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Having premised these two points, we now proceed to inquire how it was that the prevalence and peculiar position of slavery in the Roman Empire facilitated the extension of Christianity. We must, in the first place, consider that Roman slavery differs altogether in character from modern or any other form of slavery with which we are acquainted, in this, that it was a normal part of the social system of the period, to the proper fulfilling of whose conditions (military organization and industrial training) it was necessary, both by supplying an object and prize for war, and by providing a class of men whom the dominant military caste could compel to adopt industrial pursuits. Thus the slaves were not of inferior race, but held a position,-the lowest, indeed, but still (what is very important to consider in forming an estimate of Roman slavery, and which the present writer acknowledges having learned from the lectures of Dr. Anster on the Civil Law) an organic position in the State. Slavery is, indeed, as Dr. Lee says, considered by Justinian as arising from the "Jus Gentium" (which, however, does not, perhaps, imply what we do by "the Law of Nations"), but not as being an original institution of the "Jus Naturale." In attaching the servile population of Rome, Christianity was enlisting the suffrages of the "prerogative tribe" of the Goths, Celts, and Dacians of the same race, who were afterwards to rule in Europe. In preaching and legislating for them, the Church became the Church of the industrial classes. Outside that jealous pale of Roman citizenship she called them from the East and from the West into the union of common sacraments, common hopes and duties. Barbarians and slaves, she revealed to them freedom, equality, brotherhood. And therefore it was that what Julius Cæsar had dreamed of-the making Rome the centre of a vast confederation of nationalities, each individual of whom should be a Roman citizenHildebrand accomplished.

We much regret that at present we are unable to dwell further on these most interesting Lectures. We conclude by thanking the gifted author for the pleasure they have afforded us, hoping much that Dr. Lee's literary efforts may continue in a direction which gives so much wider room to his powers of historical description and illustration than the drier and more scholastic subjects on which his fame, has hitherto rested.

A COLLEGE IDYL.

So through the fields he came, that happy eve in the summer;
The sunshine aslant through the boughs had chequered the light on

his pathway,

And from the shrubbery round and the bordering trees of her garden
Heard he the humming of bees, and the birds' blithe chirp in the hedges,
So that his heart beat quick, and he leaned on the gate for a moment—
Leaned on the well-known gate they had passed so often together.
There by the porch she sat, and above her the clambering roses
Clustered their flowers around her dark-brown hair like a halo:
Fair, in sooth, was she, and long did he gaze on her beauty,
Marvelling if aught so divine, so radiant in satins and muslin,
Could ever by chance be his; and, when he entered the garden,
Calm and smiling she rose, and said she was happy to see him-
Was he not tired with his walk?-Had he come by the road or the
meadows?-

poems,

Yes! 'twas a pleasant place, with a charming view from the windows.—
Her book?-Oh! yes, the last new volume of
Songs of a feverish bard who doubts both love and religion-
All most morbid and wild, and yet they somehow amused her.
This and more, poor fellow, full many a night he has told me
In the old times, as we talked by the fire in College together,
Sitting, each with his pipe, cloud-wrapt in rich Latakia.

THE LIVING SECRET.

AN ALLEGORY.

CHAPTER V.

Ερως ὃς ἐν κτημασι πιπτεις.

SOPH., Antigone.

So did matters proceed for some time, James Field's love growing daily, "without haste, without rest," as do all deep and sincere feelings of our nature, and in no wise tending to manifest itself to Ellen by talking paragraphs, as the conventional lover has done from time immemorial,

with grievous tautology and repeating of himself, in novels; which we, on the other hand, believe to be seldom the tendency in real life, if real love. Kant says that true genius has no self-consciousness; and he might have said the same of love, if, besides his "Kritik of Pure Reason," he had written a "Kritik of Pure Love:" which, the Fates and the Königsburg young ladies be praised, he never did.

But it came to pass, that one evening, it being now the month of October,' and James having been "in for honors" in classics, was waiting outside the Examination Hall of Trinity College, to hear the list of successful candidates read out. He was anxious about the result, both because he was not without a certain degree of hope that some one else was anxious about it-which we do not mind telling the reader, in strict confidence, was indeed the case-as also from the Board having, for the encouragement of classical learning (as is no doubt well known to the reader from personal experience), munificently placed the amount of four pounds in books at the disposal of any one obtaining a first honor at the October Examination. The Hall steps were crowded with young men in caps and gowns, James's class-fellows, who stood together in groups, discussing each other's chances of success, and talking much treason against the Examiners. Here and there an elderly gentleman was passing up and down with his son. James was alone, having but few acquaintances in College, and being, besides, too much occupied with his own thoughts to enter into the sort of small chaff that was going on among his companions. He felt dispirited from the reaction after the exertion he had gone through in the Examination, and stood apart listening to the clang of the Chapel bell as it vibrated through the gloomy square, where, amid a dark, all-pervading fog, might be descried two or three old women moving about vaguely, and in no particular direction; two or three unhappy-looking men in academicals, tending towards the Chapel. And when, at last, the door of the Examination Hall opened, and the three Examiners came out, they were immediately beset by a crowd of the candidates and their friends, eager to know the result, so that it was some time before James had any opportunity of putting in a word. At last one of the triumvirate noticed him: a benevolentlooking man he was, with a pleasant smile, and a high, dome-like forehead, something like the prior in the painting of "Bolton Abbey in the Olden Times." Large-hearted was he-the friend of all who deserved his friendship-the champion of any unfortunate pupil who was "cautioned," fined, or in any other adversity.

"Would you kindly tell me, sir, how my name stands in the list?" said James.

"Not so high as usual, Field; last of the first this time, my boy; makes two pounds difference in the prize, though."

"And here are your marks, Field," said another of the Examiners who was standing by. "Your composition was capital: in that we all agreed to give you the best mark we could; but your translation should be much more fluent, and you are deficient, sir, disgracefully deficient, in commentators."

James had a fatal habit of imagining that Greek must be learned in much the same manner as German or French, by merely reading the Greek author's own works; and so, being required to translate a difficult (and terribly improper) passage in Aristophanes, had rendered the passage itself, but had utterly failed to give any account of three distinct (and equally improper) meanings assigned to it by three German commenta

tors.

"Why, Field, what mark could you expect? You did not know Schnappius; you evidently had not read Stumppensdröch; and were totally and absolutely in the dark about Saussagenhausius !"

James turned away in no very hopeful mood as to his future prospects as a classical scholar, and was walking off through the fog towards the Kingstown railway, when, just as he had passed the College gate, he was almost knocked down by a hearty slap on the back, and felt a strong arm thrust into his. He looked up, and saw a gentleman whom he had several times noticed about the College courts, and now recognised as the Rev. John O'Daly, then the head-master of one of the largest and most successful schools in Dublin, indeed we might say in all Ireland.

"Never mind them, my boy," he said, linking James's arm in his, and drawing him away with himself in the direction of Grafton-street. "I heard all about it, and think your ignorance of those blockheads of commentators does you infinite credit. I never took to them myself, the Dutch omedhauns! But to write a language well, a man must have read it to some purpose, and I have just heard the examiners speak in the highest terms of your Latin and Greek composition, my young friend."

"I practise it a good deal, sir," said James, "because it amuses me. I like to turn any English poem which strikes my fancy into Latin verse in such sort as I can, and it seems to me that the very labour of

putting the thoughts into the forms of another language makes one realize them much more closely."

"Just so, just so," said Mr. O'Daly, "and I'll tell you what, Mr. Field, I want to have a talk with you about a little matter of business, so just turn in with me for half-an-hour, and let's have some oysters and beer, that will be better for you,' as Mahomet says."

"Allah is great, sir, and I quite agree with you," said James, as they entered Burton Bindon's, which, as may be known to the archæologist of oyster taverns, was at that time situated in Duke-street. Pleasant after the dismalness without was the warm, clean, brightly lit-up, thriving-looking tavern, with its spotless table-cloths, rows of shining pewters, and awfully respectable, curate-like waiters.

“Waiter,” said Mr. O'Daly to one of these, "some oysters and two pints of Bass-'nunc vino hordeo pellite curas,'" he observed to James, "cras'—and it is exactly about the 'cras' I want to talk to you, my young friend, as you must let me call you, even though I am the teacher who educated the four men whose names were above yours in that classical honor list."

They passed together into a small inner room, where were a fire and a small table spread with cruet-stand and plates. Then the waiter, having deposited the beer and the crustacea demanded of him, departed, leaving them together alone.

Mr. O'Daly was a handsome-looking man, of about forty-five; he had a broad chest, fine eyes, and forehead, and in everything wore an appearance of thorough health, bodily and physically, eating his oysters as if he liked eating them. In his manner there was a tinge of what in another would be pedantry, which, however, in him the charm of his genial kindliness and good sense carried off.

"Now, Mr. Field," at last he said to James, who was waiting in no small curiosity to be enlightened as to the nature of the communication Mr. O'Daly was about to make to him, "I have been this morning talking to your tutor about you, and he has spoken to me in the strongest praise of your attainments as as a classical scholar."

James bowed.

"And not only of that, but of your high character for steadiness and regularity in College."

Mr. O'Daly took a draught from his flagon of "Bass."

"Will you allow me to ask you whether you have yet thought of entering on any profession?"

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