Spoliarium, where the bodies of men and beasts were thrown pellmell; an awful charnal house, which must have overflowed, when Imperial Titus inaugurated his amphitheatre by games which lasted one hundred days, and five thousand wild beasts and many thousand gladiators were killed. perors! Here ruled savage caprice om- numbered. Near one of these is the nipotent-sacrificing Christian, pagan, criminal, martyr without regard! This wondrous pile, whose history I have read from my earliest remembrance and now I stand enveloped in its shadows, a dream I scarce would have believed could ever be realized! But so it is, treading the very earth whose bosom has oft been drenched by blood of man and beast; gazing upon those very walls whose shattered forms have echoed the voices of Rome's millions in savage exultation, and simultaneously repeated the dying groan of the sacrificed. Though, since then a change has taken place. Where once the luxury of the world was lavished, not even the ivy deigns to grow, and the blotches of decaying time and pilfering hands stand out preemiNot a vestige of the former voluptuousness remains to tell us the grandeur of those early times; nothing but the cold hard stones, stripped bare; and they not all, for many palaces and public works have been built from the huge old pile. nent. On entering the ruin from the main portal, and walking to the centre of the arena, the eye is lost in a sea of bewildering circles, once used as seats, extending to the top of the huge elliptic. Its capacity, not forced, was eighty-seven thousand souls. Think of it! Who can imagine such an army of human beings in one assemblage? we who have seen little more than so many hundred in one body. We took an old stairway, the identical as of yore, and clambered to the galleries, but the same forbidding aspect met our gaze as down below. Not a marble slab, nor "thing of beauty" did we find, though we tramped those prodigious corridors from end to end. The heavy walls, though centuries and centuries old, are as adamantine as though just constructed-a living testimony to the truth of the prophecy of the "venerable Bede, "who recorded, "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; Passing out of the portal facing the Palantine, we strolled into the pretty acacia wood on the height adjoining. The day had begun to fall and deep shadows threw themselves across our path. Here a marble slab invited us to rest; we did so, and fell to commenting on the picture that spread out before us. To our right rose the Palantine, crowned with the ruins of the Cæsars-a grand sight, yet how gloomy! Within a stones throw, standing in the deep shadow of the amphitheatre, the arch of Constantine lifts its ponderous head, defying the ravages of time; still a little removed is the place where the golden house of Nero stood, a temple of luxury, where that tyrant, comedian, poet, gave himself up to every pleasure and vice his capricious soul could dictate, where "he sang, he drove chariots and shed torrents of innocent blood." And there glimmering through the trees that mighty playhouse of ancient Rome lifted its hoary battlements, whose stones under the hands of captive Jews, were reared amid "blood and tears, sorrow and despair,” while bordering the Forum on the "sacred way" rests Titus' arch, commemorating their downfall. Where can we find a spot richer in history and one that evokes a wider world of recollection! Here once rolled the chariots of Julius Cæsar, of Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, Domitian and scores of others now gone to render account to a judging God. Along these highways marched the triumphal train of Trajan, Titus, Pompey, Sylla-and these great walls now tottering, gave back an echo of the shout of victory and clank of chains of captive innocence—oh, how many times! Just here, too, passed Apostles Paul and Peter (of the latter however, There are eighty entrances in all, each I question the veracity) to the Mamertine Prison at the other end of the Forum. Here sauntered the great Cicero, Horace, Tacitus, Livy each in his day and here too, sported young Virginia on her way to school, the sweetest girl in all Rome"With her small tablets in her hand And her basket on her arm." Young men strive to become good and great, respected and honored and build for yourselves homes, although they may be very humble, wherein the spirit of God may find a dwelling place. Young ladies lend your assistance to your brothers, give them your love and Wm. B. Preston, Jr. advice, for a true sister is a pride to any man. Very often a suggestion from a sister will save a brother from disgrace and ruin. HOME. WHAT a sacred name! A place of refuge, within which the weary spirit may find rest! What a thrill of enchantment is sent to the soul of those who can look back on the happy and comfortable home; one surrounded with beautiful gardens of fruits and flowers and adorned with fine art, music, good books, and filled with contentment; the walls decorated with pretty and useful articles made and arranged by mother or sister; house plants in the windows showing forth their pretty blossoms, and hanging above them the little canary bird, warbling his beautiful notes. Blessed with father and mother, whose love is as lustrous as an evershining star, and who are untiring in their efforts to make home a desirable attraction; surrounded by loving brothers and sisters, who do their part by being kind, affectionate, and watchful to assist in any duty toward making home an eden. Such a home would be desired by everyone! Some years ago some twenty thousand people assembled, at the old Castle Garden, New York, to hear Jennie Lind sing, as no other songstress had ever sung, the sublime composition of Beethoven, Handel and others. At length the Swedish nightingale thought of her home, paused, and seemed to fold her wings for higher flight. She began, with deep emotion, to bring forth "Home Sweet Home." The audience could not stand it, an uproar of applause stopped the music, tears gushed from the thousands like rain. Beethoven and Handel were forgotten. The song came again, seemingly from heaven, almost Angelic. Homethat was the word that bound, as with a spell, twenty thousand souls and Howard Payne triumphed over the great masters of song. Educate yourselves in the many little arts that assist to make home a place of refuge, a place were father, mother, brothers and sisters may find peace, comfort and a joyful rest. Introduce music into your homes. What is more pleasing to a person than this art? It will soften hatred, remove jealousy and fill the whole system with delight. Let us all work to make our homes happy abodes, so that when our hair is snowy white, our cheeks furrowed, and our bodies bent with old age we can look back on our earthly home with pride, and when beckoned to destinies of a more rewarded toil, we will meet the pure in heart face to face and eternally dwell with them in the home prepared for us. Arthur Stayner, Jr. HELIGOLAND DISAPPEARING. The island of Heligoland, which the British government bartered away to purchase the recognition of its territorial claims in Western Africa, may be a thing of beauty to the eye of rack-admiring travelers and German strategists, but can hardly be hoped to prove a joy forever. Two centuries ago the Unterland, or coast plain below the rock, comprised twentytwo square miles, and there are historical records in support of the tradition that A. D. 950 the island contained three cities and several dozen villages, with an aggregate population of one hundred thousand. Its present population has dwindled to less than three thousand, and the remaining portions of the old tableland crumble away at a rate that makes it safe to predict that within another century the "German Gibraltar" will have shrunk to a small reef with a fringe of sand bars. [Dated June, 1830, when the illustrious poet was in hls twenty-eighth year.] One day I saw above, near shore of moving waves, Swelling her sails, a ship, "Oh poet thou doest well! Poet with forehead sad, Thou dreamest near the stream; By winds enveloped and through billows deep Thou drawest from the seas things in deep as graves, 'Neath shining asters slip. secret clad, That but to thy eye beam." And then I heard, inclined on the abyss of skies, "The Sea, it is the Lord, who in weal or disaster, Touched by the other abyss, A Voice speak to my ear, a Voice of which my eyes Saw not the lipful kiss. Our destiny does span ; The Wind, it is the Lord; the Lord, it is the aster; The Vessel, it is Man." "THE FOUR WORDS." [Fabiano Fabiani's serenade in the drama of "Marie Tudor."] When in my arms' embrasure Thou sing'st by eve's last glow, Know'st thou my thought of pleasure That answers thee quite low? When on thy lips in smiling When calm and pure thou sleepest Revealed thy form so pretty, No veil, no sham array Oh sleep, my pretty! Oh, sleep for aye! When thou avow'st "I love thee," My beauty, then I ween, The heav'n itself above me Opens its azure screen. Thy glances beam so pretty From sparkling love's clear sprayOh love, my pretty! Oh, love for aye! Seest thou our life entirest Four little words enclose, All blessings thou desirest, All blessings and no woes. All charms below, above:- "KNOCKING AT A DOOR." [Dated Marine Terrace, Hugo's Channel Island Exile, Sept, 4th, 1855.] I've lost my father, lost my mother, My firstborn, ah, so young! What woe! For me all nature seemed to smother Each joyward throe. Between two brothers was I sleeping, Three little birds, were all three "dots;" Then came the shade of two biers creeping Athwart two cots. Next lost I thee, my girl, my flower, Thee, who didst fill my boldest pride; Fate of my light that now dost glower Close to Death's side. I've known ascending, known descending, Seen Dawn and Dusk like shadows flee; Bright purple with dull ashes blending, Ashes for me! I've known of Thought the ardors soaring, I've on my head the vultures gnawing, I see my efforts shunned with scorn; Dust at my feet, my heart blood-drawing, For crown, the thorn. Tears in my pensive eyes are welling, My tattered robe 's from unskilled loom; But no rents on my conscience tellingThen open, tomb! THE CONTRIBUTOR. and to its sister, the Choral Society JUNIUS F. WELLS, EDITOR. SALT LAKE CITY, FEBRUARY, 1891. A MUSICAL AWAKENING. FEW people in the whole world have so general an appreciation of good music as the people of these valleys. They teach it in the church, the theatre, the public school, and at the fireside. The results of this popular education have been shown in the presentation of operas -comic and grand, cantatas and oratorios, with such care and fidelity, as to place the local companies in advance of many of the great traveling combinations. Just now a new enthusiasm is showing itself among our musical leaders, greatly accelerating the interest, and which can only result in greater triumphs, and in extending the limits of favor. The Salt Lake Choral Society, under Prof. Evan Stephens is making rapid headway and doing much to educate the popular taste. In giving the first musical festival in this region last year, the society earned its present name and secured the good will of all who were fortunate enough to witness those entertainments. It is understood that great preparations are being made for another May Festival this year. Correspondence is being had with some of the greatest artists in the world looking to their presence here on that occasion; and should these efforts be successful the people will have reason to feel proud of the society and its laudable undertaking. The Tabernacle Choir also is singing its way into public favor. Its numbers are greatly increased and an enthusiastic awakening to its capabilities has taken place. The divine singing of this great choir and the performance of Prof. Daynes on the great organ are beginning to be appreciated, and there is no reason why the choir should not be what its worthy leader desires-"the best in the world." The substantial encouragement given by the Church authorities to the Choir show that they desire to raise the already high standard of excellence attained by these organizations. The premiums offered by the General Superintendency of the Y. M. M. I. A., and the CONTRIBUTOR for the encouragement of singing in the associations are also creating great interest and preparations are being made to carry off the prizes. The Ladies Musical Society, though operating in an entirely different sphere that of individual work-has done much to elevate the musical taste and deserves great praise for its labors. These and kindred societies in other parts of the Territory, too numerous to mention are fast earning for us in the musical world, a name enviable and lasting. This musical awakening has our sympathy, and our columns are ever ready to promote the general musical interests of the Territory. Let the hills resound with song and the dales be filled with melody. Unite in one great effort, and let us see Utah famed above all other places for musical accomplish ments. Bishop John F. Hurst contributes to the February number of Harper's Magazine an interesting paper on "English Writers in India," embracing notes and anecdotes of Sir Philip Francis, Lord Macaulay, W. M. Thackeray, and other distinguished Englishmen who lived for a time in British India. The paper will be richly illustrated. "Equatorial Africa, and the Land of the Dwarfs," by Paul Du Chaillu, revives interest in that author's stories of the wonderland of our childhood. The "Gorilla Country," and others of Mr. Du Chaillus juvenile books have been the Christmas presents of more children in the west than almost any other works that Harper & Brothers have published. The passage by the House of Representatives of the International Copyright bill, a few days ago, was an event of ATHIRST IN THE DESERT. 155 great importance. It will now become the Seine, not far from the forest of Fonlaw, and the struggles of nearly fifty years, by those who have felt the shame of pirating the best thought and often the life time labor of European authors will be crowned with victory. Though so long coming, it is the sign of a good heart and awakened conscience that this sentiment of justice has at length prevailed. The objection to granting the protection of copyright to foreign authors has been sustained by the mistaken belief that the piracy of their writings was essential to cheap literature in our own country. If this had been true it would be infamous to take advantage of it; but as it is not, it becomes not only infamous but ridiculous to persist in a course of injustice to the writers of other nations. We are glad that our nation has reached the end of that course. tainebleau. There she has lived and worked ever since. She has added stables and a studio to her house. In the stables and grounds she has had from time to time a veritable menagerie of animals, including lions, chamois, bears, gazelles, and an elk, It is refreshing to read that her studio contains not an article of bric-a-brac and scarcely anything that is not needed in the work of the greatest artist. No kickshaws and no trash. She has been always an early riser. She says the morning is the best time for work. Her animals are also more docile. She spends much time outdoors, walking or riding in a carriage which she herself drives, thus receiving vigor and strength for her arduous labors. At work and outdoors she wears a man's clothing, with a peasant blouse. Her life has been devoted to her art pure and Rosa Bonheur, the greatest animal simple, and rich has been her reward. painter of her time, is sixty-seven years There are some wrinkles in her face now, old, yet she says she has still enough but neither her marvelous mental nor work in her mind to fill two life-times. physical powers are weakened one In 1850 she bought an old house in the whit. Her enthusiasm keeps her always little village of By, on the banks of young. ATHIRST IN THE DESERT. Now and then we read that some poor fellow has been found in the desert dead from thirst; sometimes his bones alone remain, but oftener his body also is found, shriveled to a mummy by the dry heat of those dreary wastes. In southern Arizona and California men have perished in the desert with not more than a single day's exposure; but as a rule, though not always, such cases are those of men addicted to the use—or abuse-of spirituous liquors. Their whole lives have been a contest between nature and the poisonous drinks they have swallowed; and when comes the supreme test of their endurance, their vitality quickly yields before the fierce onslaught of thirst and heat. Where men have thus died with but a short deprivation of water, it is not simple thirst alone that kills, nor the extreme heat of the sun; for it is possible to live several days without water, and to endure an intense heat without injury. But when to these dangers is added one of those dry, scorching winds that blow once in a while from the fearful Colorado desert-a wind that seems like a blast from a furnace and almost scorches the face and causes the lips to crack open and bleed-then is to be pitied the poor fellow in the desert without water, for he is in a dangerous predicament indeed! The hot, dry wind seems to absorb from his body all its moisture, and even to dry up his very blood, just as a piece of meat hung up for future use soon is dried throughout. So with the luckless wanderer; he begins to dry and shrivel while still alive; and after some hours of such exposure, even water in plenty has little power to quench his thirst. It is a thirst not only of mouth and throat, but the |