'hug;' the boys would plague me about it." And he thereupon shifted his middle name, and became Ulysses H. Grant, and so he went forth into the world. . . . ... He registered at Roe's Hotel, West Point, on the 29th of May, as "U. H. Grant," and the same day reported to the adjutant, George G. Waggaman, deposited forty-eight dollars, and signed his name Ulysses Hiram Grant. His name as reported from Washington, however, was U. S. Grant, and the error arose in this way: The Hon. Thomas Hamer received the letter of Jesse Grant only the day before the close of his term, and being much hurried, sat down at once and wrote to Secretary of War Poinsett, asking for the appointment of his neighbor's son. He knew the boy's name to be Ulysses, and inferring that his middle name was Simpson, so filled in the application, and thus it stood when Ulysses faced the adjutant. Ethiopian empire raised upon the colony won't have that so," he said. "It spells of Erythræa. The defeat in Africa shook down the Crispi ministry, and crippled Italy in the estimation of Europe. It was also the means of launching the long-expected expedition for the recovery of the Soudan. The Anglo-Egyptian force under the Sirdar, Sir Herbert Kitchener, achieved an almost bloodless success when it marched southward along the Nile valley, and cleared the soldiers of the Mahdi out of the fertile provinces of Dongola. It is understood that this year when the Nile is high Dongola will be used as a base for the reconquest of Khartoum. But for the unfortunate issue of Jameson's raid, Cecil Rhodes would probably have realized his ideal of joining the Cape to Cairo before the end of the century. Matabeleland has risen in revolt and has been reconquered. The Transvaal has been the scene of fighting which could hardly be dignified by the title of a war. On the other side, the Ashanti power has been broken by an English expedition, which has opened up one of the dark places of the world, full of frightful cruelty, to the milder influences of commerce and civilization. As the year closed, Sir George Taubman Goldie was departing for the Niger in order to strike a blow at one of the slave-trading tribes which still live and thrive under the nominal protectorate of the Niger Company. From "The Progress of the World." From McClure's Magazine. Up to the start for West Point, Grant had been Hiram Ulysses or H. Ulysses Grant. The young traveller required a trunk, and Thomas Walker, a local "genius," was the man to make it. He did so, and, to finish it off, he traced on the cover in big brass tacks, the initials H. U. G. James Marshall, Ulysses's cousin, went to help him carry the new trunk home. Ulysses looked at the big glaring letters. "I He asked to have it changed, but was told it was impossible without the consent of the Secretary of War. "Very well," he said; "I came here to enter the military academy, and enter I shall. An initial more or less does not matter." He was known to the government thereafter as U. S. Grant. He was brevetted second lieutenant of the Fourth Infantry, and ordered to report to his command at Jefferson Barracks, St. Louis, after a short vacation. The entire army of the United States at that time numbered less than eight thousand men, and the supply of officers was embarrassingly large. It was the custom, therefore, to brevet graduates second lieutenant. He graduated twenty-first in a roll of thirty-nine, with a fair record in all things a good record in mathematics and engineering and a remarkable record as horseman. More than a hundred had entered with him, but one by one they had dropped out till only thirty-nine remained. Apparently Grant remained markedly unmilitary throughout the four years' course. He served as a private throughout the first two years. During the third year he was made sergeant, but was dropped (promotions at that time were made for soldierly qualities, and had no exact relation to excellence in studies), and during the fourth year he served again as private. The first year he took up French and mathematics, and though the course was severe, including algebra, geometry, trigonometry, application of algebra to geometry, etc., he stood fifteen in a class of sixty in mathematics, and forty-ninth in French, and twenty-seventh in order of general merit. The second year he climbed three points in general merit, and stood twenty-fourth in a class of fiftythree. He . . . stood tenth in mathematics, twenty-third in drawing, but was below the middle in ethics and French. In his third year he rose in his drawing to nineteen, and twenty-second in chemistry and fifteenth in philosophy, which was a very good standing indeed. He rose to twenty in general merit, sixteen in engineering, seventeen in mineralogy and geology, but was a little below the average in ethics, artillery and infantry practice. was Trembling, the air vibrates, Solemn, and deep, and slow, And the river dark below. Over the homes of the rich and great, Over the homes where Death holds state, In the haunts of want and woe. Boom-boom! Slowly the last strokes fall, While some who hear rejoice in hope, And some the lost recall. Lord of the years that so swiftly fly, Guard us through this, with a pitying eye, Guard us, and guide us through all. ALICE D'ALCHO. From The Bookman. A BALLADE OF BYGONES. Into what dim, unlettered night Do our romantic idols stray? Whither has Trilby taken flight And where does Ben Hur's chariot sway? The Little Minister is grey; No more does Robert Elsmere pose; Is one with Fauntleroy's at play. Mulvaney, Ortheris! Where are they? On Sherlock Holmes the shadows close; Why do their memories decay? Ah, where is yestermorning's rose? And on their tombs we toss a spray ENVOY. Prints 'twas not yours the fate to stay EDWARD A. CHURCH. THE ARTIST OF BURNING ROME. The amazing dexterity of Petronius confirmed people in the conviction that his influence would outlive every other. They did not see how Cæsar could dispense with him,-with whom could he converse touching poetry, music, comparative excellence, in whose eyes could he look to learn whether his creation was indeed perfect? Petronius, with his habitual indifference, seemed to attach no importance to his position. As usual, he was remiss, slothful, skeptical, and witty. He produced on people frequently the impression of a man who made light of them, of himself, of Cæsar, of the whole world. At moments he ventured to criticise Cæsar to his face, and when others judged that he was going too far, or simply preparing his own ruin, he was able to turn the criticism suddenly in such a way that it came out to his profit: he roused amazement in those present, and the conviction that there was no position from which he could not issue in triumph. About a week after the return of Vinicius from Rome, Cæsar read in a small circle an extract from his Troyad; when he had finished and the shouts of rapture had ended, Petronius, interrogated by a glance from Cæsar, replied,-"Common verses, fit for the fire." The hearts of those present stopped beating from terror. Since the years of his childhood Nero had never heard such a sentence from any man. The face of Tigellinus was radiant with delight. But Vinicius grew pale, thinking that Petronius, who thus far had never been drunk, was drunk this time. those present; "they understand nothing. Thou hast asked what defect there is in thy verses. If thou desire truth, I will tell thee. Thy verses would be worthy of Virgil, of Ovid, even of Homer, but they are not worthy of thee. Thou art not free to write such. The conflagration described by thee does not blaze enough; thy fire is not hot enough. Listen not to Lucan's flatteries. Had he written those verses, I should acknowledge him a genius, but thy case is different. And knowest thou why? Thou art greater than they. From him who is gifted of the gods as thou art, more is demanded. But thou are slothful,-thou wouldst rather sleep after dinner than sit to wrinkles. Thou canst create a work such as the world has not heard of to this day; hence I tell thee to thy eyes, write better!" And he said this carelessly as if bantering and also chiding; but Cæsar's eyes were mist-covered from delight. "The gods have given me a little talent," said he, "but they have given me something greater, a true judge and a friend, the only man able to speak the truth to my eyes." Then he stretched his fat hand, grown over with reddish hair, to a candelabrum plundered from Delphi, to burn the verses. But Petronius seized them before the flame touched the paper. "No, no!" said he; "even thus they belong to mankind. Leave them to me." "In such case let me send them to thee in a cylinder of my own invention," answered Nero, embracing Petronius. "True, thou art right," said he, after a while, "My conflagration of Troy Nero, however, inquired in a honeyed does not blaze enough; my fire is not voice, in which more or less deeply hot enough. But I thought it suffiwounded vanity was quivering:— cient to equal Homer. A certain timid"What defect dost thou find in ity and low estimate of my power them?" have fettered me always. Thou hast opened my eyes. But knowest why it is, as thou sayest? When a sculptor it." makes the statue of a god, he seeks a any sacrifice would be too great for model; but never have I had a model. I never have seen a burning city; hence there is a lack of truth in my description." Tigellinus was confused; but Nero, as if wishing to change the conversation, added after a while. "Summer is "Then I will say that only a great passing. Oh, what a stench there artist understands this." Nero grew thoughtful, and after a while said: "Answer one question, Petronius. Dost nou regret the burning of Troy?" "Do I regret? By the lame consort of Venus, not in the least. And I will tell thee the reason. Troy would not have been consumed if Prometheus had not given fire to man, and the Greeks made war on Priam. Æschylus would not have written his Prometheus had there been no fire, just as Homer would not have written the Iliad had there been no Trojan war. I think it better to have Prometheus and the Iliad than a small and shabby city which was unclean, I think, and wretched, and in which at best there would be now some procurator annoying thee through quarrels with the local areopagus." "That is what we call speaking with sound reason," said Nero. "For art and poetry it is permitted, and it is right, to sacrifice everything. Happy were the Achæans furnished who Homer with the substance of the Iliad and happy Priam who beheld the ruin of his birthplace. As to me, I have never seen a burning city." A time of silence followed, which was broken at last by Tigellinus: If "But I have said to thee, Cæsar, already, command and I will burn Antium; or dost thou know what? thou art sorry for these villas and palaces, give command to burn the ships a wooden in Ostià; or I will build city on the Alban Hills, with which thou shalt hurl the fire thyself. Dost thou wish?" "Am I to gaze on the burning of wooden sheds?" asked Nero, casting a look of contempt on him. "Thy mind has grown utterly barren, Tigellinus. And I see, besides, that thou dost set no great value on my talent or my since thou Troyad, judgest that must be in that Rome now! And still we must return for the summer games." Nero played and sang, in honor of the "Lady of Cyprus," a hymn, the verses and muses of which were composed by himself. That day he was in voice and felt that his music really captivated those present. That feeling added such power to the sounds produced and roused his own soul much that he seemed inspired. At last he grew pale from genuine emotion. This was surely the first time that he had no desire to hear praises from others. He sat for a time with his hands on the cithara and with bowed head; then, rising suddenly, he said,— "I am tired and need air. Meanwhile you will tune the cithara." He covered his throat then with a silk kerchief. "Ye will go with me," said he, turning to Petronius and Vinicius, who were sitting in a corner of the hall. "Give me thine arm, Vinicius, for strength fails me; Petronius will talk to me of music." They went out on the terrace, which was paved with alabaster and sprinkled with saffron! . . . "This is a night of sincerity; hence I open my soul to thee as to a friend, and I will say more; dost thou consider that I am blind or deprived of reason? Dost thou think that I am ignorant of this, that people in Rome write insults on the walls against me, call me a matricide, a wife-murderer, hold me Я monster and a tyrant, because Tigellinus obtained a few sentences of death against my enemies? Yes, my dear, they hold me a monster, and know it. They have talked cruelty on me to that degree that at times I put the question to myself, 'Am I not cruel?' But they do not understand this, that a man's deeds may be cruel at times while he himself is not cruel. Ah, no one will believe, and perhaps even thou, my dear, wilt not believe, that at moments when music caresses my soul I feel as kind as a child in the cradle. I swear by those stars which shine above us, that I speak the pure truth to thee. People do not know how much goodness lies in this heart, and what treasures I see in it when music opens the door to them." Petronius, who had not the least doubt that Nero was speaking sincerely at that moment, and that music might bring out various more noble inclinations of his soul, which were overwhelmed by mountains of egotism, profligacy and crime, said: "Men should know thee as nearly as I do; Rome has never been able to appreciate thee." Cæsar leaned more heavily on Vinicius's arm, as if he were bending under the weight of injustice, and answered: "Tigellinus has told me that in the Senate they whisper into one another's ears that Diodorus and Terpnos play on the cithara better than I. They refuse me even that! But tell me, thou who art truthful always, do they play better, or as well?" "By no means. Thy touch is finer, and has greater power. In thee the artist is evident, in them the expert. The man who hears their music first understands better what thou art.” "If that be true, let them live. They will never imagine what a service thou hast rendered them in this moment. For that matter, if 1 had condemned those two, I should have had to take others in place of them." "And people would say, besides, that out of love for music thou destroyed music in thy dominions. Never kill art for art's sake, O divinity." "How different thou art from Tigellinus!" answered Nero. "But, seest thou, I am an artist in everything; and since music opens for me spaces the existence of which I had not divined. regions which I do not possess, delight and happiness which I do not know, I cannot live a common life. Music tells me that the uncommon exists, so I seek it with all the power of dominion which the gods have placed in my hands. At times it seems to me that to reach those Olympian worlds I must do something which no man has done hitherto; I must stature of man in good or evil. I know surpass the that people declare me mad. But I am not mad, I am only seeking. And if I am going mad, it is out of disgust and impatience that I cannot find. I seeking! Dost understand me? And therefore I wish to be greater than man, for only in that way can I be the greatest as an artist." am Here he lowered his voice so that Vinicius could not hear him, and, putting his mouth to the ear of Petronius, he whispered, "Dost know that I condemned my mother and wife to death, mainly because I wished to lay at the gate of an unknown world the greatest sacrifice that man could put there? I thought that afterwards something would happen, that doors would be opened beyond which I should see something unknown. Let it be wonderful or awful, surpassing human conception, if only great and uncommon. But that sacrifice was not sufficient. To open the empyrean doors it is evident that something greater is needed, and let it be given as the Fates desire." "What dost thou intend to do?" "Thou shalt see sooner than thou thinkest. Meanwhile be assured that there are two Neros,-one such as people know, the other an artist, whom thou alone knowest, and if he slays as does death, or is in frenzy like Bacchus, it is only because the flatness and misery of common life stifle him; and I should like to destroy it, though I had to use fire or iron. Oh, how flat this world will be when I am gone! No man has suspected yet, not thou even, what an artist I am. But precisely because of this I suffer, and sincerely do I tell thee that the soul in me is as gloomy as those cypresses which stand dark there in front of us. It is grievous for a man to bear at once the |