executions are rare, the peasantry attend in seriousness, and perhaps in horror, but also in the feeling of novelty, and the novelty is spread over a wider space of the mind, and presses it with a more penetrating feeling than the horror. At a London execution, the habits of the populace are merely carried from the hovel to the street; and robbery, ribaldry, and blasphemy, ply at the foot of the scaffold. Valerius seems to think the desire to see of what Death is made, the superior and universal impulse. In our conception, the horror is the universal impulse, overpowered only in peculiar instances arising from the state of the individual. The educated and humane turn away from public executions, because their sensibility is alive to the horror, and their education places them above the brute curiosity. But if any man, of whatever advantages of educated humanity, were to be certain that he must die the death of a culprit, it is probable that no restraint of horror at the struggle of his dying predecessor, would withhold him from seeing how death was to be undergone. In this case, the personal sympathy would vanquish the horror.

The Roman looked, on the gladiator's blood, urged by no lofty moral of the lot of human nature. He drank and gamed at it; it was one of a course of amusements; and if he preferred its desperate and fatal cruelty to them all, it was from the greater variety of the combat, its longer suspense, its display of noble forms, and daring vigour, and even from its effusion of blood, for man is by nature a savage. But with how different an interest must this combat have been witnessed by the gladiators looking through the bars of the arena, and waiting for the next summons. The crowds and splendour of the Coliseum must have been as air and emptiness before the eyes that watched the champions on the sand. With what surpassing anxiety must they have watched the gestures, the sleights of practice, the ways of evading giving the mortal blow, and when it was given, the boldest posture in which a gladiator could fall, and triumph as he fell. Medical books are a repulsive study to the generality, but there is no man who does not read the history of his own disease.

Mankind fly from death-beds, but there is no man who would not hangover

that spot of dimness, melancholy, and pain, if the patient was dying of a disease which was certainly to break down his own frame. The result seems to be, not that all men have a love for sights of pain and peril,-because all men know that they must die,—but that individual circumstances can overpower general horror. With Valerius, the anxiety to see death is the rule, the horror the exception; with us it is the contrary.

The interest felt in the sorrows of tragedy is another branch of this exciting question. But if the accomplished and delicate are content to feel, it must be without the presence of horror; all objects of direct repulsiveness must be expelled from the temple where imagination is to offer its sacrifice of tears. The deaths of the theatre are involved in every circumstance of gorgeous and lofty interest, which can hide the actual desperate pangs of dissolution. If the villain dies, our eyes are fixed upon the increased glory of justice, and the confirmed perpetual security of the helpless, whom he would have undone. If the hero falls, his bier is surrounded and made illustrious by the spirits of honour, and courage, and patriotism; the pain of the moment is overpaid by the gratitude of nations, and men are taught to covet his death for his immortality. We follow the perils of kings and chieftains on the stage, where we can have no personal sympathy. But it is, because for the time we are unquestionably under the partial illusion that they are true characters. We feel for their distresses, not from our love to see distress, but from the compassion which is a part of our nature; we trace their casualties with an anxious eye, because we are naturally anxious to know that they have escaped at last. This hope, that they will escape, and triumph, is so universal, that the death of the innocent or the magnanimous always offends the imagination. No glorious cloud of poetry covering their untimely graves, can make us forget that they and we have been wronged.

Next day, Valerius is led by the opulent widow through some of the "sights" of Rome. She finally introduces him to the temple of Apollo.

"So saying, she pointed to the solemn Doric columns which sustain the portico of the famous Temple of Apollo Palatinus,

whose shade lay far out upon the marble court before us, and passing between those brazen horsemen of which we had been speaking, we soon began to ascend the steps that lead up to the shrine. Nor can I tell you how delightful was the fragrant coolness, which reigned beneath the influence of that massive canopy of marble, to us whose eyes had been so long tasked with supporting the meridian blaze of the Ita lian sun, reflected from so many shining towers and glowing edifices. We entered with slow steps within the vestibule of the Temple, and stood there for some space, enjoying in silence the soft breath of air that played around the flowing fountains of the God. Then passing on, the airy hall of the interior itself received us; and I saw the statue of Phoebus presiding, like a pillar of tender light, over the surrounding darkness of the vaulted place; for, to the lofty shrine of the God of day, no light of day had access, and there lay only a small creeping flame burning thin upon his altar; but a dim and sweet radiance, like that of the stars in autumn, was diffused all upon the statue, and the altar, and the warlike trophies suspended on the inner recesses, from the sacred tree of silver that stands in the centre, amidst the trembling enamelled leaves and drooping boughs of which hung many lamps, after the shape and fashion of pomegranates-and out of every pomegranate there flowed a separate gleam of that soft light, supplied mysteriously through the tall stem of the silver tree, from beneath the hollow floor of the Temple.

"Now, there was no one there when we first came into the place, but I had not half satisfied myself with contemplating its beauties, when there advanced from behind the statue of Apollo, a very majestic woman, arrayed in long white garments, and having a fillet of laurel leaves twined above her veil, where, parting on her forehead, its folds began to fall downwards to. wards her girdle. Venerable and stately was her mien, but haughty, rather than serene, the aspect of her countenance. Without once looking towards us, or the place where we stood, she went up immediately to the altar, and began to busy herself in trimming the sacred fire, which, as I have said, exhibited only a lambent and fleeting flame upon its surface. But when, with many kneelings and other ceremonies, she had accomplished this solitary service, the priestess of Apollo at length turned herself again, as if to depart into the secret place from whence she had come forth; and it was then that first, as it seemed, observing the presence of strangers, she stood still before the altar, and regarding us attentively, began to recognize the Lady Rubellia, whom, forthwith advancing, she saluted courteously, and invited to come with the rest of us into her privacy, behind the shrine of the God.

"So saying, she herself led the way thither, Rubellia walking immediately be hind her, and the rest of us in her train. Through several folding-doors did we pass, and along many narrow passages all inlaid, on roof, wall, and floor, with snow-white alabaster and rich mosaic work, until at length we came to a little airy chamber, where three young maidens were sitting with their embroidering cushions, while one, taller than the rest, whose back was placed towards us, so that we saw not her countenance, was kneeling on the floor, and touching, with slow and mournful fingers, the strings of a Dorian lyre. Hearing the sound of her music as we entered, we stood still in the door-way, and the priestess, willing apparently that our approach should remain unknown, advancing a step or two before us, said, 'Sing on, my love-I have trimmed the flame-sing on-I shall now be able to listen to all your song; but remember, I pray you, that the precincts of Phobus are not those of Pluto, and let not your chaunt be of such funeral solemnity. Sing some gay thing-we solitaries have no need of depressing numbers.'

"Dear aunt,' replied she that had been thus addressed, without, however, changing her attitude, you must even bear with my numbers such as they are; for if you bid me sing only merry strains, I am afraid neither voice nor fingers may be able well to obey you.'

"These words were spoken in a low and melancholy voice; but guess with what interest I heard them, when I perceived that they proceeded from no other lips than those of Athanasia herself. Sextus also, on hearing them, knew well enough who she was that spoke; but when he looked at me to signify this, I motioned to the youth that he should say nothing to disturb her in her singing.

"Then please yourself,' said the priestess, laying her hand on Athanasia's shoulders; but do sing, for I should fain have my maidens to hear something truly of your music.'

"With that Athanasia again applied her fingers to the chords of the lyre, and stooping over them, began to play some notes of prelude, less sorrowful than what we had at first heard.

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Ay, my dear girl,' says the priestess, 'there now you have the very secret of that old Delian chaunt. Heavens! how many lordly choirs have I heard singing to it in unison! There are a hundred hymns that may be sung to it-give us whichsoever of them pleases your fancy the best.'

"I will try,' replied the maiden, to sing the words you have heard from me before. If I remember me aright, you liked them.'

"Then boldly at once, yet gently, did her voice rush into the current of that old strain that you have heard so often; but it

We have hitherto abstained from quoting the passages in which the impression of Christianity is made on the lover's mind. The subject is too solemn for criticism; but the interview with Athanasia, then under the expectation of martyrdom, is full of fervid and hallowed dignity.

"The child led me, therefore, into the adjoining chamber, and tapped gently at a door on the other side of it. The voice of the old priest bade us come in, and Athanasia, who had been sitting by his side, arose with him to receive me. She was dressed in a simple white tunic, her hair was braided in dark folds upon her fore

sel's hair.

"The girl, in the meantime, perceiving nothing of Athanasia's trouble, continued to play with a linnet which sate upon her finger, and to imitate, after her childish fashion, the notes of the bird. From time to time she turned round, as if to attract the lady's notice to the beauty of her favourite, and lifted upwards her smiling eyes, the pure azure of which reflected the careless glee of innocence. But, at length, another and another drop fell full upon the cheeck of the damsel, and then she looked upwards more steadily, and, seeing that, in truth, Athanasia wept, her own eyes began im. mediately to overflow with the ready tears of childhood. Athanasia pressed the girl to her bosom, and made one struggle morebut it would not do for her heart was running to the brim, and, at last, with one passionate sob, all the sluices gave way, and she was dissolved at once in a flood of weeping. I took her unresisting hand, and imitated, as best I could, the language of that consolation, which, alas! I had not to give. But it seemed as if my poor whispers only served to increase the misery they were meant to still. She stooped, and covered her face with her hands, and sobs and tears were mingled together, and the blood glowed red in her neck, in the deep agony of her lamentation.

"I looked round, and saw that the old priest was moved at first scarcely less than myself by all this sorrowful sight. Yet the calmness of age deserted him not long, and after a moment there remained nothing on his countenance, but the gravity and the tenderness of compassion. He arose from his seat, and without saying a single word either to Athanasia or to myself, walked quietly towards the end of the apartment, from which when he returned, after a brief space, there was an ancient volume held open in his hand. Still, without addressing us, the old man resumed his seat, which was right over against the disconsolate maiden, and immediately, in a voice touched-and but touched-with tremour, he began to read aloud, in the Greek tongue, words which were then new, and which have ever since been in a peculiar manner dear to me. You, my friends, know them

well; and surely none are to be found in all the Scriptures more beautiful than those sacred words of the royal poet of the Hebrews.

"God," said the old man, and his voice gained strength from every word as he uttered it," God is our refuge and strength: a very present help in trouble.

"Therefore will not we fear though the earth be removed; though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; "Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled;

"Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof."

"Athanasia took her hands from her face, and gradually composing herself, looked through her tears upon the old man as he proceeded."

"There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God; "The holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High;

"God is in the midst of her. "She shall not be moved; "God shall help her, and that right early.

"The heathen raged; the kingdoms were moved;

"He uttered his voice; the earth melted. "The Lord of Hosts is with us; "The God of Jacob is our refuge." "The blood had mounted high in the countenance of Aurelius, and his voice had become strong and full, ere he reached these last words of triumphant confidence. The tears also had been all dried up on the pale cheek of Athanasia; and although her voice was not heard, I saw that her lips moved fervently along with those of the fervent priest. Even in me, who knew not well from whence they proceeded, the words of the royal prophet produced I know not what of buoyance and of emotion, and perhaps my lips, too, had involuntarily essayed to follow them; for when he paused from his reading, the old man turned to me with a face full of benignity, and said, 'Yes, Valerius, it is even so; Homer, Pindar, Eschylus these, indeed, can stir the blood; but it is such poetry as this that alone can sooth in sorrow, and strengthen in the hour of tribulation. Your vain-glorious Greeks called all men barbarians but themselves; and yet these words, and thousands not less precious than these, consoled the afflictions, and ennobled the triumphs of the chosen people of the race of Israel long, long years, ere ever the boasted melody of Ionian or Doric verses had been heard of. From this alone, young man, you may judge what measure of candour inhabits along with the disdain of our proud enemies, how fairly, without question, or opportunity of defence, the charge of barharity is heaped upon what they are pleased to call our superstition,-how wisely

the learned and the powerful of the earth have combined in this league against the truth which they know not, of which they fear or despise the knowledge.' The old man paused for a moment, and then laying his hand upon the volume that was open before him, and casting his eyes upwards, said, in a deep and earnest whisper, Surely the truth is mighty, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against her.'

"But, alas! my dear father,' said'Athanasia, I fear me this is not the place, nor the situation, in which Valerius might be most likely to listen to your words. It may be that his own narrow escape, to say nothing of our present danger, has rendered him even more cautious than he was before.'

“And who, my dear child,' he replied hastily, and who is he that shall dare to blame caution, or to preach, above all in such things as these, the rashness that is of folly? No, no; Valerius will not believe that we, like the miserable creatures whose impious songs we heard last night together, are studious only of working upon the fears of the ignorant, and harassing, with dark and lying dreams, the imaginations of the simple. Here, (he laid his hand once more upon the sacred volume,)-Here are no 'wild stories of blood-thirsty deities, and self-sacrificing maniacs. Here all is plainclear-perspicuous. Here is that which Socrates vainly sought by all the ingenuity of reason. Here is that of which some faint and mysterious anticipations would appear to have been shadowed forth in the sublime obscurity of the visions of Plato. Here is that which, as that Mighty Martyr that died in this very city hath said, innumerable prophets and kings of the old time desired to see, and yet saw not. Do nothing rashly, young man ; but it is possible, as you yourself well know, that this may be the last opportunity I shall ever have of speaking with you; and therefore, before we part, I must needs charge you solemnly, that henceforth you are not one of those who are altogether ignorant; and that if your knowledge increase not, the sin shall be upon your head. I charge you, Valerius, (he rose from his seat as he spake,) I charge you, that when you return once more to your native island, you blot not out from your memory the things that you have seen and heard in this great city of light and of darkness. Examine-judge_ask aid, and aid shall not be refused you-but I charge you, as your soul is precious, I charge you once more, young man, neither to overlook in carelessness, nor to reject in rashness. I take Athanasia to witness for me, that I have given you the warning that is needful.'"

The concealments and sufferings of the early Christians, make a consider

able portion of this work. The subject, interesting as it is, has, we believe, never been touched before in novels, and the author deserves the praise of having brought forward this solemn portion of our history in its appropriate spirit-deep, reverent, and scriptural. On one of those meetings-sublime and melancholy meetings!-that gathered the persecuted people of God at midnight in caves, and tombs, and forests, to pray and read the Bible, Valerius has been an unintentional intruder, and he becomes an almost unconscious convert. But the Christian assemblies have been from time to time mingled with individuals who looked to them for the materials of future public convulsion. Cotilius, a traitor, under the disguise of a proselyte, is seized, and the Christians involved with him. His execution is a powerful picture of the fierce resolution, that "dies and makes no sign." The contrast between the sleeping and innocent beauty in the chamber, and the daring villain girding up his strength for death in the square below, is admirable.

"No lamp was burning within the chamber, but through one of its two windows, both of which stood open to receive the mild air of the evening, there entered a wavering glare of deep saffron-coloured light, which shewed me Athanasia extended on her couch, her head pillowed upon her left arm, and her right hand buried in the mazes of her dark hair, which lay loose and dishevelled upon her placid bosom. I say placid, for, fierce and unnatural as was the inconstant gleam that passed and repassed over her features, its ominous and troubled hue had no power to mar the image of her sleeping tranquillity. There lay she, her large serene eye-lids closed in their calmness upon orbs that were so soon to be awakened upon all the fierceness of perilall the gloom of terror. A smile-a sweet composed smile sate on her virgin lips, and her tunic scarce betrayed the modest heaving of her bosom. I hung over her for a moment, and was about-Oh! how unwillingly to disturb that slumber-perhaps that last slumber of peace and innocence when the chamber-walls were visited with a broader and a yet deeper glare, and my footsteps, I know not by what instinct, were drawn half unconsciously to the window by which the light had access.

"Caius, Caius,' she whispered, as I stepped from beside the couch; why do you leave me, Valerius; stay, stay, my Valerius.'

**I looked back, but her eye-lids were still closed; the same calm smile was upon

her dreaming lips. The light streamed redder and more red-All in an instant became as quiet without as within. I approached the open window, and saw Cotilius standing far below in the midst of the prison-court; the torches all around-the horsemen drawn up in silence on either side-and a single soldier close behind him, resting upon an unsheathed glittering sword, as in expectation of the signal.

"Sabinus, meantime, who sate on horseback immediately over against the prisoner, was stooping down and speaking with Silo; but ere I had looked for another moment, he dismissed the jailor, and I saw him nod to the trumpeter, who immediately lifted his trumpet to his mouth. Cohe understood the meaning of the nod, and tilius shewed, by one rapid gesture, that seemed to plant himself with more firmness upon his feet, his eye all the while being fixed stedfastly upon the Centurion. The glare of the torches was so strong, that I saw every thing as clearly as if the scene had passed at noon-day. I saw Cotilius' keen blue eye as fierce as ever-I saw his lips pressed together steadily upon his teeth

I saw that the blood was still fervid in his cheeks, for the complexion of this man was of the same bold and florid brightness so uncommon in Italy, which you have seen represented in the pictures of Sylla, and even the blaze of the torches seemed to strive in vain to heighten its natural scarlet. The trumpet was, as I have said, at the man's lips, and the soldier had lifted his sword from the ground, and my eye was fixed, as if by fascination, upon the bare throat of the prisoner, when suddenly a deep voice was heard amidst the deadly silence, calling several times, Cotilius! Cotilius!-look up, Cotilius !'

"The eye of Cotilius obeyed the summons more slowly than that of any other person who was present there-but at last it did obey it; and he, and I, and all the rest, beheld Aurelius Felix, the Christian priest, standing at an open window, not far distant from that at which I myself was placed; and it was evident to all, that it was from the old man's lips the voice had proceeded. Cotilius regarded him stedfastly for a moment, and then resumed his former posture; but the old man called again more loudly than before- Cotilius, Cotilius!' said he, and he stretched forth his fettered hand as he spake, and the sound of his voice was alike clear, earnest, and solemn-Cotilius! I charge thee, look upon the hand from which the blessed water of baptism was cast upon thy head. I charge thee, look upon me, and say truly, ere yet the blow be given, upon what hope thy thoughts are fixed ?-Is this sword bared against the rebel of Cæsar, or a martyr of Jesus ?-I charge thee, speak ere thy blood flows;and for thy soul's sake, speak truly.'

"Cotilius kept his eye upon the old man,