his royal master. Apelles selected the moment when the Emperor was mounted on his noble and fiery steed Bucephalus, whom the monarch boasted no one had ever mounted, but himself. Alexander was not perfectly satisfied with the horse. Apelles requested that Bucephalus might be brought, that he might be compared with his representative. As soon as Bucephalus beheld the painting, he neighed loudly to it. "O King," said the painter, "your horse is a better judge of painting than yourself." The observation of Apelles, which afterwards became a proverb, has often been related, with the criticism of the shoe-maker upon a sandal, in one of the paintings of the artist. He said it was incorrect in its form, and gave his reasons. Apelles admitted their justice, and thanked him for his remarks. The shoe-maker, elated with his success, proceeded to criticise the leg-"Keep to your trade," said Apelles, "your judgment goes no higher than the sandal."

One of the most celebrated pictures of Apelles, was Venus rising from the ocean. It was placed in the temple of Diana, at Ephesus. Of the inscription on this painting the following translation will convey an imperfect idea :

The waves divide, and from the foaming ocean
Fair Venus starts at once to life and motion!
With roseate hand her humid locks she rings,
And from her tresses many a dew-drop springs.
While gazing at the beauteous vision there,
Her rival sisters own themselves less fair;
Yet cry, tenacious still of beauty's field,
"Tis to Apelles we the apple yield."

Another celebrated picture was the portrait of Alexander, with a thunder-bolt in his hand. It was so perfectly done, that the hand seemed to be thrust forth from the picture, yet firmly grasping the thunder-bolt; which gave rise to the following lines:

We own, great Jupiter! thy power divine;
To hurl the avenging thunder-bolt, is thine!
But Alexander whom Apelles moulds

In his right hand the avenging thunder holds.

This portrait so entirely satisfied the monarch, that he issued a decree forbidding any other artist to attempt his portrait.

Perhaps it was his success in this picture that led Alexander to request Apelles to take a likeness of one of the distinguished beauties of his court, Campaspe, a young slave, of whose charms the ardent young monarch was passionately enamoured. Apelles was un

willing to refuse, and the young girl consented to sit for her picture. Day after day she came, and the artist apparently made but little progress in his work. He was aware that she was destined to grace the court of the monarch. At length, as she one day sat before him, he threw down his pallet and found himself at her feet. Campaspe quickly dropped her veil and retired without a word; from this time. she appeared at the painter's room no more. Alexander remarked that Apelles was silent and abstracted. He one day inquired why there was such delay with the picture of Campaspe.

"Great King," replied Apelles, "wonder not that the beauty which has moved the conquerer of the world, should subdue one of his subjects. You have assigned me a task beyond my powers. I love Campaspe!” And what says she to thee?" said Alexander. "Not a word!" replied Apelles.

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The monarch too remained silent. The next day he ordered that the portrait should be completed; and again the young beauty appeared in the study of the artist.

When the picture was finished, Apelles presented it to Alexander. "I accept it," said the monarch; the picture is mine; Campaspe thine."

Blessed in the possession of a generous and noble heart, in the favor of his king, and the love of Campaspe, honored and respected by all Greece, Apelles yielded his last breath, at an advanced age, in the bosom of his family.

It may be said of the subject of the foregoing sketch, (in which are embodied all the authentic personal anecdotes of his life that have come down to us,) that his peculiar excellence in painting was the grace of his figures. He was conscious of this, and frankly asserted that, "though surpassed in many other respects, none equalled him in grace."

The generous friendship he exhibited towards Protogenes was afterwards of essential benefit to the Rhodians; for when Demetrius, the famous Besieger of Cities, was encamped before their capital, he refused to set fire to a part of the city where was situated the study of the artist, though it would have secured him possession of the city. And afterwards, when the city was taken, his admiration of the painting of Ialysus, mentioned before, obtained for it much more favorable terms than the Rhodians had dared to expect. It is related that Protogenes was found engaged in painting in his garden, when the troops of Demetrius entered, so absorbed in his occupation as to appear regardless of the tumult around. On being brought before the conqueror, and asked why he exhibited so little concern, amid the general calamity,he replied, "that he understood Demetrius warred with men, not with the arts." The King, in return, requested the artist to furnish him with a painting of his own production, and sent him a hundred talents.

It is recorded of Apelles that he never painted on walls, nor any thing that could not be saved in a fire. He would have had the works of the best masters carried from one country to another, and could not endure that a picture should not be capable of having more than one master, because painting, he said, "was a common good to all the world!"

THE MONUMENTS OF GREECE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE RUINS OF ATHENS."

From cliff and cape--the eagle's, outlaw's home-
They stand, like sentinels that watch the dead,
Temple and tower, whose crumbling wrecks entomb
'The sod where knelt the brave of yore, or bled:
By wood and dell, by stream and shore, we tread
What seem, perchance, but fragments of the gray
And shattered crest of some old mountain-head,
Bowed by the earthquake,-pause,-thy footsteps stay!
These are no relics Greece leaves voiceless to decay.

Ages sweep on, and other hordes may band,
And build, like vultures, though the crescent wane,
In each old fastness of her mountain land,
Rewaste her earth, and link her broken chain;
But Leuctra, Salamis, Platææ's plain,
And wild Thermopyla's sepulchral pass,
The monuments of Nature, these remain;
Perished the stone--but who the sighing grass
Wanders unheeded by, where fell Leonidas!

By cliff and cape, the temple, slowly bowed,
May fall, the tomb commingle with the clay
It rose to shelter,-and the mighty shroud
Their memory in deeper gloom, as they
Had never been,-her very name decay,―
But from that spot which saw, before the might
Of freedom's lightning glance, the proud array
Of Orient's myriads streaming far in flight,

A spirit breathes, a power, no coming time shall blight.

Here stood the Greek, and there the Persian shrank,
Rider o'er rider hurled, and shield o'er shield;
Bristling with spears, an iron crop, they sank
As the ripe harvests to the sickle yield,
Tombless to rot, and fertilize the field,
As weeds, they came as conquerors to reap.
Such be the lot of all that fear to wield

Arms 'gainst the tyrant in whose train they creep,
No tongue record their fall, nor tear their ashes steep!
Marathon, 1828.

FOOT-PRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TWICE-TOLD-TALES."

Ir must be a spirit much unlike my own, which can keep itself in health and vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine of the world, to plunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, and not infrequent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me-one with the roar of its waves, the other with the murmur of its boughs-forth from the haunts of men. But I must wander many a mile, ere I could stand beneath the shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost among the multitude of hoary trunks, and hidden from earth and sky by the mystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is within my daily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some suburban farm-house. When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a necessity within me, I am drawn to the sea-shore, which extends its line of rude rocks and seldom-trodden sands, for leagues around our bay. Setting forth, at my last ramble, on a September morning, I bound myself with a hermit's vow, to interchange no thoughts with man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but to derive all that day's enjoyment from shore, and sea, and sky,—from my soul's communion with these, and from fantasies, and recollections, or anticipated realities. Surely here is enough to feed a human spirit for a single day. Farewell, then, busy world! Till your evening lights shall shine along the street-till they gleam upon my sea-flushed face, as I tread homeward-free me from your ties, and let me be a peaceful outlaw.

Highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed; and, clambering down a crag, I find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does the spirit leap forth, and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny deep! A greet