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PEEPS AT ROME.

TRAJAN'S COLUMN.

TRAJAN'S COLUMN.

SOME of you have read of the Roman

Forum. It lay immediately behind the Capitol, and was the great centre of Roman life and influence. I cannot describe it better than by saying that it was the Market Place, the Parliament, the Court of Justice, and the City Hall, all in one, of Rome. It was here, under the open sky, that the Roman people met to elect consuls and magistrates. Here stood the Rostra, from which the orators spoke on matters pertaining to the state. Here men were tried before the judges; and here, too, in later times, the emperors sat dispensing justice. The Forum was the place where Rome appeared at its best. The enclosure was very large. All around it were the pillared porticos, beneath which the people walked, discussing the news, or transacting business.

Here

stood the Senate House, where the laws were made, and here were set up the great tables on which the laws were engraved. Here and there were triumphal arches, reared to the memory of great conquerors. On every side were magnificent temples for the worship of the gods. Statues, too, appeared in view to beautify the scene; whilst over all was the deep blue Italian sky. It must have been a splendid sight to have looked upon the Forum in its glory. Of all this glory little remains now, save here and there some noble columns, showing where a stately temple once stood; a few marble arches that have escaped destruction amid the many sieges of Rome; long rows of broken shafts, marking the place where the porticos once stood; and a temple, slowly being laid bare from the grave in which the dust of many centuries had buried it. It is rather saddening to look down on the Forum now. All is silent in the place once filled with the hum of a nation's voice. All is dust and ashes where the heart once beat that sent its pulses over the whole world.

How soon the silence of the grave settles down on human life. In a little time our

lives will be lived out on earth-our laughter all quenched, our activity all ended, our work all finished. In a little time the place that knows us now will know us no more. And of our lives on earth, there will hardly even remain a broken column to record our name. Our earthly house of this tabernacle must be dissolved. There will soon be nothing of it but dust and ashes. But that will matter little, if we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.'

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The

Besides the great Forum, there were many lesser Forums in Rome. Although smaller in size than the great Forum, many of them were rivals in point of architectural beauty and magnificence. Such was the Forum of Augustus, of Julius Cæsar, and of Trajan. It is the Forum of Trajan to which our present 'peep' is devoted. But before giving you a short description of it, I must tell you how it received the name which it now bears. There was an emperor of Rome called Domitian who desired to level down a space of ground between two hills called the Capitoline and the Quirinal. proceeded so far with the work. next emperor, Nerva, carried it still farther on. At last, however, it was completed by Trajan. The ground, formerly as high as the top of the column in the engraving, was levelled down to the depth of 100 Roman feet. A large space was cleared out, and on this space splendid buildings were by and by erected. Here a temple was built for the worship of Trajan; for, strange to say, the Roman emperors were deified, that is, worshipped as gods. Statues were raised to adorn the new Forum. Groups of bronze figures variegated the scene, these groups being illustrative of events in Trajan's life. But this was not all. In the year of our Lord 114, the column which you see in the engraving was erected to Trajan by the Senate and people of Rome. It is composed of thirty-four blocks of marble. Around the column there runs a spiral band, which you will easily make out in the frontispiece. It

MY SON.

is full of figures in very minute sculpture, illustrating the wars of Trajan. It is very interesting to look at that sculptured scroll wreathed round the column, now eighteen centuries old, and to see in it the figures of some of our old savage forefathers. At the foot of the column there is a square chamber, which was designed to hold the emperor's ashes. Before it an altar was erected, on which incense might be offered, and divine honours paid to his name. It is very strange that Roman idolatry should end in the worship of a man, and of a man so cruel and bad, as many of the emperors were. But this was over-ruled for good. For when the choice of men lay between the worship of a man like Trajan, and the Mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, they did not hesitate long. By and by, in great numbers, they turned from a dead emperor to the living Saviour, who is the King of kings, and Lord of lords. To Him let the incense of our prayers rise morning and evening; yea, by Him, let every prayer rise to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

After the lapse of thirteen or fourteen centuries this Forum got filled up with dust, till it had entirely disappeared from view. In the sixteenth century the work of removing the accumulations of more than a thousand years began. The old column was once more laid bare to the light of day from top to bottom. As,

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Rome as the city of St. Peter, and the city of the Pope. I shall speak of this in our next 'peep'; but before taking leave of our present view, let me ask you once more to look at Trajan's column, and to learn a lesson which it teaches. Trajan is dead and gone, but there, on that column, the record of a part of his life remains. The record was buried for many centuries from human view, but it had not perished. It still stands amid the light of day. By and by, like Trajan, you and I shall have disappeared from the earth, but the record of our lives shall remain. That record is being written now, day by day-not on Roman marble, but on something far more enduring. We are writing it on our own memories; we are writing it on the memories of those about us; we are writing it on the book of God. That writing will remain, and when Trajan's column has been shattered, and the earth itself has been burnt up, it will meet us at the judgment of the great day. The scroll of Trajan's battles will be unfolded then. The record of our life will be unfolded too. May it be a record of better battles than Trajan's. May it tell that we fought the good fight here on the earth, and that, through grace, we got the victory over ourselves, and over our sins.

A. G. F.

LESSONS FROM AN OLD SCHOOL-BOOK.
MY SON.

now,' said a little curly-headed boy, as he spelt these words on grandpapa's large type Bible, which lay open at the beginning of Proverbs.

That is nice, Bobbie, but you must read

me some more."

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however, the figure of Trajan had dis-"M-Y my, s-o-n son." I can read appeared, Pope Sixtus V. replaced the statue of the emperor with a bronze figure of the Apostle Peter. It is the colossal' statue of St. Péter, accordingly, which now surmounts the column of Trajan. You will be able to recognise it in the woodcut by the keys he holds in his hands. Everywhere in Rome, in painting and in sculpture, Peter may be known by his keys. Here, on Trajan's column, they are double keys, to represent his power in things temporal, and in things spiritual. This statue of St. Peter is one of the most prominent objects in Rome. It dominates over the whole city. And it seems to claim

Showing the child the same words three times over in the first chapter, he soon learned to read them without spelling. Then, turning over the page, Bobbie found the same words again and again. Five chapters began with them, and in some of the chapters they occurred several times.

'Why are there so many "my son's" in the Bible, grandpapa?' he asked.

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'It must be to make us remember them very well, I think. Does any one ever call you "my son," Bobbie?'

'Papa and mamma call me "my son," and you call me that sometimes too, grandpapa. Nobody else calls me "my son.'

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And you like to be called "my son." It makes you think of your kind father and mother; and when God calls you "my son it is to make you think of your heavenly Father and His wonderful love. "Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God!"

"It is not "my sons," but "my son," because God knows each one of His children. It is as if He called each one by name-as if He said to you, "My son Robert," and to your brother, "My son William," and then the words that follow are a message from your Father in heaven.'

'We can be quite sure that it is God Himself who in the Book of Proverbs says so often, "my son." The Epistle to the Hebrews tells us this quite plainly—“ And ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto children, My son, &c." (Heb. xii. 5).

'If God calls you "My son" it is to teach you to call Him "my Father." Here is a golden text for you to learn.' And grandpapa turned to Jer. iii. 4, and taught his little grandson to read and to repeat the words, WILT THOU NOT FROM THIS TIME CRY UNTO ME, MY FATHER, THOU ART THE GUIDE OF MY YOUTH.'

'But how can a sinner come to the holy God and call Him "my Father?"

'Because Jesus died to take away the sin which separated us from God, and every one who receives Him becomes a son of God. Listen to the Father's own words"How shall I put thee among the children, and give thee a pleasant land, a goodly heritage of the hosts of nations? and I said, thou shalt call me, My Father; and shalt not turn away from me."

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"The first thing God requires a child to do is to come to Him by Jesus, and call Him "my Father." This is why the words "my son' "occur in Proverbs before a single

precept has been given. Do we wish to learn something of the meaning of these endearing words, "my son?" Their full meaning we can never learn till we get to heaven, but the parable in Luke xv. will help us to understand how full of love they are.'

“But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found."

All this love is enfolded in the words My son.'

One day a poor ragged boy knocked at the door of a farm, and asked for employment. The farmer was out at the time, but his wife allowed the boy to come in and wait, and gave him some food. The farmer was not needing a boy, but the poor lad pled so hard for something to do, though it were only for one day, that the kind-hearted people could not send him away. They set him to work in the garden, and he was so diligent and so anxious to remain with them, that they allowed him to work on day after day.

'One day while the boy was at work, a man called at the farm and told his master that the boy he had in his service was a thief; that he had been several times in prison for stealing. The farmer and his wife were deeply grieved, and wondered what they should do. The woman's motherly heart bled for the poor outcast, and she said she would talk with him and try what she could do.

The boy expected to be immediately dismissed, for he had seen the man whom he knew, and felt sure that he had informed upon him.

Instead of this the woman spoke kindly to the lad, and encouraged him to tell her

HAPPY BIRDS.

the story of his life, and a sad story it was. He admitted the truth of all that the man had said of him, and told many more of his own evil deeds.

"When she had listened to all he had to tell, the good woman, with tears in her eyes, said:

""How could you do such things? What made you act so wickedly?"

"I had no mother," he replied. "If I had only had a mother, I would never have done it.'

""Poor boy!" said the tender-hearted woman; "I shall be a mother to you, and you shall be my son."

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'Such unexpected kindness won the boy's heart, and saved him. From that day the farm became his home, and he proved a faithful son to the worthy mother who had not been ashamed to call the poor thief My son.'

The King of Glory is not ashamed to call the poor, wretched, miserable, blind, and naked sinner, My son. Then surely

we should listen to His voice and be followers of Him as dear children.'

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NATURE is full of sweet sounds and

happy voices, were our ear only attuned to distinguish them. Of these none are sweeter than the songs of birds. These merry little songsters sing with a glad heart, and in the fulness of their joy. It is good to listen to them; and it often lifts the burden of a heavy heart to hear the glad carol of the lark soaring ever heavenwards. There are favoured climes too where all night long the nightingale sings her sweet song. But in Scotland in early spring, so soon as the sun begins to light up the landscape, the melody of the birds fills the air and delights all hearts.

Our woods in springtime, and far on into

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summer, are vocal with the music of birds. Grander than the noblest cathedral aisle or fretted vault are the forest glades, rich in the green beauty of luxuriant foliage, where innumerable creatures of God have their happy dwelling-places. Sweeter and more melodious than the most elaborate triumphs of musical genius, the glad chorus of a thousand voices in such forest glades ever rises in praise to the glorious Creator from His happy creatures. The trees of the Lord are full-the cedars which He hath planted-where the birds make their nests. These nests-the homes of love-what scenes of innocent and happy joy!-not only when they are first constructed, but afterwards especially, when obedient to the voice of instinct, the patient mother sits and hatches the young brood while her mate perches on a neighbouring bough and sings to her. There is an American swallow which, in making the nest, constructs a little platform on the edge for the male bird to stand on while he sings to his mate.

There are many curious things that might be told about the nests of birds. For instance, there is a tiny bird, one of the smallest of humming birds, whose nest at first is said to be only the size of an acorn; but by and by, when the young birds are hatched and grow bigger, it is enlarged by the clever ingenuity of the mother to the size of a coffee-cup. But the strangest thing of all, when we think of the twittering joy of the mother-bird in her young brood of nestlings, is, that in all countries boys are fond to harry the nest and destroy the homes of these light-hearted songsters. Methinks it is want of thought rather than want of heart which leads to this. If the ruthless robber could but be present to see the despair of the mother when she comes back with the food for her young ones, and hear the despairing cry of her broken heart, it would be long ere he stole another nest. Happy the boy who has never stolen a bird's nest-happier he who has learned to love the bird's song.

How wonderful again is that instinct which guides unerringly these happy creatures in their ways and habits! Obedient

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