Once with thy friends so gay
    Thou did'st turn night into day,
    And while seeking for thy prey
                          Round would'st prowl. Now from out thy ruined hall
    In the Colosseum's wall
    They nightly miss thy call,
                          Oh, my owl! A captive now, alas! Thou for aye art doomed to pass
    Thy life far from the mass
                          Of thy race. Like Stoic thou dost stand,
    Exiled from his native land,
    With that look so sage and grand
                          In thy face. Were Pythagorean lore,
    Current now as once before,
    In the classic days of yore,
                          I could swear,

    That the spirit of some sage,
    From some dark and mythic age,
    In thy body found a cage
                          Or a lair. And once more on Earth was sent,
    To retrieve a life misspent,
    Till his crimes he should repent. In that form. But hereafter might arise,
    After penance to the skies,
    Where bliss awaiting lies
                          His reform. My lamp burns low. Farewell. Thus ends my verse's spell. And now thy mournful yell--
                          Fearful din--

    May commence, my eyeballs ache,
    For my couch I now must make,
    I to sleep and thou to wake,
                          May'st begin. *       *       *       *       *

Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health
of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all
round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which
called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of
hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and
after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the
night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber. [Illustration]


CHAPTER XI. LOST IN THE CATACOMBS.--THE ANTIQUARY'S STORY. The next morning broke dull and cheerless. It had been snowing hard all
night, and was snowing still, and so murky was the atmosphere that the
club was obliged to breakfast by candle-light, and indeed continued to
burn candles till early noon. Our artist was in despair about the weather, for he reckoned upon a long
sitting from his fair model, and, under the circumstances, painting was
impossible, so he wandered gloomily about the inn like a wild animal in
a cage. Breakfast over, a discussion arose as to what should be the
order of the day. Some voted for cards, others felt inclined for chess,
yet no one felt a very strong longing for any one thing in particular. It was one of those melancholy days when a man really does not know what
to do with himself. Some yawned and stretched themselves, others gazed
gloomily out into the darkness, until someone suddenly recollected that
it was Mr. Oldstone's turn to tell a story, so without more delay,
chairs were drawn round the fire, Jack Hearty was called for to put on a
fresh log, pipes were lit, and Mr. Oldstone forced into an arm-chair and
pressed to begin his story without further preface. Our host was invited to remain, but he excused himself on the score of
business. Helen was also called away to help her mother in household
affairs; but this, of course, the club could not hear of, so after some
little parley, she was reluctantly permitted to keep the club company,
as one of the members observed it would be hard indeed to deprive the
club of Helen in such weather, as her face was the only sunshine they
were likely to get all day. Helen smiled somewhat confusedly at this
broad compliment, and then accepted a seat placed for her between
McGuilp and Parnassus. The company drew nearer to the fire, one of the members giving a
preliminary poke at the log, while Oldstone, after tapping his snuff-box
and taking from its inside a copious pinch of snuff to clear his memory,
threw himself back in his easy-chair, and folding his hands, commenced
his story thus:--

When I was in Rome, many years ago, with my friend and brother
antiquary, Rustcoin, well-known to most of you gentlemen, and especially
to my friend Mr. Vandyke McGuilp. We had put up together during the
early part of our stay in a large Hotel in a fashionable quarter of the
city. We were both young then, and furnished with ample means for travelling. It had been the dream of my youth to visit the eternal city, and here I
found myself, free for the first time in my life to wander about to my
heart's content among the venerable ruins of antiquity, the history of
which had so interested me from my boyhood. Being neither pushed for time nor money, having a comfortable little
income left me upon the death of my parents, I never could make up my
mind to follow any profession in particular, and having from my youth
upwards always had a passion for antiquarian lore, I resolved to make it
the study of my life. Rustcoin was similarly situated to myself, and we
have always pulled wonderfully together. Not a day passed but some
interesting ruin, church, or picture gallery, was explored, a minute
description of which was immediately entered into my diary with a view
to a grand archæological work which I intended for the press, and which
was afterwards published. We knew the Vatican by heart, St. Peters, and all the chief churches. Had visited the Capitol, the Forum, the Palace of the Cæsars, the
Colosseum, the baths of Caracalla, of Titus, of Diocletian, the Pantheon
and other antique temples. One sight, however, I had not yet been to
see, and that was the catacombs. They had always had, from my boyhood, a
great fascination for me, those dark, dank, mysterious subterranean
labyrinths excavated by those pious enthusiasts, the early Christians,
to shelter themselves from the persecutions of their pagan tyrants. Little did their oppressors imagine, I presume, when first a few
straggling fanatics assembled clandestinely under the dark arches they
had hewn for themselves out of the solid rock to carry on their
devotions undisturbed by candle-light, that that little sect would one
day fill the wide world with its followers to the utter extinction of
the old pagan superstitions. How strange is destiny! Religious faith proved too strong for tyranny. Persecutions and martyrdoms were of no avail, for still the faith
increased. The very victims of the faith, too, the holy martyrs
magnified into heroes after death, as if in defiance of the old creed. Well, gentlemen, these facts are as well known to all of you as to
myself, yet such were my reflections as I drove off one morning to visit
the catacombs of Saint Sebastian. But I anticipate. Rising one morning
filled with the idea of exploring these subterranean burial grounds as
far as they extended, though for twelve miles those indefatigable early
Christians have undermined the eternal city, I breakfasted hurriedly,
calculating on my friend's company, but Rustcoin happened to have
business on hand that day, and could not be persuaded to go, so I
determined to start off alone.