decently buried, the Nile gave up her dead,
and on the banks a fair city rose, one that had its temples, priests,
altars and shrines; a city that worshipped a star, and called that star
Antinous. Hadrian then could have congratulated himself. Even Caligula
would have envied him. He had done his worst; he had deified not a lad,
but a lust. And not for the moment alone. A half century later
Tertullian noted that the worship still endured, and subsequently the
Alexandrine Clement discovered consciences that Antinous had reproached.

Antinous, deified, was presently forgot. A young Roman, wonderfully
beautiful, Dion says, yet singularly effeminate; a youth who could
barely carry a shield; who slept between rose-leaves and lilies; who
was an artist withal; a poet who had written lines that Martial might
have mistaken for his own, Cejonius Verus by name, succeeded the
Bithynian shepherd. Hadrian, who would have adopted Antinous, adopted
Verus in his stead. But Hadrian was not happy in his choice. Verus
died, and singularly enough, Hadrian selected as future emperor the one
ruler against whom history has not a reproach, Pius Antonin.

Meanwhile the journey continued. The Thousand and One Nights were
realized then if ever. The beauty of the world was at its apogee, the
glory of Rome as well; and through secrets and marvels Hadrian
strolled, note-book in hand, his eyes unwearied, his curiosity
unsatiated still. To pleasure him the intervales took on a fairer glow;
cities decked themselves anew, the temples unveiled their mysteries;
and when he passed to the intervales liberty came; to the cities,
sovereignty; to the temples, shrines. The world rose to him as a woman
greets her lover. His travels were not fatigues; they were delights, in
which nations participated, and of which the memories endure as though
enchanted still.

It would have been interesting, no doubt, to have dined with him in
Paris; to have quarried lions in their African fens; to have heard
archaic hymns ripple through the rushes of the Nile; to have lounged in
the Academe, to have scaled Parnassus, and sailed the AEgean Sea; but,
a history and an arm-chair aiding, the traveller has but to close his
eyes and the past returns. Without disturbing so much as a shirt-box,
he may repeat that promenade. Triremes have foundered; litters are out
of date; painted elephants are no more; the sky has changed, climates
with it; there are colors, as there are arts, that have