Part 8

Marcus Aurelius was much influenced by the priests of the heathen temples, who were jealous of whatever interfered with their own idol-worship, and also by the philosophers, who despised the Christians. Much of the barbarity to which they were subjected was hidden from him, as the governors of the distant provinces put many to death without his knowledge. Still, he ought to have more thoroughly investigated the truth with regard to them, and had he been acquainted with the New Testament, would doubtless have admired its pure and sublime morality.

Another of his faults was, that he so often engaged in war when he did not approve of it, but considered it both a calamity and disgrace. It has been already mentioned that his colleague, Lucius Verus, was proud of military parade, and encouraged bloodshed. The Romans, also, were an iron-hearted people, placing their glory in foreign conquest. Any disorder in the countries that they had subjected, they were prompt to punish by the sword.

On one such occasion, when Marcus Aurelius led an army into Germany, to chastise the Quadi, a tribe who had rebelled against the sway of Rome, some remarkable circumstances occurred. It was a wild region which he traversed, where it was difficult to obtain sustenance. The troops were in danger of famine. The heat was intense, and no rain had fallen for a long time, so that the grass was withered, and many of their horses perished. The brooks and fountains wasted away, and they endured distressing thirst. The enemy shut them up between the mountains and themselves, preventing as far as possible their approach to the rivers. Then in this weak condition they forced them to give battle or be cut off.

It was pitiful to see the Roman soldiers standing in their ranks, with enfeebled limbs and parched lips, almost suffocated with heat. For four days they had scarcely tasted water. As their barbarous enemies pressed closely and fiercely upon them, the Emperor advanced to the head of his forces, and, oppressed with anxiety, raised his eyes to heaven, and said,

"By this hand, which hath taken no life away, I desire to appease Thee. Giver of life! I pray unto Thee."

Poor and empty, indeed, was this form of heathen devotion, contrasted with the triumphant trust of the king of Judah, who, when the mighty host of the Ethiopians stood ready to swallow him up, exclaimed,

"It is nothing for God to help, whether by many or by them that have no power."

Then it was told the Emperor, that there was in the camp an Egyptian, who boasted that the gods of his country could give rain.

"Call him forth!" was the imperial command, "bid him pray for water to relieve our thirst, and make to his gods any offerings that spirit propitiate them."

The dark-browed man came forward and with many ceremonies invoked Isis, the goddess who presided over the waters. He implored her with the most piercing earnestness to be gracious, and give rain. Thus the idol-priests, during the long drought in Israel, under Ahab, when the grass and brooks dried up, and the cattle died, cried in their frantic sacrifices, "from morning until noon, Oh Baal! hear us. But there was no voice, neither any that regarded."

In the pause of despair that ensued, some Christian soldiers, who had been constrained to join the army, were led forward. Kneeling on the glowing sands, they besought the Great Maker of heaven and earth, for the sake of their dear crucified Saviour, to pity, and to save. Solemnly arose their voices in that time of trouble.

But the interval allotted to this supplication of faith was brief. The conflict might no longer be deferred. As they approached to join in battle, the enemy exulted to see the Roman soldiers perishing with thirst, and worn almost to skeletons, through famine and hardship.

Suddenly the skies grew black. At first a few large drops fell, Heaven's sweet promise of mercy. Then came a plentiful shower, then rain in torrents. The sufferers, with shouts of joy, caught it in their helmets, and in the hollow of their shields. The blessed draught gave them new strength and courage.

While they were yet drinking, their foes rushed upon them, and blood was mingled with the water that quenched their thirst. But the storm grew more terrible, with keen flashes of lightning, and thunder heavily reverberating from rock to rock. The barbarians, smitten with sudden panic, exclaimed that the gods fought against them with the fires of heaven, and fled from the field. Thus the fortune of the day was turned, and the vanquished left victors.

Marcus Aurelius received this deliverance with deep gratitude. In his heart he connected it with the prayer of the Christians, and caused their persecutions to cease. An ancient historian mentions that the soldiers who had thus supplicated for relief, received the name of the "thundering legion," and were permitted to have a thunderbolt graven on their shields, as a memorial of the tempest that had discomfited their enemies, and saved the Roman forces, when ready to perish. The Emperor, in his letter to the Senate, recorded the events of that wonderful occasion, which, among others connected with the war he then conducted, were sculptured on the Antonine column, still standing in the city of Rome.

When the career of Marcus Aurelius terminated, and his time came to die, he gave parting advice to his son and successor, Commodus, solemnly charging his chief officers and the friends who loved him, to aid him in the discharge of his duties. Though he uttered so many precepts of wisdom and fatherly tenderness, it still seemed as if much was left unspoken, which he would fain have said. Anxious care sat upon his brow after his pale lips breathed no sound. It was supposed that this trouble was for his son, in whose right dispositions and habits he could have little confidence.

Commodus was the only son of Marcus Aurelius, his twin brother having died during infancy. The utmost pains had been taken with his education. But he had no love of knowledge, preferring sports or idleness, having no correct value of the preciousness of time.

When he was but fourteen years of age, his father permitted him to have a share in the government, hoping thus to elevate him above trifling pursuits, and implant in his young heart an interest for the people over whom he was appointed to rule. But no sooner was he in possession of power, than he began to abuse it. He grew haughty, and despised the rights of others, studying only his own selfish gratification.

He was nineteen, when, by the death of his father, he assumed the supreme authority. For a time his course was more judicious than could have been expected, as he consented to take the advice of aged counsellors, who were experienced in the cares of state. Afterwards, he rejected their guidance, and would listen only to the suggestions of young and rash advisers. Ere long he became unjust and cruel, taking away life as his own caprices dictated.

Among some of his most illustrious victims were the Quintillian brothers, Maximin and Cardianus. They were distinguished for wealth and liberality, and a zealous kindness in relieving the poor. They were also remarkable for their mutual affection, their studies and pleasures being the same. They read the same books, and so uniform was their flow of thought, that they could pursue together the composition of the same treatise. Such delight had they in each other's company, that they were seldom seen separate, and had no idea of divided or opposing interests. Rome admired this beautiful example of fraternal love, pointing them out as two forms animated by one soul. Without just cause, Commodus put to death these two brothers, who, having lived in each other's life, were executed at the same time.

In the midst of such barbarities, this bad Emperor was amusing himself with the hunting of wild beasts, and the company of vain and vicious people. His excesses were at length terminated by violence, being strangled after a reign of twelve years, December 31st, 192. His memory was execrated by those over whom he had ruled. Indolence and hatred of knowledge in his boyhood, and love of wicked associates in youth, brought the vices of a bad heart to early ripeness, so that he was at once dreaded and despised.

In analyzing his character, it will be found in two respects similar to that of Rehoboam, king of Israel, in his rejection of the advice of aged counsellors, to follow the guidance of the young, and in being the unwise son of a wise father.

We see that the honours won by illustrious ancestors will avail us nothing, unless by our own virtues we sustain their reputation. Indeed, if we take a different course, our disgrace will be deeper, as the career of the bad Emperor, which we have briefly traced, seems darker when contrasted with the lustre and glory of his predecessor.

Therefore, let every child of a good and distinguished parent, give added diligence, that he may not blemish the memory of those whom he loves, or stain the brightness of a transmitted name.

Bonaparte at St. Helena.

The drama sinks, the tragic scene is o'er, And he who rul'd their springs, returns no more; He, who with mystery cloth'd, pale wonder chain'd, And all mankind his auditors detain'd, Whose plot unfolding agoniz'd the world, Resigns his mask, and from the stage is hurl'd. When from the wilds of Corsica he broke, To snatch the sceptre and to bind the yoke, He rais'd the curtain with his dagger's blade, And pour'd red carnage o'er the slumbering shade. His fearful plan, terrific, strange, and new, Nor Fancy prompted, nor Experience drew, It sprang inventive from a daring mind Where dauntless nerve and intellect combined; Thence bursting wildly, like the lightning's flame, Gave birth to deeds that language fails to name. With battle-clouds the shrinking sun he veil'd, With flashing fires astonish'd Night assail'd, By ravag'd fields, and streams with carnage red, Trac'd o'er the earth his desolating tread:

Without a signal to the conflict rush'd O'er friends enslav'd, foes wounded, allies crush'd; High from the Alps, amid eternal snow, Pour'd his fierce legions on the vale below, With tramp of hurrying steed and armour's clang War followed war; from conquest, conquest sprang. In Scythian caves he fought; on Afric's sands, Chas'd the wild Arab and his roving bands; Perch'd on the pyramids in dizzy height. Look'd scornful down on Alexander's might; O'er Europe's realm like Attila he rush'd, Snatch'd, rent, divided, subjugated, crush'd; _Here_, planted minions in his smile to reign, _There_, loaded monarchs with his vassal chain. Rome's haughty pontiff trembled at the nod That dar'd to threat the altar of his God; While Albion's ships, whose bristled lightnings glow, Were seen like Argus watching for their foe, And her white cliffs in close array were lin'd With sleepless soldiers, on their arms reclin'd.

Far distant realms beheld his glories tower, And France forgot her wrongs, to boast his power; The pale-brow'd conscript left, without a sigh, Home, love, and liberty, for him to die. Even heaven-taught Genius proffer'd venal lays, The servile arts enlisted in his praise, And the rich spoils of old Italia's shore As trophies proud, his pirate legions bore. In that gay city where his lofty throne On run rear'd, in sudden brilliance shone, The Old World met the New, and sons of fame Who fill'd with awe, in long procession came, Rais'd the imploring eye, to ask sublime A milder sentence on the tyrant's crime. But how can Europe grant their warm appeal, Reft of her sons, and mangled by his steel? Hath she a couch so dark, a cell so deep, That burning Moscow's memory there may sleep? What can the scenes of purple Jaffa blot? And when shall Lodi's slaughter be forgot? Who from a race unborn shall hide the view Of Jena, Austerlitz, and Waterloo? Earth, clad in sable, never can forego The deep-grav'd trace, nor man forget the woe.

Yet, _let him live_, if life can yet be borne, Disrob'd of glory, and depress'd with scorn; Yes, _let him live_, if he to life can bend, Without a flatterer, and without a friend; If from the hand he hated, he can bear To take the gift, his stain'd existence spare. But who from yon lone islet shall exclude The fearful step of Conscience, foul with blood? What diamond shield repel the impetuous force Or break the shafts of pitiless remorse? Oh! in his sea-girt cell of guilt and fear, Stretch the red map that marks his dire career, Light the funereal torch, in terror spread His reeking hecatombs of slaughter'd dead, And if to hearts like his, Contrition comes, There let him seek her 'mid impending glooms; _There_ let him live, and to mankind display The mighty miseries of Ambition's sway; There let him sink, to teach them by his fate, The dread requital of the falsely great. Great, in the stores of an ambitious mind; Great, in the deeds that desolate mankind; Great, like the pestilence in mystic shroud That darts its arrow from the midnight cloud; Great, like the whirlwind in its wrecking path, To sow in evil, and to reap in wrath.

Polycarp.

There have been in all ages some firm and consistent Christians, who, rather than deny the true faith, have chosen martyrdom. Polycarp, the Bishop of Smyrna, in Asia, was one of the earliest of these. He had become very old and venerable, when, during one of the persecutions under the Roman Emperors, his life was taken away. No accusation was ever made against him, except that he was a follower of Christ.

Suddenly there was a great noise in the streets, and multitudes shouted, "Let Polycarp be brought!" Not dismayed at the tumult, he retired to pray, as was his custom at that hour. Then his enemies rushed forcibly into his house, and foreseeing their purpose, he said,

"The will of the Lord be done."

Calmly he talked with them, and as some seemed weary and exhausted, he commanded food to be set before them, remembering the words of the forgiving and compassionate Redeemer, "If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink."

He requested that he might have one hour for his devotions, ere they took him from his home, to which he felt persuaded that he should return no more. This they granted, and when the hour was passed, placed him on an ass, to carry him to the city. Two Romans of wealth and power, passing by, took him up into their chariot. There they endeavoured to persuade him to sacrifice to the heathen gods. He replied, "I shall never do what you advise." Then they threw him out of the chariot so roughly, that he was bruised and hurt. But rising, he walked on cheerfully, notwithstanding his great age. When he was brought before the tribunal, the Governor urged him to deny the Saviour. "Reverence thine age," said he. "Repent. Swear by the fortunes of Caesar. Reproach Christ, and I will set thee at liberty."

But Polycarp replied, "Fourscore and six years have I served him, and he hath never done me an injury. How then can I blaspheme my King and Saviour?"

"I have wild beasts," said the furious governor. "I will cast you unto them, unless you change your mind."

"Call for them," answered Polycarp.

"Nay, if you dread not the lions," said the Roman, "I will order you to be consumed by fire, except you repent."

"Threatenest thou me," said the gray-haired Christian, "with the fire that burns for an hour, and then is extinguished? And art thou ignorant of the fire of the future judgment, and of the everlasting punishment reserved for the wicked?"

Then the whole multitude, both of Jews and Gentiles that inhabited Smyrna, cried out furiously, "This is the father of the Christians, who teaches all Asia not to worship our gods. Let a lion loose upon him, or let him be cast into the flame."

They hastened to raise a pile of wood and dry branches. He unclothed himself at their command, and endeavoured to stoop down and take off his shoes, which he had long been unable to do, because of his age and infirmity. When all things were ready, they were going to nail him to the stake. But he said, "He who gives me strength to bear this fire, will enable me to stand unmoved without being fastened with nails." Then he thus prayed:

"Oh Father of the beloved and blessed Son, Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained the knowledge of Thee, Oh God of angels and principalities, of all creation, and of all the just who live in thy sight, I bless Thee that Thou hast counted me worthy of this day, and at this hour, to receive my portion in the number of martyrs, in the cup of Christ, for the resurrection of eternal life, both of soul and body, in the incorruption of the Holy Ghost, among whom may I be received before Thee, as an acceptable sacrifice, which Thou, the faithful and true God, hast prepared, promised, and fulfilled accordingly. Wherefore, I praise Thee for all these things, I bless Thee, I glorify Thee, by the eternal High Priest, Jesus Christ, thy well-beloved Son, through whom and with whom, in the Holy Spirit, be glory to Thee, both now and for ever."

Scarcely had the hoary-headed saint uttered his last earnest _Amen_, ere the impatient officers kindled the pile. Flame and smoke enwrapped the blackening body of the martyr. It was long in consuming, and so they ran it through with a sword. Thus died the faithful and venerable Polycarp in the year 168, at the age of eighty-six.

Christmas Hymn.

"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."

Lift up the grateful heart to Him, The Friend of want and pain, Whose birth the joyous angels sang, On green Judea's plain;

"Good-will and peace!" how sweet the sound Upon the midnight air, While sleep the fleecy flocks around, Watched by their shepherd's care.

So we, within this Christian fold, Lambs of our teacher's love, Who hear that melody divine, Still echoing from above,

Would fain, through all of life, obey The spirit of the strain, That so the bliss by angels sung Might not to us be vain.

The Frivolous King.

Richard the Second was grandson of Edward the Third, and the only son of the celebrated Black Prince. He ascended the throne at the age of eleven, with every advantage that could be derived from the partiality of the people for his illustrious ancestors. Especially the firmness and magnanimity of his father, and his union of goodness with greatness, won the favour of the historians of his times, who assert that he left a stainless honour and an unblemished name.

The young king, during an insurrection, gave some proofs of courage and presence of mind that impressed the nation favourably: and as he approached maturity, his graceful, majestic person awakened their admiration and pride. Had he by wise conduct and deportment confirmed these impressions, he might have swayed their affections, and firmly established himself in their love. But his demeanour was so light and frivolous, that he commanded no respect, while his self-confidence and contempt of wise counsel plunged him into misfortune. And as the mind that indulges itself in error is never stationary, he passed from indolence to acts of injustice, and even of cruelty.

He banished for life the Duke of Norfolk, against whom no crime had been proved, and condemned to a ten years' exile the young Duke of Bolingbroke, against whom no offence had been alleged. The last named nobleman was his own cousin, the son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, brother of the Black Prince. The aged father deeply mourned this disgrace and unjust punishment inflicted on his only son. Had not Richard been destitute of true sympathy, it would have grieved him to see his white-haired relative sinking in despondence, and mourning night and day for the absence of his son. Borne down by sorrow, and the infirmities of declining years, he died, and his large estates were immediately taken for the use of the crown.

The banished Bolingbroke, exasperated at the seizure of his paternal inheritance, returned before the term of his exile had expired. When he entered his native land, some followers joined him, and as he passed onward, they increased to a formidable force. Richard was dilatory in his preparations to oppose them, and unfortunate in his encounters. He was defeated, and made prisoner by him who had once been the victim of his own tyranny.

The weather was cold and cheerless, when, on almost the last day of December, 1399, a strange and sad scene was exhibited in the streets of London. There, Bolingbroke, with the title of Henry Fourth, appeared riding in great pomp, with a vast retinue, who filled the air with acclamations, followed by the drooping and degraded Richard, exposed to the insults of those who flattered or feared him in his day of power, and now spared not to cast dust and rubbish upon him. Shakspeare has given a most striking description of this entrance into the city, which seems to bring it before the eye like a picture.

Though the fickle throng showered their praises upon the fortunate monarch, there were some left to pity the fallen. He was kept a close prisoner in Pomfret Castle, and subjected to many sufferings and indignities. There he died, some historians say by the stroke of an axe, and others, by the slow torture of starvation.

From his untimely grave, a voice seems to rise, warning the young against the folly and rashness that were his ruin. Let them avoid this thoughtlessness and waste of time, and if they are ever tempted to frivolity, or contempt of the rights of others, remember what this prince might have been, and what he became, nor pass by this melancholy monument of blasted hope without learning a lesson of wisdom.

To a Pupil Leaving School.

Farewell! Farewell! Once more regain Your happy home, your native plain; Yet here, in Learning's classic fane, None have discharg'd the allotted part With firmer zeal or fonder heart. And true affection still shall hold Your image, set in Memory's gold. Yet think, sweet friend, where'er you rove, That He who strews your path with love, Accords no boon of which to say, "'Tis light, go trifle it away." No. Every fleeting hour survives; It seems to vanish, yet it lives; Though buried, it shall burst the tomb, And meet you at the bar of doom. But _how_ it rises, _how_ appears, With smiles or frowns, with joys or fears. And ah! what verdict then it bears, Rests on your labours, and your prayers.

Pious Princes.

The pomp with which royalty is surrounded must be unfavourable to a right education. Its proud expectations are often destructive to humility, and its flatteries blind the mind to a knowledge of itself.

Yet History records a few instances, where the young heart has escaped these dangers, and chosen truth for its guide, and wisdom as its portion. Here and there, we find one, whom the possession of an earthly crown did not deter from the pursuit of that which is incorruptible and eternal.

Josiah, the king of Judah, was one of these rare examples. He was born about the year six hundred and thirty-three, before the Christian era, and at the early age of eight was called to succeed his father on the throne. The temptations of kingly power, which are so often a hindrance to piety, seemed rather to dispose his heart to its influence, for the sacred historian records that in the eighth year of his reign, while he was yet young, "he began to seek after the God of David his father."