left him, the memory of his brave, loyal soldier father, ignominiously put to death by the Roman Emperor whom he had faithfully served—on a charge so futile that it was not even mentioned in the order for his execution. Yet, remembering, he forgave, and did all in his power to protect and help the Romans. His son grew up, alas! a mere shadow of a man, too weak and indolent even to be wicked, his short life a strange contrast to another, cut off in the flush of youth the year before he was born. Even with a son of his own to follow him, we know Theodosius never ceased to mourn the untimely death of Gratian, “the graceful,” “the gracious,” “the gratitude inspiring,” as the orator Themistius calls him. We have indeed one beautiful picture of Honorius, when still but a youth he entered Rome again, and again heard the Roman shouts as he passed on to the Palatine, standing in his gilded chariot, the sun resting on his dark head and playing radiantly on the great necklaces of emeralds that rose and fell in response to the joyful beatings of a heart still very young, still responsive at times to noble impulses, the people cheering him madly, and the women weeping for joy at the sight of his beauty. After that, all is darkness; his intellect, such as it was, was devoted to the most futile of pursuits—the raising of prize poultry! It was but a few years later that, on being told that “Rome had perished,” he cried out in dismay, “What, my beautiful fowl?” And on being told that it was the Mother of cities, the Heart of the Empire, which had succumbed to Alaric, the Goth invader, he gave a sigh of relief, exclaiming, “I thought you meant my bird was dead!” Far different was the character of the other boy-Emperor, Gratian, the son of Valentinian. There is something wonderfully appealing as well as pathetic in the story of this pure and high-hearted youth into whose twenty-five years of life there entered every element of the fierce mental and material conflicts that convulsed the world in the fourth century of our era, the century when Imperial children were used as shields and standards for the conflicting parties and were called upon to exercise the powers of government almost before they had learnt to read. Valentinian, bent, like those before and after him, on converting an elective sovereignty into an hereditary one, resolved on taking his son into partnership on the throne while Gratian was, by most accounts, only eight years old. As usual, the question would be decided by the army, or that portion of it nearest at hand, and Valentinian, having insinuated the idea into his soldiers’ minds, found that they were not averse to it. Any such proceeding was sure to be welcome to them, since it was certain to be accompanied by the large donatives of money for the sake of which the Purple was so constantly changing wearers in those times.