state, so nothing could be more vague and confused than the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic subject.  Apaecides had already learned that the faith of the philosophers was not that of the herd; that if they secretly professed a creed in some diviner power, it was not the creed which they thought it wise to impart to the community.  He had already learned, that even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the people—­that the notions of the few and the many were never united.  But, in this new faith, it seemed to him that philosopher, priest, and people, the expounders of the religion and its followers, were alike accordant:  they did not speculate and debate upon immortality, they spoke of as a thing certain and assured; the magnificence of the promise dazzled him—­its consolations soothed.  For the Christian faith made its early converts among sinners! many of its fathers and its martyrs were those who had felt the bitterness of vice, and who were therefore no longer tempted by its false aspect from the paths of an austere and uncompromising virtue.  All the assurances of this healing faith invited to repentance—­they were peculiarly adapted to the bruised and sore of spirit! the very remorse which Apaecides felt for his late excesses, made him incline to one who found holiness in that remorse, and who whispered of the joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.

‘Come,’ said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect he had produced, ’come to the humble hall in which we meet—­a select and a chosen few; listen there to our prayers; note the sincerity of our repentant tears; mingle in our simple sacrifice—­not of victims, nor of garlands, but offered by white-robed thoughts upon the altar of the heart.  The flowers that we lay there are imperishable—­they bloom over us when we are no more; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave, they spring up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight us with an eternal odor, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature; these offerings are temptations overcome, and sins repented.  Come, oh come! lose not another moment; prepare already for the great, the awful journey, from darkness to light, from sorrow to bliss, from corruption to immortality!  This is the day of the Lord the Son, a day that we have set apart for our devotions.  Though we meet usually at night, yet some amongst us are gathered together even now.  What joy, what triumph, will be with us all, if we can bring one stray lamb into the sacred fold!’

There seemed to Apaecides, so naturally pure of heart, something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of conversation which animated Olinthus—­a spirit that found its own bliss in the happiness of others—­that sought in its wide sociality to make companions for eternity.  He was touched, softened, and subdued.  He was not in that mood which can bear to be left alone; curiosity, too, mingled with his purer stimulants—­he was anxious to see those rites of which so many dark and contradictory rumours were afloat.  He paused a moment, looked over his garb, thought of Arbaces, shuddered with horror, lifted his eyes to the broad brow of the Nazarene, intent, anxious, watchful—­but for his benefits, for his salvation!  He drew his cloak round him, so as wholly to conceal his robes, and said, ‘Lead on, I follow thee.’