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' •» NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, No. 580 Broadwat. 18 6 7. ^w — ' II i«" " ' 'f ■»■' '■' w'^'Trmmrmy'^'' ^hw"^ 3' P^, i^i'f ^ /4^4^' ./*^'" :.,^ y ,y^- '•^nr^' Bntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, In tlie Clerk's Office of tlie District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. Cambribge ^rjss: Dakin and Mstoalf. -V v... ■\ V. ^.., 9a ilgt REV. JOHN PRYOR, D. D, "^^ ■ip;- 18 SIiSFIOTPDLI.7 INSOaiBlD. 3G7blO mmv\>m.' ■«T . ^«^x^ ~ '■■'w.. l^. M. OONTElsTTS. — -H-israaM**— I. The Jew who had appealed unto CiBSAK, . . . l II. The Young Athenian, 12 III. Isaac, , ^ _ 28 IV. The Boy and his Nurse, 4g V. The Minister of C^sak, 57 VI. The Officer who sailed with Paul, .... 72 VII. The Syrian learns a Lesson, 79 VIII. " The Master," .87 IX. The Return, 98 X. The Hope of the Jews, 1 jo XI. The Steward Punished, 128 XII. The Amphitheatre, 233 XIII. Cineas and Helena, j^o XIV. The Court of Nero, ..... ikk XV. The Centurion, ,_ XVI. A Christian Mebtinq. . . --„ _.--_, ' • . • • . 176 AVU. The End op Prophecy, ... lyg XVIII. The Briton, * . * . ' iZ XIX. At Court, XX. The Return op the Prodigal Son, . . . . 201 XXI. The Resolve, XXII. Son and Father, XXIII. The Burning of Rome, XXIV. The First Persecution XXV. The Conspiracy, . XXVI. The Arrest, .... * „„, "^^T" I "' Contents. XXVII, Thb Avengeb, . XXVIII. Freedom, XXIX. Changes, .... XXX. The Chief Marttb, . XXXI. Bereavements, XXXII. Off to the Wars, XXXIII. Nero in Greece, . XXXIV. The End of Nero, . XXXV. JUDEA, .... XXXVI. JOTAPATA, . XXXVII. The Ministry of Sorrow, XXXVIII. The Fall of Jbrusalbm, XXXIX. Conclusion, . % 292 tir 304 I 314 1 324 ,; 328 V 839 346 362 360 * 367 874 ! 385 412 4 I v. Helena's Household. s.. I. THE JEW WHO HAD APPEALED UNTO C^SAR. OME ; in the year of the city, 814 ; in the year of grace, Gl ; Nero on the throne; the apostles preach- ing Christianity ; the ancient world in the period of its liighest civilization, when petty divisions had become extinguished, and all the nations bowed to the one central city : — such is the time of tliis story. It was a busy, a rich, and a densely-peopled world. Military roads started from the great centre, and went to the uttermost bounds of the empire. The Mediterranean was the highway of nations ; surrounded by a girdle of populous cities, everywhere traversed by vast fleets, and filled with the commerce of the world. Roman law had fashioned all the provinces into one form, and stamped them all with one image ; and those states which were formerly ravaged by war or piracy, now, under the influence of universal peace, grew with a rapidity that had not been known before. Taking a comprehensive view of this world, Spain first attracts our attention, where, for some time, a Roman prov- ince had been advancing so peacefully that history finds but little to record. Culture was there, and Rome was 1 (1) 2 The yczu who had appealed nnlo Caesar. receiving fi'om that quarter her Lucans, Senecas, and Tra- jans. Cities lined the coast, prominent among which was Gades, which yet, as of old, sends over the world its exports of fruit and wine and oil. Perhaps Spain was more pros- perous than now. Certainly Africa wiis much more so. Along the whole northern coast there was a line of nations, | rich in culture and prosperity, possessing great cities, which sent over to Rome its chief supplies of grain. Carthage had arisen from its ruins on a new site, and many ca^titals had grown up in places which not long before had been the bat- tle-grounds of barbarous tribes. Alexandria had already reached a lofty position in science and literature, as well as in commerce, and was yet advancing still higher. Over all the country caravans pierced the desert, carrying civilization to the savages beyond, and the whole land was going on in a career of prosperity, which continued for generations with various fortunes, till it was checked by the disasiers of the falling empire, and afterwards diverted in a new direction' by Mohammedan conquest. From Alexandria came the largest ships and greatest fleets ; for Roman pride was yet conveying to the metropolis those enormous Egyptian obelisks which yet remain in the modern city ; and no small part of Eastern commerce came up the Red Sea, to send through this port, the spices, the gold, the gems, the silks, and tlie rich tissues which were demanded by Roman luxury. Nor must we forget Palestine. Long since IIcHenized to some extent, and now partly Romanized, the people saw their country filled with the symbols of Western art and science ; but, in the presence of Greek ~ rhetoricians and Roman soldiers, they cherished that fien;e fanaticism which blazed up in revolt at last, and was quenched in the untold agonies of the memorable siege of Jerusalem. Beyond Palestine were the crowded regions of Syria and Asia Minor, where there were cities such as Ephesus, An- tioch, Smyrna, and Damascus, with many others, which The 'Jczv zvho had appealed unto Ccesar. 3 surpassed the ca))ital itself in splendor and magnificence, and have left ruins which are the wonder of the modern traveller. Through these came that great overland trailic with the farthest East, which formed a perpetual succession of caravans between the Roman and the Chinese provinces. What lay beyond the nearest deserts crossed by the cara- vans was a profound mystery to the Romans. Their arms had never reduced Persia to subjection ; nor had a Roman general ever gazed on the plains of Scinde, or embarked his legions on the Persian Gulf. The Parthians were more for- midable to the Romans than the Persians had been to the Greeks ; nor did the Latin historian ever forgive Alexander for leading his armies beyond the flight of the Roman eagles. The descendants of those Greeks who had thus outdone the Romans in the farthest East, still lived with a certain vitality in their old home. Athens was more populous than ever, and the country was prosperous. But the glory had departed, and the ancient genius had vanished forever. It would be a great mistake, however, to suppose that the Greeks had sunk to a level with the other races under the iron dominion of Rome ; on the contrar'y, they towered above them all. The position of the Greeks at this time is partly instruc- tive and partly amusing. They were at once the scholars, the wits, and the sharpers of the day. Their literature was studied everywhere ; their arts were everywhere admired. No one who pretended to be anybody was ignorant of their lan- guage. It was the universal tongue, and had penetrated into all countries. Everything that required art, skill, ingenuity, all the finer employments of every kind, had everywhere jiill- en to the lot of the Greeks. They were the best painters, sculptors, architects, and musicians. The master-pieces of art now preserved at Rome, if they bear any names at all, have those of Greek artists. Wealthy Romans sent tlieir sons to Athens to acquire a libei'al education, or hired Greek 4 The yew ivho had affcalcd unto CcBsar, tutors in their own liouses at Rome. In Rome tlae Greek was everything. In the words of the sneering satirist, — " Grammar, surveying, physic, shaving, art, . ' Rope-dancing, magic, — all, he knows by heart." ..'^ Northward, the barbarian X2 ces were held in check, yet chafed furiously against the biirrier. The Pannonians and Dacians were watching their opportunity. The Germans refused to be conquered. Beyond them lay the innumerable Goths, behind whom were the Sarmatians and Scythians, who again were pressed in their rear by others. Among these tribes the Romans found a spirit which no longer existed among themselves. Gaul had settled down into an orderly Roman province, with all the customary signs of Roman refinement. The southern coast had been a civihzed country for ages ; and Massilia, which was founded by the Greeks, centuries before, was dis- tinguished for its culture ; while in its neighborhood were powerful cities which have bequeathed to our times vast monuments and majestic ruins. Beyond the sea lay Britain, now filled with war and carnage. For this was the year of the vengeance of Boa- dicea, when Suetonius had marched against the Druids, leaving the island in his rear unprotected. Then the British queen had gone with her daughters among the tribes, rousing them to revenge. The country fell back into their power. Suetonius was lost to view ; and the Roman, looking toward Britain, saw everything hidden from view by the smoke of burning cities. And what was Italy itself, the centre of this ancient world ? A vast community of cities, a network of magnifi- cent roads ; its land cultivated like a garden, and teeming with population. In the north were the fertile plains at the foot of the Alps, with many stately and populous citiest Next came Etruria, where the olive and the vine grew over all the liill-slopes and throughout the quiet valleys. Cam- I 1 1 1 I ,* 1 The yew ivho had afj^ealcd wito CcBsar. 5 I pania was then filled with inhabitants ; the Pontine marshes were drained and cultivated ; and the most beautiful part of all the world was found then, as now, in Naples Bay, where Roman luxury had exhausted all its resources in contriving new sources of delight and new modes of en- joyment. - .„ Where shall we begin ? Shall it be with Paestum, where in this age those five temples were standing, admired al- ready as types of hoar antiquity, but destined to a still .nore venerable age, since they have come down to our day in wonderful preservation; — or Sorrentum, with its wonderful valley, whv I'e there is perpetual spring throughout the year ; — or Capreaj, where Tiberius was wont to retire and de- vise, in hideous secrecy, new refinements of cruelty ; — or Pompeii and Herculaneum, which the awful fires of Vesu- vius were soon to overwhelm, and bury from the sight of man, so that they might lie hidden through the centuries, and be exhumed in our day, to portray to us the corrupt form of ancient civilization as it appears in their melanclioly streets? Or shall we turn to Baia3, where for generations there assembled all that Rome possessed of genius, of wealth, of valor, of luxui-y, of effeminacy, and of vice, to present a strange mixture of sensuality and intellect, of taste and cor- ruption ; where the massive piles even now remain which Caligula reared from the depths of the sea, so that he might avoid the curve of the shore, and have a straight path in defiance of the obstacles of the ocean ; — to Misenum, with the Roman navy at anchor, and triremes passing and repass- ing at all times; — to the Lucrine Lake, and the Elysian fields, and the Cumajan grotto, through which Virgil makes hiri hero pass to the under world ; or to that steep cliiF over- hanging the Grotto of Posilipo, which the same poet chose for his burial-place, of whom the well-known epitaph gives the biography, — > ' •. " I sing flocks, tillnfje, heroes. Mantua gave Mo life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave"? 1* 'i I 6 The 'Jczv who had affealed unto Cc^sar. Or will our Christian instincts lead us to turn away from these to Puteoli, to see the landing of Saint Paul, and follow his steps to the foot of Caesar's throne ? It was drawing near to the close of a day in early spring, when a numerous party rode on towards Rome from the di- rection of iVaples. First came a detachment of soldiers, at whose hpad was the decurion ; and immediately following them was a centurion, by whose side rode two men. The rest of the party were civilians ; some being Roman citizens, others foreigners ; some of high rank, others of humble cir- cumstances. They all rode on cheerfully, with animated conversation, smiles, and frequent laughter. On the whole, however, their character and expression appeared rather se- date than otherwise, and it was the excitement of the occa- sion which led to their mirthfulness. The two men who rode next to the centurion were of different race and more impressive aspect. Their faces and dress showed that they were Jews. The centurion treated them with the utmost respect. The one who rode nearest to him had an intellectual face, and clear, inquiring eye. His eager glance fixed itself on every new object which i(^ encountered on the way, and he asked numerous questions, which the officer politely answered. The other ti*aveiler was of different app( urance. His size was under the av- erage ; his hair was short and crisp ; his face bronzed by ex- posure ; his forehead broad and expansive, yet not very high ; his lips thin ; l.is mouth closely shut and slightly drooping at the corners ; his jaw square and massive, and covered with a heavy beard ; his eyes gray and wonderfully piercing. He rode on, looking fixedly at the city, now in full view, and appearing to notice little of what was going on around him. It was a face which one would look at a second time, — a bold, massive, mighty face ; with restless energy, fire, and power stamped upon every lineament ; and yet wearing over all a strange serenity. In the wrinkles of his brow, and the ■Ik I X The 'Jew zvho had\apfcaled unto Ccesar. 7 m lines of his face, was graven the record of long struggles and arduous toil ; and yet even the most careless observer could see that this man had come forth out of all his troubles more than conqueror. ^'^ -^ Such was Paul, the apostle. His corapanicn was Luke, the beloved physician. The officer was Julius, the centurion. The friends were the Christians of Rome, who had come out to meet the apostle as far as Tres Tabernaj and Forum Appii, at the reception of whose warm welcome the two friends " thanked God and took courage." And now from afar there came the deep hum of the city, the tread of its millions, and the roll of wheels over the stony streets. The lofty many-storied houses rose high, and above them rose temples and towers and monuments. In the midst was the vast outline of the imperial palace ; and high above all, the Capitoline Hill, with its coronet of tem- ples. The crowd along the streets increased at every pace as they drew nearer, until at length they were compelled to move more slowly. The highway became less a road than a street ; houses were all around, and it was difficult to tell where the country began and where the city ended ; for the overgrown metropolis had burst beyond its walls, and sent its miles of suburbs far out into the plain. The road, at every step, became more thronged, until at last it was filled to over- flowing. Here came chariots of nobles on their way to dis- tant villas ; there rolled along ponderous carts laden with stone for building purposes; from one direction came a band of soldiers, from another a gang of slaves. Here came a drove of oxen, stately, long-horned, cream-colored, — always the boast of Italy, — and close behind followed a crowd of shepherds or drovers. Still the crowd increased: asses with panniers ; mules with burdens ; fossors with loads of sand from the catacombs ; imperial couriers ; gangs of pris- oners in chains ; beggars displaying loathsome sores ; priests on their way to the temples ; water-carriers ; wine-sellers ; all 8 The yew who had appealed unto Ccesar. the arts, and all the trades ; — such was tlie motley crowd that now roared around them while yet they were outside the gates. Now the road was lined on each side with tombs, among which they passed the enormous round tower of Cnocilia Metella, a sepulchre, \\\c the Egyptian pyramids, built for eternity. From this spot there extended a long line of tombs, containing the noblest dead of Rome. Our party went on and drew nearer. They passed the Grotto of Egeria, with a grove around it, which was hired out to the Jews. They passed the place on which tradition says that Hannibal stood and hurled his dart over the walls ; and came near to the Porta Capena, where one of the aque- ducts ran right over the top of the gate. What thoughts were these which so absorbed the mind of the great apostle, that he seemed to notice nothing around him ? Was it the magnitude and splendor of the capital ; or rather the vast power of that heathenism with which he was making war ? What that society was into which he was carrying the gospel of the Saviour, he knew well ; and we, too, may know, if we regard the pictures which are presented to us by men who wrote not many years after this reign of Nero. There is the greatest of Roman historians, and the mightiest of satirists. Each has left his record. Were that record sin- gle, we might think it exaggerated ; but each is supported by the other. Were Juvenal only before us, we might think his statements the extravagance of a poet or a satirist; but all that Juvenal affirms is supported and strengthened by the terrible calmness of Tacitus ; in whom there is no trace of passion, but the impartial description of hideous reigns, drawn up by one whose own heart that age had filled with bitterness. What jthen is the picture which we find in these pages ? The simple virtues of the old republic had long since passed away. Freedom had taken her eternal flight. The ;i The yew who had appealed tmto CcBsar. 9 iS people were debased and looked on in silence at the perpe- tration oi' enormous crimes. After Nero's dealings with his mother, he could still be emperor. The name of religion was applied to a system corrupt to the Inmost centre. No onQ believed in it wiio had any pretence to intelligence. Public honor and justice were almost unknown; and conquered province.'' "cre only regarded as victims of oppression. Pri- vate virtues nad almost vanished ; and honor and truth and mercy were little more than empty sounds. Decency itself had departed ; and vices which cannot be named in our day were fi-'^e y practised, unchecked by public opinion. It was a society where vice had penetrated to the heart of almost every household. That was the most familiar thought which was the most impure. Honor had fled from men, chastity from women, innocence from children. And what contracts appeared in that society to their eyes ! They saw one emperor cutting away a mountain to build an imperial palace ; and another summoning a council of state to decide about the cooking of a fish. They saw the name and fame and glory of the old republican heroes all forgotten by their degenerate descendants, who now prided themselves in nothing so much as their skill in detect- ing at a single taste the native bed of an oyster or sea-urchin. EiFeminate nobles wore light or heavy finger-rings to accord with the varying temperature of the summer and winter sea- sons, and yet could order a score of slaves to be crucified as an after-dinner pastime. This was the time when blood- thirsty myriads were watching the death-agonies of gladia- tors whose vengeful kindred were raging all along the bor- ders of the empire ; when Roman soldiers abroad were beating back the Dacians, or marching against the Druids, in the isle of Mona, while Boadicea led on the tribes to the vengeance of Camulodune ; and when Roman citizens at home were scrambling for their daily dole of victuals at the doors of the great ; when he was most fortunate who was most vicious ; and they obtained wealth and honor, who by V.-. lo The ycTu who had appealed unto Ccesar. forging wills, had defrauded the widow and the orphan ; when a fierce populace, fresh from the amphitheatre, and a nobility polluted by vices without a name, and an emperor stained with the guilt of a mother's murder ; gazing mock- ingly upon the death-agonies of martyrs wlio died in flames, clothed in the tunica molesta ; when for year after year, and generation after generation, all these evils grew worse, till, in the fearful words of Tacitus, "They would have lost memory also with their voice, if it had been possible as well to forget as to keep silent." It' may be urged, however, that there was much virtue in spite of all this vice. True, there was virtue, and that too of a high order. There are names which glow with a lustre all the brighter for the darkness that is around them. They irradiate the gloom of Tacitus' histories ; and make us exult in seeing how hard it is for corruption to extinguish the manly or the noble sentiment. Partus Thrasea, Aurulenus Rusticus, Helvidius Priscus would adorn any age. Lucan alone might have ennobled this. Seneca's life may have been doubtful ; but who can remain unmoved at the spectacle of his death ? Afterward Tacitus and Pliny sustained their virtuous friendship, and found others like themselves, — kin- dred spirits, — who made life not endurable but delightful. In that age and in the subsequent one there were good and high-hearted men ; for did not the " good emperors " succeed the " bad emperors " ? Trajan would have adorned the noblest age of the world. Marcus Aurelius stands among the first of those who have ruled. In addition to these great characters of hif tory, there were no doubt many men, of an obscure order, who passed through life in an obscure way, and yet were honest and high-minded citizens. There were, no doubt, many like Juvenal's Umbricius, who deplored the vice around them, and believed with him that Rome was no place for honest men ; but tried to be honest in their way. There must have been many of these, of whom Umbricius is only a type ; too plain-spoken to succeed in a generation i The yczv who had appealed unto Ccesar. 1 1 of flalterers, and too high-minded to stoop to that baseness by whicli alone iulvanccinent could be obtained. Moreover Rome was not the world. Beside the capital, there was the country. There, as Unibi icius says, might be found simplicity, virtue, and honesty. Among the simple, the high-minded, and the frugal rustics, th'> v'ce (.f the city was unknown. In the rural districts, without doubt, the great masses of men continued as they Lad ever been, — neither better nor worse. Let us allow all this, — that there was this exceptional morality in the city and this rural simplicity in the country. What remains ? Simply this : that after all, Rome was the head, the heart, and the brain of the world. It guided. It led the way. What availed all else when this was incurably disorganized ? Its virtuous characters found themselves in a hopeless mi- nority. They could do nothing against the downward pres- sure all around them. They struggled, they died ; and other generations arose in which the state of things was worse. The whole head was sick, the whole heart faint. The life of the state, as it centred round its heart, drew corruption from it which passed through every fibre. Society was going to decay, and one thing alone could save the world. That remedy was now brought by the man whom we have described. But now our party have passed under the dripping arch- way of the Porta Capena ; and the centurion conveys to his destined abode the Jew who had appealed unto Ctesar. ^W« !(!■. P D* II. ■!HI 77/:^ YOUNG ATHENIAN, PON the slopes of the Apennines, in the vicinity of Tibur, stood the villa of Lucius Sulpiciua Labeo. From the front there was an extensive prospect which commanded the wide Campania, and the distant capital. The villa was of modest propor- tions, in comparison with many others near it, yet of most elegant style. The A'ont was decorated with a broad portico, before which was a terrace covered with flowers and shrubbery ; the walks were bordered with boxwood, which in places was cut into the forms of animals and vases. The public road was about a quarter of a mile away ; and a broad avenue of plane-trees connected it with the house, winding in such a way as to afford a gentle de- scent, and where it joined the road ther'i was a neat porter's house. Behind the villa were out-houses and barns ; on the right was an extensive kitchen-garden ; on the left an or- chard and vineyard surrounding the steward's house. Other villas dotted the slopes of the mountains far and near. The most conspicuous among these was the one im- mediately adjoining, a most magnificent establishment, which far exceeded that of Labeo in extent and splendor. This w^as the villa of Pedanius Secundus, at this time prefect of the city. From the terrace of Labeo the greater part of this estate could be seen ; but the eye rested most upon a sickening spectacle at the gates of Secundus, where two wretched slaves hung upon the cross, whose faint moans showed that life was not yet extinct. (12) The Tounc; Athenian, 13 ■4. '^ It was enrly dawn, and the sun had not yet risen, but in the neighboring vilhi the sound of voices showed that the slaves were out for the day's labor. The villa of Labeo, on the contrary, was all sileni, and no one was visible except one figure on the portico. This was the mistress of the house, a lady of exquisite beauty, who was yet in the bloom of her youth. Her man- ner indicated extreme agitation and impatience. She would pace the terrace in a restless way for a time, and then, hast- ening down the steps to the terrace, she would look eagerly along the public road as though awaiting some one. At length her suspense ended. The sound of horse's feet came from afar, and soon a single rider came galloping rapidly along. He turned in to the gate-way, ran up the avenue, and in a few minutes more had reached the house. The lady had hurried down as soon as she saw him, and stood waiting for him, and encountered him in the avenue. Tlie rider leaped from his horse and carelessly let him go. The lady seized both his hands in a strong, nervous grasp ; and, in a voice which expressed the deepest agitation, she asked, hurriedly, — "Well, what news?" She spoke in Greek. For a moment the other did not reply, but looked at her with a troubled face, which he vainly tried to render calm. There was a strong likeness between the two as they stoo4 thus, looking at one another, — the likeness of brother and sister. In both there were the same refined and intellectual features of the purest Greek type, the same spiritual eye and serene forehead. But in the woman it was softened by her feminine nature ; in the man it had been expanded into the strongest assertion of intellectual force. " My sweet sister," he said, at last, speaking also in Greek, with a purity of accent that could only have been acquired by a breeding under the shadow of the Athenian Acropolis, — " My sweet sister, there is no reason for such 2 14 The Toung Athenian. agitation. I have heard nothing directly ; hut I firmly he- lieve Lahco to be safe." "You have heard nothing," she repeated, breathlessly. "What am I to do?" " Yes, dearest ; I have heard good news and bad news, but nothing from Labeo. But you are so nervous that I am afraid to say anything. Come," — and, taking her hand affectionately, he walked with her toward the portico. " Helena, do you think you can bear what I have to tell ? " he asked, as they stood there together. She looked up at his anxious face, and pressed her hand to her heart with a quick gesture. Then she replied, hi a voice of forced calmness, — " Cineas, suspense is worse than anything. Tell me exactly what you have heard. Don't conceal anything. I want to know the very worst, whatever it is." After a brief pause, Cineas said, — " Helena, you are right. Suspense is the worst. I have nothing to tell you wliich you may not know. I know, too, your strength of character, and I solemnly declare that I will not conceal anything from you. At the same time I want you to see things as they really are, and not sink at once into despair. Recall for a moment the last letter which you received from Lucius. How long ago was it ? " " I have not heard from Lucius for more than two months," said Helena, " ever since they moved away from London to Camulodune to prepare for that fatal march to Mona. Lucius spoke very joyously, told about the Druids and their cruel rites, praised the ability of Suetonius, and filled his letter with praises of his genial friend Agricola, who was his tent companion." " You know that Suetonius is one of the best generals in the army, — perliaps the very best after Corbulo." " Yes," sighed Helena. " You know, too, that Lis lieutenants are all men of vigor and bravery; and his selection of such men as Agricola i V The TouHj^ Athenian. 15 in and Lucius for his aids shows his shrewdness and percep- tion." V. « True, Cinens." " "Well, think on this now," said Cineas, in a voice which he mennt to be cheerful. " The only danger which you can fear is disaster to that army. No tidings hjiv^e come from it for some time. But such a general as Suetonius can scarcely be in danger of disasteA The reason why we have not heard is because the Britons have been rising in insur- rection in his rear, and breaking off his communications." Helena said nothing, but looked at her brother with un- changed sadness. " We ought, then, to believe that Suetonius will shortly emerge from the gloom, and shatter the barbarian power to pieces." " Yes ; but you have not yet told me the last news from Britain, and how do I know what to believe or think?" said Helena, anxiously. " Because I wished you to bear this in mind, — that, ■whatever has happened, the army is safe and so is Labeo. Suetonius will appear with his legions, and take revenge." "0 Cineas, keep me no longer in suspense!" said Helena, in a tremulous voice. "Tell all — all. This suspense will kill me. Let me know the veiy worst." "My dearest sister," said Cineas, in a voice which he vainly endeavored to render calm, " the whole of Biitain is in arms against the Romans." Helena turned pale as death, and staggered back a few paces ; but Cineas caught her hands and held them in his. " Can you bear to hear more ? " he asked anxiously. " All," replied the other, in a whisper. " The whole island is at their mercy. Their leader is Boadicea." "Boadiceal" , . "The same." " The one who has suffered such wrongs ! Just Heaven ! " ^Pp^^l^PiJIII lllin.l^l"! i.U .IJILJ ^H*,«J. I ,-> - II I i6 ,J The Toung Athenian. " The very same. She has roused all the tribes to mad- ness, and they follow 1i«t wherever she leads." " Oh ! " cried Helena, " what vengeance will be sufficient for such wrongs as hers ! " She clasped her hands in agony. " No resistance — no — none — can it be possible, and Suetonius is in Mona ! And all the province is exposed to her fury ! " ^ Cineas said nothing, and his silence gave assent. " Tell all," said Helena, coming up more closely to him. " AH — what of the colonies ? " " Camulodune has been taken ! " " What of the inhabitants ? " " Every soul has perished." Helena gave a groan, and clung to Cineas for support. He caught her, and prevented her from falling. " Boadicea knows no mercy, and shows none," he went on to say : " with her two daughters she fires the hearts of her followers to every outrage. You can imagine all. But I will tell all the pai-ticulars that I have learned. Yet re- member that, whatever I may tell you, Labeo is safe. " It appears that the chief vengeance of the Britons was directed against Camulodune. The conduct of the veterans there toward the natives had produced this result. I need not remind you what that conduct was. The worst excesses of Roman soldiers elsewhere were surpassed here. The place had but a handful of soldiers when the natives rose in re- bellion. Alarm and panic spread through the city when thej' heard the news. The story that has come here relates a great number of supernatural incidents, which I will tell yci so as to give it to you exactly as I have heard it. They were these : — The statue of Victory fell down without cause. Women rushed frantically about, and announced impending ruin. In the council-chamber voices were heard with the British accent ; the theatre was filled with savage bowlings ; the image of a colony in ruins was seen in the water near the mouth of the T^hames ; the sea was purple V The Toung Athenian, 17 with blood ; and at the ebb of the tide human figures were traced in the sand. Y. " All these portents were described to one another among the people of both races, with many other exaggerations. The colonists were filled with despair, and the Britons with triumph. The people of Camulodune sent off to Catus Decianus, the procurator, for a reinforcement. He sent about two hundred poorly-armed men. The veterans in Camulodune managed badly. The people became panic- stricken ; and in the midst of this the Britons took the town, put all to the sword, and finally captured the temple where a resistance had been made. A few fugitives es- caped, and carried the awful tidings to London." Helena had remained perfectly silent during this narra- tive, listening with feverish and breathless interest. " I cannot understand," she said, at last, " how our soldiers were so badly managed. It gives small hope to me," she added, in a faint voice. " Petilius Cerealis marched with the ninth legion to the relief of the place," continued Cineas ; " but he was routed. The infantry were cut to pieces, and the general escaped with the cavalry only." Helena looked at her brother with deep and sorrowful meaning. « O Cineas ! " This was the worst news of all. It seemed like a death blow to her hopes ; for it was not a scattered detachment that had been lost, but an entire legion. ' It was rashness — it was madness," said Cineas, under- standing his sister's thought, " to meet myriads of savages with one legion. Suetonius is a general of a diflferent stamp. He will take vengeance for all ; and thoroughly too." " No, no, he will be shut up in Mona ! " said Helena, ob- stinate in her sorrow. She shuddered as she thought of what might be in store for her husband. " If that were so," said Cineas, quietly, " there ai-e fifty 2* mill 'T^ "^W i8 TAe Toung Athe7uan. f generals that would gladly undertake to relieve him. But think for a moment what kind of a man Suetonius is. Why, if he were shut up in Ultima Thule, he would force a way for himself back, and bring his army with him. No Roman general need fear disaster. All those who have met with misfortunes have incurred them by their own folly. But I will go on and tell the rest. The Britons, after defeating Cerealis, rolled on like a torrent, engulfing everything. They are advancing -now toward Verulam and London. Decianus has fled from Britain and is now in Gaul." " Fled ! the procurator fled ! " cried Helena, in amazement. " Yes ; most of the troops, you know, are with Suetonius." "Why cannot he collect those who are scattered in the garrisons ? Oh, the coward ! the utter coward ! After stir- ring up the wretched barbarians to madness, he dreads their vengeance. First a ruffian, then a coward." And Helena paced up and down in her restless and excited mood, chafing and fretting, and finding some relief in her indignation at Cerealis. After a time, she came back to Cineas and said, — " Cineas, if the procurator has fled, there is no hope for Suetonius." " Hope — why, there is certainty," said Cineas, in as con- fident a tone as he could assume. " Think for a moment : a large number of military posts yet remain. These the Britons have not touched. Their garrisons can be collected into a large army. The Britons cannot carry on a siege. They are too impatient. If they do not take a place at the first onset, they pass on to a weaker one. All that is left for Suetonius is to march back, to rally to his standard the scattered garrisons, and then march against the rebels. And tell me, what oliance will they have if once a Roman army comes against them under such a general ? I tell you," — and his voice grew more confident as he went on, — "I tell you, there is only one result possible, — ruin to the rebels. Ruin — utter, complete, total ! " V. The Young Athenian. 19 There was now a long silence. Brother and sister stood near to each other. Helena was occupied with her own thoughts. Cineas refrained from disturbing them. He had said all that he could. The sun had risen and was illuminating the magnificent prospect. There lay Campania, — a vast plain, green with verdure, rich with groves and orchards, dotted with innu- merable houses, increasing in their multitude till they were consolidated into the city itself. There wound the Tiber through the plain, passing on till it was lost in the distance. There appeared "The Latian coast where sprung the epic war, 'Arms and the man,' whose reascending star Rose o'er an empire; and upon the right Tally reposed from Rome; and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was tilled, — the weary bard's delight." After a while, Helena, in her restless and troubled spirits, began to pace the portico as before. Cineas joined her and walked by her side. Both walked for a time in silence. As they passed the door, a figure darted back as though to elude observation. He then went into the atrium ; and, as Cineas and Helena passed up and down, he managed to sta- tion himself so as to hear the greater part of what they were saying. His complexion was swarthy, his eyes black, pierc- ing, and sinister ; his expression malevolent and cunning. He was very large in stature, with powerful limbs, and his dress indicated the rank of household steward. This was the man who was acting the spy upon these two. After a long pause, Cineas said, " "Well, I suppose I need not ask you what you are thinking of. "I am thinking of Lucius," said Helena, with a heavy sigh. And then she half said and half sang to herself some mournful lines froin a Greek chorus, — " Whom ceaselessly awaiting, Binlewcd with tears I go ; ^* 20 J The Toung Athenian. M 111; I My sad heart ever bearing Its crushing weight of woe." " Think, Helena," said Cineas, " of what follows in the same song ; let this at least be your xiomfort, if you will not believe my assurances ; you know the words as well as I," — " Fear not, my child, be not afraid; Great Zeus on high remains ; All things he sees with eye divine, And over all he reigns." " Zeus ! " said Helena, mournfully ; " ah ! there is the difficulty. My Zeus is the Zeus of philosopliy, the Supreme One, the inconceivable, the unapproachable. All my life I have been taught to adore Him, to worship Him with awful reverence. But do you not see what an immeasurable dis- tance arises to my sight, between me and Him ? O Cineas, there is something after all in the vulgar superstitions which makes me envy those who believe in them. See how the poor and illitei'ate man takes his God to himself, and prays to him, and is comforted while he prays. The common sailor, in a storm, makes his vow to his patron deity, and feels com- fort; he thinks that he will finally escape, and hang up his votive ta,blet. But here am I in a worse storm, with no one to whom 1 can look, or make a vow." " Now," said Cineas, " you forget yourself. What ! would you give up your own lofty conception of the one true God, for all the silly fables of the vulgar reUgion ? Let them keep their impure deities, their Apollo, their Neptune, their Mars, and their Hercules. We have been taught better, and can adore the great God of the Universe." " Ah, but in sorrow, in sorrow, Cineas. How can we get to him ? Can we believe that he will really notice us ? Tlie poor wife of some private soldier can perform her sacrifice, and pray to her god, who she thinks will help her. ]iut how can I venture to tell my petty troubles to the Eter- nal One, or expect that he will hear me ? No ! No ! Do you not remember these words, — lli'i The Toung Athenian. 21 " ' Sccst thou not, my friend, 'v How feeble and how slow And like a dream they go, '-^ This poor blind manhood drifted from its end, And how no mortal wranglings can confuse The harmony of Zeus ? " ' " My ILilena," said Cineas, gently, " your present troubles make you forget all the lessons of your youth. Why do you cliooso the most despairing utterances of the poets ? Have you forgotten all our childhood and youth, and the sublime ^ teachings of our glorious Theophilus ? Do you not remem- I ber the divine teachings of our revered master, about the i nature of God, of the immortality of the soul, of holiness, and of prayer ? Dearest sister, never have I ceased to be I grateful for my youth, when I had such a teacher to fill ^ me with such thoughts, and you, too, for my associate and ;i companion. When Labeo took you away, I felt that I had given up the half of my nature ; since then, I have trifd to keep up that ai'dent, youthful enthusiasm, that confidence in the Supreme, which we used to feel together. How is it with you ? Have you lost it ? " " Ah, Cineas, I have had a very different life from that of tlie enthusiastic girl whom you used to make the com- panion of your own aspirations and day-dreams. I have had a very different life from that which 1 used to lead in Athens." " Do you call it dreaming, Helena ? " asked Ciueas, with mild reproach in his voice, — "all those aspirations after the good and the beautiful, that long search after the divine ? " " Forgive mo, dearest brother," said Helena, laying her hand gently on his arm, and looking up with glistening eyes ; " I did not mean that at all ; I meant that, in my married Hfe, I have had no time for philosophy. As a Roman matron, I have had to take my part in maintaining the honors of the house of Sulpicius Labeo. I have had to travel much. I have lived in Gaul, and especially Britain, for years. I have a son, whom I must train. Does this leave ./ 22 The Young Athenian. \ ^ me much time, dearest Cineas, for philosophical abstraction ? But yet I have never forgotten those early teachings. I honor and lo»e the doctrines of the noble Theophilus. Who could forget " The Master " ? I never can, and I cherish deep within my memory the noble sentiments which he used to teach us. I love Plato and Pindar and iEschylus, and Sophocles better than ever, and prize more than before those noble passages to which he used to direct our chief attention. I know large portions of them by heart now, as well as I used to in Athens. And yet, dearest brother, in this life of mine and among all my occupations, all these give me no comfort. I know not how to approach the Su- preme, and the great object of my life is how to find out the way. Can you tell me ? Perhaps you can rid me of my greatest trouble. If you can, then tell me. You have ad- vanced while I have stood still; yo;; have preserved all your youthful enthusiasm for the Divine and the Holy. What way is there ? Let me know it." "You overrate my powers, dearest Helena," said Cineas, with deep thoughtfulness. " In a matter like this it is diffi- cult to find anything like certainty. But I will tell you all that I can. " You believe, don't you, that God is wise and benevolent ? He created all things. Is it not natural that he should at least be willing to attend to the interests and well-being of his creatures ? " " Perhaps so," said Helena, musingly ; " that is, in a gen- eral way. And yet this gives no comfort to the private individual." " If he is just and benevolent, don't you think that he would be willing to advance the interests and well-being of even one individual ? " " Well, perhaps it may be so." " He is present everywhere, and knows all things. Re- member what Socrates says in Xenophon : ' The Divine One is so great and of such a nature that he sees and hears v^ The Young Athenian, 23 iiieas, diffi- you all a gcn- Re- Divine d hears all tilings at the same time, and is everywhere present aud takes care of all things at the same time.' " ^^ " Yes ; that is true." " Then he sees and hears us at this moment. At this very moment, dearest sister, he is taking care of you in Italy and Labeo in Britain." "There is some comfort in that thought," said Helena, after a pause. " He is our Maker, the Author of our being, and * we are his offspring,' that is, his children. "Why, then, should not this Being be willing to hear us both, or either of us, at this time ? Can you find anything better than this in the vulgar superstitions ? Can we not rely on such a One as this, and say in our hearts to him, ' Thou didst make me. In all my sorrow I turn to thee, and ask thee for help.' Is not this better than a vow to Neptune or Mercury ? " " But the ignorant and superstitious feel comfort even in making the vow," objected Helena. " To that I will only say, in the words of Plato, * The Deity is not to be corrupted by bribes. He has regard only to our souls, and not at all to our sacrifices and proces- sions.' " " Do you believe, then, that we may ask him for every- thing?" " Not at all. He is all-wise, and may not see fit to grant it. He has his own purposes. Submission to his will is the first and highest duty of every one who prays to him. Do you not remember what Socrates says in the same dialogue from which I have just quoted : * If the God to whom you are going to pray should suddenly appear to you, and should ask you before you had begun your prayers, if you would be satisfied that he should grant you some one of the things we just spoke of; or that he should permit you to make your own request; which would you think most safe and advantageous for you — whether to receive what he should give you, or to obtain what you should ask from him ? ' " ! 24 The Young Athenian. i- w\ ii j iii!l " Tliere is but one answer to that question. Tlie All-wiso knowetli best. — " ' Oh never, never, let me raise This feeble will of mine, To oppose the might of Him who rulea All things with power divine ! ' " " Therefore," said Cineas, " if you accept that solemn prayer from -^schylus you will take still more readily that which Socrates quotes. It is the truest and the best for us. You remember it : * Great God ! Give us the good things that are necessary for us, whether we ask them or not ; and keep evil things from us even when we ask them from thee!'" " But, Cineas, are there no difficulties ? Can all come to God ? Is there no preparation ? Will he hear all men in- discriminately ? " " I suppose," said Cineas, thoughtfully, " that there must be preparation." " Without doubt ; but of what kind ? " "Deep meditation within the soul, and profound abstrac- tion for tht. time from all external things, together with the deepest reverence and the most humble submission." " Yes," answered Helena ; " and you know what Socrates says here, since you refer to him so much, for he says that the purification of the soul is this, — to accustom itself to re- tire and shut itself up, renouncing all commerce with the body as much as possible, and to live by itself without be- ing chained to the body. Now, for Socrates and Plato, and the grave Theophilus, this was practicable. If I were like you, dearest Cineas, it might be possible. If I were a great philosopher, like Seneca, this would be the way for me to care for my soul, so as to keep it pure before God. But I am a weak woman, in the midst of maternal cares. To separate myself from these cares, and live a life of medita- tive philosophy, would be wrong — wrong to my child — wrong to my husband. Don't you see the painful dilemma in which I am placed ? " The Toting Athenian. \. 35 .r" must " I see it," answered Cineas ; " but you can do this par- tially, at least, so as to prevent them from engrossing all your thoughts. ' The soul first of all, then all other things.' So said ' The Master.' " " Ah ! you don't understand my life. All this is possible for you, but not for me. Philosophical abstraction for me — a Roman matron — impossible." " Not quite that," said Cineas. " A virtuous life, like yours, passed in the performance of the best and highest duties to all around, is of itself a life-long purification of the soul." " I try to do my best," said Helena, meekly. " And yet I find that in my intense love for my child and husband I lose all thoughts of the Deity. He remains to me a majes- tic vision, a sublime sentiment. How can I draw near? Oh that I could find a way to him ! I think life would be doubly sweet if 1 could find a way of communion between him and my poor self. I adore the Deity, but fear him. I know not how to address him, or even by what name." She paused for a moment, and then continued, in a sweet, low chant, murmuring words from those majestic choruses which were so dear to her : " Zeus ! — whoevei he may be — If to be thus invoked be pleasing to him, By this I call on him. For weighing all things well, When I in truth would cast away The unavailing burden from my soul, I can conjecture none to help save Zeus." " Go on," said Cineas, " and see what the same one says," — and he himself took up the strain : " ' The One who leadeth mortals On wisdom's way ; Who bringetli knowledge out of suffering.' "Ah! my Helena, I have often thought that thus the Deity guides us ' on wisdom's way,' bringing for us ' knowl- ' 1 26 The Koung Athenian. )i edge out of suffering." I firmly believe that our desire to know him is pleasant to him ; and among all the things that purify the soul, the very best is the aspiration after God. If we desire him, this of itself proves that we are prepared to address him. Friends associate with one another when they have sympathies in common. The de- sire to approach to God shows that in some respects we are like him. Now like cleaves to like, and where there is an aspiration after God, there is an approach to him." " Yes ; but will God come to us ? What matters it how much we may asi)ire ? We can never reach him. Still he remains inaccessible." " The approach is something, nevertheless." " But in my condition it does not avail. Alas ! Cineas, T fear the longings of my soul cannot be gratified. If I but knew him, I might go to him; but how can I go to hira ; how can I address him ? " " My early life," she continued, after a pause, " and your companionship, and the instructions of ' the Master,' excited irrepressible desires within my mind, — ideas and thoughts that can never be subdued. You pass beyond me, brother dearest," she added, in mournful tones ; " beyond me. You are going onward* and upward in your soul's flight, while I linger near the starting-place. You already catch glimpses of the Deity, while I seek after him in vain. I know not how to address him, and if I did, my first words would be ' Great God ! teach me how to pray to thee ! ' " And now, as she spoke these words, a wonderful thing oc- curred. In their walk along the portico, they often went to and fro, and at this moment they reached the western ex- tremity, near which was a small room which opened out to- ward the front. From this room there came the sound of a sweet, childish voice, but in a strangely slow and solemn tone. " Hush ! " said Helena, laying her hand on her brother's arm. . m tw V I The Toting Athenian. \ ay And then slowly and solemnly, in that sweet, childish voice, as if in direct answer to the yearning cry of the mother, there came thes(; words : "» " Out Father who art in Heaven ! Hallowed he thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will he done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread ; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation^ hut del.'ver us from evil : for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever / Amen ! " Tears burst from Helena's eyes. " What words are these ! " she cried, — « ' Our Father ; ' " and clasping her hands, she stood listening, looking upward at the same time, as though from a half-formed thought that she might thus see that " Father." w..„,. V J li: n III. ISAAC. ITEN the prayer ceased, they waited in silence for more. But no more words of prayer were lieard. The voice of tlie child laughing merrily soon arose, and Cineas looked up with a sigh. " Ah, Helena," said he, " I have heard some- thing which is better than all my arguments. "Where did Marcus learn that ? " " I don't know, unless it was from the nurse." "The nurse!" Cineas folded his arms, and stood fixed in thought. Helena silently left him and went in. After a while he looked for her and saw that she had gone. " Yes," he murmured, " the mother must have gone to sol- ace herself with that sweet boy. But the nurse, — where did she learn that ? " He walked up and down for a little while, and then saun- tered into the house, and reclined on a couch in the Peristyl- ium. After a while Helena came in, followed by the boy Marcus and the nurse. The boy was an ethereal creature, with features strikingly like those of his mother. He had her spiritual eyes and sweet, expressive mouth. He was not more than seven years old, and rather tall for his age. He came bounding up to his uncle with the air of one sure of a welcome ; and Cineas took him in his arms, and pressed him to his heart, and looked lovingly at his beauti- ful face, and said a thousand caressing words. After a (28) Isaac. 29 he short time he went running out, and singing up nnd down the portico. The nurse remained. Cineas had noticed her hcfore, but now lie n^gardf'd her with very unusual interest. " Where," he thou;j;lit, " did that prayer originate ? Had those mar- vellous words been tiuight by her? Where did Aw, learn thoiu ? Did she know their deep significance ? " He in- wardly determined to find out from her. She was evidently Greek ; perhaps from some of the isl- ands. Her countenance was refined and delicate ; and her hair a* white as snow. Her features in youth must have been unusually beautiful, for now, even in age, they had a marvellous sweetness. Cineas was most impressed by her expression. It was that of one who had suffered profound- ly from some deep sorrow ; and yet, though he had never seen a face which bore greater traces of grief, he could not think that she was sad. It was rather the impression of a sadness that was past ; overcome by an unalterable and al- most divine patience. It was the face of Niobe, resigned to her lot, and acquiescing in the will of Heaven. " Could not this," he thought, " be a purified soul? " The subject of the late conversation occurred to him ; and he thought that here was a soul which had separated itself from material things ; here was one that might hold communion with the Supreme ; one that might offer up that sublime prayer which he had heard from Marcus. He wondered what had caused that awful sadness, now so completely conquered ; and what se- cret power enabled her so to turn bitterness into sweet peace. Those eyes — calm as the eternal gaze of the Egyptian Sphinx — showed no trace of present passion or impatience. He thought that it could not have been philos- ophy which thus had strengthened her, for he never knew a woman — or had heard of one — who had risen to that height of philosophic serenity to which a few gifted men had arrived. But his interest in this woman did not allow him to neg- 3* . inw"iii 11 J 30 Isaac. I:! : ■ ll ill \ '1 n l: liii '^ und ail accurate accountant. Such was the man upon wliom Cineas now placed liis chief reliance. As he entered, the stern features of the Jew relaxed into a smile of welcome. He was at his post in the Ubrary. It was an elegant room, surrounded with compartments which were divided into pigeon-holes, in each of which the scrolls were placed. Over these compartments were marble busts of authors, and on a large table in the centre there was the usual apparatus for writing, binding, polishing, and orna- menting the volumes. Cineas glanced at his work, and saw that he was engaged in transcribing Homer. " Isaac," said he, in a friendly tone, " what a wonderful book this is 1 For I know not how many ages it has inspired the mind and animated the life of the Greeks. All of us are familiar with it. Philosophers and peasants, soldiers and magistrates, all quote it. The Romans have nothing that corresponds with it. But with us it is the universal book. We think Homer and live Homer, Do you know of any other nation that has a book which fills such a place as this?" Saying this, he reclined upon a couch at one end of the apartment, and looked at the Jew. " We Jews," said Isaac, modestly, " have a Universal Book. But it is a colic ^tion of all our writers. It is, in fact, our literature. We all know it. We refer to it always. It inspires our hearts and guides our lives. We live it and quote it much more than you do Homer." Cineas was surprised at hearing this, but a moment's thought made him see that it was not so strange a thing that a nation should have a literature which they prized highly. " What books are these ? " he asked. "Our sacred writings," replied Isaac. " Are they poetic ? " " They consist both of poetry and prose." " Are there any epic poems among them ? " said Cineas, Isaac. 33 somewhat amused at the idea of a barbarian epic, and imag- ining wiiat a grotesque viohition of all the regular rules such a production would be. " No," said Isaac. " We have no epic poem. Yet our earliest history is not unlike a grand epic in its subject. Its theme is the highest and most important conceivable. It tells how the universe was framed by the Almiglity ; and how man was born. It traces the events of the earliest ages, and shows how all mankind have come from one source. It narx-ates the wonderful origin of our nation, and its marvel- lous history. Perhaps some day you may wish to read that story. I can assure you that, even to a mind like yours, there is much that can afford instruction, and excite admira- tion. And do not think it a mere outburst of national prej- udice, if I say that the man who penned this history possessed a greater genius than Homer, and his book is more to us than the Iliad to the Greeks." " He may have been a great genius," said Cineas, good- naturedly ; " but he didn't write an epic poem, and so lie cannot very properly be put in comparison with Homer. I should like very much indeed, however, to see the book of which you speak. I have heard something about it. "Was it not translated into Greek at Alexandria ? " " It was. But I need not say that to us, who know the original, the translation does not possess the same beauties." " Of course not ; especially in poetry. That cannot be translated. Look at Cicero translating ^schylus. Was there ever a more mournful spectacle? Even Catullus failed with a few verses of Sappho." " And perverted it," added Isaac. " No ; poetry cannot be translated. The delicate aroma is lost when you attempt to transmute it." "You have spoken of prose," said Cineas, returning to the subject. " What kind of poetry have you ? Is there any dramatic? If so, what do you do about the Unities? You cannot have discovered those rules." llij H'1 I'ii i'i ll I ir.il in;! l! nil m 34 Isaac. " We have at least one dramatic poem," said Isaac. " It is not for the pubhc stage, however, but for the secret meditation of the earnest mind. Its tlieme is of the most profound that can be entertained by the mind. In this re- spect it resembles the ' Prometheus,' and the ' CEdipus ' more than any others of the Greek plays. It treats of the great mystery of the government of God. Such, you know, is the theme of ' Prometheus.' You know, also, how -^s- chylus himself has failed in his immense undertaking. The t iblimest poem of the Greeks makes the Supreme Being a tyrant and a usurper, himself under the power of the in- exorable fates ; nor can the mystery and gloom of the ' Pro- metheus Bound ' be dispelled by the * Prometheus Deliv- ered.' A benevolent being suflPers excruciating torments, on account of his very virtue, at the hands of the Supreme. What is there more terrible than this ? iEschylus went be- yond his strength. He could not vindicate the justice of the Ruler of the skies, after so strongly portraying his cruel tryanny. Nor is it better in the ' CEdipus.* A perfectly innocent man is drawn helplessly into the commission of atrocious crimes, and finally dies in mysterious agony. In this, too, the great problem is started, but is not answered. Such works fill the mind with despair, and the dark mystery of life grows darker. " But in our poem it is different. The problem is pre- sented in the same way. A perfectly just and upright man is suddenly involved in enormous calamity. There is the same spectacle of unmerited wrong and suffering, which ap- pears arbitrary and unjust; the same things which tempt man to charge his Maker with cruelty, — to think the All- ruler a wicked and malevolent being. But here it is all answered, — all answered. For the answer is God! All is left to him. He speaks and vindicates himself and all his acts. And this is the only answer, and must ever be the only one," continued Isaac, in tones more mournful than us val; "the only one to him who asks, ' Why do I suffer? ■SI "■.-'■1 I Isaac. 35 Pro- " ' The Lord gave, and the Lord takoth away, Blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' •s^. ' What ! shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil ? ' " Cineas had listened with the deepest attention. Isaac leaned his head upon his hand, and was silent for a few mo- ments. Cineas then hinted that he saw some resemblance, in those sentiments, to Stoicism. " Stoicism ! " said Isaac, looking up in surprise. " Far from it. It is the very opposite. For the Stoics treat of man without reference to God; but we look at God alto- gether, and lose ourselves in him. For what are we with- out him ? And if we once lose sight of him, what remains but despair? Buf in him all things explain themselves. He is the Infinite, the All-holy, the All-wise. In him I put my trust." In speaking these last words, Isaac's manner had become changed. A deeper tone attached itself to his voice. He seemed rather to be thinking aloud than talking to Cineas. In this partial abstraction he raised his eyes with an ex- pression of unutterable reverence and devotion, and, looking upward, he began a sort of rhythmic chant, — " Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place From all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth. Or ever thou ludst formed the earth and the world, Even from everlasting to everlasting Thou art God." He ceased ; and, folding his hands, looked downward again in silence. It would be impossible to express the mingled surprise and awe with which Cineas listened to these words. All that he had ever heard of the mysterious knowledge of the Egyptians and Asiatics came to his mind. Was there much "^/c ' "^V—*^ ■ 36 Isaac. m 'm ,.! ^1 i !■' illijl ^i like this in those sacred poems of wliich Tsaae spoke ? Then, indeed, liis fond j)nuse was not undeserved. "That," said Cineas, "is from one of your poets, I sup- pose. Have you many such poems as this ? " " Many," said Isiuic with emphasis ; " but not dramatic. They are chiefly lyrical. Just as in your dramatic works the loftiest sentiments are found in tlie lyrical parts, so we find our noblest conceptions of God in these. "We are a religious people, and our poets were prophets of God. "With us, as with the Romans formerly, poet and prophet were identified." "In what possible way may your lyric poets compare with ours?" asked Cineas, curiously. "Have you anything like our metres ? " " We have a rhythmical system of ftur own invention. In former times, when these poems were written and sung, our music was by far the best in the world." " "What are the subjects of them ? " "There is only one subject to them all," said Isaac; "but, as that subject is infinite, so the themes of our songs are ever-varying." " What is that infinite subject ? " asked Cineas, only half understanding him. " God ! " said Isaac, slowly and with a certain awful reverence in his voice. " In our language it is not per- mitted to utter the sublime name." " Your poetry, then, should be deeply reverential," said Cineas, struck with his manner, and sympathizing with the deep feeling evinced by Isaac whenever allusion was made to the Deity. " I know of no such thoughts anywhere else," said he ; " and you know I am acquainted to a moderate extent with Greek poetry. But, in all that I have ever seen, there is nothing like this all-pervading elevation which distinguishes ours. You know well how I admire the wonderful works of the Greek mind; they are the perfection of human nil:! il i j 1! r:-, Isaac. 37 Then, I sup- imatic. works , so we ; are a With jt were ire with ing like vention. id sung, * c; "but, )ngs are nly half in awful not per- ial," said ng with ■jion was said he; tent with there is inguishes ul works f human genius. Yet yours is the literature of the intellect ; ours, that of the soul. It is spiritual — divine. Let Pindar give utterance to the sublimest thoughts of Plato, with his utmost pomp of imagery, and grand lyric storm of passion, and you will understand what our poems may be." Cineas repressed, with some ditficulty, a smile at what he deemed the most extravagant national pride. The solemn verses, which he had heard shortly before, showed that there was some reason for Isaac's praise ; and yet, when he put his native poets above Pindar himself, it seemed too much. " After all," thought he, " this Asiatic can never understand the Greek mind. With all his culture, the barbarian instinct remains." If he had noticed Isaac more attentively, he would have seen that he had become much changed during this conver- sation. Every moment his eye glowed with a more intense lustre ; his hands clenched themselves firmly ; his bi-eathing grew more rapid. His manner also changed. He spoke more abruptly, and often rather to himself than to Cineas. His tone was almost authoritative at times. That grand figure might have served as a model for Moses. The recollection of his nation and its glories, and all the might of (he God of Israel, burned within his heart and trans- foi-med him. He a slave ? He looked rather like one of those heroic Hebrews, who, in the days of the Judges, had at different times led up the people to break their bands asunder, and dash in pieces the oppressor, like Ehud, or Gideon, or Jephthah. " I am all curiosity to hear some more of your poetry," said Cineas. " Can you translate some for me which would give m-e an idea of it? If you can repeat any like that which you spoke a short time since, I should like to hear it." Isaac did not answer. He slowly rose from his seat, and stood before Cineas. Now, for the first time, the Athenian noticed the change that had come over the Jew. His mag- iKfl ii;i!. ij I' Pi p I 'Iff ii! n ! '-^m 38 Isaac. niflcent head, with its glowing eyes, his flowing beard and clustering hair, together with the commanding mien which he had assumed, made him one of the grandest beings that Cineas had ever seen. He thought that such a head might do for Olympian Jove. He wondered at the change, and could not understand it. Isaac thought for a moment, and then began, in a voice which was at first calm, but afterwards grew more and more impassioned, — " I will love thee, Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust; My buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower. I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: So shall I be saved from mine enemies. The sorrows of death compassed me. And the floods of ungodly men made me afraid. The sorrows of hell compassed me about; The snares of death prevented me. In my distress I culled upon the Lord, And cried unto my God : He heard mj' voice out of his temple. And my cry came before him even unto his ears. Then the earth shook and trembled, The foundations also of the hills moved, And were shaken because he was wroth. There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, And fire out of his mouth devoured: Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also and came down : And darkness w^as under his feet. Ana he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: Yea. he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made dr.rkness his secret place. His pavilion round about him were dark waters And thick clouds of the skies. At the brightness that was before him his thick clouds passed ; Hail-stones and coals of fire. * The Lord also thundered in the heavens. And the Highest gave his voice; , Hail-stones and coals of fire. Yea, he sent out his arrows, and scattered them ; And he shot out his lightnings and discomfited them. Isaac. 39 g^^ Then the channels of the waters were seen, . • And till! fomi(lati<.n.s of the world were discovered, '"^ _ At thy rcl.uko. () Lord, that At the blast of the brt.ath of thy nostrils, jcrht He i^ent from above, he took nie, and sr, He drew nic out of many waters. • He delivered nie from my strong enem)', And from them which hated me; (^oice , For they were too strong for me. QJ.Q ^ They prevented me in tlic day of my calamity. Hut the Lord was my stay. He brought me forth also into a large place ; He delivered mc, because he delighted in me." The rehearsal of these words formed a memorable scene for Cineas. After the first few lines, Isaac grew more and more excited, until he arose to a sublime passion of fervid enthusiasm. His clear, full voice intoned into each line, so that it came to Cineas like the peal of a war-trumpet, and it subdued all his spirit. They blended themselves with the words of the prayer of Marcus. " Whence came all these words ? " he thought. In his rapt attention, he traced the sublime idea of the poet, although he could not comprehend all his expressions. For that poet began by singing of his own love to his Maker, after which he went on to portray all the powers of the Infinite One put forth to save him, — a man. It was like a new revelation to Cineas. Here was a lofty assertion of that which he could scarcely hope for. He could say to himself that it was probable, that it was desirable ; but here was one who declared that it had actually been. The one had conjecture ; the other, ex- perience. That experience was here narrated ; and in what words ! How coldly sounded the loftiest language of Plato beside these divine utterances ! |edi " Go on ! go on ! " he cried, as Isaac paused; " or no — stop — go back and repeat it all over — over and over — till I have fixed these marvellous words in my memory ! " " I will, Cineas," said Isaac ; " but these are only a part of many other such, which are the stay and the solace ill! II' li 1 1 I liJir >|lli. 1 * 1 l-iiv'- 40 Isaac. of ray life ; and not of mine only, but of all my afflicted nation." lie pansed ; a sigh burst from him ; and he secimod to struj^gle with ov('rj)o\vcring emotion. " No, no," he mur- mured to himself, " I muat not think of it ; " and then turning to the Athenian, " Noble Cineas, pardon my weakness ; but it overcomes me whenever I think of my country." Again his emotion overpowered him ; tears welled from his eyes, — " How shall we sinp the Lord's song In a strange lund ! If I forget thee, Jerusalem, Let my right hand forget her cunning; If I do not remember thee, Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth ; If I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joj'." Again he paused, trying to subdue his passionate sorrow. Cineas was much amused by the agitation of this extraor- dinary man. The longing homesickness evinced by his words and tones, profoundly moved him. He thought the scene too painful for this broken-hearted exile. He rose and came up to him. " Isaac," said he, speaking in a voice of tenderest and most generous sympathy, and laying his hand on the arm of the Jew, " let me not be the cause of so much agitation. Forgive me. I have opened mournful memories. Think of these things no more." Isaac rallied at once. He looked at Cineas with a glance of gratitude and affection. *' Alas," he said, with a sad smile, " I think of these things all the time, and dream of them by night. Pardon me. I have lost my self-control ; and have been led away by your warm sympathy to forget myself. Another time we will talk of these things. But I will write out some of these verses which you appear to appreciate, as I cannot trust my- self to recite them." Isaac. 41 And, taking his pen, he tnioedout the verses on a sheet of papyrus, anil then hanch'd it to Cineas. " And now," said Cineas, anxious to chanj^e the conversa- tion ; " I will tell you in a few words the business that brouj^ht me here to-day." He then proceeded to relate the action of Labeo, and his own appointment as guardian in case of the former's death. " Now, Isaac," he continued, " from what I have lu'ard and seen of you, 1 liave confidence both in your honesty and intelligence. I will need an able assistant in the work tliat devolves upon me ; for I intend shortly to assume the charge of this family and estate." As Cineas said this, Isaac's fine face was overspread with a ilush of genuine and unaffected delight. " You yourself, Cineas ! " lie exclaimed. " Then I am free from one great and distressing anxiety. I have heard that your own possessions are vast, and that your wealth is equal to that of the richest in Rome. You can understand the business of this estate the more i-eadily, and, what is bet- ter, you can perceive if anything has been mismanaged." " That is what I wish to discover. You know that I al- ready dislike and suspect this Hegio. He has been control- ler and manager of this esUite for three years ; and does what he pleases. I must see what he has been doing. I wish you now to tell me everything that you know about him. Does Hegio spend much time in Ron 3 ? " " Much." " What for ? " • " He is engaged in speculations." " What are they ? " " He originally began by buying rarities for the table of the emperor — particularly African truffles. He has now for some time been engaged in loaning money." " Loaning money ? " « Yes." "Is he rich?" 4* r i' I ! Hill II pi I I. i iir, ■( ■ IH ^ ■ ;i:!. M'' hjM 42 Isaac. " No ; but he controls much money," said Isaac, with deep meannig in his tone. "Labeo's, you mean, I suppose," said Cineas. « Yes." " Perhaps he loans the money on account of the estate so as to enrich his emidoyer." " The money is certainly Labeo's. Whether he will be enriclied or not is altogether another (juestion. Hegio's great acquaintances have spoiled him," continued Isaac somewhat dryly. '' pJeneca, the wonderful philosoj ' r and moralist, has shown him how to double his income within a year by loaning it judiciously. Tigellinus is now teaching him how to scjuander it." " Tigellinus ! " " Yes. Heglo sometimes coniwunds Tigellinus with Labeo, and hardly knows which is his master." " How ? " asked Cineas, not quite understanding him. " By paying to him the money of Labeo, and making re- turns of accounts to him." " Great Zeus ! " cried Cineas, springing up. " How do you know this ? " " My gratitude to Labeo, and affection for his noble wife and child have always made me watchful over this family. When we arrived here I marked this man. I knew that such a face could not cover an honest heart. I knew that he was a cunning scoundrel, and determined to watch him. Circumstaiices favored me very greatly. You know our nation, — how it is all united, wherever it may be scattered, and how we all cling together. We form a separate com- munity wherever we go. We all know one another, stand by one another, and assist one another as far as possible. I know all the Jews in Rome. Many of them are very wealthy, and know all the secrets of the great world. " As soon as I determined to watch this man, I found that I would need more eyes than my own. He passed much of his time in Rome, and what he did there was a secret to m M ■M ■3 Isaac. 43 with me. I knew, liowevt hut all the revenue of this estate (lid not go to Labc'O, nor anythin;? like it. Where did it go? To some purpose in the city. In order to find this out, I put mysfdf in communication with my own people. At once, nil their knowledge was at my disposal ; and I, a poor slave, was able to know the whole conduct of Ilegio, and his dis- posal of every hour of his time, every day of his life. '• TigcUinus is the most infamous of men, and already has much influence with Csesar. He is aiming at the highest position in the state, that of Commander of the Praetorian Guard, hut certainly as long as liurrhus lives, he will not get it. However, he is rapacious and unscrupulous, and has, for some time, been high in Niuo's favor. He has been the in- stitrator of some of the most atrocious acts that have oc(!urred of late. He has an especial fancy for plundering the aged, the weak, and the uni)rotected; and, for all these reasons, his name is now one of the terrors of Rome. " After Labeo went to Britain, Hegio was left to himself more than he had been before, and went more extensively into his private speculations, making use of his master's money for this purpose. When we first came hei'e, he was carrying on these operations on a great scale, and had large sums out at interest. It was during the first period of our return that he became attached to Tigellinus. He thought he saw in him the rising favorite of the day, and so he paid his court to him. " Since the disasters in Britain, new schemes have been started by him. He thinks that Labeo may not return again, and, in that case, the estate might be open to an unscrupulous man, backed by the power of Tigellinus. " " But how could they do such a thing ? " asked Cineas. "The most unjust act is usually founded on some pretext; but Labeo has never given any cause even for jealousy. He is not powerful enough for this." " Nothing can secure a man from the power of the Empe- ror. If Labeo were now here in Rome, and Hegio had se- in 44 Isaac. iiinn W cured the cooperu*^ isjellinus. eany dif- all. He m IV. ii! THE BO r AND HIS NURSE. HEN Cineas joined his sister, he found her with the family in the peristylium, a noble hall surrounded \)j pillars, with an opening in the roof. Her mother-in-law, Sulpicia, was there ; her son, Mar- cus, was by her side, and the nurse was seated not far away. Cineas was again struck by her strange aspect, which evinced so much suffering and pa- tient endurance. As he entered, Sulpicia was trying to comfort Helena in her own way. She was an elderly lady, of what we might call the true Roman style : a grave and noble countenance, a dignified manner, and a mien which evinced conhiderable hauteur. She was one who could never forget that she be- longed to the Sulpician gens. " If you wei-e a Roman, my daughter," she said, as kindly as she could, " you would show more firmness." " But I am not a Roman," said Helena, somewhat queru- lously, " and I cannot forget that Lucius is in danger." " Danger ! " rejoined Sulpicia, with contempt. " What danger? — from those savage Britons? And what, pray, can they do against a Roman army ? " " Have they not already done too much?" said Helena; and she damped her boy still more closely to her, expressing by that act her secret thought, that he alone was now left to her. "My son's wife," said Sulpicia, in accents of grave re- proof, "should learn to have more confidence in Roman (46) The Boy and his Nurse. 47 ith the oundeci . Her 1, Mar- ted not strange and pa- ilena in e might tenance, tiderable she be- kindly [t queru- « What |at, pray, I Helena ; j:pressing )w left to rrave rc- Roman soldier?. These Britons have gained some advantages by a sudden outbreak ; but they have yet to meet Suetonius." " London, Verulam, Camulodune ! " sighed Helena ; and, as slie spoke, she burst into tears ; for the horrible spectacle of barbaric vengeance on those well-known places rose plainly and vividly before her. She had known them well. Slie had lived for a time in each, and could realize to the fullest extent the horror of their fate. " It was only because they took the garrisons by sur- j)rise," said Sulpicia, with some severity. "Of course, under such circumstances, even Roman soldiers may be overcome. But the strength of the Roman armies is with Suetonius; and, when he comes back, he will show them wliut vengeance is. The next news that we receive will be tliat he has returned and punished those wretched rebels as tliey deserve." " The worst of it is," sighed Helena, " that those wretched rebels have some cause for their outbreak. The wrongs of Boiidicea." " I don't believe a word of it ; it is all their lies. The Roman has always been generous to an enemy. Of course, if tliis miserable woman wanted to get up a rebellion, she could easily invent excuses." " Would they have been so ferocious and implacable if they had no cause ? " " Of course they would," said Sulpicia, in a tone that put denial aside. " Of course they would. It is the nature of the .barbarian to rel)cl. And this shows the necessity of severe measures. You cannot have security among wretches r.' e these without strong repression and eternal vigilance. AMien their armies are broken up again, they will receive a lesson, I hope, which they will not soon forget." : " Their armies are so large, and they are so fierce and so ; brave ! " said Helena. "And pray, what does that matter? A Roman army ^ never considers mere numbers in deahng with barbarians. ^m .-w- 48 T^e Boy and his Nurse. W: : I 'i. Hi ;|i Our soldiers can easily destroy them; and, in fact, their numbers will only make their destruction moi-e certain and more extensive." ^ "I am afraid that I have not your confidence," said Helena. " Great disasters have sometimes happened to Roman armies. Think of Carbo, Cassius, Aurelius, Cae pio, and Manlius, all of whom were defeated or taken prison- ers in the wars with the Germans. Above all, think of Varus and his three legions, miserably destroyed." " You have a good memory for disasters, my daughter," said Sulpicia, coldly. " I, for my part, prefer to think of our conquests. Are not these Germans in subjection, or at least in awe ? Have not the Britons been concjuered ? All our disasters are owing to the rashness of the generals, who would not understand the barbarian mode of fighting. Let a careful general go against them, and what chance have they?" " After all," said Helena, determined to look on the dark side, " even our best generals have not done much. Even Julius, when he went to Britain, could not conquer it. He made it known to the Romans, he did not place it under their power." " "Why, how unreasonable you are," said Sulpicia, impa- tiently. " Whether he conquered or not makes no differ- ence. If he had chosen, he could easily have done so. Otlier plans called him away. Britain was conquered by inferior men, very easily ; and this revolt will soon be forgotten. Suetonius is a very different general from the others, aftd he has a large army." " But think what vast multitudes of the Britons there are," pursued Helena. " How fierce, and how desperate. I have heard you tell of their famous chief, Caractacus, — and you said that all Rome admired him, — and Claudius let him go. If they have such men now, I fear this rebellion will be worse than you think it." " You aire a child, my daughter, and you do not know the The Boy and his Nurse. 49 , their liu and ," saitl ned to prison- liink of lUghter," ik of our r at least All our rals, who [tig. Let .nee have I the dark ;h. Even it. He it under icia, impa- no differ- so. Other by inferior forgotten, ers, aftd ho itons there desperate, xcus, — aiitl lius let him bellion will 0' tknow the Roman nature. This rebellion must be put down. Boadi- cea and all her followers must suffer punishment for their crimes. Perhaps by this lime Suetonius has already done the work, and given her wliat her crimes deserve. The mode in which these barbarians have gone to work, shows their true character, too. Tliey took advantage of the absence of the legions to rise. They make an attack and carry all before them. Under such circumstances they are often dangerous ; but when it comes to a fair field of battle, then tlicy are nothing. A small Roman army of one or two legions is more than a match for their utmost force. But if you will persist in thinking of the worst, what can I do or what can I say to comfort you ? " " Nothing — nothing. You are dear and kind, and I am weak and despondent. If I had your firmness I would think hke you." " I am a Roman matron," said Sulpicia, proudly. " And I am a Greek," said Helena. " But you must learn to be a Roman, dearest," said Sul- picia, kindly ; and, drawing near to Helena, she kissed her and added, " Come, my daughter, hoj)e for the best ; at least, bIiow more firmness, and do not despond. Trust in the gods. They have always favored the arms of Rome." Again she kissed Helena, and, after pressing her hand, she retired from the apartment. Helena leaned her head upon her hand, and, unable to repress her feelings, she turned her face away and wept. Her little boy crawled nearer to his mother, and twined his arms about her. For some moments the two sat in this po- fcsition. As for Cineas, he did not know what to say. Full )f sympathy for his sister, he yet was at a loss how to ad- uinisfer comfort in her deep dejection. o he sat in silence, [waiting for a favorable opportunity. Helena, at length, by a strong effort, mastered her grief, ind, turning round again, she embraced ber boy, and regarded lim with a long and loving glance. 50 The Boy and his JWrse. It! '! !■:.;;::, " My mother dearest," said the child, " why do you weep so? Do not fear about father. God will t; ' o care of him." The little boy looked at her vith an earnest and grave expression on his childish face. His mother kissed him, and stroked his head fondly. " Darling," elie said, " what do you know about God ? " " Oh, I know," said Marcus, " how he takes care of all tiling.^. He is our Father, and loves us." " Loves us ! " Helena took up the words u.id turned them in her heart. " Dear boy, you have strange thoughts and feelings sometimes," she said, after a pause. Cineas, too, felt the deep meaning of the words. He had never learned this from Plato. Tliis child had ah'eady ut- tered in his hearing words that pici'ced his soul and thrilled him, so he now looked at the mother and son, wondering what new thing would be spoken. " I pray to God for my dearest father," said Marcus, in a solemn tone, which sounded strangely in one so young. " I pray, and God hears me. And I think my dearest father will come back again from the wars. And when I think of him I do not weep, but feel glad." " And do you pray to the Great God — you, a little child?" said Helena. " Yes ; for he has said that all little children might come to him." " I don't know what you mean," said Helena, with some bviwilderment. " I never knew that he had said anything. When did he say this ? " Marcus looked at her with a kind of reproachful sur- prise. " What ! don't you know ? " he said, after a pause. " I know the very words he said, and I love them. But you do know them ? " he added, with a sudden idea that his mother was jesting. " Not I, dear boy ; I do not know what you mean. You §, "■''5S i The Boy and his Nurse. SI of little some hing. sur- "I ou do other You are so strange ; " and Helena looked toward Cineas, whose eyes she encountered, and r ticed his fixed attention to the scene. "I know the words," said Marcus, "and I love thcra. That is why I pray. Because He said little children might pray. He said, ' Let the little children come to me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven ; ' and haven't you heard this before ? '* Helena did not answer. Cineas heard these words with the same surprise which lie had felt before. The whole air of the child was that of one who knew perfectly well what he was talking about. There was no hesitation in his man- ner, or incoherency. " When did He say that ? " said Helena, at last. " I do not understand you." •' Why, when He was here." "Here?" " Yes, in the world. When He left heaven and was liv- ing in the world." " When He left heaven — and was living in the world," repeated Helena. " The fables of the gods tell no such stoiy as this. Most of them, according to these fables, spent dif- ferent periods among men, but men never were any the bet- ter for them." " Oh, but this is the Great God, and our Father," said Marcus, earnestly. " He loved us and pitied us, and so he came and lived here to bless us. And that was when some little children came to him. And they wanted to push the little children away. But he said, ' Let them come, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' " " What fable can he possibly have heard ? " asked Cineas. " Some one, which has been purified and changed in his own sweet thoughts," said Helena, kissing her boy fondly, and pressing him to her. " Ahd did he say you might pray to him ? " ^W S3 T/ie Boy mid his Nurse, % li f:i: " Oh, yes," said Marcus, eagerly. " He said, to ask what we wanted, and he would give it to us ; and he said, if we loved him we would go to heaven." Love again, — to love him. Ah, sweet childish thought. All is sununed up in love or hate. To love God. Perhaps this seems easy to a child ; but to a man it is different. Thus thought Cineas, as he listened, and thought still that •Marcus had heard some version of the many fables about Jupiter. Yet he wondered that he had never heard any- thing like this. While this conversation liad been going on, the nurse had not appeared to listen. With her sad but serene face she sat at a distance from the family group, her hands busied at some embroidery, and her eyes apparently intent on this. Yet she had noted all, and heard all. " But, mother dearest," said Marcus, caressing her, " how is it that you have not heard of this sweet thought that God loves you ? " " God loves me ? " murmured Helena, in a strange, slow voice, looking with deep meaning at Cineas. " Don't you know this ? You speak so strangely," said Marcus, with the persistency of a child. " And how do you know it ? " asked his mother. " Oh, I have known it always — that is, ever since nurse Las been here. And so I come to Ilim, and I pray to Him, and when I look at the bright blue sky, 1 often think I see the kingdom of heaven, and hosts of little children around the throne of God." " That would be a purer heaven than the Olympian one, at any rate," muttered Cineas. " And when I feel sad, I go and pray to tlim, and He takes all my sadness away." " Oh, my sweetest one, your words go through my heart. What words are these ? Where did you learn all this ? Tell me more that you know ! " Helena spoke in earnest, longing tones. The nurse lifted -A -!> <.^ T.- The Boy and his Ntirsc, 53 nurse |;o Him, I see around ky heart. 1? Tell fse lifted her heiid with a