occasion. We had, however, been struggling for many hours previously, and may have been dazed by our exertion. I cannot otherwise account for three of my party declining flatly to make any attempt upon the precipice. It looks very bad, but no real climber with his strength unimpaired would pronounce it, without trial, insuperable. Fears of this rock-wall, however, had been excited long before we reached it. It was probably the addition of the psychological element to the physical the reluctance to encounter new dangers on a mountain which had hitherto inspired a superstitious fear-that quelled further exertion.

Seven hundred feet, if the barometric measurement can be trusted, of very difficult rock-work now lay above us. In 1862 this height had been underestimated by both Bennen and myself. Of the 14,800 feet of the Matterhorn, we then thought we had accomplished 14,600. If the barometer speaks truly, we had only cleared 14,200.

Descending the end of the ridge, we crossed a narrow cleft and grappled with the rocks at the other side of it. Our ascent was oblique, bearing to the right. The obliquity at one place fell to horizontality, and we had to work on the level round a difficult protuberance of rock. We cleared the difficulty without haste, and then rose straight against the precipice. Above us a rope hung down the cliff, left there by Maquignaz on the occasion of his first ascent. We reached the end of this rope, and some time was lost by my guide in assuring himself that it was not too much frayed by friction. Care in testing it was doubly necessary; for the rocks, bad in themselves, were here crusted with ice. The rope was in some places a mere hempen core surrounded by a casing of ice, over which the hands slid helplessly. Even with the aid of the rope in this condition it required an effort to get to the top of the precipice, and we willingly halted there to take a minute's breath. The ascent was virtually accomplished, and a few minutes more of rapid climbing placed us on the lightning-smitten top. Thus ended the long contest between me and the Matterhorn.

TYRTEUS.

TYRTEUS, a Greek elegiac poet who flourished about 650 B. C., and whose war songs were the inspiration of the Spartans during the second Messenian war. A later tradition declares him to have been a lame schoolmaster of Athens, sent to Sparta by the Athenians as the most useless commander they could find.

A MARTIAL ELEGY.

(Translation of Thomas Campbell.)

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!
But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam;
His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his woe;
While, scorned and scowled upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonoring manhood's form,
All ills shall cleave to him; affliction's storm
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years,
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our father's land,
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand,
To save our children: fight ye side by side,
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride,
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost
Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight,
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might;

Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast
Permit the man of age (a sight unblest)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevelled in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair,
And beautiful in death the boy appears,
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years:
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears;
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far,
For having perished in the front of war.

THE HERO.

WHEN falling in the van he life must yield,
An honor to his sire, his town, his state

His breast oft mangled through his circling shield,
And gashed in front through all his armor's plate-

Him young

and old together mourn: and then

His city swells his funeral's sad array;

His tomb, his offspring, are renowned 'mongst menHis children's children, to the latest day.

His glory or his name shall never die,

Though 'neath the ground, he deathless shall remain, Whom fighting steadfastly, with courage high,

For country and for children, Mars hath slain.

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND.

UHLAND, JOHANN LUDWIG, a celebrated German lyric poet; born at Tübingen, April 26, 1787; died there, November 13, 1862. He was educated in his native town, studied law, and practised in Stuttgart, where he was connected with the Ministry of Justice. In 1819 he became a member of the Würtemberg Assembly. He was Professor of German Language and Literature at Tübingen from 1830 to 1833. He resigned the professorship to take more active part in the Diet as a liberal leader, but withdrew in 1839. In 1848 he became a member of the Frankfort Assembly. He wrote poetry which appeared in periodicals as early as 1806. His ballads and songs are classic. His works include "Gedichte" (1815); the dramas "Ernst von Schwaben" and "Ludwig der Bayer" (1817-19; 3d ed., 1863); "Alte hoch und nieder deutsche Volkslieder" (184445); and "Schriften zur Geschichte der Dichtung und Sage" (8 vols., 1865-69). His poems have been translated by Longfellow, by Alexander Platt (1844), and his "Songs and Ballads" by W. W. Skeat (1864).

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR through the world so wide,

I wander all alone;

Yet once a brighter fate was mine,

In days that long have flown.

Within my father's home I grew,
A happy child and free;
But ah! the heritage of want
Is all he left to me.

The gardens of the rich I view,

The fields with bounty spread;
My path is through the fruitless way,
Where toil and sorrow tread.

And yet amidst the joyous throng,
The joys of all I share,

With willing heart I wait, and hide
My secret load of care..

THE squire hath murdered his knight for gold:
The squire would fain be a warrior bold.

He slew him by night upon a drear field,
And in the deep Rhine his body concealed.

He braced on the armor, so heavy and bright,
And mounted the steed of his master, the knight.

And as he rode over a bridge 'cross the Rhine
The charger 'gan fiercely to rear and to whine.

As the golden spurs in the flanks did go,
The squire was cast in the stream's wild flow.

With foot and with hand he struggles in vain,
By the armor drawn down, he ne'er rises again.