"To-night a poor hearse drove out of the town gates, not a soul following it. It was a suicide—our poor, painted, despised hero. The driver was the only mourner, nobody else only the moon. The suicide is laid in the corner of the churchyard, under the wall. The nettles will soon shoot up, and the grave-diggers will throw weeds and rubbish on it from other graves."
TWENTIETH EVENING
"I come from Rome," said the moon. "There in the middle of the town, on the summit of one of the seven hills, stands the ruins of the palace of the Cæsars. The wild fig grows now in the crevices of the walls, covering their nakedness with its broad grayish green leaves. The ass treads down its laurel hedges among the heaps of stones, and browses on the barren thistle. Here, whence once the eagles of Rome fluttered—came, saw, and conquered—there is now the entrance to a poor little hovel plastered up with clay between the two broken marble columns. The vine hangs like a mourning wreath over its crooked windows. An old woman lives in it with her little granddaughter; they now rule in the palace of the Cæsars, and show its treasures to visitors. There is only a bare wall left standing of the rich throne room; the dark cypress points with its long shadows to where the throne once stood. The earth is heaped high over the ruined floor, and the little girl, now sole daughter of the Cæsars, often brings her footstool there when the evening bells ring. She calls the keyhole in the door close by her balcony, for she can see half Rome through it, as far as the mighty dome of St. Peter's. Silence reigned, as always, this evening when the little girl came out into the full light of my beams. She was carrying a water jar of antique shape on her head: her feet were bare, her short skirt and the sleeves of her little chemise were ragged. I kissed the child's delicately rounded shoulders, her dark
