Victor Serenus. Henry Wood

goats, bedecked with trappings, ribbons, and garlands, for sacrifice, or other symbolic ceremonies and priestly rites.

      Everything beautiful in nature,—its flowers, trees, birds, air, and sunshine, lent their charm for the enrichment of the service to the Tarsian gods, and the honor of their temple. The chariots of Marcius and Leander were prominent in the procession, side by side.

      “Shades of Daphne! Marcius, I saw old Chloe, and a beautiful young Jewess with her, in the rabble just past.”

      “Ah! I have seen the features of that charmer before! Mine eyes deceive me not! Dost thou recall the storm, the lightning, the crash, and thine own discomfiture? Methinks thou wert dreaming at that particular moment.”

      “By Pallas! I am not unmindful that the gods kept us from a threatened descent to the shades of Pluto.”

      “Ah, my gallant! But with that I cannot forget that the cage was rent, and the bird flew out.”

      “Send regrets to the breezes, stern Roman! The Muse whispers that we may yet,—

      ‘Wreathe then the roses, wreathe,

      The Beautiful still is ours;

      While the stream shall flow, and the sky shall glow,

      The Beautiful still is ours.’”

      “A truce to thine overflowing poetic sentiment, Leander; but to return to events. Dost thou think that old Chloe recognized us?”

      “Peradventure not, though her eyes are sharp; but what recks it? Doubtless she thinks we perished in the ruin, else she would have returned. The dead has buried its dead.”

      “But the dead sometimes rise, my effeminate Greek.”

      “Dost thou believe in spirits?”

      “Too well I know them. They are more in number than the gods.”

      “What of signs, omens, and dreams?”

      “I believe the most impossible dreams may become true.”

      “Dost thou think there are life and feeling and motion beyond the Styx, Marcius?”

      “Shades of Hades! I do. But I would rather be a slave beneath the sun than a king in the Cimmerian regions of the under-world.”

      “I believe nothing, Marcius. Thou art superstitious. Show me a shade from the under-world, and I will give him a hearty greeting.

      ‘Away with your stories of Hades,

      Which the Flamen has forged to affright us.

      We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies,

      Your Fates—and your sullen Cocytus.’”

      “A graceful turn to a shady subject, and quite worthy of thine ever ready Muse. But, nevertheless, shades there are, my poet, and perchance they may yet give thee an unwelcome greeting.”

      “Black or white, I invite them!

      ‘Oh! blest be the bright Epicurus,

      Who taught us to laugh at such fables;

      On Hades they wanted to moor us,

      But his hand cut the terrible cables.’”

      “We approach the temple. I have heard that in the mysterious recesses of the adytum one may receive, not only responses from the Oracle, but, perchance, messages from the ghosts of the departed. Wilt thou enter the inner shrine, and envelop thyself in the vapor of mystical enchantment?”

      “I will gladly greet all the shapeless spirits that come, even an endless procession, but I count them dull and insipid. Give me shapely form and graceful feature! I quaff real wine and not an empty goblet.”

      “We will penetrate to the heart of the mysteries and inquire our fate. The gods grant us an unveiling.

      “But see! We are at the end of our route, and the temple with all its riches is before us. Thou hast managed thy steeds well, luxurious Greek. Charioteer! poet! gallant! and now seeker of mysteries!”

      The procession wound gracefully through the peristyle on one side and back on the other, thence into the avenues of the great garden, finally losing itself and melting away in its intricate mazes.

      After sending away their chariots by attendants, Marcius and Leander lingered for some time among the bowers and grottoes of the temple grounds.

      Among the bewildering charms of the garden was a shimmering pond in its midst, the banks of which were decked with groves of lotus and blooming rose-trees. Clustered around the numerous statues, delicate jets of perfumed water threw up their fine spray, and loaded the air with aromatic fragrance. Graceful shallops, shaped like swans or fish, moved about in the pond, filled with lightly draped rowers of both sexes, whose gilded oars kept time to the music of harps and citharæ, played by girls in unnumbered smaller craft which circled around them. Some were dressed as Sirens, covered with green net-work in imitation of scales. Trooping out from among high clusters of plants and flowers were groups disguised as Fauns, Satyrs, Nymphs, and Dryads, playing on tabourets, drums, flutes, or tambourines. The water of the pond responsively heaved to the rhythm of oars which beat in unison. As night drew on, the echoes of voices, horns, and trumpets grew louder; and the votaries of Bacchus and Venus, amid shouts and laughter, threw all restraint to the winds. On the shores and terraces shone swarms of lights, while other parts of the groves were dark and hidden.

      It was late in the evening when Marcius and Leander, satiated and sobered by the excesses of the day, entered, arm in arm, the pronaos of the temple. On each side were low seats, comfortably cushioned; and by a mutual impulse they sat down for a little rest before penetrating farther into the interior. The Roman seemed in a dejected mood. His black eyes were heavy and dull; and his mien, usually so haughty and imperious, was tame and passive. He turned towards Leander.

      “Life is a hollow mockery. When shall my eyes open to the true Olympus, where real gods make their abode? I feel a strange unrest, and confess myself weary of the Tarsian deities.”

      “Ah, my high and mighty Marcius! Thou art downcast to-night. Get rid of thyself,—that is, drive away thy thoughts.”

      “My thoughts are too deep to be rooted out. They hold me in thraldom! Genius decays! Vice vanquishes virtue! How will it all end? What has the unseen future in store for us?”

      “Leave the future! The gods serve us to-day as we serve them. To-day! to-day is all!

      ‘If hope is lost and freedom fled,

      The more excuse for pleasure.’”

      “By all the divinities of Rome! Nothing less than the oars of Charon himself will ever break thine everlasting trail of poetry. But a truce to thy chatter! Let us to the Mysteries and inquire our respective fates!”

      “Perchance they will brighten thy spirits and calm thy temper.”

      Slowly rising, they made their way into the cella of the temple.

      The perpetual fire was burning upon the great sacred hearth; and before it were a few persons who had prostrated themselves, each waiting the slow turn for their introduction to the inner Mysteries. The cella was unlighted save by the fitful glare of the fire on the hearth. The strange symbols and inscriptions which covered the walls and ceiling produced a weird and unearthly effect.

      In a recess, just above the fire, were great gilded, interlaced triangles, and over those the symbolic Winged Globe. These were surrounded with divine monograms, emblems of the powers of Nature. On the ceiling was a large design of the crux Ansata, the oldest known hieroglyph, also the Greek divine Logos representing inner illumination. The walls were covered with other mysterious characters,—the key of Hermes, the serpent in a circle, cabalistic names, a talisman of Pythagoras, monogram of Fire, or the generative principle, symbolisms of the divine Wreath, hieroglyph of Eros, monograms of the three Delphic mysteries and the re-born soul. Harps of Æolia which hung in the valves of the outer walls filled the air with sweet and plaintive melody in fitful measure.

      Marcius