vion: all have passed away like a dream, which, however glorious and magnificent while it lasted, leaves not a shadow behind. Olympia. is no more; its solid temples, the colossal statue of Jupiter, the sacred grove with its myriad of statues, altars, trophies, wherein monuments of gods, kings, and heroes in brass, marble, and iron have crumbled into dust, and become so effectually mingled with the earth, that even the site which they embellished can no longer be recognised. If there be something sad and humiliating in this, it is at least consolatory to reflect that the same human reason, victorious over time and death and destruction, possesses the power to live again in perhaps higher and better institutions: Christianity has purified 256 THE HIPPODROME: WITH SOMETHING ABOUT THE ANCIENT GAMES. the heart of man, and set his desires upon better things. His energies are now directed in more holy channels, and England, at the present day, sets an example to the whole earth by directing the minds of mankind to the fruits of art, industry, and peace, to the glories of civilization, and the grandeur of moral progress. England is, indeed, happy in having a Queen who is the glory of her sex, and who unites in one- -the wife, the mother, the friend, and who is the bright example to all her subjects; and in having a Prince who devotes himself thoroughly and entirely to the permanent good and true glory of the people, among whom he lives, and who calls the nations from the remotest parts of the earth to unite in love, harmony, and friendship. May both be long vouchsafed to us, and that England may be a perpetual Olympia of the peaceful arts is the sincere wish of Peter Parley. "The Summer's pride is passed and gone, the leaf is in its sear,. INTELLECTUAL READING BOOK. ARVEST home used to be the great merry-making feast of the whole year, especially when corn was five pounds a quarter. Those were the times when landlords could get their "rents," farmers their "pianofortes," and labourers "dear loaves." But now things are strangely altered; and how they will sing "Largess" down in Suffolk and Norfolk Peter Parley does not know; but this he does know, that September is the month of gathering in, and that, whether the prices be high or low, GOD, the Giver of all Goodness, does not withhold his hand, but pours forth profusely the fruit and the grain in due season, and that his love and mercy never fail, although men rebel against him daily. bow your Join your hearts with mine, then, my young friends; heads in adoration with the wheat sheaves, thank God for his bountiful goodness, and bless his holy name. Harvesting in Peter Parley's county, Suffolk, used to be a merry time. Old Farmer Heard, of Seckford Hall, and a fine old Englishman he was, used, some years ago, to carry out the frolicking with true old English hospitality. The harvest home used to be ooked for by the girls and boys, the lads and lasses, the old men and the old women of the district; and the Major, dear old Major Moor, with a happy twinkle in his blue eyes, and a red flush of a ripe genetan on his cheek, used to make "merry" on the occasion. The good farmer had previously informed the industrious and notable dame the day for harvest home, and she, assisted by her daughters, made every preparation to keep out famine and banish care; the neighbours and friends are invited, hot cakes of the good dame's own making, and such butter as Sukey and Betty (there were no Miss Susan's and Miss Elizabeth's then) had churned; tea, ale-stinging stuff, syllabub, gooseberry wine, fat hams, great mountains of beef, ducks, and other Christian provender. Oh! the thoughts of it all teases one sadly; and, like the soldiers that used to howl, "We shall see Lochabar no more-no more," Peter Parley will taste the Horkey Supper no more—n-o-m-o-r-e. |