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ARIADNE. 23times; nervous depression, wise men say, andweak mencaU such things presentiments.Ifelt a loathing of those blithe guitars andshaking tambourines, and handsome maidens;Irose and caUed Pales, and strolledaway in thewhite stiUnight alongthe familiar ways. BynightRome is still a " city for the gods; the shadowsveil its wounds,the lustre silvers aU its stones;its silence is haunted as no other silence is;ifyou have faith, there where the dark gloss of thelaurel brushes the marble as in Agrippa's time,you wUl see the Immortals passing by chainedwith deadleaves and weeping. In earlier daysIhad seen them; days when no human affectionchained my thoughts to earth:nowIwent overthe stones bent and blind,and only thinking —flunking — thinking — when wecan only think andcannot dream, then truly we areold.Iwent along through the Forum, and pastthe arch of Trajan, and through Constantine's,out on that broad road between the mulberrytrees, with the ruins of the inniunerable templesstandingeverywhereamidst the fields andgardens,the reaped com and the ripening cherries.