He swagger'd as my guide. Again we sought Another night in yon seraglio, Wait by the river; trust me, I'm your guide.' I thank'd him from his proffer'd services Pray'd Heaven might guard me well; and, ere the sun On board this bark then weighing, and, ere night, * Closing slow A mouth that wide agape with wonderment Had long remain'd, the whey-faced bagman spoke: "I'm plain John Duck-John Duck of Ludgate Hill, Read the 'Night-side of Nature.' Don't believe Unperceived by both, POETRY. FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER. A MAN who lives in his understanding alone, but without poetry, however brilliant his outward fate may be, and whatever his other endowments, must always retain a barren and empty existence. His life passes away like an autumn, abounding perhaps in fruits, but wanting the enchantment of sunshine and song; or like the dead and gloomy forests of the north-silent and still-where the voice of the singing bird never resounded. But let a poetic spirit animate thee that spirit which can mould even realities anew not with the pen for others, but in thine own heart-then hast thou in thy world of life, an everlasting spring, sunshine in the valley, and from every summit and cloud thou hearest a song. Nay, even should the winds of life blow roughly, and whirl away the leaves, there is still within thee a calm rapture; albeit, thou perhaps knowest not whence it cometh. It proceeds, however, like the only enjoyment found in a somewhat chill and leafless spring-from the songs in heaven. 17 CLEOMENES THE GREEK. A TALE OF THE PERSECUTION UNDER DIOCLESIAN. BY DINAH MARIA MULOCH. EVENING was darkening over the city which may well be called "eternal," the city which has been mother, mistress, or tyrant of Europe, from the day when the blood of its twin founder was poured out upon the walls he had despised, through ages of kingdoms, commonwealths, empires, hierarchies, down to our own days, when a wronged and insulted nun claims protection within its walls from northern tyranny, and the heart of the departed leader of a nation is brought as a sacred relic to its shrine. Rome it is the same Rome, the mother of the world-but oh! how changed! The date of our story is neither in the ancient days of republican glory, nor in the modern times of papal dignity. We must speak of the city of Seven Hills as she was in the waning days of her splendour, when the Augustan age had passed away, and had left her like a woman whose magnificent beauty is fading fast, and who seeks by meretricious adornments to hide that evident decay, lest men should see that her glory and loveliness are fleeting together. Yet amidst all the internal wreck which had been caused by centuries of dissension between rapacious senates, savage generals, and tyrannical or licentious emperors, the eternal city still looked most beautiful. The politic sway of Dioclesian had restored outward tranquillity, and, save the persecuted Christians, all the subject citizens of Rome enjoyed prosperity. We must carry our readers to the inner court of a Roman dwelling, such the resurrection of the lava-buried cities have lately exposed to curious modern eyes. It was open to the clear evening sky, towards which the fountain in its centre rose to a height of many feet, giving forth a constant and thrilling melody of waters. On three sides of the court extended the domestic apartments, the fourth was bounded by a flight of marble steps, which led into a garden, from whence came sweet perfumes of many southern flowers, where the orange shone like gold amidst its leaves, and the olives were laden with rich fruit. Birds sang in the trees until one by one they ceased, and the nightingale was left alone to mingle her strains with the continual murmuring of the fountain. When the dusky clouds had gathered half over the sky, and evening was insensibly melting into night, a young girl came from the house and stood alone beside the fountain. She lifted up her face anxiously to the west, when the evening star was already bright. Her clearlydefined and yet delicate features bespoke the Roman virgin; her attire, entirely of white, was such as maidens of patrician birth alone. were entitled to wear; and as her veil fell from her finely-turned head, it exposed her hair knotted up behind with golden bodkins. She looked once more at the sky, then walked quickly to the door from whence she had entered, and said in a clear but whispering tone, "Father, the star is nigh setting-it is time." As she spoke, a man came forth, of years which shewed that she VOL. XXVI. с who called him father must have been the child of his old age; his grey head was bare, and his erect and somewhat gaunt figure was wrapped in a toga of dark colour and homely texture. After him came two females, one bearing a lamp, whose light fell strongly on her person. She was in the prime of womanhood; every feature of her face every glance of her proud eye, every movement of her stately form spoke majestic and dazzling beauty. The other female seemed a Roman matron of declining years. The attire of both formed a strong contrast to the maiden who had stood by the fountain, whose garments of pure white were entirely without ornament, while theirs were manycoloured, and the arms and neck of the younger lady glittered with jewels. The matron went timidly up to him who was evidently her husband, and said, "Irenæus, wilt thou then go? when thou knowest the danger to thee and the child." He turned from her and took hold of his daughter's hand. Mæsa, let us go." "Come, Once more the wife appealed: "Irenæus, if there be danger tell me the whole. Thy gods are not mine, but I am still thy wife, and the mother of thy child. Mæsa, tell me where thou and thy father are going?" The young girl's lips moved, but a sign from Irenæus stayed her speech. The mother began to weep; and the stern old man seemed softened by her tears, for he went towards her and said kindly, “Domitilla mine, thou hast been ever faithful-I might trust the wife of my bosom, even though she is a worshipper of idols; but-" and he glanced towards the young female who bore the lamp. She saw his look, and casting down the light, threw both her arms in the air with wild energy, crying, "Dost thou then suspect me, O father? Is it I whom thou doubtest would betray thee. I whom thou hast brought up these eighteen years with love and care, even as though I had been a child of thine own blood? And have I not loved thee as such, even since the day when the weeping Greek slave followed thee from the market to be cherished in thy childless home. Oh, father, father! thou hast sorely misjudged Stratonice!" Her tones and gestures sank from indignation into low complaining; she bowed her head, and seemed absorbed in wounded feeling. "I do thee no wrong, Stratonice," said Irenæus, calmly; "but in these troublous times which set household against household, and parent against child, it behoves us to trust none with a secret on which the life not of one but of many depends. It is enough for thee and thy mother to know that I and Mæsa go this night to the solemn assembly of our brethren, where, I must not and will not reveal. Come, my daughter." Mæsa, who all this time had stood silent by her father's side, now drew her veil closely round her, kissed the hand of her mother, with the distant respect which was ever inculcated on the Roman youth, and with a gentle " Farewell, Stratonice," she followed Irenæus as he passed down the marble steps. When the last glimmer of Mæsa's white veil disappeared among the orange trees, Domitilla and her adopted daughter returned to the house. They passed through many apartments, whose richness shewed that it was the dwelling of opulence. The gorgeous fabrics of the East, which commerce and victory had brought to Rome, were lavished on every side: the tesselated floors and the painted walls bore witness that taste had gone hand in hand with luxury. Only this one circumstance was remarkable, that in all the adornments there was no representation of the human figure; no groups of dancing nymphs were delineated in the compartments of the walls; there were no statues of divinities, considered partly as domestic adornments, partly as objects of worship, with which the Romans, in the decline of their empire, loved to ornament their dwellings. Save for this, the house of Irenæus was a fit abode for a man of rank and wealth, in the times when the simplicity of ancient Rome had been succeeded by the magnificence of the emperors. Stratonice and Domitilla came at last to their own portion of the dwelling. Here no restriction was imposed on the adornments, and here were all the outward emblems of the worship of the gods of Rome. The small statues of the household divinities occupied their accustomed shrine, before which lay incense and garlands of flowers. From the walls looked the images of the huntress-queen, and the god of day; Juno, the worshipped of the Roman matrons, was there pictured, and all the lesser deities of Greece and Rome. Every thing that was beautiful, everything that contributed to art, religion, or female luxury, was here combined. Stratonice and her mother reclined on one of the purple couches that occupied the centre of the room, and remained long in silence, each engrossed with her own meditations. But at length Domitilla said, as if giving unconscious utterance to the train of her thoughts, "Would that Cleomenes were here! he might tell us somewhat that would allay our fears about them. Will he come, thinkest thou, Stratonice?" The Greek maiden stooped over her embroidery, but even then she could not hide the deep flush which that name brought to her cheek, and the trembling of her voice, as she answered, "I know not, mother, wherefore should I?" Domitilla bent over her and kissed her brow. "Thou canst not deceive me, child of my heart; as dear to me as my own Mæsa,-nay, more, for she has left her mother's faith for another new and strange. My Stratonice, I know how well thou lovest this young Greek." "And need I blush for it, mother?" said the girl, drawing up her noble stature to its full height, while her features gleamed with enthusiasm. "Is he not noble, brave, and worthy; has he not been the light of my eyes, my guide to all that was good and beautiful, these many years? Did I not love him when I was a child, because he spoke the tongue of my fathers, and talked to me of Greece. And need I feel shame that this love has strengthened until it has become part of my being; since in loving Cleomenes I love all that can ennoble man? Oh, mother, need I blush for this?" "May Juno grant that he love thee as thou lovest him," said the mother, softly; but the words had reached to the ears of Stratonice; and her excitement passed away into dejection; her frame seemed shrinking from its proud dignity into abasement and despair. "I said not that he loved thee not," added Domitilla," but only-” "Only that it is not for me that his footsteps haunt the dwelling of Irenæus; that it is on the sweet young face of Mæsa that his eyes rest. Is not this what thou would'st tell me, mother?" said Stratonice, mournfully. "I said not so, my child," answered Domitilla. Why should he not love thee? Thou art a fit mate for him,-the same in country, in religion; while Mæsa-" "But she is younger and fairer than I," interrupted the maiden passionately. "Hush! say not this is false-it is true; whatsoever he loves best must be beautiful. And yet I loved him when she was a child, and he, too, loved me then-or I believed so with his kind words and his tender looks. "Oh, light of my soul, why hast thou left me!" cried Stratonice, with wild vehemence. The mother calmed her strong excitement, until Stratonice knelt at her feet, and leaned upon her bosom, trembling like an infant, but composed. "Even if it be as thou sayest," said the serene voice of the wife of Irenæus, “there may still be peace for thee. Thy secret is known only to thine own heart and to thy mother's,-neither will betray thee. Stratonice, even should Cleomenes love thee not, should he wed Mæsa-" "I should die." "Not so: death comes not so easily, even after anguish deep as this. Thou art young, my daughter; thou knowest not how much we can bear and live; I have known this." There was a tremulousness in the matron's tone which made Stratonice lift up her eyes inquiringly. Domitilla continued. "Twenty years have I been the wife of Irenæus, honoured, regarded; in many things most happy, yet thinkest thou that my husband was the love of my youth, Stratonice? I once loved even as thou; even in my age, with my grey hairs and my withered bloom. I remember him-his sweet and loving eyes,-his voice low and musical, which I hear in my heart this hour. He did love me once-I know it; there could be no falsehood in those eyes and those tones: but his love changed, as love will do, sometimes, and perhaps she whom he next sought knew how to enchain him better than I." "But the gods punished her for that wicked deed ?" impetuously cried the maiden. "Hush! Stratonice. Thou oughtest not to say such words, for she was the mother of Cleomenes." "False father, false son," muttered Stratonice; and then throwing herself on the bosom of Domitilla, the whole frame of the proud and beautiful maiden shook with an agony of tears. "Thou dost not yet know that he loves thy sister, or that she loves him," said the mother, soothingly. "She could not but love him if he wooed her." Domitilla smiled sadly. "All maidens think thus; but come, my child, we will talk no more of this; the gods may make my Stratonice happy yet." The mother and daughter spoke no more, but lay on the couch in silence, while the flickering lamps showed the grace of an attitude which custom and the indolence of their clime taught the Roman women. The light fell full on Stratonice, exhibiting every curve of her exquisitely modelled form, the delicate hands, the rounded arms, the white sandalled feet; but she lay in utter abandonment of soul, and heeded not the beauty which had failed to win Cleomenes. It was not long before he of whom her heart was full stood before Stratonice. One look at the young Greek and who would marvel at |