incurable ulcer, and resorted to voluntary
abstinence for putting a premature end to
his painful life; an act accounted brave by
the Stoic philosophers. His poem gives an
account of the second Punic War in sixteen
books. Hannibal is his Hector, and Scipio
his Achilles. The subject is noble, and it is
nobly treated. Notwithstanding that his
argument was modern, Silius has admitted
supernatural machinery, for which critics
have censured him severely. A good
translation of his poem is much needed.

Both of these poets were frequently
mentioned with praise by Martial, a writer
of epigrams born about A.D. 40, at Aragon
in Spain. He left the bar for the Muses,
and associated with literary men, Silius
Italicus, Stella, and Pliny the younger, all
of whom he celebrates in his epistles. He
was also patronised by the emperors
Domitian, Nerva, and Trajan. He lived at
Rome thirty-four years, and then retired
to his native country, where he wrote the
twelfth book of his poems, and married a
second wife, Marcella. He had many faults
of composition; but he has apologised for
all in the following epigram:

Sunt bona, sunt quædam mediocria, sunt mala plura,
Quæ legis hie: Aliter non fit, avite, liber.

Another miscellaneous writer of verses
was Ausonius, a native of Bordeaux in
France, born A.D. 320. He wrote a poem
called Parentalia, in which he celebrates
his relatives. He was tutor to Gratian,
the son of the Emperor Valentinian the
elder, and to his brother, afterwards
Valentinian the Second. Successively made
questor, prefect, and consul, he lived to a
happy old age. In all probability he was
a Christian. His greatest poem is one
on the river Moselle, which he describes
with much picturesque power. His smaller
miscellanies are too frequently of a trifling
nature.

We now come to the last of the Latin
poets, Claudian, who was born at
Alexandria, in Egypt, A.D. 365. He began
writing in Greek verse before commencing
in Latin. He was thirty years old when
he first visited Rome. Here he acquired
the favour of Stilicho, a Vandal, who under
Honorius governed the Western empire.
But he was ambitious of wearing the title
of emperor himself, and this caused his
ruin. Claudian was involved in the disgrace
of his patron, and was for some time
persecuted by Hadrian, the Captain of the
Guards, on whom Claudian avenged
himself by an epigram. Claudian was,
however, highly honoured by the emperors
Arcadius and Honorius, who erected a
statue to him in the Forum of Trajan, with
an inscription, and the following verses in
Greek:

Rome and the Caesars here his statue raise,
Who Virgil's genius joined to Homer's lays.

This honour was probably paid to him
in reward for his having written a poem on
the consulship of Honorius. He wrote
also a poem on the Getic war, and married
a lady of quality and fortune. The style
of Claudian is florid, and his numbers are
flowing and harmonious. His Rape of
Proserpine is a brief epic of considerable
beauty. His fancy was eminently luxuriant
and has been censured by some critics, as
resembling that over-abundant foliage of
certain trees which is the result of distemper
or injury and the accompaniment
of bad fruit. But the modern reader will
pardon his redundancy for the sake of his
spirit and vivacity. Claudian is never dull,
and writes more in the vein of poets of
later times than of those of the strictest
classic ages. His epithalamium on
Honorius's marriage is an exquisite work. He
is frequently pathetic, but can also satirise
with effect. Witness his poems on Eutropius
and Rufinus, which are masterpieces in
their way. They teem with fine passages.
As a court poet, indeed, he has never been
excelled for his invention, his eloquence,
and his taste.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

A YACHTING STORY.

CHAPTER III. YACHTSMEN ARRIVING.

DR. BAILEY was walking home by himself
full of a sort of unusual excitement. The
shops in the little new town were lighting
up, lazy bands of sailors in the trim, dandy,
yachting dress, and with golden names of
nymphs and goddesses on their hats, were
strolling, lounging through the place,
gathering at the Royal Yacht Tavern, and
other sailors' houses, or were grouped in
crowds in the centre of the street. Lights
were twinkling everywhere, and converging
to points at the end of long avenues. There
was a hum and chatter of voices abroad,
and yet with a general atmosphere of
calm and rest, such as comes at the close
of a day that has been busy and sultry.
For this was a quiet June evening, and a
June Saturday evening; and it was also all
but the eve of the St. Arthur's-on-the-Sea
Regatta, which was to commence on the
Monday morning. The tiny harbour was
already crowded with little black dashes