"I know which is most to my taste," replied Iphitus, "but I am not going to argue the point with you. Give me a brush with the Trojans, and you may look at the sea until I come back. Here comes your sister,

and I will appeal to her as to which of us will be better employed."

As he spoke, Iothales entered with that freedom from embarrassment which their familiar intercourse had by this time produced, and quietly took her seat by the side of her brother.

"Iphitus thinks, Iothales," said Philokalos to his sister, "that the love of fighting is much nobler than the love of beauty; what say you ?

"I will not attempt," said she, "to decide a question of that sort among warriors; but I suppose no one will defend the love of fighting for its own

sake."

"An ambiguous answer, fair Iothales," said Iphitus, "and one which I will venture to wrest to my own side. Of course when I cross swords with Hector, I shall think solely of the wrong done by Paris, and the injury sustained by Menelaus. But come Philokalos, to avoid philosophy, which I do not much care for, will not you or your sister take the lyre and express your opinions, if it so please you, in song, so that we may substitute music for controversy."

"I shall think you more than half a convert to the opinion of my brother," said Iothales, " since you prefer the beauty of music to a war of words. But cannot you throw some of your martial ardour into a song, which may have more weight with us than your arguments?"

"I will do my best," replied he, "but I will not begin. Let Philokalos sing first, and then I will take my turn; and after that your song shall reward us both."

After a little persuasion Philokalos took the lyre, and began slowly and negligently to touch its strings, while he appeared to be engaged in a somewhat melancholy train of thought. At length, after eliciting some sorrowful sounding preliminary notes, he commenced singing

Why, Beauty, lay thy golden spell on me?
Have I not set before my earnest eyes,
From earliest youth, all that is grand and free.
The battle's tumult and the hero's prize?

And thou hast swept in all thy summer pride,
Throughout the armed chambers of my soul,
And sapped their fabric with a gentle tide

Of music-making waves that softly roll.

And now no more my soul shall seek the fight,
All warlike hopes are sunk in glory's grave;
No more my eye shall beam with battle's light,

Destined henceforth thy worshipper and slave.

I see thee, throned on an imperial brow,

Poured from dark eyes, and glossed on braided hair;

And prostrate at thy queenly feet I bow,

Content to die, so I may worship there.

And let me die! for nought but death can save

From shame the soul that sinks beneath thy spell;

And let a dark and unremembered grave

Hide him of whom fame had no tale to tell.

He ceased, and so melancholy was the strain, that the ensuing silence was unbroken for some moments. Iothales had been conscious for some time that her brother's mind was disturbed by some secret cause which she was not allowed to know, and his present melancholy frame of mind and the sorrowful character of his song had such an effect upon her, that she had to turn aside to hide a tear. Iphitus himself looked grave, but feeling as if it was incumbent on him to break the spell of sadness which the song of Philokalos had produced, he was the first to shake it off, and said—

"I fear the genius of despondency has got possession of your muse this evening; but before you condemn yourself to the inglorious grave you talk of, let me see if I cannot rouse you by a strain of war, even though it savours of what your sister calls a love of fighting for its own sake.”

Then seizing the harp, he began to sing without further preliminary—

Awake, Oh, bard! and let the trembling string
Produce a longer and a louder strain;
Hath not Bellona stretched her crimson wing,

And marked exultingly the destined plain?
Let the loud trumpet and the minstrels' breath
Call all the brave to victory or death.

Oh! who can utter half the fierce delight,

That shoots like liquid fire through every vein,
When mighty hosts are gathering for the fight,
And battle's tumult rages on the plain?
Now for a well-forged blade, a spear, a shield,
And a proud horse to bear me o'er the field!

And then the whirling charge, the madd'ning shock,
The passage, left amidst the reeling crowd,
The rally where, like waves from firm-set rock,

The war recoils around some champion proud;
The close-set teeth, sloped shield, and swinging blow,
The crush, the groan, that speaks a conquered foe.

These are the joys that light a warrior's face;
To him, like festal song, is each alarm;
Oh! never let old age with stealthy pace

Invade my sinews, and unstring my arm.
But ere my hand forgets the brand to wield,
Low let me lie on some victorious field.

To me, 'twere sweet in glory's arms to die,

Beneath the stroke of some heroic hand;
War's glorious image in my fading eye,

My failing fingers on the broken brand;
Whilst my last pulses, as they come and go,
Surge through my brain like battle's ebb and flow.

ENGLISH NAVAL POWER AND ENGLISH COLONIES.

WHAT are the considerations which properly enter into any just estimate of a people's naval power?

In the first place, this certainly is a vital question: Are the people themselves in any true sense naval in their tastes, habits, and training? Do they love the sea? Is it a home to them? Have they that fertility of resources and expedients which the emergencies of sea-life make so essential, and which can come only from a long and fearless familiarity with old Ocean in all his aspects of beauty and all his aspects of terror? Or are they essentially landsmen,-landsmen just as much on the deck of a frigate as when marshalled on a battle-field? This is a test question. For if a nation has not sailors, men who smack of the salt sea, then vain are proud fleets and strong armaments.

I am satisfied that the ordinary explanation of that naval superiority which England has generally maintained over France is the true explanation. Certainly never were there stouter ships than those which France sent forth to fight her battles at the Nile and Trafalgar. Never braver men trod the deck than there laid down their lives rather than abase their country's flag. Yet they were beaten. The very nation which, on land, fighting against banded Europe, kept the balance for more than a generation at equipoise, on the water was beaten by the ships of one little isle of the sea. In the statement itself you have the explanation. The ships were from an isle of the sea. The men who manned them were born within sight of the ocean. In their childhood they sported with its waves. At twelve, they were cabin boys. At twenty, thorough seamen. Against the skill born of such an experience, of what avail was mere courage, however fiery?

There is a second question, equally important. What is a nation's capacity for naval production? What ship-yards has it? What docks? What machine-shops? What stores of timber, iron, and hemp? And what skilled workmen to make these resources available? A nation is not strong simply because it has a hundred ships complete and armed floating on its waters. "Iron and steel will bend and break," runs the old nursery tale. And practice shows that iron and steel wrought into ships have no better fortune, and that the stoutest barks will strand and founder, or else decay, and, amid the sharp exigencies of war, with wonderful rapidity. Not what a nation has, then, but how soon it can fill up these gaps of war, how great is its capacity to produce and reproduce, tells the story of its naval power.

When Louis Napoleon completed that triumph of skill and labour, the port of Cherbourg, England trembled more than if he had launched fifty frigates. And well she might. For what is Cherbourg? Nothing less than an immense permanent addition to the French power of naval production. Here, protected from the sea by a breakwater miles in extent, and which might have been the work of the Titans, and girdled by almost impregnable fortifications, is more than a safe harbour for all

the fleets of the world. For here are docks for the repairs I dare not say of how many vessels, and ship-houses for the construction of one knows not how many more, and work-shops and arsenals and stores of timber and iron well-nigh inexhaustible. This is to have more than a hundred ships. This is to create productive capacity out of which may come many hundred ships, when they are are wanted. The faith men have in the maritime greatness of England rests not simply on the fact that she has afloat a few hundred frail ships, but rather on this more pregnant fact, that England, from Pentland Frith to Land's End, is one gigantic work-shop,-and that, whether she turn her attention to the clothing of the world or the building of navies, there is no outmeasuring her mechanical activity.

But passing from these questions, which relate to what may be called a nation's innate character and capacity, we come to a third consideration, of perhaps more immediate interest. One of the elements which help to make a nation's power is certainly its available strength. An important question, then, is, not only-How many ships can a nation produce? but-How many has it complete and ready for use? In an emergency, what force could it send at a moment's notice to the point of danger? In 1857 England had 300 steam ships-of-war, carrying some 7,000 guns, nearly as many more sailing ships, carrying 9,000 guns, an equal number of gun-boats and smaller craft, besides a respectable navy connected with her East Indian colonies: a grand sum-total of more than 900 vessels, and not less than 20,000 guns. And behind this array there is a community essentially mercantile, unsurpassed in mechanic skill and productiveness, and full of sailors of the best stamp. What tremendous elements of naval power are these! One does not wonder that the remark often made is so nearly true,-that, if there is any trouble in the farthest port on the globe, in a few hours you will see a British bull-dog quietly steaming up the harbour, to ask what it is all

about.

There is another consideration which perhaps many would put foremost. Has the nation kept pace with the progress of science and mechanic arts? Once, her superior seamanship almost alone enabled England to keep the sea against all comers. But it is not quite so now. Naval warfare has undergone a complete revolution. The increasing weight of artillery, and the precision with which it can be used, make it imperative that the means of defence should approximate at least in effectiveness to the means of offence. The question now is not, How many ships has England ? but, How many mail-clad ships ?-how many that would be likely to resist a hundred-pound ball hurled from an Armstrong gun? And if it should turn out that in this race France had outrun England, and had twenty or thirty of these gladiators of the sea, most would begin to doubt whether the old dynasty could maintain its power.

The considerations to which we have alluded have already received a large share of the public attention. They have been examined and discussed from almost every point of view. Probably every one has some ideas, more or less correct, concerning them. But there is a consideration which is equally important, which has received very little attention, which indeed seems to have been entirely overlooked. It is this: the degree to which naval efficiency is dependent upon a wise colonial system.

If the only work of a fleet were to defend one's own harbours, then colonies, whatever might be their commercial importance, as an arm of naval strength, would be of but little value. If all the use England had for her navy were to defend London and Liverpool, she would do well to abandon many of her distant strongholds, which have been won at such cost, and which are kept with such care. But the protection of our own ports is not by any means the chief work of fleets. The protection of commerce is as vital a duty. Commerce is the life-blood of a nation. Destroy that, and you destroy what makes and mans your fleets. Destroy that, and you destroy what supports the people, and the Government which is over the people. But if commerce is to be protected, war-ships must not hug timidly the shore. They must put boldly out to sea, and be wherever commerce is. They must range the stormy Atlantic. They must ply to and fro over that primitive home of commerce, the Mediterranean. Doubling the Cape, they must visit every part of the affluent East and of the broad Pacific. With restless energy they must plough every sea and explore every water where the hope of honest gain may entice the busy merchantman.

See what new and trying conditions are imposed upon naval power. A ship, however staunch, has her points of positive weakness. She can carry only a limited supply either of stores or of ammunition. She is liable, like everything else of human construction, to accidents of too serious a nature to be repaired on ship-board. If, now, from any reason, from disasters of storm or sea, or from deficient provisions, she is disabled, and no friendly port be near, and in time of war no ports but our own are sure to be friendly, then her efficiency is gone. And this difficulty increases almost in the ratio that modern science adds to her might. The old galley, which three thousand years ago, propelled by a hundred strong oarsmen, swept the waters of the Great Sea, was a poor thing indeed compared with a modern war-ship, in whose bosom beats a power as resistless as the elements. But its efficiency, such as it was, was not likely to be impaired. It had no furnace to feed, no machinery to watch, only the rude wants of rude men to supply, and rough oars to replace. A sailing ship, dependent upon the uncertain breeze, liable to be driven from her course by storms or to be detained by calms, gives no such impression of power as a steamship, mistress of her own movements, scorning the control of the elements, and keeping straight on to her destination in storm and calm alike. But in some respects the weak is strong. The ship is equal to most of the chances of a sea-experience. If the spar break, it can be replaced. If the storm rend the sails to ribbons, there are skilful hands which can find or make new ones. But the steamer has inexorable limitations. Break her machinery, and, if there be no friendly dock open to receive her, she is reduced at once to a sailing ship, and generally a poor one, too. Nor need you suppose accidents to cause this loss of efficiency. The mode of propulsion implies brevity of power. The galley depended upon the stalwart arms of its crew, and they were as likely to be strong to-morrow as to-day, and next month as to-morrow. The ship puts her trust in her white sails aud in the free winds of heaven, which, however fickle they may be, never absolutely fail. But the steamer must carry in her own hold that upon which she feeds. You can reckon in weeks, yes, in days, the time when, unless her stock be renewed, her peculiar power will be lost.