that the short remaining distance would be performed safely enough under the guidance of his friend. Flavia expressed her sorrow; she wished, she said, that Marcellus himself should testify the gratitude which she knew that he would feel towards his young relation. But Rutilius seemed fixed in his resolution; and, after agreeing therefore with the master of the ship, who promised to conduct her to Marcellus so soon as they landed in Egypt, she sailed from Tyre the second day after their arrival.

From the column of Theodosius.

CHAPTER VI.

The Platonist.

Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,
Kingdom nor empire pleases thee, nor aught
By me proposed in life contemplative

Or active, tended on by glory or fame,

What dost thou in this world? the wilderness
For thee is fittest place.

Paradise Regained.

RUTILIUS watched the departure of the vessel in which Flavia had embarked, and then turned back to consider how he should employ his leisure, now that the object was withdrawn to which he had so long directed his attention. The nature of his feelings towards her he had never exactly realised to himself. He had sought her first as the object of an uncertain adventure; and his ardent and romantic temper would have found sufficient recompense in the risk and interest of the enterprise. He had afterwards viewed her as his uncle's betrothed bride, and his generous spirit forbade him to mix one selfish feeling with his admiration and respect. Yet, in the familiar intercourse of their journey, the thought would occasionally arise, that so young a person could hardly have that perfect sympathy with a man of his uncle's age, to which her earnestness of character seemed to entitle her; and, notwithstanding

her anxiety to see Marcellus, there was not, he thought, the manner of one who was hastening to meet a lover.

These circumstances had gradually produced an effect upon his mind, which the purity of his feelings would altogether have prevented, had she been already united to another. The consciousness of his feelings had dictated his sudden resolution to stop at Tyre, instead of proceeding, as had been his original intention, to Alexandria. But it was not till he saw the vessel under weigh, and Flavia waving her hand to him as she sat in its lofty stern, that he felt the full bitterness of spirit which the separation produced. He seemed, for the first time in his life, to be without an object. During his younger years he had been carried away by the hopes of literary eminence which Athens offered, and had risen to early distinction among his associates; but as he grew in years, he seemed to stand in need of some more active employment. Eloquence had in former days swayed the world; but now he found that power was only to be procured by the sword of the legions. He left Athens thirsting for the military glory to which he hoped that his uncle's influence would open a path. He had joined his uncle only to learn that the ample opportunities, which might otherwise have existed for his promotion, were cut off; because the veteran soldier had been, as he thought, unhappily tainted by the Christian superstition. Just at the moment

when his prospects had been thus blighted, his path had been crossed by the beautiful vision which was now melting before his eyes. He had found a temporary object in the interest of Flavia's rescue, and since that time in ministering to her comfort. Her anxiety to set before him the excellences of the Christian system had certainly rendered it more attractive in his eyes, though his prejudices had not yielded to her influence; but his thoughts had been so fully occupied by her presence, that he had never remembered what a void her absence would produce. Ambition seemed for the last two months to have gone to sleep, and refused to wake up in a moment for the relief of the mind which had abandoned it. What should he do? To visit the friends of his family—the avowed object of his remaining at Tyre

was an effort to which his spirits were unequal. Yet, if he left the place, whither should he go? He could not bring himself to return to his family at Antioch; for the luxury and dissipation of that wealthy capital seemed to pall upon him, oppressed as he was with the feeling of the disappointing nature of all earthly enjoyments. The only thing which relieved the craving misery of his emotions was the sight of those natural objects, which remain still the same amidst all the varieties of mortal feeling, and, like the rocks which overhang the sea, reflect some shadow of their abiding existence upon the fluctuating waves of thought. The varied coast, therefore, in the neighbourhood of Tyre, the lofty heights of Lebanon,

its wintry summit, its ancient woods,

these he trod

for days together, especially when storms ravaged the coast, and when the gigantic cedars were shaken to their roots. At such times he would review what Viriathes had told him of the intense interest with which the Christian community watched the gradual growth of their faith, and of their firm conviction that it would one day spread itself as widely as the world of waters which he saw extended below him. Then would come the remembrance of that sweetness and delicacy of mind which he had seen in Flavia, and how she had adorned the principles which she professed. One day, as he was meditating on these subjects upon the shore, at no great distance from Tyre, he was startled by the sound of his own name; and saw, at turning, an elderly man of a singularly intelligent and penetrating countenance, whom he at once recognised as a teacher of philosophy whom he had known at Athens. He wore the cloak which marked his profession; and his commanding manner shewed that he was accustomed to deference from his disciples.

"Rutilius," he said, "do I see you on this shore, where gold is the only thing men care about? Have you changed Apollo for Plutus, and sacrificed the fame of Athens for the wealth of a Phoenician merchant?"

"I am but a stranger here," replied Rutilius; "and wealth is to me of as little value as reputation."