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(ELIJAH KELLOGG was born in Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1840. In 1844 he was ordained over the Congregational Society of Harpswell. In 1855 he removed to Boston, and became pastor of

the Mariners' Church, under the patronage of the Boston Seamen's Friend Society. He has since continued to reside there.

The following is a supposed speech of Spartacus, who was a real personage. He was a Thracian by birth, and a gladiator, who headed a rebellion of gladiators and slaves against the Romans, which was not suppressed until after a long struggle, in which he showed great energy and ability. A prætor was a Roman magistrate. The vestal virgins were priestesses of Vesta. They had a conspicuous place at the gladiatorial shows. The ancients attached great importance to the rites of sepulture, and believed that if the body were not buried, the soul could not cross the Styx, and reach the Elysian fields, the abode of the departed spirits of the good.]

IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of rev5 elry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark 10 waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles 15 of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were crowded together, - their muscles still knotted

with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and 20 the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, — when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed them:

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Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every 25 shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome

could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue,

let him step forth and say it. If there be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on!

"Yet, I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men. My father was a reverent man, who 5 feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. He dwelt among the vineclad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock; and then, 10 at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

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One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were 15 all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned, I 20 knew not why; and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.

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That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and 25 the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw

the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet 30 clasps, behold! it was my friend! He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died. The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told 35 the Prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and 1 begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral

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