a chapter, of which the details lost their
interest before they arrived, the heads of another chapter having
intervened to destroy it. Then, what an amount of misery it inflicted,
when, merely saying that there had been a great battle, and that
thousands had been wounded or killed, it maintained an agony of suspense
in all who had friends on the field, till the ordinary channels of
intelligence brought the names of the suflferers. No Sicilian tyrant had
invented such an engine of cruelty. This declamation against a supposed
triumph of modern science, which was listened to with some surprise
by the physician, and with great respect by his other auditors,
having somewhat soothed his troubled spirit, in conjunction with the
physician's assurance, he propitiated his Genius by copious libations
of claret, pronouncing high panegyrics on the specimen before him, and
interspersing quotations in praise of wine as the one great panacea for
the cares of this world.

A week passed away, and the convalescent had made good progress. Mr.
Falconer had not yet seen his fair guest. Six of the sisters, one
remaining with Miss Gryll, performed every evening, at the earnest
request of Mr. Gryll, a great variety of music, but always ending with
the hymn to their master's saint. The old physician came once or twice,
and stayed the night. The Reverend Doctor Opimian went home for his
Sunday duties, but took too much interest in the fair Morgana not to
return as soon as he could to the Tower. Arriving one morning in the
first division of the day, and ascending to the library, he found
his young friend writing. He asked him if he were working on the
Aristophanic comedy. Mr. Falconer said he got on best with that in the
doctor's company. 'But I have been writing,' he said, 'on something
connected with the Athenian drama. I have been writing a ballad on the
death of Philemon, as told by Suidas and Apuleius.' The doctor expressed
a wish to hear it, and Mr. Falconer read it to him.

THE DEATH OF PHILEMON{1}

1 Suidas: sub voce (Greek), Apuleius: Florid, 16.

Closed was Philemon's hundredth year:
The theatre was thronged to hear
His last completed play:
In the mid scene, a sudden rain
Dispersed the crowd--to meet again
On the succeeding day.

He sought his home, and slept, and dreamed.
Nine maidens through his door, it seemed,
Passed to the public