The Classic and the Beautiful from the Literature of Three Thousand Years

the guide stopped their work. Had they been surprised? Had the alarm been given? The most ordinary prudence would order them to go away, which Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty did at the same time. They lay down again under cover of the wood, waiting until the alarm, if there had been one, had ceased, and ready, in this case, to resume their work. But unfortunate mischance!—some guards showed themselves at the rear of the pagoda and established themselves there, so as to hinder any approach.

It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of these four men stopped in their work. Now that they could not reach the victim, how could they save her? Sir Francis Cromarty clenched his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide had some difficulty to restrain him. The impassible Fogg waited without showing his feelings. What can we do but leave?" asked the general, in a low voice.

We can only leave," replied the guide.

Wait," said Fogg; "it will do if I reach Allahabad to-morrow before noon."

"But what hope have you?" replied Sir Francis Cromarty. "In a few hours it will be daylight, and—”

"The chance which escapes us now may return at the last moment."

The general would have liked to read Phileas Fogg's eyes. What was this cold-blooded Englishman counting on? Would he at the moment of the sacrifice rush toward the young woman and openly tear her from her murderers? That would have been madness, and how could it be admitted that this man was mad to this degree? Nevertheless, Sir Francis Cromarty consented to wait until the dénouement of this terrible scene. How

ever, the guide did not leave his companions at the spot where they had hid, and he took them back to the foreground of the clearing. There, sheltered by a clump of trees, they could watch the sleeping groups.

In the mean time, Passepartout, perched upon the lower branches of a tree, was meditating an idea which had first crossed his mind like a flash, and which finally embedded itself in his brain. He had commenced by saying to himself, "What madness!" and now he repeated, "Why not, after all? It is a chance-perhaps the only one, and with such brutes." At all events, Passepartout did not put his thought into any other shape, but he was not slow in sliding down, with the ease of a snake, on the low branches of the tree, the end of which bent toward the ground.

The hours were passing, and soon a few less sombre shades announced the approach of day. But the darkness was still great. It was the time fixed. It was like a resurrection in this slumbering crowd. The groups wakened up. The beating of tamtams sounded; songs and cries burst out anew. The hour had come in which the unfortunate was to die.

The doors of the pagoda were now opened. A more intense light came from the interior. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis could see the victim, all lighted up, whom two priests were dragging to the outside. It seemed to them that, shaking off the drowsiness of intoxication by the highest instinct of self-preservation, the unfortunate woman was trying to escape from her executioners. Sir Francis's heart throbbed violently, and, with a convulsive movement seizing Phileas Fogg's hand, he felt that it held an open knife.

"Let us be off!"

It was Passepartout himself who slipped to the pile in the midst of the thick smoke! It was Passepartout who, profiting by the great darkness still prevailing, had rescued the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing his part with the boldest good luck, passed out in the midst of the general fright!

At this moment the crowd was agitated. | Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty were, The young woman had fallen again into the and said shortly, stupor produced by the fumes of the hemp. She passed between the fakirs, who escorted her with their religious cries. Phileas Fogg and his companions followed her, mingling with the rear ranks of the crowd. Two minutes after, they arrived at the edge of the river, and stopped less than fifty paces from the funeral-pile, upon which was lying the rajah's body. In the semi-obscurity they In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, motionless, stretched near her husband's corpse. Then a torch was brought, and the wood, impregnated with oil, soon took fire.

At this moment Sir Francis Cromarty and the guide held back Phileas Fogg, who, in an impulse of generous madness, was going to rush toward the pile.

But Phileas Fogg had already pushed them back, when the scene changed suddenly. A cry of terror arose. The whole crowd, frightened, cast themselves upon the ground. The old rajah was not dead, then; he was seen suddenly rising upright like a phantom, raising the young woman in his arms, descending from the pile in the midst of the clouds of smoke, which gave him a spectral appearance. The fakirs, the priests, overwhelmed with a sudden fear, were prostrate, their faces to the ground, not daring to raise their eyes and look at such a miracle.

The inanimate victim was held by the vigorous arms carrying her without seeming to be much of a weight. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis had remained standing. The Parsee had bowed his head, and Passepartout, without doubt, was not less stupefied. The resuscitated man came near the spot where

An instant after, the four disappeared in the woods, and the elephant took them onward with a rapid trot.

But cries, shouts, and even a ball piercing Phileas Fogg's hat, apprised them that the stratagem had been discovered. Indeed, on the burning pile still lay the body of the old rajah. The priests, recovered from their fright, learned that an abduction had taken place.

They immediately rushed into the forest; the guards followed them. Shots were fired, but the abductors fled rapidly, and in a few moments they were out of range of balls or arrows.

The bold abduction had succeeded. An hour after, Passepartout was still laughing at his success. Sir Francis Cromarty grasped. the hand of the brave fellow. His master said to him, "Good !" which in that gentleman's mouth was equivalent to high praise. To which Passepartout replied that all the honor of the affair belonged to his master. As for himself, he had only had a "droll idea, and he laughed in thinking that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the former gymnast, the ex-sergeant of firemen, had been the widower of a charming womanan old embalmed rajah.

Translation of STEPHEN W. WHITE.

DERMOT O'DOWD.

HEN Dermot O'Dowd coorted | Says Dermot, "Your eyes are as bright as the

Molly M'Can,

They were sweet as the
honey and soft as

the down;

But when they were wed they
began to find out

That Dermot could storm

and that Molly could
frown;

They would neither give in

-so the neighbors

gave out;

Both were hot till a coldness came over Says Dermot, "You called me a duck when

the two,

And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would

blusther,

I coorted,

But now I'm a goose every day in the week.

Stamp holes in the flure and cry out, But all husbands are geese, though our pride "Wirrasthru !

My bed is no use,

I'll give back to the goose

The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas
Day."

"Ah!" says Molly, "you once used to call me a bird.".

it may shock;

THE ADVANCE OF AGE.

SIX years had past, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks :

"Faix, you're ready enough still to fly The locks once comely in a virgin's sight

And my lips like the rose-now no longer And Time's strong pressure to subdue the

I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more:
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I showed my stranger-guest those hills sub-
lime,

But said, "The view is poor: we need not climb."

At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed;
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess;
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot;
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And blessed the shower that gave me not to
choose.

In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashion new;
I loved my trees in order to dispose;
I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose,
Told the same story oft-in short, began to
prose.