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I. THE JEW WHO HAD APPEALED UNTO CAESAR

ROME; in the year of the city, 814; in the year of grace, 61; Nero on the throne; the apostles preaching Christianity; the ancient world in the period of its highest civilization, when petty divisions had become extinguished, and all the nations bowed to the one central city: -- such is the time of this story.

It was a busy, a rich, and a densely-people 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 province had been advancing so peacefully that history finds by little to record. Culture was there, and Rome was receiving from that quarter her Lucans, Senecas, and Trajans. 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 prosperous than now. Certainly Africa was 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 capitals had grown up in places which not long before had been the battle-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 disasters 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 the rich tissues which were demanded by Roman luxury.

Nor must we forget Palestine. Long since Hellenized 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 fierce 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, Antioch, Smyrna, and Damascus, with many others, which surpassed the capital itself in splendor and magnificence, and have left ruins which are the wonder of the modern traveller. Through these came that great overland traffic 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 caravans 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 formidable 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 contrary, they towered above them all.

The position of the Greeks at this time is partly instructive 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 language. 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 fallen 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 their sons to Athens to acquire a liberal education, or hired Greek tutors in their own houses at Rome. In Rome the 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 races were held in check, yet chafed furiously against the barrier. 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 civilized country for ages; and Massilia, which was founded by the Greeks, centuries before, was distinguished 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 Boadicea, 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, say 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 magnificent 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 cities. Next came Etruria, where the olive and the vine grew over all the hill-slopes and throughout the quiet valleys. Campania 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 enjoyment.

Where shall we begin? Shall it be with Paestum, where in this age those five temples were standing, admired already as types of hoar antiquity, but destined to a still more venerable age, since they have come down to our day in wonderful preservation; -- or Sorrentum, with its wonderful valley, where there is perpetual spring throughout the year; -- or Capreae, where Tiberius was wont to retire and devise, in hideous secrecy, new refinements of cruelty; -- or Pompeii and Herculaneum, which the awful fires of Vesuvius 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 melancholy streets? Or shall we turn to Baiae, where for generations there assembled all that Rome possessed of genius, of wealth, of valor, of luxury, of effeminacy, and of vice, to present a strange mixture of sensuality and intellect, of taste and corruption; 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 repassing at all times; -- to the Lucrine Lake, and the Elysian fields, and the Cumaean grotto, through which Virgil makes his hero pass to the under world; or to that steep cliff overhanging 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, tillage, heroes. Mantua gave
Me life; Brundusium death; Naples a grave" ?

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 direction of Naples. First came a detachment of soldiers, at whose head 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 circumstances. They all rode on cheerfully, with animated conversation, smiles, and frequent laughter. On the whole, however, their character and expression appeared rather sedate than otherwise, and it was the excitement of the occasion 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 and intellectual face, and clear, inquiring eye. His eager glance fixed itself on every new object which it encountered on the way, and he asked numerous questions, which the officer politely answered. The other traveller was of different appearance. His size was under the average; his hair was short and crisp; his face bronzed by exposure; his forehead broad and expansive, yet not very high; his lips thin; his month 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 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 companion 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 Taberae 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 temples.

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 overflowing. Here came chariots of nobles on their way to distant 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 prisoners in chains; beggars displaying loathsome sores; priests on their way to the temples; water-carriers; wine-sellers; all the arts, and all the trades; -- such was the 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 Caecilia Metella, a sepulchre, like 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 aqueducts 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 Romans historians, and the mightiest of satirists. Each has left his record. Were that record single, 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 then 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 people were debased and looked on in silence at the perpetration of 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 one believed in it who had any pretence to intelligence. Public honor and justice were almost unknown; and conquered provinces were only regarded as victims of oppression. Private virtues had 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 freely 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 contrasts 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 detecting at a single taste the native bed of an oyster or sea-urchin. Effeminate nobles wore light or heavy finger-rings to accord with the varying temperature of the summer and winter seasons, and yet could order a score of slaves to be crucified as an after-dinner pastime. This was the time when bloodthirsty myriads were watching the death-agonies of gladiators whose vengeful kindred were raging all along the borders 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 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 mockingly upon the death-agonies of martyrs who 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. Paetus 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, -- kindred 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 history, 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 of flatterers, and too high-minded to stoop to that baseness by which alone advancement could be obtained.

Moreover Rome was not the world. Beside the capital, there was the country. There, as Umbricius says, might be found simplicity, virtue, and honesty. Among the simple, the high-minded, and the frugal rustics, the vice of the city was unknown. In the rural districts, without doubt, the great masses of men continued as they had 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 minority. They could do nothing against the downward pressure 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 along 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 archway of the Porta Capena; and the centurion conveys to his destined abode the Jew who had appealed unto Caesar.

II. THE YOUNG ATHENIAN

Upon the slopes of the Apennines, in the vicinity of Tibur, stood the villa of Lucius Sulpicius Labeo. From the front there was an extensive prospect which commanded the wide Campania, and the distant capital. The villa was of modest proportions, in comparison with many others near it, yet of most elegant style. The front 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 descent, and where it joined the road there 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 orchard 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 immediately adjoining, a most magnificent establishment, which far exceeded that of Labeo in extent and splendor. This was 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.

It was early dawn, and the sun had not yet risen, but in the neighboring villa the sound of voices showed that the slaves were out for the day's labor. The villa of Labeo, on the contrary, was all silent, 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 manner indicated extreme agitation and impatience. She would pace the terrace in a restless way for a time, and then, hastening 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. The 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 stood 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 agitation. I have heard nothing directly; but I firmly believe Labeo 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 had 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, in 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 which 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, -- perhaps the very best after Corbulo."

"Yes," sighed Helena.

"You know, too, that his lieutenants are all men of vigor and bravery; and his selection of such men as Agricola and Lucius for his aids shows his shrewdness and perception."

"True, Cineas."

"Well, think on this now," said Cineas, in a voice which he meant to be cheerful. "The only danger which you can fear is disaster to that army. No tidings have come from it for some time. But such a general as Suetonius can scarcely be in danger of disaster. The reason why we have not heard is because the Britons have been rising in insurrection in his rear, and breaking off his communications."

Helena said nothing, but looked at her brother with unchanged 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."

"O 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 very worst."

"My dearest sister," said Cineas, in a voice which he vainly endeavored to render calm, "the whole of Britain 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."

"Boadicea!"

"The same."

"The one who has suffered such wrongs! Just Heaven!"

"The very same. She has roused all the tribes to madness, and they follow her 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. "All -- what of teh 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 particulars that I have learned. Yet remember 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 rebellion. Alarm and panic spread through the city when they heard the news. The story that has come here relates a great number of supernatural incidents, which I will tell you 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 howlings; the image of a colony in ruins was seen in the water near the mouth of the Thames; the sea was purple with blood; and at the ebb of the tide human figures were traced in the sand.

"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 escaped, and carried the awful tidings to London."

Helena had remained perfectly silent during this narrative, 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, understanding his sister's thought, "to meet myriads of savages with one legion. Suetonius is a general of a different stamp. He will take vengeance for all; and thoroughly too."

"No, no, he will be shut up in Mona!" said Helena, obstinate 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 are fifty generals that would gladly undertake to relieve him. But think for a moment what kind of 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 stirring 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 confident 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 chance 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!"

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 innumerable 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
Tully 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 station himself so as to hear the greater part of what they were saying. His complexion was swarthy, his eyes black, piercing, 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 supposed 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 from a Greek chorus, --

"Whom ceaselessly awaiting,
Bedewed with tears I go;
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 comfort, 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 philosophy, 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 distance 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 illiterate 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 comfort; he thinks that he will finally escape, and hang up his votive tablet. But here am I in a worse storm, with no one to whom I 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 religion? 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? The poor wife of some private soldier can perform her sacrifice, and pray to her god, who she thinks will help her. But how can I venture to tell my petty troubles to the Eternal One, or expect that he will hear me? No! No! Do you not remember these words, --

"'Seest thou not, my friend,
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 Helena," said Cineas, gently, "you present troubles make you forget all the lessons of your youth. Why do you choose 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 remember the divine teachings of our revered master, about the nature of God, of the immortality of the soul, of holiness, and of prayer? Dearest sister, never have I ceased to be grateful for my youth, when I had such a teacher to fill me with such thoughts, and you, too, for my associate and companion. When Labeo took you away, I felt that I had given up the half of my nature; since then, I have tried to keep up that ardent 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 the enthusiastic girl whom you used to make the companion of your own aspirations and day-dreams. I have had a very different life from that which I used to lead in Athens."

"Do you call it dreaming, Helena?" asked Cineas, with mild reproach in his voice, -- "all those aspirations after the good and the beautiful, that long search after the divine?"

"Forgive me, 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 life, 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 me much time, dearest Cineas, for philosophical abstraction? But yet I have never forgotten those early teachings. I honor and love 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 Aeschylus, 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 Supreme, 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 advanced while I have stood still; you 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 difficult 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 general 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. Remember what Socrates says in Xenophon: 'The Divine One is so great and of such a nature that he sees and hears all things at the same time, and is everywhere present and 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 processions.'"

"Do you believe, then, that we may ask him for everything?"

"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?'"

"There is but one answer to that question. The All-wise knoweth best. --

"'Oh never, never, let me raise
This feeble will of mine,
To oppose the might of Him who rules
All things with power divine!'"

"Therefore," said Cineas, "if you accept that solemn prayer from Aeschylus 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 indiscriminately?"

"I suppose," said Cineas, thoughtfully, "that there must be preparation."

"Without doubt; but of what kind?"

"Deep meditation within the soul, and profound abstraction for the 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 retire and shut itself up, renouncing all commerce with the body as much as possible, and to live by itself without being 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 meditative philosophy, would be wrong -- wrong to my child -- wrong to my husband. Don't you see the painful dilemma in which I am placed?"

"I see it," answered Cineas; "but you can do this partially, 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 majestic 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 I 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:

"O Zeus! -- whoever 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 bringeth knowledge out of suffering.'

"Ah! my Helena, I have often thought that thus the Deity guides us 'on wisdom's way,' bringing for us 'knowledge 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 desire 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 aspire? We can never reach him. Still he remains inaccessible."

"The approach is something, nevertheless."

"But in my condition it does not avail. Alas! Cineas, I 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 him; 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 occurred. In their walk along the portico, they often went to and fro, and at this moment they reached the western extremity, near which was a small room which opened toward 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.

And then slowly and solemnly, in that sweet, childish voice, as if in direct answer to the yearning cry of the mother, there came these words:

"Our Father who art in Heaven! Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be 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, but deliver 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 stood listening, looking upward at the same time, as though from a half-formed thought that she might thus see that "Father."

III. ISSAC

When the prayer ceased, they waited in silence for more. But no more words of prayer were heard. The voice of the child laughing merrily soon arose, and Cineas looked up with a sigh.

"Ah, Helena," said he, "I have heard something 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 solace herself with that sweet boy. But the nurse, -- where did she learn that?"

He walked up and down for a little while, and then sauntered into the house, and reclined on a couch in the Peristylium. 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 beautiful face, and said a thousand caressing words. After a short time he went running out, and singing up and down the portico.

The nurse remained. Cineas had noticed her before, but now he regarded her with very unusual interest. "Where," he thought, "did that prayer originate? Had those marvellous words been taught by her? Where did she learn them? Did she know their deep significance?" He inwardly determined to find out from her.

She was evidently Greek; perhaps from some of the islands. Her countenance was refined and delicate; and her hair as 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 profoundly 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 almost 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 secret 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 philosophy 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 neglect pressing duties which were before him. In spite of his assurances to Helena, he felt that the situation in Britain was a most critical one. That army might never emerge from the gloom that surrounded it. Labeo might never return.

About a year before this time, when it was determined to crush the Druid religion, Labeo had sent his wife and child away from Britain to Rome. When he did this, he felt that a crisis was at hand. He understood the fierce, proud nature of the Britons, and knew that they would make a desperate resistance. He acted as though there was danger before him. He made a will, and appointed Cineas the guardian of the boy in the event of his own death. He gave the documents to Helena, with instructions to hand them over to Cineas. This she did knowing what they were.

When the absence of Suetonius had been somewhat protracted, Helena had told Cineas of her anxiety, and he had at once left Athens for Rome. Other circumstances influenced him in going, but this was the immediate cause. The brother and sister had kept up a correspondence ever since the marriage of the latter; but they had never met during the whole time.

The joy which Helena felt at meeting with her beloved brother for a time lessened her sadness; and his encouraging words taught her to hope for the best. As for Cineas, he at once determined to know how the affairs of the estate were managed, and do what he could to promote its welfare. He had not been there more than two weeks when the sad news came mentioned in the previous chapter.

One man had excited his deepest distrust at the very outset. This was the steward Hegio. A Syrian by birth, his origin was base, and he had been a slave when he first came to Rome. By some means he had elevated himself, and had been recommended to Labeo, who had given him the whole charge of the estate. Cineas had no sooner seen him than he knew that he was a villain. His cunning, leering face and furtive eye excited the abhorrence of the young Athenian. Moreover, the steward was not particularly respectful. There was a half-concealed impertinence in his manner toward Cineas, which the latter determined to chastise. At any rate, he felt that this was not the man to control such important interests.

He had come to the determination to have an interview with this steward, and expel him from his office without ceremony. On the morning of this day, he sent a summons to him to come to him; but, to his surprise, found that he had gone to Rome. Unwilling to disturb Helena, he went to see the librarian, a man of whom he had formed a high opinion, although he was only a slave.

This man was a Jew, named Isaac, whom Labeo had picked up in Syria, under somewhat remarkable circumstances. He had been concerned in a violent outbreak of his countrymen, and had been condemned to death. Labeo, however, for some reason or other, had pitied the poor wretch, and had obtained his pardon, and saved him from the agonies of crucifixion. Thereupon the Jew attached himself to his master and the family with the deepest affection and fidelity. For six years he had followed them in various places; and every year had only added to the high regard which they had formed for him. When the family came to Rome, Isaac accompanied them, and from the first had suspected Hegio. He kept all his feelings to himself, however; and it was not till the arrival of Cineas that he opened his mouth on the subject.

He was a tall man, of majestic presence, with strongly marked Jewish features. His beard was long, his eyes intensely lustrous and piercing, and his forehead was marked with deep lines. His education had been of the most varied character, and his great natural abilities had enabled him to make the most of his advantages. He was familiar with Greek literature and Latin also; he was an elegant scribe, and an accurate accountant. Such was the man upon whom Cineas now placed his chief reliance.

As he entered, the stern features of the Jew relaxed into a smile of welcome. He was at his post in the library. 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 ornamenting 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! 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. 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 collection of all our writers. It is, in fact, our literature. 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, somewhat amused at the idea of a barbarian epic, and imagining what a grotesque violation 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 Almighty; and how man was born. It traces the events of the earliest ages, and shows how all mankind have come from one source. It narrates the wonderful origin of our nation, and its marvelous 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 admiration. And do not think it a mere outburst of national prejudice, 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 he 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 is 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 Aeschylus. 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."

"We have at least one dramatic poem," said Isaac. "It is not for the public stage, however, but for the secret meditation of the earnest mind. Its theme is of the most profound that can be entertained by the mind. In this respect it resembles the 'Prometheus,' and the 'Oedipus' 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 Aeschylus himself has failed in his immense undertaking. The sublimest poem of the Greeks makes the Supreme Being a tyrant and a usurper, himself under the power of the inexorable fates; nor can the mystery and gloom of the 'Prometheus Bound' be dispelled by the 'Prometheus Delivered.' A benevolent being suffers excruciating torments, on account of his very virtue, at the hands of the Supreme. What is there more terrible than this? Aeschylus went beyond his strength. He could not vindicate the justice of the Ruler of the skies, after so strongly portraying his cruel tyranny. Nor is it better in the 'Oedipus.' 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 presented 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 appears 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 usual; "the only one to him who asks, 'Why do I suffer?

"'The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away,
Blessed be the name of the Lord!'

'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 moments.

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 altogether, and lose ourselves in him. For what are we without him? And if we once lose sight of him, what remains but despair? But 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 expression 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 hadst 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 like this in those sacred poems of which Isaac spoke? Then, indeed, his fond praise was not undeserved.

"That," said Cineas, "is from one of your poets, I suppose. Have you many such poems as this?"

"Many," said Isaac with emphasis; "but not dramatic. They are chiefly lyrical. Just as in your dramatic works the loftiest sentiments are found in the 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 our 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 permitted 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 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 difficulty, 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 conversation. Every moment his eye glowed with a more intense lustre; his hands clenched themselves firmly; his breathing grew more rapid. His manner also changed. He spoke more abruptly, and often rather to himself than to Cineas. He 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 the God of Israel, burned within his heart and transformed 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 me 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 magnificent 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, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer;
My God, my strength, in who 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 called upon the Lord,
And cried unto my God:
He heard my 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 was under his feet.
And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly:
Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness his secret place.
His pavilion round about him were dark waters
And thick clouds of the skies.
At the brightness that was before him 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.
Then the channels of the waters were seen,
And the foundations of the world were discovered,
At thy rebuke, O Lord,
At the blast of the breath of thy nostrils.
He sent from above, he took me,
He drew me out of many waters.
He delivered me from my strong enemy,
And from them which hated me;
For they were too strong for me.
They prevented me in the day of my calamity.
But the Lord was my stay.
He brought me forth also into a large place;
He delivered me, 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 p