and placed it with others; a third selected from the fleeces
spun, and mingled them in due proportions. The paladin inquired what
all this might be. "These old women," said the saint, "are the Fates,
who spin, measure, and terminate the lives of mortals. As long as the
thread stretches in one of those skeins, so long does the mortal enjoy
the light of day; but nature and death are on the alert to shut the
eyes of those whose thread is spun."

Each one of the skeins had a label of gold, silver, or iron, bearing
the name of the individual to whom it belonged. An old man, who, in
spite of the burden of years, seemed brisk and active, ran without
ceasing to fill his apron with these labels, and carried them away to
throw them into the river, whose name was Lethe. When he reached the
shore of the river the old man shook out his apron, and the labels sunk
to the bottom. A small number only floated for a time, hardly one in a
thousand. Numberless birds, hawks, crows, and vultures hovered over the
stream, with clamorous cries, and strove to snatch from the water some
of these names; but they were too heavy for them, and after a while the
birds were forced to let them drop into the river of oblivion. But two
beautiful swans, of snowy whiteness, gathered some few of the names,
and returned with them to the shore, where a lovely nymph received them
from their beaks, and carried them to a temple placed upon a hill, and
suspended them for all time upon a sacred column, on which stood the
statue of Immortality.

Astolpho was amazed at all this, and asked his guide to explain it. He
replied, "The old man is Time. All the names upon the tickets would be
immortal if the old man did not plunge them into the river of oblivion.
Those clamorous birds which make vain efforts to save certain of the
names are flatterers, pensioners, venal rhymesters, who do their best
to rescue from oblivion the unworthy names of their patrons; but all in
vain; they may keep them from their fate a little while, but ere long
the river of oblivion must swallow them all.

"The swans, that with harmonious strains carry certain names to the
temple of Eternal Memory, are the great poets, who save from oblivion
worse than death the names of those they judge worthy of immortality.
Swans of this kind are rare. Let monarchs know the true breed, and fail
not to nourish with care such as may chance to appear in their time."

THE WAR IN AFRICA

When Astolpho had d