answer, to the effect that his own good fortune had bestowed the gift upon him and that he was to “use what he could, and abuse the rest.” Thus fortified in his rights, Atticus did use his wealth royally, and bequeathed it to his own son, Herodes Atticus, who, forgetting past injuries, lavished it in ornamenting with splendid buildings the city of his birth, in all-embracing charities, in providing public games of the greatest splendour, and in the encouragement of art and literature. Then, desiring to see the seat of Empire and enjoy the intellectual atmosphere of the Augustan age, he removed to Rome, and on account of his great learning and attainments, was appointed tutor to Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, the adopted sons of the then reigning Emperor, Antoninus Pius. He left no literary monument of his own for us to admire, but the clear beauty of the style of Marcus Aurelius is doubtless due in great part to the early training received from his Greek tutor. Standing thus high in imperial favour, Herodes Atticus was enabled to make a splendid alliance. He obtained the hand of Annia Regilla, a daughter of the great Julian House, and thus crowned the long romance of his life by a real love marriage. Annia Regilla was marvellously beautiful, as good as she was fair, and returned her husband’s affection by a love as whole-hearted as his own. In an age when universal selfishness and luxury made it necessary to legislate against race suicide, she bore Herodes child after child, each more welcome to its parents than the last. Was ever a man’s cup of earthly happiness so royally full? Then it was dashed from him and emptied at a blow. Annia Regilla died very suddenly when the birth of her fifth child was hourly expected, and for a time her broken-hearted husband seemed likely to succumb to despair; but the very magnitude of his grief saved him—in more ways than one. The Greek desire for concrete expression, the impulse to embody in visible form the worshipped ideals of the mind, drove him at first to violent manifestations of mourning which appeared extravagant and unreal to the easy-going superficial Romans of his day. They took life pretty much as it came, even as the Romans do now, and the sight of Herodes Atticus in his black robes, in his house hung completely with black—where he even removed the flowery-tinted marbles of walls and pavements to replace them with sombre grey—all this afforded intense amusement to his fashionable friends.