him much to become a knave or a thief; and knavery is not the less knavery because it involves large interests, nor theft the less theft because it is countenanced by usage or accompanied by failure in undertaken duty. It is an incomparably less guilty form of robbery to cut a purse out of a man's pocket, than to take it out of his hand on the understanding you are to steer his ship up the channel when you do not know the soundings.

On the other hand, the lower orders, and all orders, have to learn that every vicious habit and chronic disease communicates itself by descent; and that by purity of birth the entire system of the human body and soul may be gradually elevated, or, by recklessness of birth, degraded, until there shall be as much difference between the well-bred and ill-bred human creature (whatever pains be taken with their education) as between a wolfhound and the vilest mongrel cur. And the knowledge of this great fact ought to regulate the education of our youth and the entire conduct of the nation.

AUSTIN HENRY LAYARD, 1817

THIS famous traveller, born March 5, 1817, is descended from a family of French Protestants, driven from their country by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. It was intended that he should study for the law; but his inherent love of adventure prevailed, and in 1839 he set out on a continental tour. Subsequently he travelled through various parts of Asia, learned the Arabic and Persian languages, and determined to explore those spots believed to have been the sites of ancient cities. In 1845 he began his excavations at Mosul, the site of ancient Nineveh, and at Nimroud of Babylon; and succeeded in exhuming numerous wonderful specimens of Assyrian art, which are so full of interest to the antiquarian and the student of sacred history. The results of his discoveries were published in 1849, in two volumes, entitled Nineveh and its Remains,-discoveries, perhaps, the most interesting and important of any made in modern times. Mr. Layard has been elected two or three times to Parliament, and in 1861 was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

DISCOVERY OF THE GREAT LIONS AT NIMROUD.

On reaching the ruins, I descended into the new trench, and found the workmen who had already seen me as I approached --standing near a heap of baskets and cloaks. Whilst Awad2 advanced and asked for a present to celebrate the occasion, the Arabs withdrew the screen they had hastily constructed, and disclosed an enormous human head sculptured in full out of the

1 Many of these now enrich the British Museum; and some may be seen at Williamstown College, Massachusetts.

Chief of a small Arab tribe, and the host of Mr. Layard.

alabaster of the country. They had uncovered the upper part of a figure, the remainder of which was still buried in the earth. I saw at once that the head must belong to a winged lion or bull, similar to those of Khorsabad and Persepolis. It was in admirable preservation. The expression was calm, yet majestic, and the outline of the features showed a freedom and knowledge of art scarcely to be looked for in the works of so remote a period. The cap had three horns, and, unlike that of the human-headed bulls hitherto found in Assyria, was rounded and without ornament at the top.

I was not surprised that the Arabs had been amazed and terrified at this apparition. It required no stretch of the imagination to conjure up the most strange fancies. This gigantic head, blanched with age, thus rising from the bowels of the earth, might well have belonged to one of those fearful beings which are pictured in the traditions of the country as appearing to mortals slowly ascending from the regions below. One of the workmen, on catching the first glimpse of the monster, had thrown down his basket and run off towards Mosul as fast as his legs could carry him. I learned this with regret, as I anticipated the consequences. * * *

I ascertained by the end of March the existence of a second pair of winged human-headed lions, differing from those previously discovered in form, the human shape being continued to the waist, and furnished with arms. In one hand each figure carried a goat or stag, and in the other, which hung down by the side, a branch with three flowers. They formed a northern entrance into the chamber of which the lions previously described were the southern portal. I completely uncovered the latter, and found them to be entire. They were about twelve feet in height and the same number in length. The body and limbs were admirably portrayed; the muscles and bones, although strongly developed, to display the strength of the animal, showed at the same time a correct knowledge of its anatomy and form. Expanded wings sprung from the shoulder and spread over the back; a knotted girdle, ending in tassels, encircled the loins. These sculptures, forming an entrance, were partly in full and partly in relief. The head and fore-part, facing the chamber, were in full; but only one side of the rest of the slab was sculptured, the back being placed against the wall of sun-dried bricks. That the spectator might have both a perfect front and side view of the figures, they were furnished with five legs; two were carved no the end of the slab to face the chamber, and three on the side. The relief of the body and three limbs was high and bold, and the slab was covered, in all parts not occupied by the image, with inscriptions in the cuneiform character. These magnificent specimens of Assyrian art were in perfect preservation; the most

minute lines in the details of the wings and in the ornaments had been retained with their original freshness. Not a character was wanting in the inscriptions.

I used to contemplate for hours these mysterious emblems, and muse over their intent and history. What more noble forms could have ushered the people into the temple of their gods? What more sublime images could have been borrowed from nature by men who sought, unaided by the light of revealed religion, to embody their conception of the wisdom, power, and ubiquity of a Supreme Being? They could find no better type of intellect and knowledge than the head of the man; of strength, than the body of the lion; of rapidity of motion, than the wings of the bird. These winged human-headed lions were not idle creations, the offspring of mere fancy: their meaning was written upon them. They had awed and instructed races which flourished three thousand years ago. Through the portals which they guarded, kings, priests, and warriors had borne sacrifices to their altars, long before the wisdom of the East had penetrated to Greece and had furnished its mythology with symbols long recognized by the Assyrian votaries. They may have been buried, and their existence may have been unknown, before the foundation of the eternal city. For twenty-five centuries they had been hidden from the eye of man, and now they stood forth once more in their ancient majesty. But how changed was the scene around them! The luxury and civilization of a mighty nation had given place to the wretchedness and ignorance of a few halfbarbarous tribes. The wealth of temples and the riches of great cities had been succeeded by ruins and shapeless heaps of earth. Above the spacious hall in which they stood, the plough had passed and the corn now waved. Egypt has monuments no less ancient and no less wonderful; but they have stood forth for ages to testify her early power and renown; whilst those before me had but now appeared to bear witness, in the words of the prophet, that once "the Assyrian was a cedar in Lebanon, with fair branches and with a shadowing shroud of an high stature; and his top was among the thick boughs his height was exalted above all the trees of the field, and his boughs were multiplied; and his branches became long, because of the multitude of waters when he shot forth. All the fowls of heaven made their nests in his boughs, and under his branches did all the beasts of the field bring forth their young, and under his shadow dwelt all great nations;" for now is "Nineveh a desolation and dry like a wilderness, and flocks lie down in the midst of her: all the beasts of the nations, both the cormorant and the bittern, lodge in the upper lintels of it; their voice sings in the windows; and desolation is in the thresholds." 591

1 Ezek. xxxi. 3, &c.; Zeph. ii. 13, 14.

* * *

ELIZA COOK, 1817

ELIZA COOK, the daughter of a respectable tradesman in the borough of Southwark, was born in the year 1817. She very early gave manifestations of poete talent, which were warmly encouraged by a sympathizing mother. Her first writings she gave to the public before she was twenty years of age, sending anonymously a Song to the Dispatch newspaper, with which the editor was so much pleased that he noticed it in very commendatory terms, and requested more from the same writer. After this, she sent a poem, each, to the Literary Gazette, the Metropolitan, and the New Monthly, and was written to by each of the respective editors, who, from the style of her writings, judged her to be one of their own sex. Indeed, the editor of the Literary Gazette praised them as the productions of a gentleman who reminded him of "the style and power of Robert Burns."

Her deep love for her mother is one of the prominent features of Miss Cook's character, which closely links itself with her own inner life. The holy breathings of filial love, the devotion, reverence, and gratitude with which she breathes a name so hallowed, and embodies the recollection of one so dear to her heart, form one of the most delightful traits of her poetry. These may be seen in the "Stanzas to a Bereaved One," "Mother, Come Back," and in the touching verses of

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I love it! I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs;

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near

The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die and teach me to live:

She told me shame would never betide

With truth for my treed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.'

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped.-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died:
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Of her works, the story of Melaia, which was published in 1840, is the chief. It is an Eastern tale, of the attachment of a dog to his master; and, besides the generous tone and kindly teaching of the story, it abounds in fine passages of poetic power and noble sentiment. In 1849 she established Eliza Cook's Journal, which became one of the most popular and widely circulated periodicals in England. In 1864 she collected all her poems, and published them in one volume.

Miss Cook has built up for herself a name which will long be uttered with feelings of love and admiration. The characteristics of her poetry are, great freedom, ease, and heartiness of sentiment and expression; and she makes you feel at once that her heart is in all she writes, that she gives full utterance to the depths of her soul,-a soul that is in sympathy with all that is pure and true. She evidently has no regard for conventionalism, but presents, without fear, her own actual thoughts, and yet never transcends the limits of taste and delicacy.

THE WORLD.

Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
Yet, yet there is bloom on the waste;

Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.

We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay,
And note all the shades of our lot;

But the rich rays of sunshine that brighten our way
Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot.

Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright
Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls;
But dwell on the beauties, the glories, the might,
As much as the shipwrecks and shoals.

How thankless is he who remembers alone
All the bitter, the drear, and the dark!

Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone,
Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark?

We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part;
But, in meeting the dear one again,

Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart
Which outbalances ages of pain?

Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss,
When the soul, in its fulness of love,
Would waver if bidden to choose between this
And the paradise promised above?

1 Her object in establishing it may be expressed in her own words:-"I am anxious to give my feeble aid to the gigantic struggle for

intellectual elevation now going on, and fing my energies and will into a cause where my heart will zealously animate my duty."