"I was made by Cloetas, the son of Aristotle, who invented at Olympia the start for horses." As to the oracle (of Trophonius), the following is the process: When any one desires to descend to the cave of Trophonius, he must first take up his residence for certain days in the temple of the Good Deity and Good Fortune. While he stays there, he purifies himself in all other respects, abstains from warm baths, bathes in the river Hercyna, and has plenty of animal food from the various victims; for he must sacrifice to Trophonius and the sons of Trophonius, and also to Apollo and Cronos and to Zeus the King, and to Hera the Chariot-driver, and to Demeter whom they call Europa, and who they say was the nurse of Trophonius. At each of the sacrifices the seer comes forward and inspects the victims' entrails, and having done so, declares whether or not Trophonius will receive with favor the person who consults the oracle. The entrails of the other victims, however, do not show the mind of Trophonius so much as those of the ram, which each person who descends into his cave sacrifices on the night he descends in a ditch, invoking Agamedes. And though the former sacrifices have seemed propitious, they take no account of them, unless the entrails of this ram are favorable too; but if these are so, then each person descends with good hope. This is the process. The first thing they do is to bring the person who wishes to consult the oracle by night to the river Hercyna, and to anoint him with oil, and two citizen lads of the age of thirteen, whom they call Hermæ, wash him, and minister to him in all other respects. The priests do not after that lead him immediately to the oracle, but to the sources of the river which are very near each other. And here he must drink of the water called Lethe, that he may forget all his former thoughts, and afterwards he must drink of the water of memory, and then he remembers what he will see on his descent. And when he has beheld the statue which they say was made by Dædalus, and which is never shown by the priests to any but those who are going to descend to Trophonius, after worship and prayer he goes to the oracle, clad in a linen tunic bound with fillets, and having on his feet the shoes of the country. The oracle is above the grove on the mountain; and there is round it a circular wall of stone, the circumference of which is very small, and height rather less than two cubits. Also there are some brazen pillars and girders that connect them, and through them are doors. And inside is a cavity in the earth, not natural, but artificial, and built with great skill. And the shape of this cavity resembles that of an oven: the breadth of which (measured diametrically) may be considered to be about four cubits, and the depth not more than eight cubits. There are no steps to the bottom; but when any one descends to Trophonius, they furnish him with a narrow and light ladder. On the descent between top and bottom is an opening two spans broad and one high. He that descends. lies flat at the bottom of the cavity, and, having in his hands cakes kneaded with honey, introduces into the opening first his feet and then his knees; and then all his body is sucked in, like a rapid and large river swallows up any one who is sucked into its vortex. When within the sanctuary, the future is not communicated always in the same way, but some obtain knowledge of the future by their eyes, others by their ears. And they return by the place where they entered feet foremost. They say none who descended ever died, except one of Demetrius's body-guard, who would perform none of the accustomed routine, and who descended not to consult the oracle, but in the hope of abstracting some of the gold and silver from the sanctuary. They also say that his corpse was not ejected by the usual outlet. There are indeed several other traditions about him: I mention only the most remarkable. On emerging from the cavity of Trophonius, the priests take and seat the person who has consulted the oracle on the Seat of Memory, not far from the sanctuary, and when he is seated there, they ask him what he has seen or heard, and, when they have been informed, they hand him over to the fit persons, who bring him back to the temple of Good Fortune and the Good Deity, still in a state of terror, and hardly knowing where he is. Afterwards, however, he will think no more of it, and even laugh. I write no mere hearsay, but from what I have seen happen to others, and having myself consulted the oracle of Trophonius. And all on their return from the oracle of Trophonius must write down on a tablet what they have seen or heard. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, an American dramatist and actor. Born in New York City, June 9, 1792; died April 10, 1852. Author of "Home, Sweet Home," one of the songs in his drama, the "Maid of Milan." His "Brutus," "Virginius," and "Charles II" are still upon the stage. He was for some years United States consul at Tunis, where he died. In 1883 his remains were brought back to his native land, and as they were conveyed in solemn state through the city of Washington, D.C., to their final resting-place in Oak Hill cemetery, the various bands in the long funeral cortège played, with a never-to-be-forgotten effect upon the spectators of the scene, the pathetic strains of "Home, Sweet Home." HOME, SWEET HOME MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, There's no place like home! There's no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain: Give me them, with the peace of mind dearer than all. There's no place like home! etc. How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, The pleasures of home. To thee I'll return, overburdened with care: No more from that cottage again will I roam: There's no place like home! There's no place like home! SILVIO PELLICO SILVIO PELLICO. An Italian dramatic writer and patriot. Born at Saluzzo in Piedmont, June 24, 1788; died at Turin, January 31, 1854. Author of the tragedies "Laodicea," "Francesca of Rimini," "Eufemio of Messina," "Iginia of Asto," "Ester of Engaddi," "Leonerio of Dertonia," "Gismonda da Mendrisio," "Herodias," and "Thomas More." In 1820 he was arrested by the Austrian government as a conspirator for Italian liberation, and was kept a prisoner for ten years in Moravia. When finally released, he was greatly broken mentally and physically, but subsequently produced his most famous work, entitled "My Prisons," which has been translated into all European languages and is regarded as a classic. (From "MY PRISONS") I RETURNED to the strict habit of anticipating daily all surprise, all emotion, every supposable misfortune; and again this exercise became interesting to me. My solicitude was still further increased. The two sons of the jailer, who at first sometimes kept me company, were sent to school; and afterwards, remaining little at home, they no longer came to see me. The mother and sister, who often stopped to talk with me when the boys were there, now only came to bring my coffee, and left me directly. For the mother I felt little regret, because she did not manifest a compassionate heart. But the daughter, although not handsome, had a certain sweetness of look and language, which was not without value for me. When she brought my coffee, and said, "I made it," I always found it excellent; when she said, "Mamma made it,” it was warm water. Seeing human beings so rarely, I turned my attention to some ants that came upon my window: I fed them sumptuously; they went to seek for an army of their companions, and my window was soon filled with these little animals. I busied myself also with a beautiful spider which spun her web on one of the walls of my prison. I fed her with gnats and midges, and she took such a liking to me that she came upon my bed, into my hands, and took her prey from my fingers. Would to God that these had been the only insects to visit me! It was yet spring, and already the midges had multiplied, I can truly say, in a frightful manner. The winter had been one of extraordinary mildness, and after some March winds, the warm weather came. It is impossible to say how hot the air became in the cell which I occupied. Situated exactly to the south, under a roof of lead, my window looking upon that of St. Mark's church, also of lead, from which the reflection was dreadful, it was suffocating. I never had an idea of heat so overpowering. To this great torment was added such a multitude of midges, that, however much I moved about and destroyed them, I was entirely covered with them: the bed, the table, the floor, the chairs, the walls, the ceiling, everything, was covered with them; and the air contained an infinite number, perpetually going and coming through the window with an infernal buzzing. The bites of these insects are painful; and to feel them from morning to night, and from night to morning, and to have to be contriving incessantly how to diminish their number is, in truth, too great a suffering for mind and body. When I had learned from experience the severity of this scourge, and could not obtain a change of my prison, I was pursued with the temptation to commit suicide, and sometimes feared that I should become crazy. But, thanks to Heaven, this fury was not of long duration, and religion continued to sustain me. It persuaded me that man ought to suffer, and suffer with fortitude; it made me feel a certain pleasure in my sufferings, the satisfaction of not yielding, but rather of overcoming everything. I said to myself: "The more painful life becomes to me, the less terrified I shall be, if, young as I am, I shall be condemned to punishment; without these preparatory sufferings, I should |