r of that shower was bound to be
adored.

It was that, no doubt, which awoke him. A city like Rome, one that had
over a million inhabitants, could make a terrific noise, and when that
noise was applause, the recipient found it heady. Nero got drunk on
popularity, and heredity aiding where the prince had been emerged the
cad, a poseur that bored, a beast that disgusted, a caricature of the
impossible in a crimson frame.

"What an artist the world is to lose!" he exclaimed as he died; and
artist he was, but in the Roman sense; one that enveloped in the same
contempt the musician, acrobat and actor. It was the artist that played
the flute while gladiators died and lovers embraced; it was the artist
that entertained the vulgar.

As an artist Nero might have been a card. Fancy the attraction--an
emperor before the footlights; but fancy the boredom also. The joy at
the announcement of his first appearance was so great that thanks were
offered to the gods; and the verses he was to sing, graven in gold,
were dedicated to the Capitoline Jove. The joy was brief. The exits of
the theatre were closed. It was treason to attempt to leave. People
pretended to be dead in order to be carried out, and well they might.
The star was a fat man with a husky tenorino voice, who sang drunk and
half-naked to a protecting claque of ten thousand hands.

But it was in the circus that Nero was at his best; there, no matter
though he were last in the race, it was to him the palm was awarded, or
rather it was he that awarded the palm to himself, and then quite
magnificently shouted, "Nero, Caesar, victor in the race, gives his
crown to the People of Rome!"

On the stage he had no rivals, and by chance did one appear, he was
invited to die. In that respect he was artistically susceptible. When
he turned acrobat, the statues of former victors were tossed in the
latrinae. Yet, as competitors were needed, and moreover as he, singly,
could fill neither a stage nor a track, it was the nobility of Rome
that he ordered to appear with him. For that the nobility never forgave
him. On the other hand, the proletariat loved him the better. What
greater salve could it have than the sight of the conquerors of the
world entertaining the conquered, lords amusing their lackeys?

Greece meanwhile sent him crowns and prayers; crowns for anticipated
victories, prayers that he would come and win them. Homage so delicate
was not to be disdained. Nero set forth, an a