XXX.

THE CHIEF MARTYR.

HEN the Christians of Rome were thus beginning to breathe freely again, and to return to their former avocations with some degree of security, the little community was filled with joy by an event which was to them of the greatest importance.

This was no less a thing than the arrival of the great apostle among them.

With him came Philo, who had accompanied him everywhere in his wanderings, and who now seemed paler, weaker, but, in spite of all that, more ardent and energetic than ever.

Many were the stories which these poor afflicted ones in Rome had to tell of their persecutions and sufferings. In the relief which they now had from the weight of oppression, they were yet conscious of danger. That danger they all saw was most likely to fall on the very eminent ones, and of them all the most eminent by far was Paul.

For him they feared. They entreated him to save himself from danger by quietness and obscurity. But Paul's nature did not allow him to do this. He had passed his life in encountering perils, and, as he fully expected to die at some time or other for his religion, he was as ready to lay down his life in Rome as in any other place.

He therefore continued his labors with the utmost publicity, and in all respects acted just as if the Christians were tolerated by the government. Under these circumstances he soon attracted attention; and as there were many officials

here, as there always are everywhere, who desire to earn distinction by a show of zeal, his labors were at last terminated by his arrest.

After his trial he was imprisoned in the dungeons of the Mamertine Prison, at the foot of the Capitoline Hill.

Here he prepared for his death. Philo, who was his constant attendant, had been arrested at the same time, placed in the same prison, and doomed to the same fate.

Enough time elapsed between his arrest and his execution to enable Paul to receive the visits of some friends, and administer comfort to them; and to write to other friends at a distance words of divine consolation.

Among those who came to see the prisoner was Cineas. He had seen him before, when engaged in the labor of his life.

He now looked with admiration upon this man in his prison, who stood before him in his chains, calm, self-possessed, and joyous, with an exhilaration of manner that filled him with astonishment.

The apostle expressed himself not only perfectly willing to suffer imprisonment, but really desirous to die. He said that he was ready to depart, and that departure from earth meant arrival at heaven. Thus far he had fought the battle of Christ, and now his warfare was over. He would now gain the reward of his toils. Immortal blessedness lay before him; glory such as no mind could conceive; bliss unspeakable and eternal. His fight was fought; his race was run; he had been faithful, and heaven was secure.

Cineas looked upon the attitude of Paul in the face of death with the profoundest admiration. He thought that the death of Socrates, which he had always so loved to contemplate, would be repeated in the man before him, and even owned to himself that there were things in which the apostle surpassed the philosopher.

Paul did not remain long in prison.

A few days afterwards the end came.

He was spared the keener agonies of death by fire. The Roman public had long since become satiated with horrors, and the spectacle of a man burning at the stake now excited different feelings from what it once did.

And now, when Paul's turn came, it was considered that the laws would be satisfied if he suffered capital punishment like any other person. Fire was an extraordinary application; it was not required here.

The common execution by beheading was allotted to

him.

His lofty spirit was sustained to the last by a high, unfaltering faith, faith that was more than faith, since it had become intensified to knowledge and conviction.

He knew that heaven awaited him. He saw the crown of glory that was laid up for him on high.

The sunshine of that heaven seemed to irradiate his face ; and those who looked on him thought that they saw the face of an angel.

As that noble head fell beneath the axe, there was one who looked on, viewing everything, who saw in this the grandest triumph of Christianity.

"Farewell, O Paul!" he murmured. "Noble soul,Christian, more than philosopher! Go up to heaven to thy kindred! Thou art sublime. Thou hast surpassed

Socrates."

With Paul another suffered.

His friend, his constant companion, his faithful and zealous

associate.

At last Philo found the end of his sorrows and his tears, and this was his happiness, that he could lay down his life for Christ, and die by the side of Paul.

There were loving hands which took up the remains and bore them to that place already consecrated by the Christian dead, and by the presence of those who had once lived there in persecution, of whom the world was not worthy, — to that place which later ages should fill with Christian monuments.

and time still succeeding should hallow with the holy remembrances of martyrs.

There they buried Paul.

There, too, they buried Philo, in the same grave in which his mother lay, and over his mother's inscription they carved a dove bearing an olive-branch, - the emblem of the Peace that he had gained, and the simple words,

"THE BISOMUM OF PHILO AND CLYMENE."

XXXI.

BEREAVEMENTS.

ABEO had found a home in Britain, not far from London. His villa was on the outskirts of the city, and looked toward the river. London had been rebuilt, and showed but few traces of the devastation to which it had been subject.

Here, he thought, in this quiet and peaceful spot, far removed from the painful remembrances of Rome, that Marcus might forget the past, and that the weight might be removed from his young heart, and the seeds of disease be destroyed. But Marcus showed no signs of improvement. In his dreams he still suffered the horrors of the catacombs, and lived among the tombs, and stood beside the dead. Not easily could his sensitive nature shake off the dread impressions of that place of woe. As he dreamed, so he thought, and his father shuddered as he heard him always talk, when he did talk, about death and the grave. In vain the resources of the country were exhausted to contrive amusements for the boy. Amusements had lost their charm. He was too indifferent to them all. His parents saw an increasing languor and dulness, which heightened their alarm. The bracing air of this colder clime was expected to produce a beneficial effect; but no benefit was received.

Helena's whole being was bound up in her child, and his failing health kept her in a constant state of alarm and anxiety. Sensitive and nervous, she had never been strong,