ed not at death, "Yet I would not have thee cling, Acte, so reckless in thy love. Thou art even now as a fair flower of the spring, clasping thy tendrils round a rude and stormbeaten tree. If I must fall," he said, his voice weakened by emotiou, "let not the blast that crusheth me, wither thy young and beautiful stem also." "As I have lived, so will I die with thee," replied Acte, passionately; "tear me not from that fate which passion defies, while it consecrates the pile. Be it in the palace, the retreat of persecution, or the hour of disgrace, as our hearts have been twined so let our loves be. Thou hast raised me to the throne, and I will leave it but with thee. The love of woman, though it may bloom in the bright and fragrant hour of summer, can spring also in the wastes of grief, or shed its perfume on the winter air." The slave sank her head upon his breast, and the tears which passion shed were answered by the throbs of grief. 66 Away, away! with these woman's weapons," exclaimed Nero, impatiently, starting from the reverie into which agony and doubt had plunged him; "this is no time for grief, and if it were" "Let thy tears fall here, even on the heart which is thine," cried the Asiatic, extending towards him her arms, imploringly. "Not now, not now," uttered Nero, endeavouring to rally his thoughts their interview had interrupted. "Not now. Safety -danger-flight," he added brokenly. "Where thou goest will I go," exclaimed Acte, rushing forward and clasping his hand to her heart. "Thou shalt not, canst not leave me." "I will return, my love," replied Nero, looking at her with a countenance where fear paled the cheek, while it quivered the lip, "I will return presently" "I will follow thee, even to death," cried Acte, clinging still more earnestly to the hand he endeavoured to wrest from her. "Ha, thy words sound like an omen!" retorted Nero, as he tore himself from her and hid his face in his hands. A deep and hollow groan rang through the apartment. The words, "He leaves me !" followed in a stifled, inaudible tone. Nero turned, and beheld the prostrate form of his mistress. Her cheek was white, her brow calm and composed, and a smile still hovered round that half-open, chiselled lip, as though Love and Hope wreathed their garlands around the cypress-wand of Grief. He stooped and kissed her, and casting on the form a look of agony and despair, darted from the chamber. CHAPTER V.-THE FLIGHT. The goadings of crime, the apprehension of instant death, and the incapability of satiating vengeance on those whom wrongs and persecution had invested with a superior power, rose within the tyrant, as, in flight, he cast a lingering look upon the palace of his pride, his power and his guilt. Mingled with the ceaseless cries of a sanguinary and determined mob, rose the sweet and silvery tones of her whose attachment had, for the moment, subdued the horrors of his fate, and lent a respite to its pain. It fell on his anxious and nervous sense like the music of the mermaid's voice, when she sports amid the strife of the waters, and braids her tressess that float on the wing of the tempest. "He leaves me," dwelt on his memory with a melancholy, anticipative of a separation, he felt, would be final. Still, on he rushed: he knew, he cared not whither. In the delirium of the moment he sank on his knees, and supplicated Jupiter that the earth might yawn, and Curtius-like, that he might sink into its womb. The dread silence which prevailed around, giving to prayer the mockery of its own echo, fell on him with the appalling sense that even the gods had forsaken him. He started from his knees, and uttered a shriek of wildness and terror. clasped his hands to his eyes as amid the shades of evening he descried a figure rapidly approaching. He flew from the spot; he stopped for a moment, but could not summon resolution sufficient even to look behind. The footsteps became still more audible. evidently pursued. Flight was his only refuge, and his last hope was to anticipate the blow of his enemy. Fear and despair lending rapidity to his flight, he darted onwards. He was not far from the Tiber, and on the moment resolved that its waters should be his tomb. He He was He was already on its banks the footsteps rapidly gained on him he stooped over the edge, the clear cold stars were sleeping on its bosom he involuntarily started back, as, in the attitude to plunge, his reflected image met his eye. A momentary courage throbbed within his heart, like the deceptive gleam of hope which lights the eye of the dying man; ke drew his sword, and resolved to withstand the comer. Tears and surprise for the moment suspended the power of utterance, as he recognized in the voice of the stranger, his freedman, Phaon. The faithful servant, kneeling, pressed to his lips his master's quivering hand. "Rise, rise," said Nero, hastily, "this is no time for the cold forms of duty. Save thy Prince; or even where he stands let thy hand end his pain." As he spoke the tears gushed freely, and with a tremulous hand and averted face, he presented Phaon with his sword. "Strike!" cried Nero, in a hollow, trembling tone. In silence he awaited the fatal blow, and turning round, beheld the sword at his freedman's feet. "How is this?" he exclaimed, his voice scarcely strong enough to assume the tone of anger, "how is this? Said I not to thee, strike? Wouldst see thy master hunted like a beast, when thou couldst save him from their fangs?" "My lord," replied Phaon, "I will save thee, but not at the point of thine own sword. Nor shall it be said, I showed my love by an act of bloodshed." As Nero heard the last word his face became still more ghastly, heavy drops coursed his contracted brow, and his whole frame was affected by a violent shudder. He tottered to the shoulder of his freedman, and leaned on him for support. In that one word, as in a mirror, the guilty man reviewed his whole life of cruelty and horror. "My lord trembles," said Phaon, as the emotion of Nero rendered it difficult to preserve his station. 66 “I—I—it_will soon pass," rejoined his master, with hesitation, endeavouring to suppress the agitation which betrayed his fears. Speak, speak!" continued Nero, after a pause, save me if thou canst. Whither wilt thou lead me? Where can I hide till this storm subsides, and my pursuers weary? Speak, speak!” 66 His eyes, glowing and dilated, were fixed upon Phaon in the agony of suspense and fear; and as the freedman met their glance, he involuntarily shuddered at their wild and distorted expression. "I will lead thee," replied Phaon, after a pause, "where hatred cannot pursue, nor suspicion find thee-even to my own villa. The obscurity of the place will favour thy concealment. It is but four miles distant from Rome. Cæsar shall be safe beneath his freedman's roof. I will watch thee by night, and desert thee not through day. Fear me not," continued the freedman, with a fidelity worthy of a better object, "I will maintain a secret communication with the city, and thou shalt know as well the proceedings of the Senate as the people." "Thanks, thanks!" exclaimed Nero seizing his favourite's hand, the terrors and humiliation of the moment merging all sense of distinction; "thanks-I fly with thee this mo ment. We can enter the palace privately. We must provide ourselves with steeds." It re On entering the gate of the palace in disguise and haste, they found no impediment to their progress, nor any disposed to question their purpose. The palace in the absence of its master, seemed to have forgotten its splendour and pride, and had even already assumed an air of loneliness and desolation. sembled, to its awestricken monarch as he stood within the solitary space before it, a temple, in whose destruction and neglect the wrath of the Gods had anticipated the decay of Time. Huge and dark it rose against the midnight sky, the starlight but faintly depic turing the irregularity of its outline, or brightening the dense shadow which slumbered on it like a cloud. Disaffection and revolt were evidently progressing with a fearful certainty, for the gates were deserted, and the Prætorians had already joined their associates in the camp. Nero paused for a moment, to contemplate the surrounding wreck and desolation. Grief and despair could no longer be restrained-a deep groan burst from him-it rolled through the surrounding space-it echoed like the lamentation of Ruin, when she weeps amid the solitude she has made. CHAPTER VI.-THE TYRANT'S END. At dawn of day the tyrant commenced his last and fearful journey. The decay of power was marked in the scantiness of his retinue. No courtiers followed in his train, to flatter and vaunt his praises to the sky. Not a Prætorian followed the blighted fortunes of his master. He whose minstrelsy, poetry, and dramatic attainments had called forth the exulting shouts of his people, and extorted even decrees from a Senate, scarcely less debased and servile, was now flying as a slave from the very city where he had ruled as lord; and companionless, save in two attendants, was glad to abandon the pride of a palace for the humble security of an obscure villa. With the mysterious silence of men whose errand may be death, the forlorn party slowly emerged from the palace-gate. Not a word was exchanged. They even shuddered to look upon each other, lest fear, too palpable in the visage of each, might daunt the courage despair had given. The small body followed in a line. Phaon, with an attachment which might have borrowed lustre from a better cause, led the way, his arm prepared for any casual resistance, and his eye vigilant for any enemy who might oppose their expedition. The wretched fugitive, divested of all imperial insignia and wearing nothing save a close tunic, covered by an old and tattered cloak for the purpose of disguise, followed his freedman. His head was partially covered by the cloak, and his face concealed by a handkerchief he held before it. In this sorry and degraded plight followed the Emperor of Rome. The rear was closed by Epaphroditus, his secretary, whose fidelity shrank not from sharing the vicissitudes of his master's fortunes. They had just cleared the palace, as the rising day flung its cold grey mist on its huge and sombre mass. A dismal gloom hung on every object, which even the renovating touch of light, seemed unable to clear or dispel. The spirit of darkness still slumbered there, as though light, and life, and all the refreshing influences of day, refused to bestow their gifts where guilt and bloodshed had so long fixed their abode. A mist, deeper and heavier than the gathering shades of evening, spread like a curtain, blending into one vast, indistinguishable pile the variations of shape and outline. He checked his steed for a moment, and flung on it a last look, in which memory painted the revival of many a scene of horror; and, as unable any longer to endure the strife within, waving his hand to Phaon, the troop pushed their horses to a gallop. Rigid and immovable as statues, they bestrode their steeds. The hands of his attendants were braced to their sword-hilts. Not a word escaped them, as they sped their way. The rigid firmness of the horseman bespoke his resolve not to quit his seat with life. As thus they advanced, a wild and discordant shout broke the surrounding silence. The horses pricked their ears, and the firmness of their riders was disconcerted by surprise and uncertainty. They checked their steeds abruptly, while Phaon and Epaphroditus unsheathed their swords. The steadiness and resolution of his followers, was strongly contrasted by the fear and cowardice of their Prince. The bridle fell from his hand, and his steed becoming unruly, was seized and checked by Phaon. The shout had died away, and a stillness deep and grave-like succeeded. It was once again broken by a clamour from the same quarter, wilder and louder than the last, and accompanied by expressions so plainly heard, as at once to announce to the tyrant the certainty of his doom and the inutility of flight. The words "Galba! Galba!" came distinctly on the wind. Animation seemed to forsake his cheek, and uttering with difficulty, "it is the Prætorians-fly!" their journey was resumed at a quickened pace. They were not far from the freedman's villa; their horses, at the same time, pushed almost to full speed. On a sudden the steed of Nero drew up abruptly, his ears were drawn back, and he snuffed the air with violence. The faithful Phaon dismounted, and seizing the bridle, endeavoured to lead him forward. The animal only retrograded more violently, and rearing, almost dislodged his rider from his seat. The Emperor could not restrain his impatience and fear, but vented both in words of threat and execration. The delay seemed ominous of advantage to the speed of his pursuers. Phaon, unable to account for the obstinacy of the animal, relinquished the bridle for a moment, and cast his eyes searchingly around him. cause at length met his view, and he started back with instinctive horror. As Nero looked on his terror-stricken countenance, fear suppressed curiosity; at length, in a muffled and indistinct tone, scarcely removing the handkerchief from his face, he said, " Speakquick-what seest thou?" The "The form of death," replied Phaon; "unburied lies a corse by the road-side." "Curses on this steed!" muttered Nero, "they may be on us even now. As he spoke, he lashed the horse violently, the noble animal reared as before, and casting a sidelong glance where lay the object of its timidity, plunged forward. The suddenness of the motion jerked the veil from Nero's hand, which he had hitherto held to his face. Misfortune seemed to insert her threads in the very web which hope was weaving. At that moment a veteran, who had been dismissed the service, passed. He at once recognized his master, and saluted him by name. Nero hastily waved his hand-he was discovered his flight would, no doubt, soon reach the city. "Forward!" he exclaimed, at the very top of his voice. horses were now at full speed. Their The expected asylum at length_rose to view. Within a short space of it they dismounted, and counselled as to the policy of future measures. "It were not safe to enter it by the public gate, my lord," said Phaon, “ your person may be recognized. Informers are frequent. Servants are seldom proof against the gold which buys their master. "I am in thy power, good Phaon," rejoined Nero, "resolve, and quickly, for my safety." 66 Thy entrance into the house," said Phaon, hastily, "must be private. Cross that field, and lie concealed till I have made a passage for thee in that remote wall of the house. Leave thy steed with me. Epaphroditus and I will do all." The wretched man listened to the stratagem with the meekness of a child, who bears submissively from his elders what he dares not resist or dispute. He cast on them a look, more expressive from its silence, and hastened to the appointed spot. Faint with excitement and fear, the wretch stooped and raised in the hollow of his hand, some impure water from a ditch. "Is this, then, the cup they have reduced Cæsar to drain?" he said, while the tears mingled with the water. "Well, well, so the draught is no bitterer, I am content." He As he raised his eyes to the appointed quarter of the house, he observed a hand waving him onward. It was Phaon's. darted to the spot with the precipitancy of one to whom speed was life, and with difficulty was squeezed through the excavation they had made. The field he had quitted was scarcely more barren or desolate than the apartment to which he was now conducted, and which was destined to witness the last struggles of Rome's Emperor. The walls and floor were not only destitute of covering, but defaced with squalor and filth. He surveyed it for some moments in silence, but could no longer restrain the bitterness of insulted pride, and the degradation which met him at every step. He burst violently into tears, and fell on a mean and tattered couch, the only furniture in the apartment. While he lay alternately the victim of grief and passion, his attendants, who had withdrawn to the remote end of the chamber for the purpose of conference, approached him. 66 Danger presses, my lord," said Phaon, kneeling, "and there is but little hope. They who have met us on the road will conjecture thy retreat, from bearing my company.' He paused to observe the effect of his words, and the tone of his master's feelings. "It is but a moment," he proceeded with hesitation, "and the cares of life are forgotten, and with them the hatred of thine enemies." "Must I then die ?" said the tyrant, slowly rising from the couch, and surveying the naked chamber with a wild and glassy eye. "Must I then die? Is there no hope ?" "None," replied Phaon. Courage and resolution seemed to rise with the answer. He hastily dashed the tears from his eyes-his manner became firm and collected. "If they hunt they shall not reach me," he said, "this day shall be my last. Let my pile be collected, and mark, let not a Cæsar sleep without a monumentI would have some marble on my grave." His momentary firmness forsook him, and, turning his face to the couch, the violence of his grief sent a dull and heavy echo through the chamber. Footsteps were heard in the passage, and immediately a messenger, according to the private instructions of Phaon entering, presented him with papers. "From Rome?" asked Phaon, in a subdued tone. The words acted with the power of a talis man on Nero, who recognized in them the consummation of hope or despair; and, starting from the couch, he seized the packet. He perused it with eagerness, but the tears which fell, and the trembling of his hands and frame, fully interpreted the nature of the intelligence. "A public enemy". "_"ancient usage' were the only words they could hear. "They have outlawed me from mine own realm," he said at length, with difficulty summoning courage to speak of his fate, "and the Fathers have condemned me to die, according to the rigour of ancient usage.' His voice failed him, and the tears which choked it, were exchanged for a violent transport of rage. He tore the papers into fragments, and trampled on them. He folded his arms with sternness, and his figure for the moment assumed a rigid composure. "What is ancient usage?" he asked after a pause. The attendants, as unwilling to disclose the severity of the punishment decreed, ex changed silent looks. The task at length fell on Phaon. "Pardon, my lord," he said, "the question and your condition demand truth for the answer. It was the law of the old Republic, that every traitor should die a lingering death beneath the rod of the lictor; his head fastened between two stakes, and his body entirely naked.' An agonized expression, combining shame and pain, overspread the countenance of Nero, as he heard this detail. He started from the spot, as though he already writhed beneath the stripes of the lictor. He stopped short again-his respiration became short and hysterical-he drew from his bosom two poignards, and feeling their sharpness gazed on them intently. He suddenly turned to his attendants, and extending the daggers-" Has none," he cried, with bitterness, "the courage to show me how to die?" The words were no sooner uttered, than the trampling of horses was heard at hand. A troop of soldiers instantly entered the room, and surrounded the door. Nero saw that hope was at an end-the monarch had indeed fallen from the high estate, which once commanded the flattery of men. The officer disregarded all obeisance, and proceeded to disclose the nature of his mission. "The Fathers," he said, "have decreed Cæsar as traitor, and ordered him into my custody, to be conveyed back to Rome to suffer punishment. Soldiers, your duty!" Two or three advanced to seize him, but despair at length nerving resolution, he stabbed himself in the throat. The blood flowed copiously, but the wound was not mortal; he tottered for a moment, and fell to the ground. His eyes wandered around the chamber with the languor of exhaustion, as imploring some friendly hand to complete the work. ye," he at length exclaimed in tears, "will ye see Cæsar without a friend ?" "Will Epaphroditus rushing forward, seized a dagger, and having previously marked the fatal spot, with averted face plunged it into Nero's bosom. A violent shudder convulsed his frame, and raising himself slowly from the ground and casting on the officer a smile of triumph and derision, the last of the Cæsar's was no more. WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR? Who is thy neighbour!-see him stand, Look where the widowed mother pines Behold him in the stranger, thrown Upon a foreign shore, Who, homeless, friendless, and alone, And bear in mind, for such as he, Go seek him in the dungeon's night, Look where the son of Afric sighs For rights enjoyed by thee; How can thy banner wave, A mark upon thy face, that mars Thou, noble tree of liberty, Should not thy verdure fade O'er him who would his neighbour see Excluded from thy shade? Did they who reared thee by their toil Alike, for all who tread thy soil, ELDERLY GENTLEMEN. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. READER mine, hast thou ever, in thy mortal cogitations, been tempted to indulge in feelings of compassion or contempt for those of thy race, who may appropriately be termed Elderly Gentlemen? Or hast thou ever, in contemplating thy possible destiny, shrunk from this particular part of thy lot as from a period bereft of all comfort, and the very acme of human ills? If so, I beseech thee to take shame and confusion of face to thyself, for thou art already convicted of the very climax of human folly. I will scarcely believe thou art able to discern "a hawk from a hand saw. Rest thee in thy Cretanism, and I will, if so be there is stuff enough in thee, essay to convince thee of thy great error, and to enlighten thee as to the many privileges thou art still to enjoy or of which, perchance, thou mayest already have begun to partake, albeit unconscious of thy felicity. First, let us review the successive periods of thy life, each with its peculiar and not to to be avoided perils, and verily, thou wilt perceive that as thou hast approached this haven, thy felicity hath increased. Look, then, at thy firm and well-turned limbs, (for the Elderly Gentleman hath no experience in the shrunk pantaloon,) thy well formed foot, which thou art wont to display in the best of Day and Martin's polish; thy cheek, with its strong manly lines, which thou art fain to consider as evidences of thought and force of character, a position from which I will not attempt to dislodge thee; thy whiskers, scarcely sprinkled with grey, and matching the short curly locks that mantle thy high, rather intellectual looking, brow-for no other word will suit thee, suggestive as it is of those of Jupiter, Mars, and a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses thy brow then, which thou hast fondly persuaded thyself is no mean counterpart of that of Napoleon, (a harmless phantasy, in which thou mayest freely indulge; elderly gentlemen do, or ought to look intellectual.) Look at all this, and then consider, I beseech thee, that thou wast once a "sprawling babe, mewling and puking" in the arms of thy nurse, thy bare feet and shapeless legs kicking back and forth, to the most disreputable of all sounds, inasmuch as it is nothing certain, being neither language, bark, nor mew, neither a low nor a squeal, but that nondescript of all sounds, a baby cry. Then think of thy bald head, and dropsical cheeks, and that aperture in lieu of a mouth distended to its largest possible dimensions, exhibiting thy red, toothless gums and quivering tongue, all for the laudable purpose of emitting the before spoken of sounds, that delight none but thyself, and two nameless objects, who witness the operation with the greatest possible pleasure. Thy very cheek tingles with shame at the recital, but I am not yet done. I will suppose thou hast passed through all the preliminary steps to walking; that thou hast looked interesting upon all-fours; that mamma has been duly pulled and hauled, mortified and enraptured; that a reasonable number of visitors have been shocked and bored by the evidences of thy existence, and the precocity of thy genius; that thy nose, to say nothing of the rest of thy person, hath been suitably bumped, producing developments as yet unclaimed by phrenology; and that thou art able to walk at an angle, something less than thirty degrees. And here thou hast reached a most important era, in the history of thy life. Thou hast become the subject of serious debate. A solemn and most important council has been held in thy behalf. Thy gymnastic feats have become no longer endurable, and thy vaultings, albeit in perfect innocency, no longer to be tolerated. Thy tunics are, therefore, to be discarded, and thou art to appear in the panoply of thy sex. Great is thy rejoicing-great thy anxiety -great thy impatience. To thee it is a day "big with the fate of Cæsar and of Rome." Now behold thyself making sundry ambitious attempts to balance thy dumpy figure upon one foot, while the other is to be thrust into what is termed a pair of trowsers. Dost mark thy chuckling face, red with exertion, thy shapeless hands clinging to the apron of the female Vulcan, who is to encase thee in |