Thus ended the dynasty of the Heracleidæ, after having endured for five hundred and five years, and commenced that of the Mermnades in the person of Gyges, son of Dascylus. The Sardians, indignant at the death of Candaules, threatened revolt; but the oracle of Delphi having declared in favor of Gyges, who had sent thither a vast number of silver vases and six golden cratera of the value of thirty talents, the new king maintained his seat on the throne of Lydia, which he occupied for many long years, lived happily, and never showed his wife to any one, knowing too well what it cost. ADDENDA "ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS" A. There is no correct English plural of "necropolis"; the French word _nécropole_ is more normal. As the Greek plural could not be used very euphoniously, and as I have tried throughout to render an exact English equivalent for each French word whenever comprehensible, I beg indulgence for the illegitimate plural "necropoli," used to signify more than one necropolis, as an equivalent for the French _nécropoles_. B. In the opening scene of "One of Cleopatra's Nights," the reader may be surprised at the expression "the _chuckling_ of the crocodiles." Our own southern alligators often make a little noise which could not be better described--a low, guttural sound, bearing a sinister resemblance to a human chuckle or subdued, sneering laugh. A Creole friend who has lived much in those regions of Southern Louisiana intersected by bayous and haunted by alligators, comprehended at once the whole force of the term _rire étouffe_ as applied to the sounds made by the crocodile. "_Je l'ai entendu souvent_" he said, with a smile. "CLARIMONDE" The idea of love after death has been introduced by Gautier into several beautiful creations, sometimes Hoffmanesquely, sometimes with an exquisite sweetness peculiarly his own. Among his most touching poems there is a fantastic--_Les Tâches Jaunes_--so remarkable that I cannot refrain from offering a rude translation of it. Though transplanted even by a master-hand into the richest soil of another language, such poetical flora necessarily lose something of their strange color and magical perfume. In this instance the translator, who is no poet, only strives to convey the beautiful weirdness of the original idea: With elbow buried in the downy pillow I've lain and read, All through the night, a volume strangely written In tongues long dead. For at my bedside lie no dainty slippers; And, save my own, Under the paling lamp I hear no breathing:-- I am alone! But there are yellow bruises on my body And violet stains; Though no white vampire came with lips blood-crimsoned To suck my veins! Now I bethink me of a sweet weird story, That in the dark Our dead loves thus with seal of chilly kisses Our bodies mark.