burden of newspapers and letters they attain four miles. The road is divided into stages varying from five to ten miles each, and the runners act on a continued system of operations in the following manner: The journey is divided into stages, and there are two runners to each stage; one runner starts from one end of the stage, while the other starts from the other, going in opposite directions, and each one carrying a "bangy," or box, containing the mail; on the following day each runner retraces his steps, so that they proceed to and fro alternately. Besides this system between the two runners of each stage, there is an interchange of mails between the runners of two adjoining stages. When one runner has arrived at the end of his stage, he meets another who has just come in an opposite direction along the adjoining stage; the two men exchange mailboxes, and each one retraces his steps. There are stations or meeting-places where these interchanges take place. The dawkrunners are divided into two classes; the "bangyburders," of whom we have just spoken, and the palanquinburdars," who carry travelers. The palanquins employed for this latter purpose are a kind of sedan, with the poles resting on the shoulders of the bearers. The men and palanquins are supplied by a kind of postmaster in the employ of the government, and the fare is paid in advance. There are "bungalows," or stations, at distances of ten or fifteen miles apart, in which a rude sort of inn-accommodation is obtainable. Bishop Heber describes a dawk-journey which he made; and from this description we learn that only four persons can put their shoulders to the palanquin at once, but that many others are provided to alternate with these four, and to assist in passing difficult and dangerous parts of the country. The clothes and writing-desk of the traveler were placed in two wicker-boxes, which one man carried slung on a bamboo across his shoulders. Heber says: "Such is the usual style in which dawk-journeys are made in India; and it may serve as an additional proof of the redundant population and cheapness of labor, that this number of bearers are obtained for this severe and unpleasant work at about twelve shillings for the stage, varying from six to ten miles. The men set out across the meadows at a good round trot of about four miles an hour, grunting all the while like paviors in England, a custom which, like paviors, they imagine eases them under their burden." WAR-GALLEYS OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. hall, in which the emperors of Germany, called originally Roman emperors, feasted after their coronation in the adjoining cathedral. In the Romer yet exists the vaulted chamber which, in the last century, served for the solemn coronation festival of the German Empire, and from the balcony of which the newly-consecrated emperor showed himself to the joyous people. On the long walls, close beside each other, are a row of pointed-arched niches, which fill the whole space. Till within a few years were to be seen two uniform rows of busts of the German emperors since Conrad I., with the laurel crown and toga of Cæsarworthless creations of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. At the period (1813) when, through the fall of the power of Napoleon over Germany, the long-suppressed feelings of pride and patriotism again broke out in a bright flame, the idea arose of ornamenting this chamber, so rich in elevating recollections, more worthily, and in every niche to place a picture of a German emperor, as large as life and splendidly colored. The undertaking, however, was not commenced till twenty-five years later, on the 18th of October, 1838, the anniversary of the battle of Leipzig, and now almost all the pictures are finished. The pictures, fifty-two in number, extend from Charlemagne to Francis II., and include the whole history of the German Empire. Three and thirty artists, chiefly of Frankfort, Dusseldorf, and Vienna, have been employed upon them. The greater number of these works show, in a creditable manner, the great progress in art which Germany has made within the last thirty years. Actual portraits of all are not to be reasonably expected, as the pictorial art in Germany, and perhaps generally throughout Europe, exhibits few examples of efforts at resemblance before the end of the thirteenth century, until which time the contemporary representations, satisfy us merely in respect to costume and general character. Since Rudolf, of Hapsburg, the monuments of some of the emperors are still remaining, from which, even though imperfect, yet presenting the marked features of countenance, the painters of the Imperial Chamber have been enabled to delineate faithful portraits, in the present sense of the word. But of the emperors of the last four centuries, we may confidently affirm that the greater number are likenesses, as with the commencement of the mod ern period more exactitude is found. Even for those emperors for whom the artists had no such assistance, the most strenuous advocate for historical truth may grant his applause, as art has many means, even when the precise features are unknown, of giving to a celebrated man the correct figure. A certain disposition uniformly gives certain features; through a long succession of ancestors a family resemblance is acquired; the ex WHILE in many things we have remained stationary, in others we are constantly advancing and progressing. In nothing, perhaps, do we differ more from the past than in naval architecture. I terior, when time has properly developed it, stands in close An examination of the oldest re presentations of the war-galley of the middle ages makes us wonder, not how battles were fought in such clumsy vessels, but how they contrived to float and carry the fighting material. These heavy structures depended more on oars than on sails, and did not ordinarily venture to any great distance from the shore. Yet, hard fighting was done with such vessels, especially in the Mediterranean, where the galleys of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem met the corsairs of Mohammedan lands in many a deadly contest, both sides engaging with all the animosity of an almost unceasing war. THE EMPEROR OTTO III. THE town of Frankfort-on-theMaine possesses a very ancient town-house, which derives its name, the Römer, from an upper WAR-GALLEYS OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY relation to a man's general character; and the lives of many of the emperors present moments which, as it were, make their whole being physically apparent. It is thus possible, even where the reality is lost, to rescue the truth, and Frankfort will possess a truth-speaking picture-gallery of German history. Otto III. was the son of Otto II. by Theophania, a Grecian princess, and in 983 succeeded his father, when only three years of age. After a short but splendid career, his exertions having been mistakenly directed toward the establishment of an Italian empire, and the latter part of it embittered by feelings of religious remorse, he died at Rome in 1002, of a pestilential fever, while employed in quelling an insurrection in that city. The artist has represented him in the period of his greatest brilliancy, when about seventeen years of age; and the writer gives the following descriptive reasoning on which the characters of feature and form have been chosen: "Otto was certainly handsome: the son of the beautiful Greek, her speaking mien and eyes lived in him again; while we recognize the German in the light yellowish-red color of his hair and the down on his young chin; the fair northern skin is em browned by the sun of Rome, of which we are reminded by trc old-fashioned Romish street, the castle of St. Angelo in the background, and the cloudless sky (these refer to the original painting in the Hall, and are only faintly indicated in the engraving); the manly ripeness of expression, the earnestness in his beautiful mouth, could scarcely have been otherwise in one so burdened with weighty cares, the son of a race so quickly and strongly developed. That Otto possessed all these advantages, without wanting better qualities, is shown by the lively glow on his cheeks, the mild elevation of the spiritual forehead, the nobleness and lightness of his whole figure. His rank is shown by the golden sphere resting in his left hand, while his right grasps the staff of empire." FREDERICK II., OF GERMANY. In FREDERICK II. was the grandson of Frederick Barbarossa; but | two emperors intervened in the succession of the empire. 1210, at the age of fourteen, he was elected, but it was not till after the death of Otto IV. that he obtained peaceable possession of his supremacy, and in 1215 he was crowned at Aix-la- | Chapelle. After eventful and important life, Frederick died in Italy in the year 1250, in the fifty-sixth year of his age and the fortyfirst of his reign. ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL HEALING THE SICK. MASACCIO, or, more properly, Tommaso Guido, a Florentine painter, was born at San Giovanni, between Florence and Arezzo, in the early part of the fifteenth century, and died in 1443. His most famous works are his frescoes, painted to illustrate some of the actions of St. Peter. These are in the Brancacci chapel of the Carmelite Church in Florence. We give the outline of one which has been much admired. It is strange that so little should be known of Masaccio's history-that he should have passed through life so little noted, so little thought of; scarce any record remaining of him but his works, and those so few!--and yet so magnificent that one of his heads alone would have been sufficient to immortalize him, and to justify the enthusiasm of his compeers in art. We are told that he died suddenly, so suddenly that there were suspicions of poison, and that he was buried within the precincts of the chapel he had adorned, but without tomb or inscription There is not a more vexed question in biography than the date of Masaccio's birth and death. According to Rosini, the most accurate of modern writers on art, he was born in 1417, and died in 1443, at the age of twenty-six. Vasari also says expressly that he died before he was twenty-seven. In that case he could not have been, as the same writer represents him, the pupil of Masolino, who died in 1415. According to other authorities he was born in 1401, and died at the age of forty-two. To the writer it appears that if he had lived to such a mature age something more would have bee'. known of his life and habits, and he would have left more behind him. His death at the age of twenty-six renders clear and credible many facts and dates otherwise inexplicable; and as to his early attainment of the most wonderful skill in art, we may recollect several other examples of precocious excellence-Raphael himself, for instance, who was called to Rome to paint the Vatican in bis twenty-seventh year. The head of Masaccio, painted by himself, in the Chapel of the Brancacci, at most two years before his death, represents him as a young man apparently about four or five and twenty. TWO COUNTS. IF I count my life by the ticking of clocks, If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks, If I figure it out of the ceaseless flocks If I count from the annual calendar, But a notch, or so, on the wheel of Time ; I am still in the flush of my youth's glad prime; As the count will say; I am scarcely through With the opening play; I am, in truth, In the flush of youth, If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks, And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks. If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat If I count by the aims that have met defeat, If I count by tears, and by haunting fears, By dear trusts shattered, and good ships battered By faith unfounded and love death-wounded- ELSIE CLIVE; OR, THE LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER. "All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream."-E. A. POE. IT was a bleak northeast wind that blew over, and sent the salt spray of the German Ocean in showers upon C————, a fishing village of some note, situate in one of the northern maritime counties of England. C was a pituresque and rugged spot-a broad stretch of yellow sand over half a mile in length, shut in by beetling rocks, against the face of which clung, limpet-like, many a fisher's cabin; while several winding paths led by circuitous ways back to the town, which lay sheltered between hills a short distance inland. The hour was much past noon. The sky was bright and blue, though the wind was high, as two figures, those of a man and woman, sauntered slowly down one of the least frequented paths to the beach, where a boat was waiting to start for a sailing vessel that rode in the offing. "And so, Elsie," said the man, who was attired as a sailor, "you have at last consented, and we are to declare, 'to father, and mither, and a',' on Christmas morning that Elsie Clive has made Alan Butler, captain of the Seagull, the happiest man between Land's End and Holland, if not in the world, by saying. 'yes' when he asked her to become his little wife?'' The young sailor, a handsome, manly specimen of that race which at one time had not its equal in the universe, drew the girl nearer to him as he spoke, and fondly touched his lips to her blushing cheek. Yes, Alan," she rejoined, laughing, as, with a little resist ELSIE CLIVE; OR, THE LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER. ance, she released herself from his encircling arms. "But," she added, glancing coquettishly with her deep hazel eyes into his, bent with proud affection upon her-" you must not presume, sir, too much upon that consent." "Too much! Why, only one kiss!" he exclaimed. "Nay, that is scarcely kind, lass! Think of having to leave you, after you have rejoiced my heart as you have to-day-of never seeing you again, dear, till I claim you as my own before all the village! Ah, though it'll be a bright, merry Christmas to me when it comes, Elsie, fancy how long and weary the time will lag when alone at sea, or chaffering with the Dutch boors, who will now be less endurable than ever!" Why, it will not be more than ten days at most, Alan," smiled the girl, drawing a shawl closer around her, for they were about leaving the shelter of the rocks-"that is, if the weather will be but favorable." 355 "No; thanks for the offer. I did but ask because I fancy that dirty weather is working up to windward," rejoined the "It must blow great guns, indeed, Elsie, to prevent me, this lighthouse-keeper, as he again shot a glance at Elsie, as if apvoyage, returning by the time appointed," he rejoined, gayly.parently to note the effect of his words. "If this nor'easter "By the earliest, I can get in here again only by Christmas set in, it'll need a stout heart and firm hand at the helm.” Eve, but I will do that, though I put in in the dead of night itself!" But you will not risk entering the harbor, dear Alan, if a storm-such storms as we have had lately, for instance-should be raging?" exclaimed Elsie Clive, lifting her face, suddenly grown very anxious, toward him. "Oh, think how many, through too daring a courage, have been wrecked on yonder treacherous breakers, and their lifeless forms washed on this fatal shore before the agonized eyes of mothers, wives, and children." The girl grew paler yet as she recalled the scenes of no rare occurrence on the north coast; and timidly she clasped the young sailor's hand in hers. "Promise me, Alan," she added, tearfully, "that you will be careful-that you will not let your fearless nature lead you into harm; for my sake, promise! Your-your death would be mine, Alan! I could not survive it !" Startled at her earnestness, he looked surprised, yet lovingly, into her eager face; then enfolding her in his arms, this time without resistance, exclaimed, jestingly: "Why, my little Elsie, who ever would believe you to be the daughter of one of the bravest and most daring fishermen in all C? How you tremble, like a dove in a nest of eaglets! Come, lassie, let me see the pink roses in those pale checks again before I say farewell!" "Not, Alan, till you have given your promise that you will not be rash-that you will not venture on this dangerous shore without--without you are sure of safety." "Well, I think Alan Butler is known to lack neither," laughed the sailor. "I'd rather the storm pass, though, for I'd like a speedy passage this time. Still, if it come, I do not fear it. It shall not hinder me returning at the time I state." "Bold words for a sailor, who of all beings should know how little the will of man can control the will of heaven," remarked Alec Griffith, dryly. "But when do you return?” "On Christmas Eve. I was but saying, Alec, when you came, that I know the coast too well to be scared by the hurricane, as long as yonder lighthouse lends me its friendly aid; and there is no doubt that it will do so while Alec Griffith is the guardian of the beacon." The lighthouse-keeper seemed to start at the words-at least Elsie thought so. Then he cast his eyes seaward, afterward bringing them back to Alan Butler, as he rejoined, curtly: "Yes, there is little doubt of that failing while I rule there. Good-even, Captain Butler. A prosperous voyage." Scarcely waiting for a return to his salutation, Alec Griffith lounged quickly away toward a pile of rock, behind which he quickly disappeared. As he did so, Alan said: "Now, Elsie, darling, soon to be my little fairy wife, again farewell. Already the anchor should have been weighed, and the Seagull standing out to sea. It is so hard to part with you, Elsie; yet it must be." He encircled her with his arm, and almost passively she suffered his embrace; then quickly she looked up, as if about to make some communication, but checked herself, and clasping his hand, said, with a smile: "The promise is readily given," he remarked, with a radiant "Good-by, Alan, dear! I fain would keep you, but it is Elsie Clive even then folded her hands together gently, and breathed a mute blessing; then, reassured, was about, with all her accustomed gayety, to address her lover, Alan, when the latter continued: "And that the light will shine over the waters, a guide to bewildered, tempest-tossed mariners, we may be assured, while Alec Griffith is lighthouse-keeper. See, here he comes.' On the young captain mentioning Alec Griffith's name, Elsie started violently, while the color which had begun to return to her checks again fled them, as she first drew, as one seeking protection, to her lover's side, then, as in terror, as hastily retreated further off and, turning, with Alan, bent her eyes toward the path among the rocks leading to the beach, down which a man of a tall, well-made figure, clothed in dark serge of a nautical description, with a handsome, bronzed face, and thick, red beard, was coming at a quick, swinging step. On perceiving them, however, he stopped abruptly, as if half in "Elsie, despite Alec's gloomy words, dead or alive, you'll sec me on Christmas Eve," he laughed, as, after a final kiss, he hastened down the strand, and sprang into the boat, which instantly pushed off. He looked back once to wave his hat; then, bending to the oars, the skiff leaped through the waters to the Seagull, which already was commencing to weigh anchor. Elsie Clive watched her lover till he had climbed up the ship's side and disappeared on the deck; but long before that, the smile with which she had bidden him farewell had given place to a look of anxiety, almost fear. "No; it was better not to tell him, though the words were on my lips," she murmured. "To know that Alec Griffith was his rival would but cause his present absence to be more hard to bear than it will be now. Yet I tremble to see those two together. I-I fear Alec. He can love intensely, and equally can he bate." These thoughts occupying her brain, she turned to retrace her steps to the village, when, with a startled cry, she recoiled, on finding the lighthouse-keeper standing close by her side, his eyes fixed darkly upon her. "What is the matter, Elsie Clive?" he asked of the trembling girl, with a sneering laugh. "Am I, then, so hideous that you studder and turn pale at sight of me? No doubt, had my com- | member, you are not married yet. Captain Butler is a daring plexion been as Alan Butler's, I might have looked for a differ- seaman, and the winds and waves are treacherous." ent reception." By an unexpected movement, the lighthouse-keeper stooped and pressed a passionate kiss on the girl's cheek; then, releas"iting her, strode rapidly away; while Elsie, trembling and alarmed at what had occurred, fled in an opposite direction back to the village. "Had it been any other than you, Alec, by me," rejoined Elsie, with an effort recovering an outward composure, would have been the same. It was your unexpected presence that startled me. I thought I was alone upon the sands." Her companion seemed scarcely to heed the apology. His glance was intently fixed upon the Seagull, which, its sails being set, was like its namesake, flying lightly over the waters. Abruptly swinging round, and looking almost sternly in the girl's face, he said: “Elsie, I ask you for the last time, will you love me? Will you consent to be mine? I need not say how strong is my affection. You know the devotion that I am capable of." "Alec Griffith," exclaimed Elsie Clive, in reproach, blended with pity, "why will you wring my heart as your own, by again putting that question, which I have already answered, for were I to reply to you a hundred times, it must ever be the same? From my soul I grieve that it is so." "Then you do not-you cannot love me, Elsie?" 46 As a friend stopped her. * But ten days before confessing to the village her love for Alan, and but a brief space longer before they two would be made one at the altar, to be parted only by death. Surely it ought to have been a happy period for Elsie Clive, especially coming as it did upon the most joyous of all times-Christmas. Yet her parting with Alan, and her interview with Alec Griffith, in which the latter had so openly displayed the fearful depths of his love and hate, had cast a depression, a presentiment of coming evil, over the poor girl which she could not banish. Her usually buoyant step became heavy, her heart sad. Anxiously she watched each change of weather, and, nervously regarding it as heralding in the evil she feared, and which Alec Griffith had prayed for, she perceived, as Christmas Eve drew near, that the clouds were gradually banking up north -" she began; but, with a fierce gesture, he ward, that the wind blew with an ominous sound, and that "Friend!" he cried, hoarsely. "If a man was perishing for the warmth, the glory of the sun, think you he would be content, Elsie Clive, with its cold reflection in a mirror? No, your love entirely, or not at all." indeed all nature seemed to presage one of those tremendous convulsions of the elements, frequent on the northern coast. "Pray heaven," was Elsie's constant prayer from morn to eve," that it does not break till his return." But, notwithstanding, she saw it was not to be, for the old She did not answer, but with tears in her eyes and her head fishers about her spoke otherwise; while when, the day before bent, stood motionless. "I see it is not at all," he continued, bitterly, folding his arms across his chest. "I knew it. It needed not the acute eyes of a lover to read by the parting of Elsie Clive and the young captain of the Seagull how it stands between them." "Can woman control her love more than man, Alec Griffith?'' said Elsie, raising her calm eyes to his. "Tell me, would it not be as easy for you to love another as for me?-and I cannot." "You say truly, Elsie Clive; but you have not yet experienced the bitterness of having a love like mine scorned." Scorned! No, not that, Alec," interrupted the girl, with much gentleness. he an "Well, then, rejected-'tis the same thing to me,' swered. "You cannot tell the fiend it places in a man's heart; how it creates enmity where once existed friendship. Yes, Elsie, Alan was once a dear friend; but could I now see yonder ship a wreck-could I see it engulfed among the waves, and Alan Butler washed dead here at my feet, I would on my knees bless heaven for the sight!" He spoke fiercely, passionately, his darkling face turned to the ship, as if in imagination he beheld what he hoped completed; then, swinging round, he made to quit the shore. But Elsie, who had listened in mute horror, now sprang forward, and excitedly catching his hand in hers, raised her face, pallid with alarm, upward, as she exclaimed: "Alec-Alec Griffith, recall those words, I entreat you-for the love of heaven, recall them! Think, if that terrible wish, in God's anger, were fulfilled, what after-agony would be yours! What would be your future thoughts "That you, Elsie, were free," he interrupted, by a quick movement catching her to his heart; "that Alan Butler stood no longer between us-between me and my love; that there was a hope that in time you would be mine." "Never, Alec Griffith!" she retorted, indignantly, striving to free herself, but in vain. "The memory of Alan and your guilty soul would still, as a wall of adamant, separate us. I would die ere I would wed you. My present pity would turn to Joathing-hate!" He held her like a child in his powerful grasp, looking proudly, yet scornfully, into her face, smiling at her efforts for release. that one she looked so anxiously for, she met the lighthousekeeper, he had passed her in silence, but with a peculiar smile had indicated the mountain of leaden cloud on the horizon. She had encountered the look calmly, though her heart grew sick, for she read his meaning too well. To-morrow was Christmas Eve, and the hurricane was waiting Alan's return. She could not doubt it, for no man in C-could read the signs of the heavens as well as Alec Griffith, who, from his observatory out among the billows, had studied them as a book. Christmas Eve! Yes, it had dawned at last-in a dull, gray, sunless sky. The wind rushed from the ocean, whirling the salt spray even over the village, threatening in its gigantic wrath to tear the fishers' cabins from the hard face of the rocks, shaking casements as with fingers of iron, and, with a roar like thunder, tossing and lashing into seething foam the waters amid the perilous breakers-enemies the more terrible because hidden. All the preceding night Elsie had not slept; but, listening to the beating storm, had knelt and besought heaven's aid for Alan's safety. When the morning broke, wrapping a shawl around her, "She glided out, Among the heavy breathings of the house," and hastened to the sea-shore, where, concealed in a natural cave, high up among the rocks, she could look out over the wild expanse of waters, and note the coming ship, did it come. Once, from her eyrie nest, which, with a foot and hand made fearless by anxiety, she had acquired, hearing steps on the sand beneath, she had looked forth, but recoiled, shuddering, as she had seen it to be Alec Griffith, the lighthouse-keeper. Later, as the hours crept slowly on, and the storm grew, she had marked him on the beach, unmooring his boat. He had cast a scrutinizing glance around, as if seeking somebody-perhaps Elsie herself-then pulled through the rolling surf to the lighthouse. As she saw him land there, and disappear in the tower, a terrible thought occurred to her; and, trembling convulsively, she buried her face in her hands to try to shut it out. For the whole day Elsie remained at her post of inspection, but not a sail appeared. "Surely he has heard wisdom, and will not risk entering," she thought, as wearily she leaned her head against the hard rock. "Alan will not come till to-morrow." Fatigued by anxiety and a sleepless night, Elsie Clive, despite her efforts, fell into a light slumber, from which, however, she awoke with a cry, startled by a frightful dream. She had fancied herself still in the cave, while night had settled over the waters-a night so dark, so impenetrable, that even the white-crested billows could not be discerned. She was anxiously listening to the break of the sea, when above the turmoil of the wind and wave came the sound suggestive of all that is awful-a signal gun of distress. In alarm, she had sprang up, feeling it to be the Seagull; then, recalling Alan's words, she directed her eyes toward that beacon of safety to the mariner, the lighthouse. To her mute horror, for utterance seemed frozen on her lips, she had perceived it was not lighted. FREDERICK II., OF GERMANY.-PAGE 354. ""Tis Alec Griffith's doing," she had cried. "He knows it is the Seagull, and would murder Alan. It must not be. I will save him, or together we will perish!" Heedless of the peril, she had made instantly to quit the cave, urged by a vague thought of rescuing her lover, when she had found herself powerless; strong arms were about her-she could not move. Turning, frantic with despair, her heart had sunk within her, as she saw that it was Alec Griffith who had stayed her purpose. He was regarding her futile struggles with a smile of derision. Then he said: "Elsie Clive, my words have come true. Alan Butler is no |