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rous occurrences on the day of the dedication, were variously interpreted by the people; some believing them to point at the Christians, some at the meditated expedition of the Emperor, some at Aurelian himself. The popular mind was, however, greatly inflamed against the Christians, and every art was resorted to by the priests of the temples, and those who were as bigoted and savage as themselves among the people, to fan to a devouring flame the little fire that began to be kindled. The voice from the temple, however some might with Fronto himself doubt whether it were not from Heaven, was for the most part ascribed to the Christians, although they could give no explanation of the manner in which it had been produced. But, as in the case of Aurelian himself, this was forgotten in the horror occasioned by the more dreadful language of the omens, which, in such black and threatening array, no one remembered ever to have been witnessed before. None thought or talked of anything else. It was the universal theme.
This may be seen in a conversation which I had with a rustic, whom I overtook as I rode toward Rome, seated on his mule, burdened on either side and behind with the multifarious produce of his farm. The fellow, as I drew near to him, seeming of a less churlish disposition than most of those whom one meets upon the road, who will scarcely return a friendly salute, I feared not to accost him. After giving him the customary good wishes, I remarked upon the excellence of the vegetables which he had in his panniers.
'Yes,' he said, 'these lettuces are good, but not what they would have been but for the winds we have had from the mountains. It has sadly nipped them. I hear the Queen pines away just as my plants do. I live at Norentum. I know you, sir, though you cannot know me. You pass by my door on your way to the city. My children often call me from my work to look up, for there goes the secretary of the good Queen on his great horse. There's no such horse as that on the road. Ha, ha, my baskets re