the whole Olympian plain was covered with an alluvial deposit, brought down from the surrounding hills and left by the overflowing waters of the Alpheios and its tributaries, till the layers of clay and gravel were from ten to fifteen feet in thickness.

In other places similar events occurred. At Athens fragments of ancient architecture and sculpture were built at hap-hazard into the wall of Valerian. The disappearance of the immense quantities of rubbish from the Olympieion, moreover, is to be accounted for upon the supposition that these stupendous ruins gradually melted away beneath the hammer and chisel of medieval and Turkish masons, the latter of whom regularly employed the ancient structures of Athens as quarries. The great temple of Artemis at Ephesus was burned by the Goths about 262 a. D. After this the columns were probably thrown down by earthquakes, such as in the last few months have desolated that unhappy region, while the ruins furnished materials for all the Byzantine edifices subsequently erected there. At length the Kaystros and its tributaries, overflowing their banks, buried the spot beneath twenty-two feet of alluvial earth.

But it is needless to multiply instances. The facts in this mournful history have a wonderful similarity, and with slight variations of detail may apply to one locality as well as to another. Amid these vicissitudes attempts were occasionally made to preserve favorite works from destruction. Ghiberti speaks of an antique statue found at Florence, which, on the triumph of the Christian. faith, was placed in a sepulchre of brick constructed for the purpose, and there left in the belief that a better day would come when it would again receive the homage of mankind. In like manner the Mastai Hercules was discovered at Rome, carefully built over with masonry, at a depth of two feet below the ancient level. The Venus of Melos was

concealed for some eighteen centuries in a niche covered with stones and rubbish, and the Capitoline statue of the same goddess was found at Rome walled up in an unoccupied room of an old house in the Suburra.

In addition to the losses already described, a number of ancient works have disappeared or been mutilated in modern times. In the war between the Venetians and Turks, in 1687, Count Konigsmarck, a Swedish officer in the employ of the former nation, planted a battery on the Pnyx at Athens, and two mortars near the Latin convent at the foot of the Acropolis, and turned his guns against the ancient citadel. In the bombardment, which lasted for several days, the temple of the Nike Apteros was destroyed, and the Parthenon severely injured. At length a shell penetrated the powder magazine located in the latter building, and a terrific explosion followed. The walls of the cella and the central columns of the peristyle were blown down; much of the sculpture was defaced, and some hopelessly shattered. The statue of Poseidon and the chariot of Athene driven by Nike were also broken by the Venetians, in attempting to lower them from the western pediment for the purpose of carrying them to Italy. The removal of the Elgin marbles in 1802 came near proving not merely a spoliation, but an entire destruction. The ship conveying them to England was wrecked near Cerigo, the ancient Cythera, and it was only after remaining there for several months that Mr. W. R. Hamilton, Lord Elgin's private secretary, succeeded in rescuing them from the sea, and proceeding with them to their destination. Winckelmann mentions a torso of Herakles, or Asklepios, by Apollonios, son of Nestor, of Athens, which was formerly in the Massimi Palace at Rome, but in some unaccountable manner had been lost. The same fate, he declares, had befallen very many glorious pieces, among them

a Hermes by Speusippos; the head of Xenocrates; a picture of the goddess Roma, described by Spon; a relief which represented Painting making the portrait of Varro, formerly belonging to the celebrated antiquary, Ciampini; and numerous other reliefs from the Baths of Pozzuoli. It is possible that these and other works are lying hidden and forgotten in the closets and cellars of Italian palaces, from which they may yet come forth with all the freshness of original discoveries. A colossal trunk of Jupiter unearthed at Velleia, of which the head also was in existence, was worked over into two modern statues to adorn the ducal garden at Parma. Those who have visited the Castle of St. Angelo, in Rome, will remember the busts of Hadrian and Cicero, standing in the stairway near the entrance, and mutilated by the bayonet-stabs of papal soldiers. When Madrid was captured by the allied armies, in the war of the Spanish Succession, a fine bust of Claudius, which had been discovered at Fratocchie and carried to Spain by Cardinal Colonna, was found in the Escurial suspended as the principal weight to the church clock, and was conveyed by Lord Galway to England. By a similar sarcasm of fortune a beautiful hollow medallion of Hadrian was used for many years as a mule-bell by an Italian cartdriver in the suburbs of Rome.

In view of all the facts of this strange history it seems surprising, not that so many works of ancient art have been destroyed, but that any at all have remained until the present day. Transported from place to place, shattered by accidents, overthrown by earthquakes, consumed by conflagrations, subject to the destructive malice of Macedonian and Roman emperors, exposed to the violence of wars, buried beneath falling walls; delivered to the axe of the iconoclast, the hammer of the mason, the kiln of the lime-maker, and the melting-fur

nace of the bronze-moulder; torn from their bases, trampled in the mire and filth of the streets, broken into fragments, and gradually overwhelmed and hidden from view beneath the earth, how slight was the chance that productions of the golden age of Athenian sculpture should ever meet the eyes of that far-off nineteenth century in which we have our being! With what reverence may we justly stand before a work which, surviving such vicissitudes, has traversed the vast reaches of bleak, bar- . ren centuries that lie between us and antiquity, to greet us with its matchless loveliness to-day! Perikles may have gazed upon it; Sokrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno may have taught their disciples in its presence; Euripides and Sophokles may have paused in the composition of their stately lines to rest the eye and brain on the symmetry of its proportions and the spotless purity of its marble; Herodotos may have recited his histories and Demosthenes have thundered his eloquence before it; Ciceromay have turned aside from the delights. of poetry and the comforts of philosophy to contemplate in it the evidence of a finer genius than his countrymen could ever hope to attain; Virgil, Horace, and Ovid may have found their perceptions of beauty elevated and made nobler by its influence; the glance of Paul may have wandered over it as he proclaimed to the people the mysteries of the new birth and the hope of the resurrection ; Marcus Aurelius may have seen in it a reflection of that heavenly truth and harmony in which his lofty soul found consolation; and still today the connoisseur may dwell upon it with everincreasing delight, and find the subtle sympathy of art lifting him closer and closer into communion with those master souls of the past,

"The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule

Our spirits from their urns."

William Shields Liscomb.

And

FOR nearly nineteen years I have been waiting for some one to write the history of this line; but during all this time no account of its origin, or the manner in which it performed its work, has been published, and so far as I can learn no hint even of its existence has appeared in print. Can it be possible that I was sole proprietor and operator; that my weary messages alone went creeping over the wires; that its faithful, patient services were given to me only? If so, upon me clearly devolves the task of writing its history. yet, to own the truth, this task is not an easy one. The Zig Zag was such an anomaly among telegraphs, such a bizarre affair altogether, that it sets at defiance all ordinary methods of description. It was behind the times; it was slow with its messages; it carried them a long way around, and stopped with them in unexpected places; there was an air of mistiness about it that made me sometimes suspect that it was only the ghost of a telegraph, the phantom, perhaps, of some incompleted, early invention left an orphan by the death of the inventor.

But stay; I must be more explicit. This telegraph was not composed of solid material substance; it did not consist of actual posts and wires. It was a phenomenon of an exceptional condition of body or mind, a phase of mental action in a given direction, a system of exploration in the realms of memory, a

well, I will admit it at once, a something that I never quite understood; a problem, the solution of which I have many times almost reached, but that has always eluded me by dodging around unexpected corners and disappearing when I thought I had forced it into a cul de sac. I will therefore make publie my experience with this line, and

transfer to others the solution of the problem; and, as the condition of body and mind was doubtless a factor necessary to the solution, I will make known this condition by briefly telling a small portion of my life's history.

On the 6th of March, A. D. 1865, with other paroled prisoners, I crossed Broad River, twelve miles from Wilmington, N. C., and stood once more, with bared head and thankful heart, beneath the flag of our country. The emotions awakened by the sight of this emblem of all we held dear I shall not venture to describe. I should blush to bring the poor tribute of words to the flag sanctified by baptism in the tears of our tenderest and the blood of our bravest. For more than ten months I had been a prisoner at Andersonville and Florence. In this article I shall make no attempt to portray the horrors of Andersonville. The evidence under seal furnished by those thirteen thousand graves needs no corroboration by parole testimony. When the storm has passed, the wrecks on the beach are surer records of the force of the tempest than all the figures at the signal stations. I had fought the battle for life for more than ten months in those prison pens, and I was conscious that I had fought it well. I had lost ground daily, it is true, but I had contested it foot by foot and inch by inch. My resistance had been steady, unfaltering, systematic. At the time I was paroled I was suffering from scurvy and general debility, and had also endured most of the minor sicknesses of the camp; but thus far I had escaped those fearful fevers that had wrecked so many of my companions. Shortly after I reached Wilmington a strange dullness took possession of me. My mind refused to act with its accustomed vigor. Owing to the ravenous

appetites of some of the men, orders had been given to issue extra rations to all who required them; and although the regular daily ration was more than sufficient for me, I fell into line with the others and drew the extra. This I took to my tent-mate for safe-keeping, and again fell in and repeated the process, over and over, as long as the drawing lasted. About this time, too, racking pains assailed me, and I longed inexpressibly for home. Then the vessel came to take us to Annapolis, and we struggled and pushed and jostled each other in our eagerness to get on board; and at last I was fortunate enough to get tumbled on to the deck, just as the captain announced that he had a load, and could take no more. My recollections of the voyage are confused. I remember being rolled about, and crowded, and lain on by other passengers. I also remember staggering up to draw rations, although I could not eat. Then I was helped off the vessel, and some one took me by the arm and led me away. Then we stopped, and a voice said, "Wash him." And then -blank

ness.

How long the blank lasted I do not know. When my consciousness returned I was in a clean bed with white sheets. A light burned in the room, but I saw no one. I closed my eyes, and was lost again. When I awoke it was broad day, and a young man dressed in a fresh suit of army blue was standing by the bedside. He expressed no surprise as his glance met mine. I lifted my right hand, and was astonished at the effort so slight an action required. I gazed at the skeleton fingers, and vaguely wondered where I had been while that hand was growing so thin. I said, "What's the matter?" He replied, "You've had the fever. You're all right now. Don't talk." His voice was low and even; it expressed no sympathy, no anxiety; he moved away, and I slept again. My recovery was rapid. The hospital

that

surgeon visited me at intervals: he asked me no questions; he merely looked at me and passed on. I had a ravenous appetite, and, with the regularity of clockwork, a tray was placed before me on which were a cup of tea and a delicate piece of toast crowned with a poached egg. As I gazed at this dainty repast, I thought it a meal fit for a god, is, for a very small god. After a few days the pyramid on the plate was increased in altitude by the insertion of another slice of toast under the ovarious crown, and flanked by a bottle of porter. Next came the order for admission to the full-diet table, and soon after the certificate entitling me to a furlough. During all this period of convalescence I was conscious of no derangement of the mind's action. My main interests in life centred in the present, or reached forward to the future; but still memories of the past, mostly of home and early life, came to me naturally. I had, however, made no attempt to recall past events, as the admirable system of unquestioning treatment practiced at St. Mary's College Green Hospital had suggested no such effort; and it was only when called upon to answer questions, at the time I applied for a furlough, that I discovered the singular phase of mental aberration which forms the subject of this narrative. I have said that my recovery was rapid; perhaps I ought to add that as I threw off the fever I began to suffer with a difficulty in my feet, probably scurvy, a difficulty that increased daily, until each foot felt like an immense bruise. But as this disease did not trouble me seriously while I was in the hospital, I did not mention the matter to any one, fearing that to do so would delay my departure for home. This brief portion of personal history is, I believe, all that is necessary to put the public in possession of facts that have any bearing on the problem under discussion.

And now I come to the most difficult

part of my task, the portrayal on paper of this abnormal action of the mind; and in order successfully to do this, I must describe the normal action in the same direction in such a way that it will be clearly recognized by all, and yet in such a way as will enable the reader to comprehend the abnormal.

Hold! I have it! I will materialize this action, and if the materialization lacks an arm, or even a leg to stand on, as is not unusually the case, if it but serve my purpose before vanishing in thin air, I shall be content. I will represent memory as a network of telegraph wires, the main line connecting the mind with the beginning of conscious existence, and side wires connecting this line with each event, each incident, each thought, of past life. When the mind is unimpaired and the lines are in perfect working order, information can be obtained instantly from any of these out-lying stations. The question is flashed over the wires, and the answer is returned, and the combined messages constitute a thought. In many instances, however, no perceptible action of the mind seems required; the mind is unquestioning and at rest; and yet, from the various depots in which our experiences of the past are stored, the messages come trooping in, and we call them memories. These are phases of the normal action of the intellect and the undisturbed working of the lines. But I am also familiar with many phases of abnormal action, and various stages of wreck in the lines of communication:

First, the poor wretch with the wires all down behind him, and the past a blank. Second, where the main line is cut at a given point in the past. Back to this 'point the communications are perfect and the side lines complete, but beyond -nothingness.

Third, where the main line is complete and the side lines are in order near the farther end, but mostly broken or

impaired from childhood to the present. This is a common case. The grayhaired man prattles of the scenes of his youth, but does not recall the events of manhood. Every word of the prayer his mother taught him is familiar, but he cannot remember a sentence of the speech that made him famous ten years ago. He does not recognize an acquaintance of yesterday, but the faces of the friends of his boyhood stand out clear and distinct. I need not particularize further; every one is familiar with the gaps in sections, where the storms of life have beaten down the side lines, and with the downfall of individual wires. Neither will it be worth while to call attention to the slight derangement of a particular wire that does not respond as promptly as we wish, but leaves our question unanswered, while the operator at the other terminus apparently takes a short nap, and we scratch our heads in vexation. My object in writing this article is to describe this well-known system of communication only so far as may be necessary to explain the working of the other line, that no one but myself appears to have used; and as I made use of both, I will designate the former as the Direct Line, and the latter as the Zig Zag. The Direct Line was always at my service one way: it would bring messages, but could not be relied to carry them; it would transmit one and refuse the next in what I then thought a most captious manner; and sometimes it would apparently grow sulky and refuse them altogether. But the patient Zig Zag was not captious; it did not sulk when called upon to do the work refused by its rival; it went steadily, ploddingly, at its task, and never rested till its work was done. These two lines were distinct in almost every respect, and in order to make the distinction plain I will describe as concisely as possible the peculiarities of the Zig Zag.

on

First, it never took a dispatch straight