Now see him, humbly clad, with staff in hand,
Thread the wild vales of Tweed and Teviot,
To bear God’s Word through a benighted land,
And bless with prayer each peasant’s lonely cot.
Brave soul wert thou, though few thy worth may sing,
Thou chosen saint of England’s noblest king.
PILATE’S STORY.
Caligula was reigning, C. Marcius was prætor at Vienne, in Dauphiny, when a litter, escorted by a number of cavaliers, one evening entered the triumphal gate of this metropolis of Gaul. Many gathered together at the unusual display. On the door of the modest little house before which they stopped, and which stood close by the Temple of Mars, was the name of F. Albinus in bright red letters. An old man, tall in stature, but now bent with age and fatigue, alighted from the litter, and, preceded by two of his attendant Hebrew slaves, entered the reception-room, where he was greeted by his friend, the master of the house.
After having bathed and received the usual attentions at the hands of the slaves, he proceeded with his host to the supper-room to enjoy the evening meal. The lamps were lighted, and Albinus was alone with the new guest, with whom he entered into conversation as soon as the dish of fresh eggs was placed before them.
“Many years have passed since we separated,” said Albinus; “let us empty a cup of Rhone wine to your return.”