EIGHTEENTH EVENING
"I have spoken to you of Pompeii，"said the Moon;
"that corpse of a city，exposed in the view of living towns：
I know another sight still more strange，and this is not the corpse，but the spectre of a city.Whenever the jetty foun- tains splash into the marble basins，they seem to me to be telling the story of the floating city.Yes，the spouting wa- ter may tell of her，the waves of the sea may sing of her fame!On the surface of the ocean a mist often rests，and that is her widow's veil.The Bridegroom of the Sea is dead，his palace and his city are his mausoleum!Dost thou know this city?She has never heard the rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her streets，through which the fish swim，while the black gondola glides spectrally over the green water.I will show you the place，"continued the Moon，"the largest square in it，and you will fancy yourself transported into the city of a fairy tale.The grass grows rank among the broad flagstones，and in the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around the solitary lofty tower.On three sides you find yourself surrounded by cloistered walks.In these the silent Turk sits smoking his long pipe;the handsome Greek leans against the pillar，and gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts，memorials of power that is gone.The flags hang down like mourning scarves.A girl rests there：she has put down her heavy pails filled with water，the yoke with which she has carried them rests on one of her shoulders，and she leans against the mast of victory.
"That is not a fairy palace you see before you yon- der，but a church：the gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my beams;the glorious bronze horses up yon- der have made journeys，like the bronze horse in the fairy tale：they have come hither，and gone hence，and have returned again.
"Do you notice the variegated splendour of the walls and windows?It looks as if Genius had followed the caprices of a child，in the adornment of these singu- lar temples.Do you see the winged lion on the pillar?
The gold glitters still，but his wings are tired—the lion is dead，for the King of the Sea is dead;the great halls stand desolate，and where gorgeous paintings hung of yore，the naked wall now peers through.
"The beggar sleeps under the arcade，whose pave- ment in old times was trodden only by the feet of the high nobility.From the deep wells，and perhaps from the prisons by the Bridge of Sighs，rise the accents of woe，as at the time when the tambourine was heard in the gay gondolas，and the golden ring was cast from the Bucentaur to Adria，the Queen of the Seas.Adria!
Shroud thyself in mists;let the veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form，and clothe in the weeds of woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom—the marble，spectral Venice!"
NINETEENTH EVENING
"I looked down upon a great theatre，"said the Moon."The house was crowded，for a new actor was to make his first appearance that night.My rays glided over a little window in the wall，and I saw a painted face with the forehead pressed against the panes.It was the hero of the evening.The knightly curled crisply about the chin;but there were tears in the man's eyes，for he had been hissed off，and indeed with reason.The poor Inca- pable!But Incapables cannot be admitted into the empire of Art.He had deep feeling，and loved his art enthusias- tically，but the art loved not him.The prompter's bell sounded;' the hero enters with a determined air，'so ran the stage direction in his part，and he had to appear be- fore an audience who turned him into ridicule.When the piece was over，I saw a form wrapped in a mantle creep- ing down the steps：it was the vanquished knight of the evening.The scene—shifters whispered to one another， and I followed the poor fellow home to his room.To hang oneself is to die a mean death，and poison is not always at hand，I know;but he thought of both.I saw how he looked at his face in the glass，with eyes half
closed，to see if he should look well as a corpse.A man may be very unhappy，and yet exceedingly affected.He thought of death，of suicide;I believe he pitied himself， for he wept bitterly;and when a man has had his cry out he doesn't kill himself.
"Since that time a year had rolled by.Again a play was to be acted，but in a little theatre，and by a poor strolling company.Again I saw the well-remembered face， with the painted cheeks and the crisp beard.He looked up at me and smiled and yet he had been hissed off only a minute before—hissed off from a wretched theatre by a miserable audience.And tonight a shabby hearse rolled out of the town gate.It was a suicide—our paint- ed，despised hero.The driver of the hearse was the only person present，for no one followed except my beams.
In a corner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide was shovelled into the earth，and nettles will soon be rankly growing over his grave，and the sexton will throw thorns and weeds from the other graves upon it."