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lating opinions, unchecked by diversity of language, over an empire more extensive than the whole of Europe.

And this community of language, all important as it is, is but a part of the manifold brotherhood, which already unites the growing millions of America, with a most powerful influence on literary culture. In Europe, the work of international alienation, which begins in diversity of language, is consummated by diversity of race, institutions, and national prejudices. In crossing the principal rivers, channels, and mountains, in that quarter of the world, you are met, not only by new tongues, but by new forms of government, new associations of ancestry, new, aid often hostile objects of national pride and attachment, While, on the other hand, throughout the vast regions included within the li nits of our republic, not only the same language but the same national government, the same laws and manners, and common ancestral associations prevail. Mankind will here exist and act in a kindred mass, such as was scarcely ever before congregated on the earth's surface. What would be the effect on the intellectual state of Europe, at the present day, were all her nations and tribes amalgamated into one vast empire, speaking the same tongue, united into one political system, and that a free one, and opening one broad, unobstructed pathway, for the interchange of thought and feeling, from Lisbon to Archangel? If effects must bear a constant proportion to their causes; if the energy of thought is to be commensurate with the masses which prompt it, and the masses it must penetrate; if eloquence is to grow in fervor with the weight of the interests it is to plead, and the grandeur of the assemblies it addresses; in a word, if the faculties of the human mind are capable of teusion and achievement altogether indefinite;

Nil actum reputans, dum quid superesset agendum; then it is not too much to say, that a new era will open on the intellectual world, in the fulfilment of our country's prospects.

THE MEN AND DEEDS OF THE REVOLUTION.*

Often as it has been repeated, it will bear another repetition; it never ought to be omitted in the history of constitutional liberty; it ought especially to be repeated this day;-the various addresses, petitions, and appeals, the correspondence, the resolutions, the legislative and popular debates, from 1764 to the declaration of independence, present a maturity of political wisdom, a strength of argument, a gravity of style, a manly eloquence, and a moral courage, of which unquestionably the modern world affords no other example. This meed of praise, substantially accorded at the time by Lord Chatham in the British Parliament, may well be repeated by us. For most of the venerated men to whom it is paid, it is but a pious tribute to departed worth. The Lees and the Henrys, Otis, Quincy, Warren, and Samuel Adams, the men who spoke those words of thrilling power, which raised and directed the storm of resistance, and rang like the voice of fate across the Atlantic, are beyond the reach of our praise. To most of them it was granted to witness some of the fruits of their labors--such fruits as revolutions do not often bear. Others departed at an untimely hour, or nobly fell in the onset; too soon for this country, too soon for every thing but their own undying fame. But all are not gone; some still survive among us, to hail the jubi

From the Principles of the American Constitution, delirered at Cambridge, July 4, 1826.

lee of the independence they declared. Go back, fellow-citizens, to that day, when Jefferson and Adams composed the sub-committee who reported the Declaration of Independence. Think of the mingled sensations of that proud but anxious day, compared to the joy of this. What reward, what crown, what treasure, could the world and all its kingdoms afford, compared with the honor and happiness of having been united in that commission, and living to see its most wavering hopes turned into glorious reality! Venerable men, you have outlived the dark days which followed your more than heroic deed; you have outlived your own strenuous contention, who should stand first among the people whose liberty you had vindicated! You have lived to bear to each other the respect which the nation bears to you both; and each has been so happy as to exchange the honorable name of the leader of a party, for that more honorable one, the Father of his Country. While this our tribute of respect, on the jubilee of our independence, is paid to the grey hairs of the venerable survivor in our neighborhood (Adams), let it not less heartily be sped to him (Jef ferson), whose hand traced the lines of that sacred charter, which, to the end of time, has made this day illustrious. And is an empty profession of respect all that we owe to the man who can show the original draught of the Declaration of the Independence of the United States of America, in his own handwriting? Ought not a title-deed like this to become the acquisition of the nation? Ought it not to be laid up in the public archives? Ought not the price at which it is bought to be a provision for the ease and comfort of the old age of him who drew it? Ought not he who, at the age of thirty, declared the independence of his country, at the age of eighty, to be secured by his country in the enjoyment of his own?

Nor would we, on the return of this eventful day, forget the men who, when the conflict of council was over, stood forward in that of arms. Yet let me not, by faintly endeavoring to sketch, do deep injustice to the story of their exploits. The efforts of a life would scarce suffice to draw this picture, in all its astonishing incidents, in all its mingled colors of sublimity and woe, of agony and triumph. But the age of commemoration is at hand. The voice of our fathers' blood begins to cry to us from beneath the soil which it moistened. Time is bringing forward, in their proper relief, the men and the deeds of that high-souled day. The generation of contemporary worthies is gone; the crowd of the unsignalized great and good disappears; and the leaders in war, as well as the cabinet, are seen, in fancy's eye, to take their stations on the mount of remembrance. They come from the embattled cliffs of Abraham; they start from the heaving sods of Bunker's Hill: they gather from the blazing lines of Saratoga and Yorktown, from the blood-dyed waters of the Brandywine, from the dreary snows of Valley Forge, and all the hard-fought fields of the war! With all their wounds and all their honors, they rise and plead with us for their brethren who survive; and command us, if indeed we cherish the memory of those who bled in our cause, to show our gratitude, not by sounding words, but by stretching out the strong arm of the country's prosperity, to help the veteran survivors gently down to their graves!

HENRY WARE-HENRY WARE Jr.-JOHN WARE

-WILLIAM WARE.

HENRY WARE, the descendant in the fourth generation from Robert Ware, one of the early settlers of the town of Dedham in 1644, and the son of John Ware, a farmer, was born at Sherburne, Massa

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chusetts, April 1, 1764. He was the youngest but one of a family of ten children, three of whom served in the Revolutionary war. He received a few weeks' schooling in the winter months, and was afterwards prepared for Harvard College by the village clergyman, the Rev. Elijah Brown, his elder brothers combining their means for his support during his studies. After completing his course in 1785, he took charge of the town school of Cambridge, in 1787 was ordained a clergyman, and in the same year received and accepted a call to the charge of the Congregational church of Hingham. He remained in this place, attaining high eminence as a preacher, for eighteen years, when he received the appointment of Hollis Professor of Divinity at Harvard. His election was a triumph of the Unitarian over the orthodox portion of the Congregationalists, and consequently excited much opposition from the latter. Dr. Ware took no part in the controversy which arose in this matter until the year 1820, when he published Letters to Trinitarians and Calvinists, occasioned by Dr. Woods' Letters to Unitarians. This was replied to by Dr. Woods in 1821. Dr. Ware put forth a second publication on the subject in 1822, and a Postscript in the year following.

He continued in the discharge of his professorship, largely extending its scope and efficiency, until 1840, when, in consequence of impaired sight, he resigned, and devoted himself entirely to the Divinity School founded in connexion with his professorship in 1826. An unsuccessful operation on his eyes soon after deprived him almost entirely of sight. He employed two years in carrying through the press a selection from one of his courses of lectures published in 1842 with the title of An Inquiry into the Foundation, Evidences, and Truths of Religion. The labor connected with this work impaired his previously enfeebled health, and the remaining years of his life were passed in retirement. He died July 12, 1845.

Dr. Ware married in 1789, and had a numerous family, his descendants (including the husbands and wives of his children) assembling on the twentieth of August, 1835, at his residence to the number of fifty.

HENRY WARE, Jr., the fifth child and eldest son of the Rev. Henry Ware, was born at Hingham, April 21, 1794. He was educated under the charge of his cousin Ashur Ware, and passed the year previous to his admission to Harvard at the Phillips Academy, Andover. He employed a portion of one of the winters of his four years of college life in teaching school, as a discipline in his own education. At the close of his course in 1812 he became an assistant in the Academy at Exeter, where he passed two years. He entered the profession of divinity, and became pastor of the Second Church in Boston in 1816. He remained in this place for thirteen years with well deserved success as a preacher, when he was compelled to offer his resignation in consequence of ill health. In place of its acceptance a colleague was chosen to assist in the discharge of his duties. He about the same time accepted the Parkman Professorship of Pulpit Eloquence in the Divinity School of Harvard University. Before entering upon the duties of his office he passed seventeen months in Europe. On his return he resigned his pas

toral charge and devoted himself entirely to his professorship, until forced, in 1842, by ill health to resign its duties. During this period he published in 1832 The Life of the Saviour, as the first volume of the Sunday Library, a series projected by him with the design of affording attractive and appropriate reading for young persons on that day. Three other volumes by different writers subsequently appeared, when the series was discontinued. In 1834 he prepared a Memoir of the Rev. Dr. Parker, of Portsmouth, to accompany a volume of sermons from the pen of that divine, who had recently died; and in 1835 a selection from the writings of Dr. Priestley, with a notice of his life and character. He also prepared a number of lectures and addresses delivered on various occasions, and numerous poems and essays for periodicals connected with his denomination. He died September 22, 1843. A selection from his writings by his friend and successor in his pastoral charge, the Rev. Chandler Robbins, was published in four volumes 12mo. in 1846. The first of these contains The Recollections of Jotham Anderson, Minister of the Gospel, a tale drawn in part from his personal experiences, with a few descriptive sketches, a number of poems prepared for recitation before the Phi Beta Kappa and other societies; The Feast of Tabernacles, a poem for music, prepared for an Oratorio; with several hymns and occasional verses suggested by the associations of travel or the incidents of life.

The second volume contains his Biographical Essays, a few addresses and controversial publications. The two remaining volumes are occupied by sermons.

These varied compositions are all well sustained in their appropriate spheres. Dr. Ware thought and wrote with energy, tempered by the care and reserve of the scholar. We select from the poetical portion of these volumes a sonnet.

SONNET ON THE COMPLETION OF NOYES'S TRANSLATION OF THE PROPHETS. November, 1887.

In rural life, by Jordan's fertile bed,

The holy prophets learned of yore to sing ; The sacred ointment bathed a ploughman's head, The shepherd boy became the minstrel king. And he who to our later ears would bring The deep, rich fervors of their ancient lays, Should dwell apart from man's too public ways, And quaff pure thoughts from Nature's quiet spring.

Thus hath he chose his lot, whom city pride

And college hall might well desire to claim; With sainted seers communing side by side,

And freshly honoring their illustrious name. He hears them in the field at eventide,

And what their spirit speaks his lucid words proclaim.

A Memoir of the Life of Henry Ware, Jr., by his brother, JOHN WARE, M.D., appeared in 1846 in two duodecimo volumes. It contains a selection from his letters, and presents a pleasant and satisfactory view of his life. Dr. Ware, the author of this work, has published a valuable series of medical lectures, and is also the author of a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, August 28, 1817. The topic was Novel-writing. He comments first on the Lydia Languish passion of young ladies for the

perusal of romance, and on the absurdities of the fashionable life and Radcliffian schools of fiction then in vogue, and from thence passes to the proper scope and importance of fiction, maintaining throughout a lively and animated strain. The poem was printed in the North American Review for November, 1817.

Mary L. Ware, the wife of Henry Ware, Jr., survived her husband a few years, dying in April, 1849. She was a woman of great elevation of mind and active benevolence, qualities which have been commemorated in an admirable Biography by Edward B. Hall. This gentleman married a sister of Henry Ware, Jr., and holds a leading position among the Unitarian clergy.

WILLIAM, the brother of Henry Ware, Jr., was born at Hingham, August 3, 1797. He was fitted for college by Ashur Ware, the Rev. Dr. Allyne of Duxbury, and his father, and was graduated

Mr. Ware.

from Harvard in 1816. The following year was passed as an assistant teacher in the school of his native town. He next devoted three years to the study of theology at Cambridge. He commenced preaching at Northborough, Massachusetts, and was afterwards settled in Brooklyn, Connecticut; Burlington, Vermont; and in the city of New York, where he commenced his labors December 18, 1821. In 1823 he married Mary, daughter of Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse of Cambridge.

In March, 1836, he published in the Knickerbocker Magazine the first of the Letters from Palmyra. These letters, the style of which has the air of a literal rendering, purport to be written by a young nobleman of Rome, who visits Palmyra during the latter portion of the reign of Zenobia. They are among the most successful efforts to restore to the modern reader the every-day life of the Roman Empire, and place the author in the foremost rank as a classical scholar and classic author.

In the October following he removed to Brookline, Massachusetts, where he took charge of a congregation during the winter, and prepared

the letters which had appeared in the Magazine, with others, for publication. The work appeared in July, 1837. In June of the same year he removed to Waltham, and again removed in the following April to Jamaica Plain, where, although holding no parochial charge, he occasionally preached. In June, 1838, he published a sequel to his former work entitled Probus, in which we are introduced into the Imperial city during the last persecution of the Christians which preceded the accession of Constantine. The scenes of trial and martyrdom are depicted with energy and feeling, while the work shares in its classical keeping and vein of reflection, combined with vivid description, the merits of its predecessor. The Letters from Palmyra is now known as Zenobia, and Probus as Aurelian, changes of titles which the author adopted from the English reprints.

He became about the same time the editor and proprietor of the Christian Examiner, a position he retained until 1844. In July, 1889, he removed to Cambridge, and in 1841 published Julian, or Scenes in Judea. In this he has depicted many of the scenes of our Saviour's life, the work closing with the Crucifixion.

In 1844 he accepted a call to a church in West Cambridge, where he remained until compelled, in July, 1845, to resign his charge in consequence of ill health. He then returned to Cainbridge, where he occasionally preached, and resided until April, 1848, when he sailed for Europe. He remained a little over a year abroad, passing most of the time in Italy, and on his return prepared, from letters written during his tour, a course of lectures on the cities he had visited, which were delivered in Boston, New York, and other places, and in 1851 published in a volume with the title, Sketches of European Capitals. They abound in choice reflection, criticism, and description. He next commenced the preparation of a course of lectures on the Works and Genius of Washington Allston, and after their completion was about making arrangements for their delivery, when he was seized by a third attack of epilepsy, a disease to which he had long been subject. He died, after lying a few days in an unconscious state, on the nineteenth of February,

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1852.

The Lectures on Allston were soon after published. Mr. Ware claims in these the highest rank for Allston. He compares his landscapes with Salvator's, his female heads with Titian's, his Jeremiah with Michael Angelo's Prophets. It is, however, as the portrayer of ideal female beauty that he considers him to have worked most in harmony with his tastes, and to have achieved his most successful works. Among these he gives the preference to The Valentine (in the possession of Mr. George Ticknor of Boston). All of Mr. Allston's works are, however, passed in review, and full, yet discriminating, meed of praise dealt to each. One of the five lectures is principally devoted to the Belshazzar.

DEATH OF PROBUS-FROM AURELIAN.

The long peal of trumpets, and the shouts of the people without, gave note of the approach and entrance of the Emperor. In a moment more, with his swift step, he entered the amphitheatre, and strode to the place set apart for him, the whole multitude

rising and saluting him with a burst of welcome that might have been heard beyond the walls of Rome. The Emperor acknowledged the salutation by rising from his seat and lifting the crown from his head. He was instantly seated again, and at a sign from him the herald made proclamation of the entertainments which were to follow. He who was named as the first to suffer was Probus.

When I heard his name pronounced, with the punishment which awaited him, my resolution to remain forsook me, and I turned to rush from the theatre. But my recollection of Probus's earnest entreaties that I would be there, restrained me, and I returned to my seat. I considered, that as I would attend the dying bed of a friend, so I was clearly bound to remain where I was, and wait for the last moments of this my more than Christian friend; and the circumstance that his death was to be shocking and harrowing to the friendly heart, was not enough to absolve me from the heavy obligation. I therefore kept my place, and awaited with patience the

event.

I had waited not long when, from beneath that extremity of the theatre where I was sitting, Probus was led forth and conducted to the centre of the arena, where was a short pillar to which it was customary to bind the sufferers. Probus, as he entered, seemed rather like one who came to witness what was there, than to be himself the victim, so free was his step, so erect his form. In his face there might indeed be seen an expression, that could only dwell on the countenance of one whose spirit was already gone beyond the earth, and holding converse with things unseen. There is always much of this in the serene, uplifted face of this remarkable man; but it was now there written in lines so bold and deep, that there could have been few in that vast assembly but must have been impressed by it as never before by aught human. It must have been this which brought so deep a silence upon that great multitude-not the mere fact that an individual was about to be torn by lions-that is an almost daily pastime. For it was so, that when he first made his appearance, and, as he moved towards the centre, turned and looked round upon the crowded seats rising to the heavens, the people neither moved nor spoke, but kept their eyes fastened upon him as by some spell which they

I could not break.

When he had reached the pillar, and he who had conducted him was about to bind him to it, it was plain, by what at that distance we could observe, that Probus was entreating him to desist and leave him at liberty; in which he at length succeeded, for that person returned, leaving him alone and unbound. O sight of misery! he who for the humblest there present would have performed any office of love, by which the least good should redound to them, left alone and defenceless, they looking on and scarcely pitying his cruel fate!

When now he had stood there not many minutes, one of the doors of the vivaria was suddenly thrown back, and bounding forth with a roar that seemed to shake the walls of the theatre, a lion of huge dimensions leaped upon the arena. Majesty and power were inscribed upon his lordly limbs; and as he stood there where he had first sprung, and looked round upon the multitude, how did his gentle eye and noble carriage, with which no one for a moment could associate meanness, or cruelty, or revenge, cast shame upon the human monsters assembled to behold a solitary, unarmed man torn limb from limb! When he had in this way looked upon that cloud of faces, he then turned and moved round the arena through its whole circumference, still looking upwards upon those who filled the seats-not till he

had come again to the point from which he started, so much as noticing him who stood, his victim, in the midst. Then, as if apparently for the first time becoming conscious of his presence, he caught the form of Probus; and moving slowly towards him, looked steadfastly upon him, receiving in return the settled gaze of the Christian. Standing there, still, awhile each looking upon the other he then walked round him, then approached nearer, making suddenly and for a moment those motions which indicate the roused appetite; but as it were in the spirit of self-rebuke, he immediately retreated a few paces and lay down in the sand, stretching out his head towards Probus, and closing his eyes as if for sleep.

The people, who had watched in silence, and with the interest of those who wait for their entertainment, were both amazed and vexed at what now appeared to be the dulness and stupidity of the beast. When, however, he moved not from his place, but seemed as if he were indeed about to fall into a quiet sleep, those who occupied the lower seats began both to cry out to him and shake at him their cups, and toss about their arms in the hope to rouse him. But it was all in vain; and at the command of the Emperor he was driven back to his den.

Again a door of the vivaria was thrown open, and another of equal size, but of a more alert and rapid step, broke forth, and, as if delighted with his sudden liberty and the ample range, coursed round and round the arena, wholly regardless both of the people and of Probus, intent only as it seemed upon his own amusement. And when at length he discovered Probus standing in his place, it was but to bound towards him as in frolic, and then wheel away in pursuit of a pleasure he esteemed more highly than the satisfying of his hunger.

At this, the people were not a little astonished, and many who were near me hesitated not to say, "that there might be some design of the gods in this." Others said plainly, but not with raised voices, "An omen! an omen!" At the same time Isaac turned and looked at me with an expression of countenance which I could not interpret. Aurelian meanwhile exhibited many signs of impatience; and when it was evident the animal could not be wrought up, either by the cries of the people, or of the keepers, to any act of violence, he too was taken away. But when a third had been let loose, and with no better effect, nay, with less-for he, when he had at length approached Probus, fawned upon him, and laid himself at his feet-the people, superstitious as you know beyond any others, now cried out aloud, "An omen! an omen!" and made the sign that Probus should be spared and removed.

Aurelian himself seemed almost of the same mind, and I can hardly doubt would have ordered him to be released, but that Fronto at that moment ap proached him, and by a few of those words, which, coming from him, are received by Aurelian as messages from Heaven, put within him a new and different mind; for rising quickly from his seat he ordered the keeper of the vivaria to be brought before him. When he appeared below upon the sands, Aurelian cried out to him,

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unless the general cry be taken for the truth, that the gods have touched them.'"

Aurelian was again seen to waver, when a voice from the benches cried out,

"It is, O Emperor, but another Christian device! Forget not the voice from the temple! The Christians, who claim powers over demons, bidding them go and come at pleasure, may well be thought capable to change, by the magic imputed to them, the nature of a beast."

"I doubt not," said the Emperor, "but it is 80. Slave! throw open now the doors of all thy vaults, and let us see whether both lions and tigers be not too much for this new necromancy. If it be the gods who interpose, they can shut the mouths of thousands as of one.'

At those cruel words, the doors of the vivaria were at once flung open, and an hundred of their fierce tenants, maddened both by hunger and the goads that had been applied, rushed forth, and in the fury with which in a single mass they fell upon Probus-then kneeling upon the sands and burying him beneath them, no one could behold his fate, nor, when that dark troop separated and ran howling about the arena in search of other victims, could the eye discover the least vestige of that holy man. I then fled from the theatre as one who flies from that which is worse than death.

Felix was next offered up, as I have learned, and after him more than fourscore of the Christians of Rome.

ZENOBIA, FAUSTA, AND PISO-FROM ZENOBIA.

A night scene on the Walls of Palmyra. Piso the narrator. As Fausta said these words, we became conscious of the presence of a person at no great distance from us, leaning against the parapet of the wall, the upper part of the form just discernible.

"Who stands yonder?" said Fausta. "It has not the form of a sentinel-besides, the sentinel paces by us to and fro without pausing. It may be Calpurnius. His legion is in this quarter. Let us move towards him."

"No. He moves himself and comes towards us. How dark the night. I can make nothing of the form."

The figure passed us, and unchallenged by the sentinel whom it met. After brief absence it returned, and stopping as it came before us

"Fausta?" said a voice-once heard, not to be mistaken.

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"Zenobia!" said Fausta, and forgetting dignity, embraced her as a friend.

"What makes you here?" inquired Fausta-" are there none in Palmyra to do your bidding, but you must be abroad at such an hour and such a place?" ""Tis not so fearful quite," replied the Queen, a battle field, and there you trust me." "Never, willingly."

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"Then you do not love my honor?" said the Queen, taking Fausta's hand as she spoke.

"I love your safety better-no-no-what have I said-not better than your honor-and yet to what end is honor, if we lose the life in which it resides. I sometimes think we purchase human glory too dearly, at the sacrifice of quiet, peace, and security." "But you do not think so long. What is a life of indulgence and sloth. Life is worthy only in what it achieves. Should I have done better to have sat over my embroidery, in the midst of my slaves, all my days, than to have spent them in building up a kingdom?"

"Oh, no-no-you have done right. Slaves can embroider. Zenobia cannot. This hand was made for other weapon than the needle."

VOL. II.-12

"I am weary," said the Queen, "let us sit," and saying so, she placed herself upon the low stone block, upon which we had been sitting, and drawing Fausta near her, she threw her left arm round her, retaining the hand she held clasped in her own.

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"I am weary," she continued, for I have walked nearly the circuit of the walls. You ask what makes me here? No night passes but I visit these towers and battlements. If the governor of the ship sleeps, the men at the watch sleep. Besides, I love Palmyra too well to sleep while others wait and watch. I would do my share. How beautiful is this! The city girded by these strange fires! its ears filled with this busy music. Piso, it seems hard to believe an enemy, and such an enemy, is there, and that these sights and sounds are all of death."

"Would it were not so, noble Queen. Would it were not yet too late to move in the cause of peace. If even at the risk of life I"

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Forbear, Piso," quickly rejoined the Queen, "it is to no purpose. You have my thanks, but your Emperor has closed the door of peace for ever. is now war unto death. He may prove victor. It is quite possible. But I draw not back-no word of supplication goes from me. And every citizen of Palmyra-save a few sottish souls-is with me.. It were worth my throne and my life, the bare suggestion of an embassy now to Aurelian. But let us not speak of this, but of things more agreeable. The day for trouble, the night for rest. Fausta, where is the quarter of Calpurnius? Methinks it is hereabouts."

"It is," replied Fausta, "just beyond the towers of the gate next to us; were it not for this thick night, we could see where at this time he is usually to be found doing, like yourself, an unnecessary task."

"He is a good soldier and a faithful-may he prove as true to you, my noble girl, as he has to me. Albeit I am myself a sceptic in love, I cannot but be made happier when I see hearts worthy of each other united by that bond. I trust that bright days are coming, when I may do you the honor I would. Piso, I am largely a debtor to your brother-and Palmyra as much. Singular fortune!-that while Rome thus oppresses me, to Romans I should owe so much-to one, twice my life, to another, my army. But where, Lucius Piso, was your heart, that it fell not into the snare that caught Calpurnius?"

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My heart," I replied, "has always been Fausta's -from childhood"

"Our attachment," said Fausta, interrupting me, "is not less than love, but greater. It is the sacred tie of nature-if I may say so-of brother to sister— it is friendship."

"You say well," replied the Queen. "I like the sentiment. It is not less than love, but greater. Love is a delirium, a dream, a disease. It is full of disturbance. It is unequal-capricious-unjust; its felicity, when at the highest, is then nearest to deepest misery-a step-and it is into unfathomable gulfs of woe. While the object loved is as yet unattained-life is darker than darkest night. When it is attained, it is then oftener like the ocean heaving and tossing from its foundations, than the calm, peaceful lake, which mirrors friendship. And when lost-all is lost-the universe is nothing. Who will deny it the name of madness? Will love find entrance into Elysium? Will heaven know more than friendship? I trust not. It were an element of discord there where harmony should reign perpetual." After a pause in which she seemed buried in thought, she added musingly,-"What darkness rests upon the future. Life, like love, is

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